Play It Again, Sam - 6/10

[monsterfan]

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If anything exciting happens in June or July, Sam doesn’t notice.  They work a few routine cases, all of which turn out better than the bowling alley and the school.  They drive in and out of Bobby’s.  There’s nothing majorly creepy on the news, so if Castiel’s up to something, he’s keeping on the nonviolent downlow for the time being.  There’s no music, save a few bits Sam happens to catch here or there, and none of it causes him to black out or think his intestines are spilling out of stomach wounds.

It’s not because Sam’s magically healed, though.  Dean is in full big brother protection mode.  They drive for hours at time with the radio off, sometimes making observations about other cars or the scenery, sometimes just in companionable silence.  If there’s music playing at a diner, Dean will say he has to go the bathroom, but then Sam will see him slipping a bill across the counter to the waitress, and then the music’s off.  Sam really appreciates Dean’s attentiveness - more than appreciates, really, it makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside that Dean looks out for him like that, and he hopes he never takes Dean’s solicitousness for granted.  But he’s not really sure he’ll ever get better or figure out what’s going on if stays in his protective little cocoon.

Dean can’t shield him when they end up working a case in Memphis during Elvis week.  Beale Street is full of impersonators: there’s one performing in every bar, there are impromptu renditions by drunkards in the street, there’s nowhere to go that’s away from music.  On their first night out, Dean nearly calls the whole thing off.  He’s ready to pack them up and have Bobby send someone else to finish the job, but Sam lays a hand on his brother’s wrist and gives him a look, and then Dean sets the phone down.  “It’s fine, Dean,” Sam says quietly, and five minutes later they’re sitting a table with hot wings and beer, watching a preacher-cum-impersonator give an alarmingly sexualized performance.

After three nights in Memphis, they’re fed up with the king and head to the karaoke club.  It’s the only place on Beale Street that isn’t boasting an Elvis show, though Sam’s willing to bet more than a few patrons will do their own versions of the king’s greatest hits.  It’s not that Sam doesn’t have a healthy respect for Elvis Presley; it’s just that it’s not really his kind of music.  Or Dean’s.  Or Bobby’s.  Dad liked a few songs, and Dean has been known to give a Thank you, thank you very much in jest once in awhile, but for the most part the “king” in the Winchesters’ world has always been Jimmy Page.

There’s a bachelorette party on stage when they walk into the karaoke bar.  Five girls, all dressed in flouncy little shirts and jeans, clearly the unplanned uniforms of friends who share the same taste.  The one in the middle, clearly the bride-to-be, is wearing a tiara and enough plastic beads around her neck to have single-handedly made the Girls Gone Wild collection.  They’re all plastered, red-faced and giggly as they fumble their way through a Katy Perry song.

Dean observes them for all of three seconds before rolling his eyes and heading to the bar.

After the bachelorettes is a single guy in jeans and a plain t-shirt.  He looks all-American, wholesome, a little unrefined but like a good, honest man.  Dean comes back from the bar with two red Solo cups of beer.  Sam takes a sip.  It’s watery and putrid, some kind of domestic light beer that was probably on special and probably only sells for ten dollars a 24-pack anyway.  It’s fine.

The guy on stage is singing “Country Roads,” and the rest of the patrons start clapping along to the beat.  For the first time in several weeks Sam thinks he and Dean are going to be okay.  Since the disaster that was their couples therapy session and the cringe-inducing attempt at a threesome, they haven’t really been Sam and Dean.  Yes, Dean’s being a great nurse and bodyguard, but there’s no bantering or bickering, no stealing from each other and slapping each other’s wrists to get stuff back, no laughing together.

Sam steals a glance at Dean, as if making sure he’s really there, that this is really happening.  Dean’s watching the singer with an amused smirk, and Sam can’t help staring at the way his face creases around the mouth.  After a few seconds Dean catches him looking, and Sam half-expects Dean to frown or call him a creeper.  But Dean gives him a wide, earnest smile and taps their glasses together.

