Intimations of Morality: Head Space
Intimations of Morality: Head Space
Chapter Rating: R
Chapter Word Count: 2050
All warnings in Main Post
Back to Fourth Limb
There's a constant, repetitious pressure jabbing right in between his ribs, and it freaking hurts. "You keep that up, and you're going to lose fingers, I swear."
The pressure turns into a quick pinch, and Dean's eyes shoot open to find Sam beaming at him from the driver's seat of his car. "It's about time you woke up. We've been home for almost 10 minutes and you were still out like a light. Didn't wear you out that much, did I?"
"Pretty damn sure of yourself, aren't you?" Dean pulls himself out of his slouch and looks around. They're parked in front of the shack, not too far from their father's pickup. "Where is he?"
"Inside already, practically asleep on his feet. Turns out mass homicide actually is tiring." There's a familiar, sarcastic undertone to Sam's words, and Dean can't help reaching out and smacking him one on the chest. Sam chuckles and then exits the car; Dean smirks and follows.
An arm across his path stops Dean from walking straight in. "Dude, you're filthy," Sam says. "You're not tracking that shit through the house."
Dean looks down, and yeah, he does kind of resemble Pigpen from those freakin' Snoopy cartoons, though he doubts Schultz ever added bloodstains to his character’s clothing. "Well, no offense, Princess, but you're exactly ready for the ball either." And it's true. Sam's whole body is covered with dust and grime; the only clear patches of skin are the sweat tracks running along his hairline, left over from their…activity earlier.
Sam just snorts and pulls off his shirts, right there on the porch. He rolls his eyes when Dean doesn't make a move and then reaches for his older brother, hands zeroing in right on the belt buckle first. It's pulled free in a flash, jeans unbuttoned just as quickly, and when he hooks his fingers around the waistbands of Dean's jeans and boxers, Sam tugs them down and sinks to his knees in the same move. "Your little nap enough of a recharge for you?"
"You know," Dean finally moves on his own and grabs the hem of his own shirt, peeling it up and off. "You're a bit of a nympho."
"Says the man who once bragged about banging four waitresses in one truck stop."
Sam starts tonguing at the crease between his thigh and torso, and god, it definitely has Dean's blood flowing south and quickly. There's the feel of Sam's hands sliding up his leg, rough calluses against his skin, and it would be so easy to just let this happen, to just give in. But there’s the little echo of Bobby’s warning at the back of his mind, and it’s enough to make him shoot out his hands and still Sam’s progress.
“Wait, wait. Actually, I am still a little wiped. How about we grab a shower and some shut-eye, then we’ll pick back up where we left off?”
Sam looks positively shocked and even a little disappointed, making Dean want to take back his words and do anything, anything, to put that smile back on his brother’s face. But Sam rises to his feet, takes a step back. “Killjoy.” Then he kicks off his shoes, drops his own pants, and disappears inside, leaving Dean gobsmacked out on the porch.
When Dean tries to go after him, it takes one near faceplant for him to remember that his jeans are still pooled around his ankles. And those would be his boots still tied on his feet that are hindering him from kicking off said jeans. Valuable time is wasted while he gets himself free, and by the time he walks through the house and into their room, Sam’s curled up tight on his bed, facing the wall.
Dean suddenly struck by the absurdity of this situation-standing naked in his bedroom, staring at his equally-naked brother who’s pouting like a toddler-but he knows with all certainty that even scoffing at this moment would not be the best plan. So he chokes down the urge to laugh and forces himself to sound as neutral as possible. “Sam?”
“Go take your shower, jerk. But leave me some hot water, because I’m getting in after you’re done.” There’s an unspoken don’t expect me to join you hidden in there, and oddly enough, it hurts Dean more than he thought it would. He can’t let himself get caught up on that though, he just can’t, so he leaves the room without another word.
*****
Despite Dean’s best efforts, images from earlier that morning playing through his mind when he steps under the spray, and he actually feels a pang of loneliness as he soaps up. It clenches his stomach, curls cold around his heart. His train of thought trips over itself, and he suddenly finds a flaw in Bobby’s warning. What happens if he ends up stuck here, if the doll doesn’t send him back? If he pushes Sam away now… Oh man, he is not fucking this up.
