Play It Again, Sam - 1/10
Part One Soundtrack
PRESENT DAY
Their game of gay musical chicken is maybe starting to go too far.
Sam can tell that something’s up as he walks back toward the car. Even through the light fall drizzle, he can see Dean’s guilty face, his eyes looking everywhere but at Sam approaching, his hands clutching the steering wheel even though the car is in park. Sam takes all this information in, so that when he does finally duck into the passenger side and, thankfully, out of the cold rain, he’s not surprised to hear the radio playing.
He looks at it in disbelief. He knows it’s just a matter of time till Dean’s scrutinizing gaze falls upon him, so he tries really hard not to hyperventilate.
* * * * *
THREE AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER
The first time Sam notices the music being a thing is on an airplane.
The flight they were magically transported to is headed to O’Hare, so they’ve got a few hours before they can get off and get away from each other. In the meantime Dean is gripping the arms of the seat, both out of fear of flying (really, kind of justified, given that five minutes ago the oxygen masks came out) and out of his overabundance of emotions (rage, hurt, rage, confusion, rage) at what just happened in the church.
The miniscule TV a few rows ahead is playing a Yosemite Sam cartoon.
He and Dean have to talk to each other, and the sooner the better. And it should probably be Sam who speaks first, since he’s the one who went off and fucked a demon and lied to his brother and set Lucifer free. He’s not really sure which one of those transgressions is the worst.
“Are they kidding me with this cartoon?” Dean grumbles.
Sam tries to figure out a way of distracting Dean - because they’re going to talk, of course they’re going to talk, and Dean’s going to yell at him, and he should, but at the same time Sam doesn’t want to talk because everything Dean’s going to say is right, and it’s been three weeks since the last time he and Dean - and Dean probably believes they can’t ever do that again.
Sam searches the seatback pocket and comes up with a rickety headset. Dean eyes it suspiciously for a second before he takes it and plugs it in.
“No, no, no, it’s the captain talking,” he says a little too loudly. “I don’t want to listen to that.”
Sam snags the in-flight magazine and flips toward the back, where you can always find the important information like the crossword puzzle and beverage list and music listings. “Channel eight,” he says, but then he goes ahead and punches it into the arm between them.
The music works some kind of magic because Dean leans his head back against the seat, closes his eyes, lets out a breath, and finally releases his grip on the armrests. “What we gotta do,” he says softly, almost gently, “is just get a ride back to Ilchester to get the car, and then we’ll call Cas and Bobby and figure out our best bet for getting him back in.”
Sam doesn’t say, Dean, there’s no way to get Lucifer back in his cage, because Dean already knows this, and they’re stuck on a plane, and there’s nothing they can do. Lucifer will have a fifteen-hour jump on them no matter what their next move is.
The important thing is that Dean is talking to Sam. Dean who called Sam a monster and said he would hunt Sam, Dean whom Sam almost strangled to death, Dean who said, “If you walk out that door…” Dean’s talking to Sam.
Sam has never been more grateful for the soothing properties of classic rock.
“Boston,” Dean says, and Sam’s confused because he thought they were going to Chicago and then back to Ilchester. Then Dean wags his head a little to the left, and Sam understands that he’s talking about the music.
* * * * *
Everything happens so fast that they never get a chance to talk talk. Before they can, there’s a girl groping his chest, and then Bobby’s paralyzed (it was the demon talking, not Bobby, the demon). In the blink of an eye, Sam and Dean have sigils carved into their ribs like one more thing that could unite them if Sam hadn’t already rendered them asunder, and then Dean gives the amulet he’s worn for almost twenty years to Castiel, and it’s hard for Sam not to take that as a sign that his brother is choosing Castiel over him, and why wouldn’t he, since Sam picked Ruby over Dean and since Cas is a good angel who raised Dean from perdition, and Sam is just someone with a demon blood addiction and a talent ruining his brother’s life and, oh yeah, maybe destroying the world.
Sam needs to keep his head in the game. The stakes are too high right now to be worrying about who Dean wants to sit next to at recess.
In Colorado they wrap up another awesomely bloody case with Rufus, Jo, and Ellen, and then everyone gets ready to scatter the way hunters are inclined to do. Rufus has always been kind of a loner anyway, doesn’t really talk to anyone but Bobby, and he’s not totally cool around Sam. When Sam asks Dean about it, Dean just shrugs, like he doesn’t know what Sam’s talking about - but Sam can tell he’s really wondering why Sam doesn’t get it. As far as Rufus (Dean, Bobby, Cas, God) is concerned, the jury’s still out on Sam Winchester.
