"Losing My Religion"
“Losing My Religion”
Prompt (by jesseofthenorth for silverbullets): Oh brother where art thou
A/N: Coda to 2.22, “All Hell Breaks Loose, Part II.” Angstyyyness. Title is taken from the song by R.E.M. Many thanks to the lovely i_speak_tongue for handholding and reassuring me that I COULD indeed write schmoop.
Wordcount: 1100ish
According to Dean Winchester, there are only two kinds of people in this world: those who are willing to do what it takes, and those who aren’t. There is no third kind.
~~~~~
They don’t go back to Bobby’s after they leave Wyoming. Sam asks Dean where they’re going. Dean rubs his eyes and makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.
“Narnia,” he says, his voice rough.
They drive all through the night with no music. When they finally stop sometime past noon the next day, neither of them have any idea where they are.
“We’re lost,” Sam tells Dean as he’s getting his bag out of the backseat. “Maybe we should get a GPS. We could name it Lola.”
Dean flaps a hand, blinks at the motel’s flickering neon sign.
“Think Norman’ll invite us for supper?”
~~~~~
Dean falls asleep against the headboard, still fully dressed. Sam takes off his boots for him and sets them next to the bed, the laces tangled like rosaries.
In the morning, the sky’s the color of a dead worm. Dean coughs himself awake, stands vaguely at the sink with his toothbrush without ever wetting it.
There’s the charade of diner breakfast. Sam orders eggs, bacon, French toast. Dean pretends to be an architect with his portion, draws pentagrams in his syrup.
“We should do something,” Sam says without inflection.
“Yeah,” Dean grates out. “Somethin’.”
~~~~~
Bob’s Antique Emporium seems as good a place as any. Dean trails along the narrow aisles behind his brother, not sure what they’re here for, if anything.
Sam manages to wend his way through the labyrinth and find the cash register, but Dean’s not paying attention to their discussion, Sam with lots of earnest arm gestures and the clerk looking stoned out of his mind from dust inhalation.
The clerk’s tall and gangly in a never-been-laid way, and he’s wearing a tie-dyed vintage Bob Dylan concert shirt that advises, ‘Don’t let your deal go down’ on the back.
“Too late for that,” Dean mutters under his breath, and wipes his nose on his sleeve.
“What?” Sam turns around and stops. Dean’s listing against a bookshelf, and Sam takes him by the shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
Dean laughs a bit. “It’s just funny, Sam.”
The clerk’s further down the aisle, squinting at one of the bottom shelves.
Sam’s hand finds its way onto his brother’s neck. “Jesus.”
Dean chokes on another laugh. “He came back from the dead, too. Know what, Sammy? You could have a club. ‘The Resurrection Club.’ Just like that Molly Ringwald movie, except a little more macabre.”
“Sir?” The clerk taps Sam on the arm, holding out a musty-looking tome with cracked leather binding. “I found your book.”
~~~~~
Dean peers at the book curiously as Sam pays. “You read German?”
“No. I got it to look at the pictures. What do you think, Dean?”
Dean shrugs with one shoulder, clears his throat with a painful noise.
“Geek,” he rasps out. “Always and forever.”
Sam merely tucks Goethe under his arm and leads his brother out of the store.
“Motel.”
“Time for the shower scene, eh?” Dean doubles over against the car, trying to spit out one of his lungs.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Hell knows we have enough mommy issues.”
~~~~~
When the fever gets high, Dean talks to Sam about the end.
“If you can’t see it from where you are now… don’t worry.” He pats Sam’s knee reassuringly, eyes wide as a child’s. “It’s coming.”
“Shhh,” Sam tells him, the back of his hand testing the perimeter of Dean’s forehead. “It’s not even close. Not at all.”
“It’s a circle,” Dean says stubbornly, his voice cracking and his eyes fluttering closed.
Sam rubs his arm and remembers Dean taking care of him when he was sick as a kid, the way Dean would talk and talk to him until he almost remembered the birthday party, or the time Dad took them to Disney Land, the images clear but fleeting, balloons let go on purpose on a cloudless day.
