SPN Fic: Winds Out of the Southwest
Title: Winds Out of the Southwest
Characters: Dean, Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13 for disturbing imagery.
Word count: 2114
Spoilers: Set early S4, so general spoilers up and including 4.01; nothing specific.
Summary: Written for the current h/c meme at hoodie_time, for this prompt by nwspaprtaxis
Disclaimer: I do not actually have anything against North Carolina.
Notes: Originally posted anonymously. Now officially de-lurked.
The weather channel has never been more interesting.
And yeah, part of that is sixty-six seals breaking in slow, inexorable succession across the country, popping up in the form of tiny thundercloud icons on the green-swirled map. Dean's getting a certain sour amusement from the bewilderment of the weathercasters, who are trying their hardest to explain this unusually active tornado season (so far they've come up with a load of big fat stinking nothing, but at least it's fun watching them fumble). It's become almost a sick sort of game, tracking the progress of heaven's utter fuck-uppery as it travels from Montana, down through Arizona, then veers out to West Virginia for one freakin' fantastic coal-mine fire.
And the fact that the Local on the 8s is the only thing dull enough to distract him from the gnawing terror in his stomach long enough to fall asleep - well, Dean considers that entirely a fringe benefit.
The real reason he watches, after all, is for the plot.
- - - - - - - - - -
Sam never asks.
Dean's having trouble, these past three weeks, remembering what used to be and what he just made up while he was away, trouble telling fact from fiction from lies from nightmares from Hell. But one thing he's sure of: Sam-before-Hell would have frowned every time Dean spaced out mid-sentence or starting punching the air without preamble or explanation. Sam-before-Hell would've asked for a reason when Dean put down his fork four bites into a meal, left for the bathroom, and didn't come back until Sam was counting out the waitress's tip and shaking his head at the doggie bags. Sam-before-Hell would have prodded at the pain until it broke loose - but this Sam doesn't seem to notice anything, just plows through the day and then sits by the window in the evening, tapping his gigantic foot and staring at the bedside clock. This Sam has something big on his mind, and it sure as hell isn't Dean.
Which means Dean's left alone with the piles of guts that keep popping up in the most unlikely places, with the smell of blood that's invaded every diner in his brief absence, with the motely succession of people who slap on Alastair masks without warning and send his brain reeling back to Hell like he's never been away.
And it's okay. After all, if there's one thing Dean's good at, it's plastering boredom over the fear that seems to be all he can come up with these days.
He's grateful, really, that Sam's finally stopped nagging.
- - - - - - - - - -
Tonight, though, the weather's turning ugly.
Something nasty's going down in North Carolina, because Dean's never seen temperature fluctuations like that - 92 degrees in one town, 10 below not five miles away, and the lady in the wine-colored dress is saying that earlier in the day both places were well above one hundred. Weird thunderstorms breaking out across the state, with lightning that doesn't look like lightning, but in a way nobody interview can quite put into words. Got to be another seal, Dean figures, and wonders what the Dicks With Wings are trying to do about it, prays they won't show up in the bedroom asking Sam and Dean to do their dirty work for them because, man, he hates North Carolina. Always has.
But for some reason, it doesn't bore him the way it's supposed to. He's lying perfectly still, concentrating as hard as he can on the weather girl's voice and the tiny pictures of lightning bolts and the slow, easy scrolling of temperature data, but his attention keeps getting drawn away. A car door slamming in the parking lot. Sam, drumming on the tabletop, checking the watch on his hairy wrist. The desperate sound of sex from the room next door. The whole room feels sick, warm, lit up in a crazy orange from the fluorescent lights outside. The air conditioner smells as if somebody poured an old cup of sweat into it years ago and had left it running since. Dean can feel himself choking, pressed on every side by terrible, real sensations, and this time the feeling just won't go away. The horrible realization creeps into his head: this time, he might not be able to push the waves back.
If he can just hold on long enough to keep Sam's face Sam's, that'll be enough. He can worry about the rest later.
The gentle squeak of hinges tell him that, apparently, he's fallen asleep. Pushing himself up, he sees that, sure enough, Sam's gone.
