(no subject)
Patchwork
by whereupon
Supernatural: Gen, early season six, R. 3,430 words. A slightly weird, not-very-nice little story.
They're meant to save each other. That's how this goes. If he doesn't have that, what's the point?
In very belated response to a prompt by roque-clasique.
The wind's picking up, an ominous sweep like breath coming down from the mountains, those jagged peaks like the age-worn teeth of some great monster buried deep within the earth. It's a stupid thought, but then, it's hard not to be on edge these days, with the constant report of gunshots from the canyon and the way the oppressive pewter clouds hang low over the range. It's hunting season and the far end of the parking lot is full of battered pickups, around which swarm men in dull orange jackets, and their dogs, who won't fucking stop barking. The goddamn air rings with the noise and it's wearing even on Dean's nerves.
He leans back against the side of his car and crosses his arms over his chest like a sullen kid, which is stupid because he's thirty and an honest-to-god real hunter and if any of those assholes came up against the kind of things he sees on a goddamn daily basis, they'd be in straitjackets for the rest of their lives, if the thing didn't cut them down on sight. So he shouldn't be letting them get to him, but they are anyway and as a result, his hands keep fucking shaking like he's some newbie kid about to take his first shot, but fuck, even when he was that kid, lifetimes ago, his hands didn't shake this badly.
He wonders what the odds are that he'll actually be able to aim for the revenant at all, much less manage a headshot, when they find it. Though on the bright side, or what passes for it these days, there's the chance that if he misses, the bullet might hit one of these swaggering assholes who need to wear fucking orange just so they don't shoot each other's nuts off.
If it doesn't hit Sam. Or ricochet off some goddamn strategically placed tree and hit him, which is pretty much how his luck has been going these days.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It's amazing how much that particular mental litany doesn't help at all, but he keeps at it anyway, because it's not like he's got anything better to think about.
At long last Sam emerges from the ranger's station, wearing that ridiculous knitted cap he picked up at some gas station on the way in, the one he agonized over choosing for five minutes, like he was making it into a goddamn show. He's even wearing gloves, for Christ's sake. It's going to snow any fucking day now, sure, but it's not snowing yet, so if Sam could maybe try not to be so much of a pussy, that'd be, like, fucking great.
But whatever, Sam can knock himself out, maybe literally, for all Dean cares. He just wants to go back to Lisa's, because, fine, maybe he's gone soft, but he's gotten used to sleeping in an actual bed with actual goddamn lumbar support as opposed to the bed he slept in last night, which barely had a mattress, though it sure as fuck had springs, which he felt digging into his back all goddamn night long, and maybe that means he's getting old, but right now, he does. Not. Care.
Sam, on the other hand, apparently had no problem sleeping, because he was up before Dean this morning, showered and hair combed and twitching like he'd just downed a pot of coffee, and though he didn't actually tell Dean to hurry up, Dean got the message loud and clear.
Sam thinks Dean's slowing them down. Which is funny, considering he's the one who wanted Dean to get back into this.
"Are you sure you don't want some gloves?" Sam says, drawing close. "Or at least some coffee? There's coffee in there, if you want."
"What I want is for you to shut the hell up," Dean says, even though coffee sounds great, sounds like it would at least warm his hands and maybe take the edge off of the ache forming behind his temples. Goddamn barometric pressure, goddamn fucking gunshots, goddamn fucking dogs. "Do I look like I want some damn gloves?"
Sam pauses like he's actually thinking about the question and Dean grits his teeth. Sam does that a lot these days, like he's forgotten how to act with Dean around, like he's forgotten how they used to be brothers, Jesus fucking Christ. For all that Sam claims being in hell didn't affect him one fucking bit, he's sure as hell -- ha-damn-ha -- not acting like it. A year ago, Sam would have told him to stop being such a fucking jerk and put his goddamn gloves on already unless Dean was trying to give Sam a chance to practice in-the-field amputation. A year ago, Sam would have brought him a damn cup of coffee and it would have been burnt and tasted like shit, but it would have been hot and it would have been caffeine and it would have been Sam making a goddamn effort without even thinking about it. As opposed to the way he is now, where every fucking thing is, like, calculated, because apparently Sam forgot how to be a fucking human being while he was down under.
