Frayed Ends Of Sanity, 4/?
Title: Frayed Ends Of Sanity
Author: mellaithwen
Chapters: 4/?
Rating: R (Gen)
Warnings: Spoilers for Devil's Trap. Only spec for season 2, no spoilers.
Summary: Post Devil's Trap. Everything has an aftermath...
well this is definately an AU now...
first borns are to be mailed to a one
Pixel_0 in the US of A. Thank you.
Part Three
Part Four.
The drive is worse than it should be. The music is low and neither complains, whereas before, Dean might have turned up the volume, cranking it up and letting it fill the Impala. But there is no Impala, and Dean’s penchant for loud music to fill the silence went away as soon as his thoughts became loud enough. His regrets and doubts pound away louder than any Metallica track ever could.
They pass so many signs, so many roads, some travelled in the past, some not. Some leading to the unknown, while others, like the one they’re on, taking them to somewhere they’d rather not be.
The last sign they see dwindles by, and Sam shifts in his seat, amazed at how uncomfortable having a proper seatbelt can be when you’re used to the strange, yet satisfying, comfort of the Impala’s interior. He glances up at the reminder that they’re on the right road, if not the right track:
Lawrence, 3
*-*-*
When they reach her house, the For Sale sign is glaring, and when they step in, a real estate agent shoos them out none-too-gently. He won’t tell them anything, and they can’t help but notice how quiet the house seems. How dead it is now, how lonely.
The sign is still there. Missouri Mosely.
But Missouri’s long gone.
They went to her house and found out the truth.
They stray to their old home, belonging to the Winchesters no longer, and they knock the door and get a surprisingly happy reception from Seri. Even now-well over a year later-she still hasn’t forgotten. Jenny rushes to the door, reprimanding her daughter for answering it alone. But then she sees her guests, gushes, and invites them in with much less suspicion than the last time they were here.
They’re given good coffee, allowed to eat biscuits, store bought, from the tin, and they humour Seri with her new found hobby of reading ghost-stories. Sam feels guilty, but it seems like so long since he really saw Dean smile, and he lets himself forget.
They don’t tell her any of their own-they know better-but they still smile, before Jenny asks her daughter to clean her room, and she complies in a huff. Jenny turns back to the boys, looks down, and tells them where Missouri is. She tells them about the fire, the flames that reached so high up, and the arrival of many visitors, afterwards, some even coming to her door and asking for John Winchester. But she turned them away, unable to pass on more information.
Sam and Dean take deep breaths and know they have to leave. Another casualty has just been added to the list, and soon, there’ll be no one left to turn to.
A part of them knows there’s no way in Hell their father hasn’t heard about this, and they wonder to themselves if this-yet another death in Lawrence-will spark the revenge streak in John once more.
Dean doesn’t realise that what the demon did to him would be enough reason for John any day.
Sam does, but he knows better than to say it out loud.
They drive past the cemetery, both saying their own prayers underneath their breaths. Forgiveness, maybe, who knows? And they start the long drive away from--or at least, the place that most resembled-their hometown.
Dean tells himself over and over and over, his father is fine, his father is fine, his father didn’t try to kill him, and he does love him, he does need him and the demon was full of lies. He thinks the more he says it, the more likely he is to believe. It’ll just take some time. That’s all. Issues are familiar to him, and burying them? He’s become somewhat of an expert.
Why should the aftermath be any different?
*-*-*
Sam frowns like a disapproving parent when the only thing Dean gets is a pack of peanut M&M’s and he knows it’s his brother’s meagre attempt to save cash, even though the latest scam is going smoothly as usual. He says nothing, but doesn’t hide the glance, and orders his own lunch while his brother finds them a booth at the back, out of the way, like always.
Dean finishes the pack quickly, hungrier than he realised, and his stomach rumbles when he looks over at Sam and his BLT. He wishes he’d grabbed something with more substance, but Sam knows he’ll never finish it alone and says nothing when his brother reaches over and grabs almost half of the sandwich.
Dean speaks with his mouth full when he points out the article, gives the quick summary of what’s inside, and talks of a child’s injuries after a night spent in the local haunted house. Sam shakes his head.
“We’re not ready, Dean.”
