[Nym] Hush (Don't Tell a Soul) [5/6]
Title: Hush (Don't Tell a Soul) [5/6]
Author: nymeria
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, Dean/Other
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 30,275 in total, 4,468 this chapter
Genre: AU.
Betas: poisonnan and erinella30
Notes: Nearly at the end! I'm sure y'all will be relieved that I'm no longer spamming up your flists. This is a filler chapter, really, but bear with me! *g*
Chapters: [Part one] [Part two] [Part three] [Part four] [Part five] [Part six] [Epilogue]
This is the place where all the devils plead
Their case to take from you what they need
This is The Place
← previous chapter
He knows it's not going to be a good day when he comes out of the bedroom, clad in a pair of sweat pants and still sleepy, and finds the cup of coffee Jess normally makes him upended over his notebook. She's cursing under her breath as she tries to blot the excess liquid off, but Sam knows a lost cause when he sees one, and comes over to give her a quick good morning kiss, tugging the book out of her hands and pitching it in the trash.
"Sam, I'm sorry, I wasn't looking, I hit it with my elbow -" she says, worried, but he cuts her off.
"It's okay, it was mostly empty anyway," he soothes, running his hands up and down her bare arms, and she closes her eyes, leans into him. She smells like peaches. "I'll get Cathy's notes off her today, or something."
"I'm sorry," she says again, and he sighs, runs his hands through her hair, an unspoken forget about it. It's too early in the morning for this, really.
"Is there still coffee in the pot?" he asks instead and she nods, moving away from him to pick up the mug and carry it over to the kitchen counter. She's wearing a pair of jeans, blue panties visible at the back, and a plain lilac blouse, and her long blond hair whispers over the cloth when she moves her head. Her fingernails chink against the ceramic of the mug, and she bites her lower lip as she pours out another coffee for him.
When she hands him his coffee their fingertips brush, and Sam smiles at her and can't help that he thinks of Dean, sucking face with some sort of mental parasite. He blinks, caught off-guard by the non sequitur, and glances away, feeling somewhat guilty.
"Sam?" she asks, puzzled, and he swallows.
Jesus. He hadn't known.
"I need to go to the library after class to do some research on a few things for my occultism class," he says, voice carefully cheerful. He still can't meet her eyes. "What time are you going to be home?"
"Three," she says, carefully pouring out another cup of coffee for herself, her back to him. "Maybe four. How late are you going to be?"
"Couple of hours, nothing major," he says with a shrug, mind already cataloging the things he knows of that feast on sex dreams. He's been out of the game for eight years, but his dad was a thorough drill sergeant, and he still remembers. Whatever it is, it's corporeal in his brother's dream world; Sam had passed through both of them like he was a ghost, like he was the interloper there, and only it had been able to see him. Not a succubus or incubus, that much he knows, although it won't hurt to double-check to be sure.
"There's cereal if you want breakfast," Jess cuts in, and he gives her a short nod, thoughtful. He knows he should be hurrying - he has class in an hour, for god's sake - but for some reason he just can't concentrate, not on class.
"I'm going to go call my brother," he says abruptly, tipping his chin up and draining the last of the coffee, setting the mug on the side with a satisfying thump. "Make sure he's awake and getting ready for work and all."
"Sure," Jess says, distractedly attempting to wrestle a box of poptarts from where she shoved it into one of their kitchen cupboards. "Make sure you remember your laptop this time, baby."
"I will, I will," he says, already heading into the bedroom, pushing his pants off as he goes. His cellphone is sitting on the night table on his side of the bend, sandwiched between his alarm clock and his reading lamp; he picks it up and hesitates only slightly before dialling his brother.
He has to call three times before Dean finally picks up, voice slurred and groggy, and Sam can't help the stab of fear low in his belly. He thinks he manages to keep it out of his voice, cajoling his brother out of bed and into the kitchen with a steady stream of cheerful patter, but he knows then and there: unless he does something, he's going to lose Dean.
And he thinks he'd rather die than let that happen.
It turns out that Cathy, probably just to make Sam's day worse, has the flu and is tucked up in bed at home, with her notes, far away from Sam. He hangs up after wishing her to get better, disappointed, and tries calling Don and then, when the bastard fails to answer, Chrissie. Neither of them pick up and Sam spends several seconds cursing them and their heritage, because there's only one other person who takes the sort of detailed notes he needs, and she's on the quad across from him, pink hair bright in the sun as she shares her lunch with her girlfriend, another Hot Topic customer with a tongue piercing. He thinks the girlfriend's named Frances, or maybe Frisky, who knows.
She looks up when he approaches and smiles beatifically, taking another bite of her apple. "Hi, Sam," she says, mouth full and expression as innocent as it can be with her cheeks bulging. "What's up?"
"Holly," Sam grits out. "I need to borrow your Classical Religions notes for the class yesterday."
She smirks and he reminds himself that she does take good notes, and that throttling her is never a good idea. Frisky-Frances is eyeing him suspiciously, no doubt having been told he's a heinous pervert who gropes girls up all the time. Christ. He'd been pushed into her lap, already dating Jess and not particularly interested in a so-called 'alternative' chick with anger management issues. At least she hadn't had the skull-zipper purse then; it'd be much harder to take her seriously if she did.
"Why not ask our dearest teacher to lecture you again, Sam?" she asks sweetly. "Maybe he can give you a week's extension on the exams, too."
"Holly," he says again, weary. "My girlfriend spilled coffee over my notes by accident. I just want to photocopy yours. Please."
