[fic] And the Highway Lines Pass By (1/4)
Title: And the Highway Lines Pass By (1/4)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 31,030
Notes: Contains multiple references to various X-Files episodes.
Summary: Sam and Dean in the first three months following the S2 finale.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
When Sam was a baby, he spent six months hating Dean. It's one of those things about his childhood Dean's been dying to forget but never really can.
It started after the fire. Like maybe by carrying Sam out of the house Dean put himself in the position to be associated with it. Like every time he saw Dean he felt the heat, saw the flames, and heard people screaming all over again. Or at least that's what Dean thinks now, looking back on it. Back then he had no friggin' clue. He only knew that every time Dad plopped little Sammy down in Dean's lap, Sam screwed up his face and made pitiful whimpery noises as his eyes got all watery, and the first few times, before he got used to it and even started to expect it, Dean teared up too.
And then Dad, who never really caught on to what to do when his kids got upset, patted his head a little uncomfortably and said things like, "Don't worry, Dean, he's just a baby. He'll get over it. Give him some time."
So Dean gave him time, and after a couple months whimpery noises and watery eyes became wails and fat tear trails down Sam's cheeks.
"Christ," Dad kept saying, when he'd have to rock Sam back to calm after Dean did something stupid like smile at him or come too close. "Babies are supposed to like other kids."
Then around the time Sam turned one, it stopped. Just like that. Sam was sitting in his highchair, banging his spoon on his tray, and when Dean walked into the room Sam just looked at him and grinned and tried to lunge toward him.
Now Dean looks back on those months and thinks they were probably where his issues with Sam dug their roots in his subconscious. Because sometimes he still feels like he's four and bouncing a jingling toy bear in front of Sam's nose, saying, "See, Sammy, see, give me a chance and I can be fun."
*
Dean always thought that after they killed the demon, he'd finally get the chance to breathe for once, long and slow and with a big smile after every exhale. So he's more than a little pissed off when the demon is dead and he's got even less time to breathe.
Now they've got hundreds of demons to send back to hell and a year to break a contract before a hellhound drags him to hell by his heels, and meanwhile there's still the usual hunts-vengeful spirits, campfire stories gone wrong and come true. Sam and Dean can find cases sometimes without even looking, and when one plops itself right in their laps, during one of the stretches they're not supposed to be looking for cases, Sam is always the one to say, in a voice that means he's lying through his teeth but wants Dean to tell him otherwise:
"There are other hunters out there. We could just-"
And Dean always answers, "No. It's only 100/200/2000 miles from here. It won't take long."
When it all comes down to it, when people are getting hurt and killed and they can stop it, neither of them can say no. Not even when Dean's pretty much become a case himself, one they've got a limited time to solve, and Sam's biggest prerogative becomes obsessing over it.
Thing is, Dean's pretty good at handling time limits, mostly because he's better at ignoring them. He lives in the moment; he jumps in the fire the second he sees it, and if he doesn't pull himself out before time's up, well, then it won't matter much to him anymore.
But Sam, he likes to sit outside the fire with his notes and a pair of binoculars, making a diagram of the flames and mapping out an escape route, all the while counting down the seconds in his head. And sure, he's got no problem jumping straight in if the situation requires it-sometimes he's even quicker to get to it than Dean-but the point is he doesn't like to. That's what makes the two of them different.
Dean feels the urgency because Sam does, watches the clock tick because Sam does. Sam doesn't want to be alone, so Dean doesn't want to leave him alone. That's how they work.
*
Sam makes a kind of backwards calendar that he uses to count off how many days they've got left until the contract is up. It looks disturbingly like the calendar he made in first grade to count down the days until Christmas, except it's less colorful and a lot longer: several pages of computer paper stolen from a library printer in Wyoming, stapled together at the corner and covered in rows of numbered squares that go from 365 down to 1.
When Dean first sees it, it's lying on a bed in their motel room next to a takeout menu, and the first four days are crossed out in blue pen. Sam's sitting at the little two-chair table in the corner of the room, laptop out, chair shifted so he's got a perfect shot of the bathroom door Dean's just walked out of and the bed with the menu and calendar on it that Dean's staring it. Everything about the scene pisses Dean off.
"It's that exciting for you, huh," Dean says. He'd pick the fucking thing up and hurl it at Sam, except he doesn't want to touch it, so he has to settle for pointing at it and making slashing motions in the air. "So exciting you have to have a goddamn countdown to the day I die. Should I pick up some crayons tomorrow, Sam, huh? So you can draw little flowers at the corners, or maybe even a few rainbows and a big happy fucking sun."
"Dean," Sam says, more nice and calm than Dean would like, like this is a speech he wrote out and rehearsed when Dean wasn't looking and can recite perfectly on cue. "We don't exactly have an unlimited amount of time here. It took you and Dad and me years to kill the demon that killed Mom and Jess."
Dean thinks about jumping in with a comment on the "you and Dad and me" and how he's not too sure "me" is all that qualified to be in that sentence, but Sam doesn't give him the time and anyway it's a fight they've had enough already and could probably stand to never have again.
"And you and me," Sam continues, "we've got less than a year right now. Every day counts, Dean, and we need to always know how many of them we've got left."
"I think between the two of us we can keep track of one single goddamn date, Sam," Dean snarls. "I don't think this one's gonna slip our minds."
The fight goes on for hours, in an on and off sort of way, minutes of silence between rounds of shouting. They start doing that thing where they say each other's names as often as possible, just so they have another syllable to yell. When they're not speaking, Dean's ears are ringing with a chorus of "Dean" and "Sam," and he gets so many sodas from the vending machine as an excuse to leave the room, he's fucking vibrating with caffeine.
It all boils down to Dean being generally creeped out and Sam not caring because he thinks this is important, and eventually Dean just gives in. Slams his fist into the wall and says, "Fine, Sam. Whatever you say," and it's settled.
The next morning, Dean slides into the driver's seat of the Impala to find the calendar on the dash with a new blue X through day 361. He sends the coldest glare he can manage at Sam, but Sam tosses a candy bar over that hits him right between the eyes and ruins the whole thing.
"Dude," Dean says instead. "Can't you at least put it somewhere I can't see it?"
Sam raises his eyebrows and looks at Dean like he's honest-to-god shocked Dean hasn't gotten over his issues with the calendar yet. Which isn't exactly typical of Sam-who always keeps some kind of running count of Dean's issues and keeps track of them like you keep track of a baby who's just learning to crawl-and somehow that just makes Dean want to hit him. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry."
And then suddenly it all seems pretty hilarious. Like, who the hell else gets a countdown to their death, and who the hell else besides Sam would even think to make one? Before he knows it, he's laughing, rearing his head back and slapping his knee, and Sam's staring at him like he doesn't know whether to laugh too or lean over and check Dean for head trauma.
And yeah, maybe there is a little tiny tinge of hysteria to it, but Dean figures he's earned it with the week he's had.
"Dude, you're gonna make me look at it every friggin' day for the next year, aren't you?"
Sam looks offended, jerks his head back quick just a little like Dean's just taken a swing at him, but he says, "Yeah, probably."
And that's the Sam Dean knows and loves. He snorts and shakes his head and turns the key in the ignition.
"If it really bothers you," Sam says, slowly, as Dean's pulling out of the motel parking lot, "I can-"
"No, no, Sammy, it's fine. You think we need it, we probably do." Except they don't, and Dean knows it. Sam's just being stubborn and stupid, and he was born with some kind of biological imperative to be a pain in Dean's ass. But no way in hell is Dean letting Sam know how much the calendar really bothers him. "But you're buying me crayons the next place we stop, and I'm decorating it."
