~fic: misinformation
Dean's been staring at Sam for what feels like hours. He's been away from him plenty of times since they got to Bobby's, sure, but it's like he's only seeing Sam, watching him. He knows he's waiting for something, but it's forced out of his mind, it's not like he's intentionally denying anything, it just slips away like it has somewhere else to be. Not that Dean minds, he'd rather not constantly dwell on Sam's circumstance while they've got similarly big fish to fry.
He nudges Sam's chest, says, "Sammy. Sammy, hey--"
Sam jerks awake, and it's like Dean's forgotten everything that just happened while he was sleeping. He watches Sam scan the room with panic and confusion and then focus on him, blinking several times. He seems to register Dean, which is good, because he doesn't need his brother unable to separate nightmares from reality right now. Bringing it up would probably only make it worse so he skips that part of concern and heads straight to the next step.
"That's twelve hours straight, I'm calling that rested. Here." He hands his brother a bottle of water and a power bar that seem to appear in his hands. Okay, so sue him, he's tired. He doesn't remember half the stuff that happens when he works on half an hour of rest per day. (He doesn't even remember if that's how much he's slept, but if Sam gets twelve hours in, he had to have gotten at least a third of that. There's not much to do while his brother's asleep.)
"Hydrate, and uh, protein-ate." Sam cracks an even lamer joke that Dean ignores in favor of looking at his hand. He grabs it roughly and sees, out of the corner of his eye, Sam switching his attention to the couch.
Dean notices pretty much everything about Sam nowadays, and he knows that look, the apprehension and doubt. But there's nothing to invoke that look because there's nothing on the couch, and there's a big difference between nightmare and reality, Sam knows that, Sam's able to tell the difference.
"Eh, you'll live," he says, and pours whiskey over the mottled and angry stitches.
_______________________________
"You know that he's not real. Right?" He exclaims, making it a question, because does he? Dean thought maybe, before, because Sam was able to pull out of anything he may have been experiencing in his sleep, all he needed was a little alcohol on the wound (and that was too fucking metaphorical for him, so he's dropping that thought).
"He says the same thing about you," Sam replies, and ouch. Guess that's a no. Sam's looking at him with doe eyes and he's moving hardly at all, he's so still, like any wrong word or motion will get him ripped to shreds. But it won't, that's stupid, because no one is in the space Sam keeps glancing at. Sam knows Dean, he's able to tell the difference. No one is fucking there.
_______________________________
"Well," Bobby says, "at least he's not curled up under the sink." Like it's a goddamn consolation, what the hell? He's been watching Sam this whole time and there is no room for any consolations. Seriously, look at him.
"Yeah, no, he's just sitting there silently field-stripping his weapon." And it's not like Dean doesn't have faith in Sam, sure he does, it's just, just, fuck, Sam's been cleaning weapons for the whole day. And he keeps looking at corners and chairs and dusty spots in the middle of the room, spots in the air that you can't focus on unless there's something there.
So he turns on the GPS on Sam's phone, in case, you know, and he really doesn't want to deal with Bobby, because Bobby's forcing him to deal with himself and Sam's own issues and he doesn't care about dealing with himself and Sam's issues still elude him even when he's right in front of Sam's fucking face and Sam doesn't notice. And he should, he should know Dean, know that he's real. He should be able to tell the difference.
And if Dean's being a hypocrite, well, he keeps his marbles in a lead freaking box. He's fine. Really.
Sam looks up and to the left again, and Dean wants to yell, no one's there. No one is fucking there.
_______________________________
He starts to seriously consider Sam's rationalizing capabilities when he reaches the warehouse. He sees the old ban from Bobby's yard, notes that the driver's door is still open, but so is the passenger's side, and what? The keys are gone-- but music is playing somewhere, it sounds like the trashy eastern kinds that was playing on his porn vids, and what? Where the hell is it coming from?
