The Angel and The Devil, Heavy On Your Shoulders [5/22] Sam/Dean, R
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
PART I. We’re Off to a Bad Start.
--Chapter Two--
Before Dean came back, Sam had a routine. Sam would wake up. He would check the clock. He would examine the ceiling above him. He'd get up, brush his teeth, and put on clothes laid out the night before. He'd snap right angles out of the sheets and smooth parallel lines in the blankets.
And then he'd hear Dean's voice.
“Well damn. That's a great looking bed. Yup, you're really rocking that whole making-the-bed thing.”
Sam kept his focus on properly placing the pillows. If he didn't look at Dean, maybe he would go away. Turning and seeing Dean's face would only encourage his dumb delusional brain. And he was not going through this-not again.
“Yeah, too bad your housekeeping skills are doing fuck-all to spring me from downstairs.”
Sam was reviewing his mental morning check list. Pee. Brush teeth. Shave. Dress. Make Bed. Make...bed...bed...fuck. He could not remember what came next for the life of him. Weapons? Check the map? He stood frozen, bent over the suffocating straight bedspread. He wasn't scared to move-really. He was just thinking.
“Hello? I know you can fucking hear me, you asshole! Unbelievable. I'm rotting in Hell, you son of a bitch, and you're ignoring me for a god damn blanket. You're a selfish bastard, you know that?”
Since the night Dean...since the fight with Lilith, Sam felt like he was on a knife's edge. All the time with his fingers made into fists. Every day with his eyes contorted in a hot glare. Every moment spent in slow simmer. And suddenly, the accusation in Dean's voice made him violently boil over.
“Yeah, actually,” Sam spat out, turning to finally face Dean. “I do know that. I know I fucked up. But I'm trying, here, Dean. I'm pulling out every trick in every book I can get my damn hands on. I don't-I don't know what else I can do here, man.” Sam holds out his hands. He wants someone, somewhere, to know he's doing the very best he can. He's doing everything he can think of and none of it is working at all. And every try hollows him out a little more.
“Don't give me that shit.” Dean says, reaching out and slapping Sam's hands away, hard enough for Sam's whole body to twist with the blow. Dean's lips are twitching to near a scowl, and its hurting Sam, so bad he can't breathe. “If you cry, so help me,” Dean says in a dangerous voice to match his glare, “I will beat you senseless, Sam. You aren't the one burning. You aren't the one screaming until your throat bleeds. So don't you fucking cry on me.”
Sam is sucking in a breathe. He isn't crying. He wasn't gonna cry. He's not that weak.
“Dean, this isn't...if you had helped me try to save you--”
“Oh, so you're gonna put this on me. It's my fault I went to Hell. To save your ass.”
“I never asked you to make that deal!” Sam shouts. He doesn't care if someone outside the room hears the one-sided fight. Let them think he's crazy. Right about now, a padded cell doesn't sound like the worst thing in the world. “God, Dean, the last thing I would have ever wanted was this! I never asked for this!”
“No, you're right. You didn't ask for this.” Dean replies with a smirk. “But I did ask you to save me. I told you I didn't want to die, that I didn't want to go to Hell, and you lied to me, Sam. I never asked you for anything our whole fucking lives, and I saved you more times than you can count, and the one time I need you, what happened? Why didn't you save me, Sammy?”
Sam's not paying attention anymore. He can't. He's on his hands and knees, hands scrambling at the familiar green duffel. He unzips it so fast it almost rips. And, oh, his hands ache to rip something apart.
“And now look at you,” Dean's voice keeps pounding in Sam's mind.
Sam digs in the bag. His vision is a little blurred, so it's hard to see. But he knows exactly how it feels, the thing he wants. In a moment, he's got it.
“It's bad enough I wound up downstairs because you couldn't do jack for me, but now you're getting sexed up by a Hell vixen.”
Sam's blood is turning to bile in his body. His eyes sting like his head’s pounding with acid. And Dean keeps talking.
“Save me from the demons by fucking one. Brilliant plan there, Sammy. Oh, better yet-suck down enough demon juice to become a Hell bitch yourself, hunh? How long before you're the one ripping me to shreds, Sam? How long before you're one of them?” Dean shouts, and Sam grasps at his head a little-he's a little afraid it might just burst.
He wishes that his anger was all for Dean, but it's not, not at all. Still, that's who he points the sawed-off at, and Dean laughs. He laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen. He laughs til water beads in the corners of his eyes and he's wheezing.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Dean gasps, wiping tears off his face. “I'm not a fucking spirit, you moron. I'm in your head. Your big freaky head.”
The gun is shaking in Sam's grasp, but he doesn't lower it. He doesn't move at all.
“So, if you wanna get rid of me, Sammy boy....” Dean says, moving slowly closer, until the barrel is pressed up against the fabric of his tee, right above the necklace. “You wanna get rid of me, you know where to aim.”
When Sam pulls the trigger, the dream ends. He wakes up. He checks the clock. He examines the ceiling about him. He replays the dream, but he doesn't feel relieved.
