I Might Lose the Sun, 3/4
So, another day, another post. First, though, I must say that RL sucks. My left foot? Is a mess and it hurts. I think I'm two steps away from curling into a corner and bawling my eyes out. But. I posted part 3, and apologize if it isn't up to par. Still, though, if you liked or didn't please review. It'll make me smile and I could use that.
warnings before reading: wincest, evil!Dean, Sam angst x like a billion (sorry). Off screen deaths abound (though nothing graphic).
Now I think I'm gonna go O.D. on benadryl. But before I go, big thanks to faelescaloris for her help yesterday *hugs*, and szarabasjka, who mentioned a Ruby/Dean kiss. If you're still reading, it's here. Kinda. Hope you like.
I Might Lose the Sun, part 3 of 4
He mails Bobby his laptop, four days outside of Red Lodge. Walks to the post office, fills out the forms, and slips a creased note inside: I'm going on a rough job; don't want this damaged. It has new information on it, so take a look if you want. He signs it Sam, and wonders, as the worker tapes the box closed, if he should have added anything else, anything personal. But then, he thinks, it would've sounded like goodbye, and even if Bobby deserves something like that, Sam isn't sure what to say (I'm sorry, I'm sorry). No, he supposes, it's better this way.
Still, while he's waiting on takeout a few days later, Bobby's number appears on his caller i.d.; he doesn't answer, just holds the phone in his hand as it vibrates and waits for the voicemail to pick up. The generic greeting is only going to piss Bobby off further, but he can't. He doesn't have an explanation for any of it, can't think beyond the next minute, the next second, and there's no guarentee of what he'll tell him if Sam hears the gravel-soft voice.
When the message flashes on his screen, he listens to it. Hear's Bobby's, It's me, Sam. I got the package today. What's this about? You in trouble? 'Cause I don't want nothing goin' down like last time. You call me, boy, and tell me what's going on. Last time, when Sam had nearly reopened the Devil's Gate in Wyoming, thinking that Dean could escape hell like their dad. The last act of a desperate man, he thinks.
He smashes the phone against the brick wall he's been leaning against; ignores the scrapes on his knuckles; ignores the blood rushing to the surface of torn skin. Bobby's probably going to call Ellen, when Sam doesn't respond, and it's too much. He doesn't need the phone, because the only one who can really get through to him anymore is the one that knows how to find him.
He stares for a moment at the scattered pieces of plastic and wire before stepping inside and checking on his order.
888
It’s the first time Dean’s come to him with blood on his hands. Sam knows without asking that it isn't Dean's, and he tries not to wonder who's it is, tries not to think of all the reasons his brother might show up like this, because it isn't accidental; Dean is too cleaned up, too composed, to forget about the rusty stains outlining his fingernails. Dean's proving something, Sam knows; and, really, thinking of everything he's done (for Dean, with Dean), it's not necessary.
He doesn't need any reminders. Ever since Montana, his brother's been trailing him, and the times they meet are more frequent, and Sam realizes that with every stop Dean's becoming less recognizable, becoming more of everything Sam's feared. His brother still hasn't possessed another body, preferring to maintain his own. At first Sam thought it was for him, to give him some comfort (make him follow, believe, accept); now, though, he thinks Dean's just used to it, doesn't want to change something that has always worked well.
But this, the hands framed in red (dried; how many hours ago? Who?), is just another step, another way his brother is pushing him. Sam doesn't flinch away as Dean lifts them to his face, pressing on his cheekbones and laying thumbs to the skin between bottom lip and chin; he knows what this means, and as he stares down at his brother--face still, eyes clear and empty--he isn't sure if what he's doing is winning or scattering everything he is at Dean's feet. One thumb moves, quick, so quick he doesn't feel the hand tense or relax, and it rests on his mouth. He can smell sweat, knows it's from being wrapped tight around a steering wheel, but nothing else. It surprises; he thought he'd smell death, some small trace of whoever's blood Dean's wearing. Almost wants to, because he can share that, know what price was paid. Mourn for them, and feel relief that he's still capable of that. Even now.