Or maybe he just forgot how to be Dean's brother. That's actually worse, by a magnitude of, like, infinity. Which Dean knows is stupid, and means maybe he has a fucking problem, but whatever. That's how it's always been with them, except for how apparently it's not anymore, now it's just Dean, and Sam's perfectly fine without him.
So fuck coffee and fuck gloves and maybe most of all fuck Sam, even though that's tantamount to saying fuck everything Dean's ever lived for. What he actually wants is a goddamn drink, but he's trying not to think about how he's afraid to say as much. Because there's a chance that Sam would give him a look, the look, like he used to, but Dean's fairly certain that he wouldn't. Dean's fairly certain that Sam would just shrug and say okay and go about his own goddamn business, which Dean would appreciate, except for how it would be so fucking Twilight Zone, so fucking wrong.
They're meant to save each other. That's how this goes. If he doesn't have that, what's the point of any of it, of any of this?
And the thing, the insult to the injury is his life and all that shit, is, before, Sam would have never let a silence drag on like this. Not that it's silence, really. It's not anything like silence, with those fucking yipping dogs and the gunshots echoing, not one right after another, but every time he thinks it might be safe to breathe again. But before, Sam would have asked what was wrong, and he wouldn't have shut up until Dean could come up with some lie that sounded at least vaguely plausible.
"Come on," Dean says, when Sam only looks at him blankly, because every second he waits for Sam to say something is another second of this fucking purgatory. He shoves his hands, the knuckles chapped red by the wind and okay, maybe gloves would have been a good idea after all, into his pockets, and shrugs deeper into his jacket, and somehow, even though he's the one who gave the order, he ends up following Sam across the dusty lot to the trailhead.
Even in the woods, even following the trail carved out between the trees and battered by the tramping of thousands of footsteps during the previous summer months, he can't get away from that flat grey sky. It's bounded by trees, sure, but he feels it on the back of his neck, could look up and try stare it down, if he wanted to.
It's fucking heavy, that sky. Whole worlds, full of demons and terrible angels, waiting to break through.
And even in the woods, he can't escape the noise of the gunshots. At least the dogs are quieter, though.
He's not sure how it happens, because one minute he's walking, trying to keep up with Sam's gigantor pace and at least that's something that hasn't changed, and the next he's vaguely aware that his knees hurt, because he's always been shit at falling properly, and then he's on all fours, gasping for breath and noticing distantly that his hands are clutching at the earth like that might ground him, though it's never once worked before. The earth only ever opens up and swallows things whole.
He thinks he might black out for a little while after that, because then his ears are ringing and he's on his ass in the dirt, leaning against something that he works out is a tree from the way the bark rubs against the back of his neck and also from the fact that trees are the only goddamn things around, and staring at the hole torn in the left knee of his brother's jeans, and then staring at his brother's face when Sam crouches down beside him.
Sam rests his hand on Dean's forehead like it's something he learned to do from a book, like it's something he's never done before, and Dean, god help him (and isn't that a fucking joke), doesn't pull away, doesn't jerk out of Sam's grasp and tell him not to get handsy, because he knows that Sam would listen. And what the fuck does that say about his mental state at this precise moment, that he'd rather have this, would rather pretend, just for a second, than face up to the truth, which is that Sam doesn't fucking care.
Sam -- if it is Sam, and it has to be, because even goddamn Lucifer himself wasn't this cruel, though maybe he picked up a few tricks down under, combing through Dean's little brother's subconscious for the sharpest pieces, the ones that cut now like razors -- doesn't care about him at all.