He doesn't wait to hear the Impala pulling out of the parking lot. Before he's even registered getting up off the bed, he's on his knees in the bathroom, hands gripping the sides of the toilet bowl for a handhold that isn't there. Something inside him's taking over, thrusting his neck out, racking his body and turning him inside out in a horrible rush of foulness. He can hear himself choking, spitting, and in the background the woman's voice is still droning on, “ … winds out of the southwest, with a slight drop in temperature heading into the afternoon.” He spits one last time, drags in a shuddering breath, and reaches blindly to flush the toilet.
For a few moments, he crouches on the floor, sucking in air one cautious mouthful at a time, ignoring the tears that have squeezed themselves out of his eyelids and across his flushed cheeks.
“ … unusually warm on Wednesday, make sure to watch out for heatstroke after mid-morning … ”
He turns around. The deep, soft eyes, reaching into the heart, the meat of him. Slick, jeweled blood on those supple hands.
“Oh, Dean.” Alastair's voice is thick with condescension, with pity, with a long-suffering parent's wry amusement at the child who never learns.
“You know it all had to come out some time.”
- - - - - - - - -
When he first steps into the hotel room, he thinks that Dean's found some kind of stray in the parking lot and taken it into the bathroom to wash it down. Why Dean would want to drag some flea-infested mongrel into their bathtub - especially with the way he's been flinching at the least sight of a dog since he Came Back - Sam doesn't know. But it's the best explanation he can come up with for the sound that's coming from the open doorway, like some weird animal accompaniment to the lazy jazz playing over the late-night weather update. Sam shoves the hip flask into his pocket, rolls the jacket up carefully in his duffel bag where Dean can't grab it up absent-mindedly, and turns toward the light to explain to his brother that starting an impromptu humane society isn't really in their line of work. On the way, he snaps the power button on the TV, and the music swallows itself abruptly. He reaches the bathroom door, and stops.
Turns out there's no dog.
“Dean?”
He's curled up on the tile, back pressed against the fake porcelain of the tub; Sam can see the tremors of his body amplified in the fluttering of the shower curtain. There's something familiar about the stains on his pajama shirt, and Sam realizes with a jolt of nausea it's the pasta they had for dinner. He can't see Dean's face, because it's crammed into his knees, hands clasped over the back of his head as he jerks back and forth in a tiny rocking motion. It looks like he's trying to shake himself out of his body, and when Sam finally registers that the noise he'd mistaken for an injured dog is coming from his older brother, he wonders if Dean's managed to do just that.
There are no words to the noise. It's as if Dean has to scream and sob at the same time, and can't do either. It comes and goes in painful, hacking waves, with no rhythm to hold onto.
“Dean.” The tile's cold under his knees as he sinks down in front of his brother, reaching out to pull at his trembling shoulders, to stroke back the sweaty spikes of his hair, trying to find some way to break into the inaccessibility of Dean's self-destruct mode. He grabs Dean's hands, shocked at how goddamn cold they are, and gently drags them away from their death-clamp over his ears. “Dean,” he repeats, praying to whoever's out there that he's not too late to be heard here. “Dean, it's Sam.”
No response. The hands clench, unclench, shake. The noise, breathless and sourceless, never ceases.
“Dean, calm down, man. You're scaring me. I'm here, okay? It's gonna be all right.” What a lie, but he has to tell it. “Dean!”
Nothing. “Look at me!” he shouts - and finally, Dean raises his head dutifully to stare at Sam with eyes so lost and terrified Sam actually feels sick looking at them.
He always did sound like Dad when he yelled. For once, Sam's glad about that fact.
- - - - - - - - - -
It takes a long time, a lot of quiet babbling, and a lot of laboriously slow lessons in how to breathe again before Dean relaxes, uncurling from his tense position, stretching his legs across the bathroom floor and leaning his head back on the rim of the bathtub. He won't let Sam put his arm around him or stroke his hair the way Sam can remember Jessica doing for him every once in a while, but he doesn't say anything about the fact that Sam never lets go of his hand, and Sam keeps his thumb rubbing up and down the side of Dean's palm. They breathe together, the flat soap-smell of a hotel bathroom mixed with the stench of Dean's filthy pajamas. Twice, Sam sees the unspoken admission surge in his eyes, and he helps Dean haul himself up, holds him by the shoulders as he bends and jerks over the toilet, wipes his mouth when it's over.
