Two Heads Are Better Than One
Title: Two Heads Are Better Than One
Author: ZanneS
Rating: PG (bad language)
Genre: Gen, Crack
Characters: Sam and Dean
Summary: Sam and Dean are cursed and find that they have developed a more than mere telepathic bond. Imagine The Odd Couple, but taking place inside their own skulls.
Author's Notes: Thanks to
nativestar and
dragojustine for beta-ing! All mistakes left are mine since I added more after they edited it. A word of warning - Sammy curses a lot in this story. Since the talking is taking place mostly in his own head (or his brother's), I figured Sam was a bit like me with the cursing. Doesn't curse much on the outside, but the mere act of walking around demands several colorful turns of phrase when he's talking to himself. The important thing to remember is that they are going about their day as all of this inside talking is going on, so keep an image of them brushing their teeth, getting dressed, eating, walking, outside talking as the story progresses. Kripke owns all.
Two Heads Are Better Than One
This had to be the most fucked up thing that had ever happened to them, and that was saying something.
What it was saying - loudly and clearly in at least seven languages (three of them dead), semaphore, smoke signals, and fucking neon lights that blinked all night long - was that the Winchester boys had screwed up big time.
Well, the Winchester boy…namely Dean. Asshole.
Hey! I’m not an asshole!
Get out of my fucking head, Dean. A man has a right to privacy, especially in his own fucking cranium. This is all your fucking fault, you know.
Since when do you curse so much, Sammy? Damn. It’s like trawlin’ the docks with a sailor in here. I didn’t know pulling on socks required such profanity in the mornings. Or brushing your teeth; you know, I didn’t realize it was even possible to do that to a guy with a toothbrush. I had to draw a diagram to figure out the logistics of the threats your brain was mumbling at me this morning. You have got a twisted mind, Sammy. I’m impressed!
Dean! I told you to stay out of my fucking head. What the fuck were you doing snooping around? We made a deal - no unannounced visits to your brother’s skull.
I was going to ask what you wanted for breakfast, but since you’re such an ungrateful little bitch, I think I’ll let you starve.
That’s what your actual voice is for. Remember that noise that falls out of your big mouth and gets us into such fucking trouble? How about using that as nature intended?
Dean’s inner voice was larger than life, taking up far more space in Sam’s head than Sam would have thought possible. It was like Dean was trying to make up for his comparatively diminutive stature by being ten times as loud and annoying.
Don’t think I missed that little snipe. Just because you aren’t actively thinking it doesn’t mean I can’t get the background emo signal you emit at a steady frequency, Sam…and I am not short. You are freakishly tall.
God-dammit! Shut the fuck up, Dean.
Make me, Sammy.
Sam snapped, the frustration of having Dean traipsing through his mind for the past few hours fraying the last shred of sanity he’d been so desperately clinging to. With a focused mental shrug, Sam slammed into Dean, knocking him back into his own head with Sam following right behind.
So how do you fucking like it? Want me to leave dirty boot prints all over your memories of whatever the fuck her name was in Tallahassee?
Sam lashed out blindly, rifling through the clutter that lay heaped along the ridges and clefts of Dean’s brain. He apparently hit a sensitive area because the full weight of Dean fell on him - both mentally and physically - and they went sprawling, blindly kicking and punching and squawking in a way they hadn’t since they were kids…or since that Trickster got them, but that hardly counted.
After working out their frustration in a way that left both bruises and a minor migraine that left Sam feeling like he’d been on a night long bender, Sam took the time to look around. Unlike his brother, who had been unable to control his urge to clamber into Sam’s head for more than a minute, Sam regarded the inherent boundary of a man’s mind as sacrosanct and had managed to refrain from unwittingly wandering over into Dean’s head when he got bored.
Sam was beginning to wish he’d remained in his own skull, fearing he’d never feel clean again.
Shit, Dean. Your brain is a fucking sty. Could you try to pick up the porno mags that are stuck to every fucking surface in here?
I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap when this is over, Sam. You have a serious problem with expressing yourself appropriately.
I can swear all I like in my own fucking head, Dean…or in yours. No one can fucking hear me.
I can hear you!
Sam ignored him, casually picking up an issue and idly flipping through the pages.
What he found astounded him.
Jesus Christ, Dean. Your mind works in fucked up ways.
Dean came closer, peering over Sam’s shoulder at the centerfold open in his hands.
October 1999……ahhh, good year.
Not that…that. Why do all of Miss October’s vital stats relate to poltergeists?
Don’t you remember, Sam? That case in Franklinville?
When Sam remained quiet, Dean snorted derisively.
Seems my organizational system works better than yours, doesn’t it?
