'The Canon's Mouth' - Spn fic....
Something new - something shortish. Just a one-off sort of thing I wrote after some comments made over in lemmealone's journal about Dean, and what he might be like post-hell. So, i suppose this is for her. :)
darkhavens did the beta, of course, and sweptawaybayou cheered me on. So thank you, my dears!
ETA: Now with extra 'verseiness! This is now the Aftermath 'verse.
The title and quote is from Shakespeare's 'As You Like It'.
Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth.
It took Sam four months to get Dean out of Hell. Four months in which the world was black and white - on mute. Four months, six days, and seventeen hours and Sam felt like he might sleep for a year, after. Dean slept for three days.
On the fourth day, Dean showered half the morning and then got dressed, and Sam forced himself to look away from the marks that covered Dean's skin. Scars, or maybe the memory of them. They were silvery-grey, flaring to life when Dean turned just so. Fading when he was in shadow, but they told their tale well enough. Sam was guiltily, pathetically grateful that the blood and soot and filth that had covered Dean had simply washed away, like a brittle cocoon in a summer rain. But Dean was no butterfly.
Sam clenched his fists in his lap and stared at his boot laces until Dean came and sat slowly down next to him on the foot of the bed. Not touching, not quite touching. Heat coming off his skin as though he were fevered, the scent of Dial soap and cheap shampoo undercut with something bitter and burning. Faint, but there.
"How long was I gone?" Dean's voice was rough - tarnished steel, the corrosion blooming through - and Sam winced a little at it. It was the first time Dean had spoken since Sam had gotten him out.
"Four...four months." Sam studied Dean's profile. There was one scar, that cut across Dean's left eye, enough to nick his eyebrow - to make the lid pull a little, subtle but there, and Sam wanted to touch it, smooth it away, but he didn't. "I'm...sorry -"
"Jesus, Sam." Dean looked up at Sam, merest hint of a smile pulling the corner of his mouth up. "You're the only person I know who'd apologize for getting someone out of Hell."
"I should have figured it out faster," Sam said, and Dean's fist lifted from his thigh - uncurled and hovered a moment and then settled again. Still not touching, and Sam bit his lip hard.
"Most people couldn't have figured it out at all." Dean rubbed his palms on his jeans - stood abruptly and paced to the door - back to the bed. Fingers reaching out to skim the cheap veneer of the dresser, the dusty surface of the TV screen. "I'm so hungry I could eat a fucking hellhound."
That forced a bark of startled laughter out of Sam and Dean half grinned, his fingers skipping lightly over the hilt of Sam's knife - butt of his favorite gun - the worn cover of Dad's journal. All nestled in the duffels with clothes and books and scribbled-over Mead notebooks, the wire bindings crushed and the bits of left-over paper edges sticking out like albino grass.
"Yeah, yeah, sure, there's - you want - we can order something in. It's cold out, raining -"
"Sure, yeah," Dean agreed.
Too fast, Sam thought, but he wasn't going to argue. Felt like he was walking on a thin rime of ice and it would shatter if he moved too fast.
"Pizza, okay? I want some pizza."
"I'm on it," Sam said, dragging the ratty Yellow Pages out of the bottom of the night stand. Feeling almost manic, flipping the dingy pages, finding the P's. "Dominoes or Pizza Hut or...this local place...Anthony's Pizza Palace."
"Only if they've got wings." Dean was digging down into Sam's duffel, pulling out shirts - jeans. Unrolling and unfolding and then twitching them back into shape - into stacks. Sorting and smoothing and tucking them away again and Sam ordered and then just watched until Dean sent him a sidelong, guilty glance and left it, settling on the bed again.
"Where's the remote, Sam?"
"Uh..." Sam had to actually think about that - finally dug it out of the twist of covers on his bed. Dean had all but bitch-slapped him out the bed-making habit he'd picked up in those long months alone, after the Trickster. He'd carefully not made the bed once this second time, making everything as different as he could. As scared of going back into the headspace as he was of not getting Dean out.
Dean lifted the remote out of Sam's hand and clicked the TV on - jerked violently when the sound blasted out at them. Some kind of cop show, officers yelling and guns blasting and a man's panicked voice, please don't, please don't, oh God.... Dean mashed the buttons and the TV went off with a tiny pop and they both just sat there.
"Not used to the noise," Dean said after a moment, strangled little laugh. Looking down - away. Anywhere but Sam, and Sam opened his mouth to say something and then didn't, after all. He wasn't really used to the noise anymore, either.
Dean didn't sleep that night, moving restlessly around and around the room until Sam mentioned, casually, that he hadn't gotten around to cleaning any weapons lately. Dean looked relieved to have something to do with his hands and he bitched for three hours straight, cheerfully scrubbing and rubbing and breaking things down, hands moving with a stuttery hesitation until they remembered what they were doing.
Sam lay on the bed with his pillows shoved up under his shoulders, shoes off and his hoodie zipped up. Just watching, blinking slower and slower until he slipped into a doze. The heater clicked on and off, humming, and the rain tinked against the window, all but lost in the steady sounds of traffic from the interstate.
And every time Sam jerked and moved and opened his eyes, Dean was right there.
