The Angel and The Devil, Heavy On Your Shoulders [7/22] Sam/Dean, R
Title: The Angel and The Devil, Heavy on Your Shoulders (Part II. One.)
Word Count: 2724 [35000 total]
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes and link to art
Part II. Things Are Looking Pretty Bad.
--Chapter One--
Dean sucks in a breath and it hurts like a son of a bitch.
These days, morning always seems to hit him like a fist to his gut. He's getting damn tired of waking up with the wind knocked out of him-hell, he's just plain tired. So the days when Sam gives him crap for sleeping late, Dean's fingers curl up tight and itch for Sam’s face. But he plays it cool, 'cause he's a damn good brother.
In fact, he holds back a lot of crap for Sam's sake. He doesn't say to his brother that sleeping really feels like being held under, like he spends his whole nights drowning in his dreams. He doesn't say that they don't feel like dreams, either, that they're more like...flashbacks. Full-on, three-dimensional high-definition surround-sound flashbacks, complete with terror pounding in his blood and screams ripping at his soul.
They're just memories, just dreams, Sam sometimes says to Dean when he's dragging himself out of it. Dean tries to keep that little fact in mind when he dreams about his skeleton being torn out of his flesh.
It's not helpful.
The long and short of it is, Dean got outta Hell alright, but Hell found a way to stay with him.
"Mornin'."
Sam's voice is low and scratchy with sleep, and Dean's heart skips a few beats as the sound grates over him. He keeps calm, keeps breathing, cause he knows this is his Sam, not the...other. That Sam...that bastard's not real.
Yet, a voice whispers in his head.
Dean coughs and curls up a tighter into a ball on his bed. He isn’t keen on the idea of moving, but he figures Sam isn't just gonna let him stay like that all day, so he goes ahead and cracks an eyelid. Before his eyes adjust, everything is bleached white like bones. Fucking sunshine.
He grits his teeth and gets out of bed, throwing himself in the direction of the bathroom. His eyes gradually bring the curling wallpaper and the water-stained ceiling to a faded focus. Another shitty motel.
Home sweet home.
His mouth mumbles out some sort of something to let Sam know he's up and alive and he ain't exactly turning cartwheels over it. He slams the bathroom door after him and puts himself in front of the toothpaste-smeared mirror. Dean curls his hands on the cool porcelain edges of the sink, hanging on. He waits.
Nothing happens, so he lets out a long breath.
He leans close to the surface of the mirror to look hard at himself. His eyes are tinged a sore-lookin’ red, and the shadows under them have a purplish gleam. Under the yellow light, he looks pale-but he can chalk that up to the flickering dirty bulb. His freckles--he forgets about those, sometimes--are clinging dark to his cheeks and nose. There's a layer of sweat on him already, even though he feels chilled.
Altogether, he doesn’t look too shabby. In fact, he looks awesome today. Other days, he looks like hell. Really.
He tosses a few cold handfuls of water in his face and breathes. He looks up at the mirror, and tests out a smile. He sure doesn't look like Hell's bitch.
He's damn near bordering on chipper as he goes back to the main room. Sam's perched on the edge of his bed, staring at the center of his left hand like he's never seen the damn thing before. Dean watches Sam startle and slap his hand against his leg. He raises an eyebrow at his little brother, and as he does, a pain flares in Dean's head, as quick and sharp as striking a match. He takes a breath against the ache and keeps moving.
"It's called a hand, Sammy," Dean says, flopping down into an uncomfortable chair at the nicked-up little desk. "When you get older I'll tell you what it's for."
"What? Dean--you're a dick, you know that?" Sam snorts. But Dean's reading Sam’s face like a book, and from the darting eyes, crinkled forehead and tinges of a frown, Dean can see the story ain’t good.
"What's up, Sam?"
"What? Nothing."
This was a new development. Something Dean figures Sam'd picked up since his trip South. Sam had somehow taken it into his big head that Dean didn’t know his little brother better than anything else in the friggin’ universe. After years and years of calling him out on every fib, bluff and bullshit, Sam suddenly seems to think he could pull the wool over Dean’s eyes. Hell, seems like half the things that came out of Sam’s mouth these days weren’t genuine. Including the weak dodge he was trying to give Dean now.
Dean tries to not let on exactly how much the whole thing pissed him the fuck off. He would say he was doing a bang-up job with that, seeing as how his foot wasn't in Sam's ass. He was, after all, a really good brother. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna let the punk get away with it.
"Come on, Sam. You were just staring at your left hand like you might propose to it. You know there's a difference between love and sex, Sammy."
Dean's head's throbbing, now, like his heartbeat is pounding in his skull.