Mr. All-American finishes getting his John Denver on, and he’s followed by a dude with tangled shoulder-length hair and biker boots.  “I’d like to sing a song by one of the greatest artists of all time,” he says sincerely.  He’s holding the microphone a little too close to his face, and the speakers whine with feedback.

Sam immediately starts trying to guess who this guy would consider to be one of the greatest artists of all time, and he still has no idea a few bars into the song.  It’s only at the end of the first verse, when the guy declares, “I’m a cowboy,” that Sam realizes what song it is.  And remembers the last time he heard it.

Next to him Dean is facing forward, so without moving to see his eyes, Sam can’t tell if Dean is panicking or if he doesn’t remember or if he genuinely doesn’t care.  Sam, on the other hand, is freaking out in the middle of a hot, dark karaoke bar in Memphis in August, and there’s nowhere to go, except to the nearest Elvis concert, and even that wouldn’t stop him from thinking about how fucking awful it was when Dean died.  For him.

He shoves his beer into Dean’s hands and rushes for the bathroom.

Sam goes into an empty stall and locks the door behind him.  He glances at the toilet.  It’s dirty, not the dirtiest he’s ever seen, but he decides not to chance it and instead leans up against the wall of the stall.  He forces himself to breathe in and out, reminding himself that Dean is very much alive now, as is he, and anyway this is all just because of the wall crashing, because Dean’s been back a long time, and Sam used to be just fine with it.  And a song from four years ago doesn’t matter.  It’s just a song.  There have been lots of songs tonight, this is just one of them, he’s just choosing to pay attention to the stuff he wants to hear, and he needs to let it go.

What are we doing? Sam wonders.  He and Dean - they’ve been dancing around each other for two months (no, three years, two months, and ten days).  I’ve always loved you more, Dean said.  Sam knows this; it’s part of his sense of self.  I’m Sam Winchester, my father’s name was John, I have a mole on my left cheek under the eye, and my brother and I will always put each other before everyone else.

The thing is, if that’s true, then Sam really shouldn’t be holing up in a dirty bathroom panicking, right?  He and Dean - they’re solid, they’re not going to change, they’re together, not sexually, but maybe this is better (it’s not).  Sam tells himself he needs to calm the fuck down.

After a moment he lets himself out of the stall and splashes cold water on his face.  He pats it dry with a brown paper towel and makes his way back to Dean.  Mr. Biker Boots is now wailing through the chorus, badly.  Dean hands Sam his beer, and Sam gets a glimpse of his brother’s eyes.  Dean remembers all right.  But he doesn’t seem to be sad about it.  He just looks pissed.

“You okay?” Dean asks, handing Sam his cup back.  Sam nods.  “You sure?  Because we can hit the road if you want, or -”

Sam’s is inclined to say yes, but he reminds himself that Lucifer (it was just Sam, like his id or something, he’s in Sam’s head) said that the music wasn’t divine intervention.  If it was just Sam hearing what he wanted to hear, then he and Dean can take control of the situation.  They can take back karaoke, get the night back on track.

“No, we’re staying.”

Dean gives a silent ooookaaay that’s a little skeptical, but he raises his glass, and they drink.

“Hey,” he says, but Dean can’t hear him over the music.  He leans a little closer, until his nose is nearly grazing Dean’s cheek.  “Hey, you should get up there.”

“What?”  Dean turns to look at him skeptically.  “No way.”

“You should,” Sam reiterates, and what he wants to say is that it’ll be good for Dean (for him).  He can forget the past and just sing something that has no nostalgia attached to it at all.  And even though Dean’s not the best singer in the world (he’s terrible), he’d look hot up on stage.  The bachelorettes would fawn all over him.  Sam would, too.  He wants to say all of that, but what comes out instead is, “What?  You have charisma.”

Dean looks a little flattered.  “Come on, no way.  You could, though.  You’re a better singer than I am.”

Sam shrugs.  He’s definitely better than Dean, but being better than the worst is still pretty bad.  “We could sing together?”

