fic: kissed by the holy fool
You know how sometimes a fic idles so long on your [two, ha. wait, no. three] harddrives that you just want to either 1) post or 2) delete it?
Well, so I figured I had spent so much time with this fic after writing sketched on the barrel of my gun that I couldn't just delete it. So, I brushed it off, and am posting it. HAHAHA, FANDOM, SUFFER. ;D
Anyway, this was supposed to be a response to the how about a Sam and Dean together post s5 fic? So, yeah, this is so. totally. AU. Don't hold that against me, please. Also, I'm thinking this thing will need a second part, but it stands pretty well on its own as is.
OMGWTF: 5,110 words of angsty, kinda pointless curtain!fic; pre-slash of the Sam/Dean variety; unbeta'd; AU liek whoa and a thousand other warnings I can't even begin to think of.
kissed by the holy fool
The driveway is steep, a veritable mountain climb itself. Dean can tell the Impala's unhappy, moaning and groaning at the high altitude, the way the poorly graveled road seems to be rising right outside the windshield, vertical and craggy enough that it feels like the car is going to tumble head over ass back down from where they started.
It levels off right outside the back door of the wannabe mountain house. The construction is all tall, sealed windows and old brown plastic siding and brown metal and brown painted doors. There's a barn past the fenced off yard and horse pasture and at the end of a grove of mature trees, vibrant green leaves overhanging and gray trunks glowing in the semi darkness.
"Well?" Dean asks, shutting off his baby's engine. He doesn't look over at Sam, hasn't really looked over at Sam since his baby brother had turned up at Lisa's door a few weeks ago. Sideways glances, maybe, staring at Sam's shoes or Sam's feet. Looking just to the left or right. Dean's seen a lot of the world that way.
Sam hasn't stopped him.
"Okay," Sam says, same as Sam always says now, quiet and even. Like a fuckin automaton. No thought. Dean scoffs, spits the sound out in the silence that Sam used to be so good at filling.
"Fine."
This is where they've come to rest.
The house is big, but it's sectioned off weirdly. Wasted space hiding in stairwells and walkways; storage rooms that have wiring hanging out of would-be closets in a basement that would've been finished if it were something besides a cellar with carpet and lighting.
"There's some kind of snake in the air conditioning closet," Sam murmurs when Dean stumbles on where he's standing in the basement's bathroom. Toilet, sink, shower stall, light.
Perfect.
"What kind?"
Dean doesn't look at Sam. Sam doesn't look at Dean. They've traveled hundreds of miles, spent days together, locked tight and alone, avoiding each other's faces. Eyes.
"I don't know."
"Doesn't do me much good, then, huh?"
He doesn't have to see it to know Sam flinches away. He doesn't say anything about it, just pushes by Sam, shoulder to shoulder for a moment, pressed up close, to peek into the curtained shower. "One of Bobby's friends built this in the 70s, willed it to Bobby for some reason. No one lives up this way year round, but last time Bobby stayed up here for a case, there was a guy on and off in some trailor up the road." He shrugs, knows Sam doesn't see it.
We're staying. For a week, a year. Forever. There's no choice now, he thinks, this is what we've got left. His brother is a quiet, cool shadow near him. Cold, where he used to be a furnace, and that's only the first difference Dean's discovered.
Sam disappears again when Dean's wandering the basement level. There are two closed off rooms, one bathroom, and a long rectangular area with windows lining one wall. The windows are long and rectangular, too, with one side screened and one not. There's a view, even here: rolling hills, a cell tower, and a town and mountains beyond.
There's also a huge fuckin spider nesting in the cinderblock that makes up the wall. It's a tarantula looking thing, head and a few legs sticking out of its hole like a fuckin hermit crab or something, and Dean keeps at least a foot of space between him and it.
"Christ," he mutters. Snakes and spiders everywhere. Flies, too, littered over hurriedly installed carpet. White paint splashed over the old colors - hideous shades, from what Dean can see - all pinks and blues. There are old signs of water damage on every floor so far. Dean's seen the beginning of rotting wood in front of the upstairs front door, where metal skirting was bent away and never fixed. "Well," he sighs, talking to himself because it's a habit he's picked up since Sam had been gone and he hasn't broken it yet. Not yet. "We'll have time, I guess," and the thought makes him want to puke or run away.
Dean finds an old butter container and hunts the damn snake down. It's small, wriggly and dry where its tucked into the side of the heating unit, but it strikes out at him before he can scoop it up, and he keeps wary eye on the uncovered opening. He can hear the thick slapping sounds as it tries and fails to find an escape.
He walks to the back woods, shakes the snake out of the container and listens to the dry rustle as it winds its way through half-dead leaves and sticks.
He hunts Sam down again - and it doesn't escape his notice that it's what he's always done, trailed after Sam like a lovesick, can't live without him, what do I do, pussy. This time his brother's on the front deck, right near the railing, staring out past the yard and the pasture and the woods, all the way to the mountains and the town tucked between them.
The sound of traffic is louder, here. Rush and squeal carried on the air right to Dean's ears, near enough that he can almost smell the hot pavement under worn tires, rising into cool air, dying. He has a second where his chest is close to bursting - I want I want I want - all that freedom just twenty miles away at most. People, things, life. Not a worn out, broken brother. No having to look and see and hate.
"It's nice out here," Sam says, and Dean steps up beside him, rests one arm and a hip against the wood. Wood chips and splinters are rough stickers against his palm, his fingers, where he pushes down, squeezes tight.
There are ghosts at the back of Dean's throat, clawing and scraping and moaning. He bites his lip, but he can't look anywhere else but at Sam. He's stuck with the same dim profile that he's seen for miles and miles in the Impala. It's true night, now, and they only have the kitchen lights on and the faint traces of traffic and building lights in front of them.
It's not enough.
He clears his throat, knocks his hand, palm down, against the railing one, two, one, two. "Sure," he manages, and Sam wasn't relaxed when Dean came out here, so he doesn't tense. He stays still, stays the same. "You like it."
There's not much in the house - empty fridge, empty cupboards, one bare mattress in the downstairs bedroom. Right now, they've got walls and a roof, running water and electricity. They’ll make do, and Sam doesn't even bitch, just gets the spare blankets from the trunk and spreads them over the mattress, plunking down on the far side when he's done.
Dean's in the connected bathroom, splashing water on his face, trying to erase that too exposed, too tight feeling from his skin. Always happens when he drives, sun filtered through glass, leaking over him, leaving traces of sweat that never really surfaced. It's annoying.