And he does. Sam buys him an eight pack of cheap crayons and then drives while Dean sits in the passenger seat and uses his knee as a table, tilted up far enough Sam can't see what he's doing. He starts with day 69 and draws a pretty colorful little picture in the square, and then decides what the calendar really needs is to be totally covered in as many dirty pictures as Dean can fit on it.
He ends on day 1 with a doodle of a guy getting fucked up the ass by a huge dog. It's morbid and completely screwed up, but Dean figures Sam's face when he gets a good look at it will be priceless.
He tosses both the crayons and the calendar in the backseat and grins wide at Sam, feeling proud as hell. Dean thinks this is as close as he'll ever get to making peace with the thing.
*
Dean is telling Sam-in a very organized way, with evidence to back up every statement and even footnotes, so as to impress the essay-loving ex-Joe College in the passenger seat-exactly why the town of Chaney, Texas (population 361) sucks out loud, but Sam is making it pretty obvious he doesn't care about his big brother's suffering and only wants to talk about why there have been two dead tourists here, bodies drained completely of blood.
"The second body was found at the RV park," Sam says, eyeing the notes and papers spread out in his lap. "Let's just go there, talk to some people, and then you can tell me all about how Chaney's women aren't pretty enough for you."
"It's not that they're not pretty, Sam, it's that they're all dog ugly. You can't tell me there's nothing strange about that. A town without even one attractive woman in it? And not a single woman we've seen has paid us any attention. I mean, just you I get, but me and you? I'm telling you, Sam, there's something wrong with the whole town."
It makes a lot of sense in Dean's head, even if he's exaggerating a little, but Dean sense and Sam sense are two very different things.
"We haven't even been here a day, Dean, and we haven't been everywhere. I'm sure somewhere there are beautiful women just waiting for you."
"That's another thing," Dean says, perking up a little because this is a point Sam interrupted him before he could get to. "There isn't anything to do here. We've seen a grocery store and a pizza place and not much else. A population of 361, Sam, no one sane and good would live here."
Sam takes a deep breath and stacks his papers in a neat pile on his knee, and Dean knows right then that he's just stepped into territory he's not adequately equipped to deal with.
"I always wanted to settle down in a small town," Sam says, voice so quiet Dean has to strain a little to catch it. "I mean, not this small, but-well, small."
"Yeah, Sam, I know."
It was kind of hard to miss, honestly. Growing up and passing through small town after small town to and from hunts, and Sam always said things like, "It must be nice to live here," in a tone like Dean used to say things like, "Look at the ass on that waitress." It was never any secret that Sam jerked off fantasizing about walking down the block to the grocery store for milk and being greeted by name-his real one-and invited to bake sales and shit.
It exasperated the hell out of Dean, but Dad didn't act like he minded too much. "Don't pay it any mind," he always said. "He'll grow out of it."
Dean realizes he doesn't know if Sam ever did grow out of it. He gave Dean a whole speech once about hunting and destiny and how he'd tried to run from it but found out you can't, but that doesn't mean anything. Sam's got moods like a pregnant chick and changes his mind more often. Maybe hunting was their inescapable destiny yesterday, but that doesn't mean it still is today.
And Sam's giving nothing away with his expression, just gifting the windshield with his best poker face, so if Dean really wants to know he'll have to ask.
"So you still want to settle down in a small town?"
Dean's not really sure what kind of answer he's expecting. Maybe some kind of elaborate evasion or maybe an answer that rings false to Dean's ears. Anyway, it's definitely not the answer he gets.
"No." Sam tosses the stack of papers on the dash and shoots Dean a look that Dean can't read. "But sometimes I miss how happy it used to make me just to dream about it."
Dean has no clue what that's supposed to mean. If it's supposed to mean anything. Dean hopes it wasn't some sort of shot at him, because he doesn't like the idea of Sam taking shots at him that go right over his head.
He doesn't get to ask though, because they're pulling into the RV park, and Sam doesn't waste any time hopping out of the car and slamming the door shut behind him.
*
A skinwalker in Arizona does a number on Dean's leg before he puts a silver bullet straight through the thing's heart and spits on the remains.
Dean's pretty sure Sam wasn't anywhere near close enough to see what happened, but he acts like he got a front row seat to a show called Dean's Big Fuckup and does his best to rip Dean a new one over it. Before they make it to the car, even, with Dean limping and leaning on Sam's shoulder and watching his jeans darken with blood.
"C'mon, Sammy. I think you should just give me your shirt. God knows anything in your Sasquatch size is big enough to be used as a seat cover, and when I'm bleeding buckets and you compare that thing you're wearing to the upholstery, well…"
Sam sort of snaps then, tightens his grip on Dean's waist until Dean hisses, and then just lets him have it, raising his voice and slowing down every word so Dean doesn't miss a single syllable.
It's all "reckless" and "irresponsible" and "you always have to jump straight in, don't you Dean, never think about what could go wrong," and then Dean's anger comes out blazing with "well Sam, we can't all be a perfect little pansy ass like you."
They reach the Impala and Sam's ripping open the door, trying to get Dean into the backseat as gently as his anger will allow, when Sam utters the words "could have gotten yourself killed," and just like that the anger in both of them dies. Dean lets himself be dropped into the backseat without a word about the blood that could ruin the upholstery, and Sam drives to the nearest motel in silence and without a thing in his demeanor to suggest he'd been mad at all. They talk in three-word sentences for the rest of the night and sleep facing away from each other.
Dean wakes up the next morning to find Sam looking at him like he has things to say Dean doesn't want to hear. He doesn't even make it to the bathroom to pee before Sam assaults him.
"Dean, I think we need to talk about this," he says, just like that, all matter-of-fact like Dean isn't struggling to get out of bed without ripping the stitches and reopening the wounds on his leg.
"About what, Sammy?"
"You know what, Dean. About the crossroads and the contract and the 350 days we've got to break it. It's hanging over us all the time, and we can't just keep ignoring it-"
"How do you figure we're ignoring it, Sam? Christ, we talk about it all the damn time." Dean would really like to keep standing while Sam is still sitting on his bed since it gives him the illusion of being taller, but his leg hurts and he's still not totally awake yet. He sits back down. "We got into it not two weeks ago when you started waving that damn calendar in my face. What do you want me to say?"
It's a stupid question since he already knows the answer, and Dean realizes as soon as it's out of his mouth that he's even stupider for just throwing it out there like that, giving Sam the perfect opportunity to stop dancing around what he wants and drive straight to it.
"I want to know what you're thinking. I want you to tell me how you feel about all this."
"Oh, right, right. My Sammy, always with the grief counseling shit. You want me to cry a little bit for you, start blubbering about how scared I am? Would that make you feel better?"
Sam scoots to the very edge of the bed, leans forward like Dean's just nibbled on the hook he threw and he's about to reel him in. "So you're scared?"
"Oh, absolutely. I'm scared you're gonna give me a bladder infection by keeping me from peeing with all your touchy-feely crap." Dean drags himself to his feet and smirks when Sam looks honest-to-god shocked he isn't cooperating. "We done here?"
Sam doesn't answer, which is good because Dean isn't waiting for one. He slams the bathroom door behind him.
