(no subject)

[whereupon]

Coin
by whereupon

Sam/Dean, post 4.06 but contains spoilers for 4.16, pg-13, 4,111 words.
The age of miracles has passed.


A small town in Washington, just off the coast. It's got one of those traditional names, Curry's Corner or Bethany's Cove, forgettable Americana in everything but the breath of Scandinavia running down from the hills. They arrive in the chill, in the grey, rolling in with the fog, cold mist that hovers in the air and clings like cobwebs.

They're looking for a werewolf, or something that might be a werewolf, except for how none of the attacks coincide with a full moon. They stopped at a gas station on the way in, somewhere in the mountains, tall thick trees creeping in at the edge of the asphalt, dark and dense and timeless, and even though it was day Sam half-expected to turn and see the glint of eyes from within the shadows, something ancient and unseen for ages crouched among the roots.

Anything could be living out here.

When he said it aloud, Dean shrugged and said maybe it was a mutant werewolf after all and Sam said there were no such things, if it had mutated it wouldn't be a werewolf anymore, technically speaking, and Dean said yeah, you're the cryptozoology expert, and it shouldn't have been anything, bullshit half-serious conversation, but somehow from there they started fighting and haven't hardly spoken since.

That happens a lot, these days.

Dean says, "We're here," as they pull into town, an obvious enough statement that Sam decides to interpret it as a peace offering, a truce.

"Nice town," he says, even though it's not. Even though half of the windows he sees are boarded up, even though the fog's sweeping in like early winter and there's hardly anyone on the street.

"I guess," Dean says. He's looking out the window when he says it, not looking at Sam. Disinterested, maybe not even listening, but at least he's not shouting.

The morgue's cold, chill from the freezer spilling out to fill the entire room. It burrows beneath Sam's skin. His bones feel brittle, hollowed out from the inside.

Under the dim lighting, Dean looks dead. Pale skin and the bones pressing sharp beneath it. Sam swallows and tells himself that the light plays tricks, that the bad light in a morgue would do that to anyone. He wonders if he looks any better, himself. Knows that he does.

The coroner leaves them to pull back the sheet. Sam looks at Dean, who's not reaching for it, who hasn't moved at all, and does it himself.

Blue-white skin against the steel tray. The chest split in two, jagged line and raw flesh, darkening with slow decay. Sam looks up in time to see Dean blink, swallow.

"Hey," Sam says, quiet and pitched for concern, and Dean flinches. Looks up at him, his eyes focusing.

"Looks like a werewolf attack," he says.

Sam shrugs, reaches for the autopsy report. "Camille Cassidy," he says. "The heart was missing."

"Uh, yeah, I noticed," Dean says.

Outside the sky is the same steel grey of the tray that housed the body, and Dean is still too pale. Sam wants to know what it was, wants to know why. Wants to know if he remembers now, if he remembers being torn apart, having his heart ripped from his body. If he remembers choking on his own blood and how long it took to die.

It's not fair that Dean won't tell him. Dean did it for him and won't tell him anything, denies that he remembers, pretends the nightmares are nothing.

Dean did it for him and he won't let Sam help at all.

In the woods where Cassidy's body was found by hikers, two kids who reported it in and took off. Sam wonders if they'll have nightmares, wake screaming or just curl in on themselves in the dark like Dean. The trees are thinner here and the air smells like salt. They have to leave the car, hike in. It's less than a mile from the road and Sam wonders if she screamed, if anybody would have heard. She was hitchhiking, the coroner said. The authorities haven't located the next of kin.

Sam and Dean can't determine exactly where she died, exactly where she was attacked, too many footprints and it's rained since, but they can look for signs, what might have done it. The EMF reader remains silent.

Sam tips his face to the sky. Slate-grey heaven, like maybe Castiel's watching them with cold-eyed judgment.

"It tore her apart slowly," Dean says, studying his fingers like the line of dirt beneath his fingernails might be blood, like he's trying to remember how it got there. "Like it was fun." Sam doesn't ask how he knows, doesn't need to. Dean did this for him, knows this because of him, and Sam wants to ask if he's sorry. If he regrets it. If he'd take it back, if he could.