She raises a black-painted fingernail to her lips, looking dramatically pensive, and her girlfriend speaks up for the first time, smug as she says, "What's in it for Holly?"
"My unbridled adoration?" Sam wants to say, but manages to keep himself from doing so. Instead he clears his throat and says, "Ten bucks?"
She holds her hands out as if weighing imaginary items. "Watching karma biting you in the ass or ten bucks," she says thoughtfully, and Frances snickers. Sam's reminded why he hates talking to more than one girl at once. "Make it fifteen."
"Done," he says immediately, digging in his back pocket for his wallet, and she meticulously folds her sandwich back up in foil, stowing it in her bag. He counts out fifteen dollars and hands it to her, and she makes a big deal of waving them back and forth in front of her nose, inhaling the scent.
"I should've held out for more," she says wistfully, and pulls her bag over her shoulder. "Frankie, I'm gonna go to the copy centre. Catch you at one, 'kay?"
"Sure," her girlfriend says, eyeing Sam dubiously, and he rolls his eyes. "Be careful."
"Yeah, you never know what I'll do," Sam mutters, voice thick with sarcasm, and Frankie gives him the evil-eye.
Holly turns out to have produced four sides pages on the Egyptian gods in her lopsided handwriting, and Sam bites back a bitchy remark about it and just concentrates on getting his copies. She hovers at his elbow as he works the machine, arms folded over her chest, and snatches her notebook back when he's done. "At least tell me you're footing the photocopier bill," Sam says, hopefully, and she rolls her eyes. He sighs, taking that as a no, and fishes out his wallet again.
"Did you decide what to do for your paper in the end?" he asks, and she shrugs.
"Nope, since unlike yours, my original idea was shot down in flames," she replies, but she doesn't seem to be needling him for anything, and so Sam takes no offence. "I thought I might do something on incest in the Greek pantheon. I'm reading the Oedipus play for another of my classes, and - what?"
Sam rubs furiously at his flushed cheeks, ashamed at himself for his reaction. Jesus. Incest. It's just a word.
He thinks of Dean kissing his doppelganger again, and dips his head, angry at himself. It doesn't mean anything. For all he knows the thing could've put his brother under some spell, forced him to become sexually attracted to it. He can't imagine - two fucked-up freaks in one family is kind of pushing the realms of believability. Dean's straight, and Sam - well, Sam's only bi. He's done research on sibling incest, spent many an evening poring over psychology sites and papers and wikipedia articles - Westermarck effect, genetic sexual attraction, unhealthy, non-consensual - and finds that none of it applies to him and his brother, not really. The Westermarck Effect, that whole concept of not lusting for the people you grew up with, should've been stronger with them, with Dean raising Sam since, really, long before their dad died.
"Here's your change," the girl behind the counter says, snapping her gum, and Holly jabs him in the side with a sharp elbow. He cups his palm for the coins and gives her a tiny smile, which she doesn't return.
"As I was saying," Holly stresses, and he colors again, guilty, and folds up the copies of the notes before shoving them in his bag. Holly falls in step behind him as he heads towards the exit, her boots clicking high-pitched and odd on the tiled floor. "I think I'm gonna do the Persephone myth, because dude, she and her mom had it tough. I've been doing my research and I've run across so many different versions of events, and I thought what with the rape and incest and kidnapping and stuff they'd be good basis for a feminist study of myth."
"I see," Sam murmurs, because it feels like an appropriate interval. "Good luck with that. Look, Holly, I got stuff I need to research at the library, I'll see you later."
She huffs, insulted, and he wishes he could find it in himself to feel sorry. Instead he parts from her with a wave, determined. He's going to find the thing that's possessing Dean, and he's going to make it pay. Dean will get better. He'll go out and have the life he should be living, free of bewitching spells cast by evil demons. It'll be okay.
Sam will make it work.
By the time Sam gets back from the library it's dark and starting to rain, and he looks up at his apartment window as he locks up his bike, breathing a sigh of relief at the light. God. He could do with a shower right about now. It's his turn to cook and he hopes Jess won't mind if dinner's a little later than usual; he aches all over, even in his eyes. He knew he should've moved around a bit while in the library.
His schoolbag is weighed down some by the four thick books he took out, heavy boring reads on Celtic folklore. Nothing else checked out - not even searching the history of Dean's apartment site for anybody murdered in their sleep, in the off chance his brother's night time visitor is a wandering spirit - and he thinks maybe it might be a member of the fairy class, performing a trick on his brother. He knows it's not very likely, but he can't think of anything else.
Jess is sitting at the kitchen table when he comes in, wearing her glasses and doing the newspaper crossword. She looks up when he opens the door and slides her glasses off, meek, guilty expression all too familiar, and Sam groans, ditching his schoolbooks and laptop case by the door. "Whatever it is," he says, "It can wait."
"It's Daniel," she says, and sounds embarrassed. "He's waiting in the foyer downstairs for you. Did you come in the back way?"
"Yeah. What's Daniel doing here?" Sam toes off his shoes and then his jacket, breathing a sigh of relief. Shower. Soon, God, landlord waiting in the foyer or not.
"He wants October's rent," Jess says apologetically, and Sam sighs. "He says we're good kids and he doesn't want to evict us -"
"Jess, I gave you my half of the money. It was your turn to pay, remember?" Sam crosses into the living room, and the little lockbox they keep the rent checks in. Jess pushes her chair back, follows him.