Later on in the day, Dean buys a cheap box of tampons and puts it in Sam's bag so it will be the first thing he sees when he opens it. It'll piss Sam off, he knows, and Dean might wake up one morning with a tampon shoved up one nostril in retaliation. But he knows Sam'll get the message loud and clear ("You're a girl"), and even the message underneath the message ("I'm fine").
Dean feels pretty good about himself right then.
*
"I think," says Sam, very slowly, the rim of a soda bottle against his bottom lip, "that we should go to Lawrence."
The road they're driving on isn't the smoothest or the quietest and Dean has the volume turned up to drown out his own worries about what a shitty road can do to a beautiful car, so at first he's not sure he heard right. He turns the music down and says, "What?"
"We should go to Lawrence. And talk to Missouri."
Dean doesn't even have to think about it. "No. Hell no, Sam. We go there and she finds out what's happened, what I did, and-" Actually, he doesn't know what Missouri will do, and he doesn't want to think about it. He leaves the sentence unfinished, but Sam isn't really listening to anything past "no" anyway.
"Look, Dean, she knows things and she has connections. She could help us." Then Sam is sitting up straight in the passenger seat and leaning closer to Dean like he does when he has an idea and thinks it's the best one he's ever come up with. "And besides, you know she deserves to know, from us, exactly what happened with Dad and the demon."
It's one of those stupid moments where Dean knows Sam has a point, but he's already given his opinion and isn't about to back down from it. "No, Sam, and that's final."
Except nothing is ever final with Sam, and they pull into Missouri's driveway the next day.
She opens the door before they even reach it, and she's smiling until they're close enough to meet her eyes. Dean knows everything that's happened-Dad and the demon and Sam's death and Dean's deal-is just sitting on the surface of his mind waiting to be plucked out and Sam's probably pushing his thoughts at her, and Missouri knows everything without either of them even opening their mouths.
"Oh," she says, a little breathlessly, putting one hand against her breast. Dean doesn't know what he's thinking, what he's sending her way, but whatever it is, it's enough to make Missouri zero in on him, step forward, and reach for him. "Oh, honey."
Dean doesn't want to deal with this crap right now, can't deal with this crap, and he jerks backward before she can hug him or grab his shoulders or his cheeks or whatever she was about to do. Sam puts his hand on Dean's elbow, like he thinks Dean's about to run back to the Impala or down the street or something, which is stupid because he's not a coward. But he still doesn't jerk away from Sam.
Missouri doesn't look offended at all, just drops her arms and steps back into the house. "Come in," she says. "Come in."
They're not even settled into seats yet when she sighs, "Boys, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I can't help you. I never heard of a person breaking a contract with a demon before. I can call some people, but…"
When Dean tells her it's not a big deal, he believes it. When it all comes down to it, Sam's the only one who ever really expects anything from the people they meet.
They drive by their old house on the way out of town, and Sam slows the car down a little when they get right in front of it. It looks just like they left it except now there's a bike on its side in the driveway. "Do you want to stop?" Sam asks, in a voice that doesn't give anything away about what he wants.
"No," Dean answers.
Sam doesn't try to change his mind, and they don't speak again until Lawrence is miles behind them.
*
These days it seems like all Dean wants to do is drink and fuck. It feels like he's 15 again, taking drinks of water half-hoping it'll be vodka instead and his dick going hard and heavy in his jeans every time the Impala purrs just right. The only explanation for it Dean can come up with involves the deal and is too depressing to think too hard about, so he doesn't.
And it wouldn't really be a big deal, except Sam never wants to go out anymore and Dean never wants to leave Sam alone while he does. Just less than a month ago, Dean let Sam go into a diner on his own, and the next time they saw each other again, Sam died in Dean's arms. Things like that burn themselves into Dean's memory, and now he has this thing where his fingers twitch if he doesn't know exactly where Sam is and what he's doing at all times. It makes it hard to do things like go to a bar and meet girls.
In a little town just outside Oklahoma City, Dean finally convinces Sam to leave their motel room and visit a seedy dive bar about a mile down the road, where he hopes Sam can entertain himself while he does shots and then fucks a hot girl in the bathroom. Sam brings everything with him-his laptop, Dad's journal, a monstrous demonology book Dean stole from a library in Utah a couple weeks back, the fucking calendar-and never has Dean witnessed such an effective cockblock.
"Look, Sam, can't you just have fun tonight? For me?"
The beer tastes a little like piss so Dean can't really blame him for not taking more than one sip and Sam has never been what Dean would call the life of any party, but usually he does a little more than sit and read books when they go out. It's like the first month after Jess died all over again, which was a time Dean hoped never to relive. Especially now that it's Dean Sam is mourning, and Dean's not even dead yet.
Dean's only drinking beer and hasn't even finished his first one, but still he can already feel the alcohol aching to curl its warm fingers around his dick. If only Sam would get that damn calendar away from him, since even with the dirty pictures Dean still isn't comfortable enough with it to get turned on when he can still see it.
There's a brunette about six feet away with impressive tits and a gorgeous mouth, and she's giving them both looks like she wouldn't complain if one or both came over to say hi. Dean figures he'll let Sam have this one, see if getting laid won't pull him out of his little funk.
"Hey," he says, elbowing Sam in the side and jerking his chin in the girl's direction. "She's checking you out, Sam. Maybe you should-"
Sam stands up suddenly enough to nearly tip his chair back and starts gathering up all his stuff. "Look, Dean, I'm sorry but I'm feeling pretty tired. I think I'll just head back to the motel."
He's already turned and taking his first step toward the door, and Dean has to scramble a bit to catch up. "Okay, okay. Let me just-"
"No, it's okay, Dean. You stay here, and I'll just walk back to the motel. I won't wait up."
It's not like Sam's never been out on his own at night before, in the same situation even, but now every time Dean tries to conjure up the image of Sam walking outside alone in the dark he sees Jake coming up behind him and driving a knife right into Sam's back. It reminds Dean that the beer at this bar tastes like piss and the chick probably has crabs.
"Nah, I'll come with you. This place kinda sucks anyway."
When they climb into the Impala, Sam slams the passenger door in a way that clearly tells Dean he's pissed as hell, and it turns out he's so pissed that Dean doesn't even have to prod before he speaks.
"You know, Dean, I hate to break it to you. But once, I went off to college all by myself."
Dean's response sounds pretty good in head, but it turns ugly on his tongue. "Yeah, and I saved you from that one too, didn't I."
They don't talk again for the rest of the night. Dean watches a bad horror movie on TV and doodles Anasazi symbols with his fingers on the bedspread while Sam does who-knows-what on his laptop for an hour and then lays down to sleep with his back to Dean.
Dean watches his shoulders shift as he drifts off, and when he starts snoring, Dean settles back against the headboard, shoves a hand in his pants, and wraps his fingers around his dick. He keeps most of his attention on Sam's breathing, watching for hitches or signs that Sam's waking up, but still it doesn't last too long. It's the first time in way too long that he's come with someone else in the room with him, even if that person's his sleeping brother, and maybe it's screwed up but it makes him feel better.
*
There's a motel in Little Rock that has the words "MAGIC FINGERS" on the sign out front, and Dean makes Sam stop. They're between cases, with nothing better to do, but still Sam makes it clear he thinks they could find something better to do than stop for a night after they've only been on the road four hours just so Dean can spend his quarters on a vibrating bed.
