|| SPN || AR || R || Slash ||
masterpost
prologue
part 1
part 2
part 3
Two deaths and at least two cases of demonic activity. Dean's not surprised when East Main is muted, afraid. Everyone's looking a little closer at everyone else. Everyone's holding onto holy water and crosses. More people come slinking to Dean, even to Bobby and Ellen, whispering about this and that. Black eyes, maybe? Or, yeah, I'm pretty sure he winced when I said christo.
Sometimes Dean thinks they should just put a comment box outside the old manager's office, let people put all their paranoid suspicions in one place. Just like everything else, though, Dean's almost glad for it. The flurry of people checking wards, strengthening them. Patrolling, even though finding walkers is hard to do unless they want to be found, apparently. Maybe they hide with the roamers, maybe the infected stay there, too, because beyond the people already - taken care of, Dean hasn't heard of anymore cases of demonic rabies, either. Busy work, Dean thinks. Busy keeps people out of trouble, keeps people from turning into a raging mob and shunning people.
Dean's learned his lesson.
The only hardships, for awhile, are food, water, and yeah. It's not going to be too long before they have to adjust rationing again. And just when things start shifting back to something bearable, Frank starts staying with him every night. His stuff slowly spreads out with Dean's. It's tense and weird, but Dean doesn't say no. Can't. And Frank doesn't say much at all, either.
Then there's Sam. Regular call ins every two days, now, and Dean doesn't tell him about Victoria, about Jo or even talk about Frank. It's just Sam's own patrols, the horde. Sam's even voice is almost soothing in his ear, sending him closer and closer to sleep whenever Sam calls late. Sam sounds...good, and it's a little jarring until Dean just shrugs it off, thinks Sam, and makes that the end of it.
Nothing unusual, Sam always says. Then rattles off whatever news he has. Horde's staying still; only a few roamers. Jake caught out a walker over toward WinCore. I got in contact with Porter, and guilted him into letting me into the City. He's sending a boat, and I'm going over to do some warding work over there, too. They have tomatoes, Dean. Tomatoes. I never thought I'd be so damn happy over a barter system.
It's easy, suddenly, to breathe with Frank passed out next to him, elbows and knees crowding Dean. Sam's voice talking quietly in his ear.
**
He knows better than to think it'll last. So he's not surprised when the brief interlude ends, and the fact that they're surrounded by a demonic apocalypse is staring them straight in the face. Again.
Porter calls late afternoon, and that's unusual in itself. When the man calls it's usually early morning, when Dean's just gotten into the old apartment manager's office. He has fuckin' office hours now, and Porter's cutting it close calling this late.
Dean actually shares the office with Bobby and Ellen. The more arcane books are kept here, and files. Everything that can be written down is written down and then it's shoved into some kind of order that Dean doesn't fully understand.
Possibly, as the phone rings and Frank knocks over a stack of papers with his elbow, they need to rethink that plan.
But the office houses the one phone that they've managed to keep working with Bobby's help - a secured line underground instead of going through overhead lines; the connection still pops, though, still cracks sharp with static or goes dead with distant calls. Nothing is reliable anymore.
Dean has Porter on speakerphone, because Frank is pale-faced. He's too-bright eyes and silence instead of endless chatter, and Dean's looking to distract him. So, Frank stays and listens, and as the conversation goes on, Dean starts regretting that decision.
"There's a new angle," Porter's voice is smooth; it's always smooth every time he calls. "We've had a pregnancy."
Movement drifts through the speaker in the pause, deep dragging sounds that Dean can't even begin to name. "Well, that's what happens you get a bunch of scared people together in pretty close quarters."
"End of the world," Frank agrees, quiet, though his eyes are clearer than Dean's seen them since Victoria's suicide. He mouths, "babies," at Dean like Dean might not know what pregnancies entail. Dean throws a pen at his head.
"The child's eyes were black." The words are said bluntly, and when they sink in, Dean jerks. Even Frank's leaning forward, like if he gets close enough he'll hear differently.
"What?"
"We tested the infant, and when that failed, we performed an exorcism. It was impervious to everything, almost like the demon was melded into the form. Unfortunately, the mother suffered serious damage when the child was taken against the woman's will."