The second time, when Dean finishes gasping and sputtering, he slumps back into Sam's chest and burrows his face there, and Sam can feel the sobs before he hears them ripping out of Dean's throat.
Finally, when Sam's lost all track of time and can't remember anything before this night, this bathroom, this silent hell he's watching run through his brother, Dean gathers his limbs and pushes up from the floor. For a minute, Sam thinks he's going to fall over, but after swaying briefly he turned towards the doorway and vanishes into the room. Sam follows, watches Dean stumble over to the far bed and collapse onto the covers, not even bothering to drag them over his body.
In all this time, he hasn't said a word to Sam.
All those months, all those weeks of waiting, and it feels like Sam's no closer to having his brother back than when he was shouting into the night sky at abandoned crossroads. Dean's been nothing but stubborn silences and determined glares and flirting so forced it makes even the most desperate girls cringe, and now Sam's staring at an unexpressive back without a clue what just happened in the bathroom to take Dean apart so completely.
It's stupid, and it's terrible, and it's all Sam's fault. But it doesn't change what he needs to do right now, right here.
“At least put on some clean jammies, man,” he tells Dean, coming over the edge of the bed. He pulls him gently into a sitting position, lets Dean drag his own pukey shirt over his head and hands him the cleanest one he could find in their bags. It's one of his, but Dean doesn't seem to mind the extra bagginess, just flops back onto the pillows and curls in on himself again.
And that seems to be it. Sam stares down at his brother's huddled form for a few minutes, then turns back to the other bed. He slaps the rumpled covers, feeling for the telltale lump of the remote, and clicks the TV on.
“And now, your Local on the 8s … ”
To his right, Dean twists, stretching and rolling and refolding into a more comfortable position, his face turned towards Sam, alternating pale gold and blue in the flickering glow of the weather report.
He might not be able to reach him, but at least he can take care of him until he comes back for real.
Characters: Dean, Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13 for disturbing imagery.
Word count: 2114
Spoilers: Set early S4, so general spoilers up and including 4.01; nothing specific.
Summary: Written for the current h/c meme at hoodie_time, for this prompt by nwspaprtaxis
Disclaimer: I do not actually have anything against North Carolina.
Notes: Originally posted anonymously. Now officially de-lurked.
The weather channel has never been more interesting.
And yeah, part of that is sixty-six seals breaking in slow, inexorable succession across the country, popping up in the form of tiny thundercloud icons on the green-swirled map. Dean's getting a certain sour amusement from the bewilderment of the weathercasters, who are trying their hardest to explain this unusually active tornado season (so far they've come up with a load of big fat stinking nothing, but at least it's fun watching them fumble). It's become almost a sick sort of game, tracking the progress of heaven's utter fuck-uppery as it travels from Montana, down through Arizona, then veers out to West Virginia for one freakin' fantastic coal-mine fire.
And the fact that the Local on the 8s is the only thing dull enough to distract him from the gnawing terror in his stomach long enough to fall asleep - well, Dean considers that entirely a fringe benefit.
The real reason he watches, after all, is for the plot.
- - - - - - - - - -
Sam never asks.
Dean's having trouble, these past three weeks, remembering what used to be and what he just made up while he was away, trouble telling fact from fiction from lies from nightmares from Hell. But one thing he's sure of: Sam-before-Hell would have frowned every time Dean spaced out mid-sentence or starting punching the air without preamble or explanation. Sam-before-Hell would've asked for a reason when Dean put down his fork four bites into a meal, left for the bathroom, and didn't come back until Sam was counting out the waitress's tip and shaking his head at the doggie bags. Sam-before-Hell would have prodded at the pain until it broke loose - but this Sam doesn't seem to notice anything, just plows through the day and then sits by the window in the evening, tapping his gigantic foot and staring at the bedside clock. This Sam has something big on his mind, and it sure as hell isn't Dean.