Dean reminds Sam, subtly, without ever coming out and saying it and getting Sam's panties in a twist, that he has a limited time to live, and if he wants to spend a night on a vibrating bed then Sam can damn well shut it and let him. The issue is settled, and Dean gets change from the guy at the front desk as he gets them a room.
The motel is kind of a creepy place. It looks more like a hunting lodge, with mounted antlers and deer heads as decorations and even a stuffed grizzly on its hind legs in the lobby, which bugs Sam to no end and causes him to bore Dean with a lecture on the current range of grizzly bears in America which apparently doesn't extend this far south.
"Maybe we should start stuffing and mounting our kills, huh, Sammy?" Dean says when he almost kicks over a stuffed duck sitting on the floor as he hands Sam their room key.
"Yeah, and we can hang them from the roof of the Impala. Or maybe stick something out on the hood. After all, a spirit's head would be so easy to mount." Sam wrinkles his nose and holds the key between his thumb and index finger at a distance from the rest of his body. "Why can't we ever stay somewhere normal?"
"Hey, we're freaks; we live like freaks. You should be used to it by now."
When they get to the room, Sam pulls out his computer and tells Dean he's going to see if there's any mysteries that need solving in any of the neighboring states. He alternates between staring intently at the screen, glancing at the painting of a deer on the wall like it's going to come to life, and glaring at Dean popping quarters into the Magic Fingers like Dean's pissing and shitting all over the sheets instead of trying to relax.
Dean falls asleep at some point, and when he wakes up, Sam's asleep too. It's kind of shocking since it's only a little after six and Sam never sleeps in the middle of the day if they're not in the car, but Dean figures it's a sign he did a good thing by making Sam stop, if he's that tired.
His laptop is closed on the table between the beds, but Dad's journal is open on top of it. Dean leans over to glance at the pages. It's open on the section on lake monsters, which isn't exactly what Dean calls an exciting case that he's dying to get started on. He decides he'll just let Sam explain the whole thing to him when he wakes up.
In the meantime, he's pretty much starving and Sam'll bitch if Dean gets dinner without him, because he's apparently developed some sort of thing over the last few years about eating alone. It's probably one of the big reasons Sam's such a spoiled, prissy bitch, but Dean usually indulges him because he knows what it's like to have things.
So Dean picks up a quarter from his pile of them near Sam's computer and sets the bed vibrating while he waits, hoping Sam hasn't passed out for the rest of the night without warning Dean first and left him to starve.
He doesn't have to wait long.
Sam doesn't have psychic visions anymore, hasn't since they killed the yellow-eyed son of a bitch, but that doesn't mean the nightmares have stopped. Those continue, same as always, getting neither better nor worse. But the two sound the same to Dean, and every time he hears Sam start tossing and turning in his sleep, sometimes making those pitiful little noises Dean could make fun of easy if he wanted, Dean feels a kind of terror swell in his chest, thinking the visions are back and it's starting all over again and he's going to have to go back to watching Sam get a little more unhinged with each one.
Which is what goes through his mind when out of nowhere Sam jerks violently from his right side to his back and turns his head so Dean can see his face scrunched up like he's in pain. Three minutes is what he always gives Sam to wake up on his own. He turns his eyes to the clock and jumps out of the bed, since suddenly the Magic Fingers don't seem so magic.
Sam wakes up after only one minute. He jerks back to his right side, then all the way to his left, then straight up, eyes flying open and immediately seeking Dean's. They stare at each other for a while, Dean feeling stupid for just standing there in the space between their beds and Sam looking stupid sitting there panting with his hair plastered to his head in some places and fluffed in others.
Dean's bed finally stops vibrating, and he sits back down, still staring at Sam who somehow looks both wide awake and still totally out of it at the same time. Usually Sam's doing something by now, babbling or running off to the bathroom or laying back down and pretending nothing happened, so Dean's not clear on what to do when Sam's not doing anything at all.
"Uh," he says. "Do you want-" He's not too sure how to say, "Do you want to talk about it?" without actually saying, "Do you want to talk about it?" but Sam saves him the trouble by understanding what he's getting at.
"No." Sam lays back down and acts like he's going to turn away from Dean, but then he doesn't, just stays facing him but not looking at him. "I'm fine."
Dean kind of doubts it, but he doesn't push. With Sam, everything always comes out at some point. "All right." He figures Sam's going to close his eyes again now, but he doesn't. And it freaks Dean out a little, sitting there watching his little brother stare at nothing and still act like he can see something. "Well, you know, you can-" But he doesn't know what the hell he's trying to say, just that he feels like he needs to say something, but Sam at least pretends like he understands.
"Yeah."
Sam turns on his back, and Dean picks up another quarter and drops it into the slot, thinking if nothing else Sam'll have some response to that. Except he doesn't, just stares at the ceiling like there's something important there, more important than Dean's sick habit, and okay, Dean's more than a little freaked out now. Sam'd tell Dean if it was a vision, and he'd pretend to be okay if it was just one of his usual nightmares. Dean's okay with dealing with new things and deviations from the norm, but never where Sam is concerned. Sam's the exception to pretty much every rule in Dean's life.
He does what he thinks any good brother would do. He picks up a pen sitting on the table between his pile of quarters and Sam's laptop, hurls it at Sam's head, and then scoots backwards on the bed when he has Sam's attention.
"C'mon." Dean almost wants to pat the empty space next to him, but he figures that would be a little weird so he just waves one arm instead. "You didn't try this before when I told you you should, so you're gonna try it now."
"What?" The face Sam makes is pretty much hilarious, eyebrows halfway up his forehead and head jerked back so far he has a double chin, and Dean would laugh if it wouldn't ruin everything he's trying to do. "Dean, I don't-"
"Hey, I'm being generous here, Sammy, offering to share my toys with you. Doesn't happen too often. Now get over here."
Sam sits up, still looking at Dean like he's lost his mind, and scoots to the edge of the bed. "What, you're not gonna get up?"
"I said I'd share, Sam, not give it to you. We've only got so much money. Now get the hell over here before this quarter runs out."
Sam sighs like it's some great effort to walk three feet to Dean's bed, but he does it anyway and there's a little smile threatening to curl his lips. The bed's not exactly the biggest one in the world and Sam sure as hell isn't the smallest guy, but it works. Sam lays with his back to Dean's chest, and they're close enough that Dean can smell the sweat dried on the back of Sam's neck. It's gross, but that's how Sam is and Dean accepted that back when Sam was four and in his bed-wetting stage and pissed all over Dean's leg.
After only about five seconds, time on the Magic Fingers runs out, and the bed stills. Dean gets ready to chew Sam out for wasting time and money being a whiny little bitch, but then Sam leans over without a word and puts another quarter in. Dean decides he'll save the chewing out for later, and lays his head down on the pillow, feels Sam safe and warm beside him, and lets the vibrations rattle his head until all that's coming out is vague memories of being a kid and waking up in the middle of the night when Sam's knee tried to dig its home in his groin.
"You didn't make the deal," Sam says, voice low and sort of gravely in that way that makes Dean hurt a little because it usually means Sam's in pain. "And I stayed dead. I became a spirit, or something. I followed you around, but you couldn't see me. You got hurt on a hunt, and died. And I watched, but I couldn't do anything."
Dean's not sure what he's supposed to say to that, if there's anything he even can say to that. Part of him wants to say something like, "Bet you're glad I made the deal now, huh?" but he knows that wouldn't end well.
Instead Dean knocks his knuckle against Sam's elbow, just once, and says, "I'm alive, Sammy. And so are you."