“When will we be, Sam?”
And he knows his brother is right.
*-*-*
It’s nothing more than an old man, an old dead man, but an old man all the same, still trying to keep his crumbling house safe from vandals. Protecting items that are no longer there and yelling at children to stay off the grass that, once green and lush, is now overgrown with weeds, untended, and forgotten.
Much like the old man, they muse, as they pour salt over the body, set it alight, and put the spirit to rest.
It’s a simple torching that an amateur ghost hunter could have done, if they existed, and it’s a nice slow paced job to get them back into the feel of things. Sam never brings up his want for a normal life as he stays with Dean, having to hunt once more, though secretly he’s glad.
Normal’s over-rated anyway.
*-*-*
Dean hears shuffling in the room when he wakes, and he clutches the knife tighter. It’s only Sam, but he doesn’t let go...it used to have a sheath, he remembers, he’d feel a tug at his lips whenever he brought it out, and he would hear the metal scraping before bringing it out to do some serious damage on the monster of the week.
It’s nothing new that he sleeps with it under his pillow; he’s done so for a while. Precaution, he told Sam once, precaution. But not being able to sleep without grasping it tightly? Now that is a new one. He can’t not hold on to it, keeping his eyes closed as he hears the flush, a yawn and the ruffling of bed sheets. He holds onto it still, ready to kill the next thing that thinks it’s okay to mess with the Winchesters.
He can’t sleep without it, and he can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. He’s waiting for the next attack, the next fight.
It shouldn’t be long now, he knows.
He can hear their whispers when the clock strikes three, and he’s still awake, still alert, still on edge. He hears them whether they say it or not. He hears them always.
Soon.
A promise of the coming storm, and Dean’s own words come back to him in retort, I will march into hell myself and slaughter each and every one of you evil sons o’ bitches so help me God. And Dean Winchester has never been one for idle threats, after all.
*-*-*
There are seventeen articles on the Internet about grave robbing in Connecticut. There are forty articles on the Internet about sightings of the undead, but only nine of them are remotely believable.
Friends, family members, people of the community, all dead, and all walking around without a spring in their step.
Because zombies just don’t dance. Their movements are slow, and they wade around like they’re stuck in waist deep mud, and groan from here to nowhere.
*-*-*
They’re rounding the dark alleyway when she appears. She’s strong, and when she jumps-or rather, falls from a great height-she lands on them both. Dean veers to the left but a leg still catches him straight in the chest, while Sam gets the brunt of the force and finds himself pinned by the reanimated corpse.
Her eyes are dead but searching. Her rotting fingers are tracing the faint scars and grooves on Sam’s face. Her straggly hair, like dry seaweed, falls forward, covers half of her face and Sam’s, and he’s struggling against her leering mouth and the rancid breath.
He’s gagging and trying to push her up, while Dean is still on the floor feeling the agony of the harsh kick to his tender skin. It feels like the girl has pressed the demon in further, as though the wounds were open again and bleeding. There are spots in front of his eyes, dancing out of reach, and his teeth are clenched so tightly his jaw hurts.
“Dean!” He hears from afar, a whisper-that is actually more of a desperate shout.
The older Winchester takes as many deep breaths as he can before getting up. Forcing his joints to obey him, to do as he says, and help Sam. To get the dumpster and scramble for a weapon he’s sure he saw.
He finds the cracked, but usable, baseball bat in the dumpster, grabs it and runs forward. He’s brandishing it when he stops.
And fights the urge to laugh.
Because as much as Sam is struggling and fighting, the woman-undead-is just staring at him and stroking his cheek. There’s nothing violent about it-other than Sam’s urge to puke-and Dean’s surprised.
“Dean!” Sam cries once more, and Dean shakes his head, and walks slowly over to his brother.
He swings it back, tilts it to the side, and hits the girl square at the base of her skull.
The rotting skin, bones and muscle-complete with the sheer force of the blow, leave the head rolling far away from the body. For a moment of morbid fascination, both Winchesters find themselves staring at the headless body twitching, arms flailing, before lying still.
“You okay?” Dean asks, as he holds his hand out to his brother and hoists him up with a hiss disguised as a cough.
