The Angel and The Devil, Heavy On Your Shoulders [10/22] Sam/Dean, R
Title: The Angel and The Devil, Heavy on Your Shoulders (Part III. One)
Word Count: 1386 [35000 total]
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
Part III. Watch Out for Bad Boys.
--Chapter One--
Sam's given up.
His tongue slips over the scab where Dean's elbow split his lip. Sam’s gotten the idea that he can't stop his brother. He won’t even try.
Sam watches lamps fly with black cord tails and drawers get ripped from their cabinets. He lets Dean work in quick circles around him like Sam's the eye of one very nasty storm. He feels so foggy and slow, and Dean’s lookin’ fast and mean, so he doesn't take his chances-he just watches as Dean sinks a knife into the belly of his mattress and pulls a slit. Watches as he sends the mirror from its place over the dresser to thud against the worn carpet and crack dully.
He watches the muscles of Dean's back bunch under his mud-colored tee-shirt when he hefts their small table and tosses it to the side. Watches sweat pop up over the bridge of his brother’s nose, laying on top of freckles dark on pale skin. Sam watches-seems just about all he can do.
He might have tried just a little harder to get a grip on himself, but Dean was on a mission and if it wasn’t some kind of clue, Dean wasn’t interested. His eyes are all over the room, a cold jade gaze trying to pin down everything at once. Yeah, he's looking everywhere--except at Sam, and especially, not at Sam’s arm.
Objectively, Sam can understand why Dean's trying to take the room down to studs. The curious patch of gray on Sam's hand has spread, nearly to his elbow, and just overnight. It’s definitely not normal, and it’s definitely not good. And besides the weird discoloration …well, Sam doesn't say it, because he's not about to add fuel to the psychotic fire, but he suspects he could plant a hunting knife in his hand and not even flinch. He can’t feel a damn thing with it-it’s as though his left arm’s dead and rotting and forgot about the rest of him.
It's upsetting, sure. But, as Sam watches Dean flip the mattress over and attack the box spring, he figures upsetting is pretty much par-for-course these days.
Sam finally manages to redirect his gaze at the murky carpet. He almost can't see its worn blandness under the swirled blankets and broken ceramic that is the wreckage of fucking Hurricane Dean.
It all goes on for a while, to the point that Sam is drifting off, slowly parting ways with consciousness. He’s almost gone when he gets that wired little tingle all down his spine. He doesn't have to open his eyes to know its Dean standing inches in front of him, but he does anyway.
Dean's breathing hard and shallow, his body radiating heat like a furnace. He looks rough, staring down at Sam hard enough to almost make it hurt. Sam shifts, and accidentally swallows his words. He's just caught up wondering why Dean's eyes remind him of lightening.
"Move," Dean says.
"Dean, don't you think you're over-reacting?" He reaches out for Dean's hand.
"No," Dean says, clasping Sam's arm in an iron grip and practically flinging him to his feet. "I think my reaction is perfectly normal. You, on the other hand, are a freak."
Sam shoves his hands in his pockets and feels about as helpful as a broken leg. Dean bends over the mattress, tearing the blanket and the sheets from his bed. Eventually Dean finally slows down and stops, like a wind-up toy worn down. He looks at Sam, and Sam feels embarrassed.
"What's with you, man? Are you on something?" Dean snaps.
"What are you talking about?"
"Well, look at you. You've got, like, supernatural gangrene or some shit, and I’ve seen you more upset over the Starbucks barista getting your latte wrong than you are over this. So what's up with you?”
Sam can't help but let out a laugh, even if Dean does look like he might deck him for it.
"I'm sorry. Aren't you the same guy who told me yesterday that I was officially inducted into the Pansy-Ass Hall of Fame?"
Dean's got a hand shoved inside Sam's box spring now, feeling around with not even a trace of amusement on his face. "Yah. Well. That's yesterday."
When Dean doesn't find anything in Sam's bed, he pushes the whole damn thing up and over onto its side with a crash, and Sam feels himself take a step back. He’s not afraid of his brother-no, not afraid, but there’s no harm in caution.
"Dean. There's nothing, man. It's clean. No hexbags, no cursed objects-there's nothing here."
"You're just not looking close enough, Sam," Dean mutters as he stalks to the bathroom, and Sam’s body jolts with shock when he hears the crystal explosion of the mirror being busted.
Sam twists his body in the direction of the noise and shoves himself across the floor. He stops short of going into the bathroom, hanging from the doorjamb like he’s catching himself from falling over the edge into nothing. The floor glitters with broken glass, and Sam can’t help but stare at Dean with his jaw hanging. What the hell could Dean possibly expect to find as he toes through the pool of shattered glass under his boots?
“What the fuck is going on with you?” Sam shouts. “You’re not even looking for anything anymore, you’re just trashing the place! You’re being a dick.”
It’s only after it’s already said that Sam finds the restraint necessary to close his fucking mouth. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair and wishes, not for the first time, he could find a better way to deal with Dean when he’s like this. Something possibly not involving calling him a dick.
But, as it is, it’s too late and Dean’s staring at him again, that glower that Sam’s seen before on wolves and demons. Sam stops leaning forward, and stands uncomfortably in the doorway. He crosses his arms and stands his ground, because even if it didn’t come out right, and even if Dean’s pissed, it’s true-he is being a dick.
“I got my reasons,” Dean says. He crouches down and looks at the broken chunks of his reflection on the floor, studying them without touching the shining jags of glass. Sam looks down too, even though he hasn’t got a god damn clue what Dean is looking for. Some of the little shards of mirror reflect back light, or broken little pieces of him, but plenty are the wrong side up and all they show is gray. He takes a deep breath.
“That’s crap,” Sam says, as gently as possible. “You’re scaring me, man. Reasons--tell me what reason you could possibly have for-“
Before Sam has time to pull himself back, Dean’s on his feet and gripping Sam’s bad arm and yanks it up-it’s so hard and fast that Sam’s a little glad he can’t feel anything.
“This is the reason,” Dean snarls.
In Dean’s eyes, Sam can see it: you are the reason.
The fire in Dean’s eyes flickers and fades, and his grip goes a slack. Sam slides his arm away from the loose fingers, and for a heavy heartbeat of a moment, Dean doesn’t move. Then his gaze slices to the side and he’s still so close that Sam can breathe in Dean’s air.
“I know it doesn’t look like it,” Dean says, closing his eyes. “But I’m trying here, Sammy. I really am.” He looks back at his brother. “I’m just trying to do the right thing. You understand?”
All Dean’s thunder has died down to a crackle in the back of Sam’s brain. Dean’s left looking half-drowned, body coated in sweat and exhaust circling his eyes. Sam’s gut aches and he just swallows and nods.
“Yah, Dean, forget it. Let’s just get out of here before-“
“Yah, let’s hit it,” Dean says, sliding past Sam.
Sam half-listens to Dean gathering up their things and he kneels down to the floor. He starts picking up pieces of broken mirror, and then stops. He opens his good hand and lets the collected shards slip down, back to the floor.
Sam can’t fix it. He doesn’t even try.
-part III.two-