"You're running a fever," Sam says, looking away, reaching for his discarded glove, and Dean shivers, wanting so badly for Sam to put his hand back and to tell him that this is all a dream, that it will get better. Wanting so badly to believe that Sam would be right.
"Fuck you," Dean says, and maybe it's not the most eloquent he's ever been, but it's worth it for the way Sam furrows his forehead. The reaction comes a moment too late, like Sam had to think about it, but Dean will take what he can get.
"You should go back to the car," Sam says, which is probably true, but Dean will be damned -- and that would make, what, the millionth time? -- if he lets Sam do this alone. Sam dragged him out here, and he made it this far; there's no way he's going to be left behind for the rest of it.
"No," Dean says, and grits his teeth, hauling himself back to his feet through sheer strength of will. He's fairly certain he shouldn't be sweating as a result of that exertion, so he decides that's probably the fever.
"I'll come with you," Sam says, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder, heat bleeding through Dean's jacket, through the thin fabric of his shirt. Dean pulls away, but after his first step, his first misstep, the ground tilting beneath him so that he stumbles and has to catch his balance on the nearest tree, tearing his palm open on the rough bark, he gives in. He lets Sam put a hand on his back and guide him back down the trail, because he doesn't have another choice.
The way he keeps stumbling over exposed roots, he wouldn't trust himself with a gun.
He tells himself that's the reason why he's shaking, that it's only because he's sick. He tells himself he is not afraid of his own brother, because if that's true, there is absolutely nothing left for him.
Jesus, he is so fucking tired. Tired of trying to keep it together, trying to pretend things are okay between him and Sam, so fucking tired of everything.
In the car, he fishes his flask out of the glove compartment and unscrews the cap as Sam starts the engine. "It's okay," Sam says, but his voice is hollow, and if he touches Dean right now, Dean's not going to be able to hide his flinch. "You'll feel better soon," he adds, and Dean glances down, because he can't look at the sky any longer and he sure as fuck can't look at Sam.
Smeared across his palm, his blood is so bright, the brightest thing he's seen all day. He's transfixed by it, this vivid hot thing that seems to burn brighter than his own heart, and he wonders if this is anything like what it was for Sam, that year he spent with Ruby, that year he spent lying to Dean. It would be, he tells himself, a very bad idea to ask Sam that right now, though he's having trouble remembering why, exactly. He's having trouble remembering a lot of things, and he thinks that if he gives it just another minute or two, he might be lulled into sleep by the familiarity of his car, the rumble of her engine, but then Sam speaks and the chance is gone.
"We'll go to the motel and you can get some sleep," Sam says, oblivious, and Dean lifts the flask to his mouth against everything he isn't saying, and everything Sam isn't telling him, and after a little while, the whiskey doesn't burn his throat anymore and he can lean back, breathe easier, and if he still can't bring himself to look out the window at that awful gaping sky, that sky like a wound, at least he can't hear those goddamned guns over the engine noise.
He even manages to fall asleep eventually, and he wakes cold and sudden to find the car stopped and the keys gone, along with his brother. He blinks, momentarily confused, until recognition begins to filter in and he realizes that he's at the motel, that the thin green light spilling across the hood comes from the neon motel sign.
He thinks he remembers Sam saying something about going to the motel. He hadn't thought Sam would just leave him there, but when he thinks about it, it's not really a surprise.
And then the trunk slams shut and he jumps despite himself and Sam raps at the window, their bags slung over his shoulder. Dean swallows and nods, opens the door. It hurts to stand, but the cold air feels good, now, cutting across his palm, cutting through his body.
He doesn't bother turning on the lights in the room, and Sam doesn't either, though Dean's not sure whether that's out of consideration for him or because Sam can see in the dark. He sinks down onto the side of his bed and presses the heels of his hands into his burning eyes, tells himself he's fucking raving. He's practically delusional; he would have to be, in order to think something like that.
