fic: Walk away now
title: Walk away now
pairing: Sam/Dean
words: 9k
summary: Sam and Dean might be cursed. Every time they try to split up, ridiculous mishaps befall them.
spoilers: season 7, before the two latest episodes. keep informed, bizzies.
a/n: written for de_nugis for the spn_j2_xmas exchange. You had really fun prompts! Sam & Dean cooking! Hiking with misfortune! I tried to use a few elements. Also, I love being fandom friends with you! ♥
Additional thanks go to: lightthesparks and mistyzeo for story ideas! Also, my sisters, who field my whining. I am apparently entirely unable to plot or succeed at life without any and all outside help. Anyway, HAPPY HOLIDAYS DN AND OTHERS!
Sam and Dean are complete workaholics and are psychotically, irrationally, and erotically codependent on one another. However, that doesn't mean that they don't spend any time apart. They can afford to do their own thing the odd weekend, especially now that most world-ending issues have been resolved and it's only Leviathan that've got them hiding out. Total small fry.
They argue and, as a result, Sam will decide he's taking off for a day or two for Dean's own good, and Dean will let him. Sam will go hiking and Dean will spend the entire Saturday reading. Dean will say, I need a drink and go play darts in a bar two towns over. Sam will fix appliances in Rufus' old cabin while Bobby gives him space.
So, they take breaks, but it always ends up here:
"That is freaking hilarious."
"It really wasn't. Don't ever let me talk myself into that again."
"At least neither of us ended up in jail this time."
"I'm hungry. Let's get the hell out of Dodge."
It is a vicious cycle.
Dean finally brings it up. "All the weird shit that happens when we're apart," he says. "Maybe it's a curse."
"It could be," Sam says, but he's skeptical and it seems unimportant at the moment. He's feeling positive. He runs every morning and has been considering taking up yoga. A lot of issues are resolving themselves.
Dean drags the last, soggy fry through catsup, and continues, "I mean, it can't be a coincidence that everything goes to hell when we split up, you know? Look at what happened when my leg was broken, you just took off and the world went crazy."
"Dean, the hunt went fine. We talked about this." He didn't kill Amy Pond a few days back, and neither did Dean. That means something. He watches Dean finish his lunch, thinking, thank God for my brother.
"Yeah, well." Dean sits back, looking out the window. "You still have a broken head."
That hangs heavy between them for a second, but Sam refuses to let it get him down. He's doing okay, feeling tentatively great. He's making a concerted effort to establish a hard and fast line between what's real and what's a hallucination. He still sees Lucifer - who currently happens to be seated one table over, squirting half a bottle of mustard onto a grilled cheese sandwich - Sam still has five-sense style delusions that throw him, but he makes damn sure he can tell the difference.
"Things go to hell no matter what," he says, and doesn't feel too bad about it. It's more like an inside joke than depressing as all get out. "But you're right," he says. "It could be a curse. God knows we've pissed off enough witches."
Dean nods and they'll talk about it later. He looks up then and tells Sam to finish his beer, bitch.
Sam is amenable to this. He takes a long pull at his IPA, the bottle cold as sweat against the stitched up sole of his hand.
The zen state only lasts for about three hours, of course. Dean's been drinking so his reflexes are that much slower, making him an easy target for that thing they're hunting, the one in the nearby forest with claws and dripping fangs. Meanwhile, aforementioned hallucinations mean Sam's off his game, and it's a lucky thing he has brute strength on his side because it's a close call.
The fight ends bloody, not on their end of it, but it's close. Another day in the life, but Sam is pissed and Dean is pissed that Sam's pissed. They bicker and then really have it out on the sidewalk, some argument that doesn't even bear repeating.
What matters is that Dean almost died, again, it finally hits Sam.
"I mean, how can you be so reckless?" he shouts. "With your own life, Dean!"
Pedestrians scatter, maybe, but Sam can only focus on his brother, his sneer as he says, "Oh, you're one to talk."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm not the one who almost got brained because he's having Hellvision!"
"That's different!"
"Oh yeah? Care to tell me how? You said this thing is manageable, but you almost getting killed? Not manageable."
The argument goes in circles, both working the other up until Sam kicks over a trash can and a lady yells at them out the door of her stationary shop and Dean mutters something about getting a drink and Sam lets him go, snagging the keys in a fit of petulance.
He stops at a gas station and buys a six-pack and a bag of fritos and some string cheese. He's going to head back to the motel and watch that part of the Planet Earth documentary on bats that Dean hadn't wanted to watch because, not only was he afraid of flying, he'd explained the previous night, but apparently he was scared of anything that was able to fly. It had sounded like complete crap, but the soft look he had sent Sam was half-embarrassed, which had made Sam falter and check against a mental list of any and all times they'd come into contact with birds or planes or things in flight, just to be sure. Meanwhile, Dean had dragged Sam's laptop to him and queued up some anime.
When Sam gets back to the room, he eats the fritos first, one by one while reading articles on the CNN website. By the time he's done browsing, he's down half a beer and doesn't want to watch anything educational. In this way, all his aspirations are once again revealed to have been grandiose and propelled only by the momentum of the car, tapering off when the engine died.
He tells himself he doesn't care where Dean is right now. Their fight was stupid, and Dean's probably already cooled off. He's just worried about Sam, and Sam's just worried about him. They're like the poster boys for pent-up emotion. They are both aware of this. Sometimes Sam thinks that they couldn't do a worse job of it, but then other days, like today, he's certain their concern can wear them thinner. One of these days, instead of leaving, he's going really fuck things up. He's going to hug Dean when death isn't involved and see where it goes from there. He's only got so much self-control.
He thinks this wryly, knowing he'll never do anything even close. Where Dean wields his phobias like a weapon, just like he's learned to use everything else, Sam gives up on dreams before they're fully formed. He knows it, Dean knows it.
Sam lounges back on the bed, flips on the old TV, letting his eyelids droop to half-mast, feeling surly.
At seven PM, one crap cooking show bleeds into the next and Sam instantly falls off the bed in surprise. Embarrassing. And while it's a small comfort that Dean isn't there to see it, that, of course, is the problem, because Dean is, in fact, on TV.
Sam finds the end of the mattress by touch, and takes a seat, because his eyes are glued to the screen. Apparently this is a local channel, a live broadcast. Dean has a white apron on over his black t-shirt and jeans, and he's mid-sentence, talking about how today they're going to be making a "sort of Italian-themed meal."
Sam is transfixed. The cameras make Dean's eyes look dulled and his skin kind of orange, rather than crystal-green and golden-tan respectively, but the camera keeps cutting to shots of Dean's mouth as he tries each of the ingredients before they start. Sam watches him chew.
On screen, Dean takes a deep sip of wine and then refills the nearly empty glass and says, "so it's going to be very experimental. A sort of new-fangled supper. In fact, you probably don't even need me. I'd go so far as to say just turn off the TV now and don't watch, go be crazy with your chef self."
He looks stage left, and then turns back to address the camera again. "But I kid. Please take this commercial break to arrange your ingredients as I've just demonstrated, and sharpen your knives and other cooking utensils. Stay tuned." Sam can read a vague panic in Dean's eyes as the camera zooms again. His brother gives a sarcastic smile and says, "This coming live, at this very moment, from Channel Six studios on First and Duluth Street." He raises his eyebrows, which brings Sam back to reality. "To all you viewers who haven't managed to be with us tonight, it would be great to see you."
Sam almost forgets the keys, he's out the door so fast. He races back and then gets to the car and skids out of the parking lot. He buckles his seatbelt at the stoplight and then spends the remainder of the time drumming his fingers arrhythmically on the steering wheel, muttering, "c'mon, c'mon," wishing his erstwhile psychic abilities were still in effect and extended to electricity and traffic signals.
When he reaches the studio, there's no one to stop him from walking directly in; the network is small and they probably don't have a lot of fans trying to break in and steal stuff. He pulls Dean's sunglasses down over his face just in case and tries to look like a studio executive, flattening his mouth into a line of displeasure when he pushes through a half-open door into a low-lit area that's crowded with electricians and camera people.
It's the right room. Dean is standing in a prop-kitchen a stage-length away, slicing vegetables very slowly in front of a darkened audience.
"Once again, you might want to wear some protective goggles. These onions sure are potent. Got me crying like a baby."
He's rambling. Sam will laugh later. For now he's got to get Dean off of live television.
"You there!"
Sam straightens his shoulders and resists the impulse to pull out an FBI badge, because he didn't bring one. He sidesteps around a woman with a headset to get away, but then walks on a man with a clipboard instead.
He gives Sam a resigned once-over and says, "Well, Antoine, at least you showed up at all."
"Excuse me?" asks Sam.
"What, you think I'm going to thank you for leaving our guy alone out there? Get in there and save him, would you? Or at least get the bottle out of arm's reach."
Sam puts his hands up in front of him. "Oh, no. Misunderstanding, I'm not-I mean-"
As he's fumbling, someone is helping him out of his jacket and he twists out of their reach but a woman manages to sling an apron over his head. As it is, he's only half-resisting because his first impulse is to go get Dean, who doesn't like being singled out ever, even at birthday parties, much less by spotlights in front of an audience. And that's where they're pushing Sam. He, again, considers punching someone, because those are TV cameras and anyone could be watching. They're ex-wanted criminals, legally dead, and Dean up there is bad enough.
The next thing he knows, he's out on stage. That will teach him to worry about his brother instead of keeping it together enough to come up with a decent plan.
"Ah," he says, loudly, as Dean gapes at him. "Good evening. I am...I am Antoine, your belated sous chef."
There's a smattering of applause. He can't see anyone.
"Dude," Dean says barely moving his lips. "What's with the shades?"
Sam shoves his hair back with them and goes to wash his hands. He thinks about the audience and the cameras and the lights that are burning the back of his neck, then reminds himself that they can do this. Their whole lives are about passing as one profession or another, this shouldn't be that different.
When he turns back around, he rubs his hands together and says, loudly, "So, what are we cooking?"
The audience rallies a little, snickering at the lazy assistant.
"Actually," Sam says, with a confidential look their way. "I don't even know how to cook, really, so it probably won't make a difference if I know the game plan or not."
There's loud laughter, surprised or appalled, and Sam shrugs again. He nudges Dean with a shoulder and reaches for a knife. Knives he can do.
Dean sounds more relaxed when he says, "Here, Antoine. Just chop this basil." He motions to an actual basil plant and Sam grabs it and starts plucking off the leaves. "Tonight, we're making mini mincemeat pies with basil and onion."
Sam nods like it's just one of many fine dishes Dean the chef could have chosen, while in reality he recognizes it as a recipe Dean made up when they were in high school, when he had started mixing all they had in their fridge together, namely meat and onion, and poured in dried basil and way too much salt.
"Did you remember to preheat the oven?" Sam asks, pushing past memories.