They stayed in the room for two more days, until Dean finally swore and threw a box of shells at Sam and Sam very nearly threw them back. After that they packed up and moved out, even though the room was paid through the end of the week and it was only Wednesday. Sam didn't even bother checking out.
They hit the Massachusetts/New York border around two a.m. - were in Pike County, Pennsylvania around four. They followed the 209 as it paralleled the Appalachian Trail, twisting through gorges and up steep hills, awash in drizzle and February mist. Dean drove with a new tension in his shoulders as if this, too, had to be relearned. For the first time in a long time, he didn't put on any music.
"Hey, Sammy." Dean's hand on Sam's shoulder woke him and Sam yawned, lifting his head from the back of the seat and wincing at the little stab of pain that shot through his stiff neck. "There's a plateful of biscuits and gravy calling your name," Dean said, grinning.
Sam blinked, rubbing his hand over his face and yawning again. "I don't like biscuits and gravy."
"Just another check-mark in the 'why I'm a freak' box, Sam. C'mon, I'm starving."
Dean said he was starving a lot, but he wasn't keeping much down, and they hadn't actually eaten anywhere besides a hotel room or the back bumper of the Impala since he'd come back. Sam was starting to hate the idea of food - was hating the smudges of blue-black under Dean's eyes and the sharp jut of his wrist and cheek bones under too-pale skin.
"Yeah, okay...where are we?"
"Beautiful downtown Duncannon," Dean said, climbing out of the car and stretching. The pre-dawn street was surprisingly busy, with vehicles at the stop light and people standing in clumps on the sidewalk outside of what looked like a hardware store. Several parked trucks had rifles in the back window. Mist haloed the streetlights and puddles on the ground were ice-edged.
"What's going on, you think?" Sam asked, slamming the car door and nodding toward the men in blaze-orange and flannel across the street.
Dean shrugged, glancing at the little group and then away. "Annual state-wide hunt - saw a banner back at the bridge."
"Huh." Sam followed Dean across the street and past the hunters - past the hardware store, which was ablaze with light and customers. Probably had a gun counter in the back. Next door was a diner, Maybelline's in red and white across the plate-glass window. Café-style curtains in red-checked gingham and a handbill photocopied on yellow paper taped to the door: 15th Annual Yote Hunt! Come one, come all. Prizes up to $2,000 and games for the kids! "What the hell's a 'yote'?"
"Coyote. They're hunting coyote." Dean pulled the door open and then froze for a moment as a wave of noise rolled over them, voices and kitchen sounds and a radio, turned up loud.
"Maybe they do take-out," Sam said, and Dean straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. Sauntered into Maybelline's, cock-of-the-walk. Sam was pretty sure he was the only one who noticed that Dean's eyes were a bit too wide - that his hands were clenched into fists.
The only open booth was at the back, fifth and last, and they walked down the narrow aisle between booths and counter, avoiding the out-flung legs and gesticulating hands of the revved-up crowd of hunters. They slid into the worn vinyl seats and Dean affected a nonchalant slouch into the corner. But his hands were shaking and Sam wanted to tell him they could just get back in the car. Just keep driving, if that's what made Dean feel safe.
But he didn't, because Dean was trying, even though every loud guffaw and raised voice from the diner crowd made him flinch, gaze darting here, there, and everywhere. Instead, Sam plucked a menu from the stainless holder behind the napkins and studied it, back and front.
"They've got cheese hash-browns," Sam said. Dean didn't answer - was sitting up now, shoulders hunched and his fingers drumming restlessly on the table top.
"Huh?"
"I said, they've got cheese hash-browns. And French toast with choice of fruit...apple sounds good, maybe I'll get that." Dean wasn't really listening - was watching someone over Sam's shoulder with a hooded, hawk-like gaze - and Sam felt a little prickle of unease. He glanced behind him but there was nothing...there. Just the hunters, slurping coffee and joking around - flirting with the waitress in tones that made it clear they'd all known each other for years. "What looks good to you, Dean? Dean."
"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean snapped. He glared at Sam - twitched restlessly when one of the hunters walked past, going for the bathroom.
"I was just wondering what you wanted for breakfast," Sam said, and Dean just stared at him. Sam waved the menu. "Breakfast?"
"Whatever. Eggs. I don't...care, just the usual."
"Ookay." Sam put the menu down and glanced out the window. The clouds were getting lighter - the sun coming up somewhere and the drizzle easing off to nothing. A couple more hunters came up onto the sidewalk and peered over the curtains, rapping on the glass and shouting something and Dean jumped so hard he rocked the table. "Whoa, hey -"
"Sam, shut the fuck up." Dean's hands were clenched tight into fists again, knuckles white. Silver tracery of scars showing along the backs of his hands. Dean's knee was up against Sam's, under the table, and Sam could feel the tremors that were going through his brother. The radio voice segued from something that sounded like a farm report to an announcement about the Yote hunt and the entire gang of hunters broke into excited whoops, pounding on the counter and table tops, cups jumping and silverware rattling and Dean came up halfway out of his seat. "Fuck, fuck, Jesus Christ -"
"Dean, it's okay." Sam held his hands out, not touching, and Dean subsided slowly back into his seat. Really shaking now, sheen of sweat on his face and his breathing starting to get fast - uneven.