Sam is watching him from the little table by the door when he lowers his hands, lifts his head. He wishes he could stop shaking, he needs to stop shaking, because there's no way he's going to be able to get the bottle out of the nightstand drawer and opened and poured, not with his hands, with his whole body, shaking like this, and there's no fucking way he's going to ask Sam for help.
He knows, though, and that's what makes it worse, as if this situation needed to be any more twisted, any more of a mindfuck -- he knows that Sam would help, would do it for him, and it's one thing for Dean to be fucked up, but it would be something else entirely for his little brother, for his whole world, to tell him that's okay. There are words for that. Enabling is one of them.
But he's taking too long and even this new not-right Sam has figured out that something's wrong, has run the fucking process through whatever passes for his brain these days and figured out what's meant to come next, because it always comes next, and oh Jesus, now he's getting up, now he's walking to Dean, and reaching past him, and pulling out the bottle, and Dean stares at it, because he can't make himself look at Sam. He won't. He hears Sam moving around again, and when Sam returns with one of the plastic-wrapped tumblers, now de-plasticked, from the counter and pours a drink, and hands it to him, Dean cannot fucking breathe.
Because Sam is fucking smiling. Like he thinks this is what Dean wants. Which it is, but even more than that, even now, Dean wants his brother back, because Sam shouldn't do this. Sam wouldn't.
Dean lifts the glass against the horrible significance of the observation, and swallows the contents, and puts it back down. The room is spinning slightly, and he's not sure whether that's the fever or the alcohol or the sheer wrongness of the situation, the dread, the surety, that this is not Sam.
This is not his brother.
He licks his lips. "Sam," he says, and Sam pours him another without saying anything, and Dean swears that's not what he was asking. But Sam is only looking, isn't judging, and Dean wants it so fucking badly; his mouth is so goddamn dry, and Sam should know better than anyone, almost. Sam should know what this is like, because Sam was the same fucking way, before, and he almost ended the world because of it, and now he's dead, now he's in hell and this fucking thing that only looks like him is here in his place, and Dean tells himself that's why he takes the glass. Because he cannot do this without it. He can't.
Sam, on the other hand, Sam could; in the end, Sam said no, but he always was stronger than Dean. And Dean isn't going to cry, not because he has any fucking illusions about not being weak, but because he doesn't think he could stand to find out how this version of Sam would react. What he -- what it -- would do. If Sam would try to make it better. So he chokes back something that might have been words and might have been a sob borne of fear and exhaustion and this fucking fever, and he lifts the glass.
When it falls, empty again, from his grasp, he thinks hazily that he'd meant to throw it. To shatter something, break something, since he can't get his hands around Sam's neck and shake this thing out of him, this demon that is masquerading as his little brother. But it is so dark now, and the shivering isn't as bad as it was before, and Sam has him by the shoulders, is guiding him back, down on to the bed, and the pillow is so soft and cool at the nape of his neck.
"It'll be okay," Sam says, and Dean closes his eyes at the carnival twist of the ceiling, and so that he doesn't have to look at Sam. Sam rests his hand on Dean's forehead again and Dean bites his lip to keep from screaming, to keep from being sick. "Trust me, I'm your brother," Sam says, his palm callused and dry and his tone a parody of reassuring, and Dean keeps his eyes closed tightly, and waits to pass out.
Maybe the snow will fall and it will be Ragnarok and he will not have to wake up. This is the thought to which he clings as he falls asleep; this is the prayer of the damned which he recites long after Sam has moved from his side, though his eyes are still closed because he's terrified of what he might see if he opened them. He's terrified that he might find Sam gone, terrified that Sam would not come back, terrified that he would be left alone again, alone this final time.
He's terrified, and he has never once in his whole life been brave, so there's no reason he should start now. There's no reason to break a perfect record, after all. He swallows past the shredded glass in his throat, and he keeps his eyes closed, and outside, something that is not the wind begins to howl.
He waits, as quietly as he can, for morning.