He peers through the door when he hears shuffling, sees the long line of Sam's back trail into pajama pants as he turns away from the line of light edging out from the cracked door. The bones and muscles of his brother are still, shoulder blades sharp peaks under his skin, the knobs and dips of his spine, the lines of muscles that wrap around into abs.
Dean looks, takes it all in before stepping aside, shutting the door. It's just him, for the moment, him and a mirror that spans the whole wall of the bathroom, showing his too pale, too tired face in front of the light wood of the door, the expanse of poorly painted white wall, pink tinge showing through, and Dean thinks he has to fix that, fuck that shit.
He sees Sam fall.
He sees Sam fall.
He reaches out, face swollen and blood slipping into his eyes. I'm sorry, he thinks. Every single time he walked away, cut Sam off, pretended they weren't brothers, weren't family, weren't anything but strangers, playing out in front of his eyes. He reaches out, but Sam's falling, falling, falling, all forgiveness and grief and apology.
In the seconds before Castiel heals him, face drawn with pity, he sees Sam fall.
In the morning, he realizes they don't have a coffee pot. It takes him twenty minutes to shake off the edges of sleep enough to stumble around for clothes, wallet and keys. Sam doesn't wake up or Sam doesn't react. Dean leaves him in bed - flat on his stomach, face smooshed into his pillow - oddly relieved.
It's a straight shot on 58-West, barely ten minutes until he's pulling into the dull gray parking lot of the town's Wal-Mart. He parks farther away from the expanse of building, seeing junkers amid the VWs and luxury sedans, screech of seagulls wheeling and diving, looking for trash, as he walks. It's quiet, early, and there aren't that many people out yet. Dean can even hear the clunk and faint yells of the last inventory truck as it's unloaded.
Dean’s worked inventory for a chain store before; remembers late nights, store eerie and empty, long aisles bright with flickering florescent lighting; remembers pallet after pallet of wrapped, strapped down shit. The chink and hiss of exacto-blades cutting through the packaging and divvying everything up into roll-carts.
Christ, he thinks, as the doors slide open, recycled air blowing hot from overhead vents as he steps inside. Christ, he might have to do that again.
He picks up a ten dollar coffee pot, filters and some coffee and those granola bars - Sweet and Nutty, or some shit - that Sam loves and Dean sniggers at, then heads over to the Subway inside the store. Fuck that shit if he's actually going to wait some more for a cup of coffee. Picks one up for Sam, because he's awesome like that.
Sam's out on the deck, again, when Dean gets back. He's sitting cross-legged on the wood, staring through the spokes of the railing. It's foggy, cushioning the amount of noise, sun weak and watery where rays manage to break through.
Dean drops the bags off at the tiny counter in the kitchen, walks out and hands Sam his cup before groaning his way down beside him.
The skin under Sam's eyes are swollen, discolored, when he turns to look at Dean, nod his head at the cup in thanks. "I thought."
Dean grunts, says, "coffee," like it isn't obvious. Then, "got a coffee pot, too, and all that good shit, so." He looks around, old, empty deck, tall trees surround the property, scaling high and higher even though the house is already twenty feet or so off the ground. "We'll get the rest of the stuff later."
He can hear what's underneath the words: stuff for the house, our house. Me and you.
He doesn't know what he expects, maybe nothing, maybe everything, but Sam stares hard for minute, looking ready to cry, before he smiles, small and scared. "Yeah. Later."
"Later" turns out to be about an hour, when their stomachs start growling despite the granola bars.
They look at each other, and Dean says, "food." Sam's scurrying off to shower before Dean even shuts his mouth. "Girl," Dean mutters, but kicks out his legs, back pressed to the back of the kitchen counter, to wait.
Fifteen minutes later Sam's out, soap fresh and wet hair, locking and closing the door when they leave.
"It's so weird," Sam says, staring out the Impala’s passenger window. And yeah - all scenic views at the skyline, typical poor mountain town at eye-level, regardless of the quality of the cars parked in lots and driveways. Businesses and homes crammed right up to the highway, hills rolling and climbing instead of nice, neat lawns.
"We'll get the basics this trip," he says and keeps his eyes trained on the long stretch of pavement. His fingers feel thick and clumsy on the wheel, slipping and clutching, and it kicks up his heart.
"We're gonna need furniture, though," and Sam casts a look back. "Eventually. We might have to rent a truck or something." Dean's kind of shocked when Sam pats at the dashboard, consoling, like Dean does to erase any insult to the Impala. Sam doesn't even seem to register the movement; sinking back into his seat, face open, for once, and content.
Sam stares. It's like the Wal-Mart has suddenly become DisneyLand or something, the way Sam stumbles and gawks, draws attention like no one's business. Then again, Dean thinks, trying to play nice in his own head, Sam's about seven hundred feet tall, so he was bound to get attention regardless.
"Sam, the fuck," he leans in, hissing the words under his breath so that Sam has to duck, get closer, to hear. "You're not that big a freak. Cut it out."
"Sorry, sorry," and he does manage to tone it down to rapid blinking, wet eyes under cold lights, and light breathing over the squeak and rustle of the cart Dean's pushing. "It's just ever since I came back, you know?" Sam laughs under his breath. "Haven't got out much."
The cart rolls to a stop beside the vitamin aisle, and it takes Sam a second to realize that Dean's behind him. "Okay," Sam draws the word out okaaaay, head dipped to the side, lopsided grin tucked into his mouth. "Now who's the freak?" But Dean just slouches, left foot braced on the undercarriage of the cart.
Sam had come back months after Dean went to Lisa's - not that Dean stayed there long, just enough to get a pay by the week place in town - and he'd been broken and shivering. A wreck that stayed in the bedroom almost constantly for another month and a half, before he could even step outside without busting out with weird, strangled sobs at the sight of sun and people on the streets. Dean had worked and breathed and not much else. Didn't even think about it, how contained Sam was even after he'd come back to reality from wherever his mind had been stuck.
He'd just gotten used to going out by himself, getting what they needed, letting Sam find where things were on his own time. Dealing with it by not dealing with it. The Winchester way.
He jerks, rocks the cart back and worth, highpitched shriek of wheels on tile, before clearing his throat and starting to move. "Yeah, whatever. Just proves we belong together," and Sam doesn't stop at the words, doesn't fumble or flinch. Just lets his grin widen, dimples and bright white teeth in Dean's periphery, going by aisle after aisle of cosmetics and hair-dye and soap.
