Fanfic - SPN: Plain Gold Band - Ch. 3 - The Burn
Title: Plain Gold Band [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Three: The Burn
[055.Jealous]
In the bar, Dean relaxed some, every swish of alcohol down his throat dragging tension from his shoulders and warming the knot of cold he'd felt on the drive over. He chatted up the barista, smirk in full force, and when she asked if he was from around there or just passing through, he said, "Gone by the end of the week."
She sighed a little, like she wished that wasn't the case even though they both knew it'd be better this way, and three beers later there was a note scrawled on his napkin:
basement
emps only
5 mins
He smiled, tossed back the last bit of his brew, and moseyed on over to the stairs, hoping the sound of a woman's moans would drown out the echo of his brother's need.
When she slid through the door after he'd been there for sixty seconds or so, they didn't even talk. It made things easier. Their mouths found each other before they'd even finished their first sharing of stale air and his arms wound around to lift her onto the counter next to the sink, her skirt shoved up, knee to hip. Then there was latex, pre-lubed, and bodies sliding into each other, her fingers moving between them, and a clenching around his dick that made both their breaths that much louder. It was good, god so good, but then it was over and they were packing up, neither ashamed but neither proud.
He left first, no hard feelings or anything, it just seemed the time. Heading back up for another drink or five, he let himself smile, pleasantly surprised that his barstool was still empty.
She worked the other end of the bar from then on.
His lips turned down, frowning into his drink as he leaned over the bar counter, both trying to drown and trying to stay afloat somehow. Quick and sweet was just fine, but he didn't really feel any better, the anxious energy he'd needed to burn still churning under his skin, needing a spark to ignite it and send it back to something manageable.
In his boredom and alcohol-born inner warmth, he spun on his barstool, not like a child, though it was mildly fun, but like a man slowly scoping the goods on offer in the full circle of the room. Nothing clicked, though. No one interesting sprung up. There were some nice-looking college girls in the corner, but he wanted something more and the tough tattooed chicks around the middle pool table weren't quite his style. Not tonight, at least.
There was this guy, though, all angles and shadows, and Dean knew he didn't even need to be looking that way, thinking that way. All the reasons it was a bad idea paraded themselves across his mind, but … the guy was dark and broad and serious in a way that only true don't-fuck-with-me types tended to be. It made Dean wonder if the bartender wasn't enough because he really did need something harder, rougher, messier, something that would leave a mark and let him go no-holds-barred in a way he just wouldn't allow himself to do with most women. It was something Sam seemed to be promising with every look, every word, and every step, but he couldn't take that from his brother, wouldn't take it.
He stared a little too long, though, in his musings, and when the guy lifted his head, he was looking right at him.
The eyes were what held him, or he swore he would've moved, would've dragged the redhead passing by into his lap like a drunken fool even though he wasn't one, giving himself a proper distraction from improper wants. The man's eyes were some color that looked jet black in the low light, wells into something that made Dean's stomach tighten, but they were smoldering somehow, as if filled with freshly dampened ash and still smoking. It felt impossible to tear himself away from them and his cock was just as snake-charmed as the rest of him.
When Dean could, he dropped his gaze in time with the man's blink, losing what might have been a staring contest, but not really caring. He swiveled back to down the rest of his drink in gulps that almost hurt, hoping the burn would calm the thoughts running fast into out-of-bounds territory. But then the guy he'd hoped to avoid was leaning not far from him on the bar, not touching and not speaking for a moment, just there.
Dean held his breath.
"Why don't we step out back for a minute?"
Dean could feel the words skating down his spine like living liquid with a fever and he was saying "yeah" and sliding to his feet before he'd even thought beyond the yearnings of his cock. He didn't turn back, though, even when reality hit him in the way of cold air and the smell of bad trash going worse. He needed this and he knew it.
Watching the guy's back straighten as he stopped in the middle of the alley, his shoulders squaring, Dean wasn't quite sure how this would go down, but he was wide open, adrenaline charging through his system like a bullet train. The first movement was swift and came with only the subtlest of starting shifts. Most people wouldn't have been able to duck it, let alone come back with a swipe that left their opponent staggering, but Dean wasn't most people.
The guy stepped away, cracking his neck, and looked Dean up and down with a laugh that said this was going to be fun. Dean tossed back a smirk of his own, hands crooking to beckon as he breathed through the rush of a long-needed fight. Then there was a blur and they were in it and deep, arms and bodies connecting more than fists as they grappled, rough and tumbling, only upright. His jacket and jeans scratched against the unsanded bricks as teeth marred necks and cocks ground against each other, all heat and wiry hair, open flies and calloused hands, until grunts gave way to huffs of relief and he was struck by reality again.