Dean rolls his eyes.  “This ain’t a buddy picture, Sam.  We’re not going to start dressing alike and getting caught in wacky situations.  Go sing if you want to.”

Before they have a chance to sort out the argument, two of the bachelorettes take to the stage again.  One’s blonde and one’s brunette, and if that isn’t the start of a Dean Winchester joke, Sam didn’t grow up with Dean Winchester.  The bachelorettes sing that “just call me angel” song - or, rather, they shout it into the microphone.  Six months ago, Sam would have teased Dean that it was the song Cas sang after the first time Dean seduced him.  Six months ago, Dean would have glowered, punched Sam on the shoulder, and told him to suck it.  Angel jokes just aren’t funny anymore.

They use the two or three minutes of the song to get another round of drinks, switching up from the cheap beer in plastic cups to whiskey.  They’re a little low on cash, but the situation seems to warrant the extra spending.  It’s like they’re desperately trying to make it a good night, even though the karaoke seems hell-bent on torturing them.

“Okay,” Dean says, when he’s on his third beer and second shot of whiskey.

“Okay what?”

“Okay, you’re right about the fucking music.”

“You mean -”

“Yes,” Dean snaps, “it’s the Winchester soap opera in musical form.  I get it, okay?  You were right.  Sucks ass.”

Sam feels a whoosh of relief that Dean believes him and understands.  “It totally does.”

“How can you live like this, man?  It’s like, ooh, ‘just touch my cheek before you leave me’?”

Sam grins, can’t help licking his lips a little.  “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.  We have to figure out how to stop it.”

Dean makes a sour face as he watches the bachelorettes swaying in time with the music.  “I still think it’s just a coincidence.  A sucky one, but still a coincidence.”

“Didn’t somebody famous say they don’t believe in coincidences?”  Sam isn’t trying to be like, You have to know that this is all the work of my head-Lucifer, he’s really just making conversation, because it’s awesome that Dean is finally seeing how neatly the music ties together with their lives.  “Just wait,” Sam continues.  “Now that you’ve realized it, you’ll start hearing it everywhere.”

“Fine, but if anyone starts singing Marvin Gaye or Barry White, I’m outta here.”

“Oh my god, are you the Winchesters?”

They turn around to see a guy with a bad haircut, raggedy jeans, and a flannel shirt.  He practically screams hunter; he’s not even trying to blend in (then again, neither are they).  “You are, aren’t you?  Holy shit, the Winchesters!”

Getting IDed by another hunter is a really, really bad thing to have happen.  People have heard stories about them dying, so if they’re alive, they either made deals or they’re zombies.  There are still stories about Sam and the demon blood, and even recently Sam heard Bobby yelling at someone on the phone that Gordon Walker had no one to blame but himself.  So, yeah, this guy could try to get the jump on them.

But the expression on his face can only be described as awe.  “I can’t believe I’m meeting Sam and Dean Winchester!”

“All right, keep it down!” Dean hisses, glancing around to see if anyone’s paying attention.  They’re not.

“Can I buy you guys a drink?” the hunter offers.  Dean just holds up his cup.  “Oh, well, next round?”

“Who are you?” Sam asks.

“I’m sorry, shit, I forgot myself, I - ”  The guy forces himself to stop talking by shaking his head, like he’s clearing out his thoughts.  “I’m Daniel Deacon.  My uncle - you did some work for him in a prison?”

“Yeah, of course,” Sam remembers.  “He was a friend of our dad’s.  But I didn’t know there were any hunters in his family.”

“Yeah, there weren’t,” and the guy - Daniel - sounds a lot less jubilant now, drier.  “I was overseas at the time.  Afghanistan.  When I got back, I had all this anger and just felt like shooting things, you know?  And when I heard about your…line of work from my uncle, I thought, that’s what I should do.  Kill evil of the nonhuman variety.  So what are you guys doing in Memphis?”  He perks up a little.  “Let me guess.  That shapeshifter in Brown Park?  That was you, wasn’t it?”