But it's only Dean. And Sam feels pressure at his lips, thinks about saying enough, no, thinks about tightening his jaw. Thinks about refusal. But Dean's close, thigh wedged between his (heat and strength and force); it's him, pressed to the door of room, caught by Dean as he was leaving. More than that, it's scrabbling and howling and baying for hours, hellhounds right outside, when--for the first and only time--he'd left his brother waiting.
So he doesn't fight it. Dean's flesh pushes in, calloused and rough, and Sam flicks his tongue until he feels the ragged fingernail scrape the roof of his mouth, drags his bottom teeth over skin he can reach. It's over, then; Dean's pulling his thumb back, brushing it across Sam's lips and his saliva feels cool and wet before it's wicked away. But Sam's hard, aching with want and guilt, and his brother is laughing--rocking up into him. An instant of pressure, gone, and Sam groans, torn between pushing Dean away and yanking him closer.
Someone slams a door to their left, and suddenly there's space between them, weak sunlight stripping a path, delineating boundaries. Dean's outlined by the light, the orange-red casting sparks of fire in his hair and leaving his face in shadow; Sam can't see more, because he's blinded where he stands, shadow and sun playing havoc on his eyes until he sees coronas of flame behind his eyelids.
But he hears Dean's baritone, charming and full, say, "'Scuse us, ma'am." He hears the woman's reply oh, I'm so sorry, and knows by the breathless laugh that she's trying to shuffle around them. He leans his head against the door, closes his eyes. There's something knowing in his brother's voice; something that sends tendrils of anxiety through Sam, enough that he wants Dean to stay with him, here. But he doesn't have that power anymore, doesn't lead Dean, not now.
He's expecting it, when Dean says, "See ya later, Sammy." Dean kisses the pulse (racing, racing) at his neck, and then he's gone, footfalls echoing off the cement. Minutes pass by, and Sam finally hears the Impala rumble, catch and start. The deep hum of it spreads through his body, even at this distance, and he raps his head against metal and plastic, pretends the knot in his throat isn't that woman's death or the sharp, cutting acidity of her fear.
888
Sam dreams of Dean, of Ruby, there at the Impala. The moon is always full, heavy and pregnant. Always quiet, though Sam sees a squat building--a bar, dim light shining from the windows. Dean's head is always bent, and Sam can hear the hushed sounds of lips and tongues sliding against each other.
Then Dean always, always raises his head, Ruby's body suddenly limp, dangling except for where arms wrap around her. Dean always looks to him, and Sam sees holes (bloody, mangled) in his brother's cheeks; raw gashes that reveal sinew and muscle and bone, the white flash of teeth. Knows Dean's lips will be coated in blood, looking like tar, and will be sewn shut with thin strips of leather weaving in and out over and over; harsh, panting breaths will ooze the thick, congealing fluid down his chin.
And when Dean reaches for him, letting Ruby crash to the ground, his hands become a hundred more, grasping and raking and pulling. The quiet turns to screams, to cries, that are shrill and deafening. Faceless bodies bear down on him, and he always falls.
888
He thinks about old hunts, sometimes. Remembers Dean and their dad, so sure and quick. They would head in, and Sam could feel the wild energy of them. Those were the times he was sure that their family did the right thing. He would see the faces of those that were saved and be content with it. But the times it went bad--usually so fast Sam couldn't tell up from down--when they bled and snapped or the person they saved was even darker than the angry spirit they were cleansing--those times Sam hated it. Wanted out so bad that it ate at him, turned him around so that he couldn't even look at his family without wanting to break them.
That's how the last hunt--the one before Stanford, before Jess--had ended. They had been down in Louisiana after hearing of serious black magic involving hallucinations and death, and by the end of it, Sam had wanted to scream. He was tired of the hot, humid air; tired of the oppressive feel of the place, because Louisiana, in Sam's opinion, has always been too close to the dead. The weight of it always settled wrong with him, made him irritable and angry, and this time was no exception.
