Eidolon
Title: Eidolon
Characters: Sam, Dean, very brief OMC
Type: Remix of The Existence of Forgetting by the incredible chiiyo86
Word count: ~3,200
Rating: PG
Disclaimed: None of these characters are mine.
Notes: Many thanks to mad_server for her amazingly helpful beta. This was written for the Dean-focused h/c remix challenge.
Summary: Dean wakes up as a ghost and immediately knows what he has to do: protect Sam.
He always knew it would come to this. Well, the death part, at least. It’s a given in their profession, dying young and dying bloody. He didn’t remember how it went down exactly, the gory details, and that’s a shame. Someday - hopefully some day far, far in the future - he wants to impress Sammy with the story. He’ll be jealous, especially with himself having died boring, probably in bed beside his ancient wife.
The part where he’s come back as a ghost - well, he has to admit it: this bit was a surprise. He’s always known that counting on Dad for most things was a shaky proposition at best but he’s been sure the one thing he could depend on him for was the proper disposal of his corpse. The salting and the burning, the dramatic funeral pyre. He’s taken to thinking about that often since Sam left for Palo Alto.
But apparently Dad had more important things to do this week and so here he is, back. A vengeful fucking spirit, only he doesn’t feel all that vengeful. What he mostly feels is lonely, and damned if he isn’t still missing Sam.
In short - even as a ghost, he’s a pathetic fuck-up.
--
He considers going back to haunt the old man, teach him a lesson about the importance of proper hunter-corpse dispatching, but the most annoying thing about being a ghost is that his memory of earthly things is already fading. What his own father looks like, for example. He drifts through their apartment complex until he finds a man about the right age and gives him a few choice pieces of his mind but the guy doesn’t look frightened or even alarmed. He just seems a little confused, which has Dean wondering if maybe he’s haunting the wrong father.
Again: what a fuck-up.
Actually, scratch that.
Losing his memories isn’t the worst thing about being a ghost - the worst part is definitely the false advertising. He’d figured the gig would come with a few perks - the ability to walk through walls, maybe. But no - attempting to pass through an unopened door leaves him with a throbbing nose, a nasty bump, and yet another lesson on life’s innate unfairness. Or, in his case, un-life’s innate unfairness.
He just can’t catch a fucking break, not even from beyond the grave.
--
It’s possible that, as a ghost, he could just think about Sam with all his might and pop directly into his brother’s room, but since he isn’t incorporeal he figures he might as well drive, enjoy the time in the Impala and listen to his tunes as loud as he wants to blast them. And there are a few advantages to his current ghostly state after all: he discovers that he no longer needs to sleep and isn’t the least bit hungry. That makes getting to Palo Alto easier.
The Impala still requires fuel but he finds that gassing up is more fun when no one could see you. He improvises a little gas-dance the first couple times, enjoying being able to do whatever the fuck he wants without getting strange looks. Being completely ignored, it’s ...
... well, it’s fucking lonely. By the third re-fuel, he’s just pumping the gas like everyone else. In no way, shape, or form is being undead any fun whatsoever. When he attempts to drive away without paying, a manager comes barreling out of the service station bellowing about the cameras and his license plate and his ass in jail.
As he grudgingly swipes his (completely fake, take that Mr. Gas Station Manager) card an unsettling thought slowly dawns on him: maybe he isn’t a ghost after all. He can’t pass through walls. People can apparently see him - a fact that suddenly has him regretting his choice of attire, although there isn’t much he can do about that now.
If he isn’t a ghost, then what? He sinks down behind the wheel and rubs his eyes - they hurt, as does his head. As does every single part of him, if he’s being honest. So, maybe not a ghost. Perhaps he’s some sort of atypical spirit with physical form; he and Dad had tracked down one of those a few years back and it had been a pain in the ass. Or a ghoul, maybe. Or even a zombie.
His stomach gives an unsettling gurgle and he presses both hands against it, suddenly alarmed. What is he hungry for? Brains? Flesh? He gives his own arm a tentative sniff but he doesn’t smell even remotely appetizing. In fact, that quick whiff is enough to remind him that it’s been a few days since he showered and regardless of what sort of supernatural monster he’s become, personal hygiene is still a necessity. When he gets to Sam’s place he’ll have to --
Wait.