“Yeah,” Sam assures as he brushes down his clothes. He looks back at his older brother, concern clear. “What about you? She must have kicked pretty hard.”
“I’m fine, Sam. Just took me by surprise.”
Nothing takes Dean Winchester by surprise, says the child in Sam that still idolizes his brother and looks up to him. Can’t very well do that when you’re taller than your hero, now can you?
“So, is there a reason you waited?” Sam asks, irritated.
Dean smiles.
“She liked you,” he says with a sly grin, and Sam remembers the signs for a teasing from his childhood.
“What? Dean-”
“The undead zombie chick, really, really liked you.”
“Feel free to stop at any time.”
And he does, until they get to the car. Sam slides in behind the wheel, and Dean looks at his brother. He pauses dramatically, so much so that Sam looks concerned.
“She wanted you.”
Sam’s face falls, and he growls.
“Damn it, Dean!”
*-*-*
Sam’s always prided himself on a strong stomach. Ever since he’d seen his first dead body and seen how well his older brother had reacted, how calm he seemed at the lack of air in the man’s lungs, Sam had fought to do the same. The stench of a particularly old carcass would still churn his stomach, and he had a sneaking suspicion it always would, and he knew the sigh of the blood from those he knew, his brother, Jessica...his father, would always haunt him that much more, make him feel sick, bring him close to tears.
But in the long run, he was pretty damn good at keeping his stomach content where it should be. In his stomach, until his body naturally decided otherwise.
But then Dean starts talking about the cattle mutilations down in West Texas, and not just an off-hand comment about them existing, or about a recent case, oh no, he starts by reading select emotive language from the newspaper article that goes into great detail; he then goes on to recall a time when he himself had investigated such a phenomenon, describing everything.
“Must you?” Sam growls, pushing his lunch across the diner table.
Dean grins. “Yes.” And he steals the burger from Sam’s plate.
The entire drive consists of the odd bitching against the lack of performance of the car (the rental car that should have been returned over a month ago), and Sam smiling out of his brother’s eye line.
They get to their destination, they investigate, and they fight the urge to bring up their dinner when the unfazed and somewhat grumpy farmer shows them the great mess that was once a cow. Sam finally gives in and excuses himself, able to hear Dean’s laughing over his own retching behind a pile of hay.
*-*-*
“Mothman?” Sam wonders aloud when they’re back in their motel room, and Dean has finally stopped teasing his younger brother.
“Nah, isolated incident, why?”
“Animal carcasses drained of blood...” Sam says, as though it’s obvious. Dean nods, but sticks to his original statement, muttering, “Next.”
“Satanists?”
“Area around them was too clean.”
“How can you be sure?”
“’Cause I’m older.”
“Try again.”
“’Cause as stupid as the cops can be, I think forensics might have come up with something by now. It’s a small town, freaky shit kinda takes priority.”
“So we’re in agreement that it’s a creature of some kind.”
“Yup.”
“Chupacabra?”
“Cows, not goats.”
“Some accounts say they attack livestock in general.”
“Bite marks don’t match up,” Dean says, his tone bored, as he holds back the urge to yawn.
“Are we going to do this all night?”
“Do what?”
“I suggest things, and you sit there discarding them all.”
“Come up with better suggestions, and I won’t have to.”
*-*-*
“I said it was Satanists.” And it’s as good as I told you so.
“What do you want Sam? A freakin’ medal? You want me to scream that I was wrong? Huh, Sam?”
“What’s with you?”
“What’s with me? Sam, you’ve been bugging me for over an hour about this!”
“…Are you pissed there wasn’t anything to kill?”
Dean’s retort is drowned out on purpose by the riffs of a guitar on an ageing tape in the player, driving until they need to stop again, driving until the end of the road, or-depending on how long it takes for Dean to start to nod off-the next motel sign.
*-*-*
Sam’s watching a film when Dean gets back from the quick shop. At first glance, the older brother makes a joke about preferring it when Monroe is standing over a windy grate in that nice white dress of hers, rather than sitting in a car, talking about god knows what. He hasn’t been watching, he’s been out, walking, like he does so often nowadays, trying to find his thoughts jumbled by a confusion that he can’t get rid of.