"Dean," he begins, and Dean's jaw tightens.

"Don't," he says, flat and dead and like he knew what Sam was going to say, which he couldn't because Sam wasn't sure, himself (no way he would have asked, because there are some things they do not talk about, some truths that cannot be spoken aloud, cannot exist in the light of day), and then he turns on his heel, shoulders tight as he disappears into the trees.

If it were before, ages before, Sam might have gone after him, pressed the issue, gotten him to talk. Backed him up against one of the trees, branches scratching at his skin, until Dean gave in, until he shoved Sam away and grinned, straightened his shoulders and smiled. Instead he just listens to Dean crashing around in the bushes and waits for him to calm down, give up, come back.

It starts to rain, cold needles on his face. Dean crunches towards him. "I didn't find anything," Dean says, his eyes downcast, his hands in his pockets.

"Me neither," Sam says, and he follows Dean back to the car.

They get dinner in a lousy bar, one of the few places they can afford until they get a new set of cards or are in the right space to hustle somebody. Sam doesn't mind, though. Dean's tired and bitter most of the time, and then he's drunk, insensible, but sometimes there's this window in between where he's almost like he used to be, and sometimes Sam can almost overlook the fact that he had to drink to get himself there.

Can pretend that nothing's wrong.

Tonight's one of those nights, Dean checking out a woman on the other side of the bar, his smile loose and his shoulders relaxed, but she's not his type and it's not until Sam catches Dean glancing at him (too slow, not nearly subtle enough) that he catches on and it's like a punch to the gut. That Dean's putting on a show for him, trying to make him believe that it’s okay.

And he's only had one beer, himself, but he thinks he might be sick.

"Come on," he says. "We should find a room before everything's full."

"Yeah, 'cause I'm sure there’s a convention in town," Dean says, but he doesn't argue otherwise, lets Sam drive them to a motel on the edge of town, flickering red vacancy sign like a signal flare against the sea of dark.

"Figured you'd go home with somebody at the bar," Sam says, when they're settled into the quiet. Otherworldly glow of his laptop screen and Dean on one of the beds, turned away from him.

"Last week," Dean says. He takes a breath, mumbles something Sam doesn't catch, and then, "Couldn't. I kept remembering."

Sam swallows. "Remembering what?" he says, and Dean doesn't answer. Sam's not sure if he's asleep or if he caught himself in time, is pretending.

Sam's not sure whether to be glad. Because he wants to know, if that will help, but he's not sure if he's ready to hear everything. Hear precisely how that which Dean loves was turned against him. Hear what happened. Hear how he broke.

And this is why Sam will do whatever it takes to save the world, even on days when it feels like he's fragmenting, losing track of hours, distracted by the minutiae of seconds, dark singularity about to tear through this all-too-thin veil of skin and a migraine burning behind his eyes. If that's what he has to do to keep Dean from hell again.

Dean's mumbling in his sleep, now, agitated and indecipherable words. He doesn't stir when Sam gets up, sits on the edge of the bed. He rests a hand on Dean's arm until Dean quiets and rolls over, his sleeve riding up to reveal the edge of the handprint.

There are days when Dean's scared of him, Sam knows. Which is okay, because there are days when Sam is scared of himself.

Something jittering at the back of his mind, ragged raw reminder. He needs to call Ruby, needs to see her before it gets bad, before he feels like he might crawl out of his skin, before it gets anything close to that.

They're both broken, he knows. Impossible to live this life and not have it happen, but maybe it goes faster if you go to hell or if it's in your blood, fate riding hot on your back.

All the same, he doesn't dare tell Dean.

It's raining again in the morning.

There's a diner across from the motel. The waitress is exactly Dean's type and she even flirts with him, or tries. He's nice to her in response, which is weird in and of itself. How polite he is, the tight, forced lines of his smile.

Sam watches him pretend to eat, like he's trying to keep up appearances. He wishes Dean wouldn't bother.

"What?" Dean asks. His eyes are bloodshot, red-rimmed.