Dean's breath hitches, and he shares a look with Frank. Horror. "What happened to the kid?"
"It was, of necessity, terminated. We are running tests on the mother while she recovers from her wounds. So far, she appears normal."
It's Frank that leans over the speaker, "how'd you know the kid was dangerous, huh? You can't just kill people on a say so. Goddammit - "
Dean shoves at him, herding him out of the room while he cusses and shoves back. "Frank, dammit, get the fuck out." He slams the door in his face, and he hears Frank linger, screaming something Dean doesn't even bother to listen to.
"Sorry," he says, and for a moment there's only the pop and crackle across the line. "He...we had a bad case of our own, recently."
"You understand," Porter finally says, "there is no room for error, now. The little information we have gleaned is useless if these demons are mutating and attacking in new ways."
"Yeah. I know that." And he does, understands in ways he never thought he'd have to.
"We have to protect the people left. We cannot abide threats to that protection."
**
He stays in the office after the call breaks off. Fuck, he thinks. Fuck fuck fuck.
The horde, walkers, demonic viruses. There are his words to Sam, feeding something else? Fuel. He closes his eyes, and there's blood splashed across the backs of his eyelids, dripping crimson that throbs in time with his heartbeat.
Elizabeth, Porter's voice says in his head, emotionless and brisk like a damn robot. The child's name, Elizabeth, according to the mother. A sculpture artist here was kind enough to make a plaque.
Oh, a plaque, Dean thinks. That smoothes thing over nicely. We murdered your child? Well, here's a plaque commemorating it.
He knows where to find Frank, when he finally gets up the energy to move. Outside, blowing smoke rings at dead gray sky, choking down stale nicotine like it's going out of style (and it is, Dean can still remember Frank's panic the first time he had to scavenge leftover butts in the trash).
He's expecting a blow out when he leans against the brick wall beside Frank. The rough material snags his shirt and pulls at him when he shifts. He doesn't even get a chance to say anything before Frank's in his face, spitting words at him, fuckin' snarling at Dean. He almost can't hear what Frank's saying, caught in the jerks and spasms of Frank's face, the way his mouth contorts and reveals glimpses of teeth, one canine chipped and sharp.
He tunes back in, Frank's voice going from a rapid buzz to "...and you're letting them - "
"Wait, what? You're tying this in with the marked?" Because no one ever says them that viciously unless it has something to do with the special children.
Frank stares at him a minute, one last snarl before, "maybe our first line of defense is the crack in the dam. Maybe they're our weakness, and we put them out there."
"So, what? You were all for them being out of East Main. Now you want them called back?"
"No. I'm saying Porter killed a baby. And - and you let the marked - they're still walking around?"
Dean stops for a moment, mouth clicking dryly when he tries to swallow. Frank's angry, tight jaw and clenched fists, empty eyes staring up at Dean. Christ, Dean thinks, and not one damn part of this conversation really makes sense. The words jangle along his nerves, sticking and making him sweat. He wants to say, you hear yourself, Frank? But he can't, because Frank's been harping on the marked, on Sam, since day one. He can't, because he remembers blood and screams and begging that had everything to do with Dean, with what he'd done.
So he says, "that baby was already showing signs, Frank! You know that. The marked are different. They're not..."
"Compromised?" It's a snarl, and he'd laugh, maybe, at Frank stalking nearer to him, maybe if he didn't know the man was a pretty vicious brawler for his size. There are too many roamers around with half a kidney missing because of Frank's knife for Dean not to take him seriously when Frank's this pissed. "Ain't that the word you like to use?"
"Frank, careful what you start."
"Or what? Huh? Gonna get rid of me, Dean?"
"This 'cause of Vicky?" He knows he hit a nerve; Frank can't quite hide it. "She killed herself, Frank. You can't blame that on me or Sam. It was her choice, against your wishes, maybe, but it was her choice. Killing more people isn't going to make it better or make it fair!"
"How much of it did she choose, huh, Dean?"
