FIC: In the Land of Milk and Honey, You Must Put Them On the Table (1295 words, R)
Hi there! You know all that funny stuff I was posting before? Yeah, I was just buttering you up for this.
Title: In the Land of Milk and Honey, You Must Put Them On the Table
Author: newredshoes
Rating: R for language (1295 words)
Summary: 3.16 coda. Dean is frowning down at his hands. The pose is so ordinary it takes Sam a minute to slam on the brakes.
A/N: Many thanks to silveraspen for the read-through, and to trollprincess for inciting me to write it. Many apologies to Tom Petty and Steely Dan. Feedback loved and adored, because this story kind of made me hate myself.
* * *
Dean drips and leaks all the way back to the car. Not one civilian moves to help, and who knows where Bobby is, so Sam hefts his brother back to the Impala by himself, chewing his lip to keep from breaking down before they get there. For the longest time, Sam thought of him as smaller-shorter, lighter-but Dean is big. He’d rather have forgotten.
First he opens the passenger seat, but the thought of strapping Dean in and keeping him by his side like this upends his stomach. They both slump against the front wheel, Sam’s hands clenched full of Dean’s jacket. If Bobby was here, he’d have help, he’d have the option of letting go, but he doesn’t know where Bobby is, and it’s not like he can go looking, so he has to pull himself together. Dean winds up bunched awkwardly lengthwise across the back seat, but Sam turns the ignition and there’s road in front of them again and he’ll just have to call Bobby later, because he and Dean have to go.
His heart slows down with the smell of Dean’s blood all over the car. The leather interiors are well-cured from hurts; this part is almost normal. It’s early in the morning still, not even one o’clock. Indiana is quiet as motel artwork. An oncoming car fills the cab with its floodlights. Sam glances into the rearview: Dean is slumped at an odd angle, his neck lolling. The car passes. Sam wishes he’d thought to close Dean’s eyes.
He takes a breath, so quick it rattles in his chest, and grips the wheel harder. “Fuck this noise,” he says to the unlit silence. The radio’s set to a good station: Dean chose it on the ride over. He flips the power. The speakers are on high.
“-Never slow down, you never grow old. Tired of screwing up, tired of going down, tired of myself, tired of-”
Sam punches the power again. “I hate Tom Petty,” he mutters, and waits for the indignant rebuttal. He bites his lip in the quiet, and the blood he tastes is his own. They keep driving. The car rumbles, and the road swims in its headlights.
*
Before the sun comes up, Sam’s phone starts ringing. It’s probably Bobby. Sam can’t talk now. He doesn’t answer. Dean’s phone rings too. Sam swears, but lets it go to voice mail. He checks the mirror again. If Dean has rigor mortis, he’s covering really well, the jerk: he still sags at the joints, his limbs loose and limp.
Sam looks away, his eye settling on the dashboard. They’re running pretty low on gas. He can’t remember how far until the next station. It’s been hours since the last car passed them. He can’t even say what direction they’re pointed. Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. The adrenaline wore off a long time ago-he’s not even running on fumes, he’s just pushing. The leather seat behind him squeaks. He looks into the rearview.
Dean is frowning down at his hands. The pose is so ordinary it takes Sam a minute to slam on the brakes. Dean yells as the Impala skids to the side of the road, throwing him against the front seat. “Watch how you’re driving that thing,” he huffs, curling his lip.
Sam struggles out of his seat belt. “Dean.” He twists, until he’s up on his knees leaning over the seat. “Oh God, Dean, how did you-?”
Dean smiles. “Sorry, Sam. Jumping to conclusions gets you nowhere.”
He jerks his hand back, already halfway to Dean’s face. The voice is wrong, the expression is wrong. He knows better than to let the moment last: an instant later, he’s pressing the edge of Ruby’s knife just below Dean’s jaw. “Hey!” the demon snaps, trying to avoid the blade. It glances down at the knife, then up at Sam. “If you’re done playing with that, you can give it back to me now.”
That tone is unmistakable. Sam’s eyebrows knit. “Ruby?”
Dean’s lips twist. “Good work, wonderboy. Step right up and pick a prize.”
He doesn’t move the knife. “Lilith said she wasted you.”
“Yeah, I had to claw a pretty long way thanks to your sorry ass.” Dean’s eyebrows go up. “You gonna put that down? I’m here to help you, Sam. After the piss-poor showing you gave me last time, I think you owe me that much.”
Sam swallows; his arm shakes. “Where’s Dean?”
Ruby spreads Dean’s hands. “He’s in Hell, right where he’s supposed to be.”
Those words unleash a ragged snarl. “What’re you doing in him?”
“I’ve been here an hour, dipwad.” The expression is withering. “You think it’s easy cleaning up after hellhounds? Humpty Dumpty had nothing on this.”
He bolts forward; Ruby flinches away. “Why?”