Sam tells Dean lots of stories that night. None of them are true, but they hurt so much that it feels good.
Sam talks about going to the beach-walking barefoot on the sand and watching kites collide and drag each other out of the sky.
He describes the juxtaposition of constellations, frames them on the moldy ceiling with his thumb and pointer finger.
He tells Dean the history of an old man who walked with a limp- a man who had a black car and a crooked grin and who cheerfully told anyone who would listen that he’d like to be cremated, thanks, because there was no way anyone was putting those ashes back together.
He tells Dean about the things that will never happen, because maybe somewhere in that fever-daze, Dean can live in that world constructed of dreams and held together by spit and subverted prayers and forget the time bomb that’s snuggled up next to his heart- a pacemaker that’s going to fail, right on schedule.
~~~~~
Sam’s not sure how long he talks, only that at some point he realizes that Dean’s probably been asleep for most of it, and he stops mid-sentence.
Dean stirs and blinks at him blearily.
“What are you doing, Sam.” Dean sounds too tired to even make it into a question.
Sam’s caught aback, but then he grins up at him, hard and dirty and false, like a girl being raped in a cheap porno. “Losing my religion.” It’s funny, because everything should be funny once, and you should take the chance while you still have it.
“Well,” Dean’s words catch in his throat, and he coughs, but there’s the hint of a smile around his lips, too. “Well-it’s not the end of the world yet, Sammy, because I don’t feel fine.”
“Amen, brother.”
~~~~~
After the third day, Bobby calls them about some strange omens in Nebraska, and they pack up the car like it’s any other thing.
Having always been prone to heart-to-hearts over the top of the car, Sam slaps his palm on the roof of the Impala as they’re getting in. It’s almost five, and the sky still looks indeterminate.
“You okay?” he asks his brother. Dean still looks pale, and like maybe he forgot part of himself back in the fever-dream world.
Dean lets a smile ghost onto his face. “It’s not about the leaving, Sammy. It’s about the coming back.” He fingers his amulet and looks Sam right in the eyes. “And you and I-we’re back in black.”
Prompt (by jesseofthenorth for silverbullets): Oh brother where art thou
A/N: Coda to 2.22, “All Hell Breaks Loose, Part II.” Angstyyyness. Title is taken from the song by R.E.M. Many thanks to the lovely i_speak_tongue for handholding and reassuring me that I COULD indeed write schmoop.
Wordcount: 1100ish
According to Dean Winchester, there are only two kinds of people in this world: those who are willing to do what it takes, and those who aren’t. There is no third kind.
~~~~~
They don’t go back to Bobby’s after they leave Wyoming. Sam asks Dean where they’re going. Dean rubs his eyes and makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.
“Narnia,” he says, his voice rough.
They drive all through the night with no music. When they finally stop sometime past noon the next day, neither of them have any idea where they are.
“We’re lost,” Sam tells Dean as he’s getting his bag out of the backseat. “Maybe we should get a GPS. We could name it Lola.”
Dean flaps a hand, blinks at the motel’s flickering neon sign.
“Think Norman’ll invite us for supper?”
~~~~~
Dean falls asleep against the headboard, still fully dressed. Sam takes off his boots for him and sets them next to the bed, the laces tangled like rosaries.
In the morning, the sky’s the color of a dead worm. Dean coughs himself awake, stands vaguely at the sink with his toothbrush without ever wetting it.
There’s the charade of diner breakfast. Sam orders eggs, bacon, French toast. Dean pretends to be an architect with his portion, draws pentagrams in his syrup.
“We should do something,” Sam says without inflection.
“Yeah,” Dean grates out. “Somethin’.”
~~~~~
Bob’s Antique Emporium seems as good a place as any. Dean trails along the narrow aisles behind his brother, not sure what they’re here for, if anything.
Sam manages to wend his way through the labyrinth and find the cash register, but Dean’s not paying attention to their discussion, Sam with lots of earnest arm gestures and the clerk looking stoned out of his mind from dust inhalation.