He's waiting for Frank to take a swing at him, or pull out his blade, anything aimed at Dean. What he's not prepared for is Frank ramming his fists into the brick wall of the apartment complex. Over and over, until his breaths are more like screams and the wall is painted a deep red.
But Dean doesn't stop him, just waits for it to pass, and says, "You should go to the infirmary."
Frank slumps, forehead pressed right above the smears of blood. "Just answer me one thing, Dean. What is he to you?"
It should be obvious, all these years, but Frank's eyes are glued to his face where's he's turned to look at Dean. "He's my brother, Frank."
He can see the protests, the questions and accusations, and when Frank asks, the words are sharp, bitten sounds. "Is his life worth so much more than everyone else's?"
Dean looks at the wall, at the damage of Frank's hands. The grief in his face. "Everything." He clicks his comm on, gets an answer to his query for infirmary prep, and then clicks it back off. "It's everything," and he leaves Frank standing there, hands curled to his chest.
**
When Sam and Dean get in touch with each other it's mostly Dean getting Sam on the comm, channel three being the dedicated line for any of the marked. No one but Sam ever answers, ever uses it. And Dean can count on one hand the times when it was Sam trying to get in contact with him. Once to let him know that a group out of Reavistown had agreed to take Rose in. "She's a kid," Sam had said, like Dean didn't know. "She's scared and misses her family. She knows not to do anything...weird. And nightmares aren't so unusual, right? Not after all this."
Another time was to tell him that Ruby's knife kills demons. Then, he had said, "do you want it? Maybe Bobby can look it over, see what's unique about it."
He'd said, "no. You should probably keep it." Because most demons they see now are possessing corpses, anyway, turning into walkers that carry the virus. It's not so much about preserving the host, now, as it is making sure the damn things stay dead. "Our weapons aren't as cool, but they work."
They'd laughed, and Dean tried not to think about that day at WinCore. Tried not to see Ruby dead and laid out on the grass. Tried not to remember how Sam was just a moment too late with his fear.
So there are only a few occasions that Dean can remember, and when Sam's voice suddenly crackles in his ears, Dean's first response is, "what's wrong?"
But there's nothing. Just Sam, just patrols and an upcoming crossing to the City. Sam hasn't been able to get the marked into Haven, yet. "They're weird over there, Dean," he says. "One of the biggest groups is led by some dude called Lazarra. He's...a fuckin' nutcase. Porter's not even interested in helping me set up another meeting with him. I don't. We check on our side of the Haven bridge, but they gotta fend for themselves, I guess."
"Yeah," Dean says. He's in the apartment complex's lobby, reports and records scattered all over the place. Brief patrol summaries, and there's nothing interesting there, despite everything that had happened in the last few weeks. Nothing shows up in hindsight.
"Is something wrong?"
"No," Dean says almost instantly. It's easier, for all that the answer's not true. Then, "when will you be back from helping Porter?"
"Twenty-four hour pass," Sam sing songs, then laughs. "Still hasn't changed."
"I'll meet you in Riverside."
"Dean? What - no, nevermind. I'll see you then."
**
It's always easier to meet outside of East Main, the few times over the year they've had time to see each other. People here don't know what Sam and the marked do, just think they're hunters, and so they don't share the same fear and suspicion. Maybe no one at the apartments would have said anything, Sam being Dean's brother. Dean doesn't really want to push it, though, not when Riverside's big enough to offer a spare room, and they're no worse off than East Main and Drenn for supplies. Maybe even a bit better than the other districts, considering Riverside's closest to the City.
Maybe Sam knows that. When he steps off the bridge connecting the City to Riverside, he's smiling, carrying a bulging bag. "Dean," he says, and instead of the hug Dean's expecting, Sam tosses the bag into Dean's chest, coarse material and heavy weight colliding, rushing the air out of him.
"Dammit," Dean says, but readjusts his grip, swinging the bag over his shoulder, and rubbing the bruised area with his free hand. Sam's strides are long, quicker than Dean remembers, and he lengthens his own, draws even with his brother. "How've you been?"
"Good," Sam grins, and it's bright, infectious. He jerks a thumb at the bag slung over Dean's shoulder. "Fresh apples."