Sam and Dean exchange glances.  “Yeah, it was,” Sam answers.

“Man,” Daniel runs a hand over his close-cropped hair, looking half-pleased and half-annoyed.  “I should have been there sooner.  I could have seen you in action!”  He puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder, and even though Dean raises an eyebrow, he actually starts playing with the collar of Dean’s jacket.  “Okay, shots on me.  We’re celebrating your victory.”

They allow Daniel to buy them shots, since they’re low on funds.  It’s really not because it’s flattering to have a fan club.  It’s not.  Daniel’s ex-military and attests to the fat paychecks that come with combat pay before he orders a round of cold Patron.  As they knock the shots back, Sam sees Daniel eyeing Dean over the rim of his glass.  He looks like he’s seen Jesus or something.

Ten minutes later, they’ve had a second round, and Daniel is elaborating on the many things he doesn’t really understand about the hunters’ code.

“I mean, if we would just tell people what’s out there.  Think about it.  People could protect themselves, so there’d probably be fewer casualties, and we could get the law enforcement off our back.  Hell, we could even work with law enforcement instead of living on lam.”

Sam and Dean exchange a glance.  The guy’s a live wire, and it’s not a good idea for someone like that to know too many secrets of the inner circle.

Daniel holds up a hand.  “I know, I know.  I won’t say anything, I swear.  First rule of fight club -”

“Enough with the Fight Club references,” Dean groans with a roll of his eyes.

“Another round?”  Daniel beams.  “Huh?”

“I’m in.  Sammy?”

“I think I’ve had enough.”

“All right, Gus, why don’t you go back to your pharmaceutical sales while the grown-ups have some actual fun?”

Sam has no idea what Dean’s talking about, so he just agrees to the next round.

* * * * *

“Wait, wait, Dean,” Sam says, slumping into his seat as Dean fumbles with the ignition.  “Wait.”

“What’re we waiting for?” Dean slurs.  The key stabs in the general direction of the ignition a few times before Dean manages to make it in and turn it.  “I love that sound.”

“Dean, we can’t drive, man,” Sam insists.  “We’re too drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk,” Dean argues, but he doesn’t really sound all that convincing to either of them.  Instead of putting the car into reverse and pulling out, he slouches back against the seat.

“You might hit somebody.”

“Fuck.”

“Or you might - you might crash the car.”

“Shit, I just fixed her.”  He caresses the dashboard.  “Baby, I’d never hurt you.  You know that, right, sweetheart?”

Sam finds this extraordinarily funny, which earns him a half-hearted punch on the shoulder.  “How’d we get so drunk?  I mean, I’ve seen us both take down Jim Dean’s entire warehouse before, like, not even squinch.”

They both start cracking up at squinch.  “I meant squint.  Or flinch.  Or, fuck you, you know what I mean.”

“Jimmy Dean is sausage,” Dean tells him, letting his head fall back against the seat.

“You’d know.  Why are we so wasted, man?”

Dean turns his head to the right so he and Sam are facing each other.  Dean’s breath ruffles Sam’s hair when he breathes out.  “Yeah, uh, I took a hit in the bathroom.”

“Of what?”

“Shit, I thought it was e, but I’m…I don’t feel so good, Sammy.”  Dean flops down so his head is resting on Sam’s lap, and Sam lets his hand run through Dean’s hair.

“You took e?”

“Yeah.”

“Seriously?  What are you, a raver now?  You gonna start sucking on lollipops, too?”

“Stop yelling at me.”  Dean struggles to right himself.  “The case was over, and we were trying to have a good night.  Stupid music.”

Sam is pissed off.  He’s more than pissed off, frankly, but…well, he can kind of understand that Dean was just trying desperately to make the night fun.  Anyway, he’s too far gone himself to really be chastising his brother.

They sit in silence for a few minutes.  The car is hot and stuffy.  Sam cracks his window, but it doesn’t help much.

