A bit more of 'Aftermath'... 'Mad Blood Stirring'
I hope everyone who celebrates had a good Fourth! We were very restrained, but enjoyed ourselves, and the evening was actually chilly, which was a nice change from previous years. And...that's all. I'm a bit zoned out, so i have no more news. :)
sweptawaybayou gave me a prompt, and while i haven't followed the normal course and inserted all the prompt words, what she gave me *did* inspire this, so - thank you, bay-bee!
*smooch*
darkhavens gave her seal of approval, as well. She's the best!
Title and quoted text is from Shakespeare's 'Romeo and Juliet'. The Latin is 'deliver us from evil' from 'The Lord's Prayer' and parts of the 'Laudes Divinae', or 'Divine Praises'. Both were found here. Previous parts are, as always, in tags.
I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
And, if we meet, we shall not ’scape a brawl;
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
"I don't hold the contract, Sam. I'm just a go-between. Middle-demon, as it were." A grin, full lips stretching over white, white teeth.
"Then who does? Tell me, or -"
"Or what? You'll shoot me dead? Never find out anything that way." The grin is all sharp edges and spit-slick shine - red tongue and red eyes like some kind of rabid dog.
"I'll just summon another one of you. Not like I don't know your names."
"What's in a name, Sam? Not the answer to your prayers, that's for sure." There's noise somewhere - a growling, like a wild animal. A keening howl and Sam knows - he's too late. Hellhounds loose on Dean's trail and it's too fucking late, too late, and it's just like Dad, there's nothing he can do, there's nothing and Dean is screaming, he's screaming, he's dying, oh God, he's -
"Dean!" Sam shuddered up out of sleep, Dean's name on his lips like a groan. Salt-iron taste in his mouth, his face wet. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt and he squinted into the light, panting. Confused as hell because since when did they sleep with the lights on? *Lights, lights....oh. Power must've come back on....* They'd lost it right before check-in - had stripped out of their wet clothes in the glow of Dean's flashlight and fallen into bed within minutes, exhausted. And now the lights were back on. Sam ground his finger-tips against his eyes and then actually looked, taking in his surroundings for the first time. The whole room was...red. Scarlet, ruby, crimson - blood. Red shag carpet that climbed the walls behind the beds in lieu of headboards. Red comforters, red wallpaper, dented red lampshades and red towels, for fuck's sake, snaking out of a red-tiled nightmare of a bathroom, splotched darker with water. *It's like a fucking slaughterhouse in here. Jesus Christ.*
There was a sudden noise - dream noise, animal noise - and Sam shoved the covers off his legs and stood up, searching. Dean - Dean wasn't in his bed, Dean wasn't anywhere and the panic came back like a hammer stroke. Sick clench of Sam's gut - sudden prickle of cold sweat and Sam bolted around the end of Dean's bed. Hit the corner with his knee and tripped - slipped in a pool of red. *What the fuck, what the fuck!* It was material. Cheap, shiny polyester the color of *blood* strawberry soda. It puddled around Sam's feet and he kicked at it.
"Dean?" That noise again - panic and warning and pain and Sam focused on it - found it. Little cubby of a closet, the door a piece of cracked red plastic, creased like an accordion; gap showing on the side where the little magnetic latch had failed. Gap, and a bulge, and a sliver of pale skin. Sam darted forward, skidded on the puffy slipperiness of the comforter and went down hard, concrete jolting his knees and left wrist. "Dean?"
No answer, just that noise, thick and ragged and raw and Sam wasn't thinking, not really, just reacting. Reaching for the barrier between them, intent on getting rid of it. Caught in the terror of the dream - sleep-fogged and panicking and freaking out on the red red red. The plastic door ripped under his hand, a too-hard jerk that took it off its track and sent it flapping and falling, sharp slap against the wall. And Dean - was right there, crammed into the two-foot by two-foot space, shoulders tight against dull-white plaster. Eyes squeezed shut and his hair spiky-wet and a gun gripped so tight in his hands his knuckles were white.
"Dean? Hey, Dean, it's okay, it's okay -" Sam reached - put his hand on Dean, up close to his neck. He knew better - had known better for years, because you don't do that kind of thing around a man who's seen war. You don't startle a soldier, or a hunter. You don't wake them up with a hand on their shoulder unless you want a fist in your gut, or worse. Lesson learned at Dad's knee, at Bobby's house, at Caleb's camp, where hunters slept in cat-naps and if you made noise - moved too fast - their eyes slitted open and their hands reached for the nearest weapon. Sam squeezed gently and Dean made that noise. Again. Like a wolf caught in a trap - like a man gut-shot and left to die and Sam felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
"Dean, come on, wake up -"
Dean's lips were moving and then his voice was suddenly audible, like a radio switching on. "...libera nos a malo, libera nos a malo..." Dean's eyes snapped open and he looked straight at Sam. "You're not here." And then he launched himself, flat out, cannoning into Sam like a lion. Knocking him back, bowling him over and they both rolled, crashing into the cherry-wood veneer of the dresser and sending something - knife, gun, flask - thumping to the floor.
