The Angel and The Devil, Heavy On Your Shoulders [4/22] Sam/Dean, R
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
PART I. We’re Off to a Bad Start
--Chapter One--
It seems as though these days, besides sizzling black stretches of road and the crowded patterns of shitty hotel room wallpaper, all the Winchester boys see is each other. The first thing when they haul their bones out of bed in the morning, last thing before they collapse at night-each other.
Those months alone molded Sam, twisting and turning him in more ways than he’d care to count. There had been a time, just over a hundred days ago, when Sam would greet the sun with enthusiasm and alertness. He'd jump out of crumpled sheets like his ass was spring-loaded, without ever needing an alarm. He'd feel the morning in his body like there was sunshine in his veins. Now, well…things were so dark now Sam would wake up groggy and reluctant to let go of sleep. He'd feel unconvinced that the sun was even still out there, 'cause there always just seemed to be storm clouds for miles.
Sam had gotten it into his head that things would be different, now that he was waking up every morning to see the horizon of his brother’s back, slowly rising and setting with his breathing. He had thought it would give him renewed reason to be the morning person that made runs for greasy breakfast sandwiches and bitter black coffee at the ass-crack of dawn.
It doesn’t.
But it doesn't bother him. No, it's okay, because Dean is back, and that’s enough. It was all okay.
Luckily for Sam, the mattress is damn uncomfortable, so there’s less temptation to linger. The air feels heavy and lazy and his shirt sticks to every single inch of him like it’s glued. The sheets are tangled up around him, strangling his limbs. Sam yawns wide and swings long arms into a stretch and feels the sore pull of his muscles getting pissed off at him. Like a tic, his gaze snaps over to where Dean is spread out on his bed, sprawled on his stomach. He's pressed so hard into the stiff blankets and flat pillows that he looks like he fell a million miles out of the sky and landed there.
A smile twitches on Sam’s face.
While time had been busy at work on changing Sam, Hell had given Dean a few new quirks all his own. Sam was trying had to note them, catalog them, and forcibly crush that new information together with the Dean he knew. This Dean and his Dean, they were the same person-it was still his brother. One the day, the little changes wouldn’t matter anymore, Sam knew that had to be true.
For one thing, Dean no longer had that deep and rumbling snore that somehow reminded Sam of the Impala’s engine. It always had been a sure-fire soporific for Sam. That hypnotic, safe sound had been replaced with all new noises that ripped up their shared night-times. On good nights, it was whimpering. On bad nights, it was screaming.
On this morning, it was nothing.
Sam’s breath gets caught on thick air when he realizes how silent it suddenly is.
“Dean?”
Dean is still like a graveyard. Air presses out of Sam's lungs to make way for panic.
“Dean!” Sam is throwing off blankets and yanking feet off the bed when he catches a minute shift that says Dean is alive. Sam slides a hand over his hammering heart-feels like his chest is too small for the wild thing, and it's trying to bust out.
This shit is going to kill him.
But it's okay. It is all okay. Sam breathes out and shakes off the buzz of adrenaline.
Feeling pretty fucking awake, Sam pushes himself over towards Dean’s bed and lays a rough hand on his brother’s shoulder, shaking him.
“Hey Dean. Rise and shine.”
Sam knows about these new little...quirks...of course he knows. But Sam's been so tired, and every now and then it slips his worn-down mind. Luckily, he has reminders. This morning’s reminder is Dean’s elbow jacking itself against Sam’s mouth.
The taste of heat and knives rubs itself all over Sam’s tongue. And damn if that doesn't smart like a son of a bitch. Apparently, it's one of those mornings.
Quick, before Dean can scramble out of his long reach, Sam clamps a big hand Dean’s neck and twists one of his arms up around his back, so Dean's pinned, face-down on the wrecked mattress. Dean's skin is hot and slick with sweat and Sam feels a pang at how hard he's got to grip his brother while he struggles. Dean is breathing hard and fast and there's that goddamned noise that's vibrating out of him-something between a whimper and a growl. The sound crawls up Sam’s spine and gives him a sick shudder.