He can’t just walk into Sam’s apartment as whatever sort of undead creature he’s become. For all he knows, he’ll take one look at his brother and decide to drink him dry, crack him open and suck out his marrow. But on the other hand, if he’s gone darkside, Sam could help. He’s pretty sure that no matter what sort of thing he is now, he’ll be able to stop himself from eating his baby brother.
If not, he’s got his gun. And it’s loaded.
--
He arrives at Sam’s apartment mid-afternoon and is gravely disappointed to find the place not only inadequately locked but also unsalted and rune-free. Anything could walk right in, which - after a few false starts and embarrassing hesitations -- is precisely what he does.
It’s a big disappointment, Sam’s place. Most of the stuff clearly isn’t his, and the stuff he expected to find - the texts, the charms, the weapons - are either expertly hidden or absent entirely. He hopes for the former but resigns himself to the latter. It’s a good thing he croaked when he did, if this is all the effort Sam’s going to make in keeping himself safe.
When he hears a key slide into the lock a few hours later, he’s momentarily ecstatic before realizing that there isn’t one person entering the apartment but two, their voices interwoven in the smooth, easy cadence of comfortable conversation. He slips into Sam’s closet to listen, his unease growing as he catches sight of the pair through the wooden slats.
He has no idea which one is his brother. Damn this loss of memory; how’s he supposed to protect or haunt or do anything useful when he can’t tell his own brother from a complete stranger?
He doesn’t like what he’s hearing, either. The two sound entirely too familiar, trading jests and making plans and speaking in the sort of shorthand he thought took a lifetime to develop. Guess he was wrong about that, too. He slumps down onto a pile of clothing and listens, sulking as the tall one teases the hippy-looking one about the pussy-ass emo crap he was playing. He hopes to God it isn’t Sam who likes the emo pussy-rock; if it is, then he clearly failed at his entire life.
He sulks and spies until he finally drifts off to sleep, and when he wakes up he makes another unhappy realization about his miserable afterlife: he still needs to pee. And the two of them are still out there, talking and laughing, and he has no idea where the bathroom is. He ponders waiting until they fall asleep but fuck that, they could be up half the night. He feels around on the floor until he locates a shoe approximately the size of a small boat and sighs blissfully as he emptied himself into it. He then makes himself as comfortable as possible against a pile of clothing and curls up with Sam’s jacket. At least, he hopes it’s Sam’s jacket. He presses his nose against the soft wool and inhales deeply and it seems right, that spicy-musty-familiar scent. He closes his eyes and returns to sleep, a faint smile curved on his lips.
--
When he wakes up, the apartment is dark and silent.
His head is throbbing non-stop and he’s confused - what’s he doing in a closet? Why is he hugging a coat to his chest like a teddy bear? And why’s the floor damp-oh. Oh, yeah. Feeling vaguely guilty and utterly revolted, he untangles himself from the reeking laundry pile and stomps feeling back into his feet.
His brother is asleep, one arm tucked beneath his head and his mouth slightly open. Or maybe that’s his friend; he isn’t one hundred percent sure which is which, but something tells him the guy with the beard and the long hippy-hair couldn’t possibly be related to him, so he takes a seat on the bed beside this tall, dark-haired youth. He’s a nice-looking kid. Of course, his brother would have to be, wouldn’t he?
As it turns out, being a protective entity is actually a pretty boring job, especially when the apartment is dark and quiet and his brother is out cold, even his dreams apparently untroubled. Dean briefly considers returning to the closet but there’s plenty of room under the bed. He rolls himself into the darkness below and the next thing he knows, sunlight is streaming into the room and Sam is awake.
And screaming.
--
As a proud member of the undead he certainly doesn’t have to worry about having a heart attack but that’s what it feels like as he listens to his brother’s screams. He scrambles about, readying his knife and is just about to roll into the light and stab his brother’s attacker in the face when he realizes Sam is screaming at his roommate. At Humphrey, whatever the hell kinda pussy-ass name that is.