Which means Dean's left alone with the piles of guts that keep popping up in the most unlikely places, with the smell of blood that's invaded every diner in his brief absence, with the motely succession of people who slap on Alastair masks without warning and send his brain reeling back to Hell like he's never been away.
And it's okay. After all, if there's one thing Dean's good at, it's plastering boredom over the fear that seems to be all he can come up with these days.
He's grateful, really, that Sam's finally stopped nagging.
- - - - - - - - - -
Tonight, though, the weather's turning ugly.
Something nasty's going down in North Carolina, because Dean's never seen temperature fluctuations like that - 92 degrees in one town, 10 below not five miles away, and the lady in the wine-colored dress is saying that earlier in the day both places were well above one hundred. Weird thunderstorms breaking out across the state, with lightning that doesn't look like lightning, but in a way nobody interview can quite put into words. Got to be another seal, Dean figures, and wonders what the Dicks With Wings are trying to do about it, prays they won't show up in the bedroom asking Sam and Dean to do their dirty work for them because, man, he hates North Carolina. Always has.
But for some reason, it doesn't bore him the way it's supposed to. He's lying perfectly still, concentrating as hard as he can on the weather girl's voice and the tiny pictures of lightning bolts and the slow, easy scrolling of temperature data, but his attention keeps getting drawn away. A car door slamming in the parking lot. Sam, drumming on the tabletop, checking the watch on his hairy wrist. The desperate sound of sex from the room next door. The whole room feels sick, warm, lit up in a crazy orange from the fluorescent lights outside. The air conditioner smells as if somebody poured an old cup of sweat into it years ago and had left it running since. Dean can feel himself choking, pressed on every side by terrible, real sensations, and this time the feeling just won't go away. The horrible realization creeps into his head: this time, he might not be able to push the waves back.
If he can just hold on long enough to keep Sam's face Sam's, that'll be enough. He can worry about the rest later.
The gentle squeak of hinges tell him that, apparently, he's fallen asleep. Pushing himself up, he sees that, sure enough, Sam's gone.
He doesn't wait to hear the Impala pulling out of the parking lot. Before he's even registered getting up off the bed, he's on his knees in the bathroom, hands gripping the sides of the toilet bowl for a handhold that isn't there. Something inside him's taking over, thrusting his neck out, racking his body and turning him inside out in a horrible rush of foulness. He can hear himself choking, spitting, and in the background the woman's voice is still droning on, “ … winds out of the southwest, with a slight drop in temperature heading into the afternoon.” He spits one last time, drags in a shuddering breath, and reaches blindly to flush the toilet.
For a few moments, he crouches on the floor, sucking in air one cautious mouthful at a time, ignoring the tears that have squeezed themselves out of his eyelids and across his flushed cheeks.
“ … unusually warm on Wednesday, make sure to watch out for heatstroke after mid-morning … ”
He turns around. The deep, soft eyes, reaching into the heart, the meat of him. Slick, jeweled blood on those supple hands.
“Oh, Dean.” Alastair's voice is thick with condescension, with pity, with a long-suffering parent's wry amusement at the child who never learns.
“You know it all had to come out some time.”
- - - - - - - - -
When he first steps into the hotel room, he thinks that Dean's found some kind of stray in the parking lot and taken it into the bathroom to wash it down. Why Dean would want to drag some flea-infested mongrel into their bathtub - especially with the way he's been flinching at the least sight of a dog since he Came Back - Sam doesn't know. But it's the best explanation he can come up with for the sound that's coming from the open doorway, like some weird animal accompaniment to the lazy jazz playing over the late-night weather update. Sam shoves the hip flask into his pocket, rolls the jacket up carefully in his duffel bag where Dean can't grab it up absent-mindedly, and turns toward the light to explain to his brother that starting an impromptu humane society isn't really in their line of work. On the way, he snaps the power button on the TV, and the music swallows itself abruptly. He reaches the bathroom door, and stops.
Turns out there's no dog.
“Dean?”