Dean shifts the bag higher and clears his throat. "Stay here, for awhile."
"I kinda..." Sam trails off, something weirdly shy about the way he glances over at Dean. It puts Dean on alert. "I was wondering if you'd come with me."
Dean doesn't think about his answer. If he did, he'd say no, and he doesn't want to. Doesn't want to think about East Main or Frank's anger. "Okay."
"I mean, I've come to East Main, even when - "
"Sam, I said okay."
His brother turns, then, smile bright and sure, and Dean thinks about college student Sam, smart ass Sam. Misses them.
**
"There are three," he tells Sam when a guy, big and burly, with scars twisting like thick ropes over his face, shows them to an empty room. There's a cot and bedroll, sigils carved into the door, salt on the windows that are nailed closed and around the door. The guns and knives are self-supplied. "At least as far as we can tell, anyway."
Sam looks up, from a book he's pulled out of the sack. "What?"
Dean shifts, tries to get comfortable in the hard wood of his chair. "We thought the marked might've known. Before East Main, I mean." And maybe the regular people were still a little wary, and maybe Dean's been busy trying to take care of too many people, to remember that Sam and his group are out in left field. Even he knows that's not good enough. "But, there are three types of demons, so far as we've found. Seen, really. There's the horde. And there's what looks to be a virus - the one I told you about, it apparently gets into people and makes them rabid. We think it's demonic, maybe, but not like regular possession."
"And the third?" Sam's voice is blank, his face empty. Dean can't really blame him. "What's that?"
"It's the closest we can figure for the origin of the virus. We call 'em walkers. They're, they're like zombies. We know they're demons, though." He shakes his head, recalls hissed words, echon daimonion, remembers seeing bloated flesh slumped in the corner of an abandoned building. "It seems like the dead guys carry the virus and they can infect unpossessed people by bodily fluids."
"And these walkers are - are coherent?"
"I was able to talk to one. He talked about people possessing the demon." Sam stares, mouth slack and Dean clears his throat. "The idea fits, you know? The virus part of it, maybe, because when someone's bit we haven't been able to stop it, and the person's not affected by what a regular demon would be hurt by." Impervious. Melded. Maybe it's their good luck that the infected people are mindless fuckin' zombies and not conscious. Dean doesn't want to imagine what they'd be able to do then.
But his brother shakes his head, and Dean bites his lip, keeps the words behind his teeth. "Still doesn't make sense, Dean. Not really, you know, when you told me about the first two attacks. I mean, in a way it does, that the horde isn't in control of anything. It's like demon waste or a puppet, being told what to do. But a virus and zombie demons? What's the point of it, why would they all of a sudden pop up and do this, go this out of control, even with WinCore's interference?"
Dean's throat works for a minute, and his voice is dry when he says, "they wouldn't."
"No, they wouldn't." Sam's not looking at him, eyes glazed and distant. "They'd do random damage. Not anything with a pattern."
"And you see one?" Because he doesn't, not yet.
"You only need two points to make a line," Sam pushes his book out of the way, cradles one hand with the other, and looks at Dean with tired eyes. "But three's better, and I think we're gonna get it."
**
Later, they walk to the burned out husk of the local Riverside church. There's no altar, no podium, few pews left whole, and no one, in all this time, has even taken steps to restore the building. His brother doesn't look that pious, either, sitting cross legged in the aisle. Dean's careful, though, as he steps over the rubble to reach Sam.
He wants to squat beside Sam, feels overbearing and strange looming over him, out of place when it's been years since he was the taller of the two. But churches make him uncomfortable - one wrong move can destroy...something, maybe, of value in it. Or break the solemnity, which seems just as important.
He settles for sliding himself carefully into the pew next to his brother's legs. It creaks, and he feels the edges of rough wood catch the denim of his pants, but it holds his weight easily enough that he relaxes into it.
"What do you pray to, Sam?"