"God damnit," Dean whispered, avoiding Sam's gaze, white-knuckled and strung so tight it hurt to see. The radio announcement ended on the high-pitched holler of a coyote's howl and the hunters took it up. Loud and wavering and fairly horrible and Dean snapped. Bolting to his feet and straight into the guy coming back from the bathroom, knocking him sprawling into the counter, knee catching on a stool.
"Hey! Jesus!" The man righted himself, reaching for Dean and Dean backhanded him away.
"Don't fuckin' touch me!"
"What the Hell's your problem?"
"Just get outta my way." Dean headed for the door and two other hunters stood up - a third - and Sam knew he'd have a bruise across the tops of his thighs from standing up so fast - all but ripping the table off it's moorings in an effort to get up and get to Dean before he started something he might not be able to finish.
"You need a lesson in manners there, son?" one of the hunters asked. Big guy in yellow plaid, beard and hat and nicotine-yellow teeth and Dean mowed him down with one hard, solid punch.
*Shit, oh shit, too fucking late....* "Dean! Dean, stop -"
"Get out of my fucking way," Dean snapped. Panting - pushing forward into the packed mass of hunters who pushed back.
"Fuck you!" The guy on the floor - nose pouring blood - lashed out with a heavy work boot and Dean stomped on his ankle and then.... And then Sam lost track of things as half the hunters piled on and Dean went into action.
Smooth as a machine, kicking, punching - headbutting one unlucky bastard, and Sam tried to drag them off - tried to get Dean's attention. The waitress - forties, red-headed and pissed - was on the phone and Sam just knew she was calling the fucking cops and Jesus Christ they had to get the hell out.
"Back off, back off, get the fuck off, kill every fucking one of you, motherfuckers -" Dean was swinging wildly - was bloodied and bruised and wild-eyed - and somebody got an arm around his throat and then somebody else had his wrist. Sam shook off the bathroom-guy and waded forward over one prone man and one down on his knees, clutching his crotch. Grabbed a hunter and hurled him into a booth and then everybody was backing off so fast they were tripping - falling. Yelling, and the waitress was screaming and Dean -
Dean had their Dad's Ka-bar knife, bringing the matte-black blade around in a low, deadly arc, razor edge glittering like diamonds. Sam knocked some slow bastard back into the counter and twisted, evading. Not quite fast enough, though - the tip of the knife caught him across the chest and tore. Sternum to bicep in one long, shallow slice that didn't even hurt and then did, white hot.
"Dean, stop, for Christ's sake -"
"Back. Off." Dean's voice was a ragged growl, his lips pulled back in a snarl, the hand holding the knife shaking, shaking, shaking. Sam could hear a police siren, coming rapidly closer and Dean shook his head. His hand came up to his ear, covering it for a moment and then he was running. Plowing through the hunters and into the doors so hard one cracked. Forgetting that the door opened in and Dean just shoved, bending it the wrong way - snapping the hinges and gone, the door slamming into the tan brick of the building. The glass shattered, and Sam ran through the scatter of ice-green fragments, shouting for Dean.
He caught up to him a block away, seeing his back view dart between two buildings. Sam followed, diving left into an alley that ended against a high chain-link fence. There were a couple of dumpsters on the left and a pile of faded wooden pallets to the right. And Dean, up against the chain link, his shoulder pressed to the splintery wood. Knife held out and down, breathing so hard Sam thought he might pass out.
White - white as bone. Eyes too huge - too dazed - and the bruises blooming up under his skin, red-violet and awful. Streak of blood across his jaw - across his knuckles and Sam hoped to God he was the only one Dean had bloodied with that fucking knife.
"Dean? Jesus, Dean - we gotta go, man, the cops -"
"Get back, get off me, get away from me...." Dean lifted the knife - swung it, clear warning - and Sam stopped.
"Dean?"
"I won't, you fuckers, I won't, you're lying. He's not...he can't be...I'm...I'll....get out, kill every f-fucking one of you, I -" Head down, seeing - something. Not seeing what was in front of him, Sam was sure. His lip was bleeding and Dean licked it - turned his head a little and spat, grimacing. "Fucking kill all of you...." Dean was trembling, his legs wobbling and then he was falling. Knees giving out and his coat scraping down the fence - hand slapping at the pallets and losing their grip. Sam lunged forward, hands out and the knife came up, steady enough, even through the jolt of Dean's knees hitting the cracked concrete.
Sam hovered there, just out of range, wondering if he dared get any closer because Dean...wasn't seeing him. Wasn't seeing anything, maybe. "Hey, Dean, it's me - it's Sam. C'mon, man...." Sam took one more step closer and Dean's head snapped up, snake-vicious gaze that hurt to see. Because it was directed at Sam, and Sam didn't know what to do.
"No, I'm not. No I'm not. I'm Dean...Winchester. I'm John's son, Mary's...Sam's brother. I was - was...." Dean pushed a little sideways, as if he were trying to burrow into the pallets but they didn't budge. He got one leg up - boot pressed to the ground as if he was going to stand, but his leg wobbled and he didn't. Stayed that way, his knee up in his chest, some kind of protection from whatever he was seeing.