"No, it was yours," she says, firmly. "I remember because I had to clean the bathroom -"
"I cleaned the bathroom!" Sam snaps, indignantly. "The Sunday before your parents came up! Jesus, Jess." He clicks open the box and his mouth thins; his check is still there, signed and dated for Halloween.
"Mine is in the bedroom," Jess says, and she sounds annoyed. He sighs, running his hands through his hair, and she steps away to go fetch it; he holds his out to her when she returns and she just looks at it.
"Go give it over to Daniel," he growls, because this isn't the first time she's forgotten the rent. She takes it and glares at him, jaw set, blue eyes defiant, and he sighs; this never happened with his brother. Not Dean, who always got their rent in on the dot, no matter what.
"I don't see why it's my fault when you couldn't read the calendar," she mutters, and Sam rolls his eyes - probably not a good idea, since it seems to piss her off. "Oh, for God's sake, Sam - go check! See for yourself! Stop blaming me!"
"I don't need to check, because on the last day of this month it says 'go pay the rent, Sam,'" he points out, and she glares at him. "Just go give the landlord the rent, Jess, and we'll forget about this, okay?" he adds, weary, and she turns on her heel and exits the apartment, hauling the door open with enough force it slams into the wall. Sam crosses over to the bathroom, intent on showering at last. The last time Jess forgot the rent she also pinned it on him, and he'd been the one to go crawling to Daniel to eat humble pie; this time she can deal with it herself while he enjoys the company of a nice... hot... shower.
Perfect.
He takes his time drying off, sitting on his bed going over the hand-outs from today's classes. The copies of Holly's notes are shoved in the bottom of his bag, rumpled and messed up; he groans when he hauls them out and takes another glance at her untidy handwriting. God. It'll take him as long to decipher them as it will to type them up. His eyes flit over lines about cattle and the book of the dead, and even the graffiti Holly put in the margins - Kate Beckinsale sexiest woman ever y/n? to which someone had written y in hot pink ink.
"N," he says out loud because, dude, Kate Beckinsale totally stole her leather thing from that chick in The Matrix, and that chick in The Matrix was way hotter. He flips to the next side and reads on, at the carefully underlined deities and their aspects, and finally nods. Yes. Holly's notes are good ones, clear and concise; he could do without her wicca/new age/whatever thoughts scrawled around the words he needs, though.
Or at least, he could up until he sees the words Dream spells underlined to the left of Isis' name. "Holy fuck," he whispers, and restrains himself from yelling in relief. This is the first thing he's found, and he needs to check it out. It could fall through. Isis is an old goddess, and he knows better than to trust this modern witchcraft thing, especially not from a silly little girl like Holly.
If she is a silly little girl. He remembers the witch they stayed with in Ohio, who did her spells only when she wasn't working as a freaking bank manager. She'd told them witches knew how to disguise themselves, better than anybody; Sam's eyes track to his night table, to his father's journal lying there innocently, and realizes he's not exactly out of people he can call.
Jess is back by the time he emerges from the bedroom, sitting back at the table, glasses on and arms folded against her chest. He pretends not to notice - just hikes up the towel knotted around his waist and heads into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of orange juice from the carton in the fridge. She's still watching him when he emerges, and finally he sighs and says, "What?"
"Sit down," she orders, pointing to the chair across the table from her. He glances at it and then shrugs, sliding the glass onto the table when he sits.
"Daniel happy?" he asks and she nods. He pulls his juice back towards him, sips at it.
"Yeah. I wanted to... you were right, okay? It was my turn and I forgot. I guess I'm sorry, all right?" Jess picks up a pen from the table and twirls absently between her fingers, eyes on him, and Sam sighs.
"It's okay," he says. "I just... sometimes I wish you'd be more responsible, is all."
"Like Dean?" she asks, and there's a hint of razor-edge in her voice. Sam eyes her curiously and then says, carefully, "Yeah, I guess so."
Jess throws the pen at the table - not drops, throws - and crosses her arms again, scowling. Sam has no idea what he's said wrong but can't help bristling too, ready to meet whatever she has to give. "I'm sorry I'm not your brother," she says, curtly, and he blinks at her. "I'm sorry I can't be as awesome as Dean. It's a good thing you can have sex with me, huh, because God knows I'm inferior to him in every other way!"
"I never said that," Sam snaps, and then, "Look. Jess. I'm not saying you're not as good as Dean, so I don't know where this whole 'inferior' thing comes from -"
"It comes from you! Every time we have a fight, every time we don't see eye-to-eye, you compare me to Dean, Sam! It's always, 'Dean knows how to fix a car with just a fork and a paperclip,' or 'Dean knows how to write in his sleep' or 'Dean knows how to cook dinner for six while upside down in a vat of molten lava' or whatever. I just, I don't like it."
Sam raises his free hand, rubbing at his brow. He can feel another headache starting, and he really doesn't want to start a full-blown fight, not with Jess. "Okay," he says, and then, "Sorry."
Jess sighs and shifts, then shakes her head. "No, you're not," she says quietly. "You're just saying that. Sam, you should hear yourself talk, sometimes. This isn't the first time that I've said I'm sick of being compared to your brother, and you keep on doing it. I just... do you want a brother or a girlfriend? Really?"
He clenches his teeth against the sudden shiver racking his spine, and hunches his shoulders in, thumb circling the rim of his glass. "A girlfriend," he says softly, and Jess sighs. "I can't help it, Jess. Dean was - is - the most important thing, and I'm all he has. I think about him a lot. That's all."