His brother sighs, his fingers flex where they rest on his thigh. "I don't, anymore." Sam turns toward him, brow furrowed, and Dean can tell that maybe Sam was just waiting for someone to ask. It's only then that Dean realizes how long it's been since he's even laid eyes on his brother, and not just had Sam's voice in his ear. "I can't, you know? After all this, I mean. Demons - we. We see the effects of them every day and not once - not once has there been anything else. Anything for us."
Dean reaches out, ruffles Sam's hair, feels the slightly greasy strands between his fingers, spiking out of his grip. He uses it to draw Sam sideways, so he can bend down, plant a kiss on the crown of his brother's head. He smells sweat and smoke and dirt. He wants to stay like this for as long as he can, wonders idly if Sam'll let him. "I'm sorry," and the heat of his words rushes back into his face until he turns his head, rests his cheek where his lips were.
"No," Sam says, and it's as quiet as Dean's words, like maybe he understands how Dean feels about places like this, all the awe and disdain. "It's just been so long. I miss what was there." Dean knows Sam means faith, believing in something bigger than them. They're too tied into their skins, maybe. Too bloody and dirty and human.
They're quiet after that, and the sun slides closer to the horizon as they sit. The red-orange light filters through broken walls to break into shadows around them. It makes Dean stir, stretch cramped muscles.
"Hey," he says, and manages to poke Sam in the belly button. Sam pushes his arm away before grunting a reply. "Come on, it's time we head back."
They walk the distance to their room, steps echoing one behind the other, and Dean remembers it from months ago, years, a childhood spent together. "I've missed you," he says when they get to the door of their room. It's unlocked, a simple turn of the knob for him to open it, step inside. But his brother's out here, not willing to cross some line that only he can see, and Dean can't push, can't close that little bit of distance.
"I know," Sam says. "Me, too, but I've been busy with patrolling the border and - "
"Managing the marked. I know, Sammy. Not like I don't have my share. I just."
Sam nods, and when they step inside, there's space between them. Silence.
**
Dean's car is a gold-colored monstrosity, rusted out and old with a mismatched blue panel on the hood. But it works, and it has a full tank. There's not much more that Dean could ask for. Especially not now.
Dean's never been one to talk much in cars, something about it always seems awkward and tiring. But he looks over where Sam's driving, legs crunched almost painfully under the steering column, arms long and lean. He says, "Victoria's dead. Bit by one of the walkers, got that virus."
Sam's body doesn't tense or relax. He's just as alert as he was a moment before, eyes still glued to the road, more dangerous now as weeds and trees bust up the pavement that was already starting to crack. "That's how you know about the new demons?" The ones that have nothing to do with classical possession, just new and bloody versions of the word. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"Not something fit for the comm, I guess, and then." Dean shrugs, not caring if Sam sees or not.
They don't talk again.
**
The finance district is empty. The whole, long destroyed stretch of it holds only a handful of people at any given time. "The horde doesn't hurt us, so we move around a lot. The Cash building's just there for anyone in this area for long. We usually hook up with smaller groups out here, help out for awhile." Sam's hedging, Dean can hear the quiet denial, but he can't pinpoint where or about what, so he doesn't ask. Just steps along beside his brother, Sam's long legs close to outpacing his own.
"The creep's bad out here," he says, because it is. The vague feeling that he's used to back in East Main is almost tangible here, thick and twisty with a life of its own.
"Huh," Sam says, and looks down at his arms. The hair's sticking up, goosebumps breaking out over his skin. Dean can see it, too. "We just got used to it. Most of the buildings are ruined from being close to WinCore. There's not a lot of break from it."
It drove the roamers insane, Dean wants to say. They kill and mutilate people. What'll it do to you? But Dean knows Sam'll only say they're fine. They're all fine, just...special.
"Dean, you okay?"
No. "Yeah, I'm fine." Are you still Sam, still my brother? "Tired."
He wants to say something else. Anything. Maybe I'm sorry or I want you or I miss you. Maybe all of it, but they're walking through and over the remains of the fancier buildings that Downtown once housed, burned and broken, and Dean's wondering if his brother is still anyone he can recognize.
There'll be time to find out, he thinks. He'll make time.