Seeing - reliving - and Sam felt, again, that ache of useless fury that had curdled inside him for four long months. He wanted to rip the world open and kill every demon he could find. Dean's free hand scrabbled at the pallets and found a grip - his other hand was up, wavering. Holding the knife out, warding off the nightmares he wouldn't talk about. The ones he almost wouldn't dare sleep for. "...was born in Lawrence, Kansas...John's son...Sam's b-brother -"
"I need you to move away, sir," someone said, and Sam spun, startled. Utterly off guard. A man stood at the mouth of the alley. A cop, and Sam felt his stomach drop. He lifted his hands, taking a step to the side. Putting himself decisively between the cop and Dean. Dean's voice muttered on, repeating himself.
"Hey, it's okay, just listen, okay? This is my brother. This is my brother and he's not gonna hurt anyone."
"Looks like he already did," the cop said, nodding, and Sam glanced hastily at the wet stain of blood down his chest - his arm. Finally registering the burning throb of it.
"It's just a cut. It's shallow - I'm okay."
"Will Jeeter's not. Got himself a busted nose. And Carl Tierpont? Couple broken ribs." The cop took a couple steps forward, his hand on the gun at his hip, and Sam took a step back.
"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry that happened but - he.... Look, my brother, he's...he isn't -" *Isn't what? Isn't fully recovered from the four months he spent in hell? Is jumping at fucking shadows and seeing shit and I don't know what to fucking do about it? Don't have the slightest God damn idea how to fix it and maybe he can't ever be fixed so please just go the fuck away, go away....*
"Sir, I need you to step away, right now." The cop was unsnapping the flap on the holster, walking forward - getting too fucking close and Sam was starting to panic.
"Look, I swear, he won't do - he won't hurt anybody else, just let me -"
"Now, sir." The gun came out, smooth and fast, and Sam lifted his hands a little higher, wincing at the pull and burn of the cut.
Stepping back and sideways and letting the cop see Dean. Letting him see the knife. The man's smooth, slow gait didn't falter, and Sam felt a tiny surge of respect for him. The guy was young - Dean's age, maybe - and doing a damn good job of not freaking out. Sam wished he could say the same. "Sir - officer, please -"
"Shut up," the cop said, gaze fixed on Dean. "Sir? Sir, I need you to put that knife down."
Dean was pushing back into the chain link, making it creak. Digging his nails into the rotten wood and Sam knew he'd have splinters - broken nails. The knife was still out, the tip wavering as the tremors came back and Dean's whole body shuddered to them. He was breathing too fast - too hard. Body going into shock and half way to shutting down, pupils too big and his lips pale. Fight or flight adrenalin decaying fast. "Lying, you're lying. I'm...Dean. John's...s-ss...Sam's brother. I don't...he's coming, he's c-coming...."
The cop finally stopped walking - shot a hard look at Sam. "Is your brother on drugs?"
"No. No, he's not; he was...he's..." Inspiration came like a bolt and Sam took a hard breath. Hoped like hell he was guessing right because this guy - this cop... He had something. A certain way of moving. A fucking feel to him that Sam was all too familiar with. "He's a soldier. He hasn't been - back very long."
"Shit." The cops arms - the gun - went down. His stance changed a little, easing out of the tense 'guard' pose and changing to something else. "Army?"
"Marines," Sam said, letting his own arms slowly fall. "Echo 2/1?" Falling back on what he knew, Dad's old unit - maybe some of Dad's hoo-rah, if he had to. Cursing himself for lying to this man - for doing what his Dad would never - ever - have approved of. Or Dean, for that matter.
The cop made a little shrugging motion, faint smile tugging up the corner of his mouth. He was dark-skinned - wiry under the bulky police coat. "I was Army, myself. Guess he had it pretty damn rough," the cop said, in a tone that conveyed anger and respect in equal measure, and Sam thought he just might be sick.
*You deserve for him to be angry for you, Dean...deserve his fucking respect and I can't even tell the truth, can't even tell him what you really did - how much you really sacrificed for me. More than anyone ever should and nobody can ever know....* "Yeah, he...it was bad." There were voices suddenly - a lot of them, coming closer, and Sam looked up at the mouth of the alley - at the heads poking around the corner.
"Shit," the cop said again, loud, and Dean flinched from it. Jerked back hard enough to rap his head into the pallets, rictus of teeth and bloody lips and the knife lifting again.
"Get away, fuckers, I'll kill you, fucking k-kill you...."
"Listen - sir -"
"It's Sam."
"Okay. Sam. I'm gonna go up there and get the lookie-loos to back the hell off. Take statements and get 'em calmed down and you just...just stay here, okay? See if you can talk to him. Okay?"
Sam felt relief like a rush of heat, making his joints weak for a second - making his eyes prickle with grateful, irritating tears. "Yeah, yeah okay, thanks. Thank you -"
"It's James," the cop said, and then he dropped his gun back into its holster and backed up a step - turned and walked up the alley, his hands up, already talking. Taking charge and defusing things, and Sam took a hard, shaky breath. Turned around and took a few steps closer to Dean. Stopped when Dean jerked away, eyes wide. Sam stood for a moment and then he sank down cross-legged, the cold dampness coming instantly up through his jeans. The cut throbbed, and his shirt and jacket were sticking to him, clammy and uncomfortable. His stomach was achingly empty and his lips were chapped and none of it....mattered.