"I'm not him, Sam," she points out. "I never will be."
"Are we still fighting about the rent?" Sam asks despite himself, and Jess rolls her eyes. "No, I mean it. Is this about the rent or Dean or what?"
"Both?" Jess tries. "I get that he's your brother, but Sam - this dependence on each other, it's not... right."
"I know," Sam agrees, whole-heartedly, mind throwing up an image of Dean and the fraudulent Sam making out. "Believe me, I know."
She sighs, lacing her fingers together, and leans forward across the table. "I think maybe you need to start letting him go, Sam," she says gently. "I can't be him, but I can still be your girlfriend. If you want me to be. If you just want a brother, then say so."
He opens his mouth to reassure her that yes, a girlfriend is what he wants - and then cuts himself off, lost, as a memory flashes across his eyes of Dean and the false Sam, snuggling. His chests hurts, an ache deep-seated and sore, and he rubs at it absently, not sure what to say. Jess must've seen that, because she sighs and pushes herself away from the table, stands up.
"I'm going over to Madz's place to stay the night," she says. "If you need me, just call."
She heads into the bedroom to pack, and no matter how hard Sam tries to call her back, his voice won't work.
Dean closes his apartment door quietly behind him, glancing around the living room. It's getting dark already, what with winter fast approaching; not enough to warrant switching the lights on, but enough. He dumps his bag on the couch, his keys on top of the TV.
He passes his phone on the way to the bedroom, and backtracks when he notices the flashing on the machine. He hits the button and pulls off his shoes, heading into the kitchen as the automated voice informs him, You have three new messages. He's starving - he skipped breakfast this morning and was only able to eat a couple of bites of lunch at work, but his body is heavy with a sort of bone-deep lethargy and it's too much to think of cooking. He has a loaf of bread in his cupboard.
Um, Dean, it's me, Sam. I - I gotta cancel our movie thing, okay? I have a paper to do, and then I gotta drive Jess to her appointment. I just - you wanna reschedule? Call me when you get this.
The message ends with a click and the automated voice cuts in with a harsh message saved at nine-oh-six-am, Saturday the - before Dean deletes it quickly. Yeah, whatever. Wasn't like he wasn't expecting that. He sighs and steps back as the next one kicks in, something inside him aching hard. Suddenly he wants nothing more than his bed, and it's with reluctance that he forces himself to stick around long enough to eat his excuse for a meal and hear out the rest of his messages.
Hey, Dean, it's me, Sam. I just - I just had a fight with Jess, and I - Oh, you know what? Nevermind.
There's odd static on the message and Dean eyes his machine curiously as he passes by, then doubles back. He doesn't delete this message; it had been left several hours after the first, but not too long before he got off work. His hand hovers over the receiver, and then he sighs, picking it up and cradling it between his head and shoulder, dialling Sam's number with practised ease and counting the number of times it rings, foot tapping nervously despite himself, the bread squishing unpleasantly in his fist.
Click. Hi, this is Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore; we're not in at the moment, but please leave a message - oh c'mon, Sam, you sound so pompous, gimme it - hi, this is Jess. We're busy, away, or being eaten by Alsatians. Leave a message!
Dean slams the phone down way to quickly and takes a deep breath, rubs his hand over his face. His ring is cool against his skin, feels a little loose. Of course. What had he expected? They've made up, they're probably on the make-up sex now - and a spark of heat flashes through him at the thought - and Sam doesn't need to have Dean mediate or offer some sort of comfort or... whatever, not anymore. He growls under his breath, the answering machine still flashing with the final message, and hits the button before turning away. He throws himself on the couch and crushes the bread the rest of the way, into a rough ball shape, before taking a huge bite.
Hi, me again. I just want to let it know - it knows what I mean - I'm coming for it. Soon. I spoke to Pastor Jim and I know what to do. See ya.
Dean's spine crawls and he sits up straighter, unnerved. He thinks once upon a time he'd've panicked at that, at the inexplicable message, at the idea of Sam contacting Pastor Jim, talking to someone from their old life, the life where your father dies and people care more about custody of his journal than of his orphaned boys; he thinks once upon a time he'd've dialled Sam back and shouted at him over the phone, would've left the apartment at a run to find his baby brother and knock some sense into him. Once upon a time he'd've tried his hardest to find out what Sam meant by 'I'm coming for it,' because he can't... he can't... he can't mean the Sam that plagues Dean's dreams every night, that kisses him and fucks him and listens to him, because it's not obvious, right? It - he - said his kind weren't harmful, didn't he? He's not a threat, even if the real Sam could for some mysterious reason know about his existence.
He thinks he should call Sam up, at least, talk to him. Ask him what he means by it.
Instead he quietly finishes off his bread, brushes the crumbs off his lap, and heads into the bedroom. His head seems full of hazy pink cloud, and has for the last few days; he thinks once upon a time he might've worried about that, too. Now, he just shucks off his jeans and carefully folds up a corner of the quilt, sliding peacefully into bed.
He still stinks of smoke after an earlier fire, and there's soot in his hair, staining the soft pastel blue of his pillow case. He can't bring himself to care. Hungry or not, dirty or not, he just closes his eyes and lets himself - escape.
-tbc
Next chapter →
'Cause it feels like I've been
I've been here before
You are not my savior
But I still don't go, oh
Dissolved Girl
Also, utterly unrelated to the story, but is it just me or are these songs eerily similar? It's been bugging me for TWO DAYS STRAIGHT. Opinions, please!