“Dean, you’re back.” Sam watches Dean’s working muscles go still, and he keeps talking, trying to guide Dean out of his own head. He tries to keep a velvety note of calm in his voice. “Listen, alright? You’re…you’re in Indiana. You’re out, and no one’s gonna hurt you, okay? You’re with me. You’re safe.”
“Yeah, says you,” Dean mutters, muffled against the sheets. Sam wonders what that means until Dean says, “You’re not about to get your god damn arm popped off.”
Sam lightens the pressure but keeps the grip. “You alright?”
“I'll be fine when you get the hell off of me, you friggin’ behemoth,” Dean says, yanking himself away from Sam’s hold.
Sam offers a hand to help Dean stagger blearily to his feet, and isn’t the least surprised when Dean slaps it away irritably. Dean never had been much of a morning person. Course, his A.M. crabbiness never used to include busted lips or bloody noses or big blue bruises. Still, pulling Dean out of Hell a couple of mornings a week is no big, considering they're only dreams, and seeing as how Sam couldn't manage to pull Dean out when it had mattered most.
Nothing will ever be enough to make that okay.
Sam’s eyes skim over Dean as he shuffles towards the bathroom, and his gaze catches on the rough red hand print he left burning on the back of Dean’s neck. He feels a nudge of guilt, even if he only ever does what needs to be done. Besides, not as though it's any match for the mark where his brother had been manhandled out of the Pit. Though Sam wouldn't ever say it, even under pain of death, he's a little sore that the angels put their mitts all over Dean and left behind this nasty hand-shaped reminder of how wrong the whole god damned thing had gone.
“Dean,” Sam says to his brother’s back.
Dean turns and his gray groggy eyes snap to focus on the smear of red spread from Sam’s lower lip. He squints at Sam, confused, like he's trying to read a sign through a smoke screen.
“Me?” he croaks.
“Yeah. It’s okay.”
Dean shakes his head, his jaw tightening and his fingers bunching into fists. His eyes are burning at the ground, and Sam half expects to see the floor get scorched. “Sorry, Sammy.”
Dean stretches out a hand to the wall like a blind man as he turns back towards the bathroom, but Sam slides words in Dean’s way.
“Can we please just talk about it?”
He watches Dean’s head fall forward miserably. “Can we hold off the nagging until I'm actually awake? For fuck's sake, Sam, I haven’t even hit the head yet.”
Whatever Dean might think, Sam does not actually enjoy sounding like a broken old record croaking out nobody’s favorite tune. But god damn it, someone has to call out Dean on his bullshit before he gets buried alive in it. And Sam never has been one to be easily deterred. From anything. Ever. So he just takes a deep breath and drags a heavy hand over his face.
“Christ, I am so tired of you doing that.”
“What? I'll light a match,” Dean says, looking offended, but when Sam looks in his eyes, he's as transparent as glass and Sam sees the pleading rushing just underneath.
“Of this, Dean, the ducking and dodging. Please, man, can you just...can you just let me help you?”
“With what?” Dean bites out.
He turns completely to face Sam, squaring up his shoulders and setting his stance and getting that look. The air feels even thicker, like the moment before breathless humidity turns to lightening and thunder. Fuck if he's going to, but it makes Sam want to sit down and cry, because it kills him watching that wall go up one more time. Hell, this has become Dean's default mode. Imagined dirty looks on the street, supposed lies when they interview witnesses, someone talking too loud, a heart-to-heart with his brother-every fucking thing sends Dean on the defense, looking for the next hurt on the horizon, just waiting for something new to tear him to pieces. Sam can't stand seeing it.