For that reason, he doesn’t dawdle, just scrubs up until everything feels squeaky clean and grit-free. When he hops out, he just brushes the towel over his body to catch the worst of the water, then just wraps it around his waist and hurries back into their bedroom.
Sam’s out cold. He’s still curled up on top of his bedcovers, naked as the day he was born, but the visible tension’s gone from around his neck and shoulders, and his back moves deep and steady as he takes slow, rhythmic breaths. Dean has always thought Sam looked so much younger when he was asleep, and this does nothing to change his mind.
Stepping quietly to his own bed, Dean pulls off the blanket and brings it back to drape over his brother. Sam shuffles slightly and burrows a little into the warmth, and Dean can’t help but smile. Yeah, he can handle it if he gets stuck here. He can make this work.
Once he’s satisfied that Sam’s set for his nap, Dean heads back to his chest of drawers because honestly, clothes would be good right about now. He’s pulling on a pair of boxers when his attention drifts to the collection of trinkets and settles on the wicker doll.
All four limbs have pulled in tight, just as in the other world, but now the head is bent down as if in supplication. The figure is bowed but not balled, and the knowledge hits like a freight train: there’s still the torso left. He’s going to wake up again. He’s going to leave this world behind.
Does he want to?
Talk about your sixty-four thousand dollar question.
Mind racing, Dean finishes pulling on the boxers, grabs a pair of jeans and a t-shirt too. He’s so preoccupied with his new revelation that he doesn’t notice pulling on the shirt inside-out or that it’s on backwards. It doesn’t matter, because he’s not going to be here much longer, right? Doesn’t matter.
He plops onto his bed, facing the unconscious form of his sleeping brother. This Sam, who’s so happy. Who doesn’t worry about his destiny because he’s already accepted it. Who doesn’t have the FBI on his trail but, even if he did, could handle them with a blink of an eye.
Without realizing it, Dean’s pulled himself into what he and Sam always referred to as Dad’s Pose. Sitting with his legs slightly sprawled, elbows resting on his knees with his hands clasped in front of his face. It was always their sign that Dad was lost in his head, working out some difficult situation, one that might even mean life or death.
Dad, not John, not the Demon. Dad.
Just as quickly as he sat, Dean’s back on his feet, silently moving out of their room and across the hall. There’s one door in this place that he hasn’t gone through, and he doesn’t have to be a genius to know what’s on the other side. His palms feel sweaty when he grabs the knob, but he takes a deep breath and opens the door.
This room’s sparse, only a bed against the far wall and flimsy curtains pulled over the window, a far cry from the homeliness of the rest of the house. Well, most of the rest. Solid chains wrap around each of the bed’s legs, three of which lie limp on the floor and end in empty cuffs. His father’s body is sprawled out in the middle of the bed, the last chain and cuff secured around his left wrist.
Dean suddenly realizes that he has no idea what he’s going to do now that he’s in here. The journal’s useless, he can’t draw a Devil’s Trap without some sort of visual reference, and while his exorcism knowledge is greater than most, he also knows that one wrong Latin phrase would be just as bad as none at all.
While he’s looking at the bed, his father shifts, turns, a prelude to waking, and Dean freezes.
The eyes that blink open and stare back at him aren’t yellow. “Dean?”
“Dad?” He can't help the way his throat tightens, the crack in his voice. In two steps, he’s bedside. “Why are you chained up?”
“It doesn't sleep. Lets me go for a while when I'm too run down to be useful.” John sounds worn out, battered down. Tired. “It’s still afraid I’m going to run off or something.”
“Why haven’t you?” When his dad only stares at him in confusion, Dean grabs at the cuffs. His hands come up empty when Dad yanks his wrists away. "Dad, stop. I can get it open. I'll get you out of here."
John's eyes pin Dean on the spot. "What…what are you playing at?"