Ellen and Jo don’t seem to know much more than that it’s the end times, as they keep calling it, or at least if they know who brought it on, they’ve decided to not to say anything. Or maybe they’re just too shell-shocked at nearly killing each other to care that it’s all Sam’s fault. They all hug, and Ellen reminds Dean to call (funny how once upon a time it would have been Sam she’d said that to, but now everyone seems to prefer Dean). Then they’re off.
And that leaves Sam and Dean alone.
They drive a few miles in silence until, without warning, Dean pulls over near Rocky Mountain National Park. The sun is shining, there are no clouds in the sky, and it’s a gorgeous day, even if it’s a little chilly. Dean wordlessly walks over to a picnic table, Sam trailing behind like he thinks he’s supposed to.
It’s been one hour and twelve minutes since Dean has said anything to Sam.
It’s been five weeks and six days since the last time -
It was as if a new rule had been written down in the Winchester code the minute they got on that plane. They’re never going to do that again, and they’re not going to talk about the fact that they’re not going to do it or that they ever did it. Because Sam broke Dean’s heart in more ways than one, and if they hadn’t ever - if they hadn’t given in to that - then his betrayal might have hurt a little less. But they did.
Sam takes a seat opposite Dean at a picnic table, unsure of what’s to come. Probably the talk talk. Part of him hopes so, so they can get it out. It’ll be awful, but then he can do whatever atonement is required of him. The other part of him hopes not, because he doesn’t think there’s anything talking will really accomplish anyway. While his brother fiddles with the ring they cut off the horseman, Sam decides he’s going to preempt whatever Dean might have to say. He’s not going to put his brother in the position of having to decide whether or not to ditch him. Dean might not do it - he won’t ever really want to do it - but he’s a general, and this is war, and sometimes that means making tough calls. If Dean has to leave Sam behind, it’ll only serve to further his annoyance (disgust, hatred, hurt) anyway. So Sam is going to do the only thing he can think of to stop the ride they’re on: he’s getting off.
“I need to step back,” he announces.
* * * * *
After that music doesn’t really have soothing properties so much as it becomes a source of exquisite agony for Sam. Still, he can’t really complain, since he pretty much deserves anything inflicted upon him at this point.
On the way out of Colorado, it’s a truck seriously in need of new shocks, with a staticky AM station droning on about how Democrats are ruining the world (Sam’s pretty sure it’s Lucifer, not Democrats). After that it’s honky-tonky being played by a trucker who smokes incessantly, then psychedelic rock with two stoners, and on and on until Sam just gives up somewhere in the middle of Oklahoma. He’s done traveling (running away from his brother), but not because he’s gotten anywhere good. Just because he can’t stand any more noise.
He finds a motel and takes a job as a barback at a roadside dive that’s just a little too hick to be the kind of place he and Dean would have frequented. Still, there’s a kind of comfortable familiarity in the bad beer on tap, the guys perpetually clad in jeans and flannels, and the anonymity that Sam’s able to maintain. He dives into the work, as if cutting limes into wedges is the path to redemption. Each night when he goes to sleep on scratchy motel linens, there’s nothing but the occasional sound of a car going by, and Sam thinks he might be on the path to inner peace.
* * * * *
The bar’s patrons are, predictably, lovers of contemporary country. Sam tries not to roll his eyes or huff out a breath every time a song comes on, but it’s hard. Lindsey, one of the waitresses, decides that his distaste is merely the result of ignorance and takes it upon herself to school him. By the end of his second week, Sam can identify a Carrie Underwood song after three bars.
He’s certain it’s a skill he would never need if he were still with Dean.
It’s a late Thursday night, and the jukebox has been keeping up a steady stream of Kenny Chesney and the Rascal Flatts. The evening shift is passing pretty quickly, since the place is fairly crowded. Sam’s grateful, not just because the job can be dull when they’re slow but because it means Lindsey doesn’t have much time to pump him for personal details.
Sam’s halfway through washing a crate of dirty glasses when the bar has one of those quiet moments that sometimes happen when a song ends right as people reach lulls in their conversation. For a moment there’s nothing but the clink-clink of him stacking pilsners, but then there’s an eerily familiar guitar riff. It takes Sam a minute to place it - he’s out of practice, what with concentrating so diligently lately on the difference between LeAnn Rimes and Lee Ann Womack.