"Did I preheat the oven," Dean mimics. "Do your job. Next, we'll be making macaroni 'n cheese à la motel kitchenette."
Sam tries to hide a smile and pay attention to mincing the basil. He feels momentarily caught up. "I love mac 'n cheese," he says.
He can feel Dean for-real smiling at him. "I know you do."
The crowd coos. How embarrassing, Sam had almost forgotten they were there.
When the ingredients have been mixed in a large bowl and a Creuset casserole dish has been oiled, and set aside, they cut for another commercial. The crowd murmurs into normal conversation and a few extra lights flood on. The makeup artist rushes up again and yanks Sam face down by the chin. She powders his nose with a large brush and, when he follows her instructions to pucker, adds a daub of Carmex and tells him not to rub his lips together.
He goes to rub his forehead and she tsks. "It's like you've never been on TV."
While she tugs on his hair and combs his sideburns, which is slightly uncomfortable, he mutters to Dean, "So, what are you even doing here?"
Dean leans in and says, "Long story. Suffice to say, I am never leaving the room again."
Sam is inclined to agree.
Dean mutters, "Who even watches this shit? I want to get out of here."
The makeup girl snorts but makes no further comment.
"Sure," Sam says. "But is there another door? Other than the stage door?"
"Dude, it's mid-show. We can't just leave."
"I mean, we could."
"Could we?" asks Dean. It's said under his breath, meant only for Sam, but somehow the man with the clipboard knows to come rushing out.
"No no no! Like hell you're leaving!" He points to the clipboard and then waves to the cameras. "The audience is loving this, even though I'm going to have some serious words with you about drinking on the job. That wine is for artistic accent and for use in recipes, not to quaff freely on stage."
The makeup girl taps her microphone apologetically. "Looks like you two're stuck here," she says.
Mac 'n cheese takes fifteen minutes to cook and the mini-pies, ten. Despite that, time stretches out interminably while they watch the water boil and the pies brown. Sam cuts carrots into spears and improvs, spouting vague and unhelpful rhetoric he'd picked up on a health website to advise embracing a raw diet. This goes over as well as one could hope, and when he meets Dean's eyes once, he receives a kind of freaky grin.
Halfway through his spiel, the oven starts smoking and Sam yanks it open and fans the plumes away with a placemat. Dean grabs a pie with tongs and waves it around until it's cool enough to eat.
"Charred," he says, taking a bite. "Exactly how I'd planned. It's definitely a matter of taste, so bake accordingly."
Sam drinks some of Dean's wine.
"Meat foo-may," Dean claims, popping another one into his mouth and then chewing so the camera can see everything. "Damn that's hot. Ah. Jesus Christ."
"Grand Master Walsch goes for just about anything extra crispy," Sam tells the possibly skeptical audience. "Now, as you can see, cooling in the dish we have our mac 'n cheese à la-whatever, and mincemeat pies you can arrange on a colorful platter to impress your guests. I'd call this a success. To all our viewers, we sincerely hope everything went well, and thank you for joining us today."
He waits for some sort of music to signal the end of the show, but instead a PA calls for audience questions. Dean steps on Sam's foot, but it's slow and behind the counter so no one can see. Sam pinches whatever's closest and looks out at the dark sea of audience members. This is by far one of the more ridiculous situations they've ended up in.
A cute girl with a shaved head stands to accept the microphone. Sam and Dean shield their eyes and squint at her.
"Hello, my name is Jen," she says. "I came from Switzerland to see the show."
"Wow," Dean says, sounding like he actually feels flattered. "Thanks so much."
"My pleasure. First, can I just say, Grand Master Walsch, you look really different in person."
Dean points to his chest. "Oh, me? Yeah, camera adds twenty pounds, isn't that what they say?"
"No, I mean, on TV you're tanner. And a little more...masculine, I suppose is the word. I never noticed your freckles before. And you used to have black hair. Actually, you look completely different."
"Well-"
"But my real question is for Antoine."
There is a ripple of giggles. Sam peers out against the light and sees that most of the audience is grinning. It's not a little disconcerting.
Jen asks, "Where did you learn to cook?"
"Oh." He turns to Dean, who makes a conceding gesture. Sam eyes him and says, "Actually, Grand Master Walsch taught me to chop vegetables. I haven't actually gotten to the cooking part, although I heat up a mean bowl of soup." He laughs and the audience makes an awwing noise. "But seriously, I owe it all to him. Yep." He smiles and finally looks back to her. "Final answer."
The next girl who raises his hand grabs the microphone and says, "Is that true, Grand Master?"
Dean shrugs and flips a knife. "What can I say? I'm inspirational. Next."
It's a male voice this time. "Yes, I have a question for...Antoine."
Sam shields his eyes, but he still can't tell where the voice is coming from.
"All right," he says.
"So, elephant in the room's kind of obvious lately, isn't it? How you two are together."
Sam frowns. "Excuse me?"
The voice is familiar. "You're related, and yet is that the way siblings behave around each other? It's obvious. Or have you really fooled yourself into thinking you're the only one who daydreams about hearts and stars and boning his brother across the hood of the family car?"
Sam's breathing heavy and he's on the spot and wants nothing more than to go beat up whatever jerk is somehow onto him and then throw the body off a bridge. He snarls, "What the hell kind of question is that?"
"Antoine!" Dean's looking at him with horror. "Chill your meatballs!"
"For Christ's sake," the voice says. "He practically plays footsie with you under the table and you let him. On national TV. And you like it."
Sam scans the audience, which is now mumbling, and not in a pleasant way, and he finally spots the guy.
Lucifer looks apologetic when he leans into the microphone to say, "He's thinking about it right now."
"Next question," Sam grits out, berating himself because he should have known. Nothing's going to change, not now or ever.
Somewhere in the audience, he thinks, some poor kid just got his dreams crushed.
They're the first couple to get gay married when California enacts a surprise repeal of Prop 8 the second week of November. But it's an accident, and doesn't count, because Dean is wasted and Sam was just flashing his FBI badge to come get him out of trouble. It's five days after they left Lilydale, and Sam still feels betrayed about Amy, and Dean is obviously beating himself up about it, too. If there's ever a time Sam's wanted to marry Dean less, he can't remember it.
Also, there are cameras and Sam thinks that this is the opposite of staying off the radar. They're wanted criminals and bank robbers, and this here will make them somewhat iconic. But this's not the sort of misunderstanding you back out of, you don't just crush hopes and dreams of thousands when it's your own damn fault you ended up in the situation, somehow.
They kiss in front of a slew of supporters, a whole news crew, and three protesters, but that doesn't count either because they do the drama club trick where Sam frames Dean's face in his hands and kisses his own thumbs instead of Dean's mouth. Their names aren't even their own on the certificate, instead they're now listed as Mr & Mr Smith in calligraphy.
Sam feels like he just undermined the sanctity of marriage with a big old lie. Dean seems earnest when he tells a reporter that hunters deserve happiness, too.
"You are never drinking again," Sam says as he drags Dean out of the court to thrown rice and a few hearty slaps on the back from strangers. "This is no longer functional."
"Today is the first day of the rest of our lives," Dean tells him. "I expect you to put out."
When they make it to the car, Sam drives, the wheels skimming down the main road, rain sluicing onto the sidewalk. He just got somewhat-married to his brother. Stranger things have happened, but he's feeling conflicted nonetheless. That's normal, right?
Dean is eyeing him. “Are you doing better than earlier?”
There hasn't been sufficient fallout yet, no real conclusion to Dean basically telling Sam he doesn't trust him. Sam had spent a week feeling betrayed and working cases.
He'd done a lot of thinking, though. And he's too tired to hold a grudge. "Me being pissed isn't helping," he says, because it's the truth. "You already feel guilty, and me moping around you is just dragging you down."
This apology's none too different than their previous one, but it feels better, with Dean broaching the subject himself.
"Just, in the future, don't give me that shit about leaving for my own good," Dean says. "You're only half the problem."
Sam glances over in surprise. Dean is not that drunk.
"Thought you were better at math than that," Dean tells him.
They've both got their eyes on the road, Dean's fingers tapping on his thigh and Sam firmly gripping the wheel. He switches on the radio.
"At least we know the answer to one thing," Dean says.
Sam waits.
"The curse. It's totally real. I mean, look at what happened this time we split up. Last time you ditch me for the library, that's for sure."
Sam snorts. "At least I got some research in."
Dean slumps down in the seat and shuts his eyes. "Fuck California, am I right? This place has always been weird for us."
"You think this is going to have some consequences?" Sam asks after a while, after they've put a good ten miles of two-lane highway behind them. "This, uh, marriage thing."
"Nah. I mean, probably not."
Something occurs to him. He feels somewhat doomed. "Bobby's going to find out, isn't he?"
Dean slaps him on the thigh. "You betcha."
"Damn."
It might not be tomorrow, but the day after, maybe.
The next week, they're in a yarn store that smells like glue and cinnamon pine cones because they're doing a spell Bobby found which requires them to stock up on art supplies. No, really they've just had that crawling feeling, lately, at the back of their necks, and Sam had suggested maybe Fate was watching them again. Thus, the yarn spell that may or may not work.
Dean appears at the counter. He takes one look between Sam and the green knitting needles and then back to the six girls who are giving Sam pointers, and says, "Dude, I only left you alone for five minutes."
Sam shrugs helplessly, not sure himself, and knits his sweater. Call it whatever you want.
Sam plans to spend the day before Thanksgiving hiking, because he needs to clear his head. He's known for a month now that Dean killed Amy Pond, in cold blood and in front of her son. That, compounded with the occasional hallucination thing and the married thing, and the prevalence of Leviathan, he still feels frayed around the edges and wants Dean with a sick sort of longing so that he's gotten punchy and Dean's starting to react to it - well, a little time will probably do them both good.
He starts out at the trailhead with a backpack full of powerbars, an apple, a .45, and two Nalgenes of water. There's a bonus pack of Skittles just rattling around in there, too. He takes a deep breath and then sets out. The sky is smoothed like slate rock overhead, hard and white and stretching out into infinity beyond the mountain. Pine trees spike up against it in a dark ridge and the trail is packed, orange dirt beneath his boots.
At first it feels refreshing to be out alone. It's just one foot in front of the other, and the necessary precaution of noting any rocks, squirrel holes, or uprooted parts of trees that could be tripped over. He feels good, young and out in the crisp world. The air is fresh and cold. He's clearing his head, being healthy about this. Dean is obviously more guilt-ridden about lying to Sam than about the death itself. This is for the best, because this way Dean can just do his thing and recuperate without Sam lurking around, worrying him every second of the day.
Dean's probably at the cabin right now, laid out on the musty couch eating popcorn out of a bowl and shouting for Bobby to come watch whatever soap is on at the moment. He's gotten addicted to not only Doctor Sexy, M.D., but Luna y Sol, Days of Our Wives, and La Dama de Lirio. Sam doesn't realize he's smiling at the picture that makes until he has to purse his lips to stop himself.
