New DTTE Fic: Ride the Highway West
Ride the Highway West
Sam/Dean, 2,800 words
Warning: This is pure, unadulterated, angst-and-schmoop porn. It's also deathfic, for some value of deathfic, but... not really. Happy deathfic, maybe. How's that for vague?
Notes: Okay, so. I have years worth of ultra-schmoopy DTTE canon in my head that I would never, ever actually write down, much less post, because no one would ever take me seriously again, and with good reason. This was supposed to fall under that umbrella, and yet, it appears to have happened anyway. Um. Attempt to remember I'm (marginally) more sensible than this, usually?
Thanks to merryish for helpful suggestions and being generally wonderful, and to kestrelsan and whereupon for beta-duty. This is for luzdeestrellas and nymeria, because they love me even when my schmoop levels reach such embarrassing heights that anyone with any sense would run far, far away.
I will walk down to the end with you
if you will come all the way down with me
-Old College Try, The Mountain Goats
He wakes suddenly, in the dead hour just before dawn. Everything is still and quiet, Sam's fast asleep beside him, but something feels off. There's an odd presence in the air, something out of place, something that doesn't belong in this haven he and Sam have built. It doesn't feel evil, just wrong, and he gets to his feet warily, scanning the room.
There's a sharp rattling sound behind him, and he turns quickly, hears Sam say his name as he registers the scene on the bed. He's lying beside his brother, choking now, and Sam's awake and bent over him, saying, "Dean" and "God" in a voice both desperate and scared -- and he's standing by the bed, watching it happen. He watches himself gasp once and then stop breathing, watches Sam try to revive him, and he realizes, as certainly as he's known anything in his life, that he isn't alive anymore, that this time there's no coming back.
He thinks he should feel something at the revelation, but everything's moving too quickly, like time has suddenly sped up and he can't stop it. All he can see is Sam, fear bleeding into grief as he tries to make Dean's body breathe, saying his name again and again like it's breaking him apart. Dean wants to touch him, to pull him away from the cooling thing on the bed that isn't Dean anymore and wrap his arms around him, hold onto him in the way that fixed everything when Sam was too small to know better. But his hands go through Sam when he tries, and Sam just keeps touching the body and saying his name.
Dean hears a soft noise from the foot of the bed, and he moves on instinct, though it hurts, a sharp physical pain through his chest, to turn away from his brother. There's a woman standing there, young and beautiful, dark hair, pale skin, something quietly knowing shining in her eyes. He should be pissed or scared and even just curious how she got in, past the locks and security system and salt lines, but he's hit with an overwhelming sense of recognition. He says, "I know you," and it's true, but he can't think how, can't understand why he loves her and fears her both at once.
She smiles. "It's been a long time, Dean."
"I know you," he says again. "How do I--", but she's looking past him, onto the bed. Sam's not fighting anymore; he's just stroking Dean's hair, his face, crying silently, and Dean wants to touch him so badly he aches with it. He says, "Sammy," but Sam can't hear, never looks up from the dead thing that Dean used to be.
"It's time to go," the woman says, and Dean understands then, what she is, why she's here. His face must show it, because she smiles again, says, "I don't meet many people twice."
"I can't," he says. "I can't... Sammy..."
"Dean," she says, and her voice is like honeyed milk, sweet and rich and warm. "You've lived a long time, cheated death more than once, but this is the end of the line."
Dean looks into her eyes, and he feels small, young somehow, like a misbehaving child. "Just let me stay a little while," he says. "I can't leave him like this."
She sighs. "He can't feel you."
"I don't care," he says, and he's begging now, but he's never had much in the way of pride where his brother is concerned. "He'll call Michael in a minute, and I'll go when he shows up. Just don't make me leave him alone."
"It only hurts more, the longer you stay." She moves to his side, lays a hand on his shoulder. "Come with me." She's smiling again, gently, and he can see the promise in it. She's offering rest and warmth, something beyond fear, beyond pain, and he only has to reach out and take it. He wants to, more than he's ever wanted almost anything, but Sam is on the bed behind him, and there's nothing in this world or any other that can compare with that.
It hits him then, like head-on collision with a mack truck. This is it, the end of everything. Even if she lets him stay, gives him minutes or hours to say goodbye, Sam can't see or feel or touch him, and unless there's a heaven, he's never going to see his brother again. Grief rises hot and bitter in his throat, and he chokes around it. It's not enough. He's loved Sam for a lifetime, shared everything with him, been brother and partner and friend, and it's nowhere close to enough. He feels raw, suddenly, peeled open and split in two, and he looks at her desperately, willing her to understand.
"You know he'll follow you," she says. The she sighs again and runs a hand through her sleek dark hair, her face indulgent, almost fond. "I suppose you've earned it. It won't be long now."