But Sam’s been watching. He’s been watching for nearly two hours, and he can’t believe his luck, or lack of, when Dean returns in time to ruin the ending as he does with most films.
“Which way is home?” Marilyn’s character, Roslyn, asks Clark Gable sitting by her side.
“God bless you girl,” his character, Gay, replies. And Roslyn takes pause for a silent second before asking, her voice somewhat crisp, or maybe it’s just the quality of the old television set, Sam isn’t sure.
“How do you find your way back in the dark?”
And Sam can’t tell why, but the room seems tenser. Quieter, and he dares glimpse over to his brother to see him standing there, like a statue. Staring at the screen, his eyes lighter, waiting for the answer as though it would help him in some way. He’s waiting and waiting, and Sam is watching his brother’s hands shake, wondering how long he’s felt the dark closing in.
“Just head for that big star straight on,” Gay says, pointing ahead. “The highway's under it.” Dean’s eyebrows are knitting together, hearing the driving reference and attributing it to his own life. “It'll take us right home.”
They don’t have a home, maybe this is a hint that they should get one, find one, or look for the one they lost so long ago. What was it Sam had heard Gable say earlier in the film? Honey, nothing can live unless something dies.
Which one of them was supposed to live? If not both, whose choice would that be? Three’s an easier number, Sam thinks. Because now, if Dean dies, and Sam’s left to bury him, then what? Who buries Sam? And if Sam dies first, and Dean’s left to fulfil his own promise of being the only one left in their broken family who hasn’t died for this goddamn demon, then who will bury Dean? Who will take care of him and make sure he doesn’t kill himself by thrusting himself into the hunt much like now?
Dad’s after the demon. Dad never called when Dean was dying, and he still hasn’t called now, too busy on the trail that nearly got them all killed. Sam doesn’t want to hate him, but he finds it so much easier to see them as a family of two now, rather than three. To hell with easier numbers.
The credits have already started to roll, the music filtering in and out as the signal worsens. Dean snaps out of his reverie, continuing with his work of unpacking the few groceries he grabbed at the 7-11. He doesn’t look up at Sam, and he spends over an hour in the bathroom once the bags are empty and there’s nothing left to say or do.
TBC
Author: mellaithwen
Chapters: 4/?
Rating: R (Gen)
Warnings: Spoilers for Devil's Trap. Only spec for season 2, no spoilers.
Summary: Post Devil's Trap. Everything has an aftermath...
well this is definately an AU now...
first borns are to be mailed to a one
Pixel_0 in the US of A. Thank you.
Part Three
Part Four.
The drive is worse than it should be. The music is low and neither complains, whereas before, Dean might have turned up the volume, cranking it up and letting it fill the Impala. But there is no Impala, and Dean’s penchant for loud music to fill the silence went away as soon as his thoughts became loud enough. His regrets and doubts pound away louder than any Metallica track ever could.
They pass so many signs, so many roads, some travelled in the past, some not. Some leading to the unknown, while others, like the one they’re on, taking them to somewhere they’d rather not be.
The last sign they see dwindles by, and Sam shifts in his seat, amazed at how uncomfortable having a proper seatbelt can be when you’re used to the strange, yet satisfying, comfort of the Impala’s interior. He glances up at the reminder that they’re on the right road, if not the right track:
Lawrence, 3
*-*-*
When they reach her house, the For Sale sign is glaring, and when they step in, a real estate agent shoos them out none-too-gently. He won’t tell them anything, and they can’t help but notice how quiet the house seems. How dead it is now, how lonely.
The sign is still there. Missouri Mosely.
But Missouri’s long gone.
They went to her house and found out the truth.
They stray to their old home, belonging to the Winchesters no longer, and they knock the door and get a surprisingly happy reception from Seri. Even now-well over a year later-she still hasn’t forgotten. Jenny rushes to the door, reprimanding her daughter for answering it alone. But then she sees her guests, gushes, and invites them in with much less suspicion than the last time they were here.
They’re given good coffee, allowed to eat biscuits, store bought, from the tin, and they humour Seri with her new found hobby of reading ghost-stories. Sam feels guilty, but it seems like so long since he really saw Dean smile, and he lets himself forget.
