(no subject)
Call and Answer
by whereupon
gen, post 4.19, 2,767 words, rated r.
It's time to make this something that is more than only fair.
Later, Sam will think about it, think about Dean's hands on his arms and all of that blood.
At the moment, though, the room is already starting to blur, slow tide of grey washing over everything. It's tempting to lie there, let it pull him all the way out, take him all the way down, but his arms sting, something flooding wet and angry across his skin. It's annoying, distracting, and probably not good, probably something he should tell Dean about, so he does.
He says, "Dean," anyway, his voice coming from somewhere far away, too soft, barely audible even to himself, and he can hear the muted jarring noises of Dean killing the thing that has. Had. Their brother's face.
Somehow Dean hears him and it's miraculous, the way he's tuned into Sam’s voice, the way he always hears. Sam blinks and Dean's staring down at him, eyes wide and panicked, and then helping him sit up, keeping up a steady stream of platitudes, words Sam's often heard enough, always in that same panicked-quiet voice, that he thinks of them as a prayer.
He thinks he should tell Dean about that, later. Maybe he'd find it relevant, now that he's got his own angel and everything. Maybe not, though. Sam tries to remember what he knows about ghouls. Content of their saliva. Keeps blood from clotting and contains a mild sedative to keep the victim from moving around too much, thrashing and getting in the way.
It's amazing, really, how he can remember these things, even after he's been knocked out and tied to a table and cut open by ghouls. Dad would be proud.
And of course Dean was fighting (later he'll tell Sam about breaking the glass, too, sharp little beads catching in his hair), so there are cuts all over his hands, so many broken places. Little things. Fractures.
"Syd Barrett's a fucking liar," Sam says when he's vertical and the room's stopped spinning so badly. "'s plenty of pain."
It makes sense in his head, the whole receding thing, an easy and obvious leap, but it takes Dean a minute to work through it and say, "Syd Barrett didn't write that one." He claps Sam on the shoulder, weirdly patronizing and reassuring at the same time. His hand's warm, steady, blood-hot, and for a moment Sam's confused, the echo of blood beneath his own hands, heat from Dean bleeding through his shoulder. It might be symmetry.
He blinks, straightens his back. "Oh." Dean's hand falls away, his eyes frightened green staring at Sam, and then he swallows and turns away. Sliver of moonlight through the window, falling across his back as he heads for the door and Sam follows.
The floor's slick with blood and entrails and other ghoul-pieces. Something crunches wetly beneath Sam’s boots. Bone fragment, maybe. Ghouls consume the dead, absorb and recycle nutrients impossible for humans to reuse. Pre-med Adam would have been fascinated.
And then it occurs to him that the thing under his boot technically is pre-med Adam, pre-med Adam who screamed when the ghouls tore into him, and he stumbles, Dean turning around, moonlight a slice of white across his face.
Dean's saying something. Sam blinks up at him, confused as to why Dean's suddenly taller, and then he realizes he's on the ground, Dean crouching next to him. Painful topography of Dean's face, drawn lines of poorly masked fear and concern.
"Sammy?" Dean says. He reaches for Sam again, his palm against Sam's cheek, stares at Sam like he's checking for a concussion.
"Yeah," Sam says. "Sorry. Lightheaded. I'm okay."
Dean looks at him, pulls him to his feet. It's harder than it should be, both of them trying to make sure Sam doesn't take pressure off of the compresses, but they make it.
They're in the car when Dean says, "Hospital's a fifteen minute drive, I can do it in ten."
Sam shifts, his head against the window. He's so fucking tired. Adrenaline fading, flat plateau of exhaustion in its place. He wonders how Dean's managing. Probably not having recently lost a significant amount of blood helps. "'m keeping pressure."
"Those are fucking deep, Sam."
Sam lifts the towels, looks at his wrists. Dean turns on the dome light, bleaching everything a sick pale yellow and sending black floaters across Sam’s vision. He squints.
"Not as bad as they looked in the dark," Sam says.
