The Angel and The Devil, Heavy On Your Shoulders [17/22] Sam/Dean, R
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
Part V. We’ve Made Some Bad Decisions.
--Chapter 2--
In truth, Sam feels better than he has any right to--considering that he'd spent the previous night breaking laws of man and nature, possibly destroying his relationship with Dean, and giving the angels just one more reason to want to fry his ass, extra-crispy. Course, these are all repercussions of what was surely the best god damn sex of his adult life, so in the end, maybe it's a draw.
Maybe.
And in the gray morning gloom of the abandoned house, their hovel-sweet-hovel, Dean's proving to be a great counterbalance to Sam's good mood. It's so predictable that Sam almost wants to laugh--but he's not that stupid. So, instead, he carefully watches Dean stomp through his morning routine, looking tight-lipped and grim, even when Ellen calls with possible information on Sam's condition. In fact, by the time Sam's hung up, Dean's expression has gone from stone and dead to alive with hellfire.
"You called Ellen?" Dean snaps. He grips Sam's arm--and pretty hard from the looks of it, Sam notes. He's confused and looks up into Dean's face, hoping to understand.
"Well, yeah, and it's a good thing, isn't it? You're gonna go find out how to fix me," Sam says dumbly. "Help me up."
Dean's glare fizzles a little and he helps Sam to his feet. The discoloration is still spreading like storm clouds over Sam's skin. His legs are gone, and his arms, and gray fingers are reaching over his collarbones towards his throat. It wouldn't be quite so bad if it was just his body that was feeling numb and clumsy, but his mind is foggy and slow again, like it was the previous morning, and it frustrates Sam, but not as much as he suspects it should.
"I told you I was handling this, Sam," Dean says gruffly, fairly dragging him through the crumbly hallway to the mildew-ridden bathroom. With considerable effort, Sam manages to rip his arm away and catch himself against the wall.
"Dean, what the hell is going on with you? This isn't just some case. Man, it's my life. And even if it was just another spirit or demon, we're supposed to work together. You said you'd call Bobby, and I figured the least I could do was--"
"You ever think that maybe, just maybe, there was a reason I didn't want to involve her?" Dean asks hotly. The answer must be obvious, Sam thinks, but for the life of him, he can't imagine one reason to exclude a valuable resource in desperate times. He shakes his head slowly, and it makes him feel a little dizzy.
"Fine. There's plenty of reasons, but I'll just give you a few: Mom. Dad. Jess. Pastor Jim. Ash," Dean ticks off on his fingers. "Any of this clicking?"
Sam shakes his head again, harder this time-- this time denying. He's horrified to realize that he's dangerously close to crying.
"Yes. That's on us. And I don't know about you, Sam, but I'm tired of getting people we care about killed. I didn't even want to tell Bobby about this, but, well, hell, what option did I have?"
"Come on," Sam says, reaching a cold hand to place on his brother's shoulder. It's no comfort to him, but maybe for Dean, it is. "We couldn't stop those deaths. We just do what we got to do, right? Sometimes people get hurt, and there’s nothing you can do to change that ." Dean opens his mouth to argue and Sam rolls on. "We've got, what, less than a handful of allies, Dean. We need them. We can't start just cutting people out."
"That's exactly what we can do." Dean grabs Sam's arm and pulls it over his shoulder, and Sam knows he means for that to be the end of the discussion. He lets Dean start guiding him down the hallway again, but, despite Sam's faltering grasp, he’s not about to let the thread of this conversation go. “This is crap, Dean. Why should we punish ourselves because bad things happen? You’ve said it before-you can’t save everyone.”
Dean turns a little to face him, and Sam can feel his breath against his lips. He savors it, since he can’t feel Dean’s arm slung under his shoulder or the strong fingers wrapped around his wrist. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Before I learned for a god damn fact that there’s people keeping score. You’re right-I don’t need to punish myself, my punishment’s waiting for me. Every soul I couldn’t save’s gonna get taken out of my hide. I know, Sam, I’ve been there. There’s no hiding or lying about what you’ve done or why you done it, do you understand? There’s no forgiving and forgetting. You fuck up, and you pay the god damn price for it. There’s no apologies in Hell. Just fire and pain.”
Sam stands still, with Dean’s solid support, and just breathes in. It seems all he’s capable of. He’s getting what he wanted: Dean’s opening up and talking. Sam almost wishes he wasn’t. Suddenly Dean seems so naked--Sam can see the fear and pain and guilt and fury tangling and sliding around inside him like black eels in shallow waters. It’s beautiful and horrible and Sam feels pulled to Dean in a heartbreaking and hypnotizing way. And Sam feels something else, too. Panic.