Sam fought back out of sheer startlement but Dean was going on instinct, adrenalin and terror in every ragged breath he took and Sam found himself flat on his back, Dean's knees in his belly and the gun jammed up tight under his chin. Dean's Desert Eagle, for fuck's sake; hand cannon that could take the top of Sam's head right off and Sam froze, panting. One hand twisted tight in Dean's damp t-shirt, the other caught under his own hip, fingers jammed painfully into the floor. The muzzle of the gun making a sharp, cold point of pain against the bone of his jaw and he swallowed oh-so-carefully.
"Dean -"
"You're not here." Dean shifted, one leg slipping sideways down Sam's hip and Sam winced, trying not to move. The gun ground up harder, pushing, and Sam felt skin tear, catching on the sight. Dean's fist in his hair, yanking his head back further, making Sam's neck creak. "You're not him. Sam's not...duh-dead, he's not in Hell and you're fucking not him, you l-lying bastard."
"You're not - we're not in Hell." Sam tugged at his pinned hand - got it free only to have Dean's palm come down on his wrist, squeezing hard enough to make Sam's hand go almost instantly numb. "I got you out, Dean, I got you out, I swear, you're out, can't you remember?" *Please, please remember, please remember...*
Dean stared at him, eyes far too wide, all pupil and whites, nostrils flaring and his lips pulled back in a snarl. Nothing in his wild-horse stare of recognition or sanity.
"Dean, Dean, listen, please -"
"Fuck you," Dean snapped, and Sam heard the slight scrape of the trigger, moving.
*No, no, nonono...think, fuck, just -* Sam opened his mouth, hoping to God something intelligent would come out, his belly knotted so tight he thought he might throw up. His brain skittered from thought to thought, frantic. Think, think, fuck's sake, can't remember, I can't remember -* "Duh-D-Deus!" Sam gasped out, and Dean blinked. "Benedictus Deus. Benedictum Momen Sanctum eius. B-benedictus Jesus Christus, verus Deus et v-veruss...homo. Dean, listen, I'm not - it's me, it's Sam. Benedictum Nomen Jesu. Benedictum Cor eius sacratissimum. A demon can't say the Divine Praises, Dean! It's me, it's Sam, it's Sam." *Please, please...*.
Sam felt Dean's weight shift, infinitesimally. Felt the grip on his wrist ease, and the gun slip a little sideways on the sweat-slick skin of Sam's jaw. It was enough. With the practice of years, he bucked, twisting, and threw Dean off him. Flung him into the end of the mattress and Dean hit and rebounded, clawing at the comforter. It slithered off the bed, falling over his face and Dean - screamed.
"Oh, shit." Sam scrabbled across three feet of carpet to where Dean thrashed, yanking the material away from his face - off his body. One knee between Dean's thighs, grabbing Dean's face and forcing him to look. Dean's hands came up, pure reflex, and locked tight on Sam's wrists. "Dean!" Dean froze. His eyes darted wildly and Sam gave him the tiniest of shakes, willing him to see. Sweat beaded at Dean's hairline, his t-shirt was ripped and his heart was thudding so hard Sam could feel it, fluttering under the edge of his hands.
"Sam?"
Dean's voice, but not. Ragged - hoarse. Barely audible and cracking and so damn...scared. Terrified, and Sam felt the air go out of him in a strangled, shaking sob. "Yeah, yes, oh fuck, Dean, yeah, it's me, it's Sam."
"I thought.... Th-thought I was...it was...."
"Yeah, shhh, I know. But it's okay, it's okay." Dean's face was wet: sweat, tears, Sam couldn't tell. His thumbs moved gently - deliberately - obliterating the damp trails. "You're safe. You're out of there, Dean, you're safe, it's okay."
"No...." Dean struggled, pushing, and Sam let go. "It's not okay, Ssam." Sam let himself be pushed back into the bed, Dean twisting himself up and into a sitting position, his legs sprawled straight out in front of him. He lifted the hem of his t-shirt and scrubbed at his face and Sam stared in furious horror at the cobweb shimmer of scars that criss-crossed the flat planes of Dean's belly.
"You just had a - a nightmare, Dean, that's all."
Dean dropped his shirt and glared at him. He was sheet-white, his eyes sunk into blue-bruised hollows from lack of sleep, his lips chewed ragged. "I didn't have a fucking n-nightmare, Sam! I...I was -" Dean ran his hand distractedly back through his hair, looking anywhere but at Sam. His gaze fell on the discarded gun and he went whiter, if that were even possible. "Oh, Christ, you hurt? Are you okay?" Dean's hands reached out, automatic - skimming over Sam's arms, cupping his jaw. Turning Sam's head and then his fingers went still. "You're bleeding."
"It's just a scratch. Seriously, Dean, I'm fine -"
"I can see the fucking imprint from the muzzle, Sam! I almost - God - I almost sh-shhot -"
"No, no, you didn't. Dean? You didn't, you -"
Dean's hands slid from their grip on Sam's skull - dropped limply into his lap. "Shut up, Sam. I did. I almost k-killed...you. Almost killed you...."
"Dean -" Sam didn't know what to say, after that. Didn't know where to go and finally he just wormed around until he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with his brother, hands in his lap and the ugly comforter bunched uncomfortably behind him.