Dean swallows and clicks off the light. "Okay." His jaw's tight like he wants to argue, but probably he's still scared, Sam reasons. It makes sense. This on top of the whole Adam revelation, which isn't something he wants to think about right now.
Sam waves him off when they get back to the motel, when Dean tries to help. "I got it," Sam says, and Dean shrugs.
"Knock yourself out."
In the flourescent light of the bathroom, Sam's skin's a sloppy mess, his t-shirt Pollocked beyond salvation. He catches himself on the edge of the bathtub, momentarily off-balance. His skin's already knitting itself together. When he looks in the mirror, there's a handprint on his face, shape of a palm, Dean's palm, sticky and red. Sam's not sure whose blood it is, but it takes forever to wash off.
--
They leave as soon as they burn the body, drive through the night. Sam tries not to think about what could have been. There's no point. Adam's dead. Whatever he was, whoever he could have been, he's dead.
Dean keeps sneaking looks at him, like he thinks Sam's asleep and doesn't notice. He's probably still mad about what Sam said, about hunting. Or about Sam being more like Dad. Or maybe he feels bad about Adam, who they never knew, but who was family, blood relation.
Funny how it all comes down to blood in the end.
"Dude, what," Sam says.
"Nothing," Dean says. "Just checking to make sure you're still breathing."
"As far as I know, yeah."
Dean raises his eyebrows, doesn't answer. He keeps his eyes on the road like he's looking for ghosts in the shape and flare of the headlights against the shadows.
It could be anything, though, and Dean will either get over it or say something, so Sam doesn't. He's trying not to push. Dean's already mad about Ruby, mad about a thousand different things, and he has a right to be. Sam's trying to respect that.
He just wishes Dean didn't have to be so stubborn all the time. That he would try to look beyond the obvious, see something more than black and white, good and evil, them and us.
Because some days, Sam's not sure if Dean thinks of him as part of us or as one of them. And that, that is terrifying. How he's not sure what Dean would do if Castiel showed up and declared Sam the latest threat, said he was Lucifer himself.
Some days, Sam thinks Dean would kill him, no questions asked. Because that's how he was raised (how they were raised), to follow orders, to believe so strongly that they're right. Some days, Sam wants to ask Dean, himself. Just to find out.
Some days, he's not sure he wants to know what Dean would say. How honest he would be, even if Sam already knew the answer.
He let Dean patch him up, tape and gauze around his wrists, because it was easier than arguing. Because it was easier than saying that he didn't need it, and even though Dean had to see, he went along with it, too.
Sam crosses his arms, the tape itching and his spine aching, and tries to go to sleep for real. At least then he won't notice when Dean does it again.
--
They spend three days tracking a vampire back to its nest. It's an easy hunt on one level, battering on a much more physical one.
When Sam shoves the blade through the vampire's neck, Dean lets out a sigh of relief, sags back against the wall. There's a tangle of angry bruises forming around his neck, messy like red roses coming into bloom.
When the bruises are gone the next morning, he doesn't say anything.
Sam stares at him. There's a hole in his shirt, beneath the collar, ripped and fraying thread. Quarter-sized patch of visible skin.
"What?" Dean says, leaning against the car, crossing his arms defensively. The air smells like metal, like rain.
"Nothing," Sam says, opening the car door.
--
Another night and Sam wakes from dreams full of glittering glistening black things. Unsettling things, moving too quickly, with too many legs. Whispering as they came closer, but he doesn't remember what they said.
He sits up in bed at the same time as Dean.
Breathless moment. Sam could swear he feels his heart stop beating. He doesn't move, like if he's still enough, maybe Dean won't notice. Maybe he'll just go back to sleep like it was nothing.
He feels Dean watching him. He turns. Panic glistening in Dean's eyes, and then he swallows and says, "Fucking weird-ass dream. Night, Sam," and lowers himself back down.
--
They're not talking anymore. Dean's driving, jumpy and erratic, and Sam's trying not to say anything.
After a day, a day of irritation, of flinching at small things, they get into their motel room and Dean drops his bag on his bed, straightens his shoulders and turns to Sam.
"Fuck it, Sam, this whole demon blood thing you've got going on," he says, angry and quick, like he wants to get the words out before he loses his nerve.