--
end
by whereupon
Supernatural: Gen, early season six, R. 3,430 words. A slightly weird, not-very-nice little story.
They're meant to save each other. That's how this goes. If he doesn't have that, what's the point?
In very belated response to a prompt by roque-clasique.
The wind's picking up, an ominous sweep like breath coming down from the mountains, those jagged peaks like the age-worn teeth of some great monster buried deep within the earth. It's a stupid thought, but then, it's hard not to be on edge these days, with the constant report of gunshots from the canyon and the way the oppressive pewter clouds hang low over the range. It's hunting season and the far end of the parking lot is full of battered pickups, around which swarm men in dull orange jackets, and their dogs, who won't fucking stop barking. The goddamn air rings with the noise and it's wearing even on Dean's nerves.
He leans back against the side of his car and crosses his arms over his chest like a sullen kid, which is stupid because he's thirty and an honest-to-god real hunter and if any of those assholes came up against the kind of things he sees on a goddamn daily basis, they'd be in straitjackets for the rest of their lives, if the thing didn't cut them down on sight. So he shouldn't be letting them get to him, but they are anyway and as a result, his hands keep fucking shaking like he's some newbie kid about to take his first shot, but fuck, even when he was that kid, lifetimes ago, his hands didn't shake this badly.
He wonders what the odds are that he'll actually be able to aim for the revenant at all, much less manage a headshot, when they find it. Though on the bright side, or what passes for it these days, there's the chance that if he misses, the bullet might hit one of these swaggering assholes who need to wear fucking orange just so they don't shoot each other's nuts off.
If it doesn't hit Sam. Or ricochet off some goddamn strategically placed tree and hit him, which is pretty much how his luck has been going these days.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It's amazing how much that particular mental litany doesn't help at all, but he keeps at it anyway, because it's not like he's got anything better to think about.
At long last Sam emerges from the ranger's station, wearing that ridiculous knitted cap he picked up at some gas station on the way in, the one he agonized over choosing for five minutes, like he was making it into a goddamn show. He's even wearing gloves, for Christ's sake. It's going to snow any fucking day now, sure, but it's not snowing yet, so if Sam could maybe try not to be so much of a pussy, that'd be, like, fucking great.
But whatever, Sam can knock himself out, maybe literally, for all Dean cares. He just wants to go back to Lisa's, because, fine, maybe he's gone soft, but he's gotten used to sleeping in an actual bed with actual goddamn lumbar support as opposed to the bed he slept in last night, which barely had a mattress, though it sure as fuck had springs, which he felt digging into his back all goddamn night long, and maybe that means he's getting old, but right now, he does. Not. Care.
Sam, on the other hand, apparently had no problem sleeping, because he was up before Dean this morning, showered and hair combed and twitching like he'd just downed a pot of coffee, and though he didn't actually tell Dean to hurry up, Dean got the message loud and clear.
Sam thinks Dean's slowing them down. Which is funny, considering he's the one who wanted Dean to get back into this.
"Are you sure you don't want some gloves?" Sam says, drawing close. "Or at least some coffee? There's coffee in there, if you want."
"What I want is for you to shut the hell up," Dean says, even though coffee sounds great, sounds like it would at least warm his hands and maybe take the edge off of the ache forming behind his temples. Goddamn barometric pressure, goddamn fucking gunshots, goddamn fucking dogs. "Do I look like I want some damn gloves?"
Sam pauses like he's actually thinking about the question and Dean grits his teeth. Sam does that a lot these days, like he's forgotten how to act with Dean around, like he's forgotten how they used to be brothers, Jesus fucking Christ. For all that Sam claims being in hell didn't affect him one fucking bit, he's sure as hell -- ha-damn-ha -- not acting like it. A year ago, Sam would have told him to stop being such a fucking jerk and put his goddamn gloves on already unless Dean was trying to give Sam a chance to practice in-the-field amputation. A year ago, Sam would have brought him a damn cup of coffee and it would have been burnt and tasted like shit, but it would have been hot and it would have been caffeine and it would have been Sam making a goddamn effort without even thinking about it. As opposed to the way he is now, where every fucking thing is, like, calculated, because apparently Sam forgot how to be a fucking human being while he was down under.