But, sucking in dusty air, Sam reminds himself he's lucky to be looking at Dean at all. So, it's going to be okay. He's gotta try, because someone has to call Dean out on his “I went to Hell and all I got was this lousy handprint” crap. If he can just wear down those walls, show Dean that he ain't walking away from this, then maybe, just maybe, Dean will open up and unwind and Sam can stop feeling like a spark sleeping next to a powder keg.
“Please, Dean,” Sam says, trying to sound a little less exhausted and a little more sincere. “We're brothers, man. Do you think there's something you can't tell me? And you have to talk to someone about it, Dean, because I can see what this is doing to you. You can't keep all your feelings just bottled up, because eventually--”
“Fine, Sam,” Dean says, moving back towards his bed and grabbing a corner of the mattress. Before Sam can quirk an eyebrow at him, he's lifting up the corner and jerking his head down towards the box spring. “'S where I keep my diary. It's the one with the unicorn on the front. When you read it, just...just promise me you'll be gentle.”
The room is buzzing with quiet while Sam scrapes the bottom of his patience and grits his teeth. Dean drops the mattress back and is stalking closer to Sam now, and suddenly the room seems even smaller. “Tell you what,” Dean says coldly. “I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Secrets is like, what, a freaking family past-time for us? So what about you, Sammy, you feel like sharing whatever you got stored up in that huge noggin of yours?”
Sam's jaw is working, maybe to form words, or to keep them in-he's not totally sure and before he can figure it out Dean's striding back towards the bathroom with a harsh “Didn't think so,” that hits Sam hard in the chest.
The bang of the bathroom door slamming shut wakes Sam up with a shock and he hurries to cross to it, slamming his fist against the wood. Part of him wants to go round two, because he's got to get through to Dean somehow, but in reality--
“Dean, wait, man, I really have to pee!”
Dean pokes his head out and gives Sam a quick up and down.
“Sorry, Sammy--women, children and Hell refugees first.”
Then Sam's face-to-grain with the wooden door, open and clenching his fists and concentrating on keeping them by his sides. He was so happy to have Dean back. So fucking happy. So happy he could put one of those fists through the door.
But, after all, it wasn't like Dean was ever really gone, was it?
-part I.two-
PART I. We’re Off to a Bad Start
--Chapter One--
It seems as though these days, besides sizzling black stretches of road and the crowded patterns of shitty hotel room wallpaper, all the Winchester boys see is each other. The first thing when they haul their bones out of bed in the morning, last thing before they collapse at night-each other.
Those months alone molded Sam, twisting and turning him in more ways than he’d care to count. There had been a time, just over a hundred days ago, when Sam would greet the sun with enthusiasm and alertness. He'd jump out of crumpled sheets like his ass was spring-loaded, without ever needing an alarm. He'd feel the morning in his body like there was sunshine in his veins. Now, well…things were so dark now Sam would wake up groggy and reluctant to let go of sleep. He'd feel unconvinced that the sun was even still out there, 'cause there always just seemed to be storm clouds for miles.
Sam had gotten it into his head that things would be different, now that he was waking up every morning to see the horizon of his brother’s back, slowly rising and setting with his breathing. He had thought it would give him renewed reason to be the morning person that made runs for greasy breakfast sandwiches and bitter black coffee at the ass-crack of dawn.
It doesn’t.
But it doesn't bother him. No, it's okay, because Dean is back, and that’s enough. It was all okay.
Luckily for Sam, the mattress is damn uncomfortable, so there’s less temptation to linger. The air feels heavy and lazy and his shirt sticks to every single inch of him like it’s glued. The sheets are tangled up around him, strangling his limbs. Sam yawns wide and swings long arms into a stretch and feels the sore pull of his muscles getting pissed off at him. Like a tic, his gaze snaps over to where Dean is spread out on his bed, sprawled on his stomach. He's pressed so hard into the stiff blankets and flat pillows that he looks like he fell a million miles out of the sky and landed there.
A smile twitches on Sam’s face.