"You on a diet?" Sam asks, adding sugar to his coffee. Passive-aggressive, he knows, but right now, he doesn't care. Right now, he wants to make Dean answer him, make him tell the truth. Would choke it out of him, if he thought it would help, if he thought it were possible.

Dean shrugs. "Not my fault the food sucks."

"How is everything?" the waitress asks, coming by with the check. Dean grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Best meal I ever had," he says, and she blushes.

Sam feels something tighten at the back of his throat.

They dress in cheap and ill-fitting suits and ties and go to see the sheriff. They are Agents Neil and Lee, working a potential serial killer case out of Seattle, wondering if the string of deaths might be related.

"We get a lot of drifters," the sheriff says. She sighs, takes a sip of coffee. She looks tired, overworked. "People hitching through, trying to escape from what they think is the real world. And maybe they do, but they find other things instead. We still got a few wildcats in this neck of the woods, the occasional bear. Not to mention the other people."

"Any leads?" Dean asks.

"Nothing new. There's a hell of a lot of places for whatever's doing this to hide," she says. "Somebody's meant to come in from the state Fish and Game later this week, see if they can help narrow the search."

"In the meantime, is there anywhere you can think we should start?" Sam asks.

"There's a rest stop just off the highway," she says. "It's popular with hitchers. We get a lot of college kids sometimes, too, trying to commune with nature. If Cassidy was here for long before the attack, she might have been there."

"We'll check it out," Dean says.

They go back to the motel to change out of their suits, make a plan. They've got their ties off and Dean's unbuttoning his shirt when Sam moves towards him. Quiet of the motel room, nothing but the rain on the roof, occasional hiss of tires cutting through standing water.

It could almost be like it used to. Like it was before hell, before everything. Maybe that would help.

Dean lifts his head, his adam's apple working. This close, Sam can see the sweat on his upper lip. He doesn't pull away as Sam's hands find their places on his hips, untucking the crisp lines of his shirt. He inhales suddenly like something's snapped, his lip curling as he says, "Do it."

Sam freezes, his hands falling away. "What the fuck," he says, taking a step back, dizzy and hurt, the unexpected sharpness of Dean's tone.

Dean blinks rapidly. "Nothing," he says, and whatever it was, rough-edged violence, is gone. "Fuck, sorry. I can't, not now."

"It's okay," Sam says, turning away before Dean can see him blush, can think of a lie to pass off as explanation.

They're dressed, jeans and layers of shirts like armor, when Sam says, "If it's not a werewolf, which it can't be because it doesn't match the phases of the moon, what do you think it is?" It's awkward, a lousy gambit, but Dean goes for it.

"Sasquatch," he says. "Maybe a cousin of yours."

"Ha," Sam says. "Some kind of manitou, maybe."

Dean's eyebrows draw together. "We gonna camp?" he asks.

Sam swallows. He doesn't have the energy for that. Ruby's coming by tonight and he has to be here. Doesn't want to think about what will happen if he misses her. "Maybe."

"Could make s'mores," Dean says.

"You just want to set something on fire," Sam says, and Dean smiles like a loaded shotgun, like a spray of rocksalt against skin (and he doesn't have the scars from that anymore, lost those when he was born again, and Sam thinks he misses them more than he lets on, scars like a map, like a rosary, a testament).

The library doesn't have anything as far as local legends, nothing that would explain the missing hearts.

"Shouldn't we be concentrating on saving the world?" Sam says, after the tenth false lead.

"What, you know how to do that now?" Dean asks. "Gimme a location, anything, and sure, we'll get right on that."

"Maybe you should ask Castiel," Sam says.

"Maybe I should," Dean says. "Or maybe I did and he was like absolutely no fucking help."

"He brought you back," Sam says. Reminding.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah, he did." Sam doesn't like his tone, angry and mocking, but there's nothing he can do about it now.

"Let's check out the rest stop the sheriff mentioned before it gets dark," he says.

It's nothing, a concrete building (poorly maintained, weather-ruined graffiti), a break in the trees, flat stretch of asphalt. There's nobody around, no tents or cars, SUVs out to conquer the wild or ancient hatchbacks with university stickers.