“Happiness is a warm gun,” Dean declares, echoing the song.

“Bang bang shoot shoot,” Sam adds.

“Sammy, I don’t think this song is really about guns.”

Sam just listens for a minute, letting himself nuzzle into the fresh leather of the seat.  He’s just going to close his eyes for a second; he’s not going to nod off.  “Guns are phallic,” he sighs.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, and Sam starts laughing.  Just a little at first, then uncontrollably.  “Fuck, we have to get home.  What are we going to do?”

“We can walk.”

“I don’t think I can walk.  I don’t even know which direction, man.”

“Yeah, me neither.”  Sam starts laughing again, only it’s hard to work up enough energy to laugh, he’s tired, and he’s thirsty, and the seat is really comfortable.

* * * * *

Somehow it’s dawn, and he’s still slouched in the front seat.  His tongue has been replaced with sandpaper, his neck is sore and tight, and he doesn’t feel all that rested.

He gets out of the car and makes his way to the driver’s seat.  Dean’s out cold, so Sam shoves him over and takes the wheel.  It’s about five minutes of white knuckles and deep breaths, but they make it back to their motel in one piece.  Dean wakes when they stop, which is fortunate because Sam’s feeling too shaky to get them both inside.

In front of their door, Sam loses it and barfs all over the sidewalk.

“Morning sickness?” Dean asks.

Sam flips him off with one hand while the other runs over the back of his mouth.  He trails Dean inside, and his brother offers him a bottle of water before the door’s even closed.  “We need to talk about last night,” Sam decides.

“No, we really don’t.”

“Yeah, we really do.  It’s the second time you’ve been wasted, like beyond Dean Winchester wasted.  And you told me you took e in the bathroom.”

“I don’t remember that.”  Dean says it nonchalantly, but he’s staring at the carpet between his feet, and Sam can’t tell if it’s in order to remember or in order to forget.  Either way, he’s not making eye contact, which is just exasperating.

“You can’t just take drugs from strangers in the bathroom of a bar, Dean!”

“Listen, after school special, it wasn’t a stranger.  It was Daniel.”

“’Cause he’s such an old friend.”  Sam doesn’t think he can stand up much longer, so he leans against the table for support.  “I can’t believe your boyfriend offers you something and you just take it without knowing where it came from.”

“Don’t fucking call him that, Sam,” Dean warns viciously.  “You don’t get to be jealous of who I hang out with.”

“You have awesome taste.”  Dean doesn’t say anything back, but Sam can see he’s only one more snotty comment away from being pushed over the edge.  “So, great, the soldier-turned-hunter’s hobby is recreational drug use?  That makes me feel a lot better about the world.”

“Learn to live a little, prude.”

Something inside Sam just snaps.  Dean is selfish and reckless, and the whole night that he had been working so hard to craft had fallen apart because of tone-deaf bikers and bachelorettes and a Party Monster wannabe.  All he wanted was one damn night.

“What the fuck is happening to you?”

“I wouldn’t be all high and mighty if I were you, Sam.  You were right there with me.”

“Yeah, that’s another thing.  How?  I only remember having three shots and three beers.  There’s no way I blow chunks the morning after three shots and three beers.”

Dean studies the carpet with fascination again.

“What did you do?”  Dean, of course, doesn’t answer.  Sam kneels in front of him to catch his gaze.  “Dean, what did you do?”

Guilty.  Totally guilty and feeling like shit, that’s the best way to describe Dean’s face.  “I might have given you something.”

“What?!”  Just when Sam is patting himself on the back about how well he knows his brother, Dean finds a way to throw him for a loop.  (This is why they always warn you about your pride, Sam.)

Dean shrugs, gets defensive to mask his guilt.  “Jesus, Sam, you’re hallucinating about the cage, and you’re freaking out about hearing music all the time, and we’ve been driving around for two months barely talking.  I’m not just going to let you have a breakdown, okay?  It’s my job to look out for you.  So I gave you something to help you relax.”