Dean chortled happily, grabbing the magazine out of Sam’s hands and flipping through the pages, mumbling absently about the article relating to possessions that accompanied the sweater-less cheerleader a few pages later.
Sam left Dean to his own devices, wandering around aimlessly before peering more closely at a magazine hiding under a cranial ridge off to his left.
Holy fuck, is that a sheep?
Dean kicked it out of Sam’s eyeline, his voice definitely sounding a little flushed.
That wasn’t mine! Found it in a Texaco bathroom in Omaha and it scarred me for life.
The doubtful silence alerted Dean to Sam’s opinion on the matter.
Dude, I don’t do sheep. That’s just gross. Besides, there are some nice tidbits about farm animal familiars in there. I have an entire issue of Dog Fancy about nothing but Hellhounds and Black dogs.
Mm-hhmmm….
You can damn well look around and see for yourself.
Sam immediately headed for a shadowed area off to the right when Dean suddenly cut him off, pushing Sam back towards his own head space with an almost palpable desperation.
I think it’s time we went to breakfast, Sam. I’m feeling a little lightheaded.
What’s over there, Dean?
Algebra…sophomore English…first year French. Pretty much most of high school that didn’t involve girls and beer.
Quit bull-shitting me, Dean.
I’m serious!
Sam pressed nearer, the shadows darkening his sharp-edged features.
Hhhmmm, maybe you’re right, Sammy. You never did tell me the details about the night you lost your virginity. Her name was…Cameron? Cathy? You were fifteen, I think. I’ve never felt more like sharing!
With that, Dean bounced out of his own head, leaving Sam staring after him in shock.
God-dammit, Dean! Get back here!
Dean sauntered his way back in, his voice oozing a wide-eyed innocence. Sam could imagine the expression on his brother’s face.
Can’t take a joke? What made you so grouchy, Sammy?
Sam stood his ground, his presence suddenly looming large inside Dean’s skull as if he were hovering over Dean at his full height, filling all the nooks and crannies of Dean’s brain with pure, unadulterated Sam.
Oh, I dunno…maybe it was when my idiot brother decided to backtalk the fucking demon we were trying to banish and got us fucking cursed right before it disappeared in a puff of smoke without us having any fucking idea of what it actually did? Sound familiar, Dean?
Dean’s inner voice managed to shrink in on itself, sounding vaguely meek.
Um…no?
Sam couldn’t even share the same room with Dean after that, much less the same head space, so he went to the library for the rest of the morning in an attempt to forestall imminent fratricide. He was sure hearing the sound of his brother’s gory death in surround sound would cause more psychological damage than Sam was willing to endure right now - though the temptation was getting harder to resist with Dean popping up in his head every five minutes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Saaaammmmyyyyyy.
“Sam?”
Sammy! Where are you, you stupid jerk? Stop pouting!
“SAM!”
God-dammit, Dean. This is a fucking library. Shut the fuck up or we’ll be kicked out.
“Young man! There is no shouting in this library! If you keep it up, I’ll have to ask you to leave!” The elderly librarian glared at Dean through narrowed eyes, fuming silently at the interruption.
Holy crap, Sammy. This lady has more hair on her chin than Dad ever did.
Sam’s startled laugh echoed through the stacks, causing the librarian to cast another frown at Dean before staring accusingly at the other patrons, as if they were responsible for the ruckus in her library today.
“Sorry, ma’am. I lost my brother, but I think I have a lead.”
Where have you been hiding, Sam? I’ve been all over this place!
You damn well know I’m not going to be in the romance section where all the single women happen to hang out, asshole.
Dean’s inner voice brightened considerably as he got closer, already crowding its way further into Sam’s head and making itself comfortable, writhing wantonly like a cat against the ridges and folds of Sam’s cranium.
It made Sam feel like sneezing.
What are you doing here, Dean?
Lookin’ for you, genius.
Dean’s voice gentled and drew back reluctantly, trying to restrict itself to a small corner in Sam’s head to give his brother some privacy. He attempted to stick to vocalizing his thoughts, but they soon found that didn’t work as well as they imagined.
“I called Bobby. I called Bobby. He didn’t have anything on hand he didn’t have anything on hand, but he said he’d look things over for us but he said he’d look things over for us.”
A smaller voice began to trickle through in a vague undertone, so difficult to decipher with the outer and inner layers of words that Sam thought maybe he was imagining it.
“Bobby Bobby I hope said to call said to call it takes him back him back awhile.”
Sam blinked a few times, trying to get the echo out of his head.
“Something something why does wrong wrong he hate it Sammy Sammy so much?”
Sam really wasn’t prepared to hear this, that almost painful thread of sincerity that wove through even the most basic of Dean’s comments. It made Sam’s stomach lurch disconcertingly since he knew Dean would never openly admit to what truths lay exposed in his thoughts.
