Away to Darker Dreams, Part One
Dean wakes with an arthritic ache in his shoulder and the smell of a few too many days without a shower burning in his nostrils. He flings himself upright with a groan, the tips of his hair brushing the roof of the car as he paws at his eyes with the bases of his palms, trying to scrape away the grogginess. He squints as he takes in his surroundings-- still in the back lot of a Walmart, yep, only now sharp golden sunlight is streaming into the car, making the crumpled beer cans and chip bags littering the floor glitter and shine.
It’s too damn bright, that’s what Dean thinks.
He makes another huffing sound and rolls his shoulders, wincing, pressing the pads of his fingers into the muscles on his back and feeling the tightness there. This had been his fourth night sleeping in the Impala, and the fifth day without a shower, and he's scruffy and pale, and well. All of that disarray is catching up with him, but he can’t help it. His mind has been cobwebbed over, the single track of thought running through his head bumping into itself and repeating over and over:
For sale. For sale. For sale. Vacant apartment.
He’d been hunting on his own for about two months now, had taken down a decent amount of shifters and spirits, and without Dad’s stern, disapproving glare, well, he thought it was high time to pay little Sammy a visit up in his college town. He and Dad had cruised by Sam’s place a couple times, sure, but never stopped in, just checking to make sure he’s alive and breathing. Safe. And time after time, he always was.
Except, obviously, the one fucking time Dean had the independence and the balls to meet Sam face-to-face. This time he’d pulled up to a for sale sign out front, an open house in progress, people coming in and out of the front hall. The door was propped open. Dean recognized a chattery woman in a smart suit as the realtor, probably, so he parked the Impala a ways up and sauntered in, putting on the front of an earnest grad student looking for a place to live.
He was a very smart buyer, he’d said, yes indeed. He wanted to know all about the house’s history, the previous owners…
She told him how the previous owner had left without warning, the bills going unpaid until they officially evicted the place and put it on the market as vacant. With the flip-flopping feeling in his stomach that only comes with bad omens, he’d thanked her, left, and called Stanford.
Disenrolled, they’d said. Was doing great his last semester but withdrew his scholarship. Didn’t have a current school registered, sorry sorry sorry. No idea where Sam Winchester had disappeared to.
Which had led Dean to where he was now-- after a few days of practically losing his mind hunting day and night for any semblance of a lead, he’d run out of cash, but didn’t want to leave town. Just in case Sammy was still here somewhere and Dean would yell and him and Sam would laugh and say calm down, Dean. Just lemme explain everything to you.
Another gut feeling tells Dean that’s never going to fucking happen.
He sighs, gets out of the car and stretches, the bones in his back popping after being cramped up in the same place for so long. He moves around quietly, listening to the distant hum of the highway and the occasional plane flying overhead.
He makes his way to the trunk and gargles some mouthwash, runs a hand through his hair. Puts on some deodorant. Clunks into the backseat and quickly changes his boxers into another pair he's only worn a couple of times. Hops back out.
He looks around. He’s outside of Palo Alto now, in some slightly-shittier nearby town. Not nearly as collegiate and shiny. The heat and dry air and tall palm trees are really starting to piss him off. There should always be a few clouds overhead, okay? Pavement cracked and potholed and motels in disrepair. It was just too… too dreamland here, too put together, too much education and wealth and safety. He hates how much Sam fits in here, hates even more that he’s gone.
He stretches one more and cracks his knuckles to stop himself from beating up his own car in a misguided attempt to let out all his anger and indignation. He opens the door and slides back in, the car dipping under his weight. He starts the engine, sees he’s running low on fuel, and swears.
He spends his last couple bucks on a gallon or two and gets onto the highway, drives Southeast. His phone sits on the seat next to him, the screen throwing up little beams of sunlight all over the car. He shoots a quick glare at it. He doesn’t want Dad’s help, doesn’t need it. As far as John Winchester knows, Sam is on his way to earning a degree and is on the Dean’s list with a girl on his arm.
Dean intends to keep it that way.
He keeps going until the bars are sufficiently seedy and plays a couple guys at pool, really plays them. He has to work harder because he doesn’t have Dad or Sam to play with him, to make it more realistic. He walks out with a couple hundred bucks and starts running when he hears footsteps and raised voices behind him, sliding into Baby and gunning it the hell outta there.