What he does feel is thirsty.
-part I.three-
PART I. We’re Off to a Bad Start.
--Chapter Two--
Before Dean came back, Sam had a routine. Sam would wake up. He would check the clock. He would examine the ceiling above him. He'd get up, brush his teeth, and put on clothes laid out the night before. He'd snap right angles out of the sheets and smooth parallel lines in the blankets.
And then he'd hear Dean's voice.
“Well damn. That's a great looking bed. Yup, you're really rocking that whole making-the-bed thing.”
Sam kept his focus on properly placing the pillows. If he didn't look at Dean, maybe he would go away. Turning and seeing Dean's face would only encourage his dumb delusional brain. And he was not going through this-not again.
“Yeah, too bad your housekeeping skills are doing fuck-all to spring me from downstairs.”
Sam was reviewing his mental morning check list. Pee. Brush teeth. Shave. Dress. Make Bed. Make...bed...bed...fuck. He could not remember what came next for the life of him. Weapons? Check the map? He stood frozen, bent over the suffocating straight bedspread. He wasn't scared to move-really. He was just thinking.
“Hello? I know you can fucking hear me, you asshole! Unbelievable. I'm rotting in Hell, you son of a bitch, and you're ignoring me for a god damn blanket. You're a selfish bastard, you know that?”
Since the night Dean...since the fight with Lilith, Sam felt like he was on a knife's edge. All the time with his fingers made into fists. Every day with his eyes contorted in a hot glare. Every moment spent in slow simmer. And suddenly, the accusation in Dean's voice made him violently boil over.
“Yeah, actually,” Sam spat out, turning to finally face Dean. “I do know that. I know I fucked up. But I'm trying, here, Dean. I'm pulling out every trick in every book I can get my damn hands on. I don't-I don't know what else I can do here, man.” Sam holds out his hands. He wants someone, somewhere, to know he's doing the very best he can. He's doing everything he can think of and none of it is working at all. And every try hollows him out a little more.
“Don't give me that shit.” Dean says, reaching out and slapping Sam's hands away, hard enough for Sam's whole body to twist with the blow. Dean's lips are twitching to near a scowl, and its hurting Sam, so bad he can't breathe. “If you cry, so help me,” Dean says in a dangerous voice to match his glare, “I will beat you senseless, Sam. You aren't the one burning. You aren't the one screaming until your throat bleeds. So don't you fucking cry on me.”
Sam is sucking in a breathe. He isn't crying. He wasn't gonna cry. He's not that weak.
“Dean, this isn't...if you had helped me try to save you--”
“Oh, so you're gonna put this on me. It's my fault I went to Hell. To save your ass.”
“I never asked you to make that deal!” Sam shouts. He doesn't care if someone outside the room hears the one-sided fight. Let them think he's crazy. Right about now, a padded cell doesn't sound like the worst thing in the world. “God, Dean, the last thing I would have ever wanted was this! I never asked for this!”
“No, you're right. You didn't ask for this.” Dean replies with a smirk. “But I did ask you to save me. I told you I didn't want to die, that I didn't want to go to Hell, and you lied to me, Sam. I never asked you for anything our whole fucking lives, and I saved you more times than you can count, and the one time I need you, what happened? Why didn't you save me, Sammy?”
Sam's not paying attention anymore. He can't. He's on his hands and knees, hands scrambling at the familiar green duffel. He unzips it so fast it almost rips. And, oh, his hands ache to rip something apart.
“And now look at you,” Dean's voice keeps pounding in Sam's mind.
Sam digs in the bag. His vision is a little blurred, so it's hard to see. But he knows exactly how it feels, the thing he wants. In a moment, he's got it.
“It's bad enough I wound up downstairs because you couldn't do jack for me, but now you're getting sexed up by a Hell vixen.”
Sam's blood is turning to bile in his body. His eyes sting like his head’s pounding with acid. And Dean keeps talking.
“Save me from the demons by fucking one. Brilliant plan there, Sammy. Oh, better yet-suck down enough demon juice to become a Hell bitch yourself, hunh? How long before you're the one ripping me to shreds, Sam? How long before you're one of them?” Dean shouts, and Sam grasps at his head a little-he's a little afraid it might just burst.
He wishes that his anger was all for Dean, but it's not, not at all. Still, that's who he points the sawed-off at, and Dean laughs. He laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen. He laughs til water beads in the corners of his eyes and he's wheezing.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Dean gasps, wiping tears off his face. “I'm not a fucking spirit, you moron. I'm in your head. Your big freaky head.”
The gun is shaking in Sam's grasp, but he doesn't lower it. He doesn't move at all.
“So, if you wanna get rid of me, Sammy boy....” Dean says, moving slowly closer, until the barrel is pressed up against the fabric of his tee, right above the necklace. “You wanna get rid of me, you know where to aim.”
When Sam pulls the trigger, the dream ends. He wakes up. He checks the clock. He examines the ceiling about him. He replays the dream, but he doesn't feel relieved.
What he does feel is thirsty.
-part I.three-