The Angel and The Devil, Heavy On Your Shoulders [12/22] Sam/Dean, R
Title: The Angel and The Devil, Heavy on Your Shoulders (Part III. Three.)
Word Count: 1288 [35000 total]
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
Part III. Watch Out for Bad Boys.
--Chapter 3--
Sam's not worried.
For one thing, worrying wouldn't get him anywhere, so there’s no point in it. Besides that, Dean's a grown man and doesn't need a god damn babysitter, or so Dean had pointedly reminded Sam…right before he hung up on him. That had been about four hours ago.
The oppressive, storming sky that seemed to be following them around has finally worn itself out, like a kid having a tantrum. Now Sam watches a slow drizzle outside the window. He's on his side in his bed, the one nearest the door--he managed to nab it when Dean wasn't paying attention. He watches the raindrops cling to the glass like they’re scared. The lights outside shine in, twinkling through the rain, making Sam feel like he's floating, floating alone out in the midst of stars. Like he’s far away from earth, just another celestial body in the universe.
It's...actually nice.
He’s having a harsh case of insomnia that night-but he's not waiting up for Dean. Why should he? Dean was somewhere swimming in whiskey or drowning in drooling women (or both, more like) so why should Sam be worried? It wasn't anything new. Dean could take care of himself. More or less.
The lazy rhythm of the rain against the outside was lulling him to sleep, but his mind wouldn't shut down. He traced the disappearance and birth of stars on the window pane, the only brightness in the dark of their room.
No. No worrying,
Of course, Dean had been displaying all the stability and control of a manic-depressive tornado lately.
And they are pretty much on Heaven and Hell and...well...everyone's Most Wanted list.
And it doesn't take divine or demonic influence to make a man hydroplane on a slippery night like this and careen into the nearest guardrail or tree or car....
He’s got his own set of problems, anyhow. The grim gray color’s still creeping its way over his body. It’s started on the right side, now, somehow-so he’s got matching ash-colored arms, and he’s been feeling a telling tingle in his toes. They don’t know what it is, or how to make it go away, and it’s definitely spreading, and fast.
He should worry about that.
Not Dean.
So he won’t. Worry. About Dean, specifically.
Nothing to be done, anyway. And the cell phone he's got in one hand and the fact that he's worn jeans to bed isn't worry; no, it's just a precaution. And Dean always said that a hunter should be--
There's the crunching sound of a key being jammed into a lock, and Sam breathes out. It's 4:One7, according to the glowing red numbers floating in space...not that Sam's been eyeballing the clock or anything.
Sam listens to the metallic sound of the key being wrenched out again, some jingling and a muffled curse, some doorknob rattling. It’s a little while before the door swings open and shut again, and the noise of uneven and clunky footsteps takes over.
Sam's wondering how long it'll be before he's peeling Dean off the cold bathroom tiles and wrangling him into bed. If Sam's lucky, Dean will be drunk enough to shuffle along without his usual protest. He’ll be compliant and pliable and that will be for the best. And he won’t notice if Sam’s hands linger, or if he helps a little too much…
But Sam doesn't hear the quick snap of the bathroom light coming on.
Instead, a weight settles behind him on the edge of his mattress, which is actually less startling than the fingers that start to gently slide through his hair.
It takes just that much to make every hair on Sam stand at attention, to cover every part of him that can still feel in goose bumps, and to make his heart thump thump into high gear. For a body so suddenly, stunningly awake, Sam’s doing a damn good job of staying still and quiet.
“Sam,” Dean says, and he doesn't slur. But if he isn't drunk, then he must have fallen into a vat of J.D. on the way home, because the smell is nearly making Sam's eyes water.
“It's my job, you know? Yah, you know.” Dean goes on. His voice is low, like he doesn't want to wake Sam up, and Sam's not sure if he's supposed to be hearing this or not. “I'm...I gotta teach you as much as I can, here. And there's something that you need to understand.”
There's a slosh and glug, and Sam's stomach sinks a little.
“Thing is, I know, I know we got a raw deal, right, with Mom and Dad and...the hunting, I guess...anyway, fact is, Sammy, everyone gets a raw deal. It ain’t just us. Somehow, someway, all of us poor bastards gets fucked. Everyone ends up hurt one way or another.”
The fingers breezing softly through Sam's hair don't make sense connected to his voice, which sounds just plain scorched. Sam risks opening his eyes and staring into the constellation of lit-up raindrops on the window. If he squints, he thinks maybe he can see a bleary image of him and his brother, as streaked and blue as stormy midnight.
“See, I think I figured it out. People have to do something with the hurt they get. It stays inside of folks and they carry it around with 'em and you either just gotta… just live with it and, and keep on feeding your own aching or...or, you take it out on someone else. 'S like a venegeful spirit, somethin’. ”
Slosh, glug. Breathing.
“So you got some good people who cope with living by taking it out on themselves…and you got other kinds taking it out on other people. Then there's...there's people who just...they just destroy everything. Because they can't figure out what else to do. Those people, they're the...they are the worst kind.”
Sam sucks in a breath and it stays bottled in his lungs as Dean leans closer, close enough for Sam to feel his hot breath on his neck. Sam is still as the grave and prays to God he can stay that way.
“You need to know this, Sammy. You need to know that…” Dean lets out a little miserable laugh, a laugh that's soaked in stinging alcohol. “Your brother is the worst kind of person.”
Sam is surprised by the sudden hot flood of anger in him. It simmers in his skull, and he wants to grab Dean, to shake him and tell him to snap the fuck out of it. He wants to scream at him to stop talking like he's going somewhere, and that if he'd quit thinking he was worthless and weak, and then maybe he wouldn't be.
God, he just wants Dean to prove Ruby wrong.
“You were such a good boy, Sammy,” Dean whispers and a shiver runs through Sam.
The fingers tighten in his hair, and Sam feels the tremor in it, and he can hear Dean breathing hard. Sam wants to grab Dean and hold him, to punch him, to cry with him, to…he wants to do so many things, and he can’t seem to do anything at all.
But Dean's already up and away now, staggering towards the bathroom. Sam thinks he can feel Dean's shadow burning on his back. He can't say a word to Dean because he has no idea which one to start with.
The rain beyond the window fizzles out to nothing more then a thick, wandering mist. It looks like they're living in a cloud, and to have gone from outer space to stratosphere so quickly...Sam thinks they're rocketing back to earth.
Sam worries. Specifically, about Dean. He’s very, very worried.
-part IV.one-