fic: silence (like a cancer grows)
title: silence (like a cancer grows)
rating/warnings: R/drinking, mentions of (if not suicidal thoughts) not wanting to live forever, brief mention of Sam not eating properly
pairings: none
summary: post 9.13. Sam and Dean don't talk about what was said before, and things go entirely south.
On AO3
Sam and Dean stop overnight at a motel on their way back to the bunker. They don't talk as they take their usual beds; not a good night passes between them as Dean shuts off the light.
There's nothing left to say, Sam thinks. Nothing unless he or Dean apologizes for what they said before, and the apocalypse will come and pass again before that happens.
In the middle of the night, he wakes up to the sound of Dean crying, his mattress creaking as he thrashes in his sleep. The words, "Sam," and, "Alistair," and, "Gadreel," are all audible between short gasps of breath and half-sobs. For a moment Sam lies there, listening. He's become unaccustomed to Dean's nightmares as a result of having their own rooms in the bunker.
He considers getting up and waking his brother. He could do it. They could talk, and put this behind them.
Sam rolls over and pretends he can't hear it.
*
On Sam's end, Kevin makes a cameo in almost every single one of his dreams. Sometimes he's whole, sometimes his eyes are gone and he follows Sam with a blank stare.
Sam never screams when he wakes up.
*
They don't go on hunts. Their days are spent exploring their home and searching for some way to track down Abbadon, Gadreel, Metatron. The bunker is so, so quiet.
*
"You're troubled, both of you," Cas says softly, perched on the edge of Sam's bed. Ever since Cas cleansed him of Gadreel, they have been spending more time together, just the two of them. Usually it passes in companionable silence; Sam thinks that he prefers that to conversation.
"I guess we are," he finally says, screwing around on his laptop rather than looking at the angel.
"Something that still… baffles me about humanity. A conversation between the two of you could fix this. Or at least it could start the process of fixing it."
Sam closes his eyes. "I don't know if it can be fixed."
"I sometimes wonder if all the messes that I made could have been prevented with speech." Castiel rises from the bed and walks over to Sam. Sam feels the calming weight of a hand on his shoulder. He keeps his eyes closed.
"I can't defend what Dean did," the angel says quietly. "But I can say that it hurts me to watch the two of you hurt so much, when there is nothing I can do."
"Pretty sure he hurt me more," Sam replies. The words sound petty even to his ears, and he hates that so much. Why can't he talk about how angry he is without seeming like the bad guy? It isn't fucking fair. None of this is.
*
It feels like Gadreel is still with him, sometimes. The way that Dean glances at him and instantly looks away, like Sam is a walking, talking reminder of everything that Dean did wrong.
*
Sam doesn't even have any pictures of Kevin, he realizes one morning as he robotically peels an orange. There are one or two of Ellen and Jo, a handful of Bobby. There are definitely pictures of Dad, of him and Dean when they were kids, even though those are mostly kept in dusty storage lockers scattered across the Continental 48.
But none of Kevin. Not like Kevin was ever around to do anything even remotely fun. His entire time with the Winchesters was probably the most miserable period of his miserable, short life. Why the fuck would he have wanted to remember any of it?
It shouldn't bother Sam, but photos are tangible proof of existence, and these days he needs something tangible to hold on to, to remember Kevin by. Fuck, he owes it to Kevin to prove that he lived once upon a time.
But there are no photos, and there is nothing he can do about that at this point.
*
He can't remember the last time he said, "Good morning," "Night," "What're you making?" or anything like that to Dean. Sometimes he talks to Cas, but for the most part, there is no one left to say anything to.
There are days when he can't remember when he last ate. He doesn't know if he is avoiding the kitchen because Dean is so often in it, or just because it doesn't really seem to matter anymore.
When he showers, he swears he can hear whispering in the falling water. Sometimes it sounds like Kevin; sometimes it sounds like all of the thoughts that are boiling inside of him, all of the things that he ignores and tries not to think in the first place, let alone to voice.
His thoughts and his dreams are raucous and screaming. His voice is scratchy from disuse.
*
When he sleeps, he's never alone. And it isn't just Kevin - it's every creature that's ever found its way under his skin. Sometimes he's staring into a wide and bloody future, the taste of Azazel fresh on his lips. Sometimes Meg writhes between his bones and in his veins, taunting and vibrant and alive.
Other times he's riding high with Lucifer, doing what he was always meant to do. The king of Hell was a million times stronger than Meg or Gadreel, and in those dreams Sam feels complete.
*
"I hope you and Dean can make your peace," Castiel says to Sam. It's the end of a short speech, an announcement that he is vacating the bunker for the time being, turning his attentions to fighting Metatron in the fields.
"Please," Cas adds, after a moment of silence. "Please, just talk to him."
Sam hugs the angel, and doesn't say anything.
*
When Sam can't take it anymore, when the effort that it takes to keep silence feels toxic and tangible in his bloodstream, he finds the whiskey that Dean keeps hidden and he drinks it.
Dean finds him an hour later, sitting at the kitchen table with less than an inch of amber left at the bottle's bottom. Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes never leave Sam.
"It was better when it was Lucifer," he says drunkenly to Dean, ignoring his brother's devastated look. "At least I chose him."
*
Sam wakes up in his bed with a pounding headache. Dean is sitting next to his bed on an old wooden chair that he must have dragged in. His eyes are closed, his hands folded in front of him, like he's praying.
When Sam sits up, Dean opens his eyes. He's been crying, Sam thinks.
"So are you gonna drink until you die?" Dean asks quietly. "Is that it? You'd rather drown in your own puke than talk to me?"
"I got drunk once," Sam mumbles around the thick, fuzzy lining in his mouth. "Stop being so dramatic."
Dean snorts, but passes him a bottle of water that was resting on the nightstand. Sam guzzles it down, spilling half of it down his chin. He should say thank you, but he doesn't.
"We can't go on like this," Dean finally says as Sam polishes off the last of the water. "It's not… it's not working. Man, I can't spend all day waiting for things to explode. I'm sick of it."
"You sure as hell haven't done anything to change it."
"I didn't think it was all up to me." Dean starts to rise, then slumps back down into the chair. "You're killing yourself, Sam. Fuck, you're killing me. And - And I can't take it anymore, I've been trying to give you space and let you come around but it's not working. Sam, please. Please just let me know how I can fix this. We can't live like this."
His head is pounding, and his hands are fists around the sheets of his bed. "You want to live forever, and I don't, and that's the fucking crux of it," he yells. "Don't you get it?"
"I get that you're not dying on my watch!" Dean shouts back. "When the hell have I ever been content to let that happen? Why do you think I'm just going to be okay with it now?"
"Because after everything we've been through, what else is there? We're gonna die one day, Dean. You can't stop it. And what the fuck is there left? Another apocalypse for us to fight? Are we gonna save the world again? We're never going to settle down, or retire, or do anything that'll make us happy. It's always going to be fighting. And maybe I'm sick of that."
He's crying, he realizes. His throat is burning despite the water, and his body just feels so heavy.
Dean stands up, but not before Sam sees the tears in his own eyes.
"I'm not okay with that," he says quietly. "And I'm not gonna be. Don't you ever think that I'll just let you die on my watch. It's not going to happen."
"Maybe it's happening right now," Sam counters. "No matter how slowly."
Dean walks out the door without answering. He shuts the door with an audible click, and then Sam is alone, and the bunker is silent once again.