**
Sam ends up being right, and they have a few of the bigger pieces of furniture delivered to the house, paying extra for the damn truck having to come up their driveway. Just a few pieces, picked almost at random from online stores, because they hadn't taken the time to scope the town and look for a Goodwill or charity center.
A real bed, small round table and a couple chairs for it, and a few for the deck. A couch and a recliner. Cheapest things they can afford, because Dean has exactly one credit card in his real name, although Bobby had worked hard changing up information so that this Dean Winchester has no prior run-ins with the law. Besides that, yeah, they have some cash saved from Dean's job back in Indiana and hustling pool, but it's not a stash he wants to speed through if there's an alternative.
"We're gonna have to get jobs soon," he says. Sam's sprawled on the couch, Dean in the recliner, and they're watching the sky darken blood red and gold right outside the wide expanse of windows. "Get some money coming in." He's already filled out applications, went back to Wal-Mart, even, and sat at their damn terminal to fill one out, but he's hoping some of these garages have an opening. He's seen plenty of 'em open, seen the backlog of vehicles waiting to be serviced.
As for Sam, though, he doesn't have a clue. His credits at Stanford aren't any good, a sacrifice when Bobby wiped out their old information. Without it, well. Every above board job Sam's had has been tied to the college, and any break he'd get would've been from being a student there.
Sam lets one leg drop from the couch. His foot brushes back and forth, back and forth over the wood floor. The dry whooshwhoosh is almost hypnotic, and Dean coasts with it, lets his eyes bleed color out until he can see only gray shadow, moving static.
"Sounds like a plan," Sam finally whispers. "We'll have to see what's around town." It sounds like a promise, coming from Sam's mouth, and when he gets up, talking about being tired and getting sleep, Dean reaches out, lets his fingers brush the back of Sam's hand as he walks by.
When the new bed arrives, they lug the old mattress upstairs, pushing it up against the wall in the spare bedroom on the right. He’s half expecting one of them to move their shit up there. Separate bedrooms. Not a big deal, he tells himself, they're brothers; they should have different rooms, especially when there's no need to share one.
Instead, Sam just puts sheets on the new bed, military precision going into tucking the corners in, even with a super-thick comforter on top (it'll get cold up here, Dean. This'll come in handy). The upstairs stays empty except for the mattress, and Sam goes to bed every night earlier than Dean; Dean himself follows behind a few hours later - the first few nights standing at the foot, until Sam groaned, sleep soft and hoarse but still snippy, telling Dean to get his ass in bed if he was going to sleep or quit standing around like a serial killer.
It becomes habit really quick - or maybe not habit, really, just a continuation of their former life. They'd shared rooms for years, occasionally the same bed when doubles weren't available at some motel. It's not weird, not for them, and as it gets colder - heater or no, the house leaks cold air like a motherfucker - he's grateful for the extra warmth after Sam's been wrapped tight in layers and layers of sheets and blankets and his body's retained enough to actually be warm.
Dean's right there, too, when Sam's dreams start up again. Sam never had nightmares back in Indiana. Apparently, the day to day surviving was nightmarish enough - Sam's mind didn't have to relive it or fabricate shit at night. Here, though, as the days slide by, crystal clear light in freezing-ass weather, cold nights dry enough to make your nose bleed, Sam's mind has free rein, and Dean's usually woken up in the middle of the night by whimpers or moans on top of flailing arms and legs.
Dean doesn't know how to handle it at first. They've never gotten curtains for the place - too hidden out here to really need them - and even on moonless nights it's bright enough for Dean to see, and his brother always looks small, cold. Breakable. It makes Dean afraid to touch, so he only sidles a little closer in the beginning, pulling the blanket and sheets tighter, staying still while Sam shakes and cries before falling still.
When Dean finally slips back into sleep, he dreams about touching Sam, all the skin that looks pale in the morning is sun dark and alive in his dream, bare against his finger tips. Every single inch of it is hot, like it hasn't been since Sam had climbed out of his cage, like Hell had sucked every single bit of heat out of him before letting him go. He can feel Sam's ribs expand and contract, can feel the beat of his brother's heart if he presses in, or drifts over pulsepoints. It's quiet and real, something Dean hasn't even thought about for a long time.
When he lowers his head, lets his mouth follow the trail of his fingers, he hears Sam sigh above him.
He wakes up from that dream aching and irritable, snapping at Sam over breakfast. "You have nightmares," and it's more of an accusation than it should be, but Dean can't help it. If Sam didn't - wasn't halfway broken, messed up, whatever - then Dean wouldn't have to (touch, want, need, know) try to remember how to wake Sam up when it gets bad.
"I'm ... sorry?" Sam's standing in front of the sink, waist on down blocked by the cabinets, but Dean can tell just from the way he's standing that he's doing his one-legged stork imitation. "I'll try not to wake you up again. Jesus."
Dean's eyes narrow. His head's low over the table and his bowl of half-soggy cereal. "Oh yeah? How're you gonna do that?"
Sam taps his spoon against the edge of his bowl. "Do - do you want me to sleep upstairs? I didn't - I thought - "
"Christ, no," Dean interrupts whatever Sam's planning on saying. No. "I'm just tired. Forget it; you're fine, Sam."
After that, he just sucks it up and shakes Sam awake. His grip is clumsy and wide, his whole hand wrapped around Sam's upper arm. Shake shake shake, and Sam mumbles blearily, rolls over, away, when Dean's slow releasing his grip.
But Dean doesn't dream afterwards, so he counts it a win and ignores the hollow feeling twisting heavy in his chest every morning.
**
Dean does get a few job offers from local shops, and he narrows it down between two - Red's Radiator Shop and Galyean's Garage. He's not expecting much excitement with either, but he knows how to work the jobs, anything that comes his way, so he slides the information over to Sam at dinner, says, "pick," and waits out Sam's surprise.
"I don't know," Sam's fork is poised over his plate and he's staring at Dean like he's suddenly sprouted a second head or something. "The second, maybe? 'Red's' just sounds a little too good ole boy to me." Sam shrugs, picks over the salad still on his plate. The damn thing has apples hiding between fuckin lettuce and carrots and shit. For fuck's sake.
"Way to keep those stereotypes alive, baby brother," but Dean nods. He'll call them in the morning.