For the moment, it's enough.
Part Two
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 31,030
Notes: Contains multiple references to various X-Files episodes.
Summary: Sam and Dean in the first three months following the S2 finale.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
When Sam was a baby, he spent six months hating Dean. It's one of those things about his childhood Dean's been dying to forget but never really can.
It started after the fire. Like maybe by carrying Sam out of the house Dean put himself in the position to be associated with it. Like every time he saw Dean he felt the heat, saw the flames, and heard people screaming all over again. Or at least that's what Dean thinks now, looking back on it. Back then he had no friggin' clue. He only knew that every time Dad plopped little Sammy down in Dean's lap, Sam screwed up his face and made pitiful whimpery noises as his eyes got all watery, and the first few times, before he got used to it and even started to expect it, Dean teared up too.
And then Dad, who never really caught on to what to do when his kids got upset, patted his head a little uncomfortably and said things like, "Don't worry, Dean, he's just a baby. He'll get over it. Give him some time."
So Dean gave him time, and after a couple months whimpery noises and watery eyes became wails and fat tear trails down Sam's cheeks.
"Christ," Dad kept saying, when he'd have to rock Sam back to calm after Dean did something stupid like smile at him or come too close. "Babies are supposed to like other kids."
Then around the time Sam turned one, it stopped. Just like that. Sam was sitting in his highchair, banging his spoon on his tray, and when Dean walked into the room Sam just looked at him and grinned and tried to lunge toward him.
Now Dean looks back on those months and thinks they were probably where his issues with Sam dug their roots in his subconscious. Because sometimes he still feels like he's four and bouncing a jingling toy bear in front of Sam's nose, saying, "See, Sammy, see, give me a chance and I can be fun."
*
Dean always thought that after they killed the demon, he'd finally get the chance to breathe for once, long and slow and with a big smile after every exhale. So he's more than a little pissed off when the demon is dead and he's got even less time to breathe.
Now they've got hundreds of demons to send back to hell and a year to break a contract before a hellhound drags him to hell by his heels, and meanwhile there's still the usual hunts-vengeful spirits, campfire stories gone wrong and come true. Sam and Dean can find cases sometimes without even looking, and when one plops itself right in their laps, during one of the stretches they're not supposed to be looking for cases, Sam is always the one to say, in a voice that means he's lying through his teeth but wants Dean to tell him otherwise:
"There are other hunters out there. We could just-"
And Dean always answers, "No. It's only 100/200/2000 miles from here. It won't take long."
When it all comes down to it, when people are getting hurt and killed and they can stop it, neither of them can say no. Not even when Dean's pretty much become a case himself, one they've got a limited time to solve, and Sam's biggest prerogative becomes obsessing over it.
Thing is, Dean's pretty good at handling time limits, mostly because he's better at ignoring them. He lives in the moment; he jumps in the fire the second he sees it, and if he doesn't pull himself out before time's up, well, then it won't matter much to him anymore.
But Sam, he likes to sit outside the fire with his notes and a pair of binoculars, making a diagram of the flames and mapping out an escape route, all the while counting down the seconds in his head. And sure, he's got no problem jumping straight in if the situation requires it-sometimes he's even quicker to get to it than Dean-but the point is he doesn't like to. That's what makes the two of them different.
Dean feels the urgency because Sam does, watches the clock tick because Sam does. Sam doesn't want to be alone, so Dean doesn't want to leave him alone. That's how they work.
*
Sam makes a kind of backwards calendar that he uses to count off how many days they've got left until the contract is up. It looks disturbingly like the calendar he made in first grade to count down the days until Christmas, except it's less colorful and a lot longer: several pages of computer paper stolen from a library printer in Wyoming, stapled together at the corner and covered in rows of numbered squares that go from 365 down to 1.
When Dean first sees it, it's lying on a bed in their motel room next to a takeout menu, and the first four days are crossed out in blue pen. Sam's sitting at the little two-chair table in the corner of the room, laptop out, chair shifted so he's got a perfect shot of the bathroom door Dean's just walked out of and the bed with the menu and calendar on it that Dean's staring it. Everything about the scene pisses Dean off.
"It's that exciting for you, huh," Dean says. He'd pick the fucking thing up and hurl it at Sam, except he doesn't want to touch it, so he has to settle for pointing at it and making slashing motions in the air. "So exciting you have to have a goddamn countdown to the day I die. Should I pick up some crayons tomorrow, Sam, huh? So you can draw little flowers at the corners, or maybe even a few rainbows and a big happy fucking sun."
"Dean," Sam says, more nice and calm than Dean would like, like this is a speech he wrote out and rehearsed when Dean wasn't looking and can recite perfectly on cue. "We don't exactly have an unlimited amount of time here. It took you and Dad and me years to kill the demon that killed Mom and Jess."
Dean thinks about jumping in with a comment on the "you and Dad and me" and how he's not too sure "me" is all that qualified to be in that sentence, but Sam doesn't give him the time and anyway it's a fight they've had enough already and could probably stand to never have again.
"And you and me," Sam continues, "we've got less than a year right now. Every day counts, Dean, and we need to always know how many of them we've got left."
"I think between the two of us we can keep track of one single goddamn date, Sam," Dean snarls. "I don't think this one's gonna slip our minds."
The fight goes on for hours, in an on and off sort of way, minutes of silence between rounds of shouting. They start doing that thing where they say each other's names as often as possible, just so they have another syllable to yell. When they're not speaking, Dean's ears are ringing with a chorus of "Dean" and "Sam," and he gets so many sodas from the vending machine as an excuse to leave the room, he's fucking vibrating with caffeine.
It all boils down to Dean being generally creeped out and Sam not caring because he thinks this is important, and eventually Dean just gives in. Slams his fist into the wall and says, "Fine, Sam. Whatever you say," and it's settled.
The next morning, Dean slides into the driver's seat of the Impala to find the calendar on the dash with a new blue X through day 361. He sends the coldest glare he can manage at Sam, but Sam tosses a candy bar over that hits him right between the eyes and ruins the whole thing.
"Dude," Dean says instead. "Can't you at least put it somewhere I can't see it?"
Sam raises his eyebrows and looks at Dean like he's honest-to-god shocked Dean hasn't gotten over his issues with the calendar yet. Which isn't exactly typical of Sam-who always keeps some kind of running count of Dean's issues and keeps track of them like you keep track of a baby who's just learning to crawl-and somehow that just makes Dean want to hit him. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry."
And then suddenly it all seems pretty hilarious. Like, who the hell else gets a countdown to their death, and who the hell else besides Sam would even think to make one? Before he knows it, he's laughing, rearing his head back and slapping his knee, and Sam's staring at him like he doesn't know whether to laugh too or lean over and check Dean for head trauma.
And yeah, maybe there is a little tiny tinge of hysteria to it, but Dean figures he's earned it with the week he's had.
"Dude, you're gonna make me look at it every friggin' day for the next year, aren't you?"
Sam looks offended, jerks his head back quick just a little like Dean's just taken a swing at him, but he says, "Yeah, probably."
And that's the Sam Dean knows and loves. He snorts and shakes his head and turns the key in the ignition.
"If it really bothers you," Sam says, slowly, as Dean's pulling out of the motel parking lot, "I can-"
"No, no, Sammy, it's fine. You think we need it, we probably do." Except they don't, and Dean knows it. Sam's just being stubborn and stupid, and he was born with some kind of biological imperative to be a pain in Dean's ass. But no way in hell is Dean letting Sam know how much the calendar really bothers him. "But you're buying me crayons the next place we stop, and I'm decorating it."