"It's this fucking...room," Dean said. He lifted his hands and buried his face in them for a moment - scrubbed them back over his skull, making his hair stick up in a 'backwards through a hedge' way that normally Sam would have had to laugh at. "Pretty fucking stupid, huh?" Dean's voice broke into an ugly laugh. "I w-woke up, and the power was back on, and I just... I wanted to get clean. I fucking...took a shower and went to get clothes and all this fucking...red.... Blood fucking red everywhere I...looked and I'm tryin' to just...ignore it, you know?" Dean looked up at Sam, expression plaintive, and Sam nodded, forcing himself not to speak.
"I mean, I was trying, man! I was...doin' okay, I thought I was doin'...okay but it's like...everything kept...moving and, the floor was wet, I thought it was wet and then...you were, there was...." Dean rubbed at his face again and then laced his fingers together in his lap, squeezing hard. "I thought you had b-blood on you, and then I thought...you were talking and you said...you were dead, you said you'd killed yourself because I was dead, and you said...you opened your eyes and they were b-black and you said suicides go to hell anyway, Dean and...this fucking room...." Dean rubbed his palms on his thighs, his breath hitching - his eyes widening and Sam knew it was all coming back.
Knew whatever *flashback* nightmare that had taken Dean over in the first place was flooding right back in and that the fucked up slaughterhouse of a room wasn't helping. "Okay - okay, it's okay, listen - Dean?"
"Everything's bloody, Sam, everything's...covered in -" Dean was frantically washing his hands together, his voice climbing in pitch and volume and Sam felt his own heart skip a beat, pack mentality sending him skittering down the same panicked path.
"No, it's not - Dean - hey -" Sam reached out and got his hands on Dean's - forced them still, leaning in close. "Dean. Stop. I want you to get up and get the hell out of here. Right now. Go get in the car. I'm gonna get our stuff. Five minutes, Dean - we are unassing this AO right now, you got me? Dean?"
Dean stared at him - blinked, his gaze flicking over Sam's shoulders and then back, eyes too wide, face too pale, shaking apart under Sam's hands and Sam wished, for one long moment, that he had Andy's power, and could just make Dean...forget.
"Dean. We are leaving. Move."
Dean took in a sharp breath and the frantic, confused expression snapped off his face. "Got it, I got it. Let's go."
"Roger that." Sam stood first, hauling Dean after him - pushed him toward the door. Scanning the room automatically for their things: reaching for a shirt that was draped over a chair, shoving his foot into a tumbled sneaker. Dean picked his jacket up off the dresser and got it on - got his own shoes on and opened the door.
"Sammy? You sure you can - are you - can you get out?"
"Not even Hell can hold a Winchester, Dean. Three minutes."
"Three minutes." Dean lingered at the door for another heartbeat, and then he was gone.
Sam made it out the door in two and a half.
It was raining again outside - or still raining, maybe; tail-end of the storm that had soaked them before. Dean was standing beside the car, one fist resting on the roof, head tilted back to the sky. Standing in the glow of the single street light, and the paint on the car gleamed like the hide of some pampered animal, all ink black and liquid crystal sheen. The sodium-white light leeched all the color out of Dean and Sam stumbled, staring at him. Dean looked like a photograph, like some art-college student's black-and-white project. 'Anguish' or 'Lost' or maybe fucking 'Heartbroken' sticky-taped underneath.
Just broken, maybe, though Sam refused to consider that. Refused to imagine that this was where Dean would always be; lost in a war that would never end, too damaged to heal and Sam helpless to fix him - to even offer up a useful solution.
He shifted his grip on Dean's duffel - deliberately scuffed his foot across the scattered gravel on the asphalt and Dean's head came down, his gaze snapping to Sam, wary and shuttered. Dean moved toward the back of the car - fished out the keys and opened the trunk. Sam shoved their duffels away - stopped at the hesitant touch of Dean's hand on his arm.
"I think...you better drive, Sam. I'm..." Dean looked away, jaw gritted tight. Made a little motion with his hand, clenching it down to a fist again when they both saw the tremor there. "I'm pretty fuckin' tired."
"Yeah, Dean. Sure, I can drive." Sam held out his hand and Dean pressed the keys into his palm, fingertips ghosting cold across Sam's skin. They both got in, and Sam tweaked the rearview mirror a hair's breadth - turned the key and revved the engine and then spent a moment fussing with the heater and the vents, getting the bloom of fog off the inside of the windshield so he could see. He glanced over at the motel and shuddered. The warped door didn't latch quite right - the lock had been the only thing keeping it shut - and as he watched, the door swung slowly open, revealing the interior. It glowed, like the chambers of an exposed heart, sullen crimson and dull scarlet and Dean made a strangled sort of sound in the seat beside him.
"Christ, Sammy, just drive, okay? Just fucking drive."
Sam drove.
Dean told him to head east and Sam did, hitting cruising speed on Highway 2, taking it east across the top of Wisconsin and Michigan, dawn lighting everything to a smoky silver-green somewhere in the Ottawa National Forest.
Sam slowed for a sharp curve - steered around a lump of blood-dark fur that had probably been a raccoon - and Dean stirred in his seat. He hadn't slept, only stared out the window in total silence, not even acknowledging the Eagles Greatest Hits that Sam had put in somewhere around Ironwood.