He only stops when he’s passed the California border into Nevada and starts heading due East across the states. He’s almost through Nevada when his head bobs and the car veers dangerously to the side, the headlights illuminating the guardrail, his eyes blinking owlishly as he corrects his driving. He finds a Motel Six and books a room, flopping onto the bed and letting sleep finally wash over him, tossing and turning with dreams of Sam in front of him, screaming, reaching out, but the moment Dean’s fingers grasp his brother’s, Sam is pulled away into darkness.
He wakes in a burning sweat to the sound of a fist pounding on his door and a voice telling him he’s past checkout, the racket assaulting his ear drums and pressing a headache into the center of his forehead. He gets up, gets moving, and is on the road again in less than hour, feeling like he never slept at all, and he's still no closer to finding Sam.
He calls hunters, calls specialists, mystics, psychics, every damn contact in his phone. Where’s Sam, where’s Sam, where’s Sam. No one’s seen him, no one’s crystals point him in the right direction, no one has so much as a fucking feeling about Sam. It’s like he doesn’t exist. He tells each and every one of them to keep an eye out before tossing his phone across the seat in agitation, the standstill making his knee jiggle, the Samless feeling buzzing through him like an unpleasant high.
Dean’s around Colorado and running low on money again when he considers the lack of evidence a lead. What if something’s taken Sam, something that gets rid of people’s psychic signatures, erases people’s memories, that kind of thing? People have still heard of Sam, so Dean’s not going fucking crazy. Maybe something is covering up its tracks.
Dean almost has to give the monster credit-- with all the miles he’s been eating up, the calls and roadhouse visits, he should’ve found something. Whatever this thing is, it's got juice.
And that’s what Dean has begun to think of it as-- a monster. Something That’s Got Sammy. It’s the only answer he can bear. Sam has to be in trouble. He has to need help. Because if he’s just decided to leave, make sure his family can’t find him…
Dean taps the wheel a little too aggressively in time with the music. No. Sam wouldn’t do that to them, even after what Dad said and even after Dean refused to drive him to the bus stop. Even with all the guilt turning Dean’s insides to slush, Sam is a better kid than that. By now, a better man.
Christ. Dean can’t help a little wry grin from spreading across his face. He hasn’t seen Sam in a year, hasn’t spoken to him on the phone in two, hasn’t talked to him in person in four. Sam’s growth spurt hadn’t stopped last time he’d seen him, he’s probably still growing, still filling out, no longer lanky in any sense of the word. He could probably seriously take down Dean now. Dean wants to see him so badly, he wants to slap Sam on the arm and feel the muscles move there, see scruff on Sam’s jaw and more years in his eyes. He wants to feel him.
He fucking misses him.
Now that he’s in trouble, not just a phone call or a drive away, the feeling is bigger, a cloud hanging over Dean and a fog in front of his eyes, clouding his judgement. Even after all the separation, Dean still feels like he should’ve been there for Sam, should’ve protected him and seen something coming.
Resolve grown into a monster all its own, Dean keeps straight, heading toward Kansas, where a psychic that Dad knows could help him locate even the trickiest of target lies. He thinks of Missouri, hopes she can sense him coming, hopes she’ll be ready with good news and a promise or two.
Whatever’s got Sam is gonna wish it never even touched him. When Sammy's in trouble, Dean's a giant tsunami of force not to be reckoned with.
He’s in Dodge City when he needs gas, grub, and cash again. He finds a string of motels across from a bar and a gas station and turns in to the one with the lowest rates, only the letter “S” weakly working on the blue neon sign. His car bumps and bounces over the uneven ground and he smiles, looking up at the peeling and faded yellow paint on the joint's walls. Just like home.
In the bar, he plays pool for a bit before seeing a poker game in the back. He joins in, makes it out with around half a grand. It’s not much, but it'll keep him going for a while longer. He considers signing up for credit cards, seeing if any companies’ll bite. He decides he doesn’t have the time. He’s walking back to his motel, buzzed on enough beer to not be coordinated enough to whistle and walk at the same time. He passes by one of the better motels and can see the Impala shining in the crappier parking lot up ahead of him. He speeds up his pace, tripping only once, and makes a beeline for it, jaywalking and stepping off of the sidewalk to weave between a few scraggly hedges.