He's curled up on the tile, back pressed against the fake porcelain of the tub; Sam can see the tremors of his body amplified in the fluttering of the shower curtain. There's something familiar about the stains on his pajama shirt, and Sam realizes with a jolt of nausea it's the pasta they had for dinner. He can't see Dean's face, because it's crammed into his knees, hands clasped over the back of his head as he jerks back and forth in a tiny rocking motion. It looks like he's trying to shake himself out of his body, and when Sam finally registers that the noise he'd mistaken for an injured dog is coming from his older brother, he wonders if Dean's managed to do just that.
There are no words to the noise. It's as if Dean has to scream and sob at the same time, and can't do either. It comes and goes in painful, hacking waves, with no rhythm to hold onto.
“Dean.” The tile's cold under his knees as he sinks down in front of his brother, reaching out to pull at his trembling shoulders, to stroke back the sweaty spikes of his hair, trying to find some way to break into the inaccessibility of Dean's self-destruct mode. He grabs Dean's hands, shocked at how goddamn cold they are, and gently drags them away from their death-clamp over his ears. “Dean,” he repeats, praying to whoever's out there that he's not too late to be heard here. “Dean, it's Sam.”
No response. The hands clench, unclench, shake. The noise, breathless and sourceless, never ceases.
“Dean, calm down, man. You're scaring me. I'm here, okay? It's gonna be all right.” What a lie, but he has to tell it. “Dean!”
Nothing. “Look at me!” he shouts - and finally, Dean raises his head dutifully to stare at Sam with eyes so lost and terrified Sam actually feels sick looking at them.
He always did sound like Dad when he yelled. For once, Sam's glad about that fact.
- - - - - - - - - -
It takes a long time, a lot of quiet babbling, and a lot of laboriously slow lessons in how to breathe again before Dean relaxes, uncurling from his tense position, stretching his legs across the bathroom floor and leaning his head back on the rim of the bathtub. He won't let Sam put his arm around him or stroke his hair the way Sam can remember Jessica doing for him every once in a while, but he doesn't say anything about the fact that Sam never lets go of his hand, and Sam keeps his thumb rubbing up and down the side of Dean's palm. They breathe together, the flat soap-smell of a hotel bathroom mixed with the stench of Dean's filthy pajamas. Twice, Sam sees the unspoken admission surge in his eyes, and he helps Dean haul himself up, holds him by the shoulders as he bends and jerks over the toilet, wipes his mouth when it's over.
The second time, when Dean finishes gasping and sputtering, he slumps back into Sam's chest and burrows his face there, and Sam can feel the sobs before he hears them ripping out of Dean's throat.
Finally, when Sam's lost all track of time and can't remember anything before this night, this bathroom, this silent hell he's watching run through his brother, Dean gathers his limbs and pushes up from the floor. For a minute, Sam thinks he's going to fall over, but after swaying briefly he turned towards the doorway and vanishes into the room. Sam follows, watches Dean stumble over to the far bed and collapse onto the covers, not even bothering to drag them over his body.
In all this time, he hasn't said a word to Sam.
All those months, all those weeks of waiting, and it feels like Sam's no closer to having his brother back than when he was shouting into the night sky at abandoned crossroads. Dean's been nothing but stubborn silences and determined glares and flirting so forced it makes even the most desperate girls cringe, and now Sam's staring at an unexpressive back without a clue what just happened in the bathroom to take Dean apart so completely.
It's stupid, and it's terrible, and it's all Sam's fault. But it doesn't change what he needs to do right now, right here.
“At least put on some clean jammies, man,” he tells Dean, coming over the edge of the bed. He pulls him gently into a sitting position, lets Dean drag his own pukey shirt over his head and hands him the cleanest one he could find in their bags. It's one of his, but Dean doesn't seem to mind the extra bagginess, just flops back onto the pillows and curls in on himself again.
And that seems to be it. Sam stares down at his brother's huddled form for a few minutes, then turns back to the other bed. He slaps the rumpled covers, feeling for the telltale lump of the remote, and clicks the TV on.
“And now, your Local on the 8s … ”
To his right, Dean twists, stretching and rolling and refolding into a more comfortable position, his face turned towards Sam, alternating pale gold and blue in the flickering glow of the weather report.
He might not be able to reach him, but at least he can take care of him until he comes back for real.