"'Going on'?" Sam echoes.
"You know what I mean," Dean says. "It's not, um, contagious." He states it like a fact, means it like a question. He's starting to flush, burn high across his cheeks.
"What the fuck, Dean," Sam says, and he hates the way Dean's face crumples, instantly guilty and apologetic. Like Sam's not been thinking the same thing, like he genuinely believes it's just him.
They've shared blood plenty of times before, after all. There's no reason to think that this is anything unusual. Except Sam's died since, and maybe with Ruby, with her blood, something's changed.
Sam swallows. He doesn't say anything.
Whatever's happened, whatever's happening, he's not sure what he can say that won't make it worse. And he is so, so tired of fighting.
By the time the end of the world rolls around, big epic battle, maybe he'll just forfeit. It'd probably be easier.
"Sorry," Dean says, jerking his head down. He turns on his heel, slams the door behind himself and doesn't come back for hours. Stumbles in sometime after midnight, slamming the door again, and collapses into bed with his boots and jacket still on. Sam's not sure if he's really that drunk or if he's just trying to avoid conversation.
Small secret burn of satisfaction. Because now Dean knows. Knows exactly what it's like.
All the same. If there were something Sam could say, something to make it better, he would.
He remembers the blank empty platitudes Dean gave him during those long months of fear, months of sleepless nights, grinding inexorably towards something like destiny. He remembers how meaningless and terrifying they were in their complete lack of hope and he can, at least, spare Dean from that.
--
Sam wakes in the black to something shifting in the room. To Dean, sitting on the edge of his bed. Sam swallows, waits for his eyes to adjust. "It's in me," Dean says, low and rough, and Sam wonders if he's still drunk. "I can feel it, Sammy. Like a fucking cancer, except it's." He pauses, licks his lips.
"Brighter," Sam says, when he doesn't continue. "Vivid."
"Yeah," Dean says. His fingernails are bitten down to the quick, his eyes wide and dark. He smells like sweat and sleep and alcohol.
"It could be anything," Sam says. "Maybe you've got a fever. Picked up something from the mausoleum."
"Yeah," Dean says hoarsely. Sam watches the curved line of his back, the railroad tracks of his spine pressing through the thin cotton of his shirt. "Maybe."
They both know that's not it.
--
"If I," Dean says over breakfast the next morning, and then stops. "Sam, other people who got exposed, they went nuts."
"I remember," Sam says. He stares at his coffee, looks up at Dean. He needs a shower, to shave. He looks like he's burning up, burning out. Sam wonders if he looked that bad while Dean was gone. Knows he probably looked worse.
"If I do that, you gotta stop me," Dean says.
"I said the same thing to you," Sam says. He says it too quickly and it comes out like a retort, angry and sharp. He wants to take it back.
Dean opens his mouth.
"You won't," Sam says, before he can say anything.
"How do you know?"
"Maybe . . . because it's me. Because we're brothers. Genetics? I don't know. I was law, not med. I can’t be a genius about everything."
Dean looks at him, nods and goes back to picking at his pancakes. He doesn't eat any of them, but Sam's surprisingly not hungry, either.
Coffee and gas and the highway. They don't talk.
--
He walks in on Dean praying. Kneeling beside the bed and actually praying, words spilling out like dropped coins, clumsy and bright and hot. He knows Dean knows he's there, the way his back stiffens, but Dean doesn't stop, and Sam doesn't say anything.
Maybe it will work. Maybe.
He wishes he could make it easier.
Castiel doesn't show up that night, or the next. He doesn't show up for an entire week, and Sam watches the dusky smudges under Dean's eyes grow deeper, darker, and wishes that he still believed, himself. Even if only for Dean's sake.
He's glad, though. That Dean knows that Sam's still here, even when Dean's angel refuses to show.
However bad of a person that might make him, he's glad.
--
Sam calls Ruby the next day.
"You're kidding," she says. "No fucking way, you're not serious," but she lets him. Dean stares at Sam, pale and sweating, but doesn't flinch. And Sam thinks about how scared Dean has to be, how desperate and how petrified and how sure he has to be that he's right, for him to have agreed to this.