Dean lifted the half-empty soda bottle from the seat beside him and took a long drink. "You remember Sergeant Taylor?"
Sam had to think, taking another slow curve, flicking a glance over at Dean, who was pushing his feet into the well, stretching his legs just a little. "Was he...you mean that guy in Jersey?"
"Yeah, Dad's buddy. Had that camp in the Pine Barrens?"
Sam tapped his fingers on the wheel, remembering. Remembering one long summer, the heat liquid and still under the pine trees, the sandy earth giving way to the river shore, and Jack Taylor's hand-built cabin, hung with weapons and gear. Sam and Dean had slept all that summer in a tree house twenty feet up, learning how to cook over an open fire and how to make napalm from soap and gasoline. "Yeah, I remember him. I remember he had anti-personnel mines all up his road and a fucking tiger trap behind the outhouse. What do you - we're not going there, are we?"
"I need to talk to him."
"What? Why? Sergeant Taylor was - he was -"
"Crazy. He was crazy, Sam. You can say it. In country for three tours, came back one doughnut short of a dozen. Talked to people that weren't there and unloaded a clip or two of ammo at shadows every couple'a days."
"And you need to talk to him...why?"
"I need to...I wanna ask him...how not to be crazy."
Sam blinked, gripping the wheel. Staring ahead at the dense greens and blacks of the forest, the slick-wet ribbon of the highway that unrolled before and after, unending. "He wasn't exactly being 'not crazy', Dean."
"That was then. I ran up there for this book once when you were...when I was hunting on my own and he's...fine now. He's fine."
"Or you caught him on a good day. Dean -"
"Sam, don't." Dean was staring intently out his window, shoulders hunched in his jacket and his fingers all but crushing the bottle. He had a bruise coming up on his jaw where Sam supposed he'd got a hit in, back at the motel. "He was...he said it was hell, over there. He said...he saw things...did things...nobody in the real world'd ever believe. He got...lost in all that shit, man, he kept getting dragged back there until -" Dean gestured wildly with the soda bottle. "Until the Batsto River was the freakin' Mekong!"
"Yeah, and?" Sam couldn't stop looking over at Dean, trying not to hit the shoulder or cross the center line - trying to make sense of Dean's thought process.
"And.... If he figured out how to - how to stop that from happening then maybe...." Dean shrugged - finally turned his head and looked at Sam, brittle smile on his lips. "Maybe he can show me how, you know? Maybe he can...patch me up, get me running again."
"You're not a fucking broken engine, Dean."
"I feel like it. Feel like I'm missing something, Sam. Feels like...something got left behind or...they... Maybe they kept something, I dunno. I'm not right, okay? I'm not...whole."
"Dean -" Sam said, helpless. Didn't have anything else to say. Jack Taylor had scared the hell out of thirteen year old Sam. He had talked about things and people that weren't there - had yelled and moaned and whimpered in his sleep. A gaunt, wild-eyed man who knew more about the Jersey Devil and water spirits than any other man alive. A broken tin soldier who'd - somehow, maybe - mended himself.
"C'mon, Sam," Dean said, and his voice was soft - pleading. Edged with that self-loathing that meant Dean was sharing more than he wanted to. "I really...I gotta do something, man, 'cause this isn't.... I'm losing my grip, man. I'm just...I dunno if I can...hold on."
"You can," Sam insisted. Automatic as breathing, and Dean gave a soft, sobbing laugh, turning away again, rubbing his knuckles fast and hard across his eyes. "Dean, you can. You're the strongest fucking person I know. You can do...God, you can do anything. I know you can."
"Sammy...I really can't," Dean whispered, and Sam hit the brakes.
Steered the car off the road and onto the gravel verge, wincing as a branch scraped down the glass of the passenger window. Ignoring Dean's startled yelp of protest. He was pretty sure it was too soon - pretty sure Dean would clock him one or maybe just walk out on him. But he just...had to. Just this once, selfish desire that had been simmering in him for days. He twisted on the seat, hitching himself sideways. Reaching for Dean and dragging him close, fist in the collar of Dean's jacket, other hand on Dean's jaw, turning his face. Bringing him close and then Sam kissed him.
Months of throttled terror and anger - months of loneliness like a sharp-toothed cancer, gnawing at him. And now - days. Days of 'just this close but no closer' and Dean fracturing like hammer-crushed glass, spider web of cracks that grew wider and deeper, day by day.
Dean tasted like sugar and salt and stale mint, and he was frozen, unmoving under Sam's lips for half a dozen heartbeats. And then he kissed back, shaky little rush of air against Sam's mouth, shaky curl of his hand behind Sam's head, fingers caught in Sam's hair. It seemed to go on forever, but it probably wasn't even a minute and then Dean pulled back, just a little.
Sam didn't let him go far - made him stay close enough that his lashes touched Sam's cheek, butterfly flick and flutter, his breath warm on Sam's lips. "Dean, okay, okay, just...if you think he.... If that's what you want, whatever you want, we'll...I won't...we'll just go, okay? We'll just go and maybe he can, maybe he...knows...."