They don’t tell her any of their own-they know better-but they still smile, before Jenny asks her daughter to clean her room, and she complies in a huff. Jenny turns back to the boys, looks down, and tells them where Missouri is. She tells them about the fire, the flames that reached so high up, and the arrival of many visitors, afterwards, some even coming to her door and asking for John Winchester. But she turned them away, unable to pass on more information.
Sam and Dean take deep breaths and know they have to leave. Another casualty has just been added to the list, and soon, there’ll be no one left to turn to.
A part of them knows there’s no way in Hell their father hasn’t heard about this, and they wonder to themselves if this-yet another death in Lawrence-will spark the revenge streak in John once more.
Dean doesn’t realise that what the demon did to him would be enough reason for John any day.
Sam does, but he knows better than to say it out loud.
They drive past the cemetery, both saying their own prayers underneath their breaths. Forgiveness, maybe, who knows? And they start the long drive away from--or at least, the place that most resembled-their hometown.
Dean tells himself over and over and over, his father is fine, his father is fine, his father didn’t try to kill him, and he does love him, he does need him and the demon was full of lies. He thinks the more he says it, the more likely he is to believe. It’ll just take some time. That’s all. Issues are familiar to him, and burying them? He’s become somewhat of an expert.
Why should the aftermath be any different?
*-*-*
Sam frowns like a disapproving parent when the only thing Dean gets is a pack of peanut M&M’s and he knows it’s his brother’s meagre attempt to save cash, even though the latest scam is going smoothly as usual. He says nothing, but doesn’t hide the glance, and orders his own lunch while his brother finds them a booth at the back, out of the way, like always.
Dean finishes the pack quickly, hungrier than he realised, and his stomach rumbles when he looks over at Sam and his BLT. He wishes he’d grabbed something with more substance, but Sam knows he’ll never finish it alone and says nothing when his brother reaches over and grabs almost half of the sandwich.
Dean speaks with his mouth full when he points out the article, gives the quick summary of what’s inside, and talks of a child’s injuries after a night spent in the local haunted house. Sam shakes his head.
“We’re not ready, Dean.”
“When will we be, Sam?”
And he knows his brother is right.
*-*-*
It’s nothing more than an old man, an old dead man, but an old man all the same, still trying to keep his crumbling house safe from vandals. Protecting items that are no longer there and yelling at children to stay off the grass that, once green and lush, is now overgrown with weeds, untended, and forgotten.
Much like the old man, they muse, as they pour salt over the body, set it alight, and put the spirit to rest.
It’s a simple torching that an amateur ghost hunter could have done, if they existed, and it’s a nice slow paced job to get them back into the feel of things. Sam never brings up his want for a normal life as he stays with Dean, having to hunt once more, though secretly he’s glad.
Normal’s over-rated anyway.
*-*-*
Dean hears shuffling in the room when he wakes, and he clutches the knife tighter. It’s only Sam, but he doesn’t let go...it used to have a sheath, he remembers, he’d feel a tug at his lips whenever he brought it out, and he would hear the metal scraping before bringing it out to do some serious damage on the monster of the week.
It’s nothing new that he sleeps with it under his pillow; he’s done so for a while. Precaution, he told Sam once, precaution. But not being able to sleep without grasping it tightly? Now that is a new one. He can’t not hold on to it, keeping his eyes closed as he hears the flush, a yawn and the ruffling of bed sheets. He holds onto it still, ready to kill the next thing that thinks it’s okay to mess with the Winchesters.
He can’t sleep without it, and he can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. He’s waiting for the next attack, the next fight.
It shouldn’t be long now, he knows.
He can hear their whispers when the clock strikes three, and he’s still awake, still alert, still on edge. He hears them whether they say it or not. He hears them always.
Soon.
A promise of the coming storm, and Dean’s own words come back to him in retort, I will march into hell myself and slaughter each and every one of you evil sons o’ bitches so help me God. And Dean Winchester has never been one for idle threats, after all.
*-*-*
There are seventeen articles on the Internet about grave robbing in Connecticut. There are forty articles on the Internet about sightings of the undead, but only nine of them are remotely believable.
Friends, family members, people of the community, all dead, and all walking around without a spring in their step.