Imogen Heap - Whatever and Tim Jensen - Lithium Flower
Author: nymeria
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, Dean/Other
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 30,275 in total, 4,468 this chapter
Genre: AU.
Betas: poisonnan and erinella30
Notes: Nearly at the end! I'm sure y'all will be relieved that I'm no longer spamming up your flists. This is a filler chapter, really, but bear with me! *g*
Chapters: [Part one] [Part two] [Part three] [Part four] [Part five] [Part six] [Epilogue]
This is the place where all the devils plead
Their case to take from you what they need
This is The Place
← previous chapter
He knows it's not going to be a good day when he comes out of the bedroom, clad in a pair of sweat pants and still sleepy, and finds the cup of coffee Jess normally makes him upended over his notebook. She's cursing under her breath as she tries to blot the excess liquid off, but Sam knows a lost cause when he sees one, and comes over to give her a quick good morning kiss, tugging the book out of her hands and pitching it in the trash.
"Sam, I'm sorry, I wasn't looking, I hit it with my elbow -" she says, worried, but he cuts her off.
"It's okay, it was mostly empty anyway," he soothes, running his hands up and down her bare arms, and she closes her eyes, leans into him. She smells like peaches. "I'll get Cathy's notes off her today, or something."
"I'm sorry," she says again, and he sighs, runs his hands through her hair, an unspoken forget about it. It's too early in the morning for this, really.
"Is there still coffee in the pot?" he asks instead and she nods, moving away from him to pick up the mug and carry it over to the kitchen counter. She's wearing a pair of jeans, blue panties visible at the back, and a plain lilac blouse, and her long blond hair whispers over the cloth when she moves her head. Her fingernails chink against the ceramic of the mug, and she bites her lower lip as she pours out another coffee for him.
When she hands him his coffee their fingertips brush, and Sam smiles at her and can't help that he thinks of Dean, sucking face with some sort of mental parasite. He blinks, caught off-guard by the non sequitur, and glances away, feeling somewhat guilty.
"Sam?" she asks, puzzled, and he swallows.
Jesus. He hadn't known.
"I need to go to the library after class to do some research on a few things for my occultism class," he says, voice carefully cheerful. He still can't meet her eyes. "What time are you going to be home?"
"Three," she says, carefully pouring out another cup of coffee for herself, her back to him. "Maybe four. How late are you going to be?"
"Couple of hours, nothing major," he says with a shrug, mind already cataloging the things he knows of that feast on sex dreams. He's been out of the game for eight years, but his dad was a thorough drill sergeant, and he still remembers. Whatever it is, it's corporeal in his brother's dream world; Sam had passed through both of them like he was a ghost, like he was the interloper there, and only it had been able to see him. Not a succubus or incubus, that much he knows, although it won't hurt to double-check to be sure.
"There's cereal if you want breakfast," Jess cuts in, and he gives her a short nod, thoughtful. He knows he should be hurrying - he has class in an hour, for god's sake - but for some reason he just can't concentrate, not on class.
"I'm going to go call my brother," he says abruptly, tipping his chin up and draining the last of the coffee, setting the mug on the side with a satisfying thump. "Make sure he's awake and getting ready for work and all."
"Sure," Jess says, distractedly attempting to wrestle a box of poptarts from where she shoved it into one of their kitchen cupboards. "Make sure you remember your laptop this time, baby."
"I will, I will," he says, already heading into the bedroom, pushing his pants off as he goes. His cellphone is sitting on the night table on his side of the bend, sandwiched between his alarm clock and his reading lamp; he picks it up and hesitates only slightly before dialling his brother.
He has to call three times before Dean finally picks up, voice slurred and groggy, and Sam can't help the stab of fear low in his belly. He thinks he manages to keep it out of his voice, cajoling his brother out of bed and into the kitchen with a steady stream of cheerful patter, but he knows then and there: unless he does something, he's going to lose Dean.
And he thinks he'd rather die than let that happen.
It turns out that Cathy, probably just to make Sam's day worse, has the flu and is tucked up in bed at home, with her notes, far away from Sam. He hangs up after wishing her to get better, disappointed, and tries calling Don and then, when the bastard fails to answer, Chrissie. Neither of them pick up and Sam spends several seconds cursing them and their heritage, because there's only one other person who takes the sort of detailed notes he needs, and she's on the quad across from him, pink hair bright in the sun as she shares her lunch with her girlfriend, another Hot Topic customer with a tongue piercing. He thinks the girlfriend's named Frances, or maybe Frisky, who knows.
She looks up when he approaches and smiles beatifically, taking another bite of her apple. "Hi, Sam," she says, mouth full and expression as innocent as it can be with her cheeks bulging. "What's up?"
"Holly," Sam grits out. "I need to borrow your Classical Religions notes for the class yesterday."
She smirks and he reminds himself that she does take good notes, and that throttling her is never a good idea. Frisky-Frances is eyeing him suspiciously, no doubt having been told he's a heinous pervert who gropes girls up all the time. Christ. He'd been pushed into her lap, already dating Jess and not particularly interested in a so-called 'alternative' chick with anger management issues. At least she hadn't had the skull-zipper purse then; it'd be much harder to take her seriously if she did.
"Why not ask our dearest teacher to lecture you again, Sam?" she asks sweetly. "Maybe he can give you a week's extension on the exams, too."
"Holly," he says again, weary. "My girlfriend spilled coffee over my notes by accident. I just want to photocopy yours. Please."