But it’s not a song by any of the musicians Lindsey’s schooled him on. It’s music he was schooled on by Dad and Dean, just Southern enough to be on the bar’s jukebox but rock enough that it’s never gotten any play in the time Sam’s worked there.
It’s Lynryd Skynryd. And it’s the most haunting, awful, painful song Sam has heard in a long time.
He doesn’t want to be so moved by a piece of music. It’s stupid and embarrassing, but he can’t control it. He has to turn his back to everyone and concentrate on the red plastic of the crate, which is starting to go blurry, and he sniffs hard, once, twice, and tries not to let his mind think the one thing he knows will make his tears finally spill over.
It’s been three months, two weeks, and six days since the last time he and Dean had sex together.
For the rest of the shift, Sam only speaks when he has to. At three a.m., when the bar closes, he walks back to his motel room and goes straight to bed. He buries his face in his pillow and tries to shut out the world.
* * * * *
It’s not long after that night that Sam makes the drive to meet Dean. He rides the entire way in silence. No radio, no talking to himself out loud, not even thinking. It’s an attempt to give himself solace, which he desperately needs right now, because even though he’s about to be reunited with Dean (it’s been three months and three weeks and four days since the last time they -), he did just receive some pretty big news via Lucifer, so, you know, quietude might be a good thing.
They dump Sam’s stolen car and transfer his bags to the trunk of the Impala. Dean picks through Sam’s stuff with a weary sigh. (Dude, you did not seriously burn all your IDs!) Sam just gets in the car, partly relieved to be back at his rightful place in the passenger seat of the Impala (smells like home) and partly terrified that at any moment Dean is going to change his mind and kick him to the curb.
After twenty minutes Dean sighs again. He turns to look at Sam, really study him, and Sam feels a little under the microscope. “I’m not going to take it back,” Dean says. They always could read each other pretty well. “I mean, you’re not totally forgiven, and we’ve got a lot of work to do before I can trust you again, but we’re gonna do this together. So you can stop looking like you’re going to jump out at the next stop sign.”
Before Sam can say, I wasn’t going to jump - you were going to push me, which he can’t really say anyway, Dean reaches for the radio. It’s long been his none-too-subtle way of ending a conversation. What used to piss Sam off was that Dean would always allow himself the last word before putting the music on. As if he wanted to get out his piece without granting Sam the same courtesy. Now, though, Sam doesn’t really care. He wants to be back with Dean, but his stomach is tied in forty knots that only tighten whenever Dean opens his mouth. He’s thankful the conversation is over.
For some reason unbeknownst to Sam the radio is tuned to the worst station ever. Maybe it was a good station a few towns back, and Dean had just forgotten to change it. Or maybe in their two months apart Dean developed a taste for easy listening. It’s right after the final strains of something that may have been the Carpenters dies down that musical thing number three happens.
“If loving you is wrong,” Tom Jones declares, “I don’t want to be right.”
It’s one of those songs Sam’s heard referenced elsewhere but never actually heard firsthand. And it’s terrible. Not only is it an offense to the ear, but it’s the worst possible song for two brothers who’d had a kind of thing going (fuck, Sammy, harder) until one of them started the apocalypse and then they kind of broke up (we’re not stronger together) and spent two months living apart and only just got back together as brothers and nothing more, like, five minutes ago. Sam feels like he’s going to vomit.
Dean starts to reach for the dial, but when he sees how green Sam is, the corner of his mouth turns up and he puts his hand back on the steering wheel. Sam figures it’s Dean’s way of meting out penance, and he’s frankly prepared to do any amount until his brother absolves him. After all, he’s committed some pretty big sins.
“I’ll bet there was a lot of ass-tapping to this song back in the day,” Dean muses quietly. Sam isn’t sure if he’s talking to himself or not. “And self-loathing after.”
Sam’s stomach flips over again. He cracks his window, hoping some fresh air will help. He knows he’s lucky just to be in the car with Dean, but it still hurts his newly detoxified heart to think that Dean said, I don’t think we can ever be like that again. It’s been three months and three weeks and four days since -
* * * * *
After that funny little things keep happening, but it’s not like Sam really has the time to write them all down and figure out what’s going on. He’s trying to stop the apocalypse (which he caused). So basically something random occurs, and he freaks out, and then life moves on, and he forgets all about it.