It makes sense. Cassidy was the third death, which is probably enough to scare everybody else away. Sam looks for someone watching them, beam of his flashlight shifting among the trees, looking for eyeshine. There's nothing.

The sun's setting. He digs his fingernails into his palms, tries to concentrate, not to count the minutes until he'll see Ruby.

He turns around. Dean's playing with his lighter, firelight flickering across his face, his hand over the flame. Weird look of concentration, his lips pursed. Sam stares at him and he looks up, clicks the lighter closed and shoves it back into his pocket.

"So we're done here," he says.

"Yeah," Sam says.

When Dean stops at the liquor store on the way back, Sam wants to say something. Thinks Dean's probably expecting it, but he does not want to have an argument now. And maybe that's cruel, because Dean waits a minute before going in, like there's something Sam could say that might stop him, but Sam's just so tired of this. Tired of trying, tired of Dean hating him for making an effort.

"You want anything?" Dean says, finally.

"Whatever," Sam says.

Dean's mouth flattens into a line and he nods. Doesn't quite manage to keep from slamming the door when he gets out of the car.

On his worst days Sam thinks that if he weren't so selfish, afraid of being alone again, maybe he'd just let Dean kill himself, if that's what Dean wants. He can't imagine enduring those long months again, though, and maybe he should feel guiltier about that than he actually does.

Dean turns the television on when they get back to the room. Sam doesn't know if he even knows what he's watching. He swallows. His own hands are starting to shake and he takes the bottle Dean offers. It won't help, not at all, but maybe Dean will assume that's the reason. Will let it go.

Neither of them talk. Sam wonders if Dean's waiting for him to give in, light into him, berate or accuse, shout about the thing with the lighter. Which, tough. It's a kid thing, really, a game. Not like Dean had a fucking gun to his head, knife to his throat.

Dean's eyes are dark, intent. "Ruby's probably better company, huh," he says, and Sam wonders how he knew. If he knew or if he's just guessing, trying to get a rise out of Sam. He's slurring his words and Sam would be alarmed, worried, except for when he thinks about it, he can't remember if Dean ate anything today. "Kinda things you do in the dark, anyway?"

Sam grits his teeth, pushes off of the bed, springs groaning angrily in protest.

"Call her, I don't fucking care," Dean says. He gets up, follows Sam. Edging way too close into his space. "I mean, all's between us is like, blood and family."

Sam turns and he doesn't mean to hit Dean, just means to push him back, get some space, but Dean's closer than he expected and Sam doesn't have time to correct, adjust his aim, pull back.

The look on Dean's face, though. Like he's fucking grateful. Stuns Sam for a moment and that's when Dean hits him back, punch landing wrong or maybe right, knuckle against bone, and for a moment Sam's vision flickers and it feels like he's breathing glass, shards embedded in his throat.

"Fuck, Sammy, I," Dean says, reaching for him, and Sam's head snaps up as Dean grabs his shirt, his eyes half-lidded and heavy as his other hand reaches clumsily for the back of Sam's neck. Sam sighs into it, no other option, the way his heart's beating. Like he's this close from shoving Dean back against the wall, bloodying his nose, breaking his bones.

Part of him wondering if that's what Dean wants. If this is what Dean wanted, if he had to be drunk because it's the only way he could keep from remembering.

Dean's pulse crashes against his throat as they stumble towards the bed and he tastes the blood spilling out from Dean's split lip. Hot and rich and if Dean even notices that he's bleeding, that Sam isn't flinching from it, maybe he takes it as a measure of devotion. It doesn't last long, friction and pressure until Dean sighs and his breathing evens out, his eyes drooping closed as Sam pulls away.

He closes the door quietly, but he doubts Dean would have woken if he'd slammed it.

Ruby's car is idling across the lot. Sam ducks his head. Cold night air as he walks towards it.

"Took you long enough," Ruby says.

"Thanks for waiting," Sam says.

She shrugs. "I've got a big heart."

"Why didn't he come back like you," Sam says. The words stick in his throat, come out more broken, more desperate, than he'd intended. Than he'd wanted. But she's seen him in far worse situations, far more humiliating. He looks up at her and her eyes look black in the dark.