"Thanks, Sam," Dean murmured, lips brushing, and Sam kissed him again. A little less desperate, a little more reverently. Shiver going all through him because once upon a time he'd been so sure that he would never have this again.
"Anytime, Dean. Anytime."
sweptawaybayou gave me a prompt, and while i haven't followed the normal course and inserted all the prompt words, what she gave me *did* inspire this, so - thank you, bay-bee!
*smooch*
darkhavens gave her seal of approval, as well. She's the best!
Title and quoted text is from Shakespeare's 'Romeo and Juliet'. The Latin is 'deliver us from evil' from 'The Lord's Prayer' and parts of the 'Laudes Divinae', or 'Divine Praises'. Both were found here. Previous parts are, as always, in tags.
I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
And, if we meet, we shall not ’scape a brawl;
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
"I don't hold the contract, Sam. I'm just a go-between. Middle-demon, as it were." A grin, full lips stretching over white, white teeth.
"Then who does? Tell me, or -"
"Or what? You'll shoot me dead? Never find out anything that way." The grin is all sharp edges and spit-slick shine - red tongue and red eyes like some kind of rabid dog.
"I'll just summon another one of you. Not like I don't know your names."
"What's in a name, Sam? Not the answer to your prayers, that's for sure." There's noise somewhere - a growling, like a wild animal. A keening howl and Sam knows - he's too late. Hellhounds loose on Dean's trail and it's too fucking late, too late, and it's just like Dad, there's nothing he can do, there's nothing and Dean is screaming, he's screaming, he's dying, oh God, he's -
"Dean!" Sam shuddered up out of sleep, Dean's name on his lips like a groan. Salt-iron taste in his mouth, his face wet. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt and he squinted into the light, panting. Confused as hell because since when did they sleep with the lights on? *Lights, lights....oh. Power must've come back on....* They'd lost it right before check-in - had stripped out of their wet clothes in the glow of Dean's flashlight and fallen into bed within minutes, exhausted. And now the lights were back on. Sam ground his finger-tips against his eyes and then actually looked, taking in his surroundings for the first time. The whole room was...red. Scarlet, ruby, crimson - blood. Red shag carpet that climbed the walls behind the beds in lieu of headboards. Red comforters, red wallpaper, dented red lampshades and red towels, for fuck's sake, snaking out of a red-tiled nightmare of a bathroom, splotched darker with water. *It's like a fucking slaughterhouse in here. Jesus Christ.*
There was a sudden noise - dream noise, animal noise - and Sam shoved the covers off his legs and stood up, searching. Dean - Dean wasn't in his bed, Dean wasn't anywhere and the panic came back like a hammer stroke. Sick clench of Sam's gut - sudden prickle of cold sweat and Sam bolted around the end of Dean's bed. Hit the corner with his knee and tripped - slipped in a pool of red. *What the fuck, what the fuck!* It was material. Cheap, shiny polyester the color of *blood* strawberry soda. It puddled around Sam's feet and he kicked at it.
"Dean?" That noise again - panic and warning and pain and Sam focused on it - found it. Little cubby of a closet, the door a piece of cracked red plastic, creased like an accordion; gap showing on the side where the little magnetic latch had failed. Gap, and a bulge, and a sliver of pale skin. Sam darted forward, skidded on the puffy slipperiness of the comforter and went down hard, concrete jolting his knees and left wrist. "Dean?"
No answer, just that noise, thick and ragged and raw and Sam wasn't thinking, not really, just reacting. Reaching for the barrier between them, intent on getting rid of it. Caught in the terror of the dream - sleep-fogged and panicking and freaking out on the red red red. The plastic door ripped under his hand, a too-hard jerk that took it off its track and sent it flapping and falling, sharp slap against the wall. And Dean - was right there, crammed into the two-foot by two-foot space, shoulders tight against dull-white plaster. Eyes squeezed shut and his hair spiky-wet and a gun gripped so tight in his hands his knuckles were white.
"Dean? Hey, Dean, it's okay, it's okay -" Sam reached - put his hand on Dean, up close to his neck. He knew better - had known better for years, because you don't do that kind of thing around a man who's seen war. You don't startle a soldier, or a hunter. You don't wake them up with a hand on their shoulder unless you want a fist in your gut, or worse. Lesson learned at Dad's knee, at Bobby's house, at Caleb's camp, where hunters slept in cat-naps and if you made noise - moved too fast - their eyes slitted open and their hands reached for the nearest weapon. Sam squeezed gently and Dean made that noise. Again. Like a wolf caught in a trap - like a man gut-shot and left to die and Sam felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
"Dean, come on, wake up -"
Dean's lips were moving and then his voice was suddenly audible, like a radio switching on. "...libera nos a malo, libera nos a malo..." Dean's eyes snapped open and he looked straight at Sam. "You're not here." And then he launched himself, flat out, cannoning into Sam like a lion. Knocking him back, bowling him over and they both rolled, crashing into the cherry-wood veneer of the dresser and sending something - knife, gun, flask - thumping to the floor.