Or maybe he just forgot how to be Dean's brother. That's actually worse, by a magnitude of, like, infinity. Which Dean knows is stupid, and means maybe he has a fucking problem, but whatever. That's how it's always been with them, except for how apparently it's not anymore, now it's just Dean, and Sam's perfectly fine without him.
So fuck coffee and fuck gloves and maybe most of all fuck Sam, even though that's tantamount to saying fuck everything Dean's ever lived for. What he actually wants is a goddamn drink, but he's trying not to think about how he's afraid to say as much. Because there's a chance that Sam would give him a look, the look, like he used to, but Dean's fairly certain that he wouldn't. Dean's fairly certain that Sam would just shrug and say okay and go about his own goddamn business, which Dean would appreciate, except for how it would be so fucking Twilight Zone, so fucking wrong.
They're meant to save each other. That's how this goes. If he doesn't have that, what's the point of any of it, of any of this?
And the thing, the insult to the injury is his life and all that shit, is, before, Sam would have never let a silence drag on like this. Not that it's silence, really. It's not anything like silence, with those fucking yipping dogs and the gunshots echoing, not one right after another, but every time he thinks it might be safe to breathe again. But before, Sam would have asked what was wrong, and he wouldn't have shut up until Dean could come up with some lie that sounded at least vaguely plausible.
"Come on," Dean says, when Sam only looks at him blankly, because every second he waits for Sam to say something is another second of this fucking purgatory. He shoves his hands, the knuckles chapped red by the wind and okay, maybe gloves would have been a good idea after all, into his pockets, and shrugs deeper into his jacket, and somehow, even though he's the one who gave the order, he ends up following Sam across the dusty lot to the trailhead.
Even in the woods, even following the trail carved out between the trees and battered by the tramping of thousands of footsteps during the previous summer months, he can't get away from that flat grey sky. It's bounded by trees, sure, but he feels it on the back of his neck, could look up and try stare it down, if he wanted to.
It's fucking heavy, that sky. Whole worlds, full of demons and terrible angels, waiting to break through.
And even in the woods, he can't escape the noise of the gunshots. At least the dogs are quieter, though.
He's not sure how it happens, because one minute he's walking, trying to keep up with Sam's gigantor pace and at least that's something that hasn't changed, and the next he's vaguely aware that his knees hurt, because he's always been shit at falling properly, and then he's on all fours, gasping for breath and noticing distantly that his hands are clutching at the earth like that might ground him, though it's never once worked before. The earth only ever opens up and swallows things whole.
He thinks he might black out for a little while after that, because then his ears are ringing and he's on his ass in the dirt, leaning against something that he works out is a tree from the way the bark rubs against the back of his neck and also from the fact that trees are the only goddamn things around, and staring at the hole torn in the left knee of his brother's jeans, and then staring at his brother's face when Sam crouches down beside him.
Sam rests his hand on Dean's forehead like it's something he learned to do from a book, like it's something he's never done before, and Dean, god help him (and isn't that a fucking joke), doesn't pull away, doesn't jerk out of Sam's grasp and tell him not to get handsy, because he knows that Sam would listen. And what the fuck does that say about his mental state at this precise moment, that he'd rather have this, would rather pretend, just for a second, than face up to the truth, which is that Sam doesn't fucking care.
Sam -- if it is Sam, and it has to be, because even goddamn Lucifer himself wasn't this cruel, though maybe he picked up a few tricks down under, combing through Dean's little brother's subconscious for the sharpest pieces, the ones that cut now like razors -- doesn't care about him at all.