And he does. Sam buys him an eight pack of cheap crayons and then drives while Dean sits in the passenger seat and uses his knee as a table, tilted up far enough Sam can't see what he's doing. He starts with day 69 and draws a pretty colorful little picture in the square, and then decides what the calendar really needs is to be totally covered in as many dirty pictures as Dean can fit on it.
He ends on day 1 with a doodle of a guy getting fucked up the ass by a huge dog. It's morbid and completely screwed up, but Dean figures Sam's face when he gets a good look at it will be priceless.
He tosses both the crayons and the calendar in the backseat and grins wide at Sam, feeling proud as hell. Dean thinks this is as close as he'll ever get to making peace with the thing.
*
Dean is telling Sam-in a very organized way, with evidence to back up every statement and even footnotes, so as to impress the essay-loving ex-Joe College in the passenger seat-exactly why the town of Chaney, Texas (population 361) sucks out loud, but Sam is making it pretty obvious he doesn't care about his big brother's suffering and only wants to talk about why there have been two dead tourists here, bodies drained completely of blood.
"The second body was found at the RV park," Sam says, eyeing the notes and papers spread out in his lap. "Let's just go there, talk to some people, and then you can tell me all about how Chaney's women aren't pretty enough for you."
"It's not that they're not pretty, Sam, it's that they're all dog ugly. You can't tell me there's nothing strange about that. A town without even one attractive woman in it? And not a single woman we've seen has paid us any attention. I mean, just you I get, but me and you? I'm telling you, Sam, there's something wrong with the whole town."
It makes a lot of sense in Dean's head, even if he's exaggerating a little, but Dean sense and Sam sense are two very different things.
"We haven't even been here a day, Dean, and we haven't been everywhere. I'm sure somewhere there are beautiful women just waiting for you."
"That's another thing," Dean says, perking up a little because this is a point Sam interrupted him before he could get to. "There isn't anything to do here. We've seen a grocery store and a pizza place and not much else. A population of 361, Sam, no one sane and good would live here."
Sam takes a deep breath and stacks his papers in a neat pile on his knee, and Dean knows right then that he's just stepped into territory he's not adequately equipped to deal with.
"I always wanted to settle down in a small town," Sam says, voice so quiet Dean has to strain a little to catch it. "I mean, not this small, but-well, small."
"Yeah, Sam, I know."
It was kind of hard to miss, honestly. Growing up and passing through small town after small town to and from hunts, and Sam always said things like, "It must be nice to live here," in a tone like Dean used to say things like, "Look at the ass on that waitress." It was never any secret that Sam jerked off fantasizing about walking down the block to the grocery store for milk and being greeted by name-his real one-and invited to bake sales and shit.
It exasperated the hell out of Dean, but Dad didn't act like he minded too much. "Don't pay it any mind," he always said. "He'll grow out of it."
Dean realizes he doesn't know if Sam ever did grow out of it. He gave Dean a whole speech once about hunting and destiny and how he'd tried to run from it but found out you can't, but that doesn't mean anything. Sam's got moods like a pregnant chick and changes his mind more often. Maybe hunting was their inescapable destiny yesterday, but that doesn't mean it still is today.
And Sam's giving nothing away with his expression, just gifting the windshield with his best poker face, so if Dean really wants to know he'll have to ask.
"So you still want to settle down in a small town?"
Dean's not really sure what kind of answer he's expecting. Maybe some kind of elaborate evasion or maybe an answer that rings false to Dean's ears. Anyway, it's definitely not the answer he gets.
"No." Sam tosses the stack of papers on the dash and shoots Dean a look that Dean can't read. "But sometimes I miss how happy it used to make me just to dream about it."
Dean has no clue what that's supposed to mean. If it's supposed to mean anything. Dean hopes it wasn't some sort of shot at him, because he doesn't like the idea of Sam taking shots at him that go right over his head.
He doesn't get to ask though, because they're pulling into the RV park, and Sam doesn't waste any time hopping out of the car and slamming the door shut behind him.
*
A skinwalker in Arizona does a number on Dean's leg before he puts a silver bullet straight through the thing's heart and spits on the remains.
Dean's pretty sure Sam wasn't anywhere near close enough to see what happened, but he acts like he got a front row seat to a show called Dean's Big Fuckup and does his best to rip Dean a new one over it. Before they make it to the car, even, with Dean limping and leaning on Sam's shoulder and watching his jeans darken with blood.
"C'mon, Sammy. I think you should just give me your shirt. God knows anything in your Sasquatch size is big enough to be used as a seat cover, and when I'm bleeding buckets and you compare that thing you're wearing to the upholstery, well…"
Sam sort of snaps then, tightens his grip on Dean's waist until Dean hisses, and then just lets him have it, raising his voice and slowing down every word so Dean doesn't miss a single syllable.
It's all "reckless" and "irresponsible" and "you always have to jump straight in, don't you Dean, never think about what could go wrong," and then Dean's anger comes out blazing with "well Sam, we can't all be a perfect little pansy ass like you."
They reach the Impala and Sam's ripping open the door, trying to get Dean into the backseat as gently as his anger will allow, when Sam utters the words "could have gotten yourself killed," and just like that the anger in both of them dies. Dean lets himself be dropped into the backseat without a word about the blood that could ruin the upholstery, and Sam drives to the nearest motel in silence and without a thing in his demeanor to suggest he'd been mad at all. They talk in three-word sentences for the rest of the night and sleep facing away from each other.
Dean wakes up the next morning to find Sam looking at him like he has things to say Dean doesn't want to hear. He doesn't even make it to the bathroom to pee before Sam assaults him.
"Dean, I think we need to talk about this," he says, just like that, all matter-of-fact like Dean isn't struggling to get out of bed without ripping the stitches and reopening the wounds on his leg.
"About what, Sammy?"
"You know what, Dean. About the crossroads and the contract and the 350 days we've got to break it. It's hanging over us all the time, and we can't just keep ignoring it-"
"How do you figure we're ignoring it, Sam? Christ, we talk about it all the damn time." Dean would really like to keep standing while Sam is still sitting on his bed since it gives him the illusion of being taller, but his leg hurts and he's still not totally awake yet. He sits back down. "We got into it not two weeks ago when you started waving that damn calendar in my face. What do you want me to say?"
It's a stupid question since he already knows the answer, and Dean realizes as soon as it's out of his mouth that he's even stupider for just throwing it out there like that, giving Sam the perfect opportunity to stop dancing around what he wants and drive straight to it.
"I want to know what you're thinking. I want you to tell me how you feel about all this."
"Oh, right, right. My Sammy, always with the grief counseling shit. You want me to cry a little bit for you, start blubbering about how scared I am? Would that make you feel better?"
Sam scoots to the very edge of the bed, leans forward like Dean's just nibbled on the hook he threw and he's about to reel him in. "So you're scared?"
"Oh, absolutely. I'm scared you're gonna give me a bladder infection by keeping me from peeing with all your touchy-feely crap." Dean drags himself to his feet and smirks when Sam looks honest-to-god shocked he isn't cooperating. "We done here?"
Sam doesn't answer, which is good because Dean isn't waiting for one. He slams the bathroom door behind him.
