Intimations of Morality: At the Heart of It All - Evil
Intimations of Morality: At the Heart of It All (Evil version)
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter Word Count: 1645
All warnings in Main Post
Back to Head Space
When his eyes finally flutter open, Dean’s greeted by the sight of weak moonlight filtering through filth-covered windows. A spring in the van’s bench has punched through the stuffing and is currently digging into his side, threatening to break skin with its insistence.
Dean rolls away from it, sucking in a breath at the movement. All of the damage has come back with him again. The pain is a little less intense than it should be, but his ribs still feel bruised, his knee is twanging, and his left eye might be a little swollen, if the hindered vision is any indication.
There’s muffled voices coming from outside, and Dean eases slowly off the bench, careful not to even send a tremor through the scrap pile. As he moves closer to the van’s door, the voices get louder, and he starts making out what’s being said.
“And you didn’t go after him?” Bobby sounds irritated, but it has a second tone to it…like disappointment. Like if Sam had just screwed up on a hunt and let “that thing” get away. There’s a sobering thought.
“No, I didn’t. He seemed pretty determined to be alone.” Sam, on the other hand, sounds slightly sheepish, maybe even ashamed.
Flashlight beams start cutting through the windows, and Dean figures that’s his cue. With his arms curled protectively around his ribs, he hobbles over and slips out through the door. Both Sam and Bobby stop in their tracks when he comes into view; Bobby’s looking at him like he’s a wild animal whose nest was just disturbed, and Sam… Sam won’t even look at him.
"It's over," he tells them, and he can't tell if they're relieved.
The walk back to the house is anything but relaxing. Bobby keeps cutting his eyes in Dean's direction, as if he's expecting Dean to start attacking anything in sight. Sam stares at the ground, his gaze never focusing anyplace but where he's about to step. Dean tried reaching out to him once, gets as far as touching Sam's elbow before Sam jerks away with a hissed "don't."
He doesn't try again.
*****
"I called someone I really didn't want to owe a favor to," Bobby says once they're inside the house. "She said the only way she can think of to get rid of the damned thing is to destroy it at the same time in both realities. Now, I don't know about you two, but I'm not looking to reset the damn thing and start this all over, so I'm gonna start on something that might be able to let us at least hide it. Keep it out of rotation for a long time."
Dean nods, not really hearing the words. He keeps looking over at Sam, hoping to catch his brother's eye and at least get an inkling of what Sam's thinking. It's not working. If anything, Sam seems resolute to look anywhere except in Dean's direction.
"You boys go get some sleep, especially you, Dean. We'll handle this thing in the morning." The dismissal is clear, and Dean trudges away in the direction of the bedroom, not missing the fact that Sam doesn't immediately follow.
He's already pulled off his jeans and t-shirt before Sam joins him in the guest bedroom. The bed looks incredibly tempting, with the sheets still mussed from this morning's fiasco, but Dean can't bring himself to climb in. Doesn't deserve it. Instead, he grabs one of the pillows and moves over to the cot set up on the corner, giving free reign of the mattress over to Sam.
Dean can feel his brother's eyes on him-dumbass is only looking when he feels he won't be caught-while he gets as comfortable as he can on the cot. It's tough work, and he puts more pressure on his ribs than he would have liked. He just gets settled when he hears a quiet "Dean" come from the bed.
"Yeah, Sam?"
"In that other world, were we- I mean, did you-?"
Oh fuck.
Dean's not going to answer. If he doesn't answer, maybe sometime down the road they can forget about this whole mess and go back to normal, where his brother can look him in the eye without flinching and Dean can look right back and not want.
"Is that why you wanted to go back? Why you stayed there for so long? Because of us?"
Not going to answer, so he doesn't.
The mattress squeaks, and it's clear Sam's turning away, settling on the farthest edge of the bed from Dean. "You know what, don't tell me. I don't want to know."
*****
Four in the morning, and Dean's out of the cot, standing at the bed's end and staring at his sleeping brother. His brother, who probably won't ever trust him again. Who won't even look at him.