"Jesus, Dean. Shut. Up."
"Well, tell me what the hell's wrong with it and I will."
Sam sighs and Dean can almost see the debate rolling around in his big skull, but eventually he pokes out his left hand with fingers splayed and his palm offered.
"It's not a big deal," Sam mutters, "I just think it's infected or something."
Dean moves over to a place next to Sam on the bed and takes the monster-sized hand in his. He inspects it critically, ignoring Sam's eyes zeroed in on his face like the kid can see through it. In a moment, Dean sucks in a breath and shakes his hurting head slowly.
"Sam, man. This...this ain't good."
Sam shifts a little more towards his brother, and the squeaky mattress whines about it. He's got Sam's wrist so tight he can feel his pulse. Dean wonders briefly which of the creases is his life line.
"What is it?" Sam asks quietly.
Dean takes a breath.
"It looks to me like some sort of...of...demonic papercut."
Sam snatches back his hand like it's hit hot coals. "I hate you."
"No, no, wait-Satan's splinter."
"Seriously, why do I bother?"
"Oh, oh! Hangnail from Hell!"
Sam stands abruptly and stalks moodily over the mangy carpet, turning to pace in a circle when he realizes there's not really anywhere to storm to.
"Hey, hey, I'm sorry, man. I couldn't help it. 'Sides, thought it might chill you out a little," Dean gasps as he wipes little tears from the corners of his eyes. Now his head is pounding, and he figures he maybe its instant karma. He stands and catches a sulky Sam by the wrist again. "Hey, Sammy, I promise I'll be good this time."
Sam's face has just a tinge of red, but he grudgingly opens his hand. One day Dean'll have to beat a sense of humor into the kid. Dean straightens up and gets serious to check out the little slice sitting innocently on the heel of Sam's hand. Truth be told, Sam's right, it doesn't look good. Sam's hand is smooth and warm and normal until you turn it palm-side up. The cut itself is a black little line sitting grimly in a patch of grayish waxy skin.
The discoloration is troublesome. Then again, lots of things look a little discolored and faded to Dean since he got back topside--after forty years of lookin' at things by the light of eternal Hellfire, everything on Earth looks just a little...muted.
"Seriously, I think you'll be fine, Sammy," Dean says. He gives Sam a quick, reassuring grin and a punch to the arm. Sam just nods distractedly.
Used to be a time when he could tell his brother that everything was going to be okay, and just saying it made it true. Those days are long gone and Dean dodges asking himself if they ever actually existed. Sam presses his balled fist against his jeans and he still has the same expression as a seven-year-old with a scraped knee, so Dean decides it’s time for a diversion.
"What do you say to some breakfast? Man, I could eat a whole jackalope, I'm so hungry."
"Dean...I don't know. This doesn't feel right."
Dean pauses, his hand halfway to his jacket. The door's so close, so close, and he casts a shadow of a glance at it before turning back to Sam. Then he asks, steady and slow. "It doesn't hurt, does it?"
When there's only dead air, Dean asks a second time, but some of his calm's been shredded up by the silence. His head splits a little more with each word. "Does it hurt?" he asks. His body must be working on its own now, 'cause it never occurs to him to stride to where Sam's standing, but suddenly his fists are gripping his brother's shoulder anyhow.
"No-no, it's alright." Sam says. He holds up his hands like he's at gunpoint, and Dean forces himself to slide his hands away from Sam, keep them at his sides.
"It just...sorta tingles, like when a part of you falls asleep. I feel a little…" he squints with concentration, “…fuzzy? I mean, that’s weird, right?”
"Yeah, well, Samantha, what about you isn't weird?” Dean shrugs. “If you’re that worried, we’ll take care of it."
Sam takes back his seat on the bed while Dean rummages in the duffel. Sam's poking at the little cut with interest and Dean's just about to tell him to quit pickin' at it, but he gets preoccupied poking through their med kit for disinfectant. It’s conspicuously missing.
Dean sighs. He’s not looking forward to what’s going to happen next, but he’s not looking forward to anything these days. Everything counts, he knows that. No mercy.
"So. Sam."
Sam looks up, big soft eyes that would put a puppy to shame.
"Where’s the disinfectant?" Dean asks.
“It’s in there,” Sam says, standing and moving towards Dean. “Just look for it.”
Dean rifles through the plastic box normally stuffed with the salves, solutions, antibotics, pills, gauze, and sewing needles that allow the boys to play ER: the Home Game. Sam frowns and grabs the kit himself, and his big old brow folds up as he digs through and comes up with nothing. Sam turns his confusion to Dean.
“There’s no disinfectant.”