Time is an abstraction up here. At some point Sam's breathing audibly and there's sweat soaking through his hoodie at the straps of the backpack and between his shoulder blades and under his arms, so he takes it off and shoves it inside the big zipper. His cheeks feel hot so he pours some water over his upturned face and then dries it with a stretched sleeve of his t-shirt.
He's going to turn back half way up the mountain, but the burn of his muscles is soothing, adrenaline like a drug. He's been running a lot more lately, doing sit ups and stretches, so today feels perfect. It's only noon, and he has food with him and an endless supply of time. Nowhere to go but forward.
It doesn't get lonely until three hours in, when the clouds have bunched up against each other in a dark, eager fashion with the onset of an unfriendly breeze. He is suddenly aware of how Dean and Bobby are all he's got, but they're miles away, and how he hasn't seen Lucifer in over a day, which leaves him to alternate between paranoia, like out of nowhere, at any moment, he'll wake up in the Pit, and then the disbelief that he could ever be fooled by his own brain in the first place.
The mountain feels wild, too, and endless, uninhabited except for the occasional blue jay that swoops from the top of a tree, cawing into the next. His calves are going to ache after this and he's got a blister developing on the back of his left heel because his boots aren't the hiking kind, per se, and not made for walking this far. Turning around seems like the right plan, rather than reaching the peak and curving down the other side, especially as he's down to a third of his water.
He looks back behind him and of course he can only see the latest section of trail, and the far-off slopes past the forest. But downhill should be faster, he thinks. Give it two hours and he should be back at the car.
When he checks his phone, there's vague service but no texts from Dean who is probably passed out on the couch by now, warm and cozy under one of the scratchy blankets Bobby'd found in the cabin's closet. He thinks about how Bobby used to keep piles of old throw blankets shoved in a wicker basket at his old place to pull out when Sam and Dean were around. It's all foolishly nostalgic.
Suddenly, all Sam wants in the world is to get back to the car. He isn't just decided, he's full-on impatient. The backs of his knees are sweating and he fantasizes about changing out of his damp shirt into a fresh one, or more likely one of Dean's that's balled up on the back seat, not clean but dry, reeking of old spice and whiskey. Then he'll drive back to Whitefish, grabbing a few coffees along the way because Bobby can't make coffee for shit. He could be back in time for dinner.
The trail ahead gives a lazy roll, like he's on land but still walking on sea legs. He slows to a standstill, and when he turns to look back up the mountain, there's Lucifer, ambling towards him down the trail with his hands in his pockets and a cool expression on his face.
"Sam," he says. He sucks in deep through his nose like he can smell the cold pine, and looks at the sky. "Nice day for it. Too bad Dean couldn't make it out."
Even though Sam's confronted his demons, it always seems stupid and impossible to reason with the devil, especially if this version's just an echo, a facsimile drawn from his own brain.
But if that logic's followed to it's source, then maybe -
"Why do you always talk about Dean?" Sam has never thought to wonder before now.
Lucifer presses a finger to his lips, a parody of thoughtful. "Well, that's an interesting question, Sam. How about I tell you a riddle, and we'll go from there?"
There are goosebumps on Sam's arms. None of this is actually happening, but that awareness makes him dizzy, makes him wonder what else he's just creating out of thin air, so to speak, for no reason he can fathom. He waits, breath bated for the promise of an answer. His lungs feel like they're on fire but that recedes.
"A riddle...." he confirms. "About why you're so fixated on my brother."
"If you want to put it that way, yes."
"How about no," he tries.
"Now, now. Here goes: I am with you all the time, yet no one sees me. I make you hold grudges, and give you a reason to be happy. As you get older I start to disappear. What I am?"
Sam turns to go but Lucifer appears two steps in front of him.
"Your memories, Sammy. Next one: I have forests, but no trees. I have lakes, but no water. I have roads, but no cars. What Am I?"
Sam loves riddles. He does crosswords and word jumbles and plays twenty-questions until they're on hour three and Dean's down to just grunts of yes or no. Besides, if he's dealing with a figment of his own subconscious, he should know the answer to this one.
He frowns and looks out at the clouds. "A map?" he hazards.
"Bingo."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Memories? Maps?"
"You've got it in there, I know you do."
"If this is something about personal Hell and dwelling on guilt, I'm past that."
And what's striking is he mostly means it, too. He glares and Lucifer tsks.
"Do you really need me to spell it out for you? You'd only be doing the work yourself, anyway. Might as well start by admitting it."
"Just go away," Sam says, and scratches irritably at the seam that runs from his pinky to the mount of his palm.
"Fine," Lucifer tells him. "I'll leave you to your lonely thoughts, but only because you're finally getting it."
Sam blinks and then it's like Lucifer was never there, talking about Dean. He shies away from even thinking about what this extension of his subconscious was trying to get at. The situation with Dean can't be stared at directly. He's spent his life looking at it from the corner of his eye and it seems impossible to confront head on, never mind how he's confronted everything else, everything that had happened in Hell and what he did when he was minus one soul and topside, so that now he's made peace in ways he hadn't felt since Stanford. Not even then.
He settles on picturing his brother again, because that's all he can manage. It's easy to transform into a goal, Dean, stretched out with one leg crooked over the arm of the couch and his cheek pillowed on his hands. Sam sprints down the trail, his backpack smacking against him and momentum driving him forward, his lungs burning. It feels like the beginnings of an epiphany.
Even epiphanies are slave to gravity, so eventually he slows because he doesn't want to trip, and the hike back feels interminable. One hour turns to two, and the vague trail which had seemed so obvious on the way up becomes speckled with a few, fat raindrops that make the dirt splotchy and then all-dark within minutes.
Something doesn't feel right. The trail looks different going this direction, is probably what it is, but it's raining now, full out, and the path wasn't straightforward to begin with; it wended its way around and up the hillside, but sometimes dipped downward as well. Now that he's thinking about it, the path looks entirely unfamiliar. He briefly considers going straight down the side of the hill, but there are boulders and trees and patches of dense forest swamping in the weather.
His whole life has been about survival training, but five more minutes pass and he finds himself under white-out rain that makes it impossible to continue. It hurts everywhere it hits his skin. He stops in the middle of the trail and takes a few deep breaths. He pulls his hands through his hair like it will help him think, but he's so wet now that all he can think about is getting back to the car.
"Shit." His voice startles him in how loud it is. He spits out water and says it again.
He takes stock. He could keep going, unsure of the way, or he could stop for an hour or so. At least he's got food and water and a phone that may or may not have a signal. Shelter it is, then.
There's a tree with low-hanging branches on the side of the hill so he makes his way up, rain battering the top of his head and his arms and shoulders. The change in weather is so staggering that he hasn't fully realized it yet. Small rocks slide out beneath his boots and sides of boulders are slick and intractable when he tries to use them for leverage. The air is cold and fresh and his socks are filling up with rain.
He almost falls off the top of a boulder when his phone rings. He wouldn't have heard it over the thunder but it vibrates in his jeans pocket and it's like all his reflexes have gone out the window. His foot slides against the slick rock and the phone slips out of his grip and drops off the side, into the mud below.
"Shit, shit, shit." He looks up toward the tree, which is not too far away, and then rolls onto his stomach and starts to lower himself down, his palms skidding against stone and his shirt pulling up as he slides down. This was possibly not the best idea.
There's a hard roll of thunder and then Sam flattens himself to the rock, yelling, when all his hair stands on end in a crackle of electricity.
He scrambles back up to sit and gather his bearings. The rain is getting colder and harder by the minute, if that's even possible, so that when he looks over the edge he can just make out his phone, which appears to have melted and scattered in pieces in a dip of scorched ground.
"Figures," he breathes, then clambers up and into, and then through, a hard bush with spikes, and lopes to the tree.
At least not that much rain can get through the branches. They are thick with pineneedles and low, so Sam is leaning up against the trunk, seated on dry dirt. He changed into his hoodie in attempts to stay warm, but the rest of him is sopping.
He's going to have to wait out the rain. He knows it will be fine in the long run, but this experience will doubtlessly be seriously uncomfortable. He's going to have to head back when the rain lets up near dusk or, worse, after dark. Both futures sound long and wet.
He considers starting a fire, but absolutely nothing is dry except for what he has here, under the tree, which consists of fallen pine needles that only light for a moment and then smoulder out, and the skittles wrapper. So, a fire's out.
More than anything he wants to be on the couch in his flannel pijama pants and t-shirt, having hot pasta al dente while spaghetti westerns are forced on him, complete with running commentary, Dean using the crook of his knee to warm his feet. Sam is having a difficult time remembering why he left in the first place.
All Sam's reasoning seems flawed, suddenly. On principle, leaving Dean to go it alone is the last thing Sam wants to do, but it becomes clear to him that that's what he's been doing. Somehow he tells himself every time that they need it.
He didn't feel like an idiot until this moment, even though the fact of the situation is that he's stranded partway up a mountain, watching ants crawl in and out of a surprise ant hill a foot to his left. He thinks about Dean taking his hand and saying, this is real. He thinks about Dean telling him to stop leaving. He feels at once empowered with this knew perspective, but also powerless and stranded under a tree.
He breathes in the chill smell of water and pine and spends a good five minutes watching droplets plink from the tips of branches, like icicles melting off Christmas trees. The entire situation seems simple, suddenly. He has to get back.
He is not expecting Dean to find him, but when Dean does, in fact, slog down the trail below, the rain has not let up. Sam is rubbing at his arms which are going numb when he sees him. He wonders if it's a mud-monster making his way up the path, if a mud monster spoke in curse words and knew his name. But then the focal point of the world sharpens and it's Dean looking stupid and wet and tiny.
Sam grabs his backpack and rolls out from under the tree, crushing pinecones painfully along his back, and getting to his feet. He skids down the side of the hill, and manages to not fall on his face until he reaches Dean.
They don't collapse, although it's a close thing. Dean steadies him, only to shove him hard in the chest until he's backed Sam up under the rough trunk of a tree that provides far less in the way of shelter than his previous.
"What the hell, Sam?"
"I got lost!" Sam says. "And then my phone got struck by lightning!"
There's mud across Dean's cheek bones, which underscores the incredulity of his stare. Sam grins back. He watches water droplets cling to the end of Dean's eyelashes, endlessly thankful.
"I mean, I would have found my way back no matter what," he says. "But this is such a huge relief."
"Well. Good thing I checked the GPS before your phone...died. It is, apparently, a necessary precaution." Dean shoots Sam a sharp look like he's daring him to feel upset about something that ultimately saved him, privacy infringed upon. Sam is just imagining a hot shower and a grilled cheese sandwich in civilization.
"Thanks for finding me." He means it more than anything else in his life, maybe. There's nothing worse than being stranded in a forest near dusk.