The garage is thirty minutes away, past downtown, back into the dusty left over buildings that stand mostly empty. There's a lot of space for cars, which is maybe ideal, since the lot seems full up with them. Dean runs a hand along a generic blue Chevy sedan, sticker giving dates and listing work to be done, before he heads inside the squat building behind the rows of cars.
It's a relatively clean place, and the youngish woman behind the counter is all cherry-red lipstick and bubblegum, smiling at Dean before turning her head to yell you're ten o'clock's waitin, can't ya'll hear?
When the boss comes out, eyebrow cocked and grease at his gray hairline, he gives Dean a final look over before waving him to the back and the service stations in the garage. He outlines all the requirement, voice soft and twanging slightly, and it's nothing Dean hadn't expected: checking parts and repairs, handling inspections and tune ups, oil changes and lube jobs. Things Dean could do in his sleep.
"You start at thirteen an hour, alright," Stosh says, "but we're a small place in a small town, and we try to do right by the people here. Show me what you can do and I'll up the paygrade or work out some overtime, if you need it."
Stosh holds out his hand, and it's as grimy as the rest of him, but Dean takes it, grinning, "thank you. I appreciate it."
"Eh," Stosh tips his head, "welcome to Galyean's."
Stosh watches him work the morning until lunch, and he's impressed - in a quiet thank-god-you-didn't-blow-that-carburetor-to-shit way. It reminds him of John, and he's suddenly relieved when Stosh calls lunch and the place clears out, him dragging ass last, trying to scrape some of the oil and mess off his hands with the lava soap by the rusted out sink.
Cindy tells him about a little coffeeshop up Main Street. "Cones 'N Coffee, it's called. Great ice cream, but they serve a decent lunch, if that's what you’re looking for."
He decides to walk the distance, taking in the standard small boutiques and specialty stores, along with a few tourist shops. But then there's a tattoo parlor next to a flute repair shop, and a genuine smokehouse on the corner before the coffee shop. He can smell hickory and mesquite, and as he nears, he can see dark, black smoke lingering around an open door. He'll have to drag Sam out here sometime, maybe go there and that retro diner - narrow alley eating room decked out in black, white and metal.
The coffee's okay; a little fancy, and Dean eyes the bottles of flavored syrup like they're going to jump down and start beating him, but the kid behind the counter just shrugs and points out the coffees of the day. "They're regular, you know," and Dean kind of stares, 'cause the guy's young, still acne prone and disaffected. Normal. "So, if like espressos and lattes aren't your thing, you can pick just coffees."
He reaches over the high counter, idly thunks the little chalkboard, and Dean sees neon pink scribbles, some underlined in tangerine and lime. "House blend, Columbian. Hawaiian blend's really good," and the kid shrugs again like he can't help it. "If that helps."
"Yeah," Dean says, and reaches for his wallet, "that's fine, and a turkey on rye and a bag of chips?"
It’s a day. That’s what he tells Sam when he calls (they might live in some ass backward place, but the cell phone reception is awesome) after he eats. He’s got a forty-five minute lunch break and he still has about thirty left to kill.
“Think you’ll like it?” After the months of Sam’s low voice always there, always to the right of him, it’s weird to hear it thin and tinny through the earpiece.
“I guess,” he mumbles, and suddenly wants off the line. He can hear Sam take a sip of something - coffee, juice. Soda.
It’s about twenty after 12, Dean thinks.
Soda. Sam always prefers soda in the afternoon.
“Jesus,” he snarls, tapping the back of his phone against his head. He can hear Sam’s voice, fast and alarmed, saying Dean Dean Dean. He puts the phone back to his ear, doesn’t say I’m fucked, like maybe he wants to. Manages, “it’s fine, Sam. ‘M fine. Gotta go.”
He stares at his phone, like it betrayed him, after he hangs up. He kind of wants to call Sam back, say sorry or hey, you know or remember when. Something.
It’s a bright day. Sound of cars stopping and starting, people in business casual walking the sidewalks. It’s cheery, average, as far from the apocalypse as he can get.
It scares the shit out of him, everything does, and he thinks, this is it. This is my life.
He thinks, I can do this, and he steels himself like he’s five seconds away from walking into a vamp den, a blink away from dying, bleeding out on some grungy warehouse floor.
The taste of too-fancy coffee burns the back of his throat and the sun shines. Hot. Pounding. Far in the distance where buildings almost collide, heat shimmers over asphalt, and Dean watches it swirl, watches it choke in air and then expel it like waves.
Something rises up. The same thing that clawed and ripped after every mile marker passed on their way into Viriginia. The same thing that has him staring out of the windows hours after Sam’s went to bed. The same thing that says, get up, go go go.
He thinks Sam wouldn’t blame him, if he left. He thinks his little brother half expects it. Maybe every night and every morning when Dean’s still there is a surprise to Sam. Maybe Sam still thinks he’ll wake up to a wad of cash on his nightstand, a note, and Dean long gone.
Can't say he doesn't want to do that, ditch Sam and the memory of two months of his little brother's screams if Dean so much as flipped on a light after the sun went down, ditch half a year of Sam absent-mindedly scratching himself bloody, twisting thick-white scars still visible on his arms, along his collarbones and around his waist even now.
It's too late, he tells himself when the possibility feels too sweet, too obtainable. Dean already has the memories, already knows all the times he shut he shut the door, left Sam at it, went and drowned his brother out every single semi-legal way he knew how.
But he smiles at you now, his stupid back brain voice says. Brushes hair out of his face with a hand full of scars and dips of missing skin, and grins at you.
Dean shuffles all his trash into the middle of the table, bundles it up as he stands. He walks to the trash can, slipping in his wrappers without touching the sticky-stained flap. His phone feels like a lead bullet in his pocket, guilty and heavy.
He takes it out and looks. The screen is clear, bright blue background against the thick-scripted numerals telling him the time. He can't say, doesn't want to, but his pulse rabbits up, pounds away behind his eyes. He can't ignore it (Sam Sam Sam), so he flips the phone open.
B home @ 6. call n chinese. ill pick up on way.
He thinks, when his phone lights up with K, that it shouldn't feel like a pardon, like Sam knows, like he gets it. It does, though, and Dean stares, feet still on the edge of the sidewalk, sun-blind and sweating, beating back wave after wave of relief and gratitude.
He types out, see you, and then pockets his phone, heading back toward leaning buildings and the smell of stale grease and burnt oil.