"Dad-"
"Stop calling me that!" The chains rattle as John pulls himself across the bed, as far from Dean as the slack will allow. "You're not my…My boys would never…My sons are dead." Those words are like an ice pick to the heart, sucking chest wound and all. Dean can't move, can't breathe while his father breaks down in front of him. "They're dead, and you sick sons of bitches… You're not Dean. Get out!"
John swings out his leg, a slow and overly-telegraphed kick, but Dean's still so shellshocked that he doesn't even notice until it catches him right at the knee. He bites back a yelp and hobbles backwards a bit, out of range. His eyes are burning hot, throat almost swelled closed, and he can't break free from John's gaze.
"I said get out!" Message received, loud and clear, and Dean backs toward the door. John breaks the stare-down, curling his arms over his head and drawing his knees up to his chest, and all Dean can do is step back out of the room and pull the door shut behind him.
"He's right, you know." Dean turns, and Sam's suddenly right there, now wearing jeans that were obviously pulled on in a rush. "You're not Dean." Sam whips his fist around and connects squarely with the left side of Dean's face, causing his vision to explode into white starbursts. Dean twists, wrenching his already swollen knee, and hits the ground hard.
Everything's spinning, and Dean hears a faint ringing in his head that has to be a sign of something coming loose up there. He watches through a bleached-out haze as Sam moves around and crouches just in front of his face. "I should have picked up on it sooner. I mean, Dean always corrects me when I slip up and call him Dad. You didn't. And he'd sooner slice off a finger than to make the same slip. But my Dean would never, ever, go into that room willingly. Can't stand to see our father like that." Strong fingers grip Dean's chin, holding him steady while Sam leans in close. "Where's my brother?"
"Sam, it's me, I swear."
"Wrong answer." Sam hops to his feet, rears back, and kicks Dean hard in the side. Every last ounce of breath rushed out of Dean in a cough, and he curls in on himself, fetal position for protection. "Tell me where he is!"
"Sammy…"
The fist comes down once more, and everything goes black.
*****
In each of us, two natures are at war - the good and the evil.
All our lives the fight goes on between them, and one of them must conquer.
But in our own hands lies the power to choose - what we want most to be, we are.
At the Heart of It All
Good || Evil
Chapter Rating: R
Chapter Word Count: 2050
All warnings in Main Post
Back to Fourth Limb
There's a constant, repetitious pressure jabbing right in between his ribs, and it freaking hurts. "You keep that up, and you're going to lose fingers, I swear."
The pressure turns into a quick pinch, and Dean's eyes shoot open to find Sam beaming at him from the driver's seat of his car. "It's about time you woke up. We've been home for almost 10 minutes and you were still out like a light. Didn't wear you out that much, did I?"
"Pretty damn sure of yourself, aren't you?" Dean pulls himself out of his slouch and looks around. They're parked in front of the shack, not too far from their father's pickup. "Where is he?"
"Inside already, practically asleep on his feet. Turns out mass homicide actually is tiring." There's a familiar, sarcastic undertone to Sam's words, and Dean can't help reaching out and smacking him one on the chest. Sam chuckles and then exits the car; Dean smirks and follows.
An arm across his path stops Dean from walking straight in. "Dude, you're filthy," Sam says. "You're not tracking that shit through the house."
Dean looks down, and yeah, he does kind of resemble Pigpen from those freakin' Snoopy cartoons, though he doubts Schultz ever added bloodstains to his character’s clothing. "Well, no offense, Princess, but you're exactly ready for the ball either." And it's true. Sam's whole body is covered with dust and grime; the only clear patches of skin are the sweat tracks running along his hairline, left over from their…activity earlier.
Sam just snorts and pulls off his shirts, right there on the porch. He rolls his eyes when Dean doesn't make a move and then reaches for his older brother, hands zeroing in right on the belt buckle first. It's pulled free in a flash, jeans unbuttoned just as quickly, and when he hooks his fingers around the waistbands of Dean's jeans and boxers, Sam tugs them down and sinks to his knees in the same move. "Your little nap enough of a recharge for you?"
"You know," Dean finally moves on his own and grabs the hem of his own shirt, peeling it up and off. "You're a bit of a nympho."
"Says the man who once bragged about banging four waitresses in one truck stop."