Sam stopped listening so closely, letting the faint echo of emotion fade into the background noise of Dean’s brain.
Might as well stay in our heads since we’re in the library, Dean. Less confusion that way.
It’s not meant to harm us directly, Bobby said, more like annoy the crap out of us. He said to be careful though, ‘cause some people who have been afflicted have snapped and killed their…receptors. Caused brain damage or death in the remaining person.
Oh, joyous news.
Wanna go get some lunch? There’s this Mexican place a block over.
Might as well. Never got any breakfast this morning, after all.
Not my fault, Sam! I was ready to take you out in public and everything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After spending all day trying to protect his brain from Dean - and to protect his brother from unknowingly revealing his innermost feelings because Dean would never forgive him if Sam took advantage of the situation - Sam came to the conclusion that Dean had almost no personal boundaries. Sure, they saw each other naked more than most brothers probably did, but what could anyone expect when they shared the same room for twenty-some years of their lives - and that so wasn’t the point - but this much closeness made beer an absolute necessity. Maybe even more than one.
Livin’ la vida loca….sha-la-la-lala!
No, definitely more than one. Had he realized that Dean’s brain was never silent, humming various bits of crap or singing odd words and phrases from whatever flitted through his head - be it commercial jingles or snatches of the Top-40 - Sam just might have hooked an IV of whiskey right up to his arm to forestall the pain.
An entire case of beer was looking more and more likely now that Dean had moved on to the greatest hits of Ricky Martin. That was almost as disturbing as the Ethel Merman riff earlier. Dean didn’t even seem to know he was doing it because when Sam had asked him to shut it the fuck up, Dean’s reply had been, “Ethel who?” before his brain stumbled into a rendition of something Sam swore Charo sang on a Love Boat episode.
They managed to make their way to the nearest bar, Sam trying to adjust to the constant company that weighed down his brain in an oddly uneven manner. It felt like having a head cold, when his balance was off and his head seemed far too full to carry around. Dean, however, adapted to the freakishness of their situation like he woke up every day with his consciousness curled up next to his brother’s.
Sam found it more and more obvious that Dean had difficulty with the concept of being alone since he’d been stuck to Sam’s brain like gum to a shoe from the moment this started.
It was annoying the hell out of him.
Sam was beginning to feel disconcertingly like a conjoined twin, minus the need for tailoring and appearances on Maury. He just hoped to God that Dean had some limitations to how far he’d go.
Holy fuck, Dean. This is gross and disturbing. I feel like I’m a participant in an endless bachelor party. Do the stag films ever stop running in your brain?
She’s good-lookin’ and I never really aspired to monk-hood…unlike you, Sam.
Dean smiled charmingly over at the woman in question, letting his eyes wander over her slim frame in open invitation.
Not funny, Dean. I feel violated just knowing what you’re thinking…and it’s not even just her. It’s every fucking woman in here! I’m getting dizzy from the shifting faces.
I didn’t ask you to wander over here. That was your doing.
It’s too loud in here to talk. I couldn’t fucking hear you.
I knew there was a reason I really liked this place. Seriously, Sam. Soap…your mouth…as soon as we get uncursed.
Ha-ha, Dean. Holy fuck! What was that?
Nothing, Sam. Have a beer.
I didn’t know you swung that way, Dean.
I don’t, Sammy. I am merely an observant hunter…observing…potential threats.
That guy’s ass is a threat?
Dean’s mental shrug quivered across Sam’s brain.
He’s my only competition.
Gee, thanks.
God knows you aren’t, Sam. The women here seem to think you’re my sister.
Fuck you, asshole.
Sam’s voice sounded oddly amused, despite the profanity. Dean was quickly realizing that his little brother’s innocent façade disguised a downright filthy mind, complete with canal barge lingo and an entire red light district that even he was afraid to peruse.
Dean had decided to pretend it wasn’t there - much like Barbie did with Ken’s genitals - and if he accidentally ran across something that might scar him more than that magazine from the Texaco station, he would try to remember all the lyrics to Stairway to Heaven backwards until the memory faded into something repressible.
Therapy was a very real possibility in his future. He could never look at Sam the same way again.
Dean, you are so not fucking anyone as long as we’re like this. My brain couldn’t take the sharing.
You some kind of voyeur, Sam? I wasn’t planning on letting your freaky brain watch.
Seriously, Dean? You have managed to share every fucking detail of your day so far - from your morning wood to how the fucking burrito you had for lunch affected your digestion. You seem completely fucking unable to keep anything to yourself.