"Dean? Hey, Dean, it's me. It's Sam. Sammy. I'm here, Dean. I'm right here..."
Continued in Conscience Wide as Hell.
darkhavens did the beta, of course, and sweptawaybayou cheered me on. So thank you, my dears!
ETA: Now with extra 'verseiness! This is now the Aftermath 'verse.
The title and quote is from Shakespeare's 'As You Like It'.
Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth.
It took Sam four months to get Dean out of Hell. Four months in which the world was black and white - on mute. Four months, six days, and seventeen hours and Sam felt like he might sleep for a year, after. Dean slept for three days.
On the fourth day, Dean showered half the morning and then got dressed, and Sam forced himself to look away from the marks that covered Dean's skin. Scars, or maybe the memory of them. They were silvery-grey, flaring to life when Dean turned just so. Fading when he was in shadow, but they told their tale well enough. Sam was guiltily, pathetically grateful that the blood and soot and filth that had covered Dean had simply washed away, like a brittle cocoon in a summer rain. But Dean was no butterfly.
Sam clenched his fists in his lap and stared at his boot laces until Dean came and sat slowly down next to him on the foot of the bed. Not touching, not quite touching. Heat coming off his skin as though he were fevered, the scent of Dial soap and cheap shampoo undercut with something bitter and burning. Faint, but there.
"How long was I gone?" Dean's voice was rough - tarnished steel, the corrosion blooming through - and Sam winced a little at it. It was the first time Dean had spoken since Sam had gotten him out.
"Four...four months." Sam studied Dean's profile. There was one scar, that cut across Dean's left eye, enough to nick his eyebrow - to make the lid pull a little, subtle but there, and Sam wanted to touch it, smooth it away, but he didn't. "I'm...sorry -"
"Jesus, Sam." Dean looked up at Sam, merest hint of a smile pulling the corner of his mouth up. "You're the only person I know who'd apologize for getting someone out of Hell."
"I should have figured it out faster," Sam said, and Dean's fist lifted from his thigh - uncurled and hovered a moment and then settled again. Still not touching, and Sam bit his lip hard.
"Most people couldn't have figured it out at all." Dean rubbed his palms on his jeans - stood abruptly and paced to the door - back to the bed. Fingers reaching out to skim the cheap veneer of the dresser, the dusty surface of the TV screen. "I'm so hungry I could eat a fucking hellhound."
That forced a bark of startled laughter out of Sam and Dean half grinned, his fingers skipping lightly over the hilt of Sam's knife - butt of his favorite gun - the worn cover of Dad's journal. All nestled in the duffels with clothes and books and scribbled-over Mead notebooks, the wire bindings crushed and the bits of left-over paper edges sticking out like albino grass.
"Yeah, yeah, sure, there's - you want - we can order something in. It's cold out, raining -"
"Sure, yeah," Dean agreed.
Too fast, Sam thought, but he wasn't going to argue. Felt like he was walking on a thin rime of ice and it would shatter if he moved too fast.
"Pizza, okay? I want some pizza."
"I'm on it," Sam said, dragging the ratty Yellow Pages out of the bottom of the night stand. Feeling almost manic, flipping the dingy pages, finding the P's. "Dominoes or Pizza Hut or...this local place...Anthony's Pizza Palace."
"Only if they've got wings." Dean was digging down into Sam's duffel, pulling out shirts - jeans. Unrolling and unfolding and then twitching them back into shape - into stacks. Sorting and smoothing and tucking them away again and Sam ordered and then just watched until Dean sent him a sidelong, guilty glance and left it, settling on the bed again.
"Where's the remote, Sam?"
"Uh..." Sam had to actually think about that - finally dug it out of the twist of covers on his bed. Dean had all but bitch-slapped him out the bed-making habit he'd picked up in those long months alone, after the Trickster. He'd carefully not made the bed once this second time, making everything as different as he could. As scared of going back into the headspace as he was of not getting Dean out.
Dean lifted the remote out of Sam's hand and clicked the TV on - jerked violently when the sound blasted out at them. Some kind of cop show, officers yelling and guns blasting and a man's panicked voice, please don't, please don't, oh God.... Dean mashed the buttons and the TV went off with a tiny pop and they both just sat there.
"Not used to the noise," Dean said after a moment, strangled little laugh. Looking down - away. Anywhere but Sam, and Sam opened his mouth to say something and then didn't, after all. He wasn't really used to the noise anymore, either.
Dean didn't sleep that night, moving restlessly around and around the room until Sam mentioned, casually, that he hadn't gotten around to cleaning any weapons lately. Dean looked relieved to have something to do with his hands and he bitched for three hours straight, cheerfully scrubbing and rubbing and breaking things down, hands moving with a stuttery hesitation until they remembered what they were doing.
Sam lay on the bed with his pillows shoved up under his shoulders, shoes off and his hoodie zipped up. Just watching, blinking slower and slower until he slipped into a doze. The heater clicked on and off, humming, and the rain tinked against the window, all but lost in the steady sounds of traffic from the interstate.
And every time Sam jerked and moved and opened his eyes, Dean was right there.
They stayed in the room for two more days, until Dean finally swore and threw a box of shells at Sam and Sam very nearly threw them back. After that they packed up and moved out, even though the room was paid through the end of the week and it was only Wednesday. Sam didn't even bother checking out.
