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After Sam pulls Dean out of Hell, Dean stops talking.
It takes a week for Sam to convince Dean to open his mouth so Sam can check that his tongue hasn't been cut out. It takes two weeks for Sam to accept that Dean really isn't talking. Then it takes a week of silence, the two of them sitting in the Impala like ventriloquist dummies, sitting in motel rooms like human taxidermy, before Sam decides to start talking for the both of them.
"I'm still glad you're back," is the first thing Sam says, which is the understatement of the decade. What Sam really means is, I would've gone in there with both legs broken and a hole in my head just to see you again. I would've gone in there dead if that's what it took to get you out.
Dean doesn't say anything. He stares out the window at the passing landscape, hands clenched tightly in his lap. He's missing the first two fingers of his right hand, the stumps nauseatingly similar to melted candle wax, and the empty space means that Dean will never pull another trigger.
Sam imagines that this might be Dean's most shameful wound. Dean's practiced shooting with both hands his whole life, but he was never as good with his left. The demons took what mattered most and Sam should've been sooner. He should've been better. He should've been smarter.
This is Dean Winchester, maimed and vulnerable. This is Sam Winchester, whole and powerless.
Sam wrenches his eyes back to the road, tries not to reach over and shake a response out of Dean.
:::
Dean came out of Hell bleeding from what looked like every pore, eyes rolled back to the whites and a bone-deep shiver that vibrated through the hand Sam had wrapped around his upper arm; Sam suspected that it was maybe even soul-deep and that Dean wasn't aware he was doing it. Dean wasn't aware of anything much for the first three days, lying in bed on his good side, shaking like a leaf. He kept his eyes shut tight the entire time and Sam ends up glad that Dean's only going around mute and not blind.
As for Dean's bad side, well, those demons tore Dean up like a party favor. When Sam finally managed to peel off what remained of Dean's clothes there were cuts going up and down the entire left half of Dean's body. In some of them he could see the damp glint of bone; others weren't so much cuts as places where the skin had been ripped off. Sam swallowed hard and went to work with their souped-up first aid kit, methodically cleaning and dressing each wound until Dean looked half mummified. The ones on Dean's face were the hardest: half of his eyebrow was gone – looked like something just peeled it right off – and the side of his mouth had been cut open, the slash running jaggedly downward so it looked like a perpetual frown.
When Sam was done he went into the bathroom and stared at the toilet. Upon rubbing his hands over his face he discovered that his cheeks were wet and that his fingers were trembling helplessly. He let out a choked moan, leaned over the toilet and threw up what little he'd had for lunch before he strolled on down into Hell.
Sooner, better, smarter, Sam thought, and this was the litany that would follow him through the rest of his life. He opened the door and looked at Dean, knocked out cold from the shot of morphine Sam had given him; looked at the white square of bandage taped next to Dean's mouth, a small spot of blood already soaking through the middle like a crimson pupil. Sam closed the door and slept on the bathroom floor.
He didn't want to, but he dreamed. Now, weeks later, he still dreams.
Sam screams himself awake every night for a good long while before the dreams start to taper off. Sits bolt upright, muscles jumping and breath harsh in his throat. Dean never reacts – doesn't even twitch – and Sam has to drag himself to the bathroom on shaky legs and gulp a few mouthfuls of cool, metallic-tasting water without Dean's comforting presence hovering over his shoulder. He stumbles back to bed, and always ends up staring at Dean until he falls asleep again.
When he's down to one dream a week he thanks God for small favors and goes back to feeling guilty for everything else he's done.
:::
Two months after Sam pried the hooks from Dean's shoulders and slung Dean's limp form over his back; one month, twenty-six days and eighteen hours after Sam finds out Dean's become mute, they end up driving to Bobby's.
Bobby knows Sam got Dean out: knows exactly what rituals Sam used, how much blood he shed and exactly how stupid he was because Bobby's the one who sent Sam half the arcane texts he needed – but Bobby doesn't know the extent of Dean's injuries. Sam called Bobby last night and told him what to expect, but nothing can really prepare a person for the reality of Dean.
Bobby touches Dean's shoulder clumsily, eyes darting to Sam as he nods hello. Dean looks out at the scrap yard, standing quiescent. The bandages have long since come off and the sickle-twist frown of Dean's mouth seems to leap from the skin of his face, the scar a lurid, irritated pink. He follows Sam and Bobby inside and accepts the beer Bobby hands him.
"Good to see you boys," Bobby begins awkwardly, and that's when Dean chokes on his first sip of beer, spits it frantically to the ground. He's grimacing and rubbing his mouth when Sam says, "Holy water?"
Bobby nods, face grim. Dean stills, his lips drawing in even tighter. He rises to his feet and goes outside, moves to stand with one hand on the roof of the Impala, facing away from the house.
"Bobby, what the hell," Sam hisses, watches Dean anxiously through the cloudy window glass.
"It's a safeguard, Sam!" Bobby says stubbornly, his face half-embarrassed. "Can't go dropping precautions, even with you two. 'Specially with Dean fresh outta Hell."
Sam sets his own beer on the table, lays his palms flat on the smooth wooden surface. His vision blurs sickeningly as he looks up at Bobby.
"He's still my brother."
"I know, son." Bobby sits down heavily in the chair opposite Sam. They stare at each other until Bobby looks away, removes his hat to run slow fingers through his thinning hair. "But he's been to Hell and back and sometimes–"
"Don't." Sam cuts Bobby off, jaw hardening. "Don't give me any of that bullshit about hangers-on and tainted souls."
"Man doesn't have to be possessed to have a little demon in him," Bobby continues doggedly. "You of all people should know that."
"He's my brother," Sam says again, ignoring the way his voice catches. Bobby's eyes waver.
"I love him too. Hell, I'll spend all my time trying to figure this out until it's over and done, Sam." Bobby rubs a finger around the lip of his bottle, and Sam has to lean forward to hear his next words. "But they don't say love is blind for no reason." Bobby's gaze snaps up, catches Sam's. "You gotta understand: the only reason I'm lettin' him in my house is 'cause you're watchin' him."
"Bobby," Sam whispers, disbelieving.
"I've lost too many friends," Bobby says, lines deeply carved beside his mouth, and leaves the room.
Sam goes outside to get Dean.
:::
Before, Dean used to sleep like it was an Olympic sport. He tossed and turned, twisting the sheets around his thighs and sometimes ending up with the pillow over his head instead of under it. He yelled things like "Monkey in the cupboard!" and "Gimme my damn pie!" often making Sam laugh, sometimes making Sam think. More than once Sam's managed to solve a case because Dean's nighttime babbling triggered some relevant chain of reasoning.
Now Dean sleeps like the dead. He can sleep on his back again since the occult brandings have mostly healed (symbol of Azazel burned into his left shoulder blade, 33 degree cross crawling over his spine, 8 pointed chaos star deep in the tender skin of his lower back), and he's taken to pulling the covers up to his chin, tucking them pointedly under his shoulders. He closes his eyes at 10.00 at night and opens them at 7.00 the next morning in exactly the same position. After Sam finally put two and two together and realized that Dean sleeping resembled Dean in a life-threatening coma, Sam stayed up one night and watched Dean until morning. Dean didn't move once, not so much as a sigh or the flicker of an eyelid.
Sam supposes it means he's not dreaming, but then again he supposes it doesn't mean anything at all. Dean could be getting his eyes plucked out afresh every night, bonds wrenched tight as he screams his throat bloody, and his body's just not showing it. Dean's brain and body no longer seem to be on speaking terms, anyway. Dean functions – he mechanically brushes his teeth, he dresses himself, he eats what's put in front of him – but that's about all there is to it.
Sam leads Dean to Bobby's guest room. He has the strangest urge to take Dean's hand and show him the way like he would a child, but Bobby's watching them from the darkened end of the hall and Sam resists. He has to go back and close the door behind Dean when Dean doesn't even twitch in that direction.
"So," Sam says. Dean shrugs off his jacket, reaches to rub his right shoulder. When Sam initially examined it the extent of the bruising indicated that it had been dislocated multiple times; Dean still treats it gently, moves stiffly when he changes clothes. "Here we are. Bobby's really happy to see you alive, dude. Was a time when we didn't think it was gonna happen, you know?" Dean drops his jacket on the floor, moves to the connected bathroom. Sam sighs, picks up the still warm leather and rubs his thumb over the collar before placing it on the cane chair in the corner of the room. Dean turns on the water, bends over and splashes his face.
"I'm still glad you're back," Sam murmurs, falls back on the bed and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. It's times like these that it's hardest: Dean's in the bathroom washing his face, getting ready for bed just like he used to and if not for the total absence of offensive remarks Sam could pretend that they're okay. He could close his eyes, listen as Dean spits toothpaste into the sink and know that the next thing Dean's going to do is come out of the bathroom, say, "Jesus, Sammy, grab your balls and stow the tears, all right?"
Instead, Dean drifts as silently as a ghost, pulls back the covers on the other twin bed and slides between the sheets, arranges them meticulously over his body. The bed creaks outrageously with Dean's every movement, the veteran of many Winchester nights and bloodstains, but Sam goes to take his turn in the bathroom knowing that the bed won't make another sound until Dean puts his feet on the floor the next morning.