S-O-A-P, Sam. No joke.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They managed to come to an agreement. Dean could have as much sex as he wanted while this was going on only if Sam could kill himself before it happened.
Dean decided that with as pissy as Sam was being, he wasn’t going to take the chance his brother might be serious. However, to ensure that Sam got the point that he was doing this under protest, Dean decided Sam deserved a little shared hangover and spent the rest of the evening consuming as many beers as possible.
Since Sam lost coordination after six, this left Dean clearly in charge. Unfortunately, Dean was then left with the physical weight of his brother’s heavy ass when he had to practically carry him out to the car and back into their motel room.
God, Sam. You may look thin, but you weigh a ton.
‘S all m’brain, Dean…and m’dick. They’re huuuuuge.
Just because you’re drunk doesn’t mean I’m not still gonna wash out your mouth later, Sam.
Sam proceeded to make a crude suggestion involving his mouth and a Tijuana whore….and something about lime wedges that sounded downright uncomfortable that had Dean wondering at his little brother’s inventiveness.
Dean had to take care tucking Sam in, because Sam’s never-ending litany of cursing and oddly obtuse sexual references was making Dean snort with amusement and nearly drop his brother face first onto the thin motel carpet. Dean wondered why Sam chose to show his mopey side to the outside world when he drank too much instead of acting out some of his rather entertaining hedonistic tendencies.
Sammy’s brain was kind of fun when he was drunk.
Dean collapsed onto his own bed once he heard Sam’s resonating snores, finding his thoughts wandering over to check on Sam as he began to fall asleep.
Sam was nowhere to be seen, which gave Dean a chance to leisurely look around as he waited for a sign of his brother. He was probably off throwing up in his parietal lobe or something.
Pushing his way past the files and neatly shelved books that seemed to compose most of the walls in Sam’s brain, Dean delved deeper into the convoluted recesses, feeling his trepidation grow. Just when he was thinking it was time to turn back and go home to the comforts of his own gray matter, Dean tripped over a loose board, nearly falling head first into a ragged hole that had been torn through the door before him. It obviously had been boarded up at one point, but the splintered boards were twisted precariously as if something had ripped its way out, leaving shards of aged wood littering the ground at Dean’s feet.
Dean stuck his head in, catching the tail end of fragmented whispers, pleas and shouts. Pack up, it’s time to head out…. Shoot it, Sammy! It’s after Dad! That’s an order, Sam…. This is what we do…. Grow up, Sam - what good will soccer do you? I’ll always take care of you, Sammy…. If you leave, don’t come back….
Dean stumbled backwards, feeling the solid weight of brick behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see a bricked over doorway against his back, a Stanford pennant tacked precariously across the stone. Beside it, a freshly bricked doorway stood drying, clumsily constructed but still solid, the sleeve of a brown and pale blue striped shirt dangling from between two crooked stones. Dean reached out hesitantly, his hand not daring to touch, remembering the last time he’d seen that shirt - the pain in Sam’s eyes as he went to do his job.
Wood wasn’t strong ‘nuff. Memories have their own strength. Couldn’t keep those contained - n’matter how hard I tried.
Sam’s thoughts struggled through the heaviness and Dean felt him at his back, looming so brokenly behind him as he gestured at the hole where Dean could still hear John’s voice trickling out…and sometimes even his own.
Learned to make ‘em stronger, to withstand the weight.
Sam’s hand hovered over the still damp mortar where that sleeve draped so gracelessly against the bricks, all too reminiscent of the limp arm of a dead woman hanging in his brother’s large arms.
What’re y’hidin’ in your dark place, Dean? You never let me in….
Dean was unable to answer, even when he felt Sam lean heavily against him, all of his natural grace gone in this moment of drunken weakness.
‘M tired, Dean. So tired.
Me, too, Sammy. Me, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam awoke the next morning to find himself alone in his own head. Absently studying the popcorn texture of the ceiling over his bed, Sam tried to journey over to check on Dean only to find himself stranded in his own brain.
“No more visitor’s passes,” Dean said sleepily, keeping his face averted from Sam’s side of the room. “We are islands unto ourselves once more.”
“Thank God it was only temporary.” Sam rolled over and frowned at Dean thoughtfully, the faint light seeping through the window spearing straight through his eyeballs. Squinting vaguely in Dean’s direction, Sam muttered grumpily, “Why are you so fucking poetic this morning?”
Dean sprang out of bed with an obscene amount of energy for as much as he’d imbibed the evening before. “OK, that is it.”
He slapped at Sam’s exposed foot as he made his way towards the bathroom, making Sam stir uneasily and keep a wary eye on his brother. “What’re you doing, Dean?” Sam asked through a yawn as he attempted to stretch without actually moving.