He grins, and the steady beat of uncertainty flooding his veins makes it feel sharper and more real than anything he can remember.
Well, so I figured I had spent so much time with this fic after writing sketched on the barrel of my gun that I couldn't just delete it. So, I brushed it off, and am posting it. HAHAHA, FANDOM, SUFFER. ;D
Anyway, this was supposed to be a response to the how about a Sam and Dean together post s5 fic? So, yeah, this is so. totally. AU. Don't hold that against me, please. Also, I'm thinking this thing will need a second part, but it stands pretty well on its own as is.
OMGWTF: 5,110 words of angsty, kinda pointless curtain!fic; pre-slash of the Sam/Dean variety; unbeta'd; AU liek whoa and a thousand other warnings I can't even begin to think of.
kissed by the holy fool
The driveway is steep, a veritable mountain climb itself. Dean can tell the Impala's unhappy, moaning and groaning at the high altitude, the way the poorly graveled road seems to be rising right outside the windshield, vertical and craggy enough that it feels like the car is going to tumble head over ass back down from where they started.
It levels off right outside the back door of the wannabe mountain house. The construction is all tall, sealed windows and old brown plastic siding and brown metal and brown painted doors. There's a barn past the fenced off yard and horse pasture and at the end of a grove of mature trees, vibrant green leaves overhanging and gray trunks glowing in the semi darkness.
"Well?" Dean asks, shutting off his baby's engine. He doesn't look over at Sam, hasn't really looked over at Sam since his baby brother had turned up at Lisa's door a few weeks ago. Sideways glances, maybe, staring at Sam's shoes or Sam's feet. Looking just to the left or right. Dean's seen a lot of the world that way.
Sam hasn't stopped him.
"Okay," Sam says, same as Sam always says now, quiet and even. Like a fuckin automaton. No thought. Dean scoffs, spits the sound out in the silence that Sam used to be so good at filling.
"Fine."
This is where they've come to rest.
The house is big, but it's sectioned off weirdly. Wasted space hiding in stairwells and walkways; storage rooms that have wiring hanging out of would-be closets in a basement that would've been finished if it were something besides a cellar with carpet and lighting.
"There's some kind of snake in the air conditioning closet," Sam murmurs when Dean stumbles on where he's standing in the basement's bathroom. Toilet, sink, shower stall, light.
Perfect.
"What kind?"
Dean doesn't look at Sam. Sam doesn't look at Dean. They've traveled hundreds of miles, spent days together, locked tight and alone, avoiding each other's faces. Eyes.
"I don't know."
"Doesn't do me much good, then, huh?"
He doesn't have to see it to know Sam flinches away. He doesn't say anything about it, just pushes by Sam, shoulder to shoulder for a moment, pressed up close, to peek into the curtained shower. "One of Bobby's friends built this in the 70s, willed it to Bobby for some reason. No one lives up this way year round, but last time Bobby stayed up here for a case, there was a guy on and off in some trailor up the road." He shrugs, knows Sam doesn't see it.
We're staying. For a week, a year. Forever. There's no choice now, he thinks, this is what we've got left. His brother is a quiet, cool shadow near him. Cold, where he used to be a furnace, and that's only the first difference Dean's discovered.
Sam disappears again when Dean's wandering the basement level. There are two closed off rooms, one bathroom, and a long rectangular area with windows lining one wall. The windows are long and rectangular, too, with one side screened and one not. There's a view, even here: rolling hills, a cell tower, and a town and mountains beyond.
There's also a huge fuckin spider nesting in the cinderblock that makes up the wall. It's a tarantula looking thing, head and a few legs sticking out of its hole like a fuckin hermit crab or something, and Dean keeps at least a foot of space between him and it.
"Christ," he mutters. Snakes and spiders everywhere. Flies, too, littered over hurriedly installed carpet. White paint splashed over the old colors - hideous shades, from what Dean can see - all pinks and blues. There are old signs of water damage on every floor so far. Dean's seen the beginning of rotting wood in front of the upstairs front door, where metal skirting was bent away and never fixed. "Well," he sighs, talking to himself because it's a habit he's picked up since Sam had been gone and he hasn't broken it yet. Not yet. "We'll have time, I guess," and the thought makes him want to puke or run away.
Dean finds an old butter container and hunts the damn snake down. It's small, wriggly and dry where its tucked into the side of the heating unit, but it strikes out at him before he can scoop it up, and he keeps wary eye on the uncovered opening. He can hear the thick slapping sounds as it tries and fails to find an escape.
He walks to the back woods, shakes the snake out of the container and listens to the dry rustle as it winds its way through half-dead leaves and sticks.
He hunts Sam down again - and it doesn't escape his notice that it's what he's always done, trailed after Sam like a lovesick, can't live without him, what do I do, pussy. This time his brother's on the front deck, right near the railing, staring out past the yard and the pasture and the woods, all the way to the mountains and the town tucked between them.
The sound of traffic is louder, here. Rush and squeal carried on the air right to Dean's ears, near enough that he can almost smell the hot pavement under worn tires, rising into cool air, dying. He has a second where his chest is close to bursting - I want I want I want - all that freedom just twenty miles away at most. People, things, life. Not a worn out, broken brother. No having to look and see and hate.
"It's nice out here," Sam says, and Dean steps up beside him, rests one arm and a hip against the wood. Wood chips and splinters are rough stickers against his palm, his fingers, where he pushes down, squeezes tight.
There are ghosts at the back of Dean's throat, clawing and scraping and moaning. He bites his lip, but he can't look anywhere else but at Sam. He's stuck with the same dim profile that he's seen for miles and miles in the Impala. It's true night, now, and they only have the kitchen lights on and the faint traces of traffic and building lights in front of them.
It's not enough.
He clears his throat, knocks his hand, palm down, against the railing one, two, one, two. "Sure," he manages, and Sam wasn't relaxed when Dean came out here, so he doesn't tense. He stays still, stays the same. "You like it."
There's not much in the house - empty fridge, empty cupboards, one bare mattress in the downstairs bedroom. Right now, they've got walls and a roof, running water and electricity. They’ll make do, and Sam doesn't even bitch, just gets the spare blankets from the trunk and spreads them over the mattress, plunking down on the far side when he's done.
Dean's in the connected bathroom, splashing water on his face, trying to erase that too exposed, too tight feeling from his skin. Always happens when he drives, sun filtered through glass, leaking over him, leaving traces of sweat that never really surfaced. It's annoying.