:::
Bobby tolerates them for two days before he notices that Rumsfeld shies away from Dean with a nervous whine every time Dean gets close. After that he pulls Sam aside and stammers his way through telling Sam that he'd be more comfortable with them on the road while he tries to figure out what's got hold of Dean. He doesn't meet Sam's eyes once, twists his fingers together nervously like Sam's never seen before.
"Okay." Sam examines Bobby's face, looking for an explanation, looking for something. "Just give me a few more days to restock."
Bobby nods and practically scurries away. Sam turns around and sees Dean sitting on the hood of one of Bobby's junkers, absently flexing his maimed hand. The white, empty scar where his eyebrow used to be makes Sam want to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Dean turns his face towards Sam and the cruel, downward hook of his mouth only emphasizes the disinterested look in his eyes. Dean has never looked more wounded than right now, right this second, with Bobby asking them to leave because something's changed and Sam's guilt begins to leech the color from his hopes.
Sam gets in the Impala and drives away. He watches Dean in the rearview mirror as he dwindles rapidly; Dean seems unconcerned, and that more than anything hits Sam as wrong. The one thing Dean loves most in the world is driving off into the sunset and Dean doesn't even twitch. Sam would like to flatter himself and think that it's the two things Dean loves most, but Dean's blank face makes Sam wonder if Hell stole Dean's love once and for all.
Sam drives blindly, angrily twisting the wheel, and it's only when he's driven three towns on from where he means to go that he realizes he's running. He pulls over to the side of the road and leans his head against the wheel, breathing in great, ragged gasps.
Then Sam gets out and sits against the trunk for a while, musing.
He's angry at Dean, at the world, at Bobby, Christ, even at Rumsfeld – but there's nothing he can do. Just thinking of Dean's smile makes him stupid with love, and even if Dean never smiles again it'll be enough for Sam to look at Dean's mouth and imagine what could be. He could never leave. He should never want to leave.
Sam gets back in the car and retraces the road back to the general store.
When he pulls into Bobby's lot late that night Dean's still sitting on the junker's hood, head in his hands. He looks up when Sam rolls to a stop and Sam feels a sharp crackle of hope in his chest, before Dean turns away and disappears into the house. Sam hefts his bags and trudges after Dean.
:::
Bobby sees them off, stands solemnly in the driveway and watches them pack the car – Sam has the unsettling feeling that he's making sure they actually leave – and then raises a single hand in farewell before he's swallowed by the cloud of dust kicked up by the Impala's rear tires.
Dean is as usual sitting motionless in the passenger seat. Sam proceeds to carry on a conversation with the Dean-voice in his head.
"So, Bobby was acting weird."
Yeah, I know, dude. Makes me wonder what proof whiskey he's drinkin' these days.
Sam snorts. "I think Bobby's more of a beer man. The only whiskey he keeps in the house is for visitors."
Bullshit. I never see one drop of the good stuff when I'm there.
"You're too much of an ass to count as a visitor, Dean."
Sam knows he must sound crazy to the real Dean sitting beside him, but he goes on for hours, talks until his throat is raw. He argues about poltergeists, teases Dean about his fear of flying, discusses the merits of burning bones with lighter fluid versus plain old gasoline and goes on a rant about the environment, Dean's imaginary groans echoing through his head. He's shaking his head through Dean's list of reasons why the Impala is good for the environment when he looks over and sees that Dean has fallen asleep.
In the fading light of the day the scar distorting Dean's mouth looks like a mere shadow, the hairless patch of eyebrow fading to nothing as the setting sun softens Dean's features. Dean's sleeves are pulled down so Sam can't see the horrific scarring on his left forearm. He sways gently with the motion of the car; Sam can almost pretend Dean's moving around like he used to. It's the most carefree slumber Sam's seen since he dragged Dean out of Hell.
Sam smiles as he turns back to the road, but there's a quivering lump building at the back of his throat. He doesn't know how much longer he can hold it back.
Sam picks an off-brand motel for them to spend the night, rousing Dean with a touch to the shoulder.
"I'm gonna go get us a room," Sam says, jerking a thumb towards the dusky glow of the office windows.
Dean looks at him, and then slowly looks away.
All right, Sammy, Sam fills in, and has to stop to compose himself outside the office door. The clerk barely gives him a second glance, handing Sam the key to number twelve with a snap of her bubblegum. Sam pays in cash and goes out to pull the car around the building. He carries in both of their bags and then has to go out and get Dean, who hasn't moved from the car.
"I think we're gonna lay low for a while," Sam says as he's unpacking his laptop. When he looks up Dean's sitting on the bed closest to the door, watching him. "I know you don't like it, but it's what's safest. I'm pretty sure the FBI still wants our asses in chains and there's always the Cult of Gordon after my blood – dunno what they'll do to you once they figure out you're back and like… this, and I'm not gonna take that chance."
Dean's gaze follows Sam around the room as Sam lays out salt lines by the windows and door and chalks some protective symbols by the air vent. While Sam's mindlessly checking his e-mail Dean gets up and uses the bathroom, comes back out and lies down on his bed with all of his clothes on. When Sam surfaces a few minutes later Dean's asleep.
Sam goes to stand next to Dean's bed. He brushes a palm over the bristled tips of Dean's hair, carefully watching Dean's face for movement. Dean's as dead to the world as he ever is and Sam exhales softly, lets himself collapse onto his own bed. Dean's between Sam and the door. Of course Sam thinks, and the easy familiarity of the gesture combined with the wildly unfamiliar stillness of Dean's slumber means sleep doesn't come easy to Sam that night.
:::
Sam keeps them moving. He doesn't want to stay too long in any one place because a) he left one hell of a burn site behind him, getting Dean out, and b) Dean gets more lethargic the longer they settle in a motel room. Despite everything Dean still likes to be traveling: likes the hum of the tires through the body of the car, likes to watch the countryside scroll past his window. Sometimes he'll crawl into the back and press his ear to the bench seat for hours at a time, just listening to the sound of his baby work.
Visiting diners and gas stations becomes something of an experience. Most times, Dean will sit in the car and eat whatever Sam brings out to him. Sam will go in, get a table by the window and keep an eye on Dean's still form through the fingerprints on the diner's window glass. He doesn't know what half his waitresses look like because he never actually bothers to glance at their faces. Sam feels bad, but Dean, unresponsive to the smell of bacon grease and bad coffee, makes Sam feel worse and Sam can't tear his eyes away from his train-wreck of a brother. Sometimes he doesn't even look at the menu. These hole-in-the-wall places generally have the same food anyway; he orders coffee and pancakes with a side of fruit and he hasn't yet been disappointed.
Once, Sam decides he'll bring Dean in with him. He can order for him. Hell, he'll fucking feed him if it comes to that – they're in California, it's a liberal state. Dean follows Sam obediently, sits down across the booth from him, and stares at a spot over Sam's left shoulder. Sam orders for Dean –bacon, eggs, toast – and himself, stirs sugar into his coffee and tries not to miss the way Dean used to steal all the creamers. Dean's hands are folded calmly in his lap.
"Here you go, sugar," the waitress says to Dean when she sets down his plate. Dean turns suddenly and stares at her with an intensity Sam bets is frightening. Sure enough the waitress practically drops Sam's plate in front of him and scurries off. Dean watches her the whole way. She looks scared and small disappearing through the doorway to the kitchen.
"Dean," Sam hisses. Dean doesn't move. "Dean, cut it the fuck out."
In the end, Dean doesn't eat one thing. He spends the entire meal watching the door to the kitchen, and whenever their waitress comes out his eyes track her around the room. He ignores Sam's attempts to feed him. Finally, Sam just eats his pancakes quickly, embarrassed. He goes up to the counter to ask for a to-go container, rather than make their waitress come back to the table, and pays while he's there. When he turns around Dean is still staring intently.
"We're leaving," Sam says quietly, unnecessarily, when he gets back, scooping Dean's untouched breakfast into the container, wrapping his fingers around the fleshy part of Dean's bicep and dragging his brother upright. Dean cranes his head around in an effort to continue watching their waitress even as they go out the door. When Dean's settled safely in the Impala, seat-belt buckled, Sam goes back inside. He's met by the manager.
"Look, I'm sorry," Sam says.
"Don't come back," the man says.
Sam doesn't argue. He feels drained. Three days later he finds a blurb in the newspaper: Diner burned down in Likely, CA. Possible arson. Three dead, one missing.
Sam looks at Dean, who's sitting on the floor with his back to the door, studying his palms.
"Our waitress, huh?" Dean turns one of his hands over, sets the tips of his fingers on the floor to form a small cage. Sam asks, "Just what exactly can you see, Dean?"
Dean leans his head back. His eyes are closed, his mouth pulled tight. His scars disrupt the smooth contours of his face, cut across faint crow's feet and fading smile lines. Sam tosses the paper away and rubs his hands on his knees, feels a headache starting.
He doesn't bring Dean into any more diners.
When Sam pumps gas Dean sits in the passenger's seat and stares out the windshield, stares so intently that sometimes Sam will turn and look just to make sure there's nothing there. He doesn't know what Dean's seeing. He hopes it's not hellfire. As he goes inside to pay he has to fight the urge to walk in front of Dean, to stand directly in his line of sight and wave his arms and jump around like an idiot, just to see Dean blink in response. To see the twitch of a lip or eyebrow and to know that Dean is in there and aware, and not brain dead or catapulted to some other psychic plane.