While time had been busy at work on changing Sam, Hell had given Dean a few new quirks all his own. Sam was trying had to note them, catalog them, and forcibly crush that new information together with the Dean he knew. This Dean and his Dean, they were the same person-it was still his brother. One the day, the little changes wouldn’t matter anymore, Sam knew that had to be true.
For one thing, Dean no longer had that deep and rumbling snore that somehow reminded Sam of the Impala’s engine. It always had been a sure-fire soporific for Sam. That hypnotic, safe sound had been replaced with all new noises that ripped up their shared night-times. On good nights, it was whimpering. On bad nights, it was screaming.
On this morning, it was nothing.
Sam’s breath gets caught on thick air when he realizes how silent it suddenly is.
“Dean?”
Dean is still like a graveyard. Air presses out of Sam's lungs to make way for panic.
“Dean!” Sam is throwing off blankets and yanking feet off the bed when he catches a minute shift that says Dean is alive. Sam slides a hand over his hammering heart-feels like his chest is too small for the wild thing, and it's trying to bust out.
This shit is going to kill him.
But it's okay. It is all okay. Sam breathes out and shakes off the buzz of adrenaline.
Feeling pretty fucking awake, Sam pushes himself over towards Dean’s bed and lays a rough hand on his brother’s shoulder, shaking him.
“Hey Dean. Rise and shine.”
Sam knows about these new little...quirks...of course he knows. But Sam's been so tired, and every now and then it slips his worn-down mind. Luckily, he has reminders. This morning’s reminder is Dean’s elbow jacking itself against Sam’s mouth.
The taste of heat and knives rubs itself all over Sam’s tongue. And damn if that doesn't smart like a son of a bitch. Apparently, it's one of those mornings.
Quick, before Dean can scramble out of his long reach, Sam clamps a big hand Dean’s neck and twists one of his arms up around his back, so Dean's pinned, face-down on the wrecked mattress. Dean's skin is hot and slick with sweat and Sam feels a pang at how hard he's got to grip his brother while he struggles. Dean is breathing hard and fast and there's that goddamned noise that's vibrating out of him-something between a whimper and a growl. The sound crawls up Sam’s spine and gives him a sick shudder.
“Dean, you’re back.” Sam watches Dean’s working muscles go still, and he keeps talking, trying to guide Dean out of his own head. He tries to keep a velvety note of calm in his voice. “Listen, alright? You’re…you’re in Indiana. You’re out, and no one’s gonna hurt you, okay? You’re with me. You’re safe.”
“Yeah, says you,” Dean mutters, muffled against the sheets. Sam wonders what that means until Dean says, “You’re not about to get your god damn arm popped off.”
Sam lightens the pressure but keeps the grip. “You alright?”
“I'll be fine when you get the hell off of me, you friggin’ behemoth,” Dean says, yanking himself away from Sam’s hold.
Sam offers a hand to help Dean stagger blearily to his feet, and isn’t the least surprised when Dean slaps it away irritably. Dean never had been much of a morning person. Course, his A.M. crabbiness never used to include busted lips or bloody noses or big blue bruises. Still, pulling Dean out of Hell a couple of mornings a week is no big, considering they're only dreams, and seeing as how Sam couldn't manage to pull Dean out when it had mattered most.
Nothing will ever be enough to make that okay.
Sam’s eyes skim over Dean as he shuffles towards the bathroom, and his gaze catches on the rough red hand print he left burning on the back of Dean’s neck. He feels a nudge of guilt, even if he only ever does what needs to be done. Besides, not as though it's any match for the mark where his brother had been manhandled out of the Pit. Though Sam wouldn't ever say it, even under pain of death, he's a little sore that the angels put their mitts all over Dean and left behind this nasty hand-shaped reminder of how wrong the whole god damned thing had gone.
“Dean,” Sam says to his brother’s back.
Dean turns and his gray groggy eyes snap to focus on the smear of red spread from Sam’s lower lip. He squints at Sam, confused, like he's trying to read a sign through a smoke screen.
“Me?” he croaks.
“Yeah. It’s okay.”