“What do you mean, you didn’t do it? I sure as hell didn’t piss all over my own things. I can remember the location of our bathroom no matter how much I’ve had to drink. We can’t say the same about you, can we?”
“Aww, Sammy, that was only the one time and it was forever ago. I swore it would never happen again and I swear to god it didn’t.” There’s a thumping sound, the sound of an open hand pounding against a chest. “Swear to God.”
Sam does some swearing of his own, so creative and explicit that Dean feels a surge of pride.
“I bet I forgot to lock up last night,” the other voice continues, sounding increasingly desperate. “I bet some drunk wandered in from a party and got confused. Hell, Sammy, this entire complex is filled with drunks, you know that, and I swear I’ll be more careful from now on to lock the doors when I leave.”
Sam doesn’t talk, just makes a disgusted little sound that sends the other guy scampering. Dean’s pride swells until he’s pretty sure the space beneath the bed won’t contain him much longer. That’s his little brother, scaring the shit out of some hippy by clearing his throat. Yeah, he did a good job with that kid.
There’s no more conversation but Dean can hear Humphrey disemboweling the closet and shoving damp, reeking attire into laundry bags. He comes, he goes, he returns with some sort of pine-smelling disinfectant and liberally squirts it into the carpet before attacking it with a scrub brush. Dean’s almost forgotten about Sam until he hears the second voice again. Sadly, his brother no longer sounds on the verge on a murderous rampage. In fact, he sounds almost sorry.
“My poor shoes,” he sighs, squatting down near Humphrey and picking up his ruined footwear by a single soggy lace. “Looks like I’ll be wearing sneakers with everything until next semester’s checks arrive. And you don’t have to do that, I’ll finish up.”
He hears another sound, the sound of a hand landing again, but this time the connection is softer. Almost ... careful. Almost ...
“I feel bad about it anyway, man,” Humphrey’s voice is muffled. “Weird, huh, how you sometimes feel guilty even when you didn’t do anything wrong? But I bet I left the door unlocked and I swear it won’t happen again. I know how you feel about home-security stuff, and...”
There’s a sudden swish-swishing ripple of clothing against clothing and then a contended sigh as --
No.
Oh, no.
He has not returned from the great beyond to listen to his brother’s gay college sexual experiment. He’s willing to put up with a lot in order to be close to Sam and protect him from... from whatever threatens the residents of Palo Alto, but this ... this is just not happening.
Before the two can move in for a kiss, he’s rolled clear from the bed and is standing directly beside them, his patented smirk etched into place.
He’s vaguely satisfied when they scream in unison.
This undead business - it comes with a few perks after all.
--
“What the fuck?!?”
”Call 9-1-1 - no, run!”
“No...” It takes Sam a moment to recover and another moment to detangle his freakishly long arms from around the twerp. “Hold up. That’s not an intruder ...” He looks Dean over from head to toe, expression utterly astounded. “That’s my brother.”
The terrified look on Humphrey’s face is instantly replaced by a wide-eyed gape that makes Dean want to punch him. But he doesn’t; that wouldn’t be a good way to start this conversation, and explaining to Sam that he was dead and here to protect him was going to be hard enough as it was. Especially since Sam was ... was he smirking?
“Sammy... dude, that’s your brother?”
Sam hesitates for a moment, almost like he’s trying to figure out a way to deny the fact but it’s a little late now. “Yeah ... that’s him.”
“He’s been ... hiding under your bed?”
“Uh -- apparently.”
“Is there a reason he’s only wearing his underwear? And ...” Humphrey’s eyes drop to the floor, “... boots?”
“I... remember when I told you my family’s a little unusual?”
Dean holds up a hand, frowning. “Sammy. Sorry to interrupt, but this is important here. You gotta tell me -- how do I look? Mostly solid? Flickering? Oozing ectoplasm, maybe?”
Together, both heads turn to face him, both wearing identical expressions. Bitch-faces, he thinks, slumping down against the bed and feeling like the biggest idiot on earth.