Ruby draws the knife across her skin and Dean shudders. Swallows and wipes a hand across the back of his mouth. "Tastes like ass," he says, but his tone's all wrong for it to be funny. It's jarring, instead. Gallows humor.
Ruby leaves, three hours in. "This isn't meant to happen," she says. "I'm sorry, Sam."
Sam nods. He doesn't ask if she'll come back, if he'll ever see her again. He doesn't ask her how she knows what should happen, what shouldn't.
He's not sure it matters anymore.
Absolute quiet of the motel room, agonizing stillness, until Sam turns on the television. Infomercials running into the early hours of the morning, caffeine burring beneath his skin, and Dean. Dean completely still on the other bed.
Waiting.
Nothing happens. Nothing at all.
"Now what," Dean says, when an entire day's passed, when his voice is ragged with exhaustion, his eyes hollow with fear, but he's. He hasn't changed. Hasn't tried to kill Sam, to kill anyone.
Something like joy, low and quick in Sam's stomach.
"Now we're the same," Sam says, and it's relief in his voice, blessed relief in Dean's eyes, and Dean smiles.
--
They dream of burning cities. They dream of something rising in the east, something dark and powerful. They dream of thorns and flames and blood. They dream of the lies of fathers, the lies of angels. About the validity of perspective, about the difference between good and evil, about the falsehood of fate.
Sam doesn't need to ask if it's just him, if he's the only one who sees it, who knows, because in the dreams, Dean's with him, and in the morning, they wake at the same time. Burn of acknowledgment in Dean's eyes.
In the morning, they head west. Towards the sun. Dean rolls his window down and turns the music up, loud and raucous guitar, grins ageless and wild, and Sam grins back despite himself. He thinks maybe he should feel guilty, but he doesn't, can't. Because.
Because he knows, now, again.
This is who they are. Who they're meant to be. Fighting side by side, as always. And Dean won't ever change that, not anymore. He won't even have to think about it.
--
end
by whereupon
gen, post 4.19, 2,767 words, rated r.
It's time to make this something that is more than only fair.
Later, Sam will think about it, think about Dean's hands on his arms and all of that blood.
At the moment, though, the room is already starting to blur, slow tide of grey washing over everything. It's tempting to lie there, let it pull him all the way out, take him all the way down, but his arms sting, something flooding wet and angry across his skin. It's annoying, distracting, and probably not good, probably something he should tell Dean about, so he does.
He says, "Dean," anyway, his voice coming from somewhere far away, too soft, barely audible even to himself, and he can hear the muted jarring noises of Dean killing the thing that has. Had. Their brother's face.
Somehow Dean hears him and it's miraculous, the way he's tuned into Sam’s voice, the way he always hears. Sam blinks and Dean's staring down at him, eyes wide and panicked, and then helping him sit up, keeping up a steady stream of platitudes, words Sam's often heard enough, always in that same panicked-quiet voice, that he thinks of them as a prayer.
He thinks he should tell Dean about that, later. Maybe he'd find it relevant, now that he's got his own angel and everything. Maybe not, though. Sam tries to remember what he knows about ghouls. Content of their saliva. Keeps blood from clotting and contains a mild sedative to keep the victim from moving around too much, thrashing and getting in the way.
It's amazing, really, how he can remember these things, even after he's been knocked out and tied to a table and cut open by ghouls. Dad would be proud.
And of course Dean was fighting (later he'll tell Sam about breaking the glass, too, sharp little beads catching in his hair), so there are cuts all over his hands, so many broken places. Little things. Fractures.
"Syd Barrett's a fucking liar," Sam says when he's vertical and the room's stopped spinning so badly. "'s plenty of pain."
It makes sense in his head, the whole receding thing, an easy and obvious leap, but it takes Dean a minute to work through it and say, "Syd Barrett didn't write that one." He claps Sam on the shoulder, weirdly patronizing and reassuring at the same time. His hand's warm, steady, blood-hot, and for a moment Sam's confused, the echo of blood beneath his own hands, heat from Dean bleeding through his shoulder. It might be symmetry.