"You're running a fever," Sam says, looking away, reaching for his discarded glove, and Dean shivers, wanting so badly for Sam to put his hand back and to tell him that this is all a dream, that it will get better. Wanting so badly to believe that Sam would be right.
"Fuck you," Dean says, and maybe it's not the most eloquent he's ever been, but it's worth it for the way Sam furrows his forehead. The reaction comes a moment too late, like Sam had to think about it, but Dean will take what he can get.
"You should go back to the car," Sam says, which is probably true, but Dean will be damned -- and that would make, what, the millionth time? -- if he lets Sam do this alone. Sam dragged him out here, and he made it this far; there's no way he's going to be left behind for the rest of it.
"No," Dean says, and grits his teeth, hauling himself back to his feet through sheer strength of will. He's fairly certain he shouldn't be sweating as a result of that exertion, so he decides that's probably the fever.
"I'll come with you," Sam says, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder, heat bleeding through Dean's jacket, through the thin fabric of his shirt. Dean pulls away, but after his first step, his first misstep, the ground tilting beneath him so that he stumbles and has to catch his balance on the nearest tree, tearing his palm open on the rough bark, he gives in. He lets Sam put a hand on his back and guide him back down the trail, because he doesn't have another choice.
The way he keeps stumbling over exposed roots, he wouldn't trust himself with a gun.
He tells himself that's the reason why he's shaking, that it's only because he's sick. He tells himself he is not afraid of his own brother, because if that's true, there is absolutely nothing left for him.
Jesus, he is so fucking tired. Tired of trying to keep it together, trying to pretend things are okay between him and Sam, so fucking tired of everything.
In the car, he fishes his flask out of the glove compartment and unscrews the cap as Sam starts the engine. "It's okay," Sam says, but his voice is hollow, and if he touches Dean right now, Dean's not going to be able to hide his flinch. "You'll feel better soon," he adds, and Dean glances down, because he can't look at the sky any longer and he sure as fuck can't look at Sam.
Smeared across his palm, his blood is so bright, the brightest thing he's seen all day. He's transfixed by it, this vivid hot thing that seems to burn brighter than his own heart, and he wonders if this is anything like what it was for Sam, that year he spent with Ruby, that year he spent lying to Dean. It would be, he tells himself, a very bad idea to ask Sam that right now, though he's having trouble remembering why, exactly. He's having trouble remembering a lot of things, and he thinks that if he gives it just another minute or two, he might be lulled into sleep by the familiarity of his car, the rumble of her engine, but then Sam speaks and the chance is gone.
"We'll go to the motel and you can get some sleep," Sam says, oblivious, and Dean lifts the flask to his mouth against everything he isn't saying, and everything Sam isn't telling him, and after a little while, the whiskey doesn't burn his throat anymore and he can lean back, breathe easier, and if he still can't bring himself to look out the window at that awful gaping sky, that sky like a wound, at least he can't hear those goddamned guns over the engine noise.
He even manages to fall asleep eventually, and he wakes cold and sudden to find the car stopped and the keys gone, along with his brother. He blinks, momentarily confused, until recognition begins to filter in and he realizes that he's at the motel, that the thin green light spilling across the hood comes from the neon motel sign.
He thinks he remembers Sam saying something about going to the motel. He hadn't thought Sam would just leave him there, but when he thinks about it, it's not really a surprise.
And then the trunk slams shut and he jumps despite himself and Sam raps at the window, their bags slung over his shoulder. Dean swallows and nods, opens the door. It hurts to stand, but the cold air feels good, now, cutting across his palm, cutting through his body.
He doesn't bother turning on the lights in the room, and Sam doesn't either, though Dean's not sure whether that's out of consideration for him or because Sam can see in the dark. He sinks down onto the side of his bed and presses the heels of his hands into his burning eyes, tells himself he's fucking raving. He's practically delusional; he would have to be, in order to think something like that.