Dean shakes his head, his jaw tightening and his fingers bunching into fists. His eyes are burning at the ground, and Sam half expects to see the floor get scorched. “Sorry, Sammy.”
Dean stretches out a hand to the wall like a blind man as he turns back towards the bathroom, but Sam slides words in Dean’s way.
“Can we please just talk about it?”
He watches Dean’s head fall forward miserably. “Can we hold off the nagging until I'm actually awake? For fuck's sake, Sam, I haven’t even hit the head yet.”
Whatever Dean might think, Sam does not actually enjoy sounding like a broken old record croaking out nobody’s favorite tune. But god damn it, someone has to call out Dean on his bullshit before he gets buried alive in it. And Sam never has been one to be easily deterred. From anything. Ever. So he just takes a deep breath and drags a heavy hand over his face.
“Christ, I am so tired of you doing that.”
“What? I'll light a match,” Dean says, looking offended, but when Sam looks in his eyes, he's as transparent as glass and Sam sees the pleading rushing just underneath.
“Of this, Dean, the ducking and dodging. Please, man, can you just...can you just let me help you?”
“With what?” Dean bites out.
He turns completely to face Sam, squaring up his shoulders and setting his stance and getting that look. The air feels even thicker, like the moment before breathless humidity turns to lightening and thunder. Fuck if he's going to, but it makes Sam want to sit down and cry, because it kills him watching that wall go up one more time. Hell, this has become Dean's default mode. Imagined dirty looks on the street, supposed lies when they interview witnesses, someone talking too loud, a heart-to-heart with his brother-every fucking thing sends Dean on the defense, looking for the next hurt on the horizon, just waiting for something new to tear him to pieces. Sam can't stand seeing it.
But, sucking in dusty air, Sam reminds himself he's lucky to be looking at Dean at all. So, it's going to be okay. He's gotta try, because someone has to call Dean out on his “I went to Hell and all I got was this lousy handprint” crap. If he can just wear down those walls, show Dean that he ain't walking away from this, then maybe, just maybe, Dean will open up and unwind and Sam can stop feeling like a spark sleeping next to a powder keg.
“Please, Dean,” Sam says, trying to sound a little less exhausted and a little more sincere. “We're brothers, man. Do you think there's something you can't tell me? And you have to talk to someone about it, Dean, because I can see what this is doing to you. You can't keep all your feelings just bottled up, because eventually--”
“Fine, Sam,” Dean says, moving back towards his bed and grabbing a corner of the mattress. Before Sam can quirk an eyebrow at him, he's lifting up the corner and jerking his head down towards the box spring. “'S where I keep my diary. It's the one with the unicorn on the front. When you read it, just...just promise me you'll be gentle.”
The room is buzzing with quiet while Sam scrapes the bottom of his patience and grits his teeth. Dean drops the mattress back and is stalking closer to Sam now, and suddenly the room seems even smaller. “Tell you what,” Dean says coldly. “I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Secrets is like, what, a freaking family past-time for us? So what about you, Sammy, you feel like sharing whatever you got stored up in that huge noggin of yours?”
Sam's jaw is working, maybe to form words, or to keep them in-he's not totally sure and before he can figure it out Dean's striding back towards the bathroom with a harsh “Didn't think so,” that hits Sam hard in the chest.
The bang of the bathroom door slamming shut wakes Sam up with a shock and he hurries to cross to it, slamming his fist against the wood. Part of him wants to go round two, because he's got to get through to Dean somehow, but in reality--
“Dean, wait, man, I really have to pee!”
Dean pokes his head out and gives Sam a quick up and down.
“Sorry, Sammy--women, children and Hell refugees first.”
Then Sam's face-to-grain with the wooden door, open and clenching his fists and concentrating on keeping them by his sides. He was so happy to have Dean back. So fucking happy. So happy he could put one of those fists through the door.
But, after all, it wasn't like Dean was ever really gone, was it?
-part I.two-