The dream is my reality
Title: The dream is my reality
Summary: This is their life now. A brief coda to 5.11, no spoilers.
When he tumbles out of restless dreams, it's after three in the morning and Dean's sitting cross-legged on the other bed, cleaning his guns. There's an open bottle of cheap whiskey propped against his thigh, and he hasn't even bothered to change out of his jeans.
"You sleep at all?"
There's no startle, just a sideways smile. "No."
Sam doesn't know why he even bothers asking anymore. Dean doesn't sleep nowadays; he just collapses when he runs out of momentum. Vaguely, he can remember a time that would have worried him. He remembers Dean fussing over his insomnia after Jess, remembers trying to distract Dean with dumb movies and cheeseburgers when the days of his last year were sliding away and nightmares started taking hold. They've never been normal, but they used to be people. Sam can't quite remember how that feels.
"We should leave early," he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "You know our faces are going to be all over the news."
"Yeah." The yellow lamplight is faded and cuts deep into the lines around Dean's mouth. There are dark circles under his eyes now that never go away. He looks ten years older than he should. "As long as they don't figure out our real names. That would suck."
"Yeah," Sam says. Last thing they need is the Feds on their tail again. "Look, Dean--"
"Oh, man, we're not gonna do this now, are we?" Dean says plaintively. "Seriously, dude, it's three AM."
The Dean Winchester school of therapy: don't talk about it, push it down and pretend everything's okay. Just keep going. It's unhealthy as shit, but it's also the only thing they have left. Both of them sacrificed their sanity to this war months ago, slipping beneath the skins of the soldiers Dad trained them to be, and there's going to be a catastrophic bill coming due for all this repression if they survive.
Sam's pretty sure they don't have to worry about surviving, though, and he's smiling reluctantly when he shakes his head. "Okay. We don't have to talk now."
"Thank God," Dean mutters. "Hand me that .45, would you?"
Sam passes the gun over and watches his brother's broad hands disassemble it, gleaming metal against the cheap polyester bedspread, a snapshot of what their lives have become.
Summary: This is their life now. A brief coda to 5.11, no spoilers.
When he tumbles out of restless dreams, it's after three in the morning and Dean's sitting cross-legged on the other bed, cleaning his guns. There's an open bottle of cheap whiskey propped against his thigh, and he hasn't even bothered to change out of his jeans.
"You sleep at all?"
There's no startle, just a sideways smile. "No."
Sam doesn't know why he even bothers asking anymore. Dean doesn't sleep nowadays; he just collapses when he runs out of momentum. Vaguely, he can remember a time that would have worried him. He remembers Dean fussing over his insomnia after Jess, remembers trying to distract Dean with dumb movies and cheeseburgers when the days of his last year were sliding away and nightmares started taking hold. They've never been normal, but they used to be people. Sam can't quite remember how that feels.
"We should leave early," he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "You know our faces are going to be all over the news."
"Yeah." The yellow lamplight is faded and cuts deep into the lines around Dean's mouth. There are dark circles under his eyes now that never go away. He looks ten years older than he should. "As long as they don't figure out our real names. That would suck."
"Yeah," Sam says. Last thing they need is the Feds on their tail again. "Look, Dean--"
"Oh, man, we're not gonna do this now, are we?" Dean says plaintively. "Seriously, dude, it's three AM."
The Dean Winchester school of therapy: don't talk about it, push it down and pretend everything's okay. Just keep going. It's unhealthy as shit, but it's also the only thing they have left. Both of them sacrificed their sanity to this war months ago, slipping beneath the skins of the soldiers Dad trained them to be, and there's going to be a catastrophic bill coming due for all this repression if they survive.
Sam's pretty sure they don't have to worry about surviving, though, and he's smiling reluctantly when he shakes his head. "Okay. We don't have to talk now."
"Thank God," Dean mutters. "Hand me that .45, would you?"
Sam passes the gun over and watches his brother's broad hands disassemble it, gleaming metal against the cheap polyester bedspread, a snapshot of what their lives have become.