Once he washes the windows of the car, slowly and deliberately. He spends extra time on the passenger side and on the windshield in front of Dean, all the while carefully watching his brother. Dean continues to gaze through him, seeing something else, and Sam wants to open the window and slap his face. He doesn't understand how a personality so vibrant and alive as Dean's could translate to this and not leave something behind. Yet every day the evidence is staring him in the face – or rather, past his shoulder.
Some mornings, Dean doesn't seem to be able to muster enough motor control to get out of bed. Sam will wake up, quietly move around the room messing with his laptop and getting dressed, splashing water on his face, until enough light slides through the curtains that he can see Dean's eyes are open. Sam will have no idea how long Dean's been awake, staring at the ceiling as he lies motionless, listening to Sam shuffle through his morning routine.
It's these mornings where Sam almost loses all hope. The ones where he has to drag Dean out of bed himself; strip him of his T-shirt and boxers and fill the tub; slide Dean's unresponsive body gently into the lukewarm water, carefully keeping his eyes trained on Dean's face or chest; wash Dean's hair, letting water trickle from his cupped hands to rinse out the suds. Dean never closes his eyes. Once, Sam noticed that a soap bubble had literally slipped into Dean's eye – resting casually on his eyeball – and Dean never even flinched. When he gently sluices water over Dean's face to remove the bubble, Dean doesn't blink at all.
That's the day Sam turns really desperate. Desperate for a reaction of some kind, for anything of the old Dean. Dean looks at him sometimes, but Sam's never sure if it's because he's the only thing moving or if it's because Dean's actually seeing him. Sam wants to be sure.
:::
Sam always stops at the library when he passes through a rural town. In the past he's found the most unusual books in these rustic libraries – occult encyclopedias that he's never heard of, soothsayer's texts Bobby would give his left arm for, leather bound tomes jammed with spells that make Sam's hands shake – and he holds out hope that one day he'll stumble across something that'll help Dean. He might as well take advantage, since they're state hopping like the wanted criminals they are.
He brings Dean in with him: wraps a hand around Dean's forearm, surreptitiously leads him to whatever well-used table Sam's settled on for the day, pulls out his chair – the works. Before, Dean would be indignant, wrenching his hand away, I'm a grown man, dammit Sam! There better be some porn in this dump, I swear to God, but now he's the noiseless anchor Sam drags behind him. Librarians look at Dean with grateful cow-eyes, unaware that his welcome silence is what makes him incomplete, is why Sam's here at all. Sam keeps hoping one day Dean will start complaining – drag Dean through enough bookshelves and Dean always starts whining – but it hasn't happened yet.
One time, just as an experiment, Sam takes Dean to a library and leaves him there. He sets Dean up at a table, helps him take off his jacket and drape it over the chair, and walks right back out the door. He stays away all day – visits the park, meanders through the grocery store, walks up and down the main street until his eyes cross – and doesn't come back until the library closes.
If Sam had left Dean there Before, Dean would've been gone in ten seconds flat, out the door into the warm spring sunshine griping about Sam's bibliophilic habits. Sam would've found him at the most packed bar in town, a gorgeous girl on each side and a smarmy smile on his lips. "Sammy. What took you so long?" He'd say, clap Sam on the back and hand him an ice-cold beer.
Instead, Dean's standing on the steps with one old librarian clinging to his arm, her glasses on a chain around her neck. Sam brought Dean there at eight o'clock this morning and here he is at eight o'clock that night, skin pale from sitting inside all day, immobility written into its strained lines.
"Where do you live, honey? Who can I call? We've got to close now. Do you have a number written down anywhere? Anywhere at all?" She's prattling on as Sam approaches. Dean remains impassive, staring out into the darkening evening. The librarian looks frazzled, like she's been trying to get Dean to talk for at least twenty minutes. Her gray hair is up in a bun but several pieces have come loose and hang limply against her neck.
"There a problem, ma'am?" Sam says politely, and she whirls around with a hand in the air as if to strike him.
Dean doesn't flinch, doesn't even turn to look at him.
"Oh, it's just–" She lets out a frustrated puff of air. "I can't seem to find out where this young man lives. He won't – he doesn't talk," she finishes, her eyes darting to the side as her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, embarrassed by the oddity of her confession.
Sam nods understandingly, the lie comes easily off his tongue. "Look, I volunteer down at the fire station. Want me to take him off your hands? I'm sure the chief would know what to do."
"How nice of you!" She looks pathetically relieved. She hasn't once looked at Dean, eyes latching on to Sam like a port in a storm. "Thank you so much, honey. Say hello to Chief Daniels for me, won't you?"
"Of course." Sam watches her leave. She's practically sprinting, eager to be away from Dean and his heavy silence. When he turns to look at his brother, Dean's put on his jacket and is already ten feet in the opposite direction. Sam hurries to catch up.
"I just wanted to see what you would do," he says lamely by way of clarification. Dean picks up the pace, walks rapidly towards their motel. Sam wants to say something else, but how can he explain? How can he say that he wanted to force Dean to talk? That he would never really leave him there? That he wants Dean to be angry, to be relieved, to show some kind of emotion so Sam knows he's alive in there and not just some kind of mobile meat popsicle?
Dean reaches the motel door first and waits patiently as Sam unlocks it. Sam's hands are shaking and the key slips several times before he manages, the door swinging open. Dean slips past him and goes to the bathroom, closes the door. He's obviously agitated but he's still not doing anything.
Sam falls asleep staring at the sliver of light under the bathroom door, cursing himself for a fool. He was so desperate for something – anything – to shock Dean out of his behavior, but now he's afraid he's only made it worse.
The next morning the bathroom door is still closed. Sam sighs, heaves himself to his feet and shuffles over.
"Dean, come on. I'm sorry." Sam says, knocks a hand against the cheap plywood. Predictably, there's no sound from within. "Don't be like this. You know I would never–" Sam sighs, gives up and tries the knob only to find it unlocked, pushes the door open prepared to grovel and nearly has a heart attack when he finds that Dean's not there.
Stupidly, he rakes the shower curtain aside, convinced Dean will be crouched in the tub. He's not. Sam checks behind the door, runs a hand mindlessly over the limp towels before moving out to the main room, falling to his knees to look under the beds. Dean is obviously nowhere but he can't bring himself to accept it. Where would Dean go? There's no way–
Except for how he's obviously gone.
Sam's out the door so fast he almost forgets his pants.
When Sam finally finds Dean, it's because Dean walks back into the motel room forty-eight hours after he's disappeared. Sam's slumped in the arm chair shoved haphazardly into a corner, fingers buried in his hair as he tries to accept the fact that maybe Dean's just gone. Maybe Dean left town, because Sam's asked everyone he's run into over the past two, frantic days and nobody's seen him. Sam hadn't dared go to the police and Sam himself had walked through every square inch of the place – from dive bar to town hall – and found not one sign of Dean.
When the doorknob turns and Dean's on the other side, face impassive, Sam shoots to his feet, his mouth flying open. He doesn't remember moving but he's suddenly in front of Dean, one arm pulling back into a punch as his mouth curls down into an angry sob. The arm flies wild like a drunken bird and Sam's hugging Dean, stumbles forward and clutches Dean to his body as he exhales choked breaths into Dean's solid shoulder. Dean remains unmoved, hands hanging loosely at his sides, as Sam clings to his brother and cries like a baby.
Sam was prepared for Dean to go to Hell: he knew what was coming; he knew what to look for, what to research, and what was a waste of time; he eventually even knew how to get Dean out, so he did. This time Dean vanished without a trace, evaporated from Sam's life and Sam had no fucking idea – not one fucking clue – of what had happened, what to do, or how to – please, God please – get Dean back. Sam always knows how to get Dean back.
After a while Sam manages to let go of Dean, rubs the sleeve of his shirt over his eyes and turns his back to get his breathing under control. Dean walks calmly past him and settles on the end of his bed.
"So," Sam says, voice clogged. "Guess you showed me." He glances at Dean.
The scarred bow of Dean's mouth trembles. Sam blinks and it's gone but he knows – Dean's trying to make a point.
Don't you fucking abandon me, Sammy. Not after all this. Don't you leave me and think that I can't still do the same damn thing to you.
Sam understands, now. He understands that Dean still needs him – to be his companion, to be his brother, to be his goddamn voice – but most of all he understands that he still needs Dean. No matter what, he will always need Dean. Dean was just trying to show Sam, in his own roundabout way. To make Sam see that Dean's not some useless lump of flesh glued to the passenger seat.
Dean stares passively at the TV. After a moment Sam turns it on, flips to the Discovery channel. There's a documentary about manatees crowding the screen, the TV overloud.
Sam goes to splash some water on his face, his breathing still shaky. If Dean leaves him again, he thinks it'll kill him. Sam just hopes no one else finds that out.
Dean's leaning against the headboard when Sam comes out of the bathroom. Sam bypasses his own bed and plops down squarely next to Dean. Their thighs touch and Dean makes no move to pull away.