Sam is watching him from the little table by the door when he lowers his hands, lifts his head. He wishes he could stop shaking, he needs to stop shaking, because there's no way he's going to be able to get the bottle out of the nightstand drawer and opened and poured, not with his hands, with his whole body, shaking like this, and there's no fucking way he's going to ask Sam for help.
He knows, though, and that's what makes it worse, as if this situation needed to be any more twisted, any more of a mindfuck -- he knows that Sam would help, would do it for him, and it's one thing for Dean to be fucked up, but it would be something else entirely for his little brother, for his whole world, to tell him that's okay. There are words for that. Enabling is one of them.
But he's taking too long and even this new not-right Sam has figured out that something's wrong, has run the fucking process through whatever passes for his brain these days and figured out what's meant to come next, because it always comes next, and oh Jesus, now he's getting up, now he's walking to Dean, and reaching past him, and pulling out the bottle, and Dean stares at it, because he can't make himself look at Sam. He won't. He hears Sam moving around again, and when Sam returns with one of the plastic-wrapped tumblers, now de-plasticked, from the counter and pours a drink, and hands it to him, Dean cannot fucking breathe.
Because Sam is fucking smiling. Like he thinks this is what Dean wants. Which it is, but even more than that, even now, Dean wants his brother back, because Sam shouldn't do this. Sam wouldn't.
Dean lifts the glass against the horrible significance of the observation, and swallows the contents, and puts it back down. The room is spinning slightly, and he's not sure whether that's the fever or the alcohol or the sheer wrongness of the situation, the dread, the surety, that this is not Sam.
This is not his brother.
He licks his lips. "Sam," he says, and Sam pours him another without saying anything, and Dean swears that's not what he was asking. But Sam is only looking, isn't judging, and Dean wants it so fucking badly; his mouth is so goddamn dry, and Sam should know better than anyone, almost. Sam should know what this is like, because Sam was the same fucking way, before, and he almost ended the world because of it, and now he's dead, now he's in hell and this fucking thing that only looks like him is here in his place, and Dean tells himself that's why he takes the glass. Because he cannot do this without it. He can't.
Sam, on the other hand, Sam could; in the end, Sam said no, but he always was stronger than Dean. And Dean isn't going to cry, not because he has any fucking illusions about not being weak, but because he doesn't think he could stand to find out how this version of Sam would react. What he -- what it -- would do. If Sam would try to make it better. So he chokes back something that might have been words and might have been a sob borne of fear and exhaustion and this fucking fever, and he lifts the glass.
When it falls, empty again, from his grasp, he thinks hazily that he'd meant to throw it. To shatter something, break something, since he can't get his hands around Sam's neck and shake this thing out of him, this demon that is masquerading as his little brother. But it is so dark now, and the shivering isn't as bad as it was before, and Sam has him by the shoulders, is guiding him back, down on to the bed, and the pillow is so soft and cool at the nape of his neck.
"It'll be okay," Sam says, and Dean closes his eyes at the carnival twist of the ceiling, and so that he doesn't have to look at Sam. Sam rests his hand on Dean's forehead again and Dean bites his lip to keep from screaming, to keep from being sick. "Trust me, I'm your brother," Sam says, his palm callused and dry and his tone a parody of reassuring, and Dean keeps his eyes closed tightly, and waits to pass out.
Maybe the snow will fall and it will be Ragnarok and he will not have to wake up. This is the thought to which he clings as he falls asleep; this is the prayer of the damned which he recites long after Sam has moved from his side, though his eyes are still closed because he's terrified of what he might see if he opened them. He's terrified that he might find Sam gone, terrified that Sam would not come back, terrified that he would be left alone again, alone this final time.
He's terrified, and he has never once in his whole life been brave, so there's no reason he should start now. There's no reason to break a perfect record, after all. He swallows past the shredded glass in his throat, and he keeps his eyes closed, and outside, something that is not the wind begins to howl.
He waits, as quietly as he can, for morning.
--
end