He walks in to a gun pointed at him, and Sam alternating between him and a spot next to his shoulder, and--
"I was with you, Dean," Sam says despairingly. And a small surge of rage swells up-- Sam knows Dean, he should be able to tell the difference. (But if it's Sam's mind, wouldn't that other Dean be just perfect? No, no he wouldn't.)
And Jesus, they've been through all this before. He wants to tell Sam that, but anger and impatience won't help Sam here (or will it? Or will it?). But then it's just spilling out of him because Sam is shooting at a fucking pipe, shit, he'd be edging away from the psycho with a firearm already if that psycho wasn't his brother (and Christ, what is he talking about, his brother's not a psycho).
So he settles with, "Whoa, whoa, Sam! This discussion does not require a weapons discharge!" Because it doesn't, Sam doesn't, it's a discharge because Sam's discharging his weapon, he's not shooting at anyone, there's no one there, and Sam doesn't know what's real?
He takes Sam's crap hand and squeezes and if this doesn't convince his brother, he doesn't know what he'll do next.
"This is real," he growls, keeps going because Sam doesn't look like, he's not getting it, he's looking frantically at some spot to the left of Dean, and it causes him to squeeze harder even though he can't believe he's hurting his brother like this. But they got him out, he got away, and Sam should believe him. He should be able to tell the difference. He should be able to tell.
Sam nods and it's only when he looks down to answer his phone that Dean realizes he had let go. It feels like he's still pressing on the wound, but Sam was the one drawing blood.
"Bobby's got a live one," Sam says breathlessly. So they head back to the Impala, the real Impala, and that music isn't playing anymore, but they ditch the van, fuck the van.
And Sam says no white rabbits, but why he looks like Dean's still crushing his hand, Dean can't say for sure, because no one is there. No one is fucking there.
_______________________________
And then they get to the charred remains of Bobby's house and the rest of the world crashes down with it.
Vaguely he acknowledges that this is the worst time for their house to burn down, at the very time Sam needs some semblance of stability, and all the progress he's made is lost with one look at Sam's face. The frightened doe look is back and fuck, but all those thoughts slip away again. And next thing he knows, he's heading off towards the house, back turned on his brother. (Now's not the time for metaphors, right?)
But then he finds out that everything is wrong when he realizes he's not looking for Bobby, he doesn't even know what he's doing, and the worst part is he can't scrape together much emotion at all to care. What the hell, is it shock? Did something, he doesn't, something might have, shit.
And then suddenly, he's back with his brother, with Sam, and between that strange time he's figured out that maybe Bobby's house burned down for a reason, and anger and impatience have everything to do with it. Sam's curled against the red frame of a car with blood running down his arm, stitches and chunks of flesh ripped right out. The junkyard flashes a few times to something else entirely, something dark and cold and filled with fire and red and chains and meat. And blood keeps running down Sam's hand, down his arm.
Lucifer is crouched down next to him and Dean just stands there.
"Now, you see?" The angel says, "I expected you to last a little longer, but I guess I rushed it a bit at the end."
"No, no," Sam coughs out weakly, digs his nails further in his hand. He looks at Dean but Dean makes no motion to deny it; yeah, he lied, what does he expect him to do? Maybe it was a little rushed, but whatever. He's done pretending, so.
"Game's over, Sammy," Lucifer croons. "Time to go back to the regular old routine, now."
Sam folds into himself and starts sobbing, and Dean sighs. Lucifer pats his brother on the head and stands up.
He's been watching Sam for what seems like an eternity, because it is, he's never not watched Sam, and every time he's been away from Sam he's actually not been anywhere. It's like he's stopped existing between those times, because, he doesn't really need to be around unless he's around Sam, there's no point, it's not like there's actually a world going on down here, it's just his brother and the Cage. Sam's world is whatever Lucifer wants it to be, and so is Dean.