Sam's eyelids are drooping, his heart finally beginning to slow down, when Dean shrugs out of his jacket, drops it on Sam's legs. Sam takes it and spreads it over his chest, inhales the gun smoke cologne that he's always associated with Dean. He falls asleep listening to Dean's breathing, manatee-sea colors splashing the backs of his eyelids.
:::
Dark. All around, dark, and Sam can't see anything but he can hear – he can hear everything. Someone's sobbing off to his left – great, body-shaking sobs, thick with snot and pain and they're not stopping. He's been down here for (ever) ten minutes at least and they just aren't – and the ground beneath his feet is moving, he swears. Moving in silent, crawling waves, soft beneath the soles of his shoes, sucking wetly at the rubber as Sam walks. He wishes he could float, wishes he could fly right out of here, but he's looking for someone. He's looking for–
"Dean." His voice sounds hollow, a thin scrap of sound fluttering under the weight of all this darkness. Footsteps cross in front of him, the thuck-thuck-thuck of the ground marking the heavy tread and – and the dragging noise. Something's (someone's) being dragged in front of him, maybe by the ankle, maybe by the hair. Maybe by their tongue, stretched incredibly from their gaping, dead mouth.
Sam says again, "Dean." This time it carries further, the name breaking over his face like a breath of clean air in this godforsaken place. God, his eyes are open so wide but he can't see – he can't see whoever's screaming. They're shrieking high and shrill, almost continuous, a fist of sound beating at his ear drums and making it hard to concentrate. If they would just stop, he'd be all right. He'd be all right.
Bony fingers clamp around his ankle, snatch swiftly shut around the joint and Sam feels a great cry building in his throat, leaping upon itself to get out get OUT SAM GET OUT. The hand tightens, starts to pull and then a voice (not really voice, what is it, God, WHAT IS IT) says–
Sam jerks awake, Dean's hand pressed to his chest directly above his racing heart. Sam's mouth is filled with the coppery tang from where he's bitten his lip hard enough to bleed. Dean's face hovers over Sam's, eyes wide as he looks down.
Sam hasn't had a nightmare about Dean's Deal in a long time. This one was especially vivid and he has the crazy thought that his brain's been saving itself up for this, stock-piling Sam's subconscious fears until it had the chance to attack him when he was least expecting it. Dean's disappearance coupled with forty-eight panic fueled hours was all it needed to send Sam down into a hellish whirlwind.
Sam lets out the breath he's been holding, concentrates on relaxing his tightly clenched muscles one by one. Dean never moves, maimed hand a warm print seeping into Sam's breast, chasing out the dark places he's still got left. Eventually Sam wraps his hand around Dean's wrist, meets his eyes.
Dean's head tilts the barest hint to the left: a question.
"Nightmare," Sam rasps, and his voice frightens him. It sounds like he did when he got Dean out, when he chanted for hours and hours on end, unable to stop or it would break the spell he was building word by word. Unthinkingly, Sam's hand tightens.
The bed dips suddenly as Dean lays himself down, spreads himself out next to Sam on top of the blankets. Sam's sealed in on one side, Dean's heat all up and down his body; Dean's jacket shields his chest. The TV's already off.
When he wakes up the next morning, sweating, Dean is pressed to his side and both of them are under the covers, their bare arms are sticking together. Dean's still holding his hand.
:::
It's too gradual for Sam to notice right away, but Dean starts to get better. He responds to Sam's voice more frequently, eyes flicking to Sam's face and away when Sam speaks. One morning he skips the shirt Sam's laid out for him, goes to his duffle and rummages around until he's found a different T-shirt, pulls that one on over his heavily scarred back as Sam watches, astonished. He wrinkles his nose at Sam's choice of music; gets out of the car himself without waiting for Sam to come around and open his door; follows Sam into motel offices and eyes up clerks; observes the pictures on the walls like he actually cares.
It's a sporadic process, for sure: Dean goes to the vending machine and gets them both coffee one morning, while the next he slips into a state of catatonia – but Sam's encouraged. Dean can only go up from here, he promises himself. The guy's been to Hell. Literally. The only place he can go is up.
Sam continues talking like he always has. He asks Dean his opinions on chicks, what he wants to eat, where he wants to go, what he wants to wear, what he wants to watch on TV – everything he can think of. He's trying to convince himself that the next step is Dean talking. Dean waking up one day, turning to Sam and saying, "Get me a goddamned donut," or something else equally inane that would be just ironic enough for Dean to break his long silent spell.
Dean doesn't. He looks at Sam when Sam's talking, touches Sam's shoulder when he wants something. He even drags a few guns out of the trunk one day, cleans them efficiently while Sam watches, bemused, but his lips remain firmly sealed.
:::
They're driving the Oklahoma-Texas border, just moving for the sake of moving, when Dean's cell phone rings.
Sam's been keeping it charged up, slips it into Dean's jeans each morning before Dean gets out of the shower. He's not sure why – maybe just for the normality of the gesture – but it comforts him to see Dean absentmindedly patting his hip to check for his phone. One morning he forgot Dean's cell in the car and Dean did exactly the same thing, face registering no reaction as he patted an empty pocket, so Sam's not sure he's proving anything. It's just – Sam likes doing something for Dean, doing something that he used to.
So, Dean's phone rings.
It's deep in Dean's pocket, snug in the bend between hip and thigh. Sam eyes Dean but Dean makes no move to get it; it's one of his bad days and Dean's been unresponsive all morning. Sam pulls the Impala over, resignedly steels himself to go digging around in Dean's pants.
Dean does nothing to ease the awkwardness, sits stubbornly motionless as Sam worms his fingers into the creased denim.
It takes maybe thirty seconds but Sam finally withdraws, victorious, Dean's body-warmed phone clenched triumphantly in his fist and a furious blush high on his cheeks. When he raises his head Dean's looking at him. Though his face stays as immobile as a granite block Sam has the craziest feeling that Dean's smirking.
Sammy! You cockteasing slut, his internal Dean-voice pipes up, and Sam's mouth drops open on a gust of surprised laughter. When he finally pulls himself together Dean's turned to stare out the window. He's laid one calloused hand over his pocket.
Sam forces himself to look away, checks the cell display still smiling and sure enough it reads (1) new voicemail. It turns out to be someone Dad helped a long time ago: he'd called Dad's phone, gotten the ancient message to call Dean and followed through.
"Hi Mr. Win– uh, Dean," the message begins on a nervous crackle, the man's voice sounding faint through the connection. "This is Dale Tice up in Seattle, Washington. Um, I'm calling because I think it's starting again. It's in the attic this time but I heard something, uh, in the upstairs hall last night, oh God, outside my baby girl's room and I couldn't, I couldn't–" At that point Dale's voice trails off into a high, shaky breath. There's a clunk as though he's placed the phone on a table, a distant mutter as Dale no doubt talks himself up again before he comes back on the line sounding marginally calmer. "I hope you get this. I moved Claire to my room but it's only a matter of time before it finds her again. We're in the book. Please come. I – I'll do anything."
The mechanized message voice starts up as Sam takes the phone away from his ear, flips it shut. He's been trying to avoid hunting at all costs but this guy, this Dale Tice, sounds like he's got no one else to turn to; sounds like he's rapidly running out of options.
"Well," Sam says. Dean rubs a thumb over his half-missing eyebrow, a habit he's picked up over the last few days. It bothered Sam at first but really, what does it matter. "Looks like we're going to Seattle."
Dean continues the slow motion of his thumb, moves it in tiny circles over the still-pinkish scar tissue. Sam bites his lip, turns the car around in a Wal-Mart parking lot and starts driving.
After a while Dean touches his window, trails fingertips over the glass. Sam reaches across and rolls it down for him. He feels a warm burst of satisfaction as Dean turns his face into the wind.
:::
Sam calls Dale that night, thumbs the number slowly into his phone and listens to it ring with his eyes blank. Dean's messing around in the bathroom, shaving or something. Dale picks up on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Tice? This is Sam Winchester. I'm John's son."
"Oh thank God!" Dale bursts out, hesitates. "John said to call Dean? Are you – you can still–?"
"Dean and I work as a team," Sam says in his best John Winchester voice, a voice that barks, and if you don't like it you can pucker up and kiss your ass goodbye.
Dale caves immediately. "Okay, that's good, that's fine." He laughs shrilly. "Um, are you far away? Where are you?"
"About a half day out. We should be there by tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to need to talk to you, Mr. Tice. We won't be able to do anything today or tomorrow – do you and the girls have somewhere to go?"
"Go?" Dale repeats. He sounds dazed. Sam can almost picture him: a small man going soft through the middle, hairline just starting to recede. A nice guy. Why does the bad shit always happen to the nice guys?
"You shouldn't stay in the house tonight. Do you have somewhere to go? A motel, maybe?"
"A motel? Uh, I can. Okay. I can do that."
"Good. I'll see you soon, Mr. Tice." Sam flips the phone shut. Dean comes out of the bathroom in his boxers and Sam's heart clenches at the healed scars peppering his left side. There was an especially deep gash in his left pectoral, deep and wide enough that it had to be stitched, and it's left a long, dimpled scar just below Dean's nipple.