They hit the Massachusetts/New York border around two a.m. - were in Pike County, Pennsylvania around four. They followed the 209 as it paralleled the Appalachian Trail, twisting through gorges and up steep hills, awash in drizzle and February mist. Dean drove with a new tension in his shoulders as if this, too, had to be relearned. For the first time in a long time, he didn't put on any music.
"Hey, Sammy." Dean's hand on Sam's shoulder woke him and Sam yawned, lifting his head from the back of the seat and wincing at the little stab of pain that shot through his stiff neck. "There's a plateful of biscuits and gravy calling your name," Dean said, grinning.
Sam blinked, rubbing his hand over his face and yawning again. "I don't like biscuits and gravy."
"Just another check-mark in the 'why I'm a freak' box, Sam. C'mon, I'm starving."
Dean said he was starving a lot, but he wasn't keeping much down, and they hadn't actually eaten anywhere besides a hotel room or the back bumper of the Impala since he'd come back. Sam was starting to hate the idea of food - was hating the smudges of blue-black under Dean's eyes and the sharp jut of his wrist and cheek bones under too-pale skin.
"Yeah, okay...where are we?"
"Beautiful downtown Duncannon," Dean said, climbing out of the car and stretching. The pre-dawn street was surprisingly busy, with vehicles at the stop light and people standing in clumps on the sidewalk outside of what looked like a hardware store. Several parked trucks had rifles in the back window. Mist haloed the streetlights and puddles on the ground were ice-edged.
"What's going on, you think?" Sam asked, slamming the car door and nodding toward the men in blaze-orange and flannel across the street.
Dean shrugged, glancing at the little group and then away. "Annual state-wide hunt - saw a banner back at the bridge."
"Huh." Sam followed Dean across the street and past the hunters - past the hardware store, which was ablaze with light and customers. Probably had a gun counter in the back. Next door was a diner, Maybelline's in red and white across the plate-glass window. Café-style curtains in red-checked gingham and a handbill photocopied on yellow paper taped to the door: 15th Annual Yote Hunt! Come one, come all. Prizes up to $2,000 and games for the kids! "What the hell's a 'yote'?"
"Coyote. They're hunting coyote." Dean pulled the door open and then froze for a moment as a wave of noise rolled over them, voices and kitchen sounds and a radio, turned up loud.
"Maybe they do take-out," Sam said, and Dean straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. Sauntered into Maybelline's, cock-of-the-walk. Sam was pretty sure he was the only one who noticed that Dean's eyes were a bit too wide - that his hands were clenched into fists.
The only open booth was at the back, fifth and last, and they walked down the narrow aisle between booths and counter, avoiding the out-flung legs and gesticulating hands of the revved-up crowd of hunters. They slid into the worn vinyl seats and Dean affected a nonchalant slouch into the corner. But his hands were shaking and Sam wanted to tell him they could just get back in the car. Just keep driving, if that's what made Dean feel safe.
But he didn't, because Dean was trying, even though every loud guffaw and raised voice from the diner crowd made him flinch, gaze darting here, there, and everywhere. Instead, Sam plucked a menu from the stainless holder behind the napkins and studied it, back and front.
"They've got cheese hash-browns," Sam said. Dean didn't answer - was sitting up now, shoulders hunched and his fingers drumming restlessly on the table top.
"Huh?"
"I said, they've got cheese hash-browns. And French toast with choice of fruit...apple sounds good, maybe I'll get that." Dean wasn't really listening - was watching someone over Sam's shoulder with a hooded, hawk-like gaze - and Sam felt a little prickle of unease. He glanced behind him but there was nothing...there. Just the hunters, slurping coffee and joking around - flirting with the waitress in tones that made it clear they'd all known each other for years. "What looks good to you, Dean? Dean."
"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean snapped. He glared at Sam - twitched restlessly when one of the hunters walked past, going for the bathroom.
"I was just wondering what you wanted for breakfast," Sam said, and Dean just stared at him. Sam waved the menu. "Breakfast?"
"Whatever. Eggs. I don't...care, just the usual."
"Ookay." Sam put the menu down and glanced out the window. The clouds were getting lighter - the sun coming up somewhere and the drizzle easing off to nothing. A couple more hunters came up onto the sidewalk and peered over the curtains, rapping on the glass and shouting something and Dean jumped so hard he rocked the table. "Whoa, hey -"
"Sam, shut the fuck up." Dean's hands were clenched tight into fists again, knuckles white. Silver tracery of scars showing along the backs of his hands. Dean's knee was up against Sam's, under the table, and Sam could feel the tremors that were going through his brother. The radio voice segued from something that sounded like a farm report to an announcement about the Yote hunt and the entire gang of hunters broke into excited whoops, pounding on the counter and table tops, cups jumping and silverware rattling and Dean came up halfway out of his seat. "Fuck, fuck, Jesus Christ -"
"Dean, it's okay." Sam held his hands out, not touching, and Dean subsided slowly back into his seat. Really shaking now, sheen of sweat on his face and his breathing starting to get fast - uneven.