But the job had ended without serious damage to anyone. Those that had been cursed weren't, so Sam filed it away as a success and thought they were going to be heading out. Until, sitting in some themed restuarant, they had overhead a couple talking about a little boy who had been mauled. Nothing really unusual, but then the man said the magic words: Charlie had been such a good dog, and Sam knew they were staying, knew they were going to see if the dog attack was natural or not.
It hadn't been. Apparently, the couple they had overheard had been the previous owners. They had given the dog away after their little boy had been killed (drunk driver riding up on the sidewalk); the dog had been his, some stray mutt he had brought home one day, and after his death the grieving parents couldn't handle it, and given him away to another kid down the street.
The boy--Sam had found out--was a bully. Typical big, nasty kid who didn't hesitate to smack others around. He had gotten the dog, told the murdered boy's parent they were friends. But. The collar the dog wore was homemade, made by childish hands when the dog had gotten older. And when the boy's spirit grew angry, it used that connection to get revenge, and the dog had done it, had listened to its master.
So, they had salted and burned the bones, and felt the spirit leave. But the dog--the dog was euthanized (he's vicious, he almost killed our boy). Sam had asked, had found out where the shelter was. Went and paid for cremation, talked his dad into staying until the ashes were mailed back. He took the small, clear bag and went to the boy's grave, stood over it and read Our Beloved Child, Rest With God until it was all he could think. It was easy, then, to dig a small hole, pour the dog's remains into it and cover it with soil.
Because he knew the child who was attacked would live, maybe a few scars, maybe a nightmare or two. But he would live. And this one could never have that chance, and the spirit had done the only thing it could do, the only thing really left for it. And for some reason that was the seal on his plans; the first boy didn't deserve to be killed, and the second had, to Sam, deserved the pain. But they had banished the one, and saved the other, and his father and brother talked about the ghost as if it was evil, and Sam knew it wasn't.
We make them, he thinks now, remembering. We make them by everything we do.
888
He's in Washington the next time he sees Dean. He's renting by the week from an old woman who seems to own endless acres of mountain and forest. It's heading towards winter and the weather is cool and crisp, is everything Sam wants. So he stays, comfortable in the isolation, in not seeing faces, expressions, not having to worry that the next stranger he meets might also meet his brother.
But Dean's huffing, "Dude, why couldn't you get a suite at some swanky hotel? Coulda went to Tacoma, saw the Space Needle."
Sam thinks about cities, the overbearing mass of people, and says, "No." And as he's zipping up his jacket, "I like it here." He saw some hiking trails the other day, and he wants out of the cabin, stifling with his brother so close.
"You would," is all Dean says. But he follows Sam out the door (unwarded, unsalted), and steps beside him as Sam heads for one of the paths.
“I saw Ruby,” he says it to break the silence, because with his brother here it feels tight, and it prickles at the back of his neck. “After I went to the vampire’s nest.”
Dean’s idly pushing back limbs as they walk, and Sam thinks for a moment that’s it. He doesn’t know where the conversation is going, only knows that he has to talk, has to hear their voices. “You didn’t tell me.”
"No," he says, glancing at his brother's profile. It doesn't tell him anything, had ceased to weeks ago, but he can't help searching. "It didn't seem important. But," he looks away, studies the trees as they pass (old, so old). "She acted like she'd seen you. Knew what you were doing." This is a mistake, he knows it, now. The words, everything he wants to say, to give sound to, seem lodged behind his teeth. "She's up to something."
"Yeah, Sam." Dean snorts but doesn't look his way. "She's not a good guy." It's ridiculous coming from Dean, and Sam wants to laugh, but the emotion welling up is sort of like hysteria and he wills it away.
"You're one of them." It comes out a statement, and Sam's left off-guard. He doesn't want to hear the response, because either way--truth or lie--it's a loss.
But Dean only says, "I'm your brother. I'm family, Sam."
Sam hears everything Dean leaves unspoken, but he can push that to the side, swallow it down, and answer. "Yeah. You are." It's part of it, he tells himself, and he'll be okay. He knows that, and he'll let himself believe.
Continued in pt.4