Dean touches Sam's mouth, startling Sam. Sam looks up, the calloused pads of Dean's fingers brushing over his lips. He understands what Dean's trying to ask. Doesn't mean he has to answer.
"Nothing's wrong." His lips feel sensitized. Dean's been touching him more lately in order to communicate. Presses fingers into Sam's arm to get his attention, touches Sam's temple when he says something stupid, and on one memorable occasion landed a stinging smack to Sam's thigh and grabbed his own crotch when Sam turned to look: Sam'd been driving too long without a bathroom break.
Dean reaches again for Sam's frowning mouth and Sam twists away, blushes.
"Seriously, Dean."
Dean snaps his fingers, the sound surprising Sam.
Seriously, Sam.
Sam stands, moves out of Dean's space. Dean follows Sam across the room, snaps his fingers again.
"God, you – how can you be this annoying? You don't even talk!"
Dean stares at Sam, his eyes innocently wide. The scarred eyebrow gleams in the dim light and Sam's struck by an involuntary wave of guilt, feels it wash over his face even as he tries to prevent it.
Dean's mouth tightens as he watches Sam's expression, the downward curve emphasized by his scar, and he emphatically snaps his fingers a third time: a demand.
Sam shakes his head. Dean doesn't need to feel ashamed of his own scars, doesn't need to feel like he should cover his own face in order to protect Sam. Dean's still – God, Dean's still – beautiful. The word leaps unbidden to Sam's mind and the moment he thinks it he knows it's true.
He knows he'd do anything to see Dean's smile again. Dean hasn't since Sam got him out – at first probably because it hurt, but now? Does Dean think he's ugly? Has Dean practiced in front of a bathroom mirror somewhere and decided it's a lost cause? Sam would do anything –including going back to hell – to make sure Dean doesn't feel that way.
Sam sighs. Dean raises his eyebrows, leans forward.
"Let's just go to sleep, okay? We got a long day tomorrow." Dean rolls his eyes and stalks away, jerks back the covers on his bed. "We've got a long day tomorrow," Sam repeats, "and I don't want anything to go wrong with this hunt." Since I'm going it alone, Sam finishes silently. Dean settles down in his usual position – covers pulled up to his chin, tucked under his shoulders – and glares at the ceiling. Sam brushes his teeth standing in the bathroom doorway, watches Dean. Dean doesn't move.
Sam turns off the lights and lets the even sound of Dean's breathing lull him to sleep.
:::
The next day Sam calls Dale as they roll into Seattle. They agree to meet at a small diner and when Sam stands to shake Dale's hand he has to gulp back a wave of unexpected pity. He was right. Dale's five-foot-three at most, and he's got thinning brown hair that's seen better days. His glasses sit crookedly on his nose and Sam can just see the spreading damp of nervous sweat under his arms. This is a man that's scared out of his mind.
"Hello, hello," Dale says, blinks rapidly and extends his pudgy hand to Dean. Dean nods and envelops Dale's hand with his own. Sam is struck by the contrast of Dean's capable, scarred hand against Dale's white, unblemished palm.
"So, Mr. Tice," Sam says. Dale slides quickly into the seat across from Sam and Dean, clasps his hands in his lap attentively, like an eager student. Sam gives himself a mental shake and continues. "Before I spend all day in the library trying to figure out if there are any violent deaths connected to your property, I'd like to ask you if you have any idea what could be causing the haunting?"
"So it's for sure the same ghost?" Dale licks his lips nervously, signals to the waitress for a cup of coffee. "I can't think of anything that'd want to haunt me and my girls. My baby, especially. Claire's only nine years old! What could it possibly want with her?"
"It isn't necessarily the same ghost; it isn't necessarily a ghost. And just because it's chosen Claire as its focus doesn't mean that it has anything at all to do with her. Perhaps it's merely haunting Claire's room, or maybe it's trying to hurt someone close to Claire," Sam pauses, "Like you, Mr. Tice."
"Well, I don't know about that," Dale says vaguely, accepts his coffee gratefully and focuses on dumping five packets of sugar into the black liquid in quick succession. Sam glances at Dean; Dean looks exasperated. Sam smirks. Exactly as he thought: Dale's hiding something.
"Listen, Dale," Dale flinches at the sound of his first name, stirs rapidly. His spoon chinks rhythmically against the white china. "If you're not telling us something, something that could be pertinent to this investigation, I can't guarantee that we can do anything."
Dale takes his spoon carefully out of the cup, wipes it on his napkin. He avoids Sam's eyes as he takes a sip. "I don't understand. Your dad didn't ask me any of this last time, he just. He took care of it. Why do you need to know this stuff? Just get rid of it."
Dean nudges Sam under the table, a quick jab to the thigh, and Sam almost feels bad for using Dean's non-nonsense technique on Dale. Almost.
"Right then, I guess it's to the library." Sam stands, Dean quick to follow. "You can't go back to your house, Dale. If you do, you'll die," Sam says over his shoulder, "and I hope your house survives until we can find out exactly what's causing the manifestation."
He knows spirits don't concern themselves with material items – unless they're keeping the ghost from reaching its human goal – and it's more than likely that Dale's own personal haunt has gone dormant until Dale returns, but Dale doesn't know that. Sam hasn't taken one step before Dale says, "My – my house?"
Sam turns, leans a palm on the table and brings his face down low, close to Dale's own. He wonders what happened to his nice-guy act. He isn't feeling nice anymore – Dean can't fucking talk and he's got a demon's sigil charred into the flesh of his upper back and – and Sam just doesn't have it in him to be nice anymore. It occurs to him that Dean wasn't the only one changed when he went to hell.
"Your house," Sam says softly, "your daughters, and then, when there's nothing else left, you."
Dale slowly lowers his coffee cup, stares at Sam. Sam hardens his expression, refuses to look away. Dale finally swallows and looks out the window. "I – it was an accident."
Dean heads for the dessert case, flashing Sam a quick wink before he walks away. Sam sits down again.
"Tell me."
The story gradually takes shape: John last helped Dale out before Dale got married or had any children, about fourteen years ago. From what Sam can glean from Dale's descriptions, he had a low-grade poltergeist infestation – flickering lights, lousy water pressure, strange noises, the works – and Dad didn't need to do any sort of digging into Dale's personal life to get rid of it. It was a small job for Dad: took about three hours and he was gone, Dale left clutching John's phone number on the threshold with instructions to "call if anything weird happens."
Now, though, Dale's got something else. Dale assumed it was more of the same since the spirit's initial signs were similar – lights, noises, etc – but with a few important differences: it targeted a human – Claire – and it escalated to the point where it started to leave physical marks around the house, specifically the girl's bedroom. Frightened, Dale decided to call John Winchester and ended up with his sons.
Once he's described the haunting, Dale starts to get fidgety. Sam makes an encouraging motion and Dale says, "How much do you need to know?"
"Whatever you think is helpful – let me start by asking you who you think might be the ghost?"
Dale signals for more coffee, chugs it rapidly when it arrives, forgetting his sugar, and makes a face when he sets the cup down. Sam leans forward, says, "We're running out of time, Dale–" before Dale says, "All right, all right! I said I would, didn't I?"
Sam sits back, waits.
"She was my wife. No, that's not right. We weren't married. We loved each other so much and sometimes marriage just – it isn't right, you know? When you love someone that much why should you have to prove it to anyone but yourselves? Why does the entire world have to see it, anyway? It's enough to know, to just be with that person."
Sam looks at Dean, happily digging into a slice of apple pie, ice cream melting lazily into the swirls of gooey brown sugar, and says faintly, "Yeah."
"She was my wife in the purest sense of the word," Dale continues, oblivious, voice as soft as his eyes, "and we had Claire and Abigail and everything seemed great, but one day she stopped. She just stopped, I don't know, needing me. Needing us. She wanted out and I couldn't – I couldn't understand why when all these years we'd been so happy and the kids–" Dale sucks in a shaky breath. Sam can see tears in his eyes, magnified by his glasses. "She left us, one night. And I was so – so furious."
Sam nods understandingly, his mind going in circles, carefully hidden. Why should you have to prove it to anyone but yourselves?
"I went for a drive – to find her, to stop her, to teach her a lesson, something – but she wasn't anywhere, and when I got home she – she was – God, and Claire was the one who opened the door when she rang the doorbell , and the blood got – it got in her hair, in her mouth and she was standing there screaming when I pulled up. I didn't know what to do. I called 911 but that's just clean up, that doesn't take care of anything, really." He looks up at Sam, his eyes wide. "Abigail wouldn't come out of her room for two months, and Claire – Claire's never been the same."
"What happened, exactly?" Sam pushes. He thinks he knows, but he has to be sure, he has to know what he's dealing with.
"She shot herself. Put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger, right in front of my baby girl. Our baby girl." Dale says numbly. "I think she thought it'd be me who answered the door, but by the time she'd done it, it was too late." Sam sees that Dale has shredded his napkin into tiny pieces, fingers working ceaselessly. "No one blamed me. My wife – she must've felt trapped. I just don't see why she couldn't talk to me. I don't know why it had to go that far."
There's nothing Sam can say right now that will make Dale feel better. He tries anyway. "Dale, it's not your fault."
"Isn't it?" Dale says, and when he looks up Sam, for the first time in a long time, is speechless. Dale signals for a third cup of coffee, maddeningly dumps in only three packets of sugar before he lifts it to his lips.