They barely looked at each other when it was over, zipping up and walking off in opposite directions after they'd spilled and gifted the wall with wipings of their spunk.
The alley reeked where he exited, rotten eggs chasing him like phantoms to the car, but from the car to the motel, it was the man's cologne that lingered, even stronger than the scent of alcohol, clinging heavily on Dean's tongue and clothes and skin until all he wanted was a good shower and an even better sleep. It made him drive right past the all-night corner store and barge into the room weighted by exhaustion and annoyance, but little else. He didn't have time to soak in his funk, though. All his focus was on Sam.
"Sam?" Dean slid across the carpet and to his knees beside his brother at high speed, like a runner aiming for home plate.
Sam sat on the floor at the end of his bed, knees pulled up tight to his chest, his arms squeezing them to him in a way that looked almost painful, as if he could open his abdomen and fold the rest of himself inside. He was fully clothed, but wearing too many layers, as if he'd yanked on anything in reach, expecting to wake up in the arctic without his bag. His eyes were dazed and there were mumblings flowing out with his breath, words that came clearer as Dean huddled in close, anxiety burrowing deep enough to make his bones ache.
"Sam?"
"No … no … no … not strong enough."
"Sam!" He shook Sam's shoulders, trying to get his brother's attention, but Sam's face remained slack with fright, eyes shining with fever as his voice became louder and tears started to fall.
"Can't … can't … can't … Dean- …not- … can't … Please? Please? Please? … Dean! … No … no no no no no … can't … can't … can't."
"Sam! Come on. I'm right here. No one else. Just me, okay? Just- … SAM! Snap out of it!" Shaking wasn't working and Sam's hysteria was mounting, his sobbing increasing in volume with every word until there would be screamed pleading in moments if Dean didn't get him under control.
The less-than-gentle slap Dean landed across Sam's face quieted his brother instantly, but his eyes were still spilling out waves of water and seeing something not at all the same as what was in front of his face. When he opened his mouth again it was as if there was more than one softly psychotic conversation going on in his head.
"Please? …Not strong enough. … Can't. … Dean. … No. No. No. Can't. … Not strong enough."
Dean tried softer this time, his voice coaxing though edged with desperation. "Sam, can you hear me? I think- … I don't know, but- … It's just a vision, okay? I think. I mean … whatever it is, it's not happening. You're with me, okay? You're safe. I swear."
Sam started nodding gently, almost absentmindedly, and Dean felt his lungs let in more air. The muttering that followed Sam's nodding, though, told Dean that his brother hadn't heard him after all.
"Not strong enough. Not strong enough. Not strong enough. Not strong enough. …"
"Sam?" There was a crack in his voice that grated in his ears, but he'd never seen Sam get so lost in a vision before and- … and he didn't know what else to do. "Sam, come on. Don't- … don't lose it on me, okay?"
"Not strong enough…. Yet. … Not- …" Sam blinked, twice and slow, before his eyes finally focused again, words shrinking to nothing before he found something that fit his tongue better. "Dean?!"
"Yeah, Sam. I'm- …" Dean couldn't get more out, though, before Sam was all but in his lap, Sam's arms clenched tight around him and Sam's nose buried in his collarbone, wetting his shirt with the last of his tears.
Dean was about to say something else, but Sam's drained "I'm sorry" thrummed against his shoulder and he shook his head, arms settling around his brother. "It's okay." He almost thought there'd be some wisecrack itching in his throat, but there wasn't, he was just tense with a mix of worry and relief. "Don't worry. I've got you."
Nodding again, though only subtly, Sam repeated the words, but re-crafted them somehow, until Dean wasn't sure what they meant anymore. "I know. I know. I know. Not worried- … Not- … It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."
At a loss, Dean just nodded with him, stroking a hand down his back. "Yeah, Sammy. It's okay."
They breathed in the quiet for a long time as Sam calmed, his jitters leaving him slack and his pulse resolving to something more sustainable. It reminded Dean of who they'd been years before, little boys with nightmares and guns under their pillows, hunkering down in the warmth of each other when everything else in their lives was too cold to face alone. He was surprised by how easy this was to do again, how right it felt, even though it scared him shitless to see Sam flailing like this, fingers digging into him as if something might try to drag him away.
"Sam?"
Dean felt his brother stiffen and immediately regretted saying anything, but the sooner he knew what was actually wrong, the sooner he could start working to fix it.
"Can you tell me what you saw?"
Pulling back from the embrace, reluctant and refusing to meet Dean's eyes, Sam shook his head. "It's- … It's not about the case and … it wouldn't help with anything, okay? It's just- … I just wasn't ready for it. That's all. I felt it coming on and … I thought I could handle it, but … it was- …" He shook his head harder, swallowing rapidly but unable to put any more words to it than the ones he'd already said.