"Yeah, well," Dean says, and turns away. "I fucking hate nature. Let's get out of here."
"Do you know the way back?"
"Yeah, I got it. I, at least, was paying attention."
They set out down the hill, wading along. Dean winds off onto a path that doesn't look so much like the trail as it does a healthily rushing creek, mud collapsing out from under their feet as they walk, but Sam trusts him. He can't keep his eyes off the back of Dean's head, like he's making up for lost time.
"I thought you got roofied by Lucifer," Dean shouts back.
Sam thinks about this while skirting a puddle of indeterminate depth. "But that would mean...."
"Yeah, it was a weird idea all around. I'm glad you didn't."
Sam has relief swooping up in his chest and he feels centered rather than at the edge of the world. He knocks their shoulders together every once and a while when they get to flat ground again and can walk side by side through the freezing rain. After the third time, Dean finally gives him a look and Sam resumes watching so neither of them will slip again.
After twenty minutes of this, Dean with his jacket tied around his waist because it is too waterlogged to wear and Sam with his hair plastered back away from his forehead, Dean says, "I'm surprised you're not talking up a storm."
"Are we there yet?" Sam deadpans.
"Ha, very funny. Just about." But when he slows to a stop, his face is serious. "Wait, no, you know what?"
Sam turns, like maybe the answer is behind them.
Dean looks around as if he's also lost the trail, to Sam's deep dismay, and asks, "What are we even doing here, man?"
"Hm, let's see." Sam ticks them off on his fingers. "About to catch a cold, possibly hypothermia, having a discussion we could have, I don't know, while walking? Or back in the car?"
Dean frowns. "Don't give me that. I have brambles stuck in my socks and I just spent an hour looking for your sorry ass, after you walked out on me. I came to rescue you, which meant trying not to consider all the ways you could have found to die out here, during which time I was attacked by some sort of mountain toad that hopped out of nowhere and I almost fell down the side of the freaking mountain."
Sam gestures to Dean's jeans, which are mostly orange with mud. "Yeah, you're covered in it."
This observation doesn't seem to help. Dean looks like he's possibly about to have a mental breakdown of his own, Sam can see it. He could change the subject but he holds out, indulging a tiny part of him which takes perverse pleasure from Dean's freak outs, those moments when he has worked himself up enough to talk about their issues, which are many and varied.
Dean wipes rain off his face. "All I'm saying is, head in the game. We're hunting creatures of biblical proportion, yet every time we get in an argument, one of us leaves and needs to be tracked down. That's kind of a waste of resources."
Sam reaches for Dean's shoulder.
Dean shrugs away. "I mean, yeah, maybe we should take time off from each other. You're like an insane person half the time, and I'm not even referring to the hallucinations here."
"Well, I have to put up with your soap opera crap. And I'm not talking TV. But you're wrong. I've done some thinking up here, and I wanted to say, I'm sorry I left."
"Not to be a dick, but leaving is kind of your M.O.”
"Dean, I-"
"Don't worry about it, though. Difference is, I know you don't mean it personally. It's taken a while for me to get it through my head, but I trust you, man. God help me, but I really do." Dean won't look him in the eye. He rubs a hand over his mouth and glances back up the way they came, surveying the scraggly bushes and stalky flowers which are drowning. He says, "But really, Sam. I don't know if I can keep doing this."
"What?" Sam asks. He identifies that feeling as something breaking inside him. "Dean. What does that mean?"
Dean looks helplessly at him, and kind of torn up when he sidesteps past as if he's going to just keep walking, but Sam grabs out again and Dean lets him do it this time.
"What do you mean?" He has a sick feeling in his stomach where minutes before was all relief. Dean's about to give him some decision he's already made, with no room for argument - a break-up speech, for lack of a better word. He's done it before.
Sam's whole world is narrowed down to what Dean's going to say next, so that he can plan how to fix it, when Dean comes out with: "It's just better when it's with you, okay?"
Which is not what Sam had been dreading. "Oh," he says. "Well that's-"
"Hell, it's not worth it if you're not there," Dean says. "I mean, you were in the Pit, and then you were back but you weren't you, and then you got your soul back but we keep doing this shit anyway. I mean, I was on that cooking show, doing my thing, making those little mincemeat basil pies, and I just broke down. I blamed it on the onions I was chopping, but they were freaking perfect, thinly sliced before I sauteed them."
"Dean-" Sam's got water running over his face and into his mouth, dripping off his chin.
"That's when I realized." Dean isn't talking loudly, but it's like the rain's letting up a little just so the words can be heard. His eyes are searching Sam's, bitter, imploring. "I wasn't upset about them - it was you. I felt like shit that we'd argued, and even though I knew we'd be dragging our sorry asses back to the motel room in no time, I just missed you. I missed you so much, Sammy. Stupidest thing you've ever heard, right?"
In lieu of a response, Sam gets his hands curled into Dean's wet t-shirt. Dean's already standing up close, naturally, and Sam thinks how that proximity, that focus, has never really swayed. It suddenly seems impossible that he would ever assume it should be otherwise. They've both been too focused on letting the other one off the hook to see it, backing off because that's what it's been said they're supposed to do.
It's his big breakthrough. Dean needs to hear it here, now in the middle of nowhere, which is kind of the point.
"Don't hurt yourself thinking too hard," Dean says, looking pissed-off in a drowned rat sort of way.
"I think we've been going about this backwards," Sam says, but when Dean shakes his head and looks away, rushes to continue, "No, that's- I mean, we've been trying to solve this thing for more years than I can count. Yeah, maybe it's the curse. But hell, maybe it's just life. All I'm saying is, we've done a lot of letting each other go. It's always for each other's own good, too, but it never changes anything. I always think we need space, but all that happens is missing each other and one or both of us comes limping back. So maybe-"
"Maybe what?"
"Maybe we stop leaving." It doesn't even sound stupid, so he says it again. "Let's just stop leaving each other."
"Oh."
That's all Dean comes up with, that half syllable. And even though it's not a no, after ten seconds of waiting for more, Sam takes a step back. It seems mind-boggling but maybe he was infinitely wrong and making all that shit up, and they have never been on the same page.
Dean follows, though, stepping in close with a careful hesitancy, like he's expecting Sam to step away and he's going to let him. It's an expression that Sam's seen before, when Dean's told him not to walk out that door, throwing it like a dare.
Sam doesn't back down. He kisses rain from Dean's mouth instead, and Dean shoves close, nose pressed to Sam's cheek. He licks against Sam's tongue, running his hands up to tug through Sam's wet hair.
Sam dips into it, heady and grounded, cold everywhere except the parts they're touching. Dean shifts closer even, and Sam thumbs the hollow of his throat. A low burn starts in his gut. It's probably impossible to point to the best moment of his life, but this one is certainly up there.
Dean ends up with Sam's face cradled in his hands when they stop to breathe, the air is humid between them. Sam's content to stand here forever, ten minutes, whatever, even though it's cold and the rain feels harder than it's ever been, hitting his shoulders and his ears, marking once and for all which parts of him are real and making him present. He wonders crazily if they look like straight out of a comic book. The world could be drawn this way and he wouldn't care.
Dean clears his throat. "Okay then."
"Okay?" Sam asks, watching Dean's Adam's apple work.
"Okay." Dean rubs the back of his neck and drops back. "We've had our argument in the rain and did the make up thing. Let's get off this mountain."
He pushes Sam away and stalks off. He's almost around a bend before Sam can get it together and stride after him.
It's stupid but Sam isn't able to hold onto that giddy feeling for long, when Dean never looks at him, not once. All euphoria transforms to lead. Sam has never had the strongest stomach, has never been big on patience, and has definitely never dealt with the aftermath of making out with his brother. He feels nauseated. A lot seems to be asked of him in life.
"Dude, chill the fuck out," Dean says.
"Okay." Sam trails along next to him and hates the wind. He plucks at his hoodie that's so wet it's molded like a second skin to his arms and torso. Five more minutes pass. They're both covered in mud and rainwater and all Sam wants to do is get his hands all over him but isn't sure whether he'd just imagined the whole thing. It's possible.
"Sam," Dean says. "If you think that I'm letting you hole up inside your brain again, you are sorely mistaken."
"Just to clear things up-" Sam hedges.
Dean stops to yell at him a little, which is heartening. "Fine!" He waves an arm. "Because apparently you can't handle anything that's not clearly spelled out - and when I say 'clearly,' I do mean kindergarten level, ABCs - Yes. Yes, I can't live without you, oh baby, oh baby. The curse doesn't exist, it's obviously just a cover for how fucked up this is, how we suck at life if we're not together. The universe, for some insane reason, wants us to be unhealthily, incestuously codependent."
"The universe is kinky?" Sam offers. "So does that mean you do-?"
Dean gives him a look of disbelief. "Sam. I am so turned on right now I am literally expending every one of my remaining brain cells trying to walk. Stop making me talk about it."
They walk on. Sam falls firmly into stride with him, thinking this over. "That's...not that many."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Shut up." He storms on ahead. Sam takes longer strides. Dean keeps up the thread of conversation. "You know, I feel massively underappreciated. The amount of self-sabotage and guilt, not to mention years of denial- Do you know that I think about kissing your thumbs?"
"Um." For some reason that really gets to him. It kind of rocks his world.
"Constantly," Dean continues. "In California, all those people watching while you put your fingers on my mouth. And now our picture's everywhere."
"Wow, I don't even know what to say to that."
"Yeah, well." But Dean's smirking and clearly embarrassed, which is rare and wonderful.
Sam nudges him. "So, you're serious? Our ugly mugs are on posters?"
"It's all over the state, apparently. And not just posters, billboards, too. About half the reason I came out here is Bobby got a call about it from someone dad knew. I left the house immediately."
Sam's grinning. "Shit. Still want to go back?"
"We may be the definition of fucked up, but I am not going to pass up a hot shower and some serious worker's comp."
Dean arches an eyebrow and it settles something inside Sam. He thinks, Dean is his flesh and blood brother, in it for the long haul, and theirs isn't some half-formed hope. They can do this.
"You know," he says. "That's almost sweet. Getting kind of cheesy, there."
"Hey," Dean shrugs. "You're the one who's been on this happy kick. I'm just being dragged along for the ride."
"Oh yeah? I'll show you happy."
One thing leads to another, of course, and Sam oversteps and Dean tries to take all his weight and the ground gives out where they're standing at the edge of the trail. It's the start of a mudslide, and is over quickly.