Because zombies just don’t dance. Their movements are slow, and they wade around like they’re stuck in waist deep mud, and groan from here to nowhere.
*-*-*
They’re rounding the dark alleyway when she appears. She’s strong, and when she jumps-or rather, falls from a great height-she lands on them both. Dean veers to the left but a leg still catches him straight in the chest, while Sam gets the brunt of the force and finds himself pinned by the reanimated corpse.
Her eyes are dead but searching. Her rotting fingers are tracing the faint scars and grooves on Sam’s face. Her straggly hair, like dry seaweed, falls forward, covers half of her face and Sam’s, and he’s struggling against her leering mouth and the rancid breath.
He’s gagging and trying to push her up, while Dean is still on the floor feeling the agony of the harsh kick to his tender skin. It feels like the girl has pressed the demon in further, as though the wounds were open again and bleeding. There are spots in front of his eyes, dancing out of reach, and his teeth are clenched so tightly his jaw hurts.
“Dean!” He hears from afar, a whisper-that is actually more of a desperate shout.
The older Winchester takes as many deep breaths as he can before getting up. Forcing his joints to obey him, to do as he says, and help Sam. To get the dumpster and scramble for a weapon he’s sure he saw.
He finds the cracked, but usable, baseball bat in the dumpster, grabs it and runs forward. He’s brandishing it when he stops.
And fights the urge to laugh.
Because as much as Sam is struggling and fighting, the woman-undead-is just staring at him and stroking his cheek. There’s nothing violent about it-other than Sam’s urge to puke-and Dean’s surprised.
“Dean!” Sam cries once more, and Dean shakes his head, and walks slowly over to his brother.
He swings it back, tilts it to the side, and hits the girl square at the base of her skull.
The rotting skin, bones and muscle-complete with the sheer force of the blow, leave the head rolling far away from the body. For a moment of morbid fascination, both Winchesters find themselves staring at the headless body twitching, arms flailing, before lying still.
“You okay?” Dean asks, as he holds his hand out to his brother and hoists him up with a hiss disguised as a cough.
“Yeah,” Sam assures as he brushes down his clothes. He looks back at his older brother, concern clear. “What about you? She must have kicked pretty hard.”
“I’m fine, Sam. Just took me by surprise.”
Nothing takes Dean Winchester by surprise, says the child in Sam that still idolizes his brother and looks up to him. Can’t very well do that when you’re taller than your hero, now can you?
“So, is there a reason you waited?” Sam asks, irritated.
Dean smiles.
“She liked you,” he says with a sly grin, and Sam remembers the signs for a teasing from his childhood.
“What? Dean-”
“The undead zombie chick, really, really liked you.”
“Feel free to stop at any time.”
And he does, until they get to the car. Sam slides in behind the wheel, and Dean looks at his brother. He pauses dramatically, so much so that Sam looks concerned.
“She wanted you.”
Sam’s face falls, and he growls.
“Damn it, Dean!”
*-*-*
Sam’s always prided himself on a strong stomach. Ever since he’d seen his first dead body and seen how well his older brother had reacted, how calm he seemed at the lack of air in the man’s lungs, Sam had fought to do the same. The stench of a particularly old carcass would still churn his stomach, and he had a sneaking suspicion it always would, and he knew the sigh of the blood from those he knew, his brother, Jessica...his father, would always haunt him that much more, make him feel sick, bring him close to tears.
But in the long run, he was pretty damn good at keeping his stomach content where it should be. In his stomach, until his body naturally decided otherwise.
But then Dean starts talking about the cattle mutilations down in West Texas, and not just an off-hand comment about them existing, or about a recent case, oh no, he starts by reading select emotive language from the newspaper article that goes into great detail; he then goes on to recall a time when he himself had investigated such a phenomenon, describing everything.
“Must you?” Sam growls, pushing his lunch across the diner table.
Dean grins. “Yes.” And he steals the burger from Sam’s plate.
The entire drive consists of the odd bitching against the lack of performance of the car (the rental car that should have been returned over a month ago), and Sam smiling out of his brother’s eye line.
They get to their destination, they investigate, and they fight the urge to bring up their dinner when the unfazed and somewhat grumpy farmer shows them the great mess that was once a cow. Sam finally gives in and excuses himself, able to hear Dean’s laughing over his own retching behind a pile of hay.