She licks her lips. "You wouldn't want that, Sam," she says. She doesn't meet his eyes when she says, "Because there were some things he wouldn't do. Things that I did a long time ago."

He swallows. Her smile is a little sad when she hands him the knife and crawls across the gearstick, hot skin pressed against him.

Sam breathes in and tells himself this is necessary, necessary to save the world, to keep Dean from hell. And it's not about how much he likes it, how much he needs it. Because there is a fine line between moral and monster, in their line of work, and he still remembers it. Remembers what happens to those who cross.

Ruby's kiss, when she leaves, tastes of iron. He stands in the parking lot for a moment, listening to her engine fade. The sky is thick with clouds but he imagines he can see the stars through them, pinpricks of light, impossible quasars.

Dean's still asleep when he goes back inside.

The next morning, they sleep late. Sam's not sure if Dean even remembers, doesn't want to ask. He catches Dean prodding at the bruise darkening on his jaw, the line of blood on his lip, but Dean doesn't say anything, so neither does he.

At dark, he asks, "Are you good to do this?"

Dean looks briefly hurt and then nods, says, "Never better."

Dean drops him off down the highway and he cuts through the trees, silent, one with the night. Branches clutching at his arms and the air smells thick, loamy. Old, somehow, and heavy with rain. The fog clings to the trees, near-invisible in the dark. Dean's making a hell of a lot of noise, crashing through the bushes near the rest stop, sounding for all the world like a lost college kid looking for a thrill.

There's a knife strapped to Dean's ankle, though, and a gun loaded with silver bullets at his side. Sam wonders if he'll use them, if it becomes necessary.

He wonders what he'll do if Dean doesn't, if Dean moves too slowly, blood black on the forest floor and Sam swallows, because he knows what he will try if that happens. Because part of him wants to try, wants to know if it would work.

All this power to use for good, and Dean has no idea, doesn't even want to know.

The werewolf shows. Tracking Dean, and Sam tracking both of them. Flash of claws and teeth and fur before Dean spins, gun drawn, and Sam moves silently towards them.

Second in which Dean does not fire and the wolf does not leap. And then it turns, shivers into skin, human form. Male, mid-thirties, maybe. Long matted hair, dirt smeared across his skin.

"What the fuck," Dean says, sounding more annoyed, petulant, than afraid. "It's not even the full moon."

"Would you rely on the moon if you had a choice?" the man asks. Syllables enunciated carefully, like he hasn't spoken for ages, like he's started to forget how. "All this power, all the time, you think you would wait?"

Dean swallows. Sam's close enough to get a shot off, but he doesn't. Waits. He doesn't like the look on Dean’s face. He's seen it before, closed-off and dead. After Dad died. When Dean thought he should have died, instead.

"You're not human," Dean says.

"Neither are you," the man says. "I can see it, beneath your skin. What allegiance do you have to these people?"

Dean pulls the trigger before he can say anything else. The man's mouth is still open when he hits the ground.

Sam breaks a branch deliberately and Dean turns around, black on black against the depth of the trees. "Mutant werewolf," he says. "Don't make 'em like they used to."

"Those were the good old days," Sam says, half-heartedly, watching Dean's expression. It doesn't change.

It doesn't take long to pack up their gear. They're driving out of town, beneath that grey sky (in ancient times people used to believe the stars were the holes through which God watched over the earth, but Sam knows now more than ever that God is not watching), when Sam says, "If we could stop, I mean, if we didn't have to finish this--"

Dean glances over at him. "This is what we do, Sam," he says, weary, like he's only reciting lines. "Save the world. Hunt things, save people." It's not the enthusiasm Sam wanted, but he nods. All these years and Dean still gives him what he wants, tries as best as he can.

"Yeah," he says, and he wonders how long it will take for Dean to give in, to tell him, for Sam to make things okay. And after that, for Sam to be able to tell Dean everything.

He shouldn't look forward to that day, but he does. All sorts of dark things living in the woods, and maybe Dean will understand even better than he imagined.