"Okay. Okay." Dean stroked a hand down his brother's arm. "Was it about the war?"
Sam nodded, but his eyes were skipping around, not quite settling anywhere, and Dean wasn't sure if he was actually listening or not.
"Sam, I need you to stay with me, okay? I need you to focus for a minute and then we can get some sleep, alright?"
Nodding more, Sam brought his hands to his lap, fingers working against the nails numbly as he looked down, unseeing.
"Was it different than the vision you had earlier?"
"Yeah, but- … It was my fault, ya know? I- … I thought I had it figured out, but … I didn't and then- …" The creases in his forehead deepened into thick ropes of tense skin as he brought fear-blown but determined eyes up to meet Dean's. "I can handle it now, though. I didn't mean to- … I won't be a baby about it, okay? Sorry."
It was Dean's turn to shake his head, and he did so emphatically. "No, Sam. That's not even an issue. I don't care about that. I'm just glad you're okay."
"Really?" Gruffness was climbing into Sam's voice, his tone suspicious.
"Yeah, of course."
Suspicion turned to bitterness. "You didn't seem all that concerned when you were running out of here earlier."
Dean let out a heap of exasperated air, though he wasn't sure who he was more bothered by right then, himself or Sam. "You were- … I thought we needed some space. That's all. It didn't mean that I didn't care or something. I just didn't want to do that."
Sam nodded slowly, but reached up as if to brush Dean's hair. Dean tilted his head out of the way, shaking it subtly. "I still don't."
Taking his hand back, Sam's mouth opened and closed twice before he finally decided not to say anything, his palms and fingers rubbing raw on the sides of his jeans. His eyes wandered away as the speed and pressure of that rubbing increased and Dean resolved to stop his nervous actions before they had to deal with bloodstains and sore gun hands.
"Sam- …"
"I think I'm gonna- … I'm gonna take another shower. I smell like- … I'm gonna take another shower, okay? You don't- …I mean- … I know you're clean and I don't wanna- …" His hands stopped abruptly and he moved to get up, but Dean stopped him, fingers curled around his arm.
"Hey. Calm down. You don't have to- … That's not you that you're smelling. It's me, okay?"
Sam's eyes looked at Dean as if seeing him for the first time. "You don't wear cologne, Dean. I must've gotten a bad batch or something. I don't think it smelled like this earlier. This is- …" His nose wrinkled up and he started rubbing his hands over his jeans again, as if the cologne was a layer of invisible filth he needed to scrub away. "This is seriously making me sick."
"You didn't. It's not your cologne. It's- …" He sucked in air, entirely unsure if this was really the lesser of two evils, but Sam seemed genuinely distressed and would know if he made up some story that didn't fit with what happened. "There was this guy …" His words tapered off as he saw the anxiety in Sam's eyes instantly snap into something darker.
"Yeah? … Some guy, huh?" Sam ran a tongue over his teeth and it seemed somehow menacing, as if he was testing to see if they were sharp enough. "Was he good, Dean?"
"It wasn't like that."
"Ugh." Sam's whole body seemed to roll as he pulled even further away, teeth grinding visibly and expression sinking into angry disgust. "I thought we agreed that you weren't going to lie to me."
"I'm not- …" Dean's face and shoulders scrunched, frustration weighting his throat as he looked at Sam. Was this really the guy who'd just been crying his eyes out and clinging to him like he'd done around age four? "Sam, listen, I'm sorry about lying, but … it's not really any of your business, so- …"
"You're right." Sam breathed deep, looking away from Dean as he nodded slowly, calm in a way that only put Dean more on edge. Then he stood with a sudden grace that Dean had always envied in certain fighters and never found in his brother.
In a blink, the room was stifling with heat, like they were caught in a Tallahassee summer more than winter in San Fran, and looking up at his brother right then was almost like looking up at someone else. "Sam?"
"No, you're right, Dean." Sam was tense, almost trembling again, but from holding back something far less manageable than tears. "If you want to roll over for some nameless, faceless guy who's so fucking filthy he has to douse himself with cologne in order to hide that he hasn't washed in two weeks, then … hey, do your thing." Sam laughed, a wild flood of nerves and disbelief, then he strode around his kneeling brother, his coat and cell finding their way to his hands as he headed for the door.
"Sam, come on, it wasn't- …" He didn't know why he was explaining all of a sudden, damn near apologizing. It wasn't like- …It shouldn't matter, but- … He cringed as he turned and stood, seeing the way Sam's muscles were bunched enough to be noticeable even through several layers of fabric. "It didn't mean anything."