Later on in the day, Dean buys a cheap box of tampons and puts it in Sam's bag so it will be the first thing he sees when he opens it. It'll piss Sam off, he knows, and Dean might wake up one morning with a tampon shoved up one nostril in retaliation. But he knows Sam'll get the message loud and clear ("You're a girl"), and even the message underneath the message ("I'm fine").
Dean feels pretty good about himself right then.
*
"I think," says Sam, very slowly, the rim of a soda bottle against his bottom lip, "that we should go to Lawrence."
The road they're driving on isn't the smoothest or the quietest and Dean has the volume turned up to drown out his own worries about what a shitty road can do to a beautiful car, so at first he's not sure he heard right. He turns the music down and says, "What?"
"We should go to Lawrence. And talk to Missouri."
Dean doesn't even have to think about it. "No. Hell no, Sam. We go there and she finds out what's happened, what I did, and-" Actually, he doesn't know what Missouri will do, and he doesn't want to think about it. He leaves the sentence unfinished, but Sam isn't really listening to anything past "no" anyway.
"Look, Dean, she knows things and she has connections. She could help us." Then Sam is sitting up straight in the passenger seat and leaning closer to Dean like he does when he has an idea and thinks it's the best one he's ever come up with. "And besides, you know she deserves to know, from us, exactly what happened with Dad and the demon."
It's one of those stupid moments where Dean knows Sam has a point, but he's already given his opinion and isn't about to back down from it. "No, Sam, and that's final."
Except nothing is ever final with Sam, and they pull into Missouri's driveway the next day.
She opens the door before they even reach it, and she's smiling until they're close enough to meet her eyes. Dean knows everything that's happened-Dad and the demon and Sam's death and Dean's deal-is just sitting on the surface of his mind waiting to be plucked out and Sam's probably pushing his thoughts at her, and Missouri knows everything without either of them even opening their mouths.
"Oh," she says, a little breathlessly, putting one hand against her breast. Dean doesn't know what he's thinking, what he's sending her way, but whatever it is, it's enough to make Missouri zero in on him, step forward, and reach for him. "Oh, honey."
Dean doesn't want to deal with this crap right now, can't deal with this crap, and he jerks backward before she can hug him or grab his shoulders or his cheeks or whatever she was about to do. Sam puts his hand on Dean's elbow, like he thinks Dean's about to run back to the Impala or down the street or something, which is stupid because he's not a coward. But he still doesn't jerk away from Sam.
Missouri doesn't look offended at all, just drops her arms and steps back into the house. "Come in," she says. "Come in."
They're not even settled into seats yet when she sighs, "Boys, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I can't help you. I never heard of a person breaking a contract with a demon before. I can call some people, but…"
When Dean tells her it's not a big deal, he believes it. When it all comes down to it, Sam's the only one who ever really expects anything from the people they meet.
They drive by their old house on the way out of town, and Sam slows the car down a little when they get right in front of it. It looks just like they left it except now there's a bike on its side in the driveway. "Do you want to stop?" Sam asks, in a voice that doesn't give anything away about what he wants.
"No," Dean answers.
Sam doesn't try to change his mind, and they don't speak again until Lawrence is miles behind them.
*
These days it seems like all Dean wants to do is drink and fuck. It feels like he's 15 again, taking drinks of water half-hoping it'll be vodka instead and his dick going hard and heavy in his jeans every time the Impala purrs just right. The only explanation for it Dean can come up with involves the deal and is too depressing to think too hard about, so he doesn't.
And it wouldn't really be a big deal, except Sam never wants to go out anymore and Dean never wants to leave Sam alone while he does. Just less than a month ago, Dean let Sam go into a diner on his own, and the next time they saw each other again, Sam died in Dean's arms. Things like that burn themselves into Dean's memory, and now he has this thing where his fingers twitch if he doesn't know exactly where Sam is and what he's doing at all times. It makes it hard to do things like go to a bar and meet girls.
In a little town just outside Oklahoma City, Dean finally convinces Sam to leave their motel room and visit a seedy dive bar about a mile down the road, where he hopes Sam can entertain himself while he does shots and then fucks a hot girl in the bathroom. Sam brings everything with him-his laptop, Dad's journal, a monstrous demonology book Dean stole from a library in Utah a couple weeks back, the fucking calendar-and never has Dean witnessed such an effective cockblock.
"Look, Sam, can't you just have fun tonight? For me?"
The beer tastes a little like piss so Dean can't really blame him for not taking more than one sip and Sam has never been what Dean would call the life of any party, but usually he does a little more than sit and read books when they go out. It's like the first month after Jess died all over again, which was a time Dean hoped never to relive. Especially now that it's Dean Sam is mourning, and Dean's not even dead yet.
Dean's only drinking beer and hasn't even finished his first one, but still he can already feel the alcohol aching to curl its warm fingers around his dick. If only Sam would get that damn calendar away from him, since even with the dirty pictures Dean still isn't comfortable enough with it to get turned on when he can still see it.
There's a brunette about six feet away with impressive tits and a gorgeous mouth, and she's giving them both looks like she wouldn't complain if one or both came over to say hi. Dean figures he'll let Sam have this one, see if getting laid won't pull him out of his little funk.
"Hey," he says, elbowing Sam in the side and jerking his chin in the girl's direction. "She's checking you out, Sam. Maybe you should-"
Sam stands up suddenly enough to nearly tip his chair back and starts gathering up all his stuff. "Look, Dean, I'm sorry but I'm feeling pretty tired. I think I'll just head back to the motel."
He's already turned and taking his first step toward the door, and Dean has to scramble a bit to catch up. "Okay, okay. Let me just-"
"No, it's okay, Dean. You stay here, and I'll just walk back to the motel. I won't wait up."
It's not like Sam's never been out on his own at night before, in the same situation even, but now every time Dean tries to conjure up the image of Sam walking outside alone in the dark he sees Jake coming up behind him and driving a knife right into Sam's back. It reminds Dean that the beer at this bar tastes like piss and the chick probably has crabs.
"Nah, I'll come with you. This place kinda sucks anyway."
When they climb into the Impala, Sam slams the passenger door in a way that clearly tells Dean he's pissed as hell, and it turns out he's so pissed that Dean doesn't even have to prod before he speaks.
"You know, Dean, I hate to break it to you. But once, I went off to college all by myself."
Dean's response sounds pretty good in head, but it turns ugly on his tongue. "Yeah, and I saved you from that one too, didn't I."
They don't talk again for the rest of the night. Dean watches a bad horror movie on TV and doodles Anasazi symbols with his fingers on the bedspread while Sam does who-knows-what on his laptop for an hour and then lays down to sleep with his back to Dean.
Dean watches his shoulders shift as he drifts off, and when he starts snoring, Dean settles back against the headboard, shoves a hand in his pants, and wraps his fingers around his dick. He keeps most of his attention on Sam's breathing, watching for hitches or signs that Sam's waking up, but still it doesn't last too long. It's the first time in way too long that he's come with someone else in the room with him, even if that person's his sleeping brother, and maybe it's screwed up but it makes him feel better.
*
There's a motel in Little Rock that has the words "MAGIC FINGERS" on the sign out front, and Dean makes Sam stop. They're between cases, with nothing better to do, but still Sam makes it clear he thinks they could find something better to do than stop for a night after they've only been on the road four hours just so Dean can spend his quarters on a vibrating bed.
Dean reminds Sam, subtly, without ever coming out and saying it and getting Sam's panties in a twist, that he has a limited time to live, and if he wants to spend a night on a vibrating bed then Sam can damn well shut it and let him. The issue is settled, and Dean gets change from the guy at the front desk as he gets them a room.