Sam looks at Dean again. Dean's amusing the waitress, flicking her nose when she asks him anything that's not a yes or no question. For some reason, she finds it hilarious that he doesn't talk – treats it like he's teasing her, laughing flirtatiously. Sam clenches his fists under the table. "It's probably your wife's spirit."
"Why would she come back?" Dale asks, resigned.
"Violent death, unhappy death, unfinished business with you," Sam ticks the reasons off on his fingers. "Any one of those would be enough to bring her back. Sounds like you've got all three."
"What can I do?"
"At this point, nothing. Stay out of the house. I've got to do some research, sort out a few things, but I'm pretty sure I should be able to take care of everything tonight."
Dale's shoulders slump, weak with relief. "Thank you. I can't thank you enough."
"Don't thank me yet," Sam says, and thinks uneasily of Dale's wife. What Dale doesn't seem to understand is that you have to be angry to shoot yourself in the face – blinded with a rage so great that it pushes out common sense, pushes out love, pushes out ordinary human decency. What Sam's dealing with now is one ticked off spirit, and that makes everything that much harder.
"Can I go back and get a few things? The girls and I only packed for one night."
"Yeah, but when Dean and I show up you have to leave. Staying any longer will be too long."
Dale nods, stands and shakes Sam's hand again. "Tonight," he says.
"Tonight," Sam agrees, and goes to get Dean.
:::
After a few hours of research on his laptop Sam decides that the best way to get rid of Dale Tice's ghostly wife is to copy the anti-poltergeist spell Missouri performed on his and Dean's childhood home, but to add a few important modifications. The basic idea is the same – small sack of herbs in each corner of the house, repeat the ritual on each floor – but Sam's added in a Latin purifying prayer to aid the process and he's mixed up a new medley of herbs to place in the bags, specifically designed to deal with vengeful spirits. John saw to it that his sons were nothing if not resourceful.
Dale comes out to meet Sam and Dean when they pull up in the Impala, practically collapses against the side of the car, face broken open with relief. He's lost his serious air from the diner and is again a soft, helpless man, pathetically grateful.
"Thank you. Thank you," he repeats, over and over to Sam when Sam gets out of the driver's side.
"No problem." Sam coughs, embarrassed. He leans into Dean's open window and says, "Stay here, all right? This should be easy," before he follows Dale's nervous chattering into the house. He says hello to Dale's daughters, spends a few seconds longer on Claire – she's a solemn doll of a child, big blue eyes and brown hair curling around her thin shoulders; she's carrying a faded teddy clutched to her chest – before he follows Dale upstairs.
Dale shows Sam to Claire's room, a soft wash of purples and pinks. Dale's fidgeting has calmed, but his eyes are large and pale in his ruddy face.
"You can take care of it?"
Sam looks around, notes the broken door latch, the one ghostly footprint pressed into the floor from the ghost's latest attack. "I need you and your family to leave. Go out to dinner, go see a movie. I'll call you when it's done."
"You can take care of it?" Dale says again, more forcefully.
Sam nods. "I can take care of it."
Dale seems to deflate, shoulders coming down from around his ears. "All right."
Fifteen minutes later he and the girls are gone. Sam goes out to the Impala and gets his bag out of the trunk, carefully packed with sacks and sacks of the special herbal jumble. Dean stares silently forward, chest moving calmly up and down as he breathes. "I mean it," Sam says to Dean before he returns to the house.
Sam closes the front door behind him, sighs, and gets to work. He starts with the basement, rock salt loaded pistol swinging loose in his fist as he chants softly in Latin, works the small pick with his other hand. He's constantly scanning the shadowy room, watching for the slightest flicker of paranormal activity, but there's nothing. He finishes without incident and moves to the first floor.
He's in the kitchen, breaking through the cheerily wallpapered drywall in the corner behind the fridge, when he hears something upstairs. Dale's got an old house and the entire time Sam's been working the house has been settling around him, creaking forlornly, water rushing in the pipes. What Sam hears, it's not so much a sound as the sudden absence of any kind of noise at all. The house goes absolutely still as though listening and Sam hears the dry click of a latch from the upstairs hallway, clear as a gunshot, clear as though he were standing a foot away watching the door ease open.
Sam swallows. The house remains utterly silent, poised. After a minute Sam continues working, shotgun clutched tighter as he digs out chunks of drywall. His bag drags heavily on his shoulder, weighs him down. His voice sounds thin, the Latin chant ineffectual, tinny, as he shoves a small pack of herbs into the wall.
Sam finally climbs to the second floor. He finished the first with no problems but there's definitely something happening, something that's making the hair on his arms stand straight up. He's getting jumpy, too, checks over his shoulder at the slightest sound. He chalks it up to the spirit working its mojo – Sam Winchester is usually the textbook example of keeping his cool – then again, he usually has Dean backing him up and Dean's out in the car communing with his inner Dolly Parton or whatever.
Sam emerges from the stairwell into the second floor hallway, head swiveling in every direction. The attic door is closed but that means absolute shit. This thing could be anywhere; this thing will be somewhere and that's what's killing Sam most of all. He was never very good at waiting.
Sam starts with Dale's study, the northern corner of the house. He closes the door behind him even as he knows it will do no good if this thing really wants at him. He breaks through the corner wall as fast as he can, eyes darting behind him every few seconds; stuffs the sack into the dark hole, the chant becoming a hurried, breathless affair. The doorbell rings, a faint chime coming from far away, and Sam jumps mindlessly, turns to leave and freezes, throat closing up.
The stubbornly calculating part of his brain observes that this thing must have some kind of fear effect on those its stalking, pushing heightened paranoia and overwhelming emotion, but for the most part his head is a gibbering mess of fright. He'd turned on the light in the hallway – a stupid thing to do, so stupid, alerts others to your presence but he'd needed it, he was so – and it glows dully through the crack under the door. There are two distinct shadows pressed heavy to the crack, the kind of shadows a person would make if they were standing outside, feet close and hand on the doorknob.
Sam's throat bulges with the force of the scream wanting to make its way out, but he can't move. The door, God, the door is swelling inward and any second it's going to burst open like a rotten fruit. Split itself asunder and disgorge – shadows flicker, the feet stepping silently away. Sam's fear recedes immediately, leaving him sweaty and shaking. Sam wishes he'd worn some kind of amulet, something to protect himself against this, but how was he to know?
He steels himself and crosses to the door, throws it open without hesitation. The hallway is again empty, as he expected. Sam mentally shakes himself, tells himself to get a grip. He walks to the other girl's room – Agatha? Abby? – the eastern corner of the house and makes short work of the sack of herbs, chants rapid fire, finishes as he's already walking out the door.
Next, Claire's room, the southern corner. The door yawns wide, latch hopelessly shattered. Sam stands in the doorway and steels himself. He doesn't feel like he's drowning in his fear like he did before, but he's on a knife's edge and he knows it. One unusual sound, one wrong movement and he's going to fucking snap, going to run shrieking from the house, going to throw himself in the Impala and drive away and never look back.
No. You have a job to do. Comes Dean's voice, and Sam squares his shoulders.
The southernmost corner of the room is in Claire's closet. Sam pushes mulishly through the little-girl mess of clothes and toys, reaching for his goal. He's started to scrape at the wall, white paint coming away in chips, when he looks to the side and oh God something is watching him through the clothes, standing right there less than a foot away and watching him through the clothes and its eyes what's wrong with ITS EYES–
The closet door slams shut, sealing Sam in a tomb of his own horror. The fear descends on Sam like a wild animal, ravenous in the total blackness of the closet as the extremity of his terror pushes him to the floor, his knees sinking into the mess with two sharp cracks.
"Samuel," the thing that's in here with him breathes in a voice like graveyard shrouds slipping together. Clothes rustle as it moves and Sam's trapped , he's trapped with it, he can't get out, he can't–
There's a series of thumps starting from far away in the house, coming rapidly closer. Sam realizes it's running footsteps the second before there's an ear shattering thud against the closet door, a pause and then another, the door giving way under Dean's booted foot. The top panel pops inward, lets in a stream of light and Sam can see the thing crouched low over him, arms extended as though to give him a gruesome hug. His inbred sense of Winchester self preservation vibrates around his skull, going off like a klaxon and Sam manages to get his shotgun up at the same instant Dean sticks his left arm through the door, maimed right hand clenched at his side. They blast it with rock salt simultaneously. It immediately dissolves, arms going to tatters the moment they wrap around Sam, passing harmlessly through his torso.
Sam stares at Dean, ears ringing from the gunshots, as Dean furiously kicks in the rest of the door, reaches in and drags Sam out by the collar, pats Sam down as if to reassure himself that Sam's all right.
"Dean," Sam says, "I thought I told you to stay in the car."
Dean shrugs. His eyes flick to the left and he raises his shotgun and shoots the thing that's started to materialize in the closet doorway. His hands are steady. He quirks an eyebrow at Sam.
Let's get the fuck on with it, cowboy.
"Right." Sam says, hoists his bag higher on his shoulder and darts back into the closet.
