FIC: you believe what the lyrics tell you
title: you believe what the lyrics tell you
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own the boys. or the car.
rating: pg-13
word count: 610
characters: Dean, Sam
notes: a coda of sorts for 2x14. Spoilers.
Dean drives until he can't see straight. Sam glances at him now and then, but doesn't say anything, not after Dean told him to 'shut the hell up' the last time. Dean keeps his eyes on the road; he wants to get as far away from the past week as he can. Even when he knows it won't do a damn bit of good.
They finally stop after crossing the Montana border, pull into a motel that looks as bad as Dean feels. But it's the first one they come to, and Dean isn't in the mood to be picky. Sam goes into the office and checks them in, and it's Sam who gets their bags out of the trunk. Dean slumps against the side of the Impala. His right arm throbs. The charm Bobby gave him is like a weight around his neck. The damn thing better fucking well work; Dean doesn't know if he can survive another demon possession. And ain't that about the funniest thing he's heard all day. Dean laughs, a sick, half-strangled sound that makes it past his lips before he can stop it. Sam visibly flinches, looks back at him, "Dean?"
"I'm fine, Sam."
Usually his brother would call him on his bullshit; this time, Sam stays quiet. Dean watches Sam's eyes flicker over his face, down to his shoulder. Dean remembers that look, it's almost the same one Sam had back in Rockford, after the asylum. But not quite. This one's ten times worse - it's Sam in the car, head against the window. It's Sam whispering, Wasn't rocksalt this time Dean, I almost killed you.
He forces Sam to take the first shower. Dean hits the power button on the television and sits on the edge of his bed. TV's busted; nothing comes in but channel after channel of static. He leaves it on for the noise. Sam steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later, t-shirt damp and sticking to his chest.
"Left the water on. Shower's yours," Sam says. Doesn't look Dean in the eye once. When Dean brushes past his brother, Sam holds his breath like Dean's something that'll blow away if he doesn't. Dean ignores it and shuts the door behind him. He's too tired for this. He peels off his clothes slowly, careful of his right side and the bruises he's been feeling for awhile now. Dean bites his lip and steps under the spray. The water swirls pink down the drain.
Sam's waiting for him after he gets done. His brother dresses his shoulder without a word, but Sam's hands are gentle when they press the gauze against his skin.
Dean's fingers brush something cool and slick in his bag. He pulls out the meds Jo gave him earlier - for the pain, she'd said. Dean stares at the opposite bed where Sam is finally asleep, thanks in no small part to a post-adrenaline rush crash. He knows the same thing is waiting for him; a bigger one in fact, because at least the demon let Sam sleep. Dean's been running non-stop since Sam dissappeared. The pills rattle in his hand.
He palms the bottle, walks into the bathroom. He pops the lid with his teeth and shakes three capsules into his hand. Swallows them dry, then cups his good hand under the faucet; the water from the tap tastes like rust. His reflection stares back at him from the mirror over the sink, eyes too dark for his face. The brown plastic bottle sits on the edge of the porcelain. For the pain.
Dean isn't fool enough to think any pill is gonna be able to get rid of all of his.
- end
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own the boys. or the car.
rating: pg-13
word count: 610
characters: Dean, Sam
notes: a coda of sorts for 2x14. Spoilers.
Dean drives until he can't see straight. Sam glances at him now and then, but doesn't say anything, not after Dean told him to 'shut the hell up' the last time. Dean keeps his eyes on the road; he wants to get as far away from the past week as he can. Even when he knows it won't do a damn bit of good.
They finally stop after crossing the Montana border, pull into a motel that looks as bad as Dean feels. But it's the first one they come to, and Dean isn't in the mood to be picky. Sam goes into the office and checks them in, and it's Sam who gets their bags out of the trunk. Dean slumps against the side of the Impala. His right arm throbs. The charm Bobby gave him is like a weight around his neck. The damn thing better fucking well work; Dean doesn't know if he can survive another demon possession. And ain't that about the funniest thing he's heard all day. Dean laughs, a sick, half-strangled sound that makes it past his lips before he can stop it. Sam visibly flinches, looks back at him, "Dean?"
"I'm fine, Sam."
Usually his brother would call him on his bullshit; this time, Sam stays quiet. Dean watches Sam's eyes flicker over his face, down to his shoulder. Dean remembers that look, it's almost the same one Sam had back in Rockford, after the asylum. But not quite. This one's ten times worse - it's Sam in the car, head against the window. It's Sam whispering, Wasn't rocksalt this time Dean, I almost killed you.
He forces Sam to take the first shower. Dean hits the power button on the television and sits on the edge of his bed. TV's busted; nothing comes in but channel after channel of static. He leaves it on for the noise. Sam steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later, t-shirt damp and sticking to his chest.
"Left the water on. Shower's yours," Sam says. Doesn't look Dean in the eye once. When Dean brushes past his brother, Sam holds his breath like Dean's something that'll blow away if he doesn't. Dean ignores it and shuts the door behind him. He's too tired for this. He peels off his clothes slowly, careful of his right side and the bruises he's been feeling for awhile now. Dean bites his lip and steps under the spray. The water swirls pink down the drain.
Sam's waiting for him after he gets done. His brother dresses his shoulder without a word, but Sam's hands are gentle when they press the gauze against his skin.
Dean's fingers brush something cool and slick in his bag. He pulls out the meds Jo gave him earlier - for the pain, she'd said. Dean stares at the opposite bed where Sam is finally asleep, thanks in no small part to a post-adrenaline rush crash. He knows the same thing is waiting for him; a bigger one in fact, because at least the demon let Sam sleep. Dean's been running non-stop since Sam dissappeared. The pills rattle in his hand.
He palms the bottle, walks into the bathroom. He pops the lid with his teeth and shakes three capsules into his hand. Swallows them dry, then cups his good hand under the faucet; the water from the tap tastes like rust. His reflection stares back at him from the mirror over the sink, eyes too dark for his face. The brown plastic bottle sits on the edge of the porcelain. For the pain.
Dean isn't fool enough to think any pill is gonna be able to get rid of all of his.
- end