When they come to a slump against a well-washed bush, rain hitting down on their heads like it's the Rapture all over again, Dean is laughing next to him. The Impala's hidden in some backwater of the country, they've got Purgatory on their collective asses, and Sam's pockets are filled with mud, and that just proves it. It's not like they get into anything more or less ridiculous, depending, it's just that, together, they've got each other's backs, like it's supposed to be. They're not stronger apart, they're weaker.
pairing: Sam/Dean
words: 9k
summary: Sam and Dean might be cursed. Every time they try to split up, ridiculous mishaps befall them.
spoilers: season 7, before the two latest episodes. keep informed, bizzies.
a/n: written for de_nugis for the spn_j2_xmas exchange. You had really fun prompts! Sam & Dean cooking! Hiking with misfortune! I tried to use a few elements. Also, I love being fandom friends with you! ♥
Additional thanks go to: lightthesparks and mistyzeo for story ideas! Also, my sisters, who field my whining. I am apparently entirely unable to plot or succeed at life without any and all outside help. Anyway, HAPPY HOLIDAYS DN AND OTHERS!
Sam and Dean are complete workaholics and are psychotically, irrationally, and erotically codependent on one another. However, that doesn't mean that they don't spend any time apart. They can afford to do their own thing the odd weekend, especially now that most world-ending issues have been resolved and it's only Leviathan that've got them hiding out. Total small fry.
They argue and, as a result, Sam will decide he's taking off for a day or two for Dean's own good, and Dean will let him. Sam will go hiking and Dean will spend the entire Saturday reading. Dean will say, I need a drink and go play darts in a bar two towns over. Sam will fix appliances in Rufus' old cabin while Bobby gives him space.
So, they take breaks, but it always ends up here:
"That is freaking hilarious."
"It really wasn't. Don't ever let me talk myself into that again."
"At least neither of us ended up in jail this time."
"I'm hungry. Let's get the hell out of Dodge."
It is a vicious cycle.
Dean finally brings it up. "All the weird shit that happens when we're apart," he says. "Maybe it's a curse."
"It could be," Sam says, but he's skeptical and it seems unimportant at the moment. He's feeling positive. He runs every morning and has been considering taking up yoga. A lot of issues are resolving themselves.
Dean drags the last, soggy fry through catsup, and continues, "I mean, it can't be a coincidence that everything goes to hell when we split up, you know? Look at what happened when my leg was broken, you just took off and the world went crazy."
"Dean, the hunt went fine. We talked about this." He didn't kill Amy Pond a few days back, and neither did Dean. That means something. He watches Dean finish his lunch, thinking, thank God for my brother.
"Yeah, well." Dean sits back, looking out the window. "You still have a broken head."
That hangs heavy between them for a second, but Sam refuses to let it get him down. He's doing okay, feeling tentatively great. He's making a concerted effort to establish a hard and fast line between what's real and what's a hallucination. He still sees Lucifer - who currently happens to be seated one table over, squirting half a bottle of mustard onto a grilled cheese sandwich - Sam still has five-sense style delusions that throw him, but he makes damn sure he can tell the difference.
"Things go to hell no matter what," he says, and doesn't feel too bad about it. It's more like an inside joke than depressing as all get out. "But you're right," he says. "It could be a curse. God knows we've pissed off enough witches."
Dean nods and they'll talk about it later. He looks up then and tells Sam to finish his beer, bitch.
Sam is amenable to this. He takes a long pull at his IPA, the bottle cold as sweat against the stitched up sole of his hand.
The zen state only lasts for about three hours, of course. Dean's been drinking so his reflexes are that much slower, making him an easy target for that thing they're hunting, the one in the nearby forest with claws and dripping fangs. Meanwhile, aforementioned hallucinations mean Sam's off his game, and it's a lucky thing he has brute strength on his side because it's a close call.
The fight ends bloody, not on their end of it, but it's close. Another day in the life, but Sam is pissed and Dean is pissed that Sam's pissed. They bicker and then really have it out on the sidewalk, some argument that doesn't even bear repeating.
What matters is that Dean almost died, again, it finally hits Sam.
"I mean, how can you be so reckless?" he shouts. "With your own life, Dean!"
Pedestrians scatter, maybe, but Sam can only focus on his brother, his sneer as he says, "Oh, you're one to talk."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm not the one who almost got brained because he's having Hellvision!"
"That's different!"
"Oh yeah? Care to tell me how? You said this thing is manageable, but you almost getting killed? Not manageable."
The argument goes in circles, both working the other up until Sam kicks over a trash can and a lady yells at them out the door of her stationary shop and Dean mutters something about getting a drink and Sam lets him go, snagging the keys in a fit of petulance.
He stops at a gas station and buys a six-pack and a bag of fritos and some string cheese. He's going to head back to the motel and watch that part of the Planet Earth documentary on bats that Dean hadn't wanted to watch because, not only was he afraid of flying, he'd explained the previous night, but apparently he was scared of anything that was able to fly. It had sounded like complete crap, but the soft look he had sent Sam was half-embarrassed, which had made Sam falter and check against a mental list of any and all times they'd come into contact with birds or planes or things in flight, just to be sure. Meanwhile, Dean had dragged Sam's laptop to him and queued up some anime.
When Sam gets back to the room, he eats the fritos first, one by one while reading articles on the CNN website. By the time he's done browsing, he's down half a beer and doesn't want to watch anything educational. In this way, all his aspirations are once again revealed to have been grandiose and propelled only by the momentum of the car, tapering off when the engine died.
He tells himself he doesn't care where Dean is right now. Their fight was stupid, and Dean's probably already cooled off. He's just worried about Sam, and Sam's just worried about him. They're like the poster boys for pent-up emotion. They are both aware of this. Sometimes Sam thinks that they couldn't do a worse job of it, but then other days, like today, he's certain their concern can wear them thinner. One of these days, instead of leaving, he's going really fuck things up. He's going to hug Dean when death isn't involved and see where it goes from there. He's only got so much self-control.
He thinks this wryly, knowing he'll never do anything even close. Where Dean wields his phobias like a weapon, just like he's learned to use everything else, Sam gives up on dreams before they're fully formed. He knows it, Dean knows it.
Sam lounges back on the bed, flips on the old TV, letting his eyelids droop to half-mast, feeling surly.
At seven PM, one crap cooking show bleeds into the next and Sam instantly falls off the bed in surprise. Embarrassing. And while it's a small comfort that Dean isn't there to see it, that, of course, is the problem, because Dean is, in fact, on TV.
Sam finds the end of the mattress by touch, and takes a seat, because his eyes are glued to the screen. Apparently this is a local channel, a live broadcast. Dean has a white apron on over his black t-shirt and jeans, and he's mid-sentence, talking about how today they're going to be making a "sort of Italian-themed meal."
Sam is transfixed. The cameras make Dean's eyes look dulled and his skin kind of orange, rather than crystal-green and golden-tan respectively, but the camera keeps cutting to shots of Dean's mouth as he tries each of the ingredients before they start. Sam watches him chew.
On screen, Dean takes a deep sip of wine and then refills the nearly empty glass and says, "so it's going to be very experimental. A sort of new-fangled supper. In fact, you probably don't even need me. I'd go so far as to say just turn off the TV now and don't watch, go be crazy with your chef self."
He looks stage left, and then turns back to address the camera again. "But I kid. Please take this commercial break to arrange your ingredients as I've just demonstrated, and sharpen your knives and other cooking utensils. Stay tuned." Sam can read a vague panic in Dean's eyes as the camera zooms again. His brother gives a sarcastic smile and says, "This coming live, at this very moment, from Channel Six studios on First and Duluth Street." He raises his eyebrows, which brings Sam back to reality. "To all you viewers who haven't managed to be with us tonight, it would be great to see you."
Sam almost forgets the keys, he's out the door so fast. He races back and then gets to the car and skids out of the parking lot. He buckles his seatbelt at the stoplight and then spends the remainder of the time drumming his fingers arrhythmically on the steering wheel, muttering, "c'mon, c'mon," wishing his erstwhile psychic abilities were still in effect and extended to electricity and traffic signals.
When he reaches the studio, there's no one to stop him from walking directly in; the network is small and they probably don't have a lot of fans trying to break in and steal stuff. He pulls Dean's sunglasses down over his face just in case and tries to look like a studio executive, flattening his mouth into a line of displeasure when he pushes through a half-open door into a low-lit area that's crowded with electricians and camera people.
It's the right room. Dean is standing in a prop-kitchen a stage-length away, slicing vegetables very slowly in front of a darkened audience.
"Once again, you might want to wear some protective goggles. These onions sure are potent. Got me crying like a baby."
He's rambling. Sam will laugh later. For now he's got to get Dean off of live television.
"You there!"
Sam straightens his shoulders and resists the impulse to pull out an FBI badge, because he didn't bring one. He sidesteps around a woman with a headset to get away, but then walks on a man with a clipboard instead.
He gives Sam a resigned once-over and says, "Well, Antoine, at least you showed up at all."
"Excuse me?" asks Sam.
"What, you think I'm going to thank you for leaving our guy alone out there? Get in there and save him, would you? Or at least get the bottle out of arm's reach."
Sam puts his hands up in front of him. "Oh, no. Misunderstanding, I'm not-I mean-"
As he's fumbling, someone is helping him out of his jacket and he twists out of their reach but a woman manages to sling an apron over his head. As it is, he's only half-resisting because his first impulse is to go get Dean, who doesn't like being singled out ever, even at birthday parties, much less by spotlights in front of an audience. And that's where they're pushing Sam. He, again, considers punching someone, because those are TV cameras and anyone could be watching. They're ex-wanted criminals, legally dead, and Dean up there is bad enough.
The next thing he knows, he's out on stage. That will teach him to worry about his brother instead of keeping it together enough to come up with a decent plan.
"Ah," he says, loudly, as Dean gapes at him. "Good evening. I am...I am Antoine, your belated sous chef."
There's a smattering of applause. He can't see anyone.
"Dude," Dean says barely moving his lips. "What's with the shades?"
Sam shoves his hair back with them and goes to wash his hands. He thinks about the audience and the cameras and the lights that are burning the back of his neck, then reminds himself that they can do this. Their whole lives are about passing as one profession or another, this shouldn't be that different.
When he turns back around, he rubs his hands together and says, loudly, "So, what are we cooking?"
The audience rallies a little, snickering at the lazy assistant.
"Actually," Sam says, with a confidential look their way. "I don't even know how to cook, really, so it probably won't make a difference if I know the game plan or not."
There's loud laughter, surprised or appalled, and Sam shrugs again. He nudges Dean with a shoulder and reaches for a knife. Knives he can do.
Dean sounds more relaxed when he says, "Here, Antoine. Just chop this basil." He motions to an actual basil plant and Sam grabs it and starts plucking off the leaves. "Tonight, we're making mini mincemeat pies with basil and onion."
Sam nods like it's just one of many fine dishes Dean the chef could have chosen, while in reality he recognizes it as a recipe Dean made up when they were in high school, when he had started mixing all they had in their fridge together, namely meat and onion, and poured in dried basil and way too much salt.
"Did you remember to preheat the oven?" Sam asks, pushing past memories.