He blinks, straightens his back. "Oh." Dean's hand falls away, his eyes frightened green staring at Sam, and then he swallows and turns away. Sliver of moonlight through the window, falling across his back as he heads for the door and Sam follows.
The floor's slick with blood and entrails and other ghoul-pieces. Something crunches wetly beneath Sam’s boots. Bone fragment, maybe. Ghouls consume the dead, absorb and recycle nutrients impossible for humans to reuse. Pre-med Adam would have been fascinated.
And then it occurs to him that the thing under his boot technically is pre-med Adam, pre-med Adam who screamed when the ghouls tore into him, and he stumbles, Dean turning around, moonlight a slice of white across his face.
Dean's saying something. Sam blinks up at him, confused as to why Dean's suddenly taller, and then he realizes he's on the ground, Dean crouching next to him. Painful topography of Dean's face, drawn lines of poorly masked fear and concern.
"Sammy?" Dean says. He reaches for Sam again, his palm against Sam's cheek, stares at Sam like he's checking for a concussion.
"Yeah," Sam says. "Sorry. Lightheaded. I'm okay."
Dean looks at him, pulls him to his feet. It's harder than it should be, both of them trying to make sure Sam doesn't take pressure off of the compresses, but they make it.
They're in the car when Dean says, "Hospital's a fifteen minute drive, I can do it in ten."
Sam shifts, his head against the window. He's so fucking tired. Adrenaline fading, flat plateau of exhaustion in its place. He wonders how Dean's managing. Probably not having recently lost a significant amount of blood helps. "'m keeping pressure."
"Those are fucking deep, Sam."
Sam lifts the towels, looks at his wrists. Dean turns on the dome light, bleaching everything a sick pale yellow and sending black floaters across Sam’s vision. He squints.
"Not as bad as they looked in the dark," Sam says.
Dean swallows and clicks off the light. "Okay." His jaw's tight like he wants to argue, but probably he's still scared, Sam reasons. It makes sense. This on top of the whole Adam revelation, which isn't something he wants to think about right now.
Sam waves him off when they get back to the motel, when Dean tries to help. "I got it," Sam says, and Dean shrugs.
"Knock yourself out."
In the flourescent light of the bathroom, Sam's skin's a sloppy mess, his t-shirt Pollocked beyond salvation. He catches himself on the edge of the bathtub, momentarily off-balance. His skin's already knitting itself together. When he looks in the mirror, there's a handprint on his face, shape of a palm, Dean's palm, sticky and red. Sam's not sure whose blood it is, but it takes forever to wash off.
--
They leave as soon as they burn the body, drive through the night. Sam tries not to think about what could have been. There's no point. Adam's dead. Whatever he was, whoever he could have been, he's dead.
Dean keeps sneaking looks at him, like he thinks Sam's asleep and doesn't notice. He's probably still mad about what Sam said, about hunting. Or about Sam being more like Dad. Or maybe he feels bad about Adam, who they never knew, but who was family, blood relation.
Funny how it all comes down to blood in the end.
"Dude, what," Sam says.
"Nothing," Dean says. "Just checking to make sure you're still breathing."
"As far as I know, yeah."
Dean raises his eyebrows, doesn't answer. He keeps his eyes on the road like he's looking for ghosts in the shape and flare of the headlights against the shadows.
It could be anything, though, and Dean will either get over it or say something, so Sam doesn't. He's trying not to push. Dean's already mad about Ruby, mad about a thousand different things, and he has a right to be. Sam's trying to respect that.
He just wishes Dean didn't have to be so stubborn all the time. That he would try to look beyond the obvious, see something more than black and white, good and evil, them and us.
Because some days, Sam's not sure if Dean thinks of him as part of us or as one of them. And that, that is terrifying. How he's not sure what Dean would do if Castiel showed up and declared Sam the latest threat, said he was Lucifer himself.
Some days, Sam thinks Dean would kill him, no questions asked. Because that's how he was raised (how they were raised), to follow orders, to believe so strongly that they're right. Some days, Sam wants to ask Dean, himself. Just to find out.