He peers through the door when he hears shuffling, sees the long line of Sam's back trail into pajama pants as he turns away from the line of light edging out from the cracked door. The bones and muscles of his brother are still, shoulder blades sharp peaks under his skin, the knobs and dips of his spine, the lines of muscles that wrap around into abs.
Dean looks, takes it all in before stepping aside, shutting the door. It's just him, for the moment, him and a mirror that spans the whole wall of the bathroom, showing his too pale, too tired face in front of the light wood of the door, the expanse of poorly painted white wall, pink tinge showing through, and Dean thinks he has to fix that, fuck that shit.
He sees Sam fall.
He sees Sam fall.
He reaches out, face swollen and blood slipping into his eyes. I'm sorry, he thinks. Every single time he walked away, cut Sam off, pretended they weren't brothers, weren't family, weren't anything but strangers, playing out in front of his eyes. He reaches out, but Sam's falling, falling, falling, all forgiveness and grief and apology.
In the seconds before Castiel heals him, face drawn with pity, he sees Sam fall.
In the morning, he realizes they don't have a coffee pot. It takes him twenty minutes to shake off the edges of sleep enough to stumble around for clothes, wallet and keys. Sam doesn't wake up or Sam doesn't react. Dean leaves him in bed - flat on his stomach, face smooshed into his pillow - oddly relieved.
It's a straight shot on 58-West, barely ten minutes until he's pulling into the dull gray parking lot of the town's Wal-Mart. He parks farther away from the expanse of building, seeing junkers amid the VWs and luxury sedans, screech of seagulls wheeling and diving, looking for trash, as he walks. It's quiet, early, and there aren't that many people out yet. Dean can even hear the clunk and faint yells of the last inventory truck as it's unloaded.
Dean’s worked inventory for a chain store before; remembers late nights, store eerie and empty, long aisles bright with flickering florescent lighting; remembers pallet after pallet of wrapped, strapped down shit. The chink and hiss of exacto-blades cutting through the packaging and divvying everything up into roll-carts.
Christ, he thinks, as the doors slide open, recycled air blowing hot from overhead vents as he steps inside. Christ, he might have to do that again.
He picks up a ten dollar coffee pot, filters and some coffee and those granola bars - Sweet and Nutty, or some shit - that Sam loves and Dean sniggers at, then heads over to the Subway inside the store. Fuck that shit if he's actually going to wait some more for a cup of coffee. Picks one up for Sam, because he's awesome like that.
Sam's out on the deck, again, when Dean gets back. He's sitting cross-legged on the wood, staring through the spokes of the railing. It's foggy, cushioning the amount of noise, sun weak and watery where rays manage to break through.
Dean drops the bags off at the tiny counter in the kitchen, walks out and hands Sam his cup before groaning his way down beside him.
The skin under Sam's eyes are swollen, discolored, when he turns to look at Dean, nod his head at the cup in thanks. "I thought."
Dean grunts, says, "coffee," like it isn't obvious. Then, "got a coffee pot, too, and all that good shit, so." He looks around, old, empty deck, tall trees surround the property, scaling high and higher even though the house is already twenty feet or so off the ground. "We'll get the rest of the stuff later."
He can hear what's underneath the words: stuff for the house, our house. Me and you.
He doesn't know what he expects, maybe nothing, maybe everything, but Sam stares hard for minute, looking ready to cry, before he smiles, small and scared. "Yeah. Later."
"Later" turns out to be about an hour, when their stomachs start growling despite the granola bars.
They look at each other, and Dean says, "food." Sam's scurrying off to shower before Dean even shuts his mouth. "Girl," Dean mutters, but kicks out his legs, back pressed to the back of the kitchen counter, to wait.
Fifteen minutes later Sam's out, soap fresh and wet hair, locking and closing the door when they leave.
"It's so weird," Sam says, staring out the Impala’s passenger window. And yeah - all scenic views at the skyline, typical poor mountain town at eye-level, regardless of the quality of the cars parked in lots and driveways. Businesses and homes crammed right up to the highway, hills rolling and climbing instead of nice, neat lawns.
"We'll get the basics this trip," he says and keeps his eyes trained on the long stretch of pavement. His fingers feel thick and clumsy on the wheel, slipping and clutching, and it kicks up his heart.
"We're gonna need furniture, though," and Sam casts a look back. "Eventually. We might have to rent a truck or something." Dean's kind of shocked when Sam pats at the dashboard, consoling, like Dean does to erase any insult to the Impala. Sam doesn't even seem to register the movement; sinking back into his seat, face open, for once, and content.
Sam stares. It's like the Wal-Mart has suddenly become DisneyLand or something, the way Sam stumbles and gawks, draws attention like no one's business. Then again, Dean thinks, trying to play nice in his own head, Sam's about seven hundred feet tall, so he was bound to get attention regardless.
"Sam, the fuck," he leans in, hissing the words under his breath so that Sam has to duck, get closer, to hear. "You're not that big a freak. Cut it out."
"Sorry, sorry," and he does manage to tone it down to rapid blinking, wet eyes under cold lights, and light breathing over the squeak and rustle of the cart Dean's pushing. "It's just ever since I came back, you know?" Sam laughs under his breath. "Haven't got out much."
The cart rolls to a stop beside the vitamin aisle, and it takes Sam a second to realize that Dean's behind him. "Okay," Sam draws the word out okaaaay, head dipped to the side, lopsided grin tucked into his mouth. "Now who's the freak?" But Dean just slouches, left foot braced on the undercarriage of the cart.
Sam had come back months after Dean went to Lisa's - not that Dean stayed there long, just enough to get a pay by the week place in town - and he'd been broken and shivering. A wreck that stayed in the bedroom almost constantly for another month and a half, before he could even step outside without busting out with weird, strangled sobs at the sight of sun and people on the streets. Dean had worked and breathed and not much else. Didn't even think about it, how contained Sam was even after he'd come back to reality from wherever his mind had been stuck.
He'd just gotten used to going out by himself, getting what they needed, letting Sam find where things were on his own time. Dealing with it by not dealing with it. The Winchester way.
He jerks, rocks the cart back and worth, highpitched shriek of wheels on tile, before clearing his throat and starting to move. "Yeah, whatever. Just proves we belong together," and Sam doesn't stop at the words, doesn't fumble or flinch. Just lets his grin widen, dimples and bright white teeth in Dean's periphery, going by aisle after aisle of cosmetics and hair-dye and soap.