If there’s some sort of cosmic award for fuck-ups, he’s surely in the running after this one.
--
He tries to explain, but there aren’t many things he enjoys less than explaining his stupidity, unless it’s explaining his stupidity to Sam. With an audience. Especially an audience that might have gotten into his little brother’s pants. So instead of answering Sam’s calm and reasonable questions he turns to Humphrey and explains exactly what he’s going to do to him if he doesn’t vanish into thin air pronto.
The kid turns pale, mutters something about having stuff to do and hurries his way out.
Good fucking riddance.
Except that once he’s gone, Sam seems even more pissed off than before. “I’m calling Dad,” he announces, cutting Dean off just as he’s getting to the part about losing his earthly memories and not even being able to identify their father for haunting purposes. He’d hoped for some sympathy, but his brother just seems pissy and irritated. Worse, he takes the phone out into the hallway and shuts two doors between them.
Dean lounges against the bed and tries not to cry.
When Sam returns (that is Sam, right?), his entire posture and expression have changed, but exactly how it’s changed - it’s maddening, but Dean just can’t figure it out. Rather than hurt his brain further in trying to put the puzzle together, he simply watches as Sam makes his way across the room and takes seat on the bed. After a moment, he gently places a giant hand on top of Dean’s head. It feels nice there, warm and solid, and the throbbing that’s been nagging him for days finally recedes. Dean keeps perfectly still and closes his eyes. A moment ago he’d wanted sympathy from his brother; now he’s certain that the sight of it on Sam’s unfamiliar face will break him.
“I have some good news and some bad. Which do you want first?”
Dean doesn’t answer. The fingers move away from his forehead to thread themselves through his hair, catching against something with each rhythmic stroke. Is he ... wearing a hat? Some sort of gang-banger bandana?
“Dean. The good news is, you’re definitely not a ghost, spirit, or zombie. You’re not even dead.” Sam’s fingers come to a halt a few inches into his hair, then press curiously against whatever he’s got wrapped over his head. A scarf?
“You had an accident on your last hunt and hurt your head. Dad’s absolutely frantic - you should have heard him, Dean. I’ve never heard him sound like that before, like he’s losing his mind.”
Dean keeps his eyes pressed shut, utterly humiliated. He didn’t plan to say anything but the bitter words burst out despite his best efforts. “Yeah. Because I took his car.”
“I don’t think so.” Sam’s voice is so gentle, as are his fingers as they resume smoothing his hair around the bandage. The days-old bandage. It must be smelly and revolting, but his brother doesn’t flinch as his fingers pass over it. “He says you’ve been tentatively diagnosed with something called ‘prosopagnosia.’ That means your brain is mostly okay, except for the part that recognizes faces. And you’ve got some memory loss from the trauma of the accident itself, but it’s going to be okay.”
Dean laughs, another horrible bitter sound. “So long as I don’t actually die from embarrassment, I guess,” he mutters. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into coming back with me ...? Especially now that I’ve run off your... friend and ruined your life here. Along with your shoes.”
“Don’t worry about Humphrey.” Sam’s hand comes to a rest on his shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze. “He’ll get over it. But I have to stay, Dean, you know that.”
And he does know that, damn it.
“Fine,” he snaps. “But I’m not leaving until this place is salted down and you’ve got runes up to keep you safe. Honestly Sammy, anything could climb in here.”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees mildly, a smile warming the words. “You can say that again.”
Dean snaps his eyes open and sits up, scowling and not looking at his brother. “Can I get something to eat? I’m starving. I think I could eat a pizza and a half-dozen cheeseburgers.”
“I’ll fix you some ramen,” Sam replies, standing up. He makes as if he’s about do just that but hesitates before turning. “Dude. Did you piss in my shoes? That’s so fucking gross. The bathroom is down the hall and to the left.”
“Yeah, well ... like I said. I thought I was a ghost.”
“A ghost that pees?”
He grins his best imitation of his cocksure smirk, the one he erects for strangers. “Payback’s gonna be a bitch, isn’t it? Even with the brain-injury excuse.”
“You better believe it, jerk. Those were my best shoes.”