"God damnit," Dean whispered, avoiding Sam's gaze, white-knuckled and strung so tight it hurt to see. The radio announcement ended on the high-pitched holler of a coyote's howl and the hunters took it up. Loud and wavering and fairly horrible and Dean snapped. Bolting to his feet and straight into the guy coming back from the bathroom, knocking him sprawling into the counter, knee catching on a stool.
"Hey! Jesus!" The man righted himself, reaching for Dean and Dean backhanded him away.
"Don't fuckin' touch me!"
"What the Hell's your problem?"
"Just get outta my way." Dean headed for the door and two other hunters stood up - a third - and Sam knew he'd have a bruise across the tops of his thighs from standing up so fast - all but ripping the table off it's moorings in an effort to get up and get to Dean before he started something he might not be able to finish.
"You need a lesson in manners there, son?" one of the hunters asked. Big guy in yellow plaid, beard and hat and nicotine-yellow teeth and Dean mowed him down with one hard, solid punch.
*Shit, oh shit, too fucking late....* "Dean! Dean, stop -"
"Get out of my fucking way," Dean snapped. Panting - pushing forward into the packed mass of hunters who pushed back.
"Fuck you!" The guy on the floor - nose pouring blood - lashed out with a heavy work boot and Dean stomped on his ankle and then.... And then Sam lost track of things as half the hunters piled on and Dean went into action.
Smooth as a machine, kicking, punching - headbutting one unlucky bastard, and Sam tried to drag them off - tried to get Dean's attention. The waitress - forties, red-headed and pissed - was on the phone and Sam just knew she was calling the fucking cops and Jesus Christ they had to get the hell out.
"Back off, back off, get the fuck off, kill every fucking one of you, motherfuckers -" Dean was swinging wildly - was bloodied and bruised and wild-eyed - and somebody got an arm around his throat and then somebody else had his wrist. Sam shook off the bathroom-guy and waded forward over one prone man and one down on his knees, clutching his crotch. Grabbed a hunter and hurled him into a booth and then everybody was backing off so fast they were tripping - falling. Yelling, and the waitress was screaming and Dean -
Dean had their Dad's Ka-bar knife, bringing the matte-black blade around in a low, deadly arc, razor edge glittering like diamonds. Sam knocked some slow bastard back into the counter and twisted, evading. Not quite fast enough, though - the tip of the knife caught him across the chest and tore. Sternum to bicep in one long, shallow slice that didn't even hurt and then did, white hot.
"Dean, stop, for Christ's sake -"
"Back. Off." Dean's voice was a ragged growl, his lips pulled back in a snarl, the hand holding the knife shaking, shaking, shaking. Sam could hear a police siren, coming rapidly closer and Dean shook his head. His hand came up to his ear, covering it for a moment and then he was running. Plowing through the hunters and into the doors so hard one cracked. Forgetting that the door opened in and Dean just shoved, bending it the wrong way - snapping the hinges and gone, the door slamming into the tan brick of the building. The glass shattered, and Sam ran through the scatter of ice-green fragments, shouting for Dean.
He caught up to him a block away, seeing his back view dart between two buildings. Sam followed, diving left into an alley that ended against a high chain-link fence. There were a couple of dumpsters on the left and a pile of faded wooden pallets to the right. And Dean, up against the chain link, his shoulder pressed to the splintery wood. Knife held out and down, breathing so hard Sam thought he might pass out.
White - white as bone. Eyes too huge - too dazed - and the bruises blooming up under his skin, red-violet and awful. Streak of blood across his jaw - across his knuckles and Sam hoped to God he was the only one Dean had bloodied with that fucking knife.
"Dean? Jesus, Dean - we gotta go, man, the cops -"
"Get back, get off me, get away from me...." Dean lifted the knife - swung it, clear warning - and Sam stopped.
"Dean?"
"I won't, you fuckers, I won't, you're lying. He's not...he can't be...I'm...I'll....get out, kill every f-fucking one of you, I -" Head down, seeing - something. Not seeing what was in front of him, Sam was sure. His lip was bleeding and Dean licked it - turned his head a little and spat, grimacing. "Fucking kill all of you...." Dean was trembling, his legs wobbling and then he was falling. Knees giving out and his coat scraping down the fence - hand slapping at the pallets and losing their grip. Sam lunged forward, hands out and the knife came up, steady enough, even through the jolt of Dean's knees hitting the cracked concrete.
Sam hovered there, just out of range, wondering if he dared get any closer because Dean...wasn't seeing him. Wasn't seeing anything, maybe. "Hey, Dean, it's me - it's Sam. C'mon, man...." Sam took one more step closer and Dean's head snapped up, snake-vicious gaze that hurt to see. Because it was directed at Sam, and Sam didn't know what to do.
"No, I'm not. No I'm not. I'm Dean...Winchester. I'm John's son, Mary's...Sam's brother. I was - was...." Dean pushed a little sideways, as if he were trying to burrow into the pallets but they didn't budge. He got one leg up - boot pressed to the ground as if he was going to stand, but his leg wobbled and he didn't. Stayed that way, his knee up in his chest, some kind of protection from whatever he was seeing.