“Lookin’ for the damn soap!”
Author: ZanneS
Rating: PG (bad language)
Genre: Gen, Crack
Characters: Sam and Dean
Summary: Sam and Dean are cursed and find that they have developed a more than mere telepathic bond. Imagine The Odd Couple, but taking place inside their own skulls.
Author's Notes: Thanks to
nativestar and
dragojustine for beta-ing! All mistakes left are mine since I added more after they edited it. A word of warning - Sammy curses a lot in this story. Since the talking is taking place mostly in his own head (or his brother's), I figured Sam was a bit like me with the cursing. Doesn't curse much on the outside, but the mere act of walking around demands several colorful turns of phrase when he's talking to himself. The important thing to remember is that they are going about their day as all of this inside talking is going on, so keep an image of them brushing their teeth, getting dressed, eating, walking, outside talking as the story progresses. Kripke owns all.
Two Heads Are Better Than One
This had to be the most fucked up thing that had ever happened to them, and that was saying something.
What it was saying - loudly and clearly in at least seven languages (three of them dead), semaphore, smoke signals, and fucking neon lights that blinked all night long - was that the Winchester boys had screwed up big time.
Well, the Winchester boy…namely Dean. Asshole.
Hey! I’m not an asshole!
Get out of my fucking head, Dean. A man has a right to privacy, especially in his own fucking cranium. This is all your fucking fault, you know.
Since when do you curse so much, Sammy? Damn. It’s like trawlin’ the docks with a sailor in here. I didn’t know pulling on socks required such profanity in the mornings. Or brushing your teeth; you know, I didn’t realize it was even possible to do that to a guy with a toothbrush. I had to draw a diagram to figure out the logistics of the threats your brain was mumbling at me this morning. You have got a twisted mind, Sammy. I’m impressed!
Dean! I told you to stay out of my fucking head. What the fuck were you doing snooping around? We made a deal - no unannounced visits to your brother’s skull.
I was going to ask what you wanted for breakfast, but since you’re such an ungrateful little bitch, I think I’ll let you starve.
That’s what your actual voice is for. Remember that noise that falls out of your big mouth and gets us into such fucking trouble? How about using that as nature intended?
Dean’s inner voice was larger than life, taking up far more space in Sam’s head than Sam would have thought possible. It was like Dean was trying to make up for his comparatively diminutive stature by being ten times as loud and annoying.
Don’t think I missed that little snipe. Just because you aren’t actively thinking it doesn’t mean I can’t get the background emo signal you emit at a steady frequency, Sam…and I am not short. You are freakishly tall.
God-dammit! Shut the fuck up, Dean.
Make me, Sammy.
Sam snapped, the frustration of having Dean traipsing through his mind for the past few hours fraying the last shred of sanity he’d been so desperately clinging to. With a focused mental shrug, Sam slammed into Dean, knocking him back into his own head with Sam following right behind.
So how do you fucking like it? Want me to leave dirty boot prints all over your memories of whatever the fuck her name was in Tallahassee?
Sam lashed out blindly, rifling through the clutter that lay heaped along the ridges and clefts of Dean’s brain. He apparently hit a sensitive area because the full weight of Dean fell on him - both mentally and physically - and they went sprawling, blindly kicking and punching and squawking in a way they hadn’t since they were kids…or since that Trickster got them, but that hardly counted.
After working out their frustration in a way that left both bruises and a minor migraine that left Sam feeling like he’d been on a night long bender, Sam took the time to look around. Unlike his brother, who had been unable to control his urge to clamber into Sam’s head for more than a minute, Sam regarded the inherent boundary of a man’s mind as sacrosanct and had managed to refrain from unwittingly wandering over into Dean’s head when he got bored.
Sam was beginning to wish he’d remained in his own skull, fearing he’d never feel clean again.
Shit, Dean. Your brain is a fucking sty. Could you try to pick up the porno mags that are stuck to every fucking surface in here?
I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap when this is over, Sam. You have a serious problem with expressing yourself appropriately.
I can swear all I like in my own fucking head, Dean…or in yours. No one can fucking hear me.
I can hear you!
Sam ignored him, casually picking up an issue and idly flipping through the pages.
What he found astounded him.
Jesus Christ, Dean. Your mind works in fucked up ways.
Dean came closer, peering over Sam’s shoulder at the centerfold open in his hands.
October 1999……ahhh, good year.
Not that…that. Why do all of Miss October’s vital stats relate to poltergeists?
Don’t you remember, Sam? That case in Franklinville?
When Sam remained quiet, Dean snorted derisively.
Seems my organizational system works better than yours, doesn’t it?