“You figure that out all on your own, Stanford?” Dean replies. “There’s no peroxide, no alcohol, barely any gauze-there’s, like, one bandaid, and I’m pretty sure it’s got fucking smiley faces on it.”
"What the hell happened?" Sam asks, staring into the kit like the thing’s screwing with him on purpose.
"That's a good question, Sam,” Dean’s holding himself in check-he wants to snatch the bottle of painkillers and drown his killer headache in it. “Seeing as you're supposed to be the one keeping us in stock."
"Dean, man, that kit was good-I checked it after the last job. I was sure..."
"Were you sure? Because I can tell you right now, for sure, how much ammo we're packing and the last time I did a weapons check. I can also tell you that this right here?" Dean snatches the box back from Sam, holds it up like evidence. “Is not a fully stocked med kit.”
Sam shakes his head. "That doesn't make sense. I don’t know what happened."
"We're just lucky that we're figuring this out now, patching up a friggin' papercut instead of, oh, I dunno, an actual injury." It's more mean than he needs to be. But his head, fuck-he thinks if he could scream, it might not hurt so bad.
"Dean, I'm sorry. I guess I messed up," Sam says, but there's no conviction in his voice. "But I could have sworn…I guess it must have slipped my mind."
"Slipped your mind."
Sam shrugs, spreads his hands. "I...I guess so. Can we let it go?”
"Well, that's just awesome,” Dean mutters. “Slipped your mind. You wanna get some traction going in there? 'Cause this stuff, it's kind of important.” Dean snarls out every word like a junkyard dog. “I don’t have to want to resort to god damn smiley face fucking band-aids when it starts raining Hellfire." Dean flings the box aside, and Sam flinches as it clatters noisily against the wall.
"Dean, would you calm the hell down?" Sam's not backing away, and his face hard. "I'm not an idiot, okay? I'm just not used--" Sam bites down on the sentence so hard Dean thinks he can hear Sam's teeth click, but it’s too late. The unfinished sentence clings to walls, to them, like years of dust.
Dean straightens and stands a little taller, but he still has to look up at Sam. "Not used to what?"
"Forget it." Sam's shoulders slump and he tries to turn, but Dean catches his arm. He squeezes it harder then he needs to, telling Sam that he isn't letting this one go.
"No, Sam. Not used to what?"
Sam rolls his shoulders in something related to a shrug. "Supplies went faster than I thought. I think, I dunno, maybe I got used to packin' for one-I guess."
If Sam's aim is to shut Dean the fuck up, he hits his mark. Dean hadn't seen that one coming. He'd been an ass before, he can admit that--he'd even apologize for it. But now? Now he's seeing red. Can't quite tell if it's anger or the killer headache from the Seventh Circle pounding in his mind, but he's pissed and no mistake.
He'd been in such a good mood, too.
Dean goes for his coat, double-checking his back pocket for his wallet and his boot for his shiv. Two years. Sam had been off at Stanford for two years. Two fucking years and Dean had thought about Sam every day. Dialing his number and never letting it ring. Talking to himself instead of to Sam. Trying to keep an eye on the whole damn state of California. Dean'd been in Hell for four god damn months, and Sam had just settled right into his role as the one remaining Winchester.
And why the hell shouldn't he? Sam was strong, independent, and smart. Always had been. Always would be, or so Sam sure as hell thought. And the day that Sam found his limits, Dean would be there. Just like he always had been, because he'd always been a good brother.
As for right now? He's going for a drive before he socks the ingrate.
"Dean-wait, where are you going?" Sam asks, hot on Dean's heels. Sam's voice is like fire, now, pressing around Dean. He aches for air.
"To do your job and restock the med kit...for the two of us."
"Dean, listen, I'm sorry, I-hang on, I'll come with you," Sam says over his shoulder while he hurriedly grabs his things.
"No, Princess, you stay here. You're injured."
With a strength normally put to killin' evil things, Dean slams the door shut on any argument Sam might have. He glares out over a dark, shimmering parking lot under an idyllic blue sky sprinkled with flawless puffy clouds. It's the kind of day that makes him want to tell God to go fuck himself.
Then again, outside the cramped, musty room, he can feel the pressure packed around his brain let up, if only a little. The headache feels a little less like hot knives pressing into his eyes-a sensation he remembers clearly, thanks to downstairs Sammy. Now that it doesn’t hurt, Dean takes a moment to actually think.
He thinks he should go back in. Admit he's a dick. Say he's sorry, that he shouldn't have flown off the handle like that. He’ll go do the restock as an apology, instead of as a punishment. That would be the thing to do, he thinks.
Dean heads down concrete steps to the Impala.
Screw it. He's a lousy brother.
-part II.two-