Sam starts tonguing at the crease between his thigh and torso, and god, it definitely has Dean's blood flowing south and quickly. There's the feel of Sam's hands sliding up his leg, rough calluses against his skin, and it would be so easy to just let this happen, to just give in. But there’s the little echo of Bobby’s warning at the back of his mind, and it’s enough to make him shoot out his hands and still Sam’s progress.
“Wait, wait. Actually, I am still a little wiped. How about we grab a shower and some shut-eye, then we’ll pick back up where we left off?”
Sam looks positively shocked and even a little disappointed, making Dean want to take back his words and do anything, anything, to put that smile back on his brother’s face. But Sam rises to his feet, takes a step back. “Killjoy.” Then he kicks off his shoes, drops his own pants, and disappears inside, leaving Dean gobsmacked out on the porch.
When Dean tries to go after him, it takes one near faceplant for him to remember that his jeans are still pooled around his ankles. And those would be his boots still tied on his feet that are hindering him from kicking off said jeans. Valuable time is wasted while he gets himself free, and by the time he walks through the house and into their room, Sam’s curled up tight on his bed, facing the wall.
Dean suddenly struck by the absurdity of this situation-standing naked in his bedroom, staring at his equally-naked brother who’s pouting like a toddler-but he knows with all certainty that even scoffing at this moment would not be the best plan. So he chokes down the urge to laugh and forces himself to sound as neutral as possible. “Sam?”
“Go take your shower, jerk. But leave me some hot water, because I’m getting in after you’re done.” There’s an unspoken don’t expect me to join you hidden in there, and oddly enough, it hurts Dean more than he thought it would. He can’t let himself get caught up on that though, he just can’t, so he leaves the room without another word.
*****
Despite Dean’s best efforts, images from earlier that morning playing through his mind when he steps under the spray, and he actually feels a pang of loneliness as he soaps up. It clenches his stomach, curls cold around his heart. His train of thought trips over itself, and he suddenly finds a flaw in Bobby’s warning. What happens if he ends up stuck here, if the doll doesn’t send him back? If he pushes Sam away now… Oh man, he is not fucking this up.
For that reason, he doesn’t dawdle, just scrubs up until everything feels squeaky clean and grit-free. When he hops out, he just brushes the towel over his body to catch the worst of the water, then just wraps it around his waist and hurries back into their bedroom.
Sam’s out cold. He’s still curled up on top of his bedcovers, naked as the day he was born, but the visible tension’s gone from around his neck and shoulders, and his back moves deep and steady as he takes slow, rhythmic breaths. Dean has always thought Sam looked so much younger when he was asleep, and this does nothing to change his mind.
Stepping quietly to his own bed, Dean pulls off the blanket and brings it back to drape over his brother. Sam shuffles slightly and burrows a little into the warmth, and Dean can’t help but smile. Yeah, he can handle it if he gets stuck here. He can make this work.
Once he’s satisfied that Sam’s set for his nap, Dean heads back to his chest of drawers because honestly, clothes would be good right about now. He’s pulling on a pair of boxers when his attention drifts to the collection of trinkets and settles on the wicker doll.
All four limbs have pulled in tight, just as in the other world, but now the head is bent down as if in supplication. The figure is bowed but not balled, and the knowledge hits like a freight train: there’s still the torso left. He’s going to wake up again. He’s going to leave this world behind.
Does he want to?
Talk about your sixty-four thousand dollar question.
Mind racing, Dean finishes pulling on the boxers, grabs a pair of jeans and a t-shirt too. He’s so preoccupied with his new revelation that he doesn’t notice pulling on the shirt inside-out or that it’s on backwards. It doesn’t matter, because he’s not going to be here much longer, right? Doesn’t matter.
He plops onto his bed, facing the unconscious form of his sleeping brother. This Sam, who’s so happy. Who doesn’t worry about his destiny because he’s already accepted it. Who doesn’t have the FBI on his trail but, even if he did, could handle them with a blink of an eye.