He finishes Claire's room with no more trouble, but when he moves to the hallway he falls backward with a cry of shock as Dale's wife looms suddenly large in front of him, pale fingers reaching. Dean calmly shoots it again. "It surprised me!" Sam exclaims when Dean gives him a look.
Sam completes the second floor and moves to the attic, Dean efficiently gunning the ghost down every time it tried to appear. The fear effect still seems to be working – Sam's fingers shiver helplessly as he chants – but it doesn't seem to be as strong with Dean at his back and Dean himself appears completely unaffected. Sam finally thrusts the last bag into the wall. Dean's gunshots echo in a steady stream around him – the thing sure is one tenacious motherfucker – while he raises his voice in the last chant, a variation on the traditional Catholic exorcism.
Everything falls silent at once. The only things moving in the attic are he and Dean. He turns to look at Dean. Dean's examining his gun, checking that his constant, rapid-fire reloading didn't fuck up any of the mechanisms.
"Hey," Sam says. Dean looks up. "Thanks." Dean stares at Sam, reaches for his cheek. Dean's fingers come away bloody and Sam realizes that Dean accidentally grazed him when he first shot the ghost in the closet. Dean's mute touch is an apology. "S'okay." Sam puts his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean humors him for a moment before he pulls away.
When they're settled in the car again, Sam behind the wheel and the Tice house locked up behind them, Sam texts Dale: it's done. Then he drives them to a motel and checks them in for the night. He examines the cuts carefully in the bathroom mirror, fussing with their first-aid kit, while Dean strips himself down and sits stiffly at the room's small table.
Sam blinks at his own pale face. There's a scratch next to his mouth, close enough to the lip to make it look like an unkind imitation of Dean's scar, and Sam grips the porcelain of the generic motel sink until his knuckles turn white.
Goddammit. Goddammit.
He forces himself to go back into the motel room when all he wants to do is shove his fists through his reflection. Dean stands up, reaches a hand towards Sam. Sam shakes his head, moves to pull back the covers of his bed, fingers still quivering with leftover adrenaline. Dean follows him wordlessly, wraps himself around Sam like an octopus when Sam lies down. Sam closes his eyes and covers his brother's arms with his own.
Sam hates himself, hates what he let happen to Dean, hates the way the warm hand pressed against his chest is incomplete, and yet... and yet. Why should he have to hate himself, prove himself to anyone – prove himself to himself – when the one person he wants is right here, pressed against Sam like it hurts him to let go?
:::
Dean finds their next hunt.
Sam stumbles out of the shower early one morning, hair dripping in his eyes, to find a page of the morning paper folded neatly over the towel bar. Sam sighs and delicately picks the dirty newsprint off of his towel. THREE DEAD, SURVIVOR COMATOSE, trumpets the headline, the stark black and white picture of a thin-faced woman shouldering its way forward through the lines of text. Sam wraps himself in his rescued towel and reads around his damp fingerprints.
The woman's name is Julie Gathers, a teacher and the sole living eyewitness to her family's unusual deaths. Sam comes out of the bathroom, words smudging beneath his fingers, and says, "You sure you want to do this?"
Dean's putting on his boots, head bent, hair still damp at the nape of his neck from his own shower. Sam woke up this morning with his forehead pressed to that vulnerable patch of skin, his fingers wound between Dean's own. When Dean looks up Sam has to bite his lip to stay silent, the newspaper crinkling in his tightening grip.
Dean's eyes are hidden in the dark of the room, but Sam feels their weight, heavy on his face and shoulders. The shadowed outline of Dean's mouth looks perfect, unscarred. Unfamiliar.
Dean taps a finger on another paper resting next to him on the bed, the same gaunt woman avoiding Sam's eyes from her grainy photograph. LONE WITNESS DROPS INTO COMA, this one mercilessly announces. A second color photo of a small, red-brick school lurks about halfway down the page. Sam hesitates.
Dean hasn't had a really bad day in a month and a half. He's insisted on driving the Impala himself for the past three weeks. Bobby still hasn't called. Sam could probably handle this hunt alone, but he thought he could handle the last one alone, too. Dean practices left-handed shooting at every possible moment, and he's gotten supernaturally fast at reloading with his maimed right hand.
Yes, Dean's mouth looks perfect in the poor light, unscarred, like it used to, but Dean is no longer that person. This Dean doesn't smile. This Dean hasn't talked in five months. This Dean breathes softly in his sleep, T-shirt riding up and warm skin against Sam's hands when he shakes Dean awake. This Dean still wants to hunt.
Sam shakes his head no, but he says, "Yes. Okay," and watches this Dean (his Dean) with the helpless feeling of someone who's just lit a fuse in a locked room. Watches as Dean stands and stretches and readies his guns.
Dean throws open the curtains and Sam is momentarily blinded by the dawn-light, Dean's backlit silhouette an indistinct sketch of a man against the window glass. Sam squints, drops the paper and goes to his duffle.
:::
The hunt is in Crouch, Idaho, one of those little places that got lost in the wrinkles of their road map; one of those little places that Sam and Dean specialize in finding. The Gathers' family fate is, of course, big news: It's not every day the dismembered bodies of a respected public figure and his children show up in the school gym.
"Let's check on Julie first," Sam says, and he can tell that Dean wants to skip Julie and go right for the carnage. He can also tell that Dean's caved to his plan, despite his grumpy expression.
"It's not like we can split up," Sam says, feeling guilty. Dean stops at a red light.
"I'm not changing my mind," Sam says. Dean drums his fingers on the wheel.
"Dammit, Dean," Sam says. Dean makes a U-turn.
Sam recognizes the school from the newspaper photo: a squat building, turned rusty red in the afternoon sun. The asphalt lot is devoid of children, swings moving slowly in the breeze. It's Wednesday, two days after the killings, and police tape still shrieks yellow across the doors. There's a police cruiser parked out front, lights dim. Dean pulls up directly behind the empty squad car and kills the Impala's engine.
"And how do you want to talk your way into this one?" Sam asks, before he winces and resists the urge to correct himself. Dean leans across and pops the glove compartment, shuffles through the mess of IDs while the flap lies heavy across Sam's knees. He pulls out Sam's Animal Control badge, winks, and tosses it at Sam's face. Sam splutters and fumbles the catch. By the time he makes it out of the car, Dean is waiting expectantly.
"Didn't have to throw it at me," Sam says, tries to smooth his hair back into some semblance of professionalism. Dean shrugs, straightens his shoulders, and somehow manages to look more like a US Animal Control agent, leather jacket and all, than Sam's ever been able to pull off. Sam raises an eyebrow.
"Just remember I have to do all the talking. Try not to look too much better than me."
Dean smirks and starts walking towards the school.
A policeman comes out to meet them when they're about thirty feet away. He's a gray-haired bear of a man Sam figures has probably been on the force for thirty years or more.
"Can I help you boys?"
"Yes, sir," Sam says, stepping forward. Dean moves just behind his right shoulder, and Sam has to resist the urge to smile. He knows Dean hates not being point-man. "We're here for the Gathers case? Word came through about the nature of the attack. We're with Animal Control, investigating the possibility of it being some kind of large animal."
The man nods. "Don't know about that, the cuts looked pretty clean to me. Still, I'll walk you boys in anyway – doesn't hurt to check, and frankly, I could use a little back up on this, m'self." He offers his hand. "Sergeant Cole."
Sam has a moment of panic where he can't think of his fake name, before he remembers that their AC badges are the lead singer and the drummer from The Animals.
"Eric Burdon. Pleased to meet you," he says, accepting Sergeant Cole's handshake. "And this is my partner, John Steel." Dean reaches forward, nods. "He's still in training, so he won't be contributing much to the discussion, unfortunately."
"Rookie, eh?" Cole chuckles. "Been there myself. Nigh on twenty-eight years, but I remember what that's like. Good luck to you, son." Cole grasps Dean's shoulder, gives it a friendly shake. Sam watches his eyes carefully as they scan over Dean's face, looking for some sort of reaction to Dean's scars. If anything, Cole squeezes Dean's shoulder tighter before turning back to Sam. "Well, let me take you on in."
The bodies were in the gym. Well, to be more accurate, the pieces were in the gym, though they've been removed by the time Sam and Dean get there. Sam covers his gag reflex by swallowing discretely, fumbling for his official-looking notebook in his inner jacket pocket. Dean wordlessly hands him a pencil stub and Sam swallows again, nods in thanks. Dean's looking at him intently, obviously worried, and Sam feels inexplicably better. He doesn't think Dean's noticed the pattern yet, but ever since Sam went to hell and pulled Dean out, ever since he saw – saw things down there that no living human should ever have to see – he hasn't been quite as good at handling the blood and guts they come across on a fairly regular basis.
"Well, this here was David. At least, we think most of this blood pool was David – I recognize that damned watch of his – and this here was the kid, Kevin," Cole says, gesturing between the two largest blood stains. He looks pale, face drawn and grim. "What happened to them, it's not right, don't care who or what did it." He rubs the skin going soft with age just under his chin, shakes his head.
Sam makes himself go through the list of supernatural creatures in his head that he thinks are capable of this, methodically numbering their weaknesses. He asks, "Where's the daughter?"
"Over there, behind the bleachers." Cole motions tiredly, and Sam can just see another spreading pool of red in the metal confusion under the school's bright blue stands. "We think Sarah crawled under there to hide. She was probably last."