Characters: Sam, Dean, very brief OMC
Type: Remix of The Existence of Forgetting by the incredible chiiyo86
Word count: ~3,200
Rating: PG
Disclaimed: None of these characters are mine.
Notes: Many thanks to mad_server for her amazingly helpful beta. This was written for the Dean-focused h/c remix challenge.
Summary: Dean wakes up as a ghost and immediately knows what he has to do: protect Sam.
He always knew it would come to this. Well, the death part, at least. It’s a given in their profession, dying young and dying bloody. He didn’t remember how it went down exactly, the gory details, and that’s a shame. Someday - hopefully some day far, far in the future - he wants to impress Sammy with the story. He’ll be jealous, especially with himself having died boring, probably in bed beside his ancient wife.
The part where he’s come back as a ghost - well, he has to admit it: this bit was a surprise. He’s always known that counting on Dad for most things was a shaky proposition at best but he’s been sure the one thing he could depend on him for was the proper disposal of his corpse. The salting and the burning, the dramatic funeral pyre. He’s taken to thinking about that often since Sam left for Palo Alto.
But apparently Dad had more important things to do this week and so here he is, back. A vengeful fucking spirit, only he doesn’t feel all that vengeful. What he mostly feels is lonely, and damned if he isn’t still missing Sam.
In short - even as a ghost, he’s a pathetic fuck-up.
--
He considers going back to haunt the old man, teach him a lesson about the importance of proper hunter-corpse dispatching, but the most annoying thing about being a ghost is that his memory of earthly things is already fading. What his own father looks like, for example. He drifts through their apartment complex until he finds a man about the right age and gives him a few choice pieces of his mind but the guy doesn’t look frightened or even alarmed. He just seems a little confused, which has Dean wondering if maybe he’s haunting the wrong father.
Again: what a fuck-up.
Actually, scratch that.
Losing his memories isn’t the worst thing about being a ghost - the worst part is definitely the false advertising. He’d figured the gig would come with a few perks - the ability to walk through walls, maybe. But no - attempting to pass through an unopened door leaves him with a throbbing nose, a nasty bump, and yet another lesson on life’s innate unfairness. Or, in his case, un-life’s innate unfairness.
He just can’t catch a fucking break, not even from beyond the grave.
--
It’s possible that, as a ghost, he could just think about Sam with all his might and pop directly into his brother’s room, but since he isn’t incorporeal he figures he might as well drive, enjoy the time in the Impala and listen to his tunes as loud as he wants to blast them. And there are a few advantages to his current ghostly state after all: he discovers that he no longer needs to sleep and isn’t the least bit hungry. That makes getting to Palo Alto easier.
The Impala still requires fuel but he finds that gassing up is more fun when no one could see you. He improvises a little gas-dance the first couple times, enjoying being able to do whatever the fuck he wants without getting strange looks. Being completely ignored, it’s ...
... well, it’s fucking lonely. By the third re-fuel, he’s just pumping the gas like everyone else. In no way, shape, or form is being undead any fun whatsoever. When he attempts to drive away without paying, a manager comes barreling out of the service station bellowing about the cameras and his license plate and his ass in jail.
As he grudgingly swipes his (completely fake, take that Mr. Gas Station Manager) card an unsettling thought slowly dawns on him: maybe he isn’t a ghost after all. He can’t pass through walls. People can apparently see him - a fact that suddenly has him regretting his choice of attire, although there isn’t much he can do about that now.
If he isn’t a ghost, then what? He sinks down behind the wheel and rubs his eyes - they hurt, as does his head. As does every single part of him, if he’s being honest. So, maybe not a ghost. Perhaps he’s some sort of atypical spirit with physical form; he and Dad had tracked down one of those a few years back and it had been a pain in the ass. Or a ghoul, maybe. Or even a zombie.
His stomach gives an unsettling gurgle and he presses both hands against it, suddenly alarmed. What is he hungry for? Brains? Flesh? He gives his own arm a tentative sniff but he doesn’t smell even remotely appetizing. In fact, that quick whiff is enough to remind him that it’s been a few days since he showered and regardless of what sort of supernatural monster he’s become, personal hygiene is still a necessity. When he gets to Sam’s place he’ll have to --
Wait.