**
They're in some ruined building a few blocks from where the marked live. It's a tall building, one of the tallest left, and it reminds Dean of the first visit he'd made out here. The top floor where they're sitting damaged and barely holding together. Their legs dangle off the side, wind strong and circling at their feet.
But it's what is against the sky in front of them that's keeping Dean busy, not even paying attention to the height. It's the horde, but in it and behind it is green. Thick, pus green sky, every once and a while there's a thin jag of lightning between the black of the horde and whatever the pistachio puke is. "Is this what you wanted me to see?" When Sam nods, Dean asks, "when did this happen?"
Sam turns to him, and even when Dean doesn't look he can feel the weight of his brother's look. It makes him want to duck. Or hide. "Almost as soon as we came out here. Sometimes it comes so close, that I can feel it, almost like a second heartbeat. It's...freaky."
"Yeah," Dean says, "you could say that. You come out here often?" Because there are signs that somebody does. Dean doesn't know if he's entirely comfortable thinking of Sam or someone else out here by themselves.
"I can't sleep sometimes." Sam's still looking at him, Dean's still...not. "I come out here then. Sometimes, I can get a sense of things if I'm...open."
Open. In reach of demons. He knows they mean the same to Sam, and there's not much he can do or say against it. Sam long ago left the fold of East Main. Dean had even pushed him into it, had watched Sam go without really trying to stop him. "Okay." He gets up when the first boom of the thunder sounds. He walks, edging around the worst of the rotten floor, but there's nowhere to really go when Sam doesn't head for the steps.
The rain comes after a flash of lightening. It's heavy, pounding, and Dean can't escape it.
"You know what I am." Sam's up, too, stalking around, careless in his sudden anger where Dean wasn't either of those things. Dean's head spins with the shift in conversation. "What all the marked are. If you hate me, then - "
Dean grabs Sam's arm on his third pass around the small room. The movement startles him; Dean can feel the shock of muscles bunching against his hand but he doesn't let go - just squeezes once, twice, then softens the grip. "Do you think we're gonna win, Sammy?" Sam snorts, and Dean bows his head for a moment, long enough for the incredulous look to pass over his brother's face. "Then what do you think our children will be?" He searches, now, sees understanding creep into his brother's hazel eyes. Understanding where Dean's had the surety for a long time, now.
"Yeah. Maybe you were. We kill people because of. Of," he throws his arms wide, not pointing toward Sam, carefully not pointing toward Sam, but his brother's face pales, anyway. "But that's not going to work for long. It can't." He can taste the ozone already, like the horde's there, in that room with them. But it's not here, and Sam is just Sam. "Maybe everyone'll be marked." He's always hated the name, when East Main had screamed it, when Jake and Ava and all the rest had taken it up like a call to arms. When Sam had went along with it. But Dean uses it, doesn't know what to make of that use.
Sam saves him, says, "I get it, Dean."
Dean's laugh is choked, but it gets out. "Anyway," and this time he lets his hand drop, wipes the palm against his thigh. "You and the rest of the marked have done more to keep us safe than anyone else." Staying out here, watching the wards, because no one else can stand the creep long enough to stay out this far in the open.
"Not enough." Sam's bites his own lip. His teeth leave an indentation, white and bloodless, before color rushes back into it. "It's not enough."
"No."
Sam jerks his head. Understanding or anger, Dean can't tell the difference. But whatever this is, Dean can tell it's not over. Something's crawling under Sam's skin, making him jittery, but Dean can't see what it is.
Not that it matters, really. Sam's stubborn, always has been. Arrogant, too, but the stubbornness is what annoys Dean. Even in guilt and grief, his brother's a little shit that won't listen, especially if he's convinced no one but Sam could possibly know what they're talking about.
Dean's unsurprised to catch Sam sneaking out that night.
It's easy enough to wait while Sam rustles around in the dark, steady thump of the rain against a weak roof counterpoint to the drag of Sam's feet on the floorboards until they recede. Dean's careful getting up after Sam shuts the door behind him; quiet as he gets his own clothes in order, shoes on, and then sneaks down the hall after Sam. He's thankful this building's still holding it together, no too obvious creaks or groans, nothing telling all the way to the reinforced glass doors on the main level.