Who doesn't need him.
"Sorry I fucked this up," Dean whispers, barely more than breathing the words. "Sleep well, Sammy."
He knows where all of the squeaky floorboards are and can sneak out the room without a sound. He can hear Bobby in one of the back rooms, muttering to himself while tinkering. Dean beelines for the kitchen, stops when he reaches the table.
The doll is still there, curled in on itself completely. That stupid little thing that's supposed to make people live their worst case scenario. Well, here it is-Dad's still dead, one of his few friends in the world keeps looking like he wants to put Dean down like a rabid animal, and Sam just about hates him. Good work for something the size of a .22 bullet.
Things were better off back there.
He doesn't think, just reaches out his hand and grabs the marble off from the table. There's still a jolt in his head at first contact, but he's expecting it this time. So he senses it for what it is-little tendrils probing his mind for information-and concentrates on feeling of the doll uncurling in his fist.
When the pain fades, he opens his palm. "Reset." All's unfurled, two arms, two legs, head and torso out straight and rigid. Not for long.
Bobby keeps a pack of matches by the kitchen sink, and Dean swipes it on his way out the door. One look back is all he allows himself, then he steps outside, grabs the can of lighter fluid on the porch, and heads to the back of the lot.
He knows he'll have to time this perfectly. He plops onto the ground, digs a shallow ditch with his hands, just deep enough to keep the breeze at bay, and drops the doll into the hole. It gets a bath with the propellant, just enough to make sure it catches, then Dean lies down and cradles his head on his arm.
When his eyes start drooping, he brings himself around just enough to strike up the whole pack and drop it down with the doll, and he's drifting off just as the entire mess catches fire.
*****
Dean opens his eyes and immediately knows it worked. He's in their bedroom, tucked into his own bed, and Sam's sitting cross legged at Dean's feet, staring intently.
When he sees Dean's awake, Sam shifts from his spot. "You bleed, so you're not a thought form. And I checked your eyes while you were out cold, so I know you're not a shapeshifter. I just can't figure out what you are."
"Sam, it's me. I swear. I just…" Think fast, Winchester. "I think it's that doll. The one we pulled from Walker. I think it's hexed or something. It's making me confused, like something's not right." That might do it.
Sam's eyes narrow. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"Burn it. Right now."
Sam doesn't need matches. When his gaze falls on Dean's dresser, the wicker doll floats from the rubble, one arm pulled into itself once again. It holds in mid-air until Sam winks, and then it goes up in flames, crumbling to ashes right before their eyes.
Something loosens in Dean's chest, a pressure he didn't even know was resting there, and he takes a huge breath as everything eases into place. His reaction seems to soothe any doubts Sam had, because he looks back at Dean and smiles. "It is you, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it really is."
In a blink, Sam's lying next to him, wrapping his arms around Dean's torso. "Sorry about kicking your ass, then."
Dean shifts a bit so he can rest his arm around Sam's shoulder. He tries hard not to think of the other reality, how the Sam there is going to wake up and probably find what's left of him sprawled unconscious in the middle of the scrap yard, how they won't be able to wake him. Instead, he focuses the blinding grin the Sam in his arms is giving him, and surprisingly, it makes everything okay.
Dean sighs, content. "Would have been disappointed if you didn't kick my ass. I wasn't acting like myself."
*****
The next time he wakes up, Sam is still nuzzled close to his side, sheets now pulled in a tight cocoon around them. Dean shifts just a little, flexes his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and it’s enough to make Sam’s eyes flutter open slowly.
“Hey.” Sam says as he gives Dean a lazy, dream-state smile.
“Hey yourself.”
“Go back to sleep. John said we’re heading to Wyoming in the morning, so we need to rest up.”
“What’s in Wyoming?”
Sam yawns, drifting back off to sleep. “No clue. Guess we’ll find out when we get there.”
It’s a good enough answer for now. Dean pulls Sam just a little closer, his little brother already breathing softer against his neck, and settles in to finally get some real sleep.