The night air is cool and tantalizing and his motel room only holds problems with no answers, so he leans against his car’s trunk instead, staring up at the sky. He can only see about three or four stars and the moon’s almost full.
Waxing gibbous, he can almost hear Sam murmur to his left. And see those three stars, so close together? Orion’s belt. He’s the hunter. Fitting, huh? Look, there’s the rest of him.
“Nerd,” he mumbles before he can stop himself, the persistent little ache in his chest tugging at his heart and his tear ducts. He clears his throat, looking down at the city to turn his thoughts away from the empty spot next to him.
Yellow streetlights dot all the roads, bathing everything in a dying, dark light. It turns people’s faces nefarious, their lines and shapes put into stark contrast of light and shadow. The world is pools of black and light, glaring beams of headlights and tail lights, speeding past and burning little afterimages into Dean’s retinas. It's the kind of world he grew up in, and he takes comfort in the threatless shadows.
A shape, tall and lean, lingers at the street corner the motel sits on. He’s rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands shoved into hoodie pockets. He’s waiting for something. A car pulls up, sleek and black, and the reflection of the streetlight on glass disappears when the passenger window is rolled down.
“How much for a night, sugar?” a voice calls, low and dark, and Dean can hear him even from here, his cadence echoing loud and clear.
“For you?” the kid replies, and Dean chokes on nothing, leaning forward, straining to hear him talk again. His heart is rattling around like pinball machine and it floods his body with warmth and adrenaline. “real cheap, I promise.”
Dean’s moving forward before he even has a plan, crossing the parking lot with long, purposeful strides. He can hear the car door unlock and swears under his breath, breaking into a run, weaving back and forth like a fucking idiot, cursing himself for not being more sober.
“Hey!” he calls when the kid- it can’t be him, can it?- leans down and tugs on the car door handle. The guy in the driver's seat freezes, turning to look at him. Dean stops a few feet away, putting his hands on his knees and panting.“Whatever he’s paying, I’ll double it,” he manages, popping a toothy grin.
Sam lets go of the door and the car speeds off, the tires squealing as it does a u-turn, the door slamming back shut, peeling back toward the way the bastard came from. Sam’s face is drawn and gaunt, and the lighting only accentuates the stark angles, the redness in his eyes and the dilation of his pupils. His mouth his hanging open and his cheeks are tinted pink. Light reflects off the grease in his limp hair.
“C’mon,” Dean says, his voice hoarse with too many emotions to list, and he doesn’t give Sam time to answer, only grabs him by the wrist, his fingers looping all the way around it way too easily, and tugs him along behind him.
He doesn’t stop moving until he and Sam are in his motel room and the door is closed behind them. Sam stands near the door, his back to it, and Dean stands by the beds, staring at Sam, unable to look away and unable to fill the strained silence that widens the gap between them.
God, he just... he can't stop looking at him. He's Sam, he's really him, but at the same time he isn't at all.
He's lost twenty pounds at least. And all that California sun he'd been soaking up? Gone. The muscles Dean had imagined are nonexistent. In their stead are just bones, sharp under his skin. His shirt is too lose, it's that purple dog one Dean recognizes, but battered and torn to shit, showing his collarbones and shoulder bones. He jiggles in place like he just can't stay still, his fingers fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. He won't look at Dean. Apparently the puke stains in the carpet are more interesting.
What Dean can't stop staring at, though, are Sam's lips. A shiny smattering of pink lipgloss is smeared across them, and Dean can tell now that the blush on Sam's cheeks is artificial. This entire situation makes no sense to Dean, none at all, and he puzzles through it a million and one times before he comes up with an idea.
"Christo," he says, sitting down on the nearest bed to alleviate how his head spins and falls.
Sam finally looks up and his lips curl up into a smile that looks more like a snarl. His eyes are dark and shiny. "M'not a fucking demon, thanks," he rumbles quietly, biting his lip. He gives Dean one last weak glare before turning away, looking like a mouse thrown into a lion's den. He's shaking.