He catches Sam outside the marked's building. It's cold and there's a thickness that's even worse than anything in Drenn. Dean doesn't want to be out here, not really, but Sam's back is disappearing down the path that would take him all the way back to the building they were in earlier.
And Dean can't. Something like frustration pricks through him; has his steps rushed and loud as he follows Sam down the alley. Dean grips his brother's shoulder hard when he catches up and spins him around.
"Sorry." And it's not just being caught that Sam's asking forgiveness for, Dean knows that much. Sam's never been that simple, not before and definitely not now, and Dean's just had e-fuckin'-nough of it.
"How many times are you going to apologize? Huh?" The rain is beating down, slicking his hair to his scalp, trickling down his face. His clothes are a sodden lump, and when he lifts his arms, stretches them out, it's almost like swimming. "I don't care, Sam! Do you get that? I never cared!" Maybe that's a lie, but it's close enough to the truth, now, that he can spit it out without hesitating.
Dean can't. Do this, chase after him, constantly try to allay Sam's guilt, not when his own is still eating away at him. It won't work, Dean knows it won't, and he rams his hands into Sam's shoulders, gets him off balance and falling back. When Sam meets with the bare wall behind him, Dean lunges, pushes into Sam's mouth.
It's not a kiss, not really. He presses and presses until he gets a response from Sam, until his brother tries to shrug him off, and when he feels it, the muscles stiffening, pulling away, he bites down, feels his brother's skin tear and part against his teeth.
"Dammit, Dean!" Sam uses his hands to hold Dean's head away from him. It's a good idea, or Dean might give into the urge to do it again. He can see blood mixing with the water hitting Sam's face, watches as the pink liquid seeps down his chin.
"The night Victoria killed herself," Dean says as he watches the bloody water trickle down Sam's skin, under his wet collar, "I fucked Frank." He raises his hand, slow to give Sam time to move away even though he doesn't, they both know he won't. The moisture makes Sam's skin slick, makes Dean's fingers dance a bit. He presses his thumb in the hollow between mouth and chin, smears the mess a little more into Sam's skin.
"What the fuck." Sam's not asking a question. He knows. They both do. "This is why." Sam finally settles on the words. Dean can almost see them behind his brother's eyes, taking up space, separating them. "This. Right here." Sam lets go of him, and Dean leans in a moment, watches Sam's eyes go wide and dark, before he straightens up and takes his hand away from Sam's face. "It'll always be like this, and I don't want it. Not this way."
With painfearanger. As an excuse and after everyone else has had their fill.
Dean bows his head, says, "I should go." The car's not too far from here, he thinks, it won't be that dangerous leaving at night. Besides, East Main'll have a conniption if he doesn't at least check in soon, and he ignores the voice in the back of his mind that says he's never cared before.
He still waits, though, to see what Sam will do, but when Sam doesn't say anything, and the taste of rainwater is clogging Dean's throat, he adds, "I love you," not because he doesn't show it, or thinks Sam doesn't know, but because he never really just says it, and maybe this one time he wants to.
He hears Sam's breath, stuttered and weak. Hears, "I love you, too," but Dean's already walking away.
**
The road's quiet. Of course, the road's always quiet now, but there are no shapes in the darkness outside of his headlights, no sense of movement or creaking air.
Rubble and utter, complete stillness. Maybe rotting corpses and bare bones hiding in the worst of the destruction. Or maybe they're all possessed now.
Late at night, and he feels useless. Stupid.
"What the fuck are we doin'?"
But there's no answer; no one but him, and he can't. Can't link everything together, because he knows he's missing pieces, and he knows he doesn't want to find them.
Is he worth killing us all for?
Dean wishes the radio worked, but it's been months since that went. Another victim of the dead, thick air. So he drives. Breathes.
**
"You've been to see Sam."
Frank's voice whips around the corner of the apartment complex a minute before Dean actually sees him. The smell of menthol and tobacco is thick coming off Frank and it lodges itself in Dean's nose. "So?" He says, snapping it out. His mouth is sore, swollen. There's something in his chest he can't get rid of, and he's fuckin' pissed. Why does Frank have to be out here now? "What's that mean?"