“You drugged me.”

“It’s not like that.”

“What did you give me?”

“Just some Xanax.”

“Some?  More than once?”  Sam feels violated and betrayed and embarrassed he didn’t realize what was happening.  “You’ve been secretly drugging me behind my back?  Aren’t you the one who said we needed to be more honest?”  Dean doesn’t answer.  “Dean!”

“How am I supposed to be honest with you when you’re going crazy?”

“Going crazy?” Sam repeats, and it kind of feels like that’s what’s happening to him right this very second, because he’s full of rage and yet laughing.  “Going crazy?  Whatever you gave me is probably the reason I’m going crazy in the first place, Dean!  How stupid are you?  How could you do that to me?”

“It was after  Cas broke the wall,” Dean insists, his voice kind of quiet.  Apologetic.  “Once or twice when you were totally flipping out, I swear.”

“Not safe,” Sam argues back, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Do you know the side effects of mixing drugs alcohol?”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?  You haven’t exactly been in the right frame of mind to make decisions about your health.  I did what I thought was best for you.”

You’re always doing what you think is best for me, Sam thinks.  He wants to add, How about what’s best for us?  Instead he gets to his feet and moves to the opposite bed.  He sits down, unconsciously mirroring Dean’s position.  “You ever do something like that to me behind my back again, I’m leaving, Dean, you hear me?”  Dean sort of grumbles in the affirmative.  “I mean it, Dean.  We do this together.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And you stay sober from now on.  And no more pills.  Jesus, you didn’t know where that stuff came from.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean mutters, but he really sounds more like a little kid who’s upset he’s being punished than an adult who recognizes his own self-destructive behavior.

“Promise me you won’t do it again, Dean.”

“I promise.”

“Promise and mean it.”

“I promise, okay?”  Dean looks Sam directly in the eye this time.  “I promise no more drugs.  Or drinking.  I’ll just face my brother’s breakdown sober.”

“Good.”  Sam lies back against the pillows and pinches the bridge of his nose.  He really feels like shit.  “Fucking awesome, Dean.  The best thing you can do for someone who’s a recovering addict is get him addicted to something else.”

“You gonna keep snapping at me all day?”

Sam hates the way Dean twists things around like that, like he’s the one being ridiculous for complaining that his brother secretly drugged him with ill-gotten pharmaceuticals.  “I have a right to.”  He can hear Dean shuffling on his bed, lying down, too.  They’ll both probably sleep another three or four hours.  “It’s not about me having a breakdown.”

“What isn’t?” Dean asks the ceiling.

“You drinking.  It’s not about the wall, not really.”  Before Dean can say, We gonna do another therapy session now?  It went so well last time, Sam decides to continue (that’s how he operates, he just steamrolls over everyone when he has a thought).  “It’s about you.”

“So now you’re headshrinking me?”

I called that, Sam thinks.  “Somebody has to.  You can’t just stumble home drunk and expect me to listen to your problems and then pretend like nothing happened in the morning.  It’s not fair to me, man, or to you.  Or to Lisa and Ben and Cas.”

“I told you not to talk about them.”

“Yeah, I can’t talk about Lisa, I can’t talk about Cas, I can’t talk about us.  What the hell am I supposed to talk about?”

“Maybe you should just shut the fuck up for once,” Dean says, but there’s no heat in his words.  He rolls onto his side and buries his face in the pillow.  “Wake me up for lunch.”

“Dean, I really think you need to move on,” Sam presses.  He’s aware of the potential conflict of interest here, but he’s only talking about women, not himself (or any other guy).  As much as he doesn’t want to be saying it, as much as he doesn’t want it to be true, maybe some casual sex would help Dean.  “I think maybe it would be good for you to date.  Or at least flirt.”

“Tried that,” or at least, that’s what Sam thinks he says.  His voice is all muffled by the pillow.

If he’s talking about that school principal back in June, well, that was a bad idea all around.  Sam doesn’t really want to bring it up, though.  “Try again.”

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