Dean hands Sam's gun to Lucifer, who holds it out in front of Sam, and the angel's saying something, but Dean's not really listening. He's watching Sam, waiting for him to blow the illusion away. Sam's not grabbing the gun, and Dean wonders why, because it's not like he's out, it's not like he got away.
Sam knows the Cage. He should be able to tell the difference.
He nudges Sam's chest, says, "Sammy. Sammy, hey--"
Sam jerks awake, and it's like Dean's forgotten everything that just happened while he was sleeping. He watches Sam scan the room with panic and confusion and then focus on him, blinking several times. He seems to register Dean, which is good, because he doesn't need his brother unable to separate nightmares from reality right now. Bringing it up would probably only make it worse so he skips that part of concern and heads straight to the next step.
"That's twelve hours straight, I'm calling that rested. Here." He hands his brother a bottle of water and a power bar that seem to appear in his hands. Okay, so sue him, he's tired. He doesn't remember half the stuff that happens when he works on half an hour of rest per day. (He doesn't even remember if that's how much he's slept, but if Sam gets twelve hours in, he had to have gotten at least a third of that. There's not much to do while his brother's asleep.)
"Hydrate, and uh, protein-ate." Sam cracks an even lamer joke that Dean ignores in favor of looking at his hand. He grabs it roughly and sees, out of the corner of his eye, Sam switching his attention to the couch.
Dean notices pretty much everything about Sam nowadays, and he knows that look, the apprehension and doubt. But there's nothing to invoke that look because there's nothing on the couch, and there's a big difference between nightmare and reality, Sam knows that, Sam's able to tell the difference.
"Eh, you'll live," he says, and pours whiskey over the mottled and angry stitches.
_______________________________
"You know that he's not real. Right?" He exclaims, making it a question, because does he? Dean thought maybe, before, because Sam was able to pull out of anything he may have been experiencing in his sleep, all he needed was a little alcohol on the wound (and that was too fucking metaphorical for him, so he's dropping that thought).
"He says the same thing about you," Sam replies, and ouch. Guess that's a no. Sam's looking at him with doe eyes and he's moving hardly at all, he's so still, like any wrong word or motion will get him ripped to shreds. But it won't, that's stupid, because no one is in the space Sam keeps glancing at. Sam knows Dean, he's able to tell the difference. No one is fucking there.
_______________________________
"Well," Bobby says, "at least he's not curled up under the sink." Like it's a goddamn consolation, what the hell? He's been watching Sam this whole time and there is no room for any consolations. Seriously, look at him.
"Yeah, no, he's just sitting there silently field-stripping his weapon." And it's not like Dean doesn't have faith in Sam, sure he does, it's just, just, fuck, Sam's been cleaning weapons for the whole day. And he keeps looking at corners and chairs and dusty spots in the middle of the room, spots in the air that you can't focus on unless there's something there.
So he turns on the GPS on Sam's phone, in case, you know, and he really doesn't want to deal with Bobby, because Bobby's forcing him to deal with himself and Sam's own issues and he doesn't care about dealing with himself and Sam's issues still elude him even when he's right in front of Sam's fucking face and Sam doesn't notice. And he should, he should know Dean, know that he's real. He should be able to tell the difference.
And if Dean's being a hypocrite, well, he keeps his marbles in a lead freaking box. He's fine. Really.
Sam looks up and to the left again, and Dean wants to yell, no one's there. No one is fucking there.
_______________________________
He starts to seriously consider Sam's rationalizing capabilities when he reaches the warehouse. He sees the old ban from Bobby's yard, notes that the driver's door is still open, but so is the passenger's side, and what? The keys are gone-- but music is playing somewhere, it sounds like the trashy eastern kinds that was playing on his porn vids, and what? Where the hell is it coming from?
He walks in to a gun pointed at him, and Sam alternating between him and a spot next to his shoulder, and--
"I was with you, Dean," Sam says despairingly. And a small surge of rage swells up-- Sam knows Dean, he should be able to tell the difference. (But if it's Sam's mind, wouldn't that other Dean be just perfect? No, no he wouldn't.)