Dean chortled happily, grabbing the magazine out of Sam’s hands and flipping through the pages, mumbling absently about the article relating to possessions that accompanied the sweater-less cheerleader a few pages later.
Sam left Dean to his own devices, wandering around aimlessly before peering more closely at a magazine hiding under a cranial ridge off to his left.
Holy fuck, is that a sheep?
Dean kicked it out of Sam’s eyeline, his voice definitely sounding a little flushed.
That wasn’t mine! Found it in a Texaco bathroom in Omaha and it scarred me for life.
The doubtful silence alerted Dean to Sam’s opinion on the matter.
Dude, I don’t do sheep. That’s just gross. Besides, there are some nice tidbits about farm animal familiars in there. I have an entire issue of Dog Fancy about nothing but Hellhounds and Black dogs.
Mm-hhmmm….
You can damn well look around and see for yourself.
Sam immediately headed for a shadowed area off to the right when Dean suddenly cut him off, pushing Sam back towards his own head space with an almost palpable desperation.
I think it’s time we went to breakfast, Sam. I’m feeling a little lightheaded.
What’s over there, Dean?
Algebra…sophomore English…first year French. Pretty much most of high school that didn’t involve girls and beer.
Quit bull-shitting me, Dean.
I’m serious!
Sam pressed nearer, the shadows darkening his sharp-edged features.
Hhhmmm, maybe you’re right, Sammy. You never did tell me the details about the night you lost your virginity. Her name was…Cameron? Cathy? You were fifteen, I think. I’ve never felt more like sharing!
With that, Dean bounced out of his own head, leaving Sam staring after him in shock.
God-dammit, Dean! Get back here!
Dean sauntered his way back in, his voice oozing a wide-eyed innocence. Sam could imagine the expression on his brother’s face.
Can’t take a joke? What made you so grouchy, Sammy?
Sam stood his ground, his presence suddenly looming large inside Dean’s skull as if he were hovering over Dean at his full height, filling all the nooks and crannies of Dean’s brain with pure, unadulterated Sam.
Oh, I dunno…maybe it was when my idiot brother decided to backtalk the fucking demon we were trying to banish and got us fucking cursed right before it disappeared in a puff of smoke without us having any fucking idea of what it actually did? Sound familiar, Dean?
Dean’s inner voice managed to shrink in on itself, sounding vaguely meek.
Um…no?
Sam couldn’t even share the same room with Dean after that, much less the same head space, so he went to the library for the rest of the morning in an attempt to forestall imminent fratricide. He was sure hearing the sound of his brother’s gory death in surround sound would cause more psychological damage than Sam was willing to endure right now - though the temptation was getting harder to resist with Dean popping up in his head every five minutes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Saaaammmmyyyyyy.
“Sam?”
Sammy! Where are you, you stupid jerk? Stop pouting!
“SAM!”
God-dammit, Dean. This is a fucking library. Shut the fuck up or we’ll be kicked out.
“Young man! There is no shouting in this library! If you keep it up, I’ll have to ask you to leave!” The elderly librarian glared at Dean through narrowed eyes, fuming silently at the interruption.
Holy crap, Sammy. This lady has more hair on her chin than Dad ever did.
Sam’s startled laugh echoed through the stacks, causing the librarian to cast another frown at Dean before staring accusingly at the other patrons, as if they were responsible for the ruckus in her library today.
“Sorry, ma’am. I lost my brother, but I think I have a lead.”
Where have you been hiding, Sam? I’ve been all over this place!
You damn well know I’m not going to be in the romance section where all the single women happen to hang out, asshole.
Dean’s inner voice brightened considerably as he got closer, already crowding its way further into Sam’s head and making itself comfortable, writhing wantonly like a cat against the ridges and folds of Sam’s cranium.
It made Sam feel like sneezing.
What are you doing here, Dean?
Lookin’ for you, genius.
Dean’s voice gentled and drew back reluctantly, trying to restrict itself to a small corner in Sam’s head to give his brother some privacy. He attempted to stick to vocalizing his thoughts, but they soon found that didn’t work as well as they imagined.
“I called Bobby. I called Bobby. He didn’t have anything on hand he didn’t have anything on hand, but he said he’d look things over for us but he said he’d look things over for us.”
A smaller voice began to trickle through in a vague undertone, so difficult to decipher with the outer and inner layers of words that Sam thought maybe he was imagining it.
“Bobby Bobby I hope said to call said to call it takes him back him back awhile.”
Sam blinked a few times, trying to get the echo out of his head.
“Something something why does wrong wrong he hate it Sammy Sammy so much?”
Sam really wasn’t prepared to hear this, that almost painful thread of sincerity that wove through even the most basic of Dean’s comments. It made Sam’s stomach lurch disconcertingly since he knew Dean would never openly admit to what truths lay exposed in his thoughts.