He thinks, Follow, and something sharper and harder than grief spreads through him. "He's going to--" he begins, but she cuts him off, and there's a sound like laughter in her voice.
"Dean," she says. "How long would you would last if he went first?" He opens his mouth and shuts it again, looks from her to Sam and back again, completely at a loss for words. She does laugh then, the sound light and sweet and beautiful as the rest of her, and then she's gone, slipping out of existence so gracefully that disappear seems too harsh a word.
Dean's dead, and Sam's going to die, and he has no idea what comes next, but the time is a gift, and he doesn't intend to waste it. But when he turns back, he almost regrets his choice, because she was right -- it's worse, harder, the longer he stays. His brother's face is gray and tired and old, lost, and he's never seen Sammy look like that, never even imagined he could.
"Aww, Sammy," Dean whispers, and he reaches for him without thinking, but Sam can't see, can't hear.
Sam scrubs distractedly at his face, and then he slides his hand across Dean's cold, dead one. "My whole life," he says, "there was always you. You're the first thing I remember." His voice is shaking, and he takes a breath to steady himself. "I couldn't have been more than two or three, and I was crying about something, and you... you just came, and you picked me up, and I knew everything was going to be okay."
"Christ, Sam, don't do this--"
"I never told you that," Sam says. He tries to laugh, but it's an awful, hollow sound. "Figured you didn't need any more excuses to call me a pussy."
"Always a goddamned girl," Dean mutters, but it's not funny when it doesn't make Sam squirm and glare.
"When you left... god, Dean. Fucked me and left me with a pile of money on the nightstand, and I wanted to fucking kill you, but I always knew--" His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. "I always knew I'd find you. It sucked out loud, but I knew it was only a matter of time until I hauled your ass back and made you pay for being such a stupid goddamn asshat."
Dean smiles almost in spite of himself; the expression feels rusty on his face, but his brother played the "you left me" card so shamelessly, for so many years, to get out of everything from doing laundry to standing downwind of a chupucabra nest, and it's just so Sam to harp on it even now.
"I don't know what to do," Sam says. He's crying again, tears sliding unnoticed down his checks. "You're just gone, and I can't... there's nowhere I can find you."
"I'm right here," Dean whispers, but he's not, not in any way that counts, because Sam is breaking into pieces in front of him and there's nothing he can do to fix it.
Sam shivers, runs his fingers over Dean's face, and his hand shakes a little. "You weren't supposed to leave me behind," he says hoarsely. "You and me until the world ends, remember?"
"Until the wheels come off," Dean says, and he's crying too. He can't remember starting, wonders if he's been crying as long as Sam has. "You and me, Sammy, always."
Sam makes a terrible, broken little sound, and then he pitches forward, hides his face against Dean's chest. His shoulders shake, and for long moments he doesn't move. Dean stands helplessly behind him, running useless hands up and down his back, trying to convince himself that something inside Sam can feel it, take the comfort Dean's pushing towards him with every bit of his being.
Maybe it works, or maybe Sam just manages to get control of himself, because when he finally pulls away the tears have stopped, and he looks calmer, more determined. He takes his cell phone from the nightstand and starts making calls -- paramedics, the funeral director who's helped them salt and burn the bones of too many ghosts to counts, Michael. The hollowness in his voice is gone like it never existed; for a whiny over-sized bundle of emo, Sam was always good in a crisis. But he never leaves the bed, and he keeps one hand on the body like he's afraid to let go.
When he finally puts the phone down, he touches Dean's face again. "I... uh," he says, and his voice stays steady this time. "I love you. I know you knew that, and I know you kicked my ass every time I tried to say it, but I did, and I do, and I'm sorry I didn't tie you down and make you listen a few more times." He leans forward, drops a gentle, chaste kiss on Dean's lips.
"Gross, Sammy," Dean says, and he almost thinks Sam can hear him, because his brother laughs and it nearly sounds real this time.
"That was a lot more fun when you weren't dead," he says. He stands up then, trades his sweatpants and t-shirt for jeans and a button-down, and, with a final look at Dean's body, turns and walks purposefully out of the bedroom.
Dean follows, watches his brother put on a pot of coffee and clear off the kitchen table, pushing aside newspapers with circled articles, thick printed stacks of research, ready to pass on to Mike or Isaac or the next hunter who comes through. Sam pulls two mugs down, and his face crumples in on itself when he realizes his mistake. Even with the gray in his hair, the lines on his face, he looks like a little kid again, about to sob like the world is ending. He says, "Dean," and his voice is like broken glass, but he doesn't cry, just swallows hard and puts the other mug away. He pours a single cup of coffee and sits down at the table, staring into it.