**
Sam ends up being right, and they have a few of the bigger pieces of furniture delivered to the house, paying extra for the damn truck having to come up their driveway. Just a few pieces, picked almost at random from online stores, because they hadn't taken the time to scope the town and look for a Goodwill or charity center.
A real bed, small round table and a couple chairs for it, and a few for the deck. A couch and a recliner. Cheapest things they can afford, because Dean has exactly one credit card in his real name, although Bobby had worked hard changing up information so that this Dean Winchester has no prior run-ins with the law. Besides that, yeah, they have some cash saved from Dean's job back in Indiana and hustling pool, but it's not a stash he wants to speed through if there's an alternative.
"We're gonna have to get jobs soon," he says. Sam's sprawled on the couch, Dean in the recliner, and they're watching the sky darken blood red and gold right outside the wide expanse of windows. "Get some money coming in." He's already filled out applications, went back to Wal-Mart, even, and sat at their damn terminal to fill one out, but he's hoping some of these garages have an opening. He's seen plenty of 'em open, seen the backlog of vehicles waiting to be serviced.
As for Sam, though, he doesn't have a clue. His credits at Stanford aren't any good, a sacrifice when Bobby wiped out their old information. Without it, well. Every above board job Sam's had has been tied to the college, and any break he'd get would've been from being a student there.
Sam lets one leg drop from the couch. His foot brushes back and forth, back and forth over the wood floor. The dry whooshwhoosh is almost hypnotic, and Dean coasts with it, lets his eyes bleed color out until he can see only gray shadow, moving static.
"Sounds like a plan," Sam finally whispers. "We'll have to see what's around town." It sounds like a promise, coming from Sam's mouth, and when he gets up, talking about being tired and getting sleep, Dean reaches out, lets his fingers brush the back of Sam's hand as he walks by.
When the new bed arrives, they lug the old mattress upstairs, pushing it up against the wall in the spare bedroom on the right. He’s half expecting one of them to move their shit up there. Separate bedrooms. Not a big deal, he tells himself, they're brothers; they should have different rooms, especially when there's no need to share one.
Instead, Sam just puts sheets on the new bed, military precision going into tucking the corners in, even with a super-thick comforter on top (it'll get cold up here, Dean. This'll come in handy). The upstairs stays empty except for the mattress, and Sam goes to bed every night earlier than Dean; Dean himself follows behind a few hours later - the first few nights standing at the foot, until Sam groaned, sleep soft and hoarse but still snippy, telling Dean to get his ass in bed if he was going to sleep or quit standing around like a serial killer.
It becomes habit really quick - or maybe not habit, really, just a continuation of their former life. They'd shared rooms for years, occasionally the same bed when doubles weren't available at some motel. It's not weird, not for them, and as it gets colder - heater or no, the house leaks cold air like a motherfucker - he's grateful for the extra warmth after Sam's been wrapped tight in layers and layers of sheets and blankets and his body's retained enough to actually be warm.
Dean's right there, too, when Sam's dreams start up again. Sam never had nightmares back in Indiana. Apparently, the day to day surviving was nightmarish enough - Sam's mind didn't have to relive it or fabricate shit at night. Here, though, as the days slide by, crystal clear light in freezing-ass weather, cold nights dry enough to make your nose bleed, Sam's mind has free rein, and Dean's usually woken up in the middle of the night by whimpers or moans on top of flailing arms and legs.
Dean doesn't know how to handle it at first. They've never gotten curtains for the place - too hidden out here to really need them - and even on moonless nights it's bright enough for Dean to see, and his brother always looks small, cold. Breakable. It makes Dean afraid to touch, so he only sidles a little closer in the beginning, pulling the blanket and sheets tighter, staying still while Sam shakes and cries before falling still.
When Dean finally slips back into sleep, he dreams about touching Sam, all the skin that looks pale in the morning is sun dark and alive in his dream, bare against his finger tips. Every single inch of it is hot, like it hasn't been since Sam had climbed out of his cage, like Hell had sucked every single bit of heat out of him before letting him go. He can feel Sam's ribs expand and contract, can feel the beat of his brother's heart if he presses in, or drifts over pulsepoints. It's quiet and real, something Dean hasn't even thought about for a long time.
When he lowers his head, lets his mouth follow the trail of his fingers, he hears Sam sigh above him.
He wakes up from that dream aching and irritable, snapping at Sam over breakfast. "You have nightmares," and it's more of an accusation than it should be, but Dean can't help it. If Sam didn't - wasn't halfway broken, messed up, whatever - then Dean wouldn't have to (touch, want, need, know) try to remember how to wake Sam up when it gets bad.
"I'm ... sorry?" Sam's standing in front of the sink, waist on down blocked by the cabinets, but Dean can tell just from the way he's standing that he's doing his one-legged stork imitation. "I'll try not to wake you up again. Jesus."
Dean's eyes narrow. His head's low over the table and his bowl of half-soggy cereal. "Oh yeah? How're you gonna do that?"
Sam taps his spoon against the edge of his bowl. "Do - do you want me to sleep upstairs? I didn't - I thought - "
"Christ, no," Dean interrupts whatever Sam's planning on saying. No. "I'm just tired. Forget it; you're fine, Sam."
After that, he just sucks it up and shakes Sam awake. His grip is clumsy and wide, his whole hand wrapped around Sam's upper arm. Shake shake shake, and Sam mumbles blearily, rolls over, away, when Dean's slow releasing his grip.
But Dean doesn't dream afterwards, so he counts it a win and ignores the hollow feeling twisting heavy in his chest every morning.
**
Dean does get a few job offers from local shops, and he narrows it down between two - Red's Radiator Shop and Galyean's Garage. He's not expecting much excitement with either, but he knows how to work the jobs, anything that comes his way, so he slides the information over to Sam at dinner, says, "pick," and waits out Sam's surprise.
"I don't know," Sam's fork is poised over his plate and he's staring at Dean like he's suddenly sprouted a second head or something. "The second, maybe? 'Red's' just sounds a little too good ole boy to me." Sam shrugs, picks over the salad still on his plate. The damn thing has apples hiding between fuckin lettuce and carrots and shit. For fuck's sake.
"Way to keep those stereotypes alive, baby brother," but Dean nods. He'll call them in the morning.