And Jesus, they've been through all this before. He wants to tell Sam that, but anger and impatience won't help Sam here (or will it? Or will it?). But then it's just spilling out of him because Sam is shooting at a fucking pipe, shit, he'd be edging away from the psycho with a firearm already if that psycho wasn't his brother (and Christ, what is he talking about, his brother's not a psycho).
So he settles with, "Whoa, whoa, Sam! This discussion does not require a weapons discharge!" Because it doesn't, Sam doesn't, it's a discharge because Sam's discharging his weapon, he's not shooting at anyone, there's no one there, and Sam doesn't know what's real?
He takes Sam's crap hand and squeezes and if this doesn't convince his brother, he doesn't know what he'll do next.
"This is real," he growls, keeps going because Sam doesn't look like, he's not getting it, he's looking frantically at some spot to the left of Dean, and it causes him to squeeze harder even though he can't believe he's hurting his brother like this. But they got him out, he got away, and Sam should believe him. He should be able to tell the difference. He should be able to tell.
Sam nods and it's only when he looks down to answer his phone that Dean realizes he had let go. It feels like he's still pressing on the wound, but Sam was the one drawing blood.
"Bobby's got a live one," Sam says breathlessly. So they head back to the Impala, the real Impala, and that music isn't playing anymore, but they ditch the van, fuck the van.
And Sam says no white rabbits, but why he looks like Dean's still crushing his hand, Dean can't say for sure, because no one is there. No one is fucking there.
_______________________________
And then they get to the charred remains of Bobby's house and the rest of the world crashes down with it.
Vaguely he acknowledges that this is the worst time for their house to burn down, at the very time Sam needs some semblance of stability, and all the progress he's made is lost with one look at Sam's face. The frightened doe look is back and fuck, but all those thoughts slip away again. And next thing he knows, he's heading off towards the house, back turned on his brother. (Now's not the time for metaphors, right?)
But then he finds out that everything is wrong when he realizes he's not looking for Bobby, he doesn't even know what he's doing, and the worst part is he can't scrape together much emotion at all to care. What the hell, is it shock? Did something, he doesn't, something might have, shit.
And then suddenly, he's back with his brother, with Sam, and between that strange time he's figured out that maybe Bobby's house burned down for a reason, and anger and impatience have everything to do with it. Sam's curled against the red frame of a car with blood running down his arm, stitches and chunks of flesh ripped right out. The junkyard flashes a few times to something else entirely, something dark and cold and filled with fire and red and chains and meat. And blood keeps running down Sam's hand, down his arm.
Lucifer is crouched down next to him and Dean just stands there.
"Now, you see?" The angel says, "I expected you to last a little longer, but I guess I rushed it a bit at the end."
"No, no," Sam coughs out weakly, digs his nails further in his hand. He looks at Dean but Dean makes no motion to deny it; yeah, he lied, what does he expect him to do? Maybe it was a little rushed, but whatever. He's done pretending, so.
"Game's over, Sammy," Lucifer croons. "Time to go back to the regular old routine, now."
Sam folds into himself and starts sobbing, and Dean sighs. Lucifer pats his brother on the head and stands up.
He's been watching Sam for what seems like an eternity, because it is, he's never not watched Sam, and every time he's been away from Sam he's actually not been anywhere. It's like he's stopped existing between those times, because, he doesn't really need to be around unless he's around Sam, there's no point, it's not like there's actually a world going on down here, it's just his brother and the Cage. Sam's world is whatever Lucifer wants it to be, and so is Dean.
Dean hands Sam's gun to Lucifer, who holds it out in front of Sam, and the angel's saying something, but Dean's not really listening. He's watching Sam, waiting for him to blow the illusion away. Sam's not grabbing the gun, and Dean wonders why, because it's not like he's out, it's not like he got away.
Sam knows the Cage. He should be able to tell the difference.