Sam wasn't listening, though, didn't hear him or didn't believe him, and his hand was already wrapping around the knob as his words fell rapidly out of him, aimed at the door. "Do whatever the fuck you want, Dean. Like you said, none of my business. But umm … since you don't care about who or why or where or how nasty they are … then why don't you at least … ask for some compensation next time? 'Cause … not all of us are good at spreading our legs for whoever-the-fuck wants in and … … … we're a little short on cash."
Dean's head snapped back with a full-body recoil as if he'd been struck. "What?!"
Sam was already out the door, though, and it slammed shut behind him before Dean could even think to move. By the time he blinked his way through the shock, his hand was still unsteady in its reaching for the door and when he finally flung it open, the stench of sickness overran his senses and Sam was nowhere to be seen.
"Sam? Sam!"
No answer.
"Sam, come on!"
Nothing.
"Fuck."
Part of him thought he should be snarling for a fight after words like that, thought he should storm around in the dark and set his brother straight, but a bigger part of him remembered the tears and utter terror on his brother's face and knew harsh words wouldn't help anything right now. They both needed to cool down.
He shut the door and shot a punch into the wood that made his knuckles ache, but he felt defeated. If he was honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he kind of felt like an ass. It wasn't that he didn't go out and fuck whomever he liked whenever he got the urge, because he certainly did. Tonight, though, Sam had needed him and he hadn't been there because he'd been working so hard to get away from Sam's strangeness that he'd overlooked the reason for it in the first place.
He should've remembered that Sam's visions came in waves, should've stuffed down his own discomfort and recognized that Sam wasn't okay, should've known that Sam needed more than time to surf channels or a case of beer and- … He closed his eyes, recalling that in his rush to get a shower he hadn't even brought Sam back a beer.
"Damnit." He sunk another punch into the back of the door, trying not to think about Sam stumbling somewhere, hurting every way possible and still not wanting to be in the same room with him.
Dean sighed, throwing himself onto his bed, too pissed at himself to even think about television.
Eight months was a damn long time. He'd waited and worried and followed every trail he could find and some he had to invent just to get Sam back and now? It was only their first case and he was fucking things up already, trying to do all the supposedly right things but in the wrong ways and without really knowing if they were right for Sam at all. Sam had never been easy to understand, but now it was like everything had changed, the language, the rules, the outcomes. He had no idea what he was doing with Sam and that thought nearly made him ill. He'd be lying if he said he'd be okay with Sam disappearing again and the idea churned in his stomach more and more intensely as the minutes ticked by.
He didn't even try to go to sleep, as if he could. Instead, he waited up with late night TV, hoping to smooth things out at least somewhat before the morning. In the early dark hours of the next day, though, he seriously started to second guess his decision to not go after Sam when he'd first stomped out. Maybe Sam was howling on his knees somewhere, throwing up from pain and his disgust over Dean's behavior. Maybe he should- … His phone rang, tinny rock music playing for a few seconds while he scrambled for it and flipped it open.
"Sam?"
"Yeah."
"You coming back?" He hated how needy that sounded, when it had seemed so righteously annoyed in his head.
Silence.
"Sam?"
"You've still got my laptop and the rest of my clothes."
There was no hint of sarcasm present, but Dean refused to let his stomach sink that low. "That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
Dean sniffed, eyes suddenly straining enough to bring on the start of a headache. "So, that's it? You're just gonna pack up and haul out?" He congratulated himself on keeping all the curses from slamming themselves into the phone.
"Would it matter?"
Sam's words were hard, like he already knew the answer, an answer that was wrong, and Dean balked. "What? Of course! What are you- … You just called me to come back into things and now you want to run away again? Yeah, Sam. It matters."
"Does it matter because you think you owe dad something or because you think I can't take care of myself?"
Both? Neither? "Sam- …" You're all I've got? I need you? I'm going to lose my mind if you do this again? "I can't- … I'm sorry, okay? I was an ass and- …" Don't leave me. "I was an ass."
Silence.
His throat ached like it was swollen inside as he blinked over wet eyes he'd always staunchly deny. "Come on, Sam. Don't- …"
"I'm not going anywhere, but … I can't handle this right now, okay? So … don't wait up." The words came out like pulled teeth, yanked and painful, and Dean wanted to ask where Sam was, if he was really okay, but- … click … and the line went dead.
He held the phone to his ear a long time, just staring at the foot of his bed, everything twisting in his mind like the midnight snacks rioting in his stomach. The call was hardly enough to really quell his concerns, but his head hated him right then, his body too, and he rubbed his eyes before tossing the phone onto the nightstand and shoving his knife under the pillow.
Sam would be there come morning or Dean would start his search over again. It was sad, but simply true. If Sam wanted to go, even industrial steel cuffs wouldn't keep him long term. All Dean could hope for was a trail he could follow, even if he'd never be allowed to do anything more than just follow.
Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Epilogue
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Three: The Burn
[055.Jealous]
In the bar, Dean relaxed some, every swish of alcohol down his throat dragging tension from his shoulders and warming the knot of cold he'd felt on the drive over. He chatted up the barista, smirk in full force, and when she asked if he was from around there or just passing through, he said, "Gone by the end of the week."
She sighed a little, like she wished that wasn't the case even though they both knew it'd be better this way, and three beers later there was a note scrawled on his napkin:
basement
emps only
5 mins
He smiled, tossed back the last bit of his brew, and moseyed on over to the stairs, hoping the sound of a woman's moans would drown out the echo of his brother's need.
When she slid through the door after he'd been there for sixty seconds or so, they didn't even talk. It made things easier. Their mouths found each other before they'd even finished their first sharing of stale air and his arms wound around to lift her onto the counter next to the sink, her skirt shoved up, knee to hip. Then there was latex, pre-lubed, and bodies sliding into each other, her fingers moving between them, and a clenching around his dick that made both their breaths that much louder. It was good, god so good, but then it was over and they were packing up, neither ashamed but neither proud.
He left first, no hard feelings or anything, it just seemed the time. Heading back up for another drink or five, he let himself smile, pleasantly surprised that his barstool was still empty.
She worked the other end of the bar from then on.
His lips turned down, frowning into his drink as he leaned over the bar counter, both trying to drown and trying to stay afloat somehow. Quick and sweet was just fine, but he didn't really feel any better, the anxious energy he'd needed to burn still churning under his skin, needing a spark to ignite it and send it back to something manageable.
In his boredom and alcohol-born inner warmth, he spun on his barstool, not like a child, though it was mildly fun, but like a man slowly scoping the goods on offer in the full circle of the room. Nothing clicked, though. No one interesting sprung up. There were some nice-looking college girls in the corner, but he wanted something more and the tough tattooed chicks around the middle pool table weren't quite his style. Not tonight, at least.
There was this guy, though, all angles and shadows, and Dean knew he didn't even need to be looking that way, thinking that way. All the reasons it was a bad idea paraded themselves across his mind, but … the guy was dark and broad and serious in a way that only true don't-fuck-with-me types tended to be. It made Dean wonder if the bartender wasn't enough because he really did need something harder, rougher, messier, something that would leave a mark and let him go no-holds-barred in a way he just wouldn't allow himself to do with most women. It was something Sam seemed to be promising with every look, every word, and every step, but he couldn't take that from his brother, wouldn't take it.
He stared a little too long, though, in his musings, and when the guy lifted his head, he was looking right at him.
The eyes were what held him, or he swore he would've moved, would've dragged the redhead passing by into his lap like a drunken fool even though he wasn't one, giving himself a proper distraction from improper wants. The man's eyes were some color that looked jet black in the low light, wells into something that made Dean's stomach tighten, but they were smoldering somehow, as if filled with freshly dampened ash and still smoking. It felt impossible to tear himself away from them and his cock was just as snake-charmed as the rest of him.
When Dean could, he dropped his gaze in time with the man's blink, losing what might have been a staring contest, but not really caring. He swiveled back to down the rest of his drink in gulps that almost hurt, hoping the burn would calm the thoughts running fast into out-of-bounds territory. But then the guy he'd hoped to avoid was leaning not far from him on the bar, not touching and not speaking for a moment, just there.
Dean held his breath.
"Why don't we step out back for a minute?"
Dean could feel the words skating down his spine like living liquid with a fever and he was saying "yeah" and sliding to his feet before he'd even thought beyond the yearnings of his cock. He didn't turn back, though, even when reality hit him in the way of cold air and the smell of bad trash going worse. He needed this and he knew it.
Watching the guy's back straighten as he stopped in the middle of the alley, his shoulders squaring, Dean wasn't quite sure how this would go down, but he was wide open, adrenaline charging through his system like a bullet train. The first movement was swift and came with only the subtlest of starting shifts. Most people wouldn't have been able to duck it, let alone come back with a swipe that left their opponent staggering, but Dean wasn't most people.
The guy stepped away, cracking his neck, and looked Dean up and down with a laugh that said this was going to be fun. Dean tossed back a smirk of his own, hands crooking to beckon as he breathed through the rush of a long-needed fight. Then there was a blur and they were in it and deep, arms and bodies connecting more than fists as they grappled, rough and tumbling, only upright. His jacket and jeans scratched against the unsanded bricks as teeth marred necks and cocks ground against each other, all heat and wiry hair, open flies and calloused hands, until grunts gave way to huffs of relief and he was struck by reality again.
They barely looked at each other when it was over, zipping up and walking off in opposite directions after they'd spilled and gifted the wall with wipings of their spunk.