Some days, he's not sure he wants to know what Dean would say. How honest he would be, even if Sam already knew the answer.
He let Dean patch him up, tape and gauze around his wrists, because it was easier than arguing. Because it was easier than saying that he didn't need it, and even though Dean had to see, he went along with it, too.
Sam crosses his arms, the tape itching and his spine aching, and tries to go to sleep for real. At least then he won't notice when Dean does it again.
--
They spend three days tracking a vampire back to its nest. It's an easy hunt on one level, battering on a much more physical one.
When Sam shoves the blade through the vampire's neck, Dean lets out a sigh of relief, sags back against the wall. There's a tangle of angry bruises forming around his neck, messy like red roses coming into bloom.
When the bruises are gone the next morning, he doesn't say anything.
Sam stares at him. There's a hole in his shirt, beneath the collar, ripped and fraying thread. Quarter-sized patch of visible skin.
"What?" Dean says, leaning against the car, crossing his arms defensively. The air smells like metal, like rain.
"Nothing," Sam says, opening the car door.
--
Another night and Sam wakes from dreams full of glittering glistening black things. Unsettling things, moving too quickly, with too many legs. Whispering as they came closer, but he doesn't remember what they said.
He sits up in bed at the same time as Dean.
Breathless moment. Sam could swear he feels his heart stop beating. He doesn't move, like if he's still enough, maybe Dean won't notice. Maybe he'll just go back to sleep like it was nothing.
He feels Dean watching him. He turns. Panic glistening in Dean's eyes, and then he swallows and says, "Fucking weird-ass dream. Night, Sam," and lowers himself back down.
--
They're not talking anymore. Dean's driving, jumpy and erratic, and Sam's trying not to say anything.
After a day, a day of irritation, of flinching at small things, they get into their motel room and Dean drops his bag on his bed, straightens his shoulders and turns to Sam.
"Fuck it, Sam, this whole demon blood thing you've got going on," he says, angry and quick, like he wants to get the words out before he loses his nerve.
"'Going on'?" Sam echoes.
"You know what I mean," Dean says. "It's not, um, contagious." He states it like a fact, means it like a question. He's starting to flush, burn high across his cheeks.
"What the fuck, Dean," Sam says, and he hates the way Dean's face crumples, instantly guilty and apologetic. Like Sam's not been thinking the same thing, like he genuinely believes it's just him.
They've shared blood plenty of times before, after all. There's no reason to think that this is anything unusual. Except Sam's died since, and maybe with Ruby, with her blood, something's changed.
Sam swallows. He doesn't say anything.
Whatever's happened, whatever's happening, he's not sure what he can say that won't make it worse. And he is so, so tired of fighting.
By the time the end of the world rolls around, big epic battle, maybe he'll just forfeit. It'd probably be easier.
"Sorry," Dean says, jerking his head down. He turns on his heel, slams the door behind himself and doesn't come back for hours. Stumbles in sometime after midnight, slamming the door again, and collapses into bed with his boots and jacket still on. Sam's not sure if he's really that drunk or if he's just trying to avoid conversation.
Small secret burn of satisfaction. Because now Dean knows. Knows exactly what it's like.
All the same. If there were something Sam could say, something to make it better, he would.
He remembers the blank empty platitudes Dean gave him during those long months of fear, months of sleepless nights, grinding inexorably towards something like destiny. He remembers how meaningless and terrifying they were in their complete lack of hope and he can, at least, spare Dean from that.
--
Sam wakes in the black to something shifting in the room. To Dean, sitting on the edge of his bed. Sam swallows, waits for his eyes to adjust. "It's in me," Dean says, low and rough, and Sam wonders if he's still drunk. "I can feel it, Sammy. Like a fucking cancer, except it's." He pauses, licks his lips.
"Brighter," Sam says, when he doesn't continue. "Vivid."
"Yeah," Dean says. His fingernails are bitten down to the quick, his eyes wide and dark. He smells like sweat and sleep and alcohol.