Sam stopped listening so closely, letting the faint echo of emotion fade into the background noise of Dean’s brain.
Might as well stay in our heads since we’re in the library, Dean. Less confusion that way.
It’s not meant to harm us directly, Bobby said, more like annoy the crap out of us. He said to be careful though, ‘cause some people who have been afflicted have snapped and killed their…receptors. Caused brain damage or death in the remaining person.
Oh, joyous news.
Wanna go get some lunch? There’s this Mexican place a block over.
Might as well. Never got any breakfast this morning, after all.
Not my fault, Sam! I was ready to take you out in public and everything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After spending all day trying to protect his brain from Dean - and to protect his brother from unknowingly revealing his innermost feelings because Dean would never forgive him if Sam took advantage of the situation - Sam came to the conclusion that Dean had almost no personal boundaries. Sure, they saw each other naked more than most brothers probably did, but what could anyone expect when they shared the same room for twenty-some years of their lives - and that so wasn’t the point - but this much closeness made beer an absolute necessity. Maybe even more than one.
Livin’ la vida loca….sha-la-la-lala!
No, definitely more than one. Had he realized that Dean’s brain was never silent, humming various bits of crap or singing odd words and phrases from whatever flitted through his head - be it commercial jingles or snatches of the Top-40 - Sam just might have hooked an IV of whiskey right up to his arm to forestall the pain.
An entire case of beer was looking more and more likely now that Dean had moved on to the greatest hits of Ricky Martin. That was almost as disturbing as the Ethel Merman riff earlier. Dean didn’t even seem to know he was doing it because when Sam had asked him to shut it the fuck up, Dean’s reply had been, “Ethel who?” before his brain stumbled into a rendition of something Sam swore Charo sang on a Love Boat episode.
They managed to make their way to the nearest bar, Sam trying to adjust to the constant company that weighed down his brain in an oddly uneven manner. It felt like having a head cold, when his balance was off and his head seemed far too full to carry around. Dean, however, adapted to the freakishness of their situation like he woke up every day with his consciousness curled up next to his brother’s.
Sam found it more and more obvious that Dean had difficulty with the concept of being alone since he’d been stuck to Sam’s brain like gum to a shoe from the moment this started.
It was annoying the hell out of him.
Sam was beginning to feel disconcertingly like a conjoined twin, minus the need for tailoring and appearances on Maury. He just hoped to God that Dean had some limitations to how far he’d go.
Holy fuck, Dean. This is gross and disturbing. I feel like I’m a participant in an endless bachelor party. Do the stag films ever stop running in your brain?
She’s good-lookin’ and I never really aspired to monk-hood…unlike you, Sam.
Dean smiled charmingly over at the woman in question, letting his eyes wander over her slim frame in open invitation.
Not funny, Dean. I feel violated just knowing what you’re thinking…and it’s not even just her. It’s every fucking woman in here! I’m getting dizzy from the shifting faces.
I didn’t ask you to wander over here. That was your doing.
It’s too loud in here to talk. I couldn’t fucking hear you.
I knew there was a reason I really liked this place. Seriously, Sam. Soap…your mouth…as soon as we get uncursed.
Ha-ha, Dean. Holy fuck! What was that?
Nothing, Sam. Have a beer.
I didn’t know you swung that way, Dean.
I don’t, Sammy. I am merely an observant hunter…observing…potential threats.
That guy’s ass is a threat?
Dean’s mental shrug quivered across Sam’s brain.
He’s my only competition.
Gee, thanks.
God knows you aren’t, Sam. The women here seem to think you’re my sister.
Fuck you, asshole.
Sam’s voice sounded oddly amused, despite the profanity. Dean was quickly realizing that his little brother’s innocent façade disguised a downright filthy mind, complete with canal barge lingo and an entire red light district that even he was afraid to peruse.
Dean had decided to pretend it wasn’t there - much like Barbie did with Ken’s genitals - and if he accidentally ran across something that might scar him more than that magazine from the Texaco station, he would try to remember all the lyrics to Stairway to Heaven backwards until the memory faded into something repressible.
Therapy was a very real possibility in his future. He could never look at Sam the same way again.
Dean, you are so not fucking anyone as long as we’re like this. My brain couldn’t take the sharing.
You some kind of voyeur, Sam? I wasn’t planning on letting your freaky brain watch.
Seriously, Dean? You have managed to share every fucking detail of your day so far - from your morning wood to how the fucking burrito you had for lunch affected your digestion. You seem completely fucking unable to keep anything to yourself.
S-O-A-P, Sam. No joke.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They managed to come to an agreement. Dean could have as much sex as he wanted while this was going on only if Sam could kill himself before it happened.