"Did I preheat the oven," Dean mimics. "Do your job. Next, we'll be making macaroni 'n cheese à la motel kitchenette."
Sam tries to hide a smile and pay attention to mincing the basil. He feels momentarily caught up. "I love mac 'n cheese," he says.
He can feel Dean for-real smiling at him. "I know you do."
The crowd coos. How embarrassing, Sam had almost forgotten they were there.
When the ingredients have been mixed in a large bowl and a Creuset casserole dish has been oiled, and set aside, they cut for another commercial. The crowd murmurs into normal conversation and a few extra lights flood on. The makeup artist rushes up again and yanks Sam face down by the chin. She powders his nose with a large brush and, when he follows her instructions to pucker, adds a daub of Carmex and tells him not to rub his lips together.
He goes to rub his forehead and she tsks. "It's like you've never been on TV."
While she tugs on his hair and combs his sideburns, which is slightly uncomfortable, he mutters to Dean, "So, what are you even doing here?"
Dean leans in and says, "Long story. Suffice to say, I am never leaving the room again."
Sam is inclined to agree.
Dean mutters, "Who even watches this shit? I want to get out of here."
The makeup girl snorts but makes no further comment.
"Sure," Sam says. "But is there another door? Other than the stage door?"
"Dude, it's mid-show. We can't just leave."
"I mean, we could."
"Could we?" asks Dean. It's said under his breath, meant only for Sam, but somehow the man with the clipboard knows to come rushing out.
"No no no! Like hell you're leaving!" He points to the clipboard and then waves to the cameras. "The audience is loving this, even though I'm going to have some serious words with you about drinking on the job. That wine is for artistic accent and for use in recipes, not to quaff freely on stage."
The makeup girl taps her microphone apologetically. "Looks like you two're stuck here," she says.
Mac 'n cheese takes fifteen minutes to cook and the mini-pies, ten. Despite that, time stretches out interminably while they watch the water boil and the pies brown. Sam cuts carrots into spears and improvs, spouting vague and unhelpful rhetoric he'd picked up on a health website to advise embracing a raw diet. This goes over as well as one could hope, and when he meets Dean's eyes once, he receives a kind of freaky grin.
Halfway through his spiel, the oven starts smoking and Sam yanks it open and fans the plumes away with a placemat. Dean grabs a pie with tongs and waves it around until it's cool enough to eat.
"Charred," he says, taking a bite. "Exactly how I'd planned. It's definitely a matter of taste, so bake accordingly."
Sam drinks some of Dean's wine.
"Meat foo-may," Dean claims, popping another one into his mouth and then chewing so the camera can see everything. "Damn that's hot. Ah. Jesus Christ."
"Grand Master Walsch goes for just about anything extra crispy," Sam tells the possibly skeptical audience. "Now, as you can see, cooling in the dish we have our mac 'n cheese à la-whatever, and mincemeat pies you can arrange on a colorful platter to impress your guests. I'd call this a success. To all our viewers, we sincerely hope everything went well, and thank you for joining us today."
He waits for some sort of music to signal the end of the show, but instead a PA calls for audience questions. Dean steps on Sam's foot, but it's slow and behind the counter so no one can see. Sam pinches whatever's closest and looks out at the dark sea of audience members. This is by far one of the more ridiculous situations they've ended up in.
A cute girl with a shaved head stands to accept the microphone. Sam and Dean shield their eyes and squint at her.
"Hello, my name is Jen," she says. "I came from Switzerland to see the show."
"Wow," Dean says, sounding like he actually feels flattered. "Thanks so much."
"My pleasure. First, can I just say, Grand Master Walsch, you look really different in person."
Dean points to his chest. "Oh, me? Yeah, camera adds twenty pounds, isn't that what they say?"
"No, I mean, on TV you're tanner. And a little more...masculine, I suppose is the word. I never noticed your freckles before. And you used to have black hair. Actually, you look completely different."
"Well-"
"But my real question is for Antoine."
There is a ripple of giggles. Sam peers out against the light and sees that most of the audience is grinning. It's not a little disconcerting.
Jen asks, "Where did you learn to cook?"
"Oh." He turns to Dean, who makes a conceding gesture. Sam eyes him and says, "Actually, Grand Master Walsch taught me to chop vegetables. I haven't actually gotten to the cooking part, although I heat up a mean bowl of soup." He laughs and the audience makes an awwing noise. "But seriously, I owe it all to him. Yep." He smiles and finally looks back to her. "Final answer."
The next girl who raises his hand grabs the microphone and says, "Is that true, Grand Master?"
Dean shrugs and flips a knife. "What can I say? I'm inspirational. Next."
It's a male voice this time. "Yes, I have a question for...Antoine."
Sam shields his eyes, but he still can't tell where the voice is coming from.
"All right," he says.
"So, elephant in the room's kind of obvious lately, isn't it? How you two are together."
Sam frowns. "Excuse me?"
The voice is familiar. "You're related, and yet is that the way siblings behave around each other? It's obvious. Or have you really fooled yourself into thinking you're the only one who daydreams about hearts and stars and boning his brother across the hood of the family car?"
Sam's breathing heavy and he's on the spot and wants nothing more than to go beat up whatever jerk is somehow onto him and then throw the body off a bridge. He snarls, "What the hell kind of question is that?"
"Antoine!" Dean's looking at him with horror. "Chill your meatballs!"
"For Christ's sake," the voice says. "He practically plays footsie with you under the table and you let him. On national TV. And you like it."
Sam scans the audience, which is now mumbling, and not in a pleasant way, and he finally spots the guy.
Lucifer looks apologetic when he leans into the microphone to say, "He's thinking about it right now."
"Next question," Sam grits out, berating himself because he should have known. Nothing's going to change, not now or ever.
Somewhere in the audience, he thinks, some poor kid just got his dreams crushed.
They're the first couple to get gay married when California enacts a surprise repeal of Prop 8 the second week of November. But it's an accident, and doesn't count, because Dean is wasted and Sam was just flashing his FBI badge to come get him out of trouble. It's five days after they left Lilydale, and Sam still feels betrayed about Amy, and Dean is obviously beating himself up about it, too. If there's ever a time Sam's wanted to marry Dean less, he can't remember it.
Also, there are cameras and Sam thinks that this is the opposite of staying off the radar. They're wanted criminals and bank robbers, and this here will make them somewhat iconic. But this's not the sort of misunderstanding you back out of, you don't just crush hopes and dreams of thousands when it's your own damn fault you ended up in the situation, somehow.
They kiss in front of a slew of supporters, a whole news crew, and three protesters, but that doesn't count either because they do the drama club trick where Sam frames Dean's face in his hands and kisses his own thumbs instead of Dean's mouth. Their names aren't even their own on the certificate, instead they're now listed as Mr & Mr Smith in calligraphy.
Sam feels like he just undermined the sanctity of marriage with a big old lie. Dean seems earnest when he tells a reporter that hunters deserve happiness, too.
"You are never drinking again," Sam says as he drags Dean out of the court to thrown rice and a few hearty slaps on the back from strangers. "This is no longer functional."
"Today is the first day of the rest of our lives," Dean tells him. "I expect you to put out."
When they make it to the car, Sam drives, the wheels skimming down the main road, rain sluicing onto the sidewalk. He just got somewhat-married to his brother. Stranger things have happened, but he's feeling conflicted nonetheless. That's normal, right?
Dean is eyeing him. “Are you doing better than earlier?”
There hasn't been sufficient fallout yet, no real conclusion to Dean basically telling Sam he doesn't trust him. Sam had spent a week feeling betrayed and working cases.
He'd done a lot of thinking, though. And he's too tired to hold a grudge. "Me being pissed isn't helping," he says, because it's the truth. "You already feel guilty, and me moping around you is just dragging you down."
This apology's none too different than their previous one, but it feels better, with Dean broaching the subject himself.
"Just, in the future, don't give me that shit about leaving for my own good," Dean says. "You're only half the problem."
Sam glances over in surprise. Dean is not that drunk.
"Thought you were better at math than that," Dean tells him.
They've both got their eyes on the road, Dean's fingers tapping on his thigh and Sam firmly gripping the wheel. He switches on the radio.
"At least we know the answer to one thing," Dean says.
Sam waits.
"The curse. It's totally real. I mean, look at what happened this time we split up. Last time you ditch me for the library, that's for sure."
Sam snorts. "At least I got some research in."
Dean slumps down in the seat and shuts his eyes. "Fuck California, am I right? This place has always been weird for us."
"You think this is going to have some consequences?" Sam asks after a while, after they've put a good ten miles of two-lane highway behind them. "This, uh, marriage thing."
"Nah. I mean, probably not."
Something occurs to him. He feels somewhat doomed. "Bobby's going to find out, isn't he?"
Dean slaps him on the thigh. "You betcha."
"Damn."
It might not be tomorrow, but the day after, maybe.
The next week, they're in a yarn store that smells like glue and cinnamon pine cones because they're doing a spell Bobby found which requires them to stock up on art supplies. No, really they've just had that crawling feeling, lately, at the back of their necks, and Sam had suggested maybe Fate was watching them again. Thus, the yarn spell that may or may not work.
Dean appears at the counter. He takes one look between Sam and the green knitting needles and then back to the six girls who are giving Sam pointers, and says, "Dude, I only left you alone for five minutes."
Sam shrugs helplessly, not sure himself, and knits his sweater. Call it whatever you want.
Sam plans to spend the day before Thanksgiving hiking, because he needs to clear his head. He's known for a month now that Dean killed Amy Pond, in cold blood and in front of her son. That, compounded with the occasional hallucination thing and the married thing, and the prevalence of Leviathan, he still feels frayed around the edges and wants Dean with a sick sort of longing so that he's gotten punchy and Dean's starting to react to it - well, a little time will probably do them both good.
He starts out at the trailhead with a backpack full of powerbars, an apple, a .45, and two Nalgenes of water. There's a bonus pack of Skittles just rattling around in there, too. He takes a deep breath and then sets out. The sky is smoothed like slate rock overhead, hard and white and stretching out into infinity beyond the mountain. Pine trees spike up against it in a dark ridge and the trail is packed, orange dirt beneath his boots.
At first it feels refreshing to be out alone. It's just one foot in front of the other, and the necessary precaution of noting any rocks, squirrel holes, or uprooted parts of trees that could be tripped over. He feels good, young and out in the crisp world. The air is fresh and cold. He's clearing his head, being healthy about this. Dean is obviously more guilt-ridden about lying to Sam than about the death itself. This is for the best, because this way Dean can just do his thing and recuperate without Sam lurking around, worrying him every second of the day.
Dean's probably at the cabin right now, laid out on the musty couch eating popcorn out of a bowl and shouting for Bobby to come watch whatever soap is on at the moment. He's gotten addicted to not only Doctor Sexy, M.D., but Luna y Sol, Days of Our Wives, and La Dama de Lirio. Sam doesn't realize he's smiling at the picture that makes until he has to purse his lips to stop himself.