"It could be anything," Sam says. "Maybe you've got a fever. Picked up something from the mausoleum."
"Yeah," Dean says hoarsely. Sam watches the curved line of his back, the railroad tracks of his spine pressing through the thin cotton of his shirt. "Maybe."
They both know that's not it.
--
"If I," Dean says over breakfast the next morning, and then stops. "Sam, other people who got exposed, they went nuts."
"I remember," Sam says. He stares at his coffee, looks up at Dean. He needs a shower, to shave. He looks like he's burning up, burning out. Sam wonders if he looked that bad while Dean was gone. Knows he probably looked worse.
"If I do that, you gotta stop me," Dean says.
"I said the same thing to you," Sam says. He says it too quickly and it comes out like a retort, angry and sharp. He wants to take it back.
Dean opens his mouth.
"You won't," Sam says, before he can say anything.
"How do you know?"
"Maybe . . . because it's me. Because we're brothers. Genetics? I don't know. I was law, not med. I can’t be a genius about everything."
Dean looks at him, nods and goes back to picking at his pancakes. He doesn't eat any of them, but Sam's surprisingly not hungry, either.
Coffee and gas and the highway. They don't talk.
--
He walks in on Dean praying. Kneeling beside the bed and actually praying, words spilling out like dropped coins, clumsy and bright and hot. He knows Dean knows he's there, the way his back stiffens, but Dean doesn't stop, and Sam doesn't say anything.
Maybe it will work. Maybe.
He wishes he could make it easier.
Castiel doesn't show up that night, or the next. He doesn't show up for an entire week, and Sam watches the dusky smudges under Dean's eyes grow deeper, darker, and wishes that he still believed, himself. Even if only for Dean's sake.
He's glad, though. That Dean knows that Sam's still here, even when Dean's angel refuses to show.
However bad of a person that might make him, he's glad.
--
Sam calls Ruby the next day.
"You're kidding," she says. "No fucking way, you're not serious," but she lets him. Dean stares at Sam, pale and sweating, but doesn't flinch. And Sam thinks about how scared Dean has to be, how desperate and how petrified and how sure he has to be that he's right, for him to have agreed to this.
Ruby draws the knife across her skin and Dean shudders. Swallows and wipes a hand across the back of his mouth. "Tastes like ass," he says, but his tone's all wrong for it to be funny. It's jarring, instead. Gallows humor.
Ruby leaves, three hours in. "This isn't meant to happen," she says. "I'm sorry, Sam."
Sam nods. He doesn't ask if she'll come back, if he'll ever see her again. He doesn't ask her how she knows what should happen, what shouldn't.
He's not sure it matters anymore.
Absolute quiet of the motel room, agonizing stillness, until Sam turns on the television. Infomercials running into the early hours of the morning, caffeine burring beneath his skin, and Dean. Dean completely still on the other bed.
Waiting.
Nothing happens. Nothing at all.
"Now what," Dean says, when an entire day's passed, when his voice is ragged with exhaustion, his eyes hollow with fear, but he's. He hasn't changed. Hasn't tried to kill Sam, to kill anyone.
Something like joy, low and quick in Sam's stomach.
"Now we're the same," Sam says, and it's relief in his voice, blessed relief in Dean's eyes, and Dean smiles.
--
They dream of burning cities. They dream of something rising in the east, something dark and powerful. They dream of thorns and flames and blood. They dream of the lies of fathers, the lies of angels. About the validity of perspective, about the difference between good and evil, about the falsehood of fate.
Sam doesn't need to ask if it's just him, if he's the only one who sees it, who knows, because in the dreams, Dean's with him, and in the morning, they wake at the same time. Burn of acknowledgment in Dean's eyes.
In the morning, they head west. Towards the sun. Dean rolls his window down and turns the music up, loud and raucous guitar, grins ageless and wild, and Sam grins back despite himself. He thinks maybe he should feel guilty, but he doesn't, can't. Because.
Because he knows, now, again.
This is who they are. Who they're meant to be. Fighting side by side, as always. And Dean won't ever change that, not anymore. He won't even have to think about it.
--
end