She raises a black-painted fingernail to her lips, looking dramatically pensive, and her girlfriend speaks up for the first time, smug as she says, "What's in it for Holly?"
"My unbridled adoration?" Sam wants to say, but manages to keep himself from doing so. Instead he clears his throat and says, "Ten bucks?"
She holds her hands out as if weighing imaginary items. "Watching karma biting you in the ass or ten bucks," she says thoughtfully, and Frances snickers. Sam's reminded why he hates talking to more than one girl at once. "Make it fifteen."
"Done," he says immediately, digging in his back pocket for his wallet, and she meticulously folds her sandwich back up in foil, stowing it in her bag. He counts out fifteen dollars and hands it to her, and she makes a big deal of waving them back and forth in front of her nose, inhaling the scent.
"I should've held out for more," she says wistfully, and pulls her bag over her shoulder. "Frankie, I'm gonna go to the copy centre. Catch you at one, 'kay?"
"Sure," her girlfriend says, eyeing Sam dubiously, and he rolls his eyes. "Be careful."
"Yeah, you never know what I'll do," Sam mutters, voice thick with sarcasm, and Frankie gives him the evil-eye.
Holly turns out to have produced four sides pages on the Egyptian gods in her lopsided handwriting, and Sam bites back a bitchy remark about it and just concentrates on getting his copies. She hovers at his elbow as he works the machine, arms folded over her chest, and snatches her notebook back when he's done. "At least tell me you're footing the photocopier bill," Sam says, hopefully, and she rolls her eyes. He sighs, taking that as a no, and fishes out his wallet again.
"Did you decide what to do for your paper in the end?" he asks, and she shrugs.
"Nope, since unlike yours, my original idea was shot down in flames," she replies, but she doesn't seem to be needling him for anything, and so Sam takes no offence. "I thought I might do something on incest in the Greek pantheon. I'm reading the Oedipus play for another of my classes, and - what?"
Sam rubs furiously at his flushed cheeks, ashamed at himself for his reaction. Jesus. Incest. It's just a word.
He thinks of Dean kissing his doppelganger again, and dips his head, angry at himself. It doesn't mean anything. For all he knows the thing could've put his brother under some spell, forced him to become sexually attracted to it. He can't imagine - two fucked-up freaks in one family is kind of pushing the realms of believability. Dean's straight, and Sam - well, Sam's only bi. He's done research on sibling incest, spent many an evening poring over psychology sites and papers and wikipedia articles - Westermarck effect, genetic sexual attraction, unhealthy, non-consensual - and finds that none of it applies to him and his brother, not really. The Westermarck Effect, that whole concept of not lusting for the people you grew up with, should've been stronger with them, with Dean raising Sam since, really, long before their dad died.
"Here's your change," the girl behind the counter says, snapping her gum, and Holly jabs him in the side with a sharp elbow. He cups his palm for the coins and gives her a tiny smile, which she doesn't return.
"As I was saying," Holly stresses, and he colors again, guilty, and folds up the copies of the notes before shoving them in his bag. Holly falls in step behind him as he heads towards the exit, her boots clicking high-pitched and odd on the tiled floor. "I think I'm gonna do the Persephone myth, because dude, she and her mom had it tough. I've been doing my research and I've run across so many different versions of events, and I thought what with the rape and incest and kidnapping and stuff they'd be good basis for a feminist study of myth."
"I see," Sam murmurs, because it feels like an appropriate interval. "Good luck with that. Look, Holly, I got stuff I need to research at the library, I'll see you later."
She huffs, insulted, and he wishes he could find it in himself to feel sorry. Instead he parts from her with a wave, determined. He's going to find the thing that's possessing Dean, and he's going to make it pay. Dean will get better. He'll go out and have the life he should be living, free of bewitching spells cast by evil demons. It'll be okay.
Sam will make it work.
By the time Sam gets back from the library it's dark and starting to rain, and he looks up at his apartment window as he locks up his bike, breathing a sigh of relief at the light. God. He could do with a shower right about now. It's his turn to cook and he hopes Jess won't mind if dinner's a little later than usual; he aches all over, even in his eyes. He knew he should've moved around a bit while in the library.
His schoolbag is weighed down some by the four thick books he took out, heavy boring reads on Celtic folklore. Nothing else checked out - not even searching the history of Dean's apartment site for anybody murdered in their sleep, in the off chance his brother's night time visitor is a wandering spirit - and he thinks maybe it might be a member of the fairy class, performing a trick on his brother. He knows it's not very likely, but he can't think of anything else.
Jess is sitting at the kitchen table when he comes in, wearing her glasses and doing the newspaper crossword. She looks up when he opens the door and slides her glasses off, meek, guilty expression all too familiar, and Sam groans, ditching his schoolbooks and laptop case by the door. "Whatever it is," he says, "It can wait."
"It's Daniel," she says, and sounds embarrassed. "He's waiting in the foyer downstairs for you. Did you come in the back way?"
"Yeah. What's Daniel doing here?" Sam toes off his shoes and then his jacket, breathing a sigh of relief. Shower. Soon, God, landlord waiting in the foyer or not.
"He wants October's rent," Jess says apologetically, and Sam sighs. "He says we're good kids and he doesn't want to evict us -"
"Jess, I gave you my half of the money. It was your turn to pay, remember?" Sam crosses into the living room, and the little lockbox they keep the rent checks in. Jess pushes her chair back, follows him.