No matter the bitter words, Dean's heart sings at hearing Sam's voice again. It's the one thing that has remained the same, with its soft murmur and it does wonders to calm Dean down and pull him a little closer to sobriety. Sam's voice has dropped, Dean's happy to note, but that's the only thing he's happy about.
"Sorry," he croaks, flashing Sam a weak smile even though his little brother isn't looking at him. "I just... this ain't you, Sammy. What the hell is happening here, huh? You on a hunt?" The thought strikes Dean as he says it. He sits up taller. "You undercover?"
Sam scoffs, and Dean's stomach plummets back into ice. "You give me too much credit," he tells Dean, smiling blankly, like a mannequin, a shitty reproduction of Sam, nowhere near the original artwork. "This is exactly what it fucking looks like."
Dean opens his mouth, closes it. He licks his lips. Looks up at Sam, waits for some look, some message in brotherspeak to cue Dean into the ruse that's happening here. It never comes.
"Look," Sam starts again, shifting from foot to foot, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "you've seen me now. You know where I am. That I'm alive. Can I go now?"
Dean blinks up at him. Sam frowns back. The wall clock ticks away the moments behind them, the disbelief building in Dean with each twitch of the second hand.
"No," he finally manages, standing slowly, his knees cracking one at a time. "No, Sammy, it's been four years and we definitely have some catching up to do. Whaddaya say? Nice bed, late night TV, a warm meal in the morning? All you gotta do in exchange is talk to me. That sound appealing to you?"
Sam doesn't look happy about it, his face all pinched and pulled down, but he must hear the note of desperation in Dean's voice, 'cause he steps away from the door and slides his bag off of his shoulder. Dean counts it as a win, offering Sam another smile as Sam sighs and brushes past him to the other bed.
It's the little wins that really matter.
Dean doesn't sleep the entire night. He lays on his side, facing the door, listening to Sam toss and turn in the other bed. He'd never admit it to himself, not in a century, but he doesn't trust this Sam enough not to sneak out in the middle of the night and disappear to god knows where.
Sam finally falls asleep somewhere around four, his breaths slowing and evening out just like Dean remembers from his life Before, when things were okay and he had a Family. His vision blurs as he listens to the little sleepsounds Sam still makes and he lets his body relax. He forces himself to get up around six, moving around silently so he doesn't disrupt Sam's slumber. The kid looks like he really needs it.
He stews around for a couple of hours, apathetically watching porn on his laptop at the kitchenette table. He doesn't want to get breakfast while Sam's still asleep, just in case. He finds his eyes always straying back to the emaciated body of his little brother, looking like a corpse on the grainy motel coverlet.
Whatever the hell's happened to Sam, Dean's going to make it better. It's more than his job. It's his reason for living.
He's startled out of his thoughts by a tiny groan. He closes the laptop lid, looking over at Sam, who hauls himself upright and stretches his arms over his head, stretching. He blinks away bleariness and frowns at the room in puzzlement. It takes a moment before his eyes land on Dean and recognition sparks. His lips thin and he rubs at his eyes, yawning widely.
"Morning, sunshine," Dean deadpans, and his plea for normalcy is crushed when Sam frowns at him in that patented longsuffering glare.
"Can I change before the drilling starts?" Sam asks, not raising his voice at all. Subdued.
Dean worries that he's the cause. "Sure," he agrees awkwardly, leaning back in his chair. He watches Sam grab his bag and disappear into the bathroom. He listens to the sink running and the toilet flushing and a few muffled thumps before Sam comes back out again, looking a little more alert but that's no compliment. Dean's filled with a surge of maternal protectiveness and all he wants to do is put some meat on those bones, see those famous dimples again. God.
"We're gonna grab breakfast somewhere," Dean says, standing and grabbing the keys off the dresser. "And 'cause I'm nice, you can choose where."
Sam doesn't look impressed.
Inside the Impala, Dean fiddles with the cassettes and watches Sam out of the corner of his eye. For one brief moment, Sam's apathetic facade is pulled down as his hand quickly traces the chrome detailing on the dashboard. Dean can see the slight sheen in Sam's eyes and the way his adam's apple bobs. His hands run over the vinyl seating before he folds them tightly in his lap, staring straight ahead and blinking quickly.