*-*-*
“Mothman?” Sam wonders aloud when they’re back in their motel room, and Dean has finally stopped teasing his younger brother.
“Nah, isolated incident, why?”
“Animal carcasses drained of blood...” Sam says, as though it’s obvious. Dean nods, but sticks to his original statement, muttering, “Next.”
“Satanists?”
“Area around them was too clean.”
“How can you be sure?”
“’Cause I’m older.”
“Try again.”
“’Cause as stupid as the cops can be, I think forensics might have come up with something by now. It’s a small town, freaky shit kinda takes priority.”
“So we’re in agreement that it’s a creature of some kind.”
“Yup.”
“Chupacabra?”
“Cows, not goats.”
“Some accounts say they attack livestock in general.”
“Bite marks don’t match up,” Dean says, his tone bored, as he holds back the urge to yawn.
“Are we going to do this all night?”
“Do what?”
“I suggest things, and you sit there discarding them all.”
“Come up with better suggestions, and I won’t have to.”
*-*-*
“I said it was Satanists.” And it’s as good as I told you so.
“What do you want Sam? A freakin’ medal? You want me to scream that I was wrong? Huh, Sam?”
“What’s with you?”
“What’s with me? Sam, you’ve been bugging me for over an hour about this!”
“…Are you pissed there wasn’t anything to kill?”
Dean’s retort is drowned out on purpose by the riffs of a guitar on an ageing tape in the player, driving until they need to stop again, driving until the end of the road, or-depending on how long it takes for Dean to start to nod off-the next motel sign.
*-*-*
Sam’s watching a film when Dean gets back from the quick shop. At first glance, the older brother makes a joke about preferring it when Monroe is standing over a windy grate in that nice white dress of hers, rather than sitting in a car, talking about god knows what. He hasn’t been watching, he’s been out, walking, like he does so often nowadays, trying to find his thoughts jumbled by a confusion that he can’t get rid of.
But Sam’s been watching. He’s been watching for nearly two hours, and he can’t believe his luck, or lack of, when Dean returns in time to ruin the ending as he does with most films.
“Which way is home?” Marilyn’s character, Roslyn, asks Clark Gable sitting by her side.
“God bless you girl,” his character, Gay, replies. And Roslyn takes pause for a silent second before asking, her voice somewhat crisp, or maybe it’s just the quality of the old television set, Sam isn’t sure.
“How do you find your way back in the dark?”
And Sam can’t tell why, but the room seems tenser. Quieter, and he dares glimpse over to his brother to see him standing there, like a statue. Staring at the screen, his eyes lighter, waiting for the answer as though it would help him in some way. He’s waiting and waiting, and Sam is watching his brother’s hands shake, wondering how long he’s felt the dark closing in.
“Just head for that big star straight on,” Gay says, pointing ahead. “The highway's under it.” Dean’s eyebrows are knitting together, hearing the driving reference and attributing it to his own life. “It'll take us right home.”
They don’t have a home, maybe this is a hint that they should get one, find one, or look for the one they lost so long ago. What was it Sam had heard Gable say earlier in the film? Honey, nothing can live unless something dies.
Which one of them was supposed to live? If not both, whose choice would that be? Three’s an easier number, Sam thinks. Because now, if Dean dies, and Sam’s left to bury him, then what? Who buries Sam? And if Sam dies first, and Dean’s left to fulfil his own promise of being the only one left in their broken family who hasn’t died for this goddamn demon, then who will bury Dean? Who will take care of him and make sure he doesn’t kill himself by thrusting himself into the hunt much like now?
Dad’s after the demon. Dad never called when Dean was dying, and he still hasn’t called now, too busy on the trail that nearly got them all killed. Sam doesn’t want to hate him, but he finds it so much easier to see them as a family of two now, rather than three. To hell with easier numbers.
The credits have already started to roll, the music filtering in and out as the signal worsens. Dean snaps out of his reverie, continuing with his work of unpacking the few groceries he grabbed at the 7-11. He doesn’t look up at Sam, and he spends over an hour in the bathroom once the bags are empty and there’s nothing left to say or do.
TBC