Dean decided that with as pissy as Sam was being, he wasn’t going to take the chance his brother might be serious. However, to ensure that Sam got the point that he was doing this under protest, Dean decided Sam deserved a little shared hangover and spent the rest of the evening consuming as many beers as possible.
Since Sam lost coordination after six, this left Dean clearly in charge. Unfortunately, Dean was then left with the physical weight of his brother’s heavy ass when he had to practically carry him out to the car and back into their motel room.
God, Sam. You may look thin, but you weigh a ton.
‘S all m’brain, Dean…and m’dick. They’re huuuuuge.
Just because you’re drunk doesn’t mean I’m not still gonna wash out your mouth later, Sam.
Sam proceeded to make a crude suggestion involving his mouth and a Tijuana whore….and something about lime wedges that sounded downright uncomfortable that had Dean wondering at his little brother’s inventiveness.
Dean had to take care tucking Sam in, because Sam’s never-ending litany of cursing and oddly obtuse sexual references was making Dean snort with amusement and nearly drop his brother face first onto the thin motel carpet. Dean wondered why Sam chose to show his mopey side to the outside world when he drank too much instead of acting out some of his rather entertaining hedonistic tendencies.
Sammy’s brain was kind of fun when he was drunk.
Dean collapsed onto his own bed once he heard Sam’s resonating snores, finding his thoughts wandering over to check on Sam as he began to fall asleep.
Sam was nowhere to be seen, which gave Dean a chance to leisurely look around as he waited for a sign of his brother. He was probably off throwing up in his parietal lobe or something.
Pushing his way past the files and neatly shelved books that seemed to compose most of the walls in Sam’s brain, Dean delved deeper into the convoluted recesses, feeling his trepidation grow. Just when he was thinking it was time to turn back and go home to the comforts of his own gray matter, Dean tripped over a loose board, nearly falling head first into a ragged hole that had been torn through the door before him. It obviously had been boarded up at one point, but the splintered boards were twisted precariously as if something had ripped its way out, leaving shards of aged wood littering the ground at Dean’s feet.
Dean stuck his head in, catching the tail end of fragmented whispers, pleas and shouts. Pack up, it’s time to head out…. Shoot it, Sammy! It’s after Dad! That’s an order, Sam…. This is what we do…. Grow up, Sam - what good will soccer do you? I’ll always take care of you, Sammy…. If you leave, don’t come back….
Dean stumbled backwards, feeling the solid weight of brick behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see a bricked over doorway against his back, a Stanford pennant tacked precariously across the stone. Beside it, a freshly bricked doorway stood drying, clumsily constructed but still solid, the sleeve of a brown and pale blue striped shirt dangling from between two crooked stones. Dean reached out hesitantly, his hand not daring to touch, remembering the last time he’d seen that shirt - the pain in Sam’s eyes as he went to do his job.
Wood wasn’t strong ‘nuff. Memories have their own strength. Couldn’t keep those contained - n’matter how hard I tried.
Sam’s thoughts struggled through the heaviness and Dean felt him at his back, looming so brokenly behind him as he gestured at the hole where Dean could still hear John’s voice trickling out…and sometimes even his own.
Learned to make ‘em stronger, to withstand the weight.
Sam’s hand hovered over the still damp mortar where that sleeve draped so gracelessly against the bricks, all too reminiscent of the limp arm of a dead woman hanging in his brother’s large arms.
What’re y’hidin’ in your dark place, Dean? You never let me in….
Dean was unable to answer, even when he felt Sam lean heavily against him, all of his natural grace gone in this moment of drunken weakness.
‘M tired, Dean. So tired.
Me, too, Sammy. Me, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam awoke the next morning to find himself alone in his own head. Absently studying the popcorn texture of the ceiling over his bed, Sam tried to journey over to check on Dean only to find himself stranded in his own brain.
“No more visitor’s passes,” Dean said sleepily, keeping his face averted from Sam’s side of the room. “We are islands unto ourselves once more.”
“Thank God it was only temporary.” Sam rolled over and frowned at Dean thoughtfully, the faint light seeping through the window spearing straight through his eyeballs. Squinting vaguely in Dean’s direction, Sam muttered grumpily, “Why are you so fucking poetic this morning?”
Dean sprang out of bed with an obscene amount of energy for as much as he’d imbibed the evening before. “OK, that is it.”
He slapped at Sam’s exposed foot as he made his way towards the bathroom, making Sam stir uneasily and keep a wary eye on his brother. “What’re you doing, Dean?” Sam asked through a yawn as he attempted to stretch without actually moving.
“Lookin’ for the damn soap!”