He can’t just walk into Sam’s apartment as whatever sort of undead creature he’s become. For all he knows, he’ll take one look at his brother and decide to drink him dry, crack him open and suck out his marrow. But on the other hand, if he’s gone darkside, Sam could help. He’s pretty sure that no matter what sort of thing he is now, he’ll be able to stop himself from eating his baby brother.
If not, he’s got his gun. And it’s loaded.
--
He arrives at Sam’s apartment mid-afternoon and is gravely disappointed to find the place not only inadequately locked but also unsalted and rune-free. Anything could walk right in, which - after a few false starts and embarrassing hesitations -- is precisely what he does.
It’s a big disappointment, Sam’s place. Most of the stuff clearly isn’t his, and the stuff he expected to find - the texts, the charms, the weapons - are either expertly hidden or absent entirely. He hopes for the former but resigns himself to the latter. It’s a good thing he croaked when he did, if this is all the effort Sam’s going to make in keeping himself safe.
When he hears a key slide into the lock a few hours later, he’s momentarily ecstatic before realizing that there isn’t one person entering the apartment but two, their voices interwoven in the smooth, easy cadence of comfortable conversation. He slips into Sam’s closet to listen, his unease growing as he catches sight of the pair through the wooden slats.
He has no idea which one is his brother. Damn this loss of memory; how’s he supposed to protect or haunt or do anything useful when he can’t tell his own brother from a complete stranger?
He doesn’t like what he’s hearing, either. The two sound entirely too familiar, trading jests and making plans and speaking in the sort of shorthand he thought took a lifetime to develop. Guess he was wrong about that, too. He slumps down onto a pile of clothing and listens, sulking as the tall one teases the hippy-looking one about the pussy-ass emo crap he was playing. He hopes to God it isn’t Sam who likes the emo pussy-rock; if it is, then he clearly failed at his entire life.
He sulks and spies until he finally drifts off to sleep, and when he wakes up he makes another unhappy realization about his miserable afterlife: he still needs to pee. And the two of them are still out there, talking and laughing, and he has no idea where the bathroom is. He ponders waiting until they fall asleep but fuck that, they could be up half the night. He feels around on the floor until he locates a shoe approximately the size of a small boat and sighs blissfully as he emptied himself into it. He then makes himself as comfortable as possible against a pile of clothing and curls up with Sam’s jacket. At least, he hopes it’s Sam’s jacket. He presses his nose against the soft wool and inhales deeply and it seems right, that spicy-musty-familiar scent. He closes his eyes and returns to sleep, a faint smile curved on his lips.
--
When he wakes up, the apartment is dark and silent.
His head is throbbing non-stop and he’s confused - what’s he doing in a closet? Why is he hugging a coat to his chest like a teddy bear? And why’s the floor damp-oh. Oh, yeah. Feeling vaguely guilty and utterly revolted, he untangles himself from the reeking laundry pile and stomps feeling back into his feet.
His brother is asleep, one arm tucked beneath his head and his mouth slightly open. Or maybe that’s his friend; he isn’t one hundred percent sure which is which, but something tells him the guy with the beard and the long hippy-hair couldn’t possibly be related to him, so he takes a seat on the bed beside this tall, dark-haired youth. He’s a nice-looking kid. Of course, his brother would have to be, wouldn’t he?
As it turns out, being a protective entity is actually a pretty boring job, especially when the apartment is dark and quiet and his brother is out cold, even his dreams apparently untroubled. Dean briefly considers returning to the closet but there’s plenty of room under the bed. He rolls himself into the darkness below and the next thing he knows, sunlight is streaming into the room and Sam is awake.
And screaming.
--
As a proud member of the undead he certainly doesn’t have to worry about having a heart attack but that’s what it feels like as he listens to his brother’s screams. He scrambles about, readying his knife and is just about to roll into the light and stab his brother’s attacker in the face when he realizes Sam is screaming at his roommate. At Humphrey, whatever the hell kinda pussy-ass name that is.