He knows, Sam thinks. He swallows quickly and lets a stale laugh drop from his lips.
“That’s some fire and brimstone talk. You sound like a preacher.”
Dean offers him a wilted little smile. “Well, have faith, Sammy, and ye too shall be saved.”
It seems to Sam after that that they’re both moving slowly, like Dean’s injured too, or like they’re both trapped in some slow-motion dream, just on the brink of being a nightmare. Dean helps Sam get washed and dressed, which Sam enjoys more than he’d like to let on, given the morning’s mood and Dean’s apparent decision to pretend the previous night never happened. Some part of Sam has already begun to suspect that it was nothing more than the best dream he’s ever had.
As Dean’s gathering his coat and keys, it occurs dully to Sam that his condition, this case, last night, everything-it’s not the beginning of something, it’s the end. “I don’t think I have much time left,” he says blankly, his voice hollow with disbelief.
Dean pauses, and closes his eyes, quiet until Sam feels worry fray his mind. Finally, he asks quietly, “Does it hurt?”
“No, no, it’s the same. I can’t feel anything.”
Dean nods and abruptly goes back to his business of leaving. “Well, I’m gonna go up and see Ellen. See what she can tell me. What’d she say on the phone?”
Sam shrugged, or at least he meant to. He couldn’t tell if his shoulders got the order. “She just said she might have an idea or two. She thought it might be some kinda poison.”
“Then she might have the antidote,” Dean reasoned. “Or, a way to make some.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Hope all you want, just don’t pray,” Dean replies. He swings open the splintering door and squintsat the weak sunlight that pours in. In the dark and rank little house they’d holed up in, it was easy to forget that somewhere, there was a daytime. Dean hesitates, and looks back in at Sam. “I swear, Sam, I’m doing my best for you. Might not seem like it, but I am.”
Sam gives him a wan smile. “I know. I have faith.”
His lame joke doesn’t have the desired effect-in fact, for a moment, a look of anguish, so quick yet so complete, came over Dean. But he’s gone before Sam can ask what’s wrong.
-part V.three-
Part V. We’ve Made Some Bad Decisions.
--Chapter 2--
In truth, Sam feels better than he has any right to--considering that he'd spent the previous night breaking laws of man and nature, possibly destroying his relationship with Dean, and giving the angels just one more reason to want to fry his ass, extra-crispy. Course, these are all repercussions of what was surely the best god damn sex of his adult life, so in the end, maybe it's a draw.
Maybe.
And in the gray morning gloom of the abandoned house, their hovel-sweet-hovel, Dean's proving to be a great counterbalance to Sam's good mood. It's so predictable that Sam almost wants to laugh--but he's not that stupid. So, instead, he carefully watches Dean stomp through his morning routine, looking tight-lipped and grim, even when Ellen calls with possible information on Sam's condition. In fact, by the time Sam's hung up, Dean's expression has gone from stone and dead to alive with hellfire.
"You called Ellen?" Dean snaps. He grips Sam's arm--and pretty hard from the looks of it, Sam notes. He's confused and looks up into Dean's face, hoping to understand.
"Well, yeah, and it's a good thing, isn't it? You're gonna go find out how to fix me," Sam says dumbly. "Help me up."
Dean's glare fizzles a little and he helps Sam to his feet. The discoloration is still spreading like storm clouds over Sam's skin. His legs are gone, and his arms, and gray fingers are reaching over his collarbones towards his throat. It wouldn't be quite so bad if it was just his body that was feeling numb and clumsy, but his mind is foggy and slow again, like it was the previous morning, and it frustrates Sam, but not as much as he suspects it should.
"I told you I was handling this, Sam," Dean says gruffly, fairly dragging him through the crumbly hallway to the mildew-ridden bathroom. With considerable effort, Sam manages to rip his arm away and catch himself against the wall.
"Dean, what the hell is going on with you? This isn't just some case. Man, it's my life. And even if it was just another spirit or demon, we're supposed to work together. You said you'd call Bobby, and I figured the least I could do was--"
"You ever think that maybe, just maybe, there was a reason I didn't want to involve her?" Dean asks hotly. The answer must be obvious, Sam thinks, but for the life of him, he can't imagine one reason to exclude a valuable resource in desperate times. He shakes his head slowly, and it makes him feel a little dizzy.