The alley reeked where he exited, rotten eggs chasing him like phantoms to the car, but from the car to the motel, it was the man's cologne that lingered, even stronger than the scent of alcohol, clinging heavily on Dean's tongue and clothes and skin until all he wanted was a good shower and an even better sleep. It made him drive right past the all-night corner store and barge into the room weighted by exhaustion and annoyance, but little else. He didn't have time to soak in his funk, though. All his focus was on Sam.
"Sam?" Dean slid across the carpet and to his knees beside his brother at high speed, like a runner aiming for home plate.
Sam sat on the floor at the end of his bed, knees pulled up tight to his chest, his arms squeezing them to him in a way that looked almost painful, as if he could open his abdomen and fold the rest of himself inside. He was fully clothed, but wearing too many layers, as if he'd yanked on anything in reach, expecting to wake up in the arctic without his bag. His eyes were dazed and there were mumblings flowing out with his breath, words that came clearer as Dean huddled in close, anxiety burrowing deep enough to make his bones ache.
"Sam?"
"No … no … no … not strong enough."
"Sam!" He shook Sam's shoulders, trying to get his brother's attention, but Sam's face remained slack with fright, eyes shining with fever as his voice became louder and tears started to fall.
"Can't … can't … can't … Dean- …not- … can't … Please? Please? Please? … Dean! … No … no no no no no … can't … can't … can't."
"Sam! Come on. I'm right here. No one else. Just me, okay? Just- … SAM! Snap out of it!" Shaking wasn't working and Sam's hysteria was mounting, his sobbing increasing in volume with every word until there would be screamed pleading in moments if Dean didn't get him under control.
The less-than-gentle slap Dean landed across Sam's face quieted his brother instantly, but his eyes were still spilling out waves of water and seeing something not at all the same as what was in front of his face. When he opened his mouth again it was as if there was more than one softly psychotic conversation going on in his head.
"Please? …Not strong enough. … Can't. … Dean. … No. No. No. Can't. … Not strong enough."
Dean tried softer this time, his voice coaxing though edged with desperation. "Sam, can you hear me? I think- … I don't know, but- … It's just a vision, okay? I think. I mean … whatever it is, it's not happening. You're with me, okay? You're safe. I swear."
Sam started nodding gently, almost absentmindedly, and Dean felt his lungs let in more air. The muttering that followed Sam's nodding, though, told Dean that his brother hadn't heard him after all.
"Not strong enough. Not strong enough. Not strong enough. Not strong enough. …"
"Sam?" There was a crack in his voice that grated in his ears, but he'd never seen Sam get so lost in a vision before and- … and he didn't know what else to do. "Sam, come on. Don't- … don't lose it on me, okay?"
"Not strong enough…. Yet. … Not- …" Sam blinked, twice and slow, before his eyes finally focused again, words shrinking to nothing before he found something that fit his tongue better. "Dean?!"
"Yeah, Sam. I'm- …" Dean couldn't get more out, though, before Sam was all but in his lap, Sam's arms clenched tight around him and Sam's nose buried in his collarbone, wetting his shirt with the last of his tears.
Dean was about to say something else, but Sam's drained "I'm sorry" thrummed against his shoulder and he shook his head, arms settling around his brother. "It's okay." He almost thought there'd be some wisecrack itching in his throat, but there wasn't, he was just tense with a mix of worry and relief. "Don't worry. I've got you."
Nodding again, though only subtly, Sam repeated the words, but re-crafted them somehow, until Dean wasn't sure what they meant anymore. "I know. I know. I know. Not worried- … Not- … It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."
At a loss, Dean just nodded with him, stroking a hand down his back. "Yeah, Sammy. It's okay."
They breathed in the quiet for a long time as Sam calmed, his jitters leaving him slack and his pulse resolving to something more sustainable. It reminded Dean of who they'd been years before, little boys with nightmares and guns under their pillows, hunkering down in the warmth of each other when everything else in their lives was too cold to face alone. He was surprised by how easy this was to do again, how right it felt, even though it scared him shitless to see Sam flailing like this, fingers digging into him as if something might try to drag him away.
"Sam?"
Dean felt his brother stiffen and immediately regretted saying anything, but the sooner he knew what was actually wrong, the sooner he could start working to fix it.
"Can you tell me what you saw?"
Pulling back from the embrace, reluctant and refusing to meet Dean's eyes, Sam shook his head. "It's- … It's not about the case and … it wouldn't help with anything, okay? It's just- … I just wasn't ready for it. That's all. I felt it coming on and … I thought I could handle it, but … it was- …" He shook his head harder, swallowing rapidly but unable to put any more words to it than the ones he'd already said.