“What do you mean, you didn’t do it? I sure as hell didn’t piss all over my own things. I can remember the location of our bathroom no matter how much I’ve had to drink. We can’t say the same about you, can we?”
“Aww, Sammy, that was only the one time and it was forever ago. I swore it would never happen again and I swear to god it didn’t.” There’s a thumping sound, the sound of an open hand pounding against a chest. “Swear to God.”
Sam does some swearing of his own, so creative and explicit that Dean feels a surge of pride.
“I bet I forgot to lock up last night,” the other voice continues, sounding increasingly desperate. “I bet some drunk wandered in from a party and got confused. Hell, Sammy, this entire complex is filled with drunks, you know that, and I swear I’ll be more careful from now on to lock the doors when I leave.”
Sam doesn’t talk, just makes a disgusted little sound that sends the other guy scampering. Dean’s pride swells until he’s pretty sure the space beneath the bed won’t contain him much longer. That’s his little brother, scaring the shit out of some hippy by clearing his throat. Yeah, he did a good job with that kid.
There’s no more conversation but Dean can hear Humphrey disemboweling the closet and shoving damp, reeking attire into laundry bags. He comes, he goes, he returns with some sort of pine-smelling disinfectant and liberally squirts it into the carpet before attacking it with a scrub brush. Dean’s almost forgotten about Sam until he hears the second voice again. Sadly, his brother no longer sounds on the verge on a murderous rampage. In fact, he sounds almost sorry.
“My poor shoes,” he sighs, squatting down near Humphrey and picking up his ruined footwear by a single soggy lace. “Looks like I’ll be wearing sneakers with everything until next semester’s checks arrive. And you don’t have to do that, I’ll finish up.”
He hears another sound, the sound of a hand landing again, but this time the connection is softer. Almost ... careful. Almost ...
“I feel bad about it anyway, man,” Humphrey’s voice is muffled. “Weird, huh, how you sometimes feel guilty even when you didn’t do anything wrong? But I bet I left the door unlocked and I swear it won’t happen again. I know how you feel about home-security stuff, and...”
There’s a sudden swish-swishing ripple of clothing against clothing and then a contended sigh as --
No.
Oh, no.
He has not returned from the great beyond to listen to his brother’s gay college sexual experiment. He’s willing to put up with a lot in order to be close to Sam and protect him from... from whatever threatens the residents of Palo Alto, but this ... this is just not happening.
Before the two can move in for a kiss, he’s rolled clear from the bed and is standing directly beside them, his patented smirk etched into place.
He’s vaguely satisfied when they scream in unison.
This undead business - it comes with a few perks after all.
--
“What the fuck?!?”
”Call 9-1-1 - no, run!”
“No...” It takes Sam a moment to recover and another moment to detangle his freakishly long arms from around the twerp. “Hold up. That’s not an intruder ...” He looks Dean over from head to toe, expression utterly astounded. “That’s my brother.”
The terrified look on Humphrey’s face is instantly replaced by a wide-eyed gape that makes Dean want to punch him. But he doesn’t; that wouldn’t be a good way to start this conversation, and explaining to Sam that he was dead and here to protect him was going to be hard enough as it was. Especially since Sam was ... was he smirking?
“Sammy... dude, that’s your brother?”
Sam hesitates for a moment, almost like he’s trying to figure out a way to deny the fact but it’s a little late now. “Yeah ... that’s him.”
“He’s been ... hiding under your bed?”
“Uh -- apparently.”
“Is there a reason he’s only wearing his underwear? And ...” Humphrey’s eyes drop to the floor, “... boots?”
“I... remember when I told you my family’s a little unusual?”
Dean holds up a hand, frowning. “Sammy. Sorry to interrupt, but this is important here. You gotta tell me -- how do I look? Mostly solid? Flickering? Oozing ectoplasm, maybe?”
Together, both heads turn to face him, both wearing identical expressions. Bitch-faces, he thinks, slumping down against the bed and feeling like the biggest idiot on earth.
If there’s some sort of cosmic award for fuck-ups, he’s surely in the running after this one.