Seeing - reliving - and Sam felt, again, that ache of useless fury that had curdled inside him for four long months. He wanted to rip the world open and kill every demon he could find. Dean's free hand scrabbled at the pallets and found a grip - his other hand was up, wavering. Holding the knife out, warding off the nightmares he wouldn't talk about. The ones he almost wouldn't dare sleep for. "...was born in Lawrence, Kansas...John's son...Sam's b-brother -"
"I need you to move away, sir," someone said, and Sam spun, startled. Utterly off guard. A man stood at the mouth of the alley. A cop, and Sam felt his stomach drop. He lifted his hands, taking a step to the side. Putting himself decisively between the cop and Dean. Dean's voice muttered on, repeating himself.
"Hey, it's okay, just listen, okay? This is my brother. This is my brother and he's not gonna hurt anyone."
"Looks like he already did," the cop said, nodding, and Sam glanced hastily at the wet stain of blood down his chest - his arm. Finally registering the burning throb of it.
"It's just a cut. It's shallow - I'm okay."
"Will Jeeter's not. Got himself a busted nose. And Carl Tierpont? Couple broken ribs." The cop took a couple steps forward, his hand on the gun at his hip, and Sam took a step back.
"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry that happened but - he.... Look, my brother, he's...he isn't -" *Isn't what? Isn't fully recovered from the four months he spent in hell? Is jumping at fucking shadows and seeing shit and I don't know what to fucking do about it? Don't have the slightest God damn idea how to fix it and maybe he can't ever be fixed so please just go the fuck away, go away....*
"Sir, I need you to step away, right now." The cop was unsnapping the flap on the holster, walking forward - getting too fucking close and Sam was starting to panic.
"Look, I swear, he won't do - he won't hurt anybody else, just let me -"
"Now, sir." The gun came out, smooth and fast, and Sam lifted his hands a little higher, wincing at the pull and burn of the cut.
Stepping back and sideways and letting the cop see Dean. Letting him see the knife. The man's smooth, slow gait didn't falter, and Sam felt a tiny surge of respect for him. The guy was young - Dean's age, maybe - and doing a damn good job of not freaking out. Sam wished he could say the same. "Sir - officer, please -"
"Shut up," the cop said, gaze fixed on Dean. "Sir? Sir, I need you to put that knife down."
Dean was pushing back into the chain link, making it creak. Digging his nails into the rotten wood and Sam knew he'd have splinters - broken nails. The knife was still out, the tip wavering as the tremors came back and Dean's whole body shuddered to them. He was breathing too fast - too hard. Body going into shock and half way to shutting down, pupils too big and his lips pale. Fight or flight adrenalin decaying fast. "Lying, you're lying. I'm...Dean. John's...s-ss...Sam's brother. I don't...he's coming, he's c-coming...."
The cop finally stopped walking - shot a hard look at Sam. "Is your brother on drugs?"
"No. No, he's not; he was...he's..." Inspiration came like a bolt and Sam took a hard breath. Hoped like hell he was guessing right because this guy - this cop... He had something. A certain way of moving. A fucking feel to him that Sam was all too familiar with. "He's a soldier. He hasn't been - back very long."
"Shit." The cops arms - the gun - went down. His stance changed a little, easing out of the tense 'guard' pose and changing to something else. "Army?"
"Marines," Sam said, letting his own arms slowly fall. "Echo 2/1?" Falling back on what he knew, Dad's old unit - maybe some of Dad's hoo-rah, if he had to. Cursing himself for lying to this man - for doing what his Dad would never - ever - have approved of. Or Dean, for that matter.
The cop made a little shrugging motion, faint smile tugging up the corner of his mouth. He was dark-skinned - wiry under the bulky police coat. "I was Army, myself. Guess he had it pretty damn rough," the cop said, in a tone that conveyed anger and respect in equal measure, and Sam thought he just might be sick.
*You deserve for him to be angry for you, Dean...deserve his fucking respect and I can't even tell the truth, can't even tell him what you really did - how much you really sacrificed for me. More than anyone ever should and nobody can ever know....* "Yeah, he...it was bad." There were voices suddenly - a lot of them, coming closer, and Sam looked up at the mouth of the alley - at the heads poking around the corner.
"Shit," the cop said again, loud, and Dean flinched from it. Jerked back hard enough to rap his head into the pallets, rictus of teeth and bloody lips and the knife lifting again.
"Get away, fuckers, I'll kill you, fucking k-kill you...."
"Listen - sir -"
"It's Sam."
"Okay. Sam. I'm gonna go up there and get the lookie-loos to back the hell off. Take statements and get 'em calmed down and you just...just stay here, okay? See if you can talk to him. Okay?"
Sam felt relief like a rush of heat, making his joints weak for a second - making his eyes prickle with grateful, irritating tears. "Yeah, yeah okay, thanks. Thank you -"
"It's James," the cop said, and then he dropped his gun back into its holster and backed up a step - turned and walked up the alley, his hands up, already talking. Taking charge and defusing things, and Sam took a hard, shaky breath. Turned around and took a few steps closer to Dean. Stopped when Dean jerked away, eyes wide. Sam stood for a moment and then he sank down cross-legged, the cold dampness coming instantly up through his jeans. The cut throbbed, and his shirt and jacket were sticking to him, clammy and uncomfortable. His stomach was achingly empty and his lips were chapped and none of it....mattered.
"Dean? Hey, Dean, it's me. It's Sam. Sammy. I'm here, Dean. I'm right here..."
Continued in Conscience Wide as Hell.