There’s the time right after they come out of the asylum, when the co-dependent anthem is blaring as they drive away. Dean just says, “Fuck me,” and turns the radio off.
Then there’s the time they come back from 1978, and after two days of waiting for Castiel to wake up, they head out together, all three of them. And then Rush’s “Freewill” comes on the radio. Sam thinks maybe Cas is doing angel mojo on the radio or something, but Cas didn’t have enough juice left to get in the car without Dean’s help, so maybe not.
* * * * *
Finally, it’s two minutes to midnight, time for their Hail Mary play. In the morning Sam will undertake their last crazy scheme to get Lucifer back in the cage, also known as Stupid Frigging Plan 2.0 (1.0 being their misguided attempt to shoot Lucifer with the Colt). Bobby and Dean are inside the house, rounding up canisters of salt and shotguns. They’ve pretty much left Sam alone all day. He’s the one making the big sacrifice, after all, and apparently that means he gets out of the grunt work.
He sits on the front porch steps so long that the half-light of evening gives way to blackness. The screen door creaks, and he recognizes Dean’s footfalls behind him, but he doesn’t turn around. He keeps staring out into the darkness, occasionally interrupted by the little green spark of a firefly. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean’s boots on the top step, then on the third. Dean lowers himself next to Sam, their hips touching with just enough pressure to be both comfortable and bittersweet.
This is the last time Dean and I will ever sit side by side on the porch steps, Sam thinks. Then he scolds himself not to do that, to mentally mark every “last.” It’ll only make things worse.
Dean smells like gunpowder and sweat. It’s all too familiar to Sam, and maybe he’s turning maudlin and nostalgic because of what’s to come, or maybe he’s always been maudlin and nostalgic, but he can’t stop the lightning-quick flashbacks to patches of Dean’s pale skin moving against his own, that gunpowder-sweat smell mingled with musk in the air, Dean’s skin tasting salty and stretching soft over hard muscle. It’s like a knife stabbing Sam in the gut at first, but after one breath, then another, the pain pools out until it’s just a dull ache in his bones. He’s been living with the ache for a long time. Eleven months, two weeks, and four days.
By this time tomorrow I’ll never have to feel it again, he can’t stop himself from thinking.
“So,” Dean says, staring straight ahead.
Sam isn’t sure what he means, so he just echoes it back. “So.”
“Some heavy shit going down tomorrow.”
Sam looks down at their boots lined up on the peeling stair, his brown and Dean’s black. Generally speaking, since Stupid Frigging Plan 2.0 was hatched, Dean’s been more than reluctant to talk about what will happen after Sam says yes - he’s been deep in denial. Sam can appreciate that, while he might be the one making the earth-saving sacrifice (if he’s successful, he might not be successful, he’s got to try to be successful), his brother is the one who will have to live with the fallout. And historically for the Winchesters that’s been the worse position to be in.
Dean clears his throat quietly, like he’s not sure what to say next, and Sam suddenly realizes that this is the start of Dean’s “last night on earth” speech. He knows of the speech, of course, but only academically; he’s never actually had it aimed at him before.
The thing is, Dean’s not really putting the moves on Sam. He’s just sitting next to him, looking up at the stars, his body a welcome presence but a stiff one. Sam can tell Dean’s not so much hot for his brother as he is desperate to make certain Sam doesn’t die without them reaching some kind of resolution.
Instead of arousing Sam, it just makes him sad.
Some things never change. Sam may be the one who pushes both of them to talk about their feelings, but Dean is the one who can’t really ever stand it if there’s bad blood between them. Dean is almost always the first to cave - but he never knows how to do it, other than with seriously misguided attempts like this one.
“Way too much water under that bridge, Dean,” Sam says, trying to put enough warmth into his voice that Dean will know it’s just a rejection of the offer, not the person offering.
“Yeah.”
The dull ache in Sam’s bones disperses even more, and he exhales it out into the night air. He has memories that he treasures, but the longing and the need are fading. It’s enough that his brother is sitting beside him now, will be beside him tomorrow, won’t leave him. It’s enough that Dean was willing to offer just because he thought it would make Sam feel better. The offer itself makes Sam feel better.
They’re going to Detroit tomorrow without anything to regret; they’re good.
Dean takes a pull from his bottle of beer, and as he swallows the liquid down, Sam can’t help admiring the line of his throat and the flutter of his eyelashes on his freckled cheek.
Inside, on the crappy little radio in the kitchen, Hank Williams is singing a sweet, sad song.
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