--
He tries to explain, but there aren’t many things he enjoys less than explaining his stupidity, unless it’s explaining his stupidity to Sam. With an audience. Especially an audience that might have gotten into his little brother’s pants. So instead of answering Sam’s calm and reasonable questions he turns to Humphrey and explains exactly what he’s going to do to him if he doesn’t vanish into thin air pronto.
The kid turns pale, mutters something about having stuff to do and hurries his way out.
Good fucking riddance.
Except that once he’s gone, Sam seems even more pissed off than before. “I’m calling Dad,” he announces, cutting Dean off just as he’s getting to the part about losing his earthly memories and not even being able to identify their father for haunting purposes. He’d hoped for some sympathy, but his brother just seems pissy and irritated. Worse, he takes the phone out into the hallway and shuts two doors between them.
Dean lounges against the bed and tries not to cry.
When Sam returns (that is Sam, right?), his entire posture and expression have changed, but exactly how it’s changed - it’s maddening, but Dean just can’t figure it out. Rather than hurt his brain further in trying to put the puzzle together, he simply watches as Sam makes his way across the room and takes seat on the bed. After a moment, he gently places a giant hand on top of Dean’s head. It feels nice there, warm and solid, and the throbbing that’s been nagging him for days finally recedes. Dean keeps perfectly still and closes his eyes. A moment ago he’d wanted sympathy from his brother; now he’s certain that the sight of it on Sam’s unfamiliar face will break him.
“I have some good news and some bad. Which do you want first?”
Dean doesn’t answer. The fingers move away from his forehead to thread themselves through his hair, catching against something with each rhythmic stroke. Is he ... wearing a hat? Some sort of gang-banger bandana?
“Dean. The good news is, you’re definitely not a ghost, spirit, or zombie. You’re not even dead.” Sam’s fingers come to a halt a few inches into his hair, then press curiously against whatever he’s got wrapped over his head. A scarf?
“You had an accident on your last hunt and hurt your head. Dad’s absolutely frantic - you should have heard him, Dean. I’ve never heard him sound like that before, like he’s losing his mind.”
Dean keeps his eyes pressed shut, utterly humiliated. He didn’t plan to say anything but the bitter words burst out despite his best efforts. “Yeah. Because I took his car.”
“I don’t think so.” Sam’s voice is so gentle, as are his fingers as they resume smoothing his hair around the bandage. The days-old bandage. It must be smelly and revolting, but his brother doesn’t flinch as his fingers pass over it. “He says you’ve been tentatively diagnosed with something called ‘prosopagnosia.’ That means your brain is mostly okay, except for the part that recognizes faces. And you’ve got some memory loss from the trauma of the accident itself, but it’s going to be okay.”
Dean laughs, another horrible bitter sound. “So long as I don’t actually die from embarrassment, I guess,” he mutters. “I don’t suppose I can talk you into coming back with me ...? Especially now that I’ve run off your... friend and ruined your life here. Along with your shoes.”
“Don’t worry about Humphrey.” Sam’s hand comes to a rest on his shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze. “He’ll get over it. But I have to stay, Dean, you know that.”
And he does know that, damn it.
“Fine,” he snaps. “But I’m not leaving until this place is salted down and you’ve got runes up to keep you safe. Honestly Sammy, anything could climb in here.”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees mildly, a smile warming the words. “You can say that again.”
Dean snaps his eyes open and sits up, scowling and not looking at his brother. “Can I get something to eat? I’m starving. I think I could eat a pizza and a half-dozen cheeseburgers.”
“I’ll fix you some ramen,” Sam replies, standing up. He makes as if he’s about do just that but hesitates before turning. “Dude. Did you piss in my shoes? That’s so fucking gross. The bathroom is down the hall and to the left.”
“Yeah, well ... like I said. I thought I was a ghost.”
“A ghost that pees?”
He grins his best imitation of his cocksure smirk, the one he erects for strangers. “Payback’s gonna be a bitch, isn’t it? Even with the brain-injury excuse.”
“You better believe it, jerk. Those were my best shoes.”