"No, it was yours," she says, firmly. "I remember because I had to clean the bathroom -"
"I cleaned the bathroom!" Sam snaps, indignantly. "The Sunday before your parents came up! Jesus, Jess." He clicks open the box and his mouth thins; his check is still there, signed and dated for Halloween.
"Mine is in the bedroom," Jess says, and she sounds annoyed. He sighs, running his hands through his hair, and she steps away to go fetch it; he holds his out to her when she returns and she just looks at it.
"Go give it over to Daniel," he growls, because this isn't the first time she's forgotten the rent. She takes it and glares at him, jaw set, blue eyes defiant, and he sighs; this never happened with his brother. Not Dean, who always got their rent in on the dot, no matter what.
"I don't see why it's my fault when you couldn't read the calendar," she mutters, and Sam rolls his eyes - probably not a good idea, since it seems to piss her off. "Oh, for God's sake, Sam - go check! See for yourself! Stop blaming me!"
"I don't need to check, because on the last day of this month it says 'go pay the rent, Sam,'" he points out, and she glares at him. "Just go give the landlord the rent, Jess, and we'll forget about this, okay?" he adds, weary, and she turns on her heel and exits the apartment, hauling the door open with enough force it slams into the wall. Sam crosses over to the bathroom, intent on showering at last. The last time Jess forgot the rent she also pinned it on him, and he'd been the one to go crawling to Daniel to eat humble pie; this time she can deal with it herself while he enjoys the company of a nice... hot... shower.
Perfect.
He takes his time drying off, sitting on his bed going over the hand-outs from today's classes. The copies of Holly's notes are shoved in the bottom of his bag, rumpled and messed up; he groans when he hauls them out and takes another glance at her untidy handwriting. God. It'll take him as long to decipher them as it will to type them up. His eyes flit over lines about cattle and the book of the dead, and even the graffiti Holly put in the margins - Kate Beckinsale sexiest woman ever y/n? to which someone had written y in hot pink ink.
"N," he says out loud because, dude, Kate Beckinsale totally stole her leather thing from that chick in The Matrix, and that chick in The Matrix was way hotter. He flips to the next side and reads on, at the carefully underlined deities and their aspects, and finally nods. Yes. Holly's notes are good ones, clear and concise; he could do without her wicca/new age/whatever thoughts scrawled around the words he needs, though.
Or at least, he could up until he sees the words Dream spells underlined to the left of Isis' name. "Holy fuck," he whispers, and restrains himself from yelling in relief. This is the first thing he's found, and he needs to check it out. It could fall through. Isis is an old goddess, and he knows better than to trust this modern witchcraft thing, especially not from a silly little girl like Holly.
If she is a silly little girl. He remembers the witch they stayed with in Ohio, who did her spells only when she wasn't working as a freaking bank manager. She'd told them witches knew how to disguise themselves, better than anybody; Sam's eyes track to his night table, to his father's journal lying there innocently, and realizes he's not exactly out of people he can call.
Jess is back by the time he emerges from the bedroom, sitting back at the table, glasses on and arms folded against her chest. He pretends not to notice - just hikes up the towel knotted around his waist and heads into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of orange juice from the carton in the fridge. She's still watching him when he emerges, and finally he sighs and says, "What?"
"Sit down," she orders, pointing to the chair across the table from her. He glances at it and then shrugs, sliding the glass onto the table when he sits.
"Daniel happy?" he asks and she nods. He pulls his juice back towards him, sips at it.
"Yeah. I wanted to... you were right, okay? It was my turn and I forgot. I guess I'm sorry, all right?" Jess picks up a pen from the table and twirls absently between her fingers, eyes on him, and Sam sighs.
"It's okay," he says. "I just... sometimes I wish you'd be more responsible, is all."
"Like Dean?" she asks, and there's a hint of razor-edge in her voice. Sam eyes her curiously and then says, carefully, "Yeah, I guess so."
Jess throws the pen at the table - not drops, throws - and crosses her arms again, scowling. Sam has no idea what he's said wrong but can't help bristling too, ready to meet whatever she has to give. "I'm sorry I'm not your brother," she says, curtly, and he blinks at her. "I'm sorry I can't be as awesome as Dean. It's a good thing you can have sex with me, huh, because God knows I'm inferior to him in every other way!"
"I never said that," Sam snaps, and then, "Look. Jess. I'm not saying you're not as good as Dean, so I don't know where this whole 'inferior' thing comes from -"
"It comes from you! Every time we have a fight, every time we don't see eye-to-eye, you compare me to Dean, Sam! It's always, 'Dean knows how to fix a car with just a fork and a paperclip,' or 'Dean knows how to write in his sleep' or 'Dean knows how to cook dinner for six while upside down in a vat of molten lava' or whatever. I just, I don't like it."
Sam raises his free hand, rubbing at his brow. He can feel another headache starting, and he really doesn't want to start a full-blown fight, not with Jess. "Okay," he says, and then, "Sorry."
Jess sighs and shifts, then shakes her head. "No, you're not," she says quietly. "You're just saying that. Sam, you should hear yourself talk, sometimes. This isn't the first time that I've said I'm sick of being compared to your brother, and you keep on doing it. I just... do you want a brother or a girlfriend? Really?"
He clenches his teeth against the sudden shiver racking his spine, and hunches his shoulders in, thumb circling the rim of his glass. "A girlfriend," he says softly, and Jess sighs. "I can't help it, Jess. Dean was - is - the most important thing, and I'm all he has. I think about him a lot. That's all."
"I'm not him, Sam," she points out. "I never will be."