Frank jerks, face turned slightly away. "Nothing, man. I was just sayin'." He shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. The material's worn, threadbare, holes in the knees and higher. Dean knows it's more out of choice than necessity, right now. A few more months, another year of this, and it won't be. "You're always worse after seeing him. Maybe you should think of leaving him alone, you know? Not disappear for days without answering your comm or telling anybody where you're fuckin' at."
A moment, a moment and he can't believe he's standing outside, on East Main Street, the muted roar of a building (a sewer, a street, a town) full of people leeching out. Here and hearing this. "Frank, he's my brother."
Frank nods once, contorts his mouth to chew the inside of his cheek. He steps around Dean where he's standing in front of the entrance. Shoots over his shoulder as he nudges the door open, "I know that." Bandages glint white on Frank's hands, hint of metal around his stiff bandaged pinky finger. Splint. Frank catches Dean looking and Dean sees his knuckles tense, sharp white points, before Frank relaxes his hands.
That's the end of it, then, judging by the way Frank lets the door close in Dean's face, but it's like after that Frank morphs into a fuckin' dog with a bone or some shit. He won't stop bringing it up at random times. Mostly, Dean thinks darkly, it's for shock effect, seeing Dean stumble or spit, do a double take when Frank blurts something out. Dean should be used to it, he knows that. It's not so different from every other goddamn annoying quirk of Frank's, except it maybe hits a bit closer to the mark, this time.
Dean's in bed, trying - for once - to get a decent night's sleep, because it's been too long - his eyelids are sandpaper rough and things have started to move at the edges of his sight. He goes to bed alone, but that lasts all of maybe two hours before Frank's unlocking Dean's door (and where'd he get the key? Dean's never given him one), and pulling some spider monkey move, arms and legs tight across Dean's chest and his thighs.
"I could," Frank says, and it's pushed into Dean's ear on a chuckle, but the words aren't light or easy. Can't be, when they're coming from post-Victoria Frank. "I see it, you know, the attraction. So, yeah, definitely."
"Fuck, Frank," he says, but he stays still, heart jack hammering in his chest, and he knows Frank can feel it. Maybe if he wasn't so busy not looking he'd see the smile Frank usually wears, smug and badass, and just the thought ratchets up Dean's anger. "I'm not fuckin' talking about this with you."
"But I could with a lot of people here." Frank either doesn't care about what Dean's saying or has a point, somewhere in this whole conversation, because he doesn't stop. "So I guess that's not a good indicator or anything."
"Or maybe you're just a horndog." Frank laughs, high-pitched and too close, but Dean smiles with it, feels the flush fading from his chest and face. Blood deciding to go back to his veins instead of staining his skin, making things too obvious. "Why are you even talking about this?" Him. Him, because Dean's not talking, fuck no, he's getting nowhere near this topic.
"Maybe because you haven't kicked me out of bed, and anyone in their right mind would've." Frank presses his mouth into the dip of Dean's shoulder. Not a kiss, but open, messy, all the same. "I mean, think about what I'm saying."
Dean gets the shoulder Frank's resting on raised and shoves at him. Frank's tiny, light bird bones and less meat, and Dean's not gentle, so Frank falls back, off the bed, muffled, "umph. Ow, fuckin' fingers, dude," before he says, "great. Thanks for that."
When Frank crawls back into Dean's space, when he settles, Dean finally gets the balls to ask him exactly what he means. Part of Dean thinks he wants someone to have the balls to just say it already. Frank comes close, but Dean has to bite back disappointment when he hears, "I used to care, you know, way back when. Not that I had a claim on you or anything, but it's not a big deal anymore, I guess." Dean kicks at the leg that Frank throws over his. "It's like...what's he going to get anyway? You can't give him anything, at least not here."
"Assuming."
"Not really." Frank grins, and it's that too bright, too wide smile he perfected after Vicky died. "But you're stuck with me."
**
The horde, the walkers, the virus, Dean thinks later, when he has time alone, when the wind picks up and brings sulfur and rot to his nose, enough to make his eyes water. The marked.
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