"Fine. There's plenty of reasons, but I'll just give you a few: Mom. Dad. Jess. Pastor Jim. Ash," Dean ticks off on his fingers. "Any of this clicking?"
Sam shakes his head again, harder this time-- this time denying. He's horrified to realize that he's dangerously close to crying.
"Yes. That's on us. And I don't know about you, Sam, but I'm tired of getting people we care about killed. I didn't even want to tell Bobby about this, but, well, hell, what option did I have?"
"Come on," Sam says, reaching a cold hand to place on his brother's shoulder. It's no comfort to him, but maybe for Dean, it is. "We couldn't stop those deaths. We just do what we got to do, right? Sometimes people get hurt, and there’s nothing you can do to change that ." Dean opens his mouth to argue and Sam rolls on. "We've got, what, less than a handful of allies, Dean. We need them. We can't start just cutting people out."
"That's exactly what we can do." Dean grabs Sam's arm and pulls it over his shoulder, and Sam knows he means for that to be the end of the discussion. He lets Dean start guiding him down the hallway again, but, despite Sam's faltering grasp, he’s not about to let the thread of this conversation go. “This is crap, Dean. Why should we punish ourselves because bad things happen? You’ve said it before-you can’t save everyone.”
Dean turns a little to face him, and Sam can feel his breath against his lips. He savors it, since he can’t feel Dean’s arm slung under his shoulder or the strong fingers wrapped around his wrist. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Before I learned for a god damn fact that there’s people keeping score. You’re right-I don’t need to punish myself, my punishment’s waiting for me. Every soul I couldn’t save’s gonna get taken out of my hide. I know, Sam, I’ve been there. There’s no hiding or lying about what you’ve done or why you done it, do you understand? There’s no forgiving and forgetting. You fuck up, and you pay the god damn price for it. There’s no apologies in Hell. Just fire and pain.”
Sam stands still, with Dean’s solid support, and just breathes in. It seems all he’s capable of. He’s getting what he wanted: Dean’s opening up and talking. Sam almost wishes he wasn’t. Suddenly Dean seems so naked--Sam can see the fear and pain and guilt and fury tangling and sliding around inside him like black eels in shallow waters. It’s beautiful and horrible and Sam feels pulled to Dean in a heartbreaking and hypnotizing way. And Sam feels something else, too. Panic.
He knows, Sam thinks. He swallows quickly and lets a stale laugh drop from his lips.
“That’s some fire and brimstone talk. You sound like a preacher.”
Dean offers him a wilted little smile. “Well, have faith, Sammy, and ye too shall be saved.”
It seems to Sam after that that they’re both moving slowly, like Dean’s injured too, or like they’re both trapped in some slow-motion dream, just on the brink of being a nightmare. Dean helps Sam get washed and dressed, which Sam enjoys more than he’d like to let on, given the morning’s mood and Dean’s apparent decision to pretend the previous night never happened. Some part of Sam has already begun to suspect that it was nothing more than the best dream he’s ever had.
As Dean’s gathering his coat and keys, it occurs dully to Sam that his condition, this case, last night, everything-it’s not the beginning of something, it’s the end. “I don’t think I have much time left,” he says blankly, his voice hollow with disbelief.
Dean pauses, and closes his eyes, quiet until Sam feels worry fray his mind. Finally, he asks quietly, “Does it hurt?”
“No, no, it’s the same. I can’t feel anything.”
Dean nods and abruptly goes back to his business of leaving. “Well, I’m gonna go up and see Ellen. See what she can tell me. What’d she say on the phone?”
Sam shrugged, or at least he meant to. He couldn’t tell if his shoulders got the order. “She just said she might have an idea or two. She thought it might be some kinda poison.”
“Then she might have the antidote,” Dean reasoned. “Or, a way to make some.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Hope all you want, just don’t pray,” Dean replies. He swings open the splintering door and squintsat the weak sunlight that pours in. In the dark and rank little house they’d holed up in, it was easy to forget that somewhere, there was a daytime. Dean hesitates, and looks back in at Sam. “I swear, Sam, I’m doing my best for you. Might not seem like it, but I am.”
Sam gives him a wan smile. “I know. I have faith.”
His lame joke doesn’t have the desired effect-in fact, for a moment, a look of anguish, so quick yet so complete, came over Dean. But he’s gone before Sam can ask what’s wrong.
-part V.three-