"Are we still fighting about the rent?" Sam asks despite himself, and Jess rolls her eyes. "No, I mean it. Is this about the rent or Dean or what?"
"Both?" Jess tries. "I get that he's your brother, but Sam - this dependence on each other, it's not... right."
"I know," Sam agrees, whole-heartedly, mind throwing up an image of Dean and the fraudulent Sam making out. "Believe me, I know."
She sighs, lacing her fingers together, and leans forward across the table. "I think maybe you need to start letting him go, Sam," she says gently. "I can't be him, but I can still be your girlfriend. If you want me to be. If you just want a brother, then say so."
He opens his mouth to reassure her that yes, a girlfriend is what he wants - and then cuts himself off, lost, as a memory flashes across his eyes of Dean and the false Sam, snuggling. His chests hurts, an ache deep-seated and sore, and he rubs at it absently, not sure what to say. Jess must've seen that, because she sighs and pushes herself away from the table, stands up.
"I'm going over to Madz's place to stay the night," she says. "If you need me, just call."
She heads into the bedroom to pack, and no matter how hard Sam tries to call her back, his voice won't work.
Dean closes his apartment door quietly behind him, glancing around the living room. It's getting dark already, what with winter fast approaching; not enough to warrant switching the lights on, but enough. He dumps his bag on the couch, his keys on top of the TV.
He passes his phone on the way to the bedroom, and backtracks when he notices the flashing on the machine. He hits the button and pulls off his shoes, heading into the kitchen as the automated voice informs him, You have three new messages. He's starving - he skipped breakfast this morning and was only able to eat a couple of bites of lunch at work, but his body is heavy with a sort of bone-deep lethargy and it's too much to think of cooking. He has a loaf of bread in his cupboard.
Um, Dean, it's me, Sam. I - I gotta cancel our movie thing, okay? I have a paper to do, and then I gotta drive Jess to her appointment. I just - you wanna reschedule? Call me when you get this.
The message ends with a click and the automated voice cuts in with a harsh message saved at nine-oh-six-am, Saturday the - before Dean deletes it quickly. Yeah, whatever. Wasn't like he wasn't expecting that. He sighs and steps back as the next one kicks in, something inside him aching hard. Suddenly he wants nothing more than his bed, and it's with reluctance that he forces himself to stick around long enough to eat his excuse for a meal and hear out the rest of his messages.
Hey, Dean, it's me, Sam. I just - I just had a fight with Jess, and I - Oh, you know what? Nevermind.
There's odd static on the message and Dean eyes his machine curiously as he passes by, then doubles back. He doesn't delete this message; it had been left several hours after the first, but not too long before he got off work. His hand hovers over the receiver, and then he sighs, picking it up and cradling it between his head and shoulder, dialling Sam's number with practised ease and counting the number of times it rings, foot tapping nervously despite himself, the bread squishing unpleasantly in his fist.
Click. Hi, this is Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore; we're not in at the moment, but please leave a message - oh c'mon, Sam, you sound so pompous, gimme it - hi, this is Jess. We're busy, away, or being eaten by Alsatians. Leave a message!
Dean slams the phone down way to quickly and takes a deep breath, rubs his hand over his face. His ring is cool against his skin, feels a little loose. Of course. What had he expected? They've made up, they're probably on the make-up sex now - and a spark of heat flashes through him at the thought - and Sam doesn't need to have Dean mediate or offer some sort of comfort or... whatever, not anymore. He growls under his breath, the answering machine still flashing with the final message, and hits the button before turning away. He throws himself on the couch and crushes the bread the rest of the way, into a rough ball shape, before taking a huge bite.
Hi, me again. I just want to let it know - it knows what I mean - I'm coming for it. Soon. I spoke to Pastor Jim and I know what to do. See ya.
Dean's spine crawls and he sits up straighter, unnerved. He thinks once upon a time he'd've panicked at that, at the inexplicable message, at the idea of Sam contacting Pastor Jim, talking to someone from their old life, the life where your father dies and people care more about custody of his journal than of his orphaned boys; he thinks once upon a time he'd've dialled Sam back and shouted at him over the phone, would've left the apartment at a run to find his baby brother and knock some sense into him. Once upon a time he'd've tried his hardest to find out what Sam meant by 'I'm coming for it,' because he can't... he can't... he can't mean the Sam that plagues Dean's dreams every night, that kisses him and fucks him and listens to him, because it's not obvious, right? It - he - said his kind weren't harmful, didn't he? He's not a threat, even if the real Sam could for some mysterious reason know about his existence.
He thinks he should call Sam up, at least, talk to him. Ask him what he means by it.
Instead he quietly finishes off his bread, brushes the crumbs off his lap, and heads into the bedroom. His head seems full of hazy pink cloud, and has for the last few days; he thinks once upon a time he might've worried about that, too. Now, he just shucks off his jeans and carefully folds up a corner of the quilt, sliding peacefully into bed.
He still stinks of smoke after an earlier fire, and there's soot in his hair, staining the soft pastel blue of his pillow case. He can't bring himself to care. Hungry or not, dirty or not, he just closes his eyes and lets himself - escape.
-tbc
Next chapter →
'Cause it feels like I've been
I've been here before
You are not my savior
But I still don't go, oh
Dissolved Girl
Also, utterly unrelated to the story, but is it just me or are these songs eerily similar? It's been bugging me for TWO DAYS STRAIGHT. Opinions, please!
Imogen Heap - Whatever and Tim Jensen - Lithium Flower