Without realizing it, Dean’s pulled himself into what he and Sam always referred to as Dad’s Pose. Sitting with his legs slightly sprawled, elbows resting on his knees with his hands clasped in front of his face. It was always their sign that Dad was lost in his head, working out some difficult situation, one that might even mean life or death.
Dad, not John, not the Demon. Dad.
Just as quickly as he sat, Dean’s back on his feet, silently moving out of their room and across the hall. There’s one door in this place that he hasn’t gone through, and he doesn’t have to be a genius to know what’s on the other side. His palms feel sweaty when he grabs the knob, but he takes a deep breath and opens the door.
This room’s sparse, only a bed against the far wall and flimsy curtains pulled over the window, a far cry from the homeliness of the rest of the house. Well, most of the rest. Solid chains wrap around each of the bed’s legs, three of which lie limp on the floor and end in empty cuffs. His father’s body is sprawled out in the middle of the bed, the last chain and cuff secured around his left wrist.
Dean suddenly realizes that he has no idea what he’s going to do now that he’s in here. The journal’s useless, he can’t draw a Devil’s Trap without some sort of visual reference, and while his exorcism knowledge is greater than most, he also knows that one wrong Latin phrase would be just as bad as none at all.
While he’s looking at the bed, his father shifts, turns, a prelude to waking, and Dean freezes.
The eyes that blink open and stare back at him aren’t yellow. “Dean?”
“Dad?” He can't help the way his throat tightens, the crack in his voice. In two steps, he’s bedside. “Why are you chained up?”
“It doesn't sleep. Lets me go for a while when I'm too run down to be useful.” John sounds worn out, battered down. Tired. “It’s still afraid I’m going to run off or something.”
“Why haven’t you?” When his dad only stares at him in confusion, Dean grabs at the cuffs. His hands come up empty when Dad yanks his wrists away. "Dad, stop. I can get it open. I'll get you out of here."
John's eyes pin Dean on the spot. "What…what are you playing at?"
"Dad-"
"Stop calling me that!" The chains rattle as John pulls himself across the bed, as far from Dean as the slack will allow. "You're not my…My boys would never…My sons are dead." Those words are like an ice pick to the heart, sucking chest wound and all. Dean can't move, can't breathe while his father breaks down in front of him. "They're dead, and you sick sons of bitches… You're not Dean. Get out!"
John swings out his leg, a slow and overly-telegraphed kick, but Dean's still so shellshocked that he doesn't even notice until it catches him right at the knee. He bites back a yelp and hobbles backwards a bit, out of range. His eyes are burning hot, throat almost swelled closed, and he can't break free from John's gaze.
"I said get out!" Message received, loud and clear, and Dean backs toward the door. John breaks the stare-down, curling his arms over his head and drawing his knees up to his chest, and all Dean can do is step back out of the room and pull the door shut behind him.
"He's right, you know." Dean turns, and Sam's suddenly right there, now wearing jeans that were obviously pulled on in a rush. "You're not Dean." Sam whips his fist around and connects squarely with the left side of Dean's face, causing his vision to explode into white starbursts. Dean twists, wrenching his already swollen knee, and hits the ground hard.
Everything's spinning, and Dean hears a faint ringing in his head that has to be a sign of something coming loose up there. He watches through a bleached-out haze as Sam moves around and crouches just in front of his face. "I should have picked up on it sooner. I mean, Dean always corrects me when I slip up and call him Dad. You didn't. And he'd sooner slice off a finger than to make the same slip. But my Dean would never, ever, go into that room willingly. Can't stand to see our father like that." Strong fingers grip Dean's chin, holding him steady while Sam leans in close. "Where's my brother?"
"Sam, it's me, I swear."
"Wrong answer." Sam hops to his feet, rears back, and kicks Dean hard in the side. Every last ounce of breath rushed out of Dean in a cough, and he curls in on himself, fetal position for protection. "Tell me where he is!"
"Sammy…"
The fist comes down once more, and everything goes black.
*****
In each of us, two natures are at war - the good and the evil.
All our lives the fight goes on between them, and one of them must conquer.
But in our own hands lies the power to choose - what we want most to be, we are.
At the Heart of It All
Good || Evil