Sam fought back out of sheer startlement but Dean was going on instinct, adrenalin and terror in every ragged breath he took and Sam found himself flat on his back, Dean's knees in his belly and the gun jammed up tight under his chin. Dean's Desert Eagle, for fuck's sake; hand cannon that could take the top of Sam's head right off and Sam froze, panting. One hand twisted tight in Dean's damp t-shirt, the other caught under his own hip, fingers jammed painfully into the floor. The muzzle of the gun making a sharp, cold point of pain against the bone of his jaw and he swallowed oh-so-carefully.
"Dean -"
"You're not here." Dean shifted, one leg slipping sideways down Sam's hip and Sam winced, trying not to move. The gun ground up harder, pushing, and Sam felt skin tear, catching on the sight. Dean's fist in his hair, yanking his head back further, making Sam's neck creak. "You're not him. Sam's not...duh-dead, he's not in Hell and you're fucking not him, you l-lying bastard."
"You're not - we're not in Hell." Sam tugged at his pinned hand - got it free only to have Dean's palm come down on his wrist, squeezing hard enough to make Sam's hand go almost instantly numb. "I got you out, Dean, I got you out, I swear, you're out, can't you remember?" *Please, please remember, please remember...*
Dean stared at him, eyes far too wide, all pupil and whites, nostrils flaring and his lips pulled back in a snarl. Nothing in his wild-horse stare of recognition or sanity.
"Dean, Dean, listen, please -"
"Fuck you," Dean snapped, and Sam heard the slight scrape of the trigger, moving.
*No, no, nonono...think, fuck, just -* Sam opened his mouth, hoping to God something intelligent would come out, his belly knotted so tight he thought he might throw up. His brain skittered from thought to thought, frantic. Think, think, fuck's sake, can't remember, I can't remember -* "Duh-D-Deus!" Sam gasped out, and Dean blinked. "Benedictus Deus. Benedictum Momen Sanctum eius. B-benedictus Jesus Christus, verus Deus et v-veruss...homo. Dean, listen, I'm not - it's me, it's Sam. Benedictum Nomen Jesu. Benedictum Cor eius sacratissimum. A demon can't say the Divine Praises, Dean! It's me, it's Sam, it's Sam." *Please, please...*.
Sam felt Dean's weight shift, infinitesimally. Felt the grip on his wrist ease, and the gun slip a little sideways on the sweat-slick skin of Sam's jaw. It was enough. With the practice of years, he bucked, twisting, and threw Dean off him. Flung him into the end of the mattress and Dean hit and rebounded, clawing at the comforter. It slithered off the bed, falling over his face and Dean - screamed.
"Oh, shit." Sam scrabbled across three feet of carpet to where Dean thrashed, yanking the material away from his face - off his body. One knee between Dean's thighs, grabbing Dean's face and forcing him to look. Dean's hands came up, pure reflex, and locked tight on Sam's wrists. "Dean!" Dean froze. His eyes darted wildly and Sam gave him the tiniest of shakes, willing him to see. Sweat beaded at Dean's hairline, his t-shirt was ripped and his heart was thudding so hard Sam could feel it, fluttering under the edge of his hands.
"Sam?"
Dean's voice, but not. Ragged - hoarse. Barely audible and cracking and so damn...scared. Terrified, and Sam felt the air go out of him in a strangled, shaking sob. "Yeah, yes, oh fuck, Dean, yeah, it's me, it's Sam."
"I thought.... Th-thought I was...it was...."
"Yeah, shhh, I know. But it's okay, it's okay." Dean's face was wet: sweat, tears, Sam couldn't tell. His thumbs moved gently - deliberately - obliterating the damp trails. "You're safe. You're out of there, Dean, you're safe, it's okay."
"No...." Dean struggled, pushing, and Sam let go. "It's not okay, Ssam." Sam let himself be pushed back into the bed, Dean twisting himself up and into a sitting position, his legs sprawled straight out in front of him. He lifted the hem of his t-shirt and scrubbed at his face and Sam stared in furious horror at the cobweb shimmer of scars that criss-crossed the flat planes of Dean's belly.
"You just had a - a nightmare, Dean, that's all."
Dean dropped his shirt and glared at him. He was sheet-white, his eyes sunk into blue-bruised hollows from lack of sleep, his lips chewed ragged. "I didn't have a fucking n-nightmare, Sam! I...I was -" Dean ran his hand distractedly back through his hair, looking anywhere but at Sam. His gaze fell on the discarded gun and he went whiter, if that were even possible. "Oh, Christ, you hurt? Are you okay?" Dean's hands reached out, automatic - skimming over Sam's arms, cupping his jaw. Turning Sam's head and then his fingers went still. "You're bleeding."
"It's just a scratch. Seriously, Dean, I'm fine -"
"I can see the fucking imprint from the muzzle, Sam! I almost - God - I almost sh-shhot -"
"No, no, you didn't. Dean? You didn't, you -"
Dean's hands slid from their grip on Sam's skull - dropped limply into his lap. "Shut up, Sam. I did. I almost k-killed...you. Almost killed you...."
"Dean -" Sam didn't know what to say, after that. Didn't know where to go and finally he just wormed around until he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with his brother, hands in his lap and the ugly comforter bunched uncomfortably behind him.