Dean finally chooses a cassette and AC/DC starts playing over the speakers. As he turns the car around and heads into the center of town, he can't help but be grateful for seeing that moment of emotion coming from Sam, even if the emotion was closer to grief than anything better.
It's something, at least.
Sam silently points him to the nearest diner and Dean acquiesces, parking the car and getting out. Their doors slam in unison and Sam's hand trails over the hood of the car as he passes. Dean places a hand lightly between Sam's shoulder blades and leads him into the diner. It takes Sam a bit to realize Dean's touching him at all-- he'd started leaning into the warmth and comfort at his back without realizing. Once inside, he shrugs out of Dean's grasp and moves out of touching distance, cramming his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders.
Dean feels the distance between them like a physical blow to the gut. He clears his throat and pretends everything is fine, smiling cheekily at the waitress when she comes up to them.
When they're seated, Sam skims the menu with a bored look for a couple of seconds before letting it drop back on the scratched table. The waitress brings them water and leaves again, and Dean leans back in the booth, looking over at Sam evenly and trying his damndest to school his face into something less anguished.
"You wanna tell me what you're doing here?" Dean asks in a mild tone.
"And start from the beginning," he adds as Sam opens his mouth.
Sam sighs, sinking back into the cushions. He brushes his bangs away from his eyes- the kid could really use a haircut- and looks across the diner and away from Dean.
"Any day now," Dean presses, and he knows he's testing limits that didn't used to be there.
Sam glares up at him, but thankfully this time he doesn't take his eyes from Dean's. "You're not gonna like it," he says finally, his lips turning down as his hands play with the frayed edge of the menu. There's a sheen of sweat lining his temples. "You're not gonna like it at all."
Dean smirks. "Try me."
Sam shrugs, his hands stilling. "It's not some big long story, Dean. School was stressful. I wanted a break. You know what's good for stress? Marijuana. You know what's even better? Opiates."
"Opiates?" Dean parrots, unable to contain himself.
Sam nods at him, a twisted smile marring his face. "Got addicted. Spent all my money on drugs, got the hell out of Palo Alto. Too expensive. Came here, started hooking for cash. And then you found me."
A short laugh bubbles out of Dean before he can control himself. He regrets it the moment Sam's face sours further and he looks away from Dean, a bit of teeth showing as he snarls. "I'm sorry," Dean says, drawing Sam's narrowed eyes back to his face, "I just... I don't believe it. That's not you, Sammy, not the Sam I know."
Sam sighs like the conversation is something trivial and he has somewhere to be. And judging by the erratic jiggle of his knee, maybe he does have somewhere else he'd rather be. "I'm a hooker, Dean. And I'm not the Sam you knew. Not anymore."
Before Dean can say anything to that statement, the waitress is back, all falsely-cheery and smiley and Dean just wants to strangle her. The setting is so wrong for what's happening right now, the music too upbeat. It feels like some huge charade, a joke, something. Like a bunch of strippers will come popping out of the walls and Sam will cry surprise, Dean! And, well.
In his silence Sam had bitten out both of their orders (Dean wishes he could feel happy about the fact Sam still remembers he likes extra onions) and sent a slightly-puzzled looking waitress scurrying away from their tiny little stormcloud.
Sam's looking out the window, and he's blinking quickly, his bottom lip jutting out as he tracks the cars rushing past. And despite the sunken eyes and already-dead look, he looks so fucking young and lost and Dean doesn't know what to do. He's always fixed Sam and he has no idea how to even start fixing this.
"Sammy, kiddo, please," he ends up croaking, reaching his hands across the table and grabbing Sam's. Sam jerks back like he's been shocked by Dean's touch, staring down at his hands like he expects to find them scalding and smoking.
"It's Sam," Sam tells him tiredly, tucking his hands into his lap and rolling his shoulders, over and over. "And look. I gotta go, okay? But it's been real nice, Dean. See you 'round."
"Uh-uh," Dean barks, standing up and blocking Sam's exit from the booth when he makes to leave. "You don't get to leave. Not like that. And I know for a fact you're fucking starving, 'kay? You might as well get a free meal out of this."
Sam looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn't speak. His eyebrows draw together as he stares into Dean's eyes, looking for something. He appears to find it, a sigh escaping his lips as he falls back into the seat.
on to part two