“I was crushing." Sam finds himself trapped under Dean's sneer. "A guy talks to a girl like that, it makes her want him, real bad.” Ruby glares down at the knife again. “Look, I’m sure Dean would be touched that you were going all Weekend at Bernie’s with him, but I promise you, when we get him back he’ll be a lot happier we salvaged his corpse.”
“Back?” It doesn't make sense. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, willing the shock away. “How did you… the tattoo, how did you get in?”
“Oh, you mean this?” Ruby reaches for Dean’s shirt and pulls aside the collar. The ravaged flesh is healed and intact, but the protective sigil is in pieces on Dean’s chest. Ruby shrugs. “Lucky break, I guess.”
Sam lowers the knife. He sinks down against the leather seat, staring. Ruby unlocks the back door, circles behind the car and drops into the passenger seat. “So,” says the demon, “you all better now? Have you cried out your river of helpless rage? Because your brother’s in Hell and Lilith is still out there, and despite all your pussyfooting this year, you’re going to get over it." Sam stays motionless, eyes forward. Ruby doesn't wait for an answer. "I told you my plan already. You have power, Sam. You proved it in New Harmony. You’ll do it again, and you’ll do it right. I don’t like losing, so we’re not going to. Are you with me so far?”
He looks over at Dean’s face. It’s still spattered with blood; dried gore flakes off Dean’s jacket and jeans. Sam doesn’t say anything. Ruby doesn’t move.
“I’m not wearing Dean’s meat out of the goodness of my heart either. I’ve learned my lesson: this time I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Ruby smirks. “But then, that’s how you like it with him. You won’t even know it’s me.”
Sam feels his stomach begin to churn again. His gorge rises. “You-”
“Oh, lighten up, and get used to it.” Ruby slings Dean’s arm over the back of the seat and leans in. “That’s the thing about demons, Sam-we all think we’re so funny.” His crooked grin reappears. “Dean’s going to fit right in.”
Sam sets his hands on the wheel. He doesn't need this. Someone else should be in that seat instead. He drops his eyes to the dash.
“We’re out of gas,” he murmurs. Ruby waves him off.
“I’ve got it covered. Just get us somewhere I can wash all this crap off. Now.” A cell phone beeps. “Do you want to call Bobby Singer or should I?” The glow of the display lights Dean’s face in the pre-dawn darkness. His pupils are wide but not entirely black; if Sam can just wait it out, then they'll look right again.
They turn around on the empty highway, big black car running on willpower and precious little else. They go back.
Title: In the Land of Milk and Honey, You Must Put Them On the Table
Author: newredshoes
Rating: R for language (1295 words)
Summary: 3.16 coda. Dean is frowning down at his hands. The pose is so ordinary it takes Sam a minute to slam on the brakes.
A/N: Many thanks to silveraspen for the read-through, and to trollprincess for inciting me to write it. Many apologies to Tom Petty and Steely Dan. Feedback loved and adored, because this story kind of made me hate myself.
* * *
Dean drips and leaks all the way back to the car. Not one civilian moves to help, and who knows where Bobby is, so Sam hefts his brother back to the Impala by himself, chewing his lip to keep from breaking down before they get there. For the longest time, Sam thought of him as smaller-shorter, lighter-but Dean is big. He’d rather have forgotten.
First he opens the passenger seat, but the thought of strapping Dean in and keeping him by his side like this upends his stomach. They both slump against the front wheel, Sam’s hands clenched full of Dean’s jacket. If Bobby was here, he’d have help, he’d have the option of letting go, but he doesn’t know where Bobby is, and it’s not like he can go looking, so he has to pull himself together. Dean winds up bunched awkwardly lengthwise across the back seat, but Sam turns the ignition and there’s road in front of them again and he’ll just have to call Bobby later, because he and Dean have to go.
His heart slows down with the smell of Dean’s blood all over the car. The leather interiors are well-cured from hurts; this part is almost normal. It’s early in the morning still, not even one o’clock. Indiana is quiet as motel artwork. An oncoming car fills the cab with its floodlights. Sam glances into the rearview: Dean is slumped at an odd angle, his neck lolling. The car passes. Sam wishes he’d thought to close Dean’s eyes.
He takes a breath, so quick it rattles in his chest, and grips the wheel harder. “Fuck this noise,” he says to the unlit silence. The radio’s set to a good station: Dean chose it on the ride over. He flips the power. The speakers are on high.
“-Never slow down, you never grow old. Tired of screwing up, tired of going down, tired of myself, tired of-”
Sam punches the power again. “I hate Tom Petty,” he mutters, and waits for the indignant rebuttal. He bites his lip in the quiet, and the blood he tastes is his own. They keep driving. The car rumbles, and the road swims in its headlights.