***End***
Additional Author's Notes and Soundtrack
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter Word Count: 1645
All warnings in Main Post
Back to Head Space
When his eyes finally flutter open, Dean’s greeted by the sight of weak moonlight filtering through filth-covered windows. A spring in the van’s bench has punched through the stuffing and is currently digging into his side, threatening to break skin with its insistence.
Dean rolls away from it, sucking in a breath at the movement. All of the damage has come back with him again. The pain is a little less intense than it should be, but his ribs still feel bruised, his knee is twanging, and his left eye might be a little swollen, if the hindered vision is any indication.
There’s muffled voices coming from outside, and Dean eases slowly off the bench, careful not to even send a tremor through the scrap pile. As he moves closer to the van’s door, the voices get louder, and he starts making out what’s being said.
“And you didn’t go after him?” Bobby sounds irritated, but it has a second tone to it…like disappointment. Like if Sam had just screwed up on a hunt and let “that thing” get away. There’s a sobering thought.
“No, I didn’t. He seemed pretty determined to be alone.” Sam, on the other hand, sounds slightly sheepish, maybe even ashamed.
Flashlight beams start cutting through the windows, and Dean figures that’s his cue. With his arms curled protectively around his ribs, he hobbles over and slips out through the door. Both Sam and Bobby stop in their tracks when he comes into view; Bobby’s looking at him like he’s a wild animal whose nest was just disturbed, and Sam… Sam won’t even look at him.
"It's over," he tells them, and he can't tell if they're relieved.
The walk back to the house is anything but relaxing. Bobby keeps cutting his eyes in Dean's direction, as if he's expecting Dean to start attacking anything in sight. Sam stares at the ground, his gaze never focusing anyplace but where he's about to step. Dean tried reaching out to him once, gets as far as touching Sam's elbow before Sam jerks away with a hissed "don't."
He doesn't try again.
*****
"I called someone I really didn't want to owe a favor to," Bobby says once they're inside the house. "She said the only way she can think of to get rid of the damned thing is to destroy it at the same time in both realities. Now, I don't know about you two, but I'm not looking to reset the damn thing and start this all over, so I'm gonna start on something that might be able to let us at least hide it. Keep it out of rotation for a long time."
Dean nods, not really hearing the words. He keeps looking over at Sam, hoping to catch his brother's eye and at least get an inkling of what Sam's thinking. It's not working. If anything, Sam seems resolute to look anywhere except in Dean's direction.
"You boys go get some sleep, especially you, Dean. We'll handle this thing in the morning." The dismissal is clear, and Dean trudges away in the direction of the bedroom, not missing the fact that Sam doesn't immediately follow.
He's already pulled off his jeans and t-shirt before Sam joins him in the guest bedroom. The bed looks incredibly tempting, with the sheets still mussed from this morning's fiasco, but Dean can't bring himself to climb in. Doesn't deserve it. Instead, he grabs one of the pillows and moves over to the cot set up on the corner, giving free reign of the mattress over to Sam.
Dean can feel his brother's eyes on him-dumbass is only looking when he feels he won't be caught-while he gets as comfortable as he can on the cot. It's tough work, and he puts more pressure on his ribs than he would have liked. He just gets settled when he hears a quiet "Dean" come from the bed.
"Yeah, Sam?"
"In that other world, were we- I mean, did you-?"
Oh fuck.
Dean's not going to answer. If he doesn't answer, maybe sometime down the road they can forget about this whole mess and go back to normal, where his brother can look him in the eye without flinching and Dean can look right back and not want.
"Is that why you wanted to go back? Why you stayed there for so long? Because of us?"
Not going to answer, so he doesn't.
The mattress squeaks, and it's clear Sam's turning away, settling on the farthest edge of the bed from Dean. "You know what, don't tell me. I don't want to know."
*****
Four in the morning, and Dean's out of the cot, standing at the bed's end and staring at his sleeping brother. His brother, who probably won't ever trust him again. Who won't even look at him.
Who doesn't need him.