Time is an abstraction up here. At some point Sam's breathing audibly and there's sweat soaking through his hoodie at the straps of the backpack and between his shoulder blades and under his arms, so he takes it off and shoves it inside the big zipper. His cheeks feel hot so he pours some water over his upturned face and then dries it with a stretched sleeve of his t-shirt.
He's going to turn back half way up the mountain, but the burn of his muscles is soothing, adrenaline like a drug. He's been running a lot more lately, doing sit ups and stretches, so today feels perfect. It's only noon, and he has food with him and an endless supply of time. Nowhere to go but forward.
It doesn't get lonely until three hours in, when the clouds have bunched up against each other in a dark, eager fashion with the onset of an unfriendly breeze. He is suddenly aware of how Dean and Bobby are all he's got, but they're miles away, and how he hasn't seen Lucifer in over a day, which leaves him to alternate between paranoia, like out of nowhere, at any moment, he'll wake up in the Pit, and then the disbelief that he could ever be fooled by his own brain in the first place.
The mountain feels wild, too, and endless, uninhabited except for the occasional blue jay that swoops from the top of a tree, cawing into the next. His calves are going to ache after this and he's got a blister developing on the back of his left heel because his boots aren't the hiking kind, per se, and not made for walking this far. Turning around seems like the right plan, rather than reaching the peak and curving down the other side, especially as he's down to a third of his water.
He looks back behind him and of course he can only see the latest section of trail, and the far-off slopes past the forest. But downhill should be faster, he thinks. Give it two hours and he should be back at the car.
When he checks his phone, there's vague service but no texts from Dean who is probably passed out on the couch by now, warm and cozy under one of the scratchy blankets Bobby'd found in the cabin's closet. He thinks about how Bobby used to keep piles of old throw blankets shoved in a wicker basket at his old place to pull out when Sam and Dean were around. It's all foolishly nostalgic.
Suddenly, all Sam wants in the world is to get back to the car. He isn't just decided, he's full-on impatient. The backs of his knees are sweating and he fantasizes about changing out of his damp shirt into a fresh one, or more likely one of Dean's that's balled up on the back seat, not clean but dry, reeking of old spice and whiskey. Then he'll drive back to Whitefish, grabbing a few coffees along the way because Bobby can't make coffee for shit. He could be back in time for dinner.
The trail ahead gives a lazy roll, like he's on land but still walking on sea legs. He slows to a standstill, and when he turns to look back up the mountain, there's Lucifer, ambling towards him down the trail with his hands in his pockets and a cool expression on his face.
"Sam," he says. He sucks in deep through his nose like he can smell the cold pine, and looks at the sky. "Nice day for it. Too bad Dean couldn't make it out."
Even though Sam's confronted his demons, it always seems stupid and impossible to reason with the devil, especially if this version's just an echo, a facsimile drawn from his own brain.
But if that logic's followed to it's source, then maybe -
"Why do you always talk about Dean?" Sam has never thought to wonder before now.
Lucifer presses a finger to his lips, a parody of thoughtful. "Well, that's an interesting question, Sam. How about I tell you a riddle, and we'll go from there?"
There are goosebumps on Sam's arms. None of this is actually happening, but that awareness makes him dizzy, makes him wonder what else he's just creating out of thin air, so to speak, for no reason he can fathom. He waits, breath bated for the promise of an answer. His lungs feel like they're on fire but that recedes.
"A riddle...." he confirms. "About why you're so fixated on my brother."
"If you want to put it that way, yes."
"How about no," he tries.
"Now, now. Here goes: I am with you all the time, yet no one sees me. I make you hold grudges, and give you a reason to be happy. As you get older I start to disappear. What I am?"
Sam turns to go but Lucifer appears two steps in front of him.
"Your memories, Sammy. Next one: I have forests, but no trees. I have lakes, but no water. I have roads, but no cars. What Am I?"
Sam loves riddles. He does crosswords and word jumbles and plays twenty-questions until they're on hour three and Dean's down to just grunts of yes or no. Besides, if he's dealing with a figment of his own subconscious, he should know the answer to this one.
He frowns and looks out at the clouds. "A map?" he hazards.
"Bingo."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Memories? Maps?"
"You've got it in there, I know you do."
"If this is something about personal Hell and dwelling on guilt, I'm past that."
And what's striking is he mostly means it, too. He glares and Lucifer tsks.
"Do you really need me to spell it out for you? You'd only be doing the work yourself, anyway. Might as well start by admitting it."
"Just go away," Sam says, and scratches irritably at the seam that runs from his pinky to the mount of his palm.
"Fine," Lucifer tells him. "I'll leave you to your lonely thoughts, but only because you're finally getting it."
Sam blinks and then it's like Lucifer was never there, talking about Dean. He shies away from even thinking about what this extension of his subconscious was trying to get at. The situation with Dean can't be stared at directly. He's spent his life looking at it from the corner of his eye and it seems impossible to confront head on, never mind how he's confronted everything else, everything that had happened in Hell and what he did when he was minus one soul and topside, so that now he's made peace in ways he hadn't felt since Stanford. Not even then.
He settles on picturing his brother again, because that's all he can manage. It's easy to transform into a goal, Dean, stretched out with one leg crooked over the arm of the couch and his cheek pillowed on his hands. Sam sprints down the trail, his backpack smacking against him and momentum driving him forward, his lungs burning. It feels like the beginnings of an epiphany.
Even epiphanies are slave to gravity, so eventually he slows because he doesn't want to trip, and the hike back feels interminable. One hour turns to two, and the vague trail which had seemed so obvious on the way up becomes speckled with a few, fat raindrops that make the dirt splotchy and then all-dark within minutes.
Something doesn't feel right. The trail looks different going this direction, is probably what it is, but it's raining now, full out, and the path wasn't straightforward to begin with; it wended its way around and up the hillside, but sometimes dipped downward as well. Now that he's thinking about it, the path looks entirely unfamiliar. He briefly considers going straight down the side of the hill, but there are boulders and trees and patches of dense forest swamping in the weather.
His whole life has been about survival training, but five more minutes pass and he finds himself under white-out rain that makes it impossible to continue. It hurts everywhere it hits his skin. He stops in the middle of the trail and takes a few deep breaths. He pulls his hands through his hair like it will help him think, but he's so wet now that all he can think about is getting back to the car.
"Shit." His voice startles him in how loud it is. He spits out water and says it again.
He takes stock. He could keep going, unsure of the way, or he could stop for an hour or so. At least he's got food and water and a phone that may or may not have a signal. Shelter it is, then.
There's a tree with low-hanging branches on the side of the hill so he makes his way up, rain battering the top of his head and his arms and shoulders. The change in weather is so staggering that he hasn't fully realized it yet. Small rocks slide out beneath his boots and sides of boulders are slick and intractable when he tries to use them for leverage. The air is cold and fresh and his socks are filling up with rain.
He almost falls off the top of a boulder when his phone rings. He wouldn't have heard it over the thunder but it vibrates in his jeans pocket and it's like all his reflexes have gone out the window. His foot slides against the slick rock and the phone slips out of his grip and drops off the side, into the mud below.
"Shit, shit, shit." He looks up toward the tree, which is not too far away, and then rolls onto his stomach and starts to lower himself down, his palms skidding against stone and his shirt pulling up as he slides down. This was possibly not the best idea.
There's a hard roll of thunder and then Sam flattens himself to the rock, yelling, when all his hair stands on end in a crackle of electricity.
He scrambles back up to sit and gather his bearings. The rain is getting colder and harder by the minute, if that's even possible, so that when he looks over the edge he can just make out his phone, which appears to have melted and scattered in pieces in a dip of scorched ground.
"Figures," he breathes, then clambers up and into, and then through, a hard bush with spikes, and lopes to the tree.
At least not that much rain can get through the branches. They are thick with pineneedles and low, so Sam is leaning up against the trunk, seated on dry dirt. He changed into his hoodie in attempts to stay warm, but the rest of him is sopping.
He's going to have to wait out the rain. He knows it will be fine in the long run, but this experience will doubtlessly be seriously uncomfortable. He's going to have to head back when the rain lets up near dusk or, worse, after dark. Both futures sound long and wet.
He considers starting a fire, but absolutely nothing is dry except for what he has here, under the tree, which consists of fallen pine needles that only light for a moment and then smoulder out, and the skittles wrapper. So, a fire's out.
More than anything he wants to be on the couch in his flannel pijama pants and t-shirt, having hot pasta al dente while spaghetti westerns are forced on him, complete with running commentary, Dean using the crook of his knee to warm his feet. Sam is having a difficult time remembering why he left in the first place.
All Sam's reasoning seems flawed, suddenly. On principle, leaving Dean to go it alone is the last thing Sam wants to do, but it becomes clear to him that that's what he's been doing. Somehow he tells himself every time that they need it.
He didn't feel like an idiot until this moment, even though the fact of the situation is that he's stranded partway up a mountain, watching ants crawl in and out of a surprise ant hill a foot to his left. He thinks about Dean taking his hand and saying, this is real. He thinks about Dean telling him to stop leaving. He feels at once empowered with this knew perspective, but also powerless and stranded under a tree.
He breathes in the chill smell of water and pine and spends a good five minutes watching droplets plink from the tips of branches, like icicles melting off Christmas trees. The entire situation seems simple, suddenly. He has to get back.
He is not expecting Dean to find him, but when Dean does, in fact, slog down the trail below, the rain has not let up. Sam is rubbing at his arms which are going numb when he sees him. He wonders if it's a mud-monster making his way up the path, if a mud monster spoke in curse words and knew his name. But then the focal point of the world sharpens and it's Dean looking stupid and wet and tiny.
Sam grabs his backpack and rolls out from under the tree, crushing pinecones painfully along his back, and getting to his feet. He skids down the side of the hill, and manages to not fall on his face until he reaches Dean.
They don't collapse, although it's a close thing. Dean steadies him, only to shove him hard in the chest until he's backed Sam up under the rough trunk of a tree that provides far less in the way of shelter than his previous.
"What the hell, Sam?"
"I got lost!" Sam says. "And then my phone got struck by lightning!"
There's mud across Dean's cheek bones, which underscores the incredulity of his stare. Sam grins back. He watches water droplets cling to the end of Dean's eyelashes, endlessly thankful.
"I mean, I would have found my way back no matter what," he says. "But this is such a huge relief."
"Well. Good thing I checked the GPS before your phone...died. It is, apparently, a necessary precaution." Dean shoots Sam a sharp look like he's daring him to feel upset about something that ultimately saved him, privacy infringed upon. Sam is just imagining a hot shower and a grilled cheese sandwich in civilization.
"Thanks for finding me." He means it more than anything else in his life, maybe. There's nothing worse than being stranded in a forest near dusk.