*
Before the sun comes up, Sam’s phone starts ringing. It’s probably Bobby. Sam can’t talk now. He doesn’t answer. Dean’s phone rings too. Sam swears, but lets it go to voice mail. He checks the mirror again. If Dean has rigor mortis, he’s covering really well, the jerk: he still sags at the joints, his limbs loose and limp.
Sam looks away, his eye settling on the dashboard. They’re running pretty low on gas. He can’t remember how far until the next station. It’s been hours since the last car passed them. He can’t even say what direction they’re pointed. Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. The adrenaline wore off a long time ago-he’s not even running on fumes, he’s just pushing. The leather seat behind him squeaks. He looks into the rearview.
Dean is frowning down at his hands. The pose is so ordinary it takes Sam a minute to slam on the brakes. Dean yells as the Impala skids to the side of the road, throwing him against the front seat. “Watch how you’re driving that thing,” he huffs, curling his lip.
Sam struggles out of his seat belt. “Dean.” He twists, until he’s up on his knees leaning over the seat. “Oh God, Dean, how did you-?”
Dean smiles. “Sorry, Sam. Jumping to conclusions gets you nowhere.”
He jerks his hand back, already halfway to Dean’s face. The voice is wrong, the expression is wrong. He knows better than to let the moment last: an instant later, he’s pressing the edge of Ruby’s knife just below Dean’s jaw. “Hey!” the demon snaps, trying to avoid the blade. It glances down at the knife, then up at Sam. “If you’re done playing with that, you can give it back to me now.”
That tone is unmistakable. Sam’s eyebrows knit. “Ruby?”
Dean’s lips twist. “Good work, wonderboy. Step right up and pick a prize.”
He doesn’t move the knife. “Lilith said she wasted you.”
“Yeah, I had to claw a pretty long way thanks to your sorry ass.” Dean’s eyebrows go up. “You gonna put that down? I’m here to help you, Sam. After the piss-poor showing you gave me last time, I think you owe me that much.”
Sam swallows; his arm shakes. “Where’s Dean?”
Ruby spreads Dean’s hands. “He’s in Hell, right where he’s supposed to be.”
Those words unleash a ragged snarl. “What’re you doing in him?”
“I’ve been here an hour, dipwad.” The expression is withering. “You think it’s easy cleaning up after hellhounds? Humpty Dumpty had nothing on this.”
He bolts forward; Ruby flinches away. “Why?”
“I was crushing." Sam finds himself trapped under Dean's sneer. "A guy talks to a girl like that, it makes her want him, real bad.” Ruby glares down at the knife again. “Look, I’m sure Dean would be touched that you were going all Weekend at Bernie’s with him, but I promise you, when we get him back he’ll be a lot happier we salvaged his corpse.”
“Back?” It doesn't make sense. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, willing the shock away. “How did you… the tattoo, how did you get in?”
“Oh, you mean this?” Ruby reaches for Dean’s shirt and pulls aside the collar. The ravaged flesh is healed and intact, but the protective sigil is in pieces on Dean’s chest. Ruby shrugs. “Lucky break, I guess.”
Sam lowers the knife. He sinks down against the leather seat, staring. Ruby unlocks the back door, circles behind the car and drops into the passenger seat. “So,” says the demon, “you all better now? Have you cried out your river of helpless rage? Because your brother’s in Hell and Lilith is still out there, and despite all your pussyfooting this year, you’re going to get over it." Sam stays motionless, eyes forward. Ruby doesn't wait for an answer. "I told you my plan already. You have power, Sam. You proved it in New Harmony. You’ll do it again, and you’ll do it right. I don’t like losing, so we’re not going to. Are you with me so far?”
He looks over at Dean’s face. It’s still spattered with blood; dried gore flakes off Dean’s jacket and jeans. Sam doesn’t say anything. Ruby doesn’t move.
“I’m not wearing Dean’s meat out of the goodness of my heart either. I’ve learned my lesson: this time I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Ruby smirks. “But then, that’s how you like it with him. You won’t even know it’s me.”
Sam feels his stomach begin to churn again. His gorge rises. “You-”
“Oh, lighten up, and get used to it.” Ruby slings Dean’s arm over the back of the seat and leans in. “That’s the thing about demons, Sam-we all think we’re so funny.” His crooked grin reappears. “Dean’s going to fit right in.”
Sam sets his hands on the wheel. He doesn't need this. Someone else should be in that seat instead. He drops his eyes to the dash.
“We’re out of gas,” he murmurs. Ruby waves him off.
“I’ve got it covered. Just get us somewhere I can wash all this crap off. Now.” A cell phone beeps. “Do you want to call Bobby Singer or should I?” The glow of the display lights Dean’s face in the pre-dawn darkness. His pupils are wide but not entirely black; if Sam can just wait it out, then they'll look right again.
They turn around on the empty highway, big black car running on willpower and precious little else. They go back.