Sam jumps when the doorbell rings, and he walks to the door like he's being dragged against his will, but he's arranged his expression into something bland and accepting by the time he gets it open. Michael rushes in and starts babbling -- "Sam, man, I'm so sorry, what the fuck, are you--?" -- but Ash silences him with a look. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Sam, holds onto him silently, and Dean loves him in that moment, loves them both, Asher's quiet, steady presence and Michael's fidgety energy. He's losing them, too, losing everyone, and the thought sends a spark of pain through his chest, though it's small and pale in comparison to losing Sam.
Things move faster with other people in the room, dizzyingly so, and Dean feels like he's stuck in slow motion while the rest of the world is moving in fast-forward. The coroner arrives with the paramedics, and Sam follows them into the bedroom, watches as they force Dean's body into a body bag. He keeps his face impassive, doesn't even flinch when they zip the bag shut, but he still looks so old, tired and beaten down, and he doesn't fight when Ash touches his arm and steers him out of the room.
People keep coming, friends and neighbors, and Sam accepts their empty platitudes with thanks and smiles that almost look genuine. Dean never leaves his side, and the hours slide by, measured in covered dishes and awkward sympathy. It's dark by the time the house clears, only Mike and Ash left, and the three of them sit around the table with a bottle of whiskey and enough food to last a week, while Dean stands back and watches.
Sam doesn't eat, but he drinks the whiskey neat, and after awhile he starts talking, telling stories. He covers damned near every stupid thing Dean ever did, leaves them in stitches, but his own laughs sound forced, false, in Dean's ears, and when the whiskey's gone and they offer to stay the night, he just smiles and shakes his head. Sam watches them through the window as they walk to the car, and when Ash turns to Michael, hugs him hard and presses his face in his neck, a spasm of dull, raw pain flashes across his face.
It's still early, but Sam crawls into bed anyway, and for a moment Dean thinks he'll manage some rest. But then Sam moves, curls up on Dean's side of the bed and pushes his face into Dean's pillow, and he starts crying, hoarse, dry sobs like he hasn't made since he was a kid. Dean stands next to him, desperate to curl himself around his brother, but he can only watch as Sam cries himself out.
He doesn't move when Sam finally drops into an exhausted sleep. He just watches, and it's precious, somehow, looking into his brother's tear-stained face and knowing he'll never see it again. Sam looks almost peaceful, and Dean wants it to last, but he knows the first thing Sam will do when he wakes is reach for him, and he's not sure he can bear it.
It happens all at once, just after midnight. Sam gasps in his sleep, a short, sharp intake of breath, and then he hears, "Dean," and Sam is standing beside him, both of them looking at Sam's body on the bed.
Sam looks younger, no gray streaks and a smooth, unlined face, but Dean barely has time to notice, because Sam is suddenly in his arms, kissing him, damned near trying to climb inside him. Dean laughs into his mouth and pulls him closer, and Sam laughs, too, low and joyful.
"I missed you," Sam says. He kisses the corner of Dean's mouth, drags his lips across Dean's cheeks, his jaw, and then presses their foreheads together. "God, I missed you so much." And Dean wants to tell him it hasn't even been a day, let him know exactly what a wussy little bitch he is, but he can't let go, can't do anything but cling to Sam and lose himself in every hungry kiss.
When they finally break apart, Sam says, "God, Dean," and then, "What the hell, are you like twenty-five again?"
"Shit," Dean says, "am I?" He pulls Sam toward the bathroom, because he doesn't plan on letting go any time soon, but he was damned hot when he was young, and he really wants to see that again.
The mirror stays stubbornly empty when he steps in front of it, and Sam cracks the hell up when he glares. "You're dead, idiot," he says. Dean growls at him, and then they're kissing again, hard and possessive. Sam slides his hands up Dean's shirt and Dean cups his ass, snugs their hips together, and he's pretty sure they're about to find out exactly how ghost sex works when he hears a quiet laugh behind them.
"It's time to go," the reaper says. She's still so beautiful, her voice so kind, but Sam shivers in Dean's arms, and Dean tenses, steps back.
Sam moves with him, slides his hand into Dean's and holds on tight. "What happens now?" he says, and there's a tremor in his voice.
She shakes her head. "You know I can't tell you that."
"Will we be... I mean." Dean shakes his head, tries again. "Will we still--"
She smiles then, lighting up the room. "It'd take a lot more than me to separate you," she says.
Sam looks at her and back at Dean, and then he smiles too, wide and sure and joyful. "Just another road trip, huh?"
"The biggest one there is," she says. "Come on now."
Hand in hand, they follow her.
***
And, of course, Michael and Asher burn their bodies together on the same pyre and scatter their ashes together. AND THAT IS THE END OF THE CORPOREAL DTTE!SAM&DEAN, AND IF YOU MOCK ME FOR EXCESSIVE SCHMOOP I WILL STAB YOU IN THE HEAD.
Notes, pt. 2: Michael and Ash are, of course, the boys from Something Wicked, and someday I will finish the cycle that explains why they're here. Really. I will.