"Okay. Okay." Dean stroked a hand down his brother's arm. "Was it about the war?"
Sam nodded, but his eyes were skipping around, not quite settling anywhere, and Dean wasn't sure if he was actually listening or not.
"Sam, I need you to stay with me, okay? I need you to focus for a minute and then we can get some sleep, alright?"
Nodding more, Sam brought his hands to his lap, fingers working against the nails numbly as he looked down, unseeing.
"Was it different than the vision you had earlier?"
"Yeah, but- … It was my fault, ya know? I- … I thought I had it figured out, but … I didn't and then- …" The creases in his forehead deepened into thick ropes of tense skin as he brought fear-blown but determined eyes up to meet Dean's. "I can handle it now, though. I didn't mean to- … I won't be a baby about it, okay? Sorry."
It was Dean's turn to shake his head, and he did so emphatically. "No, Sam. That's not even an issue. I don't care about that. I'm just glad you're okay."
"Really?" Gruffness was climbing into Sam's voice, his tone suspicious.
"Yeah, of course."
Suspicion turned to bitterness. "You didn't seem all that concerned when you were running out of here earlier."
Dean let out a heap of exasperated air, though he wasn't sure who he was more bothered by right then, himself or Sam. "You were- … I thought we needed some space. That's all. It didn't mean that I didn't care or something. I just didn't want to do that."
Sam nodded slowly, but reached up as if to brush Dean's hair. Dean tilted his head out of the way, shaking it subtly. "I still don't."
Taking his hand back, Sam's mouth opened and closed twice before he finally decided not to say anything, his palms and fingers rubbing raw on the sides of his jeans. His eyes wandered away as the speed and pressure of that rubbing increased and Dean resolved to stop his nervous actions before they had to deal with bloodstains and sore gun hands.
"Sam- …"
"I think I'm gonna- … I'm gonna take another shower. I smell like- … I'm gonna take another shower, okay? You don't- …I mean- … I know you're clean and I don't wanna- …" His hands stopped abruptly and he moved to get up, but Dean stopped him, fingers curled around his arm.
"Hey. Calm down. You don't have to- … That's not you that you're smelling. It's me, okay?"
Sam's eyes looked at Dean as if seeing him for the first time. "You don't wear cologne, Dean. I must've gotten a bad batch or something. I don't think it smelled like this earlier. This is- …" His nose wrinkled up and he started rubbing his hands over his jeans again, as if the cologne was a layer of invisible filth he needed to scrub away. "This is seriously making me sick."
"You didn't. It's not your cologne. It's- …" He sucked in air, entirely unsure if this was really the lesser of two evils, but Sam seemed genuinely distressed and would know if he made up some story that didn't fit with what happened. "There was this guy …" His words tapered off as he saw the anxiety in Sam's eyes instantly snap into something darker.
"Yeah? … Some guy, huh?" Sam ran a tongue over his teeth and it seemed somehow menacing, as if he was testing to see if they were sharp enough. "Was he good, Dean?"
"It wasn't like that."
"Ugh." Sam's whole body seemed to roll as he pulled even further away, teeth grinding visibly and expression sinking into angry disgust. "I thought we agreed that you weren't going to lie to me."
"I'm not- …" Dean's face and shoulders scrunched, frustration weighting his throat as he looked at Sam. Was this really the guy who'd just been crying his eyes out and clinging to him like he'd done around age four? "Sam, listen, I'm sorry about lying, but … it's not really any of your business, so- …"
"You're right." Sam breathed deep, looking away from Dean as he nodded slowly, calm in a way that only put Dean more on edge. Then he stood with a sudden grace that Dean had always envied in certain fighters and never found in his brother.
In a blink, the room was stifling with heat, like they were caught in a Tallahassee summer more than winter in San Fran, and looking up at his brother right then was almost like looking up at someone else. "Sam?"
"No, you're right, Dean." Sam was tense, almost trembling again, but from holding back something far less manageable than tears. "If you want to roll over for some nameless, faceless guy who's so fucking filthy he has to douse himself with cologne in order to hide that he hasn't washed in two weeks, then … hey, do your thing." Sam laughed, a wild flood of nerves and disbelief, then he strode around his kneeling brother, his coat and cell finding their way to his hands as he headed for the door.
"Sam, come on, it wasn't- …" He didn't know why he was explaining all of a sudden, damn near apologizing. It wasn't like- …It shouldn't matter, but- … He cringed as he turned and stood, seeing the way Sam's muscles were bunched enough to be noticeable even through several layers of fabric. "It didn't mean anything."