"It's this fucking...room," Dean said. He lifted his hands and buried his face in them for a moment - scrubbed them back over his skull, making his hair stick up in a 'backwards through a hedge' way that normally Sam would have had to laugh at. "Pretty fucking stupid, huh?" Dean's voice broke into an ugly laugh. "I w-woke up, and the power was back on, and I just... I wanted to get clean. I fucking...took a shower and went to get clothes and all this fucking...red.... Blood fucking red everywhere I...looked and I'm tryin' to just...ignore it, you know?" Dean looked up at Sam, expression plaintive, and Sam nodded, forcing himself not to speak.
"I mean, I was trying, man! I was...doin' okay, I thought I was doin'...okay but it's like...everything kept...moving and, the floor was wet, I thought it was wet and then...you were, there was...." Dean rubbed at his face again and then laced his fingers together in his lap, squeezing hard. "I thought you had b-blood on you, and then I thought...you were talking and you said...you were dead, you said you'd killed yourself because I was dead, and you said...you opened your eyes and they were b-black and you said suicides go to hell anyway, Dean and...this fucking room...." Dean rubbed his palms on his thighs, his breath hitching - his eyes widening and Sam knew it was all coming back.
Knew whatever *flashback* nightmare that had taken Dean over in the first place was flooding right back in and that the fucked up slaughterhouse of a room wasn't helping. "Okay - okay, it's okay, listen - Dean?"
"Everything's bloody, Sam, everything's...covered in -" Dean was frantically washing his hands together, his voice climbing in pitch and volume and Sam felt his own heart skip a beat, pack mentality sending him skittering down the same panicked path.
"No, it's not - Dean - hey -" Sam reached out and got his hands on Dean's - forced them still, leaning in close. "Dean. Stop. I want you to get up and get the hell out of here. Right now. Go get in the car. I'm gonna get our stuff. Five minutes, Dean - we are unassing this AO right now, you got me? Dean?"
Dean stared at him - blinked, his gaze flicking over Sam's shoulders and then back, eyes too wide, face too pale, shaking apart under Sam's hands and Sam wished, for one long moment, that he had Andy's power, and could just make Dean...forget.
"Dean. We are leaving. Move."
Dean took in a sharp breath and the frantic, confused expression snapped off his face. "Got it, I got it. Let's go."
"Roger that." Sam stood first, hauling Dean after him - pushed him toward the door. Scanning the room automatically for their things: reaching for a shirt that was draped over a chair, shoving his foot into a tumbled sneaker. Dean picked his jacket up off the dresser and got it on - got his own shoes on and opened the door.
"Sammy? You sure you can - are you - can you get out?"
"Not even Hell can hold a Winchester, Dean. Three minutes."
"Three minutes." Dean lingered at the door for another heartbeat, and then he was gone.
Sam made it out the door in two and a half.
It was raining again outside - or still raining, maybe; tail-end of the storm that had soaked them before. Dean was standing beside the car, one fist resting on the roof, head tilted back to the sky. Standing in the glow of the single street light, and the paint on the car gleamed like the hide of some pampered animal, all ink black and liquid crystal sheen. The sodium-white light leeched all the color out of Dean and Sam stumbled, staring at him. Dean looked like a photograph, like some art-college student's black-and-white project. 'Anguish' or 'Lost' or maybe fucking 'Heartbroken' sticky-taped underneath.
Just broken, maybe, though Sam refused to consider that. Refused to imagine that this was where Dean would always be; lost in a war that would never end, too damaged to heal and Sam helpless to fix him - to even offer up a useful solution.
He shifted his grip on Dean's duffel - deliberately scuffed his foot across the scattered gravel on the asphalt and Dean's head came down, his gaze snapping to Sam, wary and shuttered. Dean moved toward the back of the car - fished out the keys and opened the trunk. Sam shoved their duffels away - stopped at the hesitant touch of Dean's hand on his arm.
"I think...you better drive, Sam. I'm..." Dean looked away, jaw gritted tight. Made a little motion with his hand, clenching it down to a fist again when they both saw the tremor there. "I'm pretty fuckin' tired."
"Yeah, Dean. Sure, I can drive." Sam held out his hand and Dean pressed the keys into his palm, fingertips ghosting cold across Sam's skin. They both got in, and Sam tweaked the rearview mirror a hair's breadth - turned the key and revved the engine and then spent a moment fussing with the heater and the vents, getting the bloom of fog off the inside of the windshield so he could see. He glanced over at the motel and shuddered. The warped door didn't latch quite right - the lock had been the only thing keeping it shut - and as he watched, the door swung slowly open, revealing the interior. It glowed, like the chambers of an exposed heart, sullen crimson and dull scarlet and Dean made a strangled sort of sound in the seat beside him.
"Christ, Sammy, just drive, okay? Just fucking drive."
Sam drove.
Dean told him to head east and Sam did, hitting cruising speed on Highway 2, taking it east across the top of Wisconsin and Michigan, dawn lighting everything to a smoky silver-green somewhere in the Ottawa National Forest.
Sam slowed for a sharp curve - steered around a lump of blood-dark fur that had probably been a raccoon - and Dean stirred in his seat. He hadn't slept, only stared out the window in total silence, not even acknowledging the Eagles Greatest Hits that Sam had put in somewhere around Ironwood.
Dean lifted the half-empty soda bottle from the seat beside him and took a long drink. "You remember Sergeant Taylor?"