The garage is thirty minutes away, past downtown, back into the dusty left over buildings that stand mostly empty. There's a lot of space for cars, which is maybe ideal, since the lot seems full up with them. Dean runs a hand along a generic blue Chevy sedan, sticker giving dates and listing work to be done, before he heads inside the squat building behind the rows of cars.
It's a relatively clean place, and the youngish woman behind the counter is all cherry-red lipstick and bubblegum, smiling at Dean before turning her head to yell you're ten o'clock's waitin, can't ya'll hear?
When the boss comes out, eyebrow cocked and grease at his gray hairline, he gives Dean a final look over before waving him to the back and the service stations in the garage. He outlines all the requirement, voice soft and twanging slightly, and it's nothing Dean hadn't expected: checking parts and repairs, handling inspections and tune ups, oil changes and lube jobs. Things Dean could do in his sleep.
"You start at thirteen an hour, alright," Stosh says, "but we're a small place in a small town, and we try to do right by the people here. Show me what you can do and I'll up the paygrade or work out some overtime, if you need it."
Stosh holds out his hand, and it's as grimy as the rest of him, but Dean takes it, grinning, "thank you. I appreciate it."
"Eh," Stosh tips his head, "welcome to Galyean's."
Stosh watches him work the morning until lunch, and he's impressed - in a quiet thank-god-you-didn't-blow-that-carburetor-to-shit way. It reminds him of John, and he's suddenly relieved when Stosh calls lunch and the place clears out, him dragging ass last, trying to scrape some of the oil and mess off his hands with the lava soap by the rusted out sink.
Cindy tells him about a little coffeeshop up Main Street. "Cones 'N Coffee, it's called. Great ice cream, but they serve a decent lunch, if that's what you’re looking for."
He decides to walk the distance, taking in the standard small boutiques and specialty stores, along with a few tourist shops. But then there's a tattoo parlor next to a flute repair shop, and a genuine smokehouse on the corner before the coffee shop. He can smell hickory and mesquite, and as he nears, he can see dark, black smoke lingering around an open door. He'll have to drag Sam out here sometime, maybe go there and that retro diner - narrow alley eating room decked out in black, white and metal.
The coffee's okay; a little fancy, and Dean eyes the bottles of flavored syrup like they're going to jump down and start beating him, but the kid behind the counter just shrugs and points out the coffees of the day. "They're regular, you know," and Dean kind of stares, 'cause the guy's young, still acne prone and disaffected. Normal. "So, if like espressos and lattes aren't your thing, you can pick just coffees."
He reaches over the high counter, idly thunks the little chalkboard, and Dean sees neon pink scribbles, some underlined in tangerine and lime. "House blend, Columbian. Hawaiian blend's really good," and the kid shrugs again like he can't help it. "If that helps."
"Yeah," Dean says, and reaches for his wallet, "that's fine, and a turkey on rye and a bag of chips?"
It’s a day. That’s what he tells Sam when he calls (they might live in some ass backward place, but the cell phone reception is awesome) after he eats. He’s got a forty-five minute lunch break and he still has about thirty left to kill.
“Think you’ll like it?” After the months of Sam’s low voice always there, always to the right of him, it’s weird to hear it thin and tinny through the earpiece.
“I guess,” he mumbles, and suddenly wants off the line. He can hear Sam take a sip of something - coffee, juice. Soda.
It’s about twenty after 12, Dean thinks.
Soda. Sam always prefers soda in the afternoon.
“Jesus,” he snarls, tapping the back of his phone against his head. He can hear Sam’s voice, fast and alarmed, saying Dean Dean Dean. He puts the phone back to his ear, doesn’t say I’m fucked, like maybe he wants to. Manages, “it’s fine, Sam. ‘M fine. Gotta go.”
He stares at his phone, like it betrayed him, after he hangs up. He kind of wants to call Sam back, say sorry or hey, you know or remember when. Something.
It’s a bright day. Sound of cars stopping and starting, people in business casual walking the sidewalks. It’s cheery, average, as far from the apocalypse as he can get.
It scares the shit out of him, everything does, and he thinks, this is it. This is my life.
He thinks, I can do this, and he steels himself like he’s five seconds away from walking into a vamp den, a blink away from dying, bleeding out on some grungy warehouse floor.
The taste of too-fancy coffee burns the back of his throat and the sun shines. Hot. Pounding. Far in the distance where buildings almost collide, heat shimmers over asphalt, and Dean watches it swirl, watches it choke in air and then expel it like waves.
Something rises up. The same thing that clawed and ripped after every mile marker passed on their way into Viriginia. The same thing that has him staring out of the windows hours after Sam’s went to bed. The same thing that says, get up, go go go.
He thinks Sam wouldn’t blame him, if he left. He thinks his little brother half expects it. Maybe every night and every morning when Dean’s still there is a surprise to Sam. Maybe Sam still thinks he’ll wake up to a wad of cash on his nightstand, a note, and Dean long gone.
Can't say he doesn't want to do that, ditch Sam and the memory of two months of his little brother's screams if Dean so much as flipped on a light after the sun went down, ditch half a year of Sam absent-mindedly scratching himself bloody, twisting thick-white scars still visible on his arms, along his collarbones and around his waist even now.
It's too late, he tells himself when the possibility feels too sweet, too obtainable. Dean already has the memories, already knows all the times he shut he shut the door, left Sam at it, went and drowned his brother out every single semi-legal way he knew how.
But he smiles at you now, his stupid back brain voice says. Brushes hair out of his face with a hand full of scars and dips of missing skin, and grins at you.
Dean shuffles all his trash into the middle of the table, bundles it up as he stands. He walks to the trash can, slipping in his wrappers without touching the sticky-stained flap. His phone feels like a lead bullet in his pocket, guilty and heavy.
He takes it out and looks. The screen is clear, bright blue background against the thick-scripted numerals telling him the time. He can't say, doesn't want to, but his pulse rabbits up, pounds away behind his eyes. He can't ignore it (Sam Sam Sam), so he flips the phone open.
B home @ 6. call n chinese. ill pick up on way.
He thinks, when his phone lights up with K, that it shouldn't feel like a pardon, like Sam knows, like he gets it. It does, though, and Dean stares, feet still on the edge of the sidewalk, sun-blind and sweating, beating back wave after wave of relief and gratitude.
He types out, see you, and then pockets his phone, heading back toward leaning buildings and the smell of stale grease and burnt oil.
He grins, and the steady beat of uncertainty flooding his veins makes it feel sharper and more real than anything he can remember.