Sam wasn't listening, though, didn't hear him or didn't believe him, and his hand was already wrapping around the knob as his words fell rapidly out of him, aimed at the door. "Do whatever the fuck you want, Dean. Like you said, none of my business. But umm … since you don't care about who or why or where or how nasty they are … then why don't you at least … ask for some compensation next time? 'Cause … not all of us are good at spreading our legs for whoever-the-fuck wants in and … … … we're a little short on cash."
Dean's head snapped back with a full-body recoil as if he'd been struck. "What?!"
Sam was already out the door, though, and it slammed shut behind him before Dean could even think to move. By the time he blinked his way through the shock, his hand was still unsteady in its reaching for the door and when he finally flung it open, the stench of sickness overran his senses and Sam was nowhere to be seen.
"Sam? Sam!"
No answer.
"Sam, come on!"
Nothing.
"Fuck."
Part of him thought he should be snarling for a fight after words like that, thought he should storm around in the dark and set his brother straight, but a bigger part of him remembered the tears and utter terror on his brother's face and knew harsh words wouldn't help anything right now. They both needed to cool down.
He shut the door and shot a punch into the wood that made his knuckles ache, but he felt defeated. If he was honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he kind of felt like an ass. It wasn't that he didn't go out and fuck whomever he liked whenever he got the urge, because he certainly did. Tonight, though, Sam had needed him and he hadn't been there because he'd been working so hard to get away from Sam's strangeness that he'd overlooked the reason for it in the first place.
He should've remembered that Sam's visions came in waves, should've stuffed down his own discomfort and recognized that Sam wasn't okay, should've known that Sam needed more than time to surf channels or a case of beer and- … He closed his eyes, recalling that in his rush to get a shower he hadn't even brought Sam back a beer.
"Damnit." He sunk another punch into the back of the door, trying not to think about Sam stumbling somewhere, hurting every way possible and still not wanting to be in the same room with him.
Dean sighed, throwing himself onto his bed, too pissed at himself to even think about television.
Eight months was a damn long time. He'd waited and worried and followed every trail he could find and some he had to invent just to get Sam back and now? It was only their first case and he was fucking things up already, trying to do all the supposedly right things but in the wrong ways and without really knowing if they were right for Sam at all. Sam had never been easy to understand, but now it was like everything had changed, the language, the rules, the outcomes. He had no idea what he was doing with Sam and that thought nearly made him ill. He'd be lying if he said he'd be okay with Sam disappearing again and the idea churned in his stomach more and more intensely as the minutes ticked by.
He didn't even try to go to sleep, as if he could. Instead, he waited up with late night TV, hoping to smooth things out at least somewhat before the morning. In the early dark hours of the next day, though, he seriously started to second guess his decision to not go after Sam when he'd first stomped out. Maybe Sam was howling on his knees somewhere, throwing up from pain and his disgust over Dean's behavior. Maybe he should- … His phone rang, tinny rock music playing for a few seconds while he scrambled for it and flipped it open.
"Sam?"
"Yeah."
"You coming back?" He hated how needy that sounded, when it had seemed so righteously annoyed in his head.
Silence.
"Sam?"
"You've still got my laptop and the rest of my clothes."
There was no hint of sarcasm present, but Dean refused to let his stomach sink that low. "That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
Dean sniffed, eyes suddenly straining enough to bring on the start of a headache. "So, that's it? You're just gonna pack up and haul out?" He congratulated himself on keeping all the curses from slamming themselves into the phone.
"Would it matter?"
Sam's words were hard, like he already knew the answer, an answer that was wrong, and Dean balked. "What? Of course! What are you- … You just called me to come back into things and now you want to run away again? Yeah, Sam. It matters."
"Does it matter because you think you owe dad something or because you think I can't take care of myself?"
Both? Neither? "Sam- …" You're all I've got? I need you? I'm going to lose my mind if you do this again? "I can't- … I'm sorry, okay? I was an ass and- …" Don't leave me. "I was an ass."
Silence.
His throat ached like it was swollen inside as he blinked over wet eyes he'd always staunchly deny. "Come on, Sam. Don't- …"
"I'm not going anywhere, but … I can't handle this right now, okay? So … don't wait up." The words came out like pulled teeth, yanked and painful, and Dean wanted to ask where Sam was, if he was really okay, but- … click … and the line went dead.
He held the phone to his ear a long time, just staring at the foot of his bed, everything twisting in his mind like the midnight snacks rioting in his stomach. The call was hardly enough to really quell his concerns, but his head hated him right then, his body too, and he rubbed his eyes before tossing the phone onto the nightstand and shoving his knife under the pillow.
Sam would be there come morning or Dean would start his search over again. It was sad, but simply true. If Sam wanted to go, even industrial steel cuffs wouldn't keep him long term. All Dean could hope for was a trail he could follow, even if he'd never be allowed to do anything more than just follow.
Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Epilogue