The motel is kind of a creepy place. It looks more like a hunting lodge, with mounted antlers and deer heads as decorations and even a stuffed grizzly on its hind legs in the lobby, which bugs Sam to no end and causes him to bore Dean with a lecture on the current range of grizzly bears in America which apparently doesn't extend this far south.
"Maybe we should start stuffing and mounting our kills, huh, Sammy?" Dean says when he almost kicks over a stuffed duck sitting on the floor as he hands Sam their room key.
"Yeah, and we can hang them from the roof of the Impala. Or maybe stick something out on the hood. After all, a spirit's head would be so easy to mount." Sam wrinkles his nose and holds the key between his thumb and index finger at a distance from the rest of his body. "Why can't we ever stay somewhere normal?"
"Hey, we're freaks; we live like freaks. You should be used to it by now."
When they get to the room, Sam pulls out his computer and tells Dean he's going to see if there's any mysteries that need solving in any of the neighboring states. He alternates between staring intently at the screen, glancing at the painting of a deer on the wall like it's going to come to life, and glaring at Dean popping quarters into the Magic Fingers like Dean's pissing and shitting all over the sheets instead of trying to relax.
Dean falls asleep at some point, and when he wakes up, Sam's asleep too. It's kind of shocking since it's only a little after six and Sam never sleeps in the middle of the day if they're not in the car, but Dean figures it's a sign he did a good thing by making Sam stop, if he's that tired.
His laptop is closed on the table between the beds, but Dad's journal is open on top of it. Dean leans over to glance at the pages. It's open on the section on lake monsters, which isn't exactly what Dean calls an exciting case that he's dying to get started on. He decides he'll just let Sam explain the whole thing to him when he wakes up.
In the meantime, he's pretty much starving and Sam'll bitch if Dean gets dinner without him, because he's apparently developed some sort of thing over the last few years about eating alone. It's probably one of the big reasons Sam's such a spoiled, prissy bitch, but Dean usually indulges him because he knows what it's like to have things.
So Dean picks up a quarter from his pile of them near Sam's computer and sets the bed vibrating while he waits, hoping Sam hasn't passed out for the rest of the night without warning Dean first and left him to starve.
He doesn't have to wait long.
Sam doesn't have psychic visions anymore, hasn't since they killed the yellow-eyed son of a bitch, but that doesn't mean the nightmares have stopped. Those continue, same as always, getting neither better nor worse. But the two sound the same to Dean, and every time he hears Sam start tossing and turning in his sleep, sometimes making those pitiful little noises Dean could make fun of easy if he wanted, Dean feels a kind of terror swell in his chest, thinking the visions are back and it's starting all over again and he's going to have to go back to watching Sam get a little more unhinged with each one.
Which is what goes through his mind when out of nowhere Sam jerks violently from his right side to his back and turns his head so Dean can see his face scrunched up like he's in pain. Three minutes is what he always gives Sam to wake up on his own. He turns his eyes to the clock and jumps out of the bed, since suddenly the Magic Fingers don't seem so magic.
Sam wakes up after only one minute. He jerks back to his right side, then all the way to his left, then straight up, eyes flying open and immediately seeking Dean's. They stare at each other for a while, Dean feeling stupid for just standing there in the space between their beds and Sam looking stupid sitting there panting with his hair plastered to his head in some places and fluffed in others.
Dean's bed finally stops vibrating, and he sits back down, still staring at Sam who somehow looks both wide awake and still totally out of it at the same time. Usually Sam's doing something by now, babbling or running off to the bathroom or laying back down and pretending nothing happened, so Dean's not clear on what to do when Sam's not doing anything at all.
"Uh," he says. "Do you want-" He's not too sure how to say, "Do you want to talk about it?" without actually saying, "Do you want to talk about it?" but Sam saves him the trouble by understanding what he's getting at.
"No." Sam lays back down and acts like he's going to turn away from Dean, but then he doesn't, just stays facing him but not looking at him. "I'm fine."
Dean kind of doubts it, but he doesn't push. With Sam, everything always comes out at some point. "All right." He figures Sam's going to close his eyes again now, but he doesn't. And it freaks Dean out a little, sitting there watching his little brother stare at nothing and still act like he can see something. "Well, you know, you can-" But he doesn't know what the hell he's trying to say, just that he feels like he needs to say something, but Sam at least pretends like he understands.
"Yeah."
Sam turns on his back, and Dean picks up another quarter and drops it into the slot, thinking if nothing else Sam'll have some response to that. Except he doesn't, just stares at the ceiling like there's something important there, more important than Dean's sick habit, and okay, Dean's more than a little freaked out now. Sam'd tell Dean if it was a vision, and he'd pretend to be okay if it was just one of his usual nightmares. Dean's okay with dealing with new things and deviations from the norm, but never where Sam is concerned. Sam's the exception to pretty much every rule in Dean's life.
He does what he thinks any good brother would do. He picks up a pen sitting on the table between his pile of quarters and Sam's laptop, hurls it at Sam's head, and then scoots backwards on the bed when he has Sam's attention.
"C'mon." Dean almost wants to pat the empty space next to him, but he figures that would be a little weird so he just waves one arm instead. "You didn't try this before when I told you you should, so you're gonna try it now."
"What?" The face Sam makes is pretty much hilarious, eyebrows halfway up his forehead and head jerked back so far he has a double chin, and Dean would laugh if it wouldn't ruin everything he's trying to do. "Dean, I don't-"
"Hey, I'm being generous here, Sammy, offering to share my toys with you. Doesn't happen too often. Now get over here."
Sam sits up, still looking at Dean like he's lost his mind, and scoots to the edge of the bed. "What, you're not gonna get up?"
"I said I'd share, Sam, not give it to you. We've only got so much money. Now get the hell over here before this quarter runs out."
Sam sighs like it's some great effort to walk three feet to Dean's bed, but he does it anyway and there's a little smile threatening to curl his lips. The bed's not exactly the biggest one in the world and Sam sure as hell isn't the smallest guy, but it works. Sam lays with his back to Dean's chest, and they're close enough that Dean can smell the sweat dried on the back of Sam's neck. It's gross, but that's how Sam is and Dean accepted that back when Sam was four and in his bed-wetting stage and pissed all over Dean's leg.
After only about five seconds, time on the Magic Fingers runs out, and the bed stills. Dean gets ready to chew Sam out for wasting time and money being a whiny little bitch, but then Sam leans over without a word and puts another quarter in. Dean decides he'll save the chewing out for later, and lays his head down on the pillow, feels Sam safe and warm beside him, and lets the vibrations rattle his head until all that's coming out is vague memories of being a kid and waking up in the middle of the night when Sam's knee tried to dig its home in his groin.
"You didn't make the deal," Sam says, voice low and sort of gravely in that way that makes Dean hurt a little because it usually means Sam's in pain. "And I stayed dead. I became a spirit, or something. I followed you around, but you couldn't see me. You got hurt on a hunt, and died. And I watched, but I couldn't do anything."
Dean's not sure what he's supposed to say to that, if there's anything he even can say to that. Part of him wants to say something like, "Bet you're glad I made the deal now, huh?" but he knows that wouldn't end well.
Instead Dean knocks his knuckle against Sam's elbow, just once, and says, "I'm alive, Sammy. And so are you."
For the moment, it's enough.
Part Two