"Sorry I fucked this up," Dean whispers, barely more than breathing the words. "Sleep well, Sammy."
He knows where all of the squeaky floorboards are and can sneak out the room without a sound. He can hear Bobby in one of the back rooms, muttering to himself while tinkering. Dean beelines for the kitchen, stops when he reaches the table.
The doll is still there, curled in on itself completely. That stupid little thing that's supposed to make people live their worst case scenario. Well, here it is-Dad's still dead, one of his few friends in the world keeps looking like he wants to put Dean down like a rabid animal, and Sam just about hates him. Good work for something the size of a .22 bullet.
Things were better off back there.
He doesn't think, just reaches out his hand and grabs the marble off from the table. There's still a jolt in his head at first contact, but he's expecting it this time. So he senses it for what it is-little tendrils probing his mind for information-and concentrates on feeling of the doll uncurling in his fist.
When the pain fades, he opens his palm. "Reset." All's unfurled, two arms, two legs, head and torso out straight and rigid. Not for long.
Bobby keeps a pack of matches by the kitchen sink, and Dean swipes it on his way out the door. One look back is all he allows himself, then he steps outside, grabs the can of lighter fluid on the porch, and heads to the back of the lot.
He knows he'll have to time this perfectly. He plops onto the ground, digs a shallow ditch with his hands, just deep enough to keep the breeze at bay, and drops the doll into the hole. It gets a bath with the propellant, just enough to make sure it catches, then Dean lies down and cradles his head on his arm.
When his eyes start drooping, he brings himself around just enough to strike up the whole pack and drop it down with the doll, and he's drifting off just as the entire mess catches fire.
*****
Dean opens his eyes and immediately knows it worked. He's in their bedroom, tucked into his own bed, and Sam's sitting cross legged at Dean's feet, staring intently.
When he sees Dean's awake, Sam shifts from his spot. "You bleed, so you're not a thought form. And I checked your eyes while you were out cold, so I know you're not a shapeshifter. I just can't figure out what you are."
"Sam, it's me. I swear. I just…" Think fast, Winchester. "I think it's that doll. The one we pulled from Walker. I think it's hexed or something. It's making me confused, like something's not right." That might do it.
Sam's eyes narrow. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"Burn it. Right now."
Sam doesn't need matches. When his gaze falls on Dean's dresser, the wicker doll floats from the rubble, one arm pulled into itself once again. It holds in mid-air until Sam winks, and then it goes up in flames, crumbling to ashes right before their eyes.
Something loosens in Dean's chest, a pressure he didn't even know was resting there, and he takes a huge breath as everything eases into place. His reaction seems to soothe any doubts Sam had, because he looks back at Dean and smiles. "It is you, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it really is."
In a blink, Sam's lying next to him, wrapping his arms around Dean's torso. "Sorry about kicking your ass, then."
Dean shifts a bit so he can rest his arm around Sam's shoulder. He tries hard not to think of the other reality, how the Sam there is going to wake up and probably find what's left of him sprawled unconscious in the middle of the scrap yard, how they won't be able to wake him. Instead, he focuses the blinding grin the Sam in his arms is giving him, and surprisingly, it makes everything okay.
Dean sighs, content. "Would have been disappointed if you didn't kick my ass. I wasn't acting like myself."
*****
The next time he wakes up, Sam is still nuzzled close to his side, sheets now pulled in a tight cocoon around them. Dean shifts just a little, flexes his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and it’s enough to make Sam’s eyes flutter open slowly.
“Hey.” Sam says as he gives Dean a lazy, dream-state smile.
“Hey yourself.”
“Go back to sleep. John said we’re heading to Wyoming in the morning, so we need to rest up.”
“What’s in Wyoming?”
Sam yawns, drifting back off to sleep. “No clue. Guess we’ll find out when we get there.”
It’s a good enough answer for now. Dean pulls Sam just a little closer, his little brother already breathing softer against his neck, and settles in to finally get some real sleep.
***End***
Additional Author's Notes and Soundtrack