The clerk’s tall and gangly in a never-been-laid way, and he’s wearing a tie-dyed vintage Bob Dylan concert shirt that advises, ‘Don’t let your deal go down’ on the back.
“Too late for that,” Dean mutters under his breath, and wipes his nose on his sleeve.
“What?” Sam turns around and stops. Dean’s listing against a bookshelf, and Sam takes him by the shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
Dean laughs a bit. “It’s just funny, Sam.”
The clerk’s further down the aisle, squinting at one of the bottom shelves.
Sam’s hand finds its way onto his brother’s neck. “Jesus.”
Dean chokes on another laugh. “He came back from the dead, too. Know what, Sammy? You could have a club. ‘The Resurrection Club.’ Just like that Molly Ringwald movie, except a little more macabre.”
“Sir?” The clerk taps Sam on the arm, holding out a musty-looking tome with cracked leather binding. “I found your book.”
~~~~~
Dean peers at the book curiously as Sam pays. “You read German?”
“No. I got it to look at the pictures. What do you think, Dean?”
Dean shrugs with one shoulder, clears his throat with a painful noise.
“Geek,” he rasps out. “Always and forever.”
Sam merely tucks Goethe under his arm and leads his brother out of the store.
“Motel.”
“Time for the shower scene, eh?” Dean doubles over against the car, trying to spit out one of his lungs.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Hell knows we have enough mommy issues.”
~~~~~
When the fever gets high, Dean talks to Sam about the end.
“If you can’t see it from where you are now… don’t worry.” He pats Sam’s knee reassuringly, eyes wide as a child’s. “It’s coming.”
“Shhh,” Sam tells him, the back of his hand testing the perimeter of Dean’s forehead. “It’s not even close. Not at all.”
“It’s a circle,” Dean says stubbornly, his voice cracking and his eyes fluttering closed.
Sam rubs his arm and remembers Dean taking care of him when he was sick as a kid, the way Dean would talk and talk to him until he almost remembered the birthday party, or the time Dad took them to Disney Land, the images clear but fleeting, balloons let go on purpose on a cloudless day.
Sam tells Dean lots of stories that night. None of them are true, but they hurt so much that it feels good.
Sam talks about going to the beach-walking barefoot on the sand and watching kites collide and drag each other out of the sky.
He describes the juxtaposition of constellations, frames them on the moldy ceiling with his thumb and pointer finger.
He tells Dean the history of an old man who walked with a limp- a man who had a black car and a crooked grin and who cheerfully told anyone who would listen that he’d like to be cremated, thanks, because there was no way anyone was putting those ashes back together.
He tells Dean about the things that will never happen, because maybe somewhere in that fever-daze, Dean can live in that world constructed of dreams and held together by spit and subverted prayers and forget the time bomb that’s snuggled up next to his heart- a pacemaker that’s going to fail, right on schedule.
~~~~~
Sam’s not sure how long he talks, only that at some point he realizes that Dean’s probably been asleep for most of it, and he stops mid-sentence.
Dean stirs and blinks at him blearily.
“What are you doing, Sam.” Dean sounds too tired to even make it into a question.
Sam’s caught aback, but then he grins up at him, hard and dirty and false, like a girl being raped in a cheap porno. “Losing my religion.” It’s funny, because everything should be funny once, and you should take the chance while you still have it.
“Well,” Dean’s words catch in his throat, and he coughs, but there’s the hint of a smile around his lips, too. “Well-it’s not the end of the world yet, Sammy, because I don’t feel fine.”
“Amen, brother.”
~~~~~
After the third day, Bobby calls them about some strange omens in Nebraska, and they pack up the car like it’s any other thing.
Having always been prone to heart-to-hearts over the top of the car, Sam slaps his palm on the roof of the Impala as they’re getting in. It’s almost five, and the sky still looks indeterminate.
“You okay?” he asks his brother. Dean still looks pale, and like maybe he forgot part of himself back in the fever-dream world.
Dean lets a smile ghost onto his face. “It’s not about the leaving, Sammy. It’s about the coming back.” He fingers his amulet and looks Sam right in the eyes. “And you and I-we’re back in black.”