"Yeah, well," Dean says, and turns away. "I fucking hate nature. Let's get out of here."
"Do you know the way back?"
"Yeah, I got it. I, at least, was paying attention."
They set out down the hill, wading along. Dean winds off onto a path that doesn't look so much like the trail as it does a healthily rushing creek, mud collapsing out from under their feet as they walk, but Sam trusts him. He can't keep his eyes off the back of Dean's head, like he's making up for lost time.
"I thought you got roofied by Lucifer," Dean shouts back.
Sam thinks about this while skirting a puddle of indeterminate depth. "But that would mean...."
"Yeah, it was a weird idea all around. I'm glad you didn't."
Sam has relief swooping up in his chest and he feels centered rather than at the edge of the world. He knocks their shoulders together every once and a while when they get to flat ground again and can walk side by side through the freezing rain. After the third time, Dean finally gives him a look and Sam resumes watching so neither of them will slip again.
After twenty minutes of this, Dean with his jacket tied around his waist because it is too waterlogged to wear and Sam with his hair plastered back away from his forehead, Dean says, "I'm surprised you're not talking up a storm."
"Are we there yet?" Sam deadpans.
"Ha, very funny. Just about." But when he slows to a stop, his face is serious. "Wait, no, you know what?"
Sam turns, like maybe the answer is behind them.
Dean looks around as if he's also lost the trail, to Sam's deep dismay, and asks, "What are we even doing here, man?"
"Hm, let's see." Sam ticks them off on his fingers. "About to catch a cold, possibly hypothermia, having a discussion we could have, I don't know, while walking? Or back in the car?"
Dean frowns. "Don't give me that. I have brambles stuck in my socks and I just spent an hour looking for your sorry ass, after you walked out on me. I came to rescue you, which meant trying not to consider all the ways you could have found to die out here, during which time I was attacked by some sort of mountain toad that hopped out of nowhere and I almost fell down the side of the freaking mountain."
Sam gestures to Dean's jeans, which are mostly orange with mud. "Yeah, you're covered in it."
This observation doesn't seem to help. Dean looks like he's possibly about to have a mental breakdown of his own, Sam can see it. He could change the subject but he holds out, indulging a tiny part of him which takes perverse pleasure from Dean's freak outs, those moments when he has worked himself up enough to talk about their issues, which are many and varied.
Dean wipes rain off his face. "All I'm saying is, head in the game. We're hunting creatures of biblical proportion, yet every time we get in an argument, one of us leaves and needs to be tracked down. That's kind of a waste of resources."
Sam reaches for Dean's shoulder.
Dean shrugs away. "I mean, yeah, maybe we should take time off from each other. You're like an insane person half the time, and I'm not even referring to the hallucinations here."
"Well, I have to put up with your soap opera crap. And I'm not talking TV. But you're wrong. I've done some thinking up here, and I wanted to say, I'm sorry I left."
"Not to be a dick, but leaving is kind of your M.O.”
"Dean, I-"
"Don't worry about it, though. Difference is, I know you don't mean it personally. It's taken a while for me to get it through my head, but I trust you, man. God help me, but I really do." Dean won't look him in the eye. He rubs a hand over his mouth and glances back up the way they came, surveying the scraggly bushes and stalky flowers which are drowning. He says, "But really, Sam. I don't know if I can keep doing this."
"What?" Sam asks. He identifies that feeling as something breaking inside him. "Dean. What does that mean?"
Dean looks helplessly at him, and kind of torn up when he sidesteps past as if he's going to just keep walking, but Sam grabs out again and Dean lets him do it this time.
"What do you mean?" He has a sick feeling in his stomach where minutes before was all relief. Dean's about to give him some decision he's already made, with no room for argument - a break-up speech, for lack of a better word. He's done it before.
Sam's whole world is narrowed down to what Dean's going to say next, so that he can plan how to fix it, when Dean comes out with: "It's just better when it's with you, okay?"
Which is not what Sam had been dreading. "Oh," he says. "Well that's-"
"Hell, it's not worth it if you're not there," Dean says. "I mean, you were in the Pit, and then you were back but you weren't you, and then you got your soul back but we keep doing this shit anyway. I mean, I was on that cooking show, doing my thing, making those little mincemeat basil pies, and I just broke down. I blamed it on the onions I was chopping, but they were freaking perfect, thinly sliced before I sauteed them."
"Dean-" Sam's got water running over his face and into his mouth, dripping off his chin.
"That's when I realized." Dean isn't talking loudly, but it's like the rain's letting up a little just so the words can be heard. His eyes are searching Sam's, bitter, imploring. "I wasn't upset about them - it was you. I felt like shit that we'd argued, and even though I knew we'd be dragging our sorry asses back to the motel room in no time, I just missed you. I missed you so much, Sammy. Stupidest thing you've ever heard, right?"
In lieu of a response, Sam gets his hands curled into Dean's wet t-shirt. Dean's already standing up close, naturally, and Sam thinks how that proximity, that focus, has never really swayed. It suddenly seems impossible that he would ever assume it should be otherwise. They've both been too focused on letting the other one off the hook to see it, backing off because that's what it's been said they're supposed to do.
It's his big breakthrough. Dean needs to hear it here, now in the middle of nowhere, which is kind of the point.
"Don't hurt yourself thinking too hard," Dean says, looking pissed-off in a drowned rat sort of way.
"I think we've been going about this backwards," Sam says, but when Dean shakes his head and looks away, rushes to continue, "No, that's- I mean, we've been trying to solve this thing for more years than I can count. Yeah, maybe it's the curse. But hell, maybe it's just life. All I'm saying is, we've done a lot of letting each other go. It's always for each other's own good, too, but it never changes anything. I always think we need space, but all that happens is missing each other and one or both of us comes limping back. So maybe-"
"Maybe what?"
"Maybe we stop leaving." It doesn't even sound stupid, so he says it again. "Let's just stop leaving each other."
"Oh."
That's all Dean comes up with, that half syllable. And even though it's not a no, after ten seconds of waiting for more, Sam takes a step back. It seems mind-boggling but maybe he was infinitely wrong and making all that shit up, and they have never been on the same page.
Dean follows, though, stepping in close with a careful hesitancy, like he's expecting Sam to step away and he's going to let him. It's an expression that Sam's seen before, when Dean's told him not to walk out that door, throwing it like a dare.
Sam doesn't back down. He kisses rain from Dean's mouth instead, and Dean shoves close, nose pressed to Sam's cheek. He licks against Sam's tongue, running his hands up to tug through Sam's wet hair.
Sam dips into it, heady and grounded, cold everywhere except the parts they're touching. Dean shifts closer even, and Sam thumbs the hollow of his throat. A low burn starts in his gut. It's probably impossible to point to the best moment of his life, but this one is certainly up there.
Dean ends up with Sam's face cradled in his hands when they stop to breathe, the air is humid between them. Sam's content to stand here forever, ten minutes, whatever, even though it's cold and the rain feels harder than it's ever been, hitting his shoulders and his ears, marking once and for all which parts of him are real and making him present. He wonders crazily if they look like straight out of a comic book. The world could be drawn this way and he wouldn't care.
Dean clears his throat. "Okay then."
"Okay?" Sam asks, watching Dean's Adam's apple work.
"Okay." Dean rubs the back of his neck and drops back. "We've had our argument in the rain and did the make up thing. Let's get off this mountain."
He pushes Sam away and stalks off. He's almost around a bend before Sam can get it together and stride after him.
It's stupid but Sam isn't able to hold onto that giddy feeling for long, when Dean never looks at him, not once. All euphoria transforms to lead. Sam has never had the strongest stomach, has never been big on patience, and has definitely never dealt with the aftermath of making out with his brother. He feels nauseated. A lot seems to be asked of him in life.
"Dude, chill the fuck out," Dean says.
"Okay." Sam trails along next to him and hates the wind. He plucks at his hoodie that's so wet it's molded like a second skin to his arms and torso. Five more minutes pass. They're both covered in mud and rainwater and all Sam wants to do is get his hands all over him but isn't sure whether he'd just imagined the whole thing. It's possible.
"Sam," Dean says. "If you think that I'm letting you hole up inside your brain again, you are sorely mistaken."
"Just to clear things up-" Sam hedges.
Dean stops to yell at him a little, which is heartening. "Fine!" He waves an arm. "Because apparently you can't handle anything that's not clearly spelled out - and when I say 'clearly,' I do mean kindergarten level, ABCs - Yes. Yes, I can't live without you, oh baby, oh baby. The curse doesn't exist, it's obviously just a cover for how fucked up this is, how we suck at life if we're not together. The universe, for some insane reason, wants us to be unhealthily, incestuously codependent."
"The universe is kinky?" Sam offers. "So does that mean you do-?"
Dean gives him a look of disbelief. "Sam. I am so turned on right now I am literally expending every one of my remaining brain cells trying to walk. Stop making me talk about it."
They walk on. Sam falls firmly into stride with him, thinking this over. "That's...not that many."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Shut up." He storms on ahead. Sam takes longer strides. Dean keeps up the thread of conversation. "You know, I feel massively underappreciated. The amount of self-sabotage and guilt, not to mention years of denial- Do you know that I think about kissing your thumbs?"
"Um." For some reason that really gets to him. It kind of rocks his world.
"Constantly," Dean continues. "In California, all those people watching while you put your fingers on my mouth. And now our picture's everywhere."
"Wow, I don't even know what to say to that."
"Yeah, well." But Dean's smirking and clearly embarrassed, which is rare and wonderful.
Sam nudges him. "So, you're serious? Our ugly mugs are on posters?"
"It's all over the state, apparently. And not just posters, billboards, too. About half the reason I came out here is Bobby got a call about it from someone dad knew. I left the house immediately."
Sam's grinning. "Shit. Still want to go back?"
"We may be the definition of fucked up, but I am not going to pass up a hot shower and some serious worker's comp."
Dean arches an eyebrow and it settles something inside Sam. He thinks, Dean is his flesh and blood brother, in it for the long haul, and theirs isn't some half-formed hope. They can do this.
"You know," he says. "That's almost sweet. Getting kind of cheesy, there."
"Hey," Dean shrugs. "You're the one who's been on this happy kick. I'm just being dragged along for the ride."
"Oh yeah? I'll show you happy."
One thing leads to another, of course, and Sam oversteps and Dean tries to take all his weight and the ground gives out where they're standing at the edge of the trail. It's the start of a mudslide, and is over quickly.
When they come to a slump against a well-washed bush, rain hitting down on their heads like it's the Rapture all over again, Dean is laughing next to him. The Impala's hidden in some backwater of the country, they've got Purgatory on their collective asses, and Sam's pockets are filled with mud, and that just proves it. It's not like they get into anything more or less ridiculous, depending, it's just that, together, they've got each other's backs, like it's supposed to be. They're not stronger apart, they're weaker.