Sam had to think, taking another slow curve, flicking a glance over at Dean, who was pushing his feet into the well, stretching his legs just a little. "Was he...you mean that guy in Jersey?"
"Yeah, Dad's buddy. Had that camp in the Pine Barrens?"
Sam tapped his fingers on the wheel, remembering. Remembering one long summer, the heat liquid and still under the pine trees, the sandy earth giving way to the river shore, and Jack Taylor's hand-built cabin, hung with weapons and gear. Sam and Dean had slept all that summer in a tree house twenty feet up, learning how to cook over an open fire and how to make napalm from soap and gasoline. "Yeah, I remember him. I remember he had anti-personnel mines all up his road and a fucking tiger trap behind the outhouse. What do you - we're not going there, are we?"
"I need to talk to him."
"What? Why? Sergeant Taylor was - he was -"
"Crazy. He was crazy, Sam. You can say it. In country for three tours, came back one doughnut short of a dozen. Talked to people that weren't there and unloaded a clip or two of ammo at shadows every couple'a days."
"And you need to talk to him...why?"
"I need to...I wanna ask him...how not to be crazy."
Sam blinked, gripping the wheel. Staring ahead at the dense greens and blacks of the forest, the slick-wet ribbon of the highway that unrolled before and after, unending. "He wasn't exactly being 'not crazy', Dean."
"That was then. I ran up there for this book once when you were...when I was hunting on my own and he's...fine now. He's fine."
"Or you caught him on a good day. Dean -"
"Sam, don't." Dean was staring intently out his window, shoulders hunched in his jacket and his fingers all but crushing the bottle. He had a bruise coming up on his jaw where Sam supposed he'd got a hit in, back at the motel. "He was...he said it was hell, over there. He said...he saw things...did things...nobody in the real world'd ever believe. He got...lost in all that shit, man, he kept getting dragged back there until -" Dean gestured wildly with the soda bottle. "Until the Batsto River was the freakin' Mekong!"
"Yeah, and?" Sam couldn't stop looking over at Dean, trying not to hit the shoulder or cross the center line - trying to make sense of Dean's thought process.
"And.... If he figured out how to - how to stop that from happening then maybe...." Dean shrugged - finally turned his head and looked at Sam, brittle smile on his lips. "Maybe he can show me how, you know? Maybe he can...patch me up, get me running again."
"You're not a fucking broken engine, Dean."
"I feel like it. Feel like I'm missing something, Sam. Feels like...something got left behind or...they... Maybe they kept something, I dunno. I'm not right, okay? I'm not...whole."
"Dean -" Sam said, helpless. Didn't have anything else to say. Jack Taylor had scared the hell out of thirteen year old Sam. He had talked about things and people that weren't there - had yelled and moaned and whimpered in his sleep. A gaunt, wild-eyed man who knew more about the Jersey Devil and water spirits than any other man alive. A broken tin soldier who'd - somehow, maybe - mended himself.
"C'mon, Sam," Dean said, and his voice was soft - pleading. Edged with that self-loathing that meant Dean was sharing more than he wanted to. "I really...I gotta do something, man, 'cause this isn't.... I'm losing my grip, man. I'm just...I dunno if I can...hold on."
"You can," Sam insisted. Automatic as breathing, and Dean gave a soft, sobbing laugh, turning away again, rubbing his knuckles fast and hard across his eyes. "Dean, you can. You're the strongest fucking person I know. You can do...God, you can do anything. I know you can."
"Sammy...I really can't," Dean whispered, and Sam hit the brakes.
Steered the car off the road and onto the gravel verge, wincing as a branch scraped down the glass of the passenger window. Ignoring Dean's startled yelp of protest. He was pretty sure it was too soon - pretty sure Dean would clock him one or maybe just walk out on him. But he just...had to. Just this once, selfish desire that had been simmering in him for days. He twisted on the seat, hitching himself sideways. Reaching for Dean and dragging him close, fist in the collar of Dean's jacket, other hand on Dean's jaw, turning his face. Bringing him close and then Sam kissed him.
Months of throttled terror and anger - months of loneliness like a sharp-toothed cancer, gnawing at him. And now - days. Days of 'just this close but no closer' and Dean fracturing like hammer-crushed glass, spider web of cracks that grew wider and deeper, day by day.
Dean tasted like sugar and salt and stale mint, and he was frozen, unmoving under Sam's lips for half a dozen heartbeats. And then he kissed back, shaky little rush of air against Sam's mouth, shaky curl of his hand behind Sam's head, fingers caught in Sam's hair. It seemed to go on forever, but it probably wasn't even a minute and then Dean pulled back, just a little.
Sam didn't let him go far - made him stay close enough that his lashes touched Sam's cheek, butterfly flick and flutter, his breath warm on Sam's lips. "Dean, okay, okay, just...if you think he.... If that's what you want, whatever you want, we'll...I won't...we'll just go, okay? We'll just go and maybe he can, maybe he...knows...."
"Thanks, Sam," Dean murmured, lips brushing, and Sam kissed him again. A little less desperate, a little more reverently. Shiver going all through him because once upon a time he'd been so sure that he would never have this again.
"Anytime, Dean. Anytime."