Sam nods and makes a note. girl last? under bleachers. father son middle of gym – no cult symbols check blood spatter?
"No sign of a murder weapon, correct? That may be indicative of some kind of animal." Sam drops to a crouch to get a closer look. The faded copper tang of dried blood wafts into his face, more powerful at this distance. He watches Dean move out of the corner of his eye, carefully avoiding the tape marking off spatter. "Or a psycho," he mutters, more to himself.
Cole chuckles bitterly. "Got that right. Matter of fact, that's more to the way I'm thinking. Like I said before, the cuts look too clean to be some animal going for a snack. Can't think of anyone in this town I'd peg for it, though, and you fellas are the only newcomers we've had in months."
The only human newcomers Sam thinks. "And no one heard or saw any part of this? No janitor, maintenance personnel? Something this thorough would have had to take a while," Sam says out loud.
"Fred's the only one who works late – he's the janitor – and he says he went home about nine PM, didn't hear or see nothing. Locked the doors behind him, too, and the janitor's closet connects right up with the gymnasium. It'd be the easiest way to get in, 'stead of going through the school."
Sam straightens up. "I'd like to see that, then, please."
Cole nods. "Thought you might." He leads Sam to a small brown door set discretely in the corner of the gym, searches through his keys to find the right one and unlocks the door with a discordant jangle of metal. The door creaks terribly. Cole reaches in and flicks on the light, steps back to let Sam through.
Sam immediately goes to the outer door. The small window is the kind with chicken wire between the panes of glass. The door itself is a heavy, metal affair, two deadbolts and a chain lock gleam, shiny and new.
"We just had a problem with some of the high school kids coming through, vandalizing the place." Cole says, as if reading Sam's mind. He points and Sam can see the faint marks of sandblasted graffiti on the cement-block walls. A broom leads haphazardly across the largest one, stylized loops of someone's name. Sam nods.
"That'd make it hard for an animal to get in, and it doesn't look like this door's been tampered with."
"'zactly," Cole sighs. "Now you see where I'm at, son. Every possible entry locked, new security on the most direct access, no sign of forced entry or exit and no sign of a murder weapon. I was hoping you could shed some light on the subject," Cole crosses his arms, leans against the door frame, "But I'm thinkin' you're at about the same place, am I right?"
Sam lets out a gust of sheepish laughter. "Got me there, sir."
"Call me Sarge. Or Cole's, fine. Got the feeling I'll be seeing you and your partner again." Cole takes his hat off, starts turning it in his hands. "By the way, Animal Control already came through yesterday."
Sam opens and closes his mouth. Through the door and over Cole's shoulder Sam can see Dean doing the same thing. Cole catches Sam's eye, the side of his mouth tugging up into a sly smile.
"Thought you had me, huh? Nah. But you boys got some mighty good fakes and a cool attitude, so I guess I won't arrest you on account of I think you're pretty good." Cole turns to look at Dean, then back at Sam. "Not making a mistake, am I?"
"No, sir," Sam says automatically. God, how could he have been so stupid, they should've checked the police scanner, the records, something, before they got here–
"Relax, Burdon, if that is your name. This here's a one horse town and I can tell you right now the horse is getting tired. I'm pleased to have some help, no matter what you are, and I got a twinge about you two." Cole smiles.
"I –thank you." Sam says. This man would turn them in to the FBI in thirty seconds flat if he knew. Cole shrugs.
"I gotta go. My wife's waiting dinner on me, and I think you boys'll be fine here alone. You know what you're doing." He waves a hand at Dean, puts his hat back on and heads to the door. "I'll lock the doors as I leave. All you need to do is close 'em tight behind you when you head out."
"Yessir, thank you, sir," Sam says, tugs at his jacket. He feels like it's a million degrees in here. He was stupid, so stupid. Just one fuck up would be all it took. Dean can't talk, won't be able to defend himself, and it'll be all Sam's fault again.
"Hey," Cole says, points two fingers at Sam. "I said relax. Only time you gotta worry is when I decide I don't like you anymore, and trust me, you'll know when that is." He winks and disappears, heavy tread receding down the institutional school hallway.
Dean smacks Sam on the back of the head.
"Ow!" Sam exclaims, rubbing the sore spot. "What the hell! How was I supposed to know he'd be that perceptive?"
Dean gives Sam a look that speaks volumes, and most of them start with "dumbass." Sam frowns stubbornly.
"Whatever, at least he's cool about it," Sam grumbles. "He seems like he's smart enough to really help us out if we need it, so you should be grateful he made us and didn't arrest our asses on the spot."
Dean shakes his head, digs the EMF meter out of his coat pocket and heads toward what remains of Gathers and son. Sam spins on his heel, heads towards the wall. He wants to do a periphery of the gym and then slowly work his way inward, see if Cole and anyone else who's been through missed something. Something important or supernatural that only Sam would recognize and connect to the case, or some sort of actual physical evidence.
Mostly, he doesn't want to piss Cole off by coming up empty handed.
After half an hour, Sam's back is aching, it's entirely possible his eyes are fixed in a permanent squint, and he's still feeling nauseated from the blood stench. One lone fly has somehow found its way into the gym and is buzzing in lazy circles over the red-crusted floor. Sam can practically hear Dean making some snide remark about bad crime scene etiquette and fly larvae.
He straightens up and sighs, rubs his forehead. He's managed to play connect-the-dots with a group of bloods smears that were oddly far away from the main pool, and he's come up with the Zoroastrian Daeva symbol. He hates those fucking things. He hates most of all that this wasn't a random killing, that someone had to be angry enough and fucked up enough to summon this shit and set it on this family.
Dean pops out from behind the bleachers, eyebrows wrinkled as he looks at something in the palm of his hand.
"What d'you got?" Sam asks, moving towards Dean slowly. The air in the gym feels oppressive and close. Dean holds out his hand for Sam to look.
"Huh," Sam says. Dean nods.
They make sure to close the doors firmly behind them.
:::
Cole looks unsurprised when they walk into his office the next morning. He puts down the report he's reading and looks at them over his glasses. "Well?"
"We need your help," Sam says, "But you have to promise not to arrest us."
"Can't make that promise, son," Cole grunts as he heaves himself to his feet. He comes around the desk and gives both of their hands a brisk shake. "Now, what did you want?"
Sam looks at Dean. Dean shrugs. What they want is dead man's blood to mix into the ritual brew they have to make. However, it has to be a "man dead at the full of the moon," and Sam figures the only way to know that for sure is to get into the morgue and use its records to find the right corpse in the handy labeled freezer nearby.
They could break in, but morgues are risky. Sam has a flash of Dean the way he was those first few months: unresponsive, stayed where you put him, ate what you gave him, slept like a dead man. He's not letting Dean go to jail. He's not losing Dean ever again.
"Burdon?" Cole says, "You all right?"
"Yessir," Sam responds automatically, shaking himself out of it. He glances at Dean again. Dean is studying a framed copy of Cole's Police Academy diploma.
"You gonna tell me what you want or just stand there all day?"
"We – we might need to get into the morgue."
Cole leans back against his desk, crosses his arms over his chest. He gives Sam a calm once over.
"Why would you need to do that?"
"I can't really explain."
"You're gonna have to, 'fore I get to not liking you."
Sam presses his lips into a thin line. This possibly wasn't the best idea.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" He says quickly, before he can think twice. Dean's a surprised blur of motion in his peripheral vision.
"Yes," Cole says without a moment's hesitation.
Sam stops, mouth open. He's never had anyone say yes flat-out like that. He's suddenly not sure what to say next. Cole takes his glasses off and sets them on his desk next to his hip.
"This is about the Gathers case, isn't it."
Sam nods. Cole sighs and reaches behind him, produces his jingling ring of keys. He flips them between his fingers with a meditative expression.
"I don't think we have time to go into detail, but we have a way to figure out who's behind this," Sam says, gesturing between Dean and himself. "We just need access to the morgue for a half hour and for you to trust us at the school overnight." Dean shifts pointedly. "Alone," finishes Sam.
Cole purses his lips, looks skeptically at Sam.
"I don't have any reason to trust you two."
"You said you had a feeling," Sam says stupidly, forcing his nervousness down.
"A 'feeling' ain't a real reason."
Sam shifts, rolling forward onto the balls of his feet. He recognizes the fight-or-flight reaction but he can't stop himself. If he has to, he'll sling Dean over his shoulder like a damsel in distress.
Cole rubs a hand through his sparse grey hair, sucks on his teeth. Finally, he says, "On one condition." Sam's entire body relaxes. He hopes it's not obvious. "I get to check the whole place over once you're done – both places, actually, morgue and gym – and if I find anything I don't like, I take your asses to jail."
Sam looks at Dean. Dean shrugs. Sam's pretty sure if they leave the corpses they don't need undisturbed and don't mess with the blood spatter they'll be golden. He's a little bothered that he can have that thought and consider it to be perfectly normal, but he'll get over it.
"Deal."
Twenty minutes later, Sam triumphantly pulls up the file he needs on the morgue's computer. "Got it," he says, and Dean comes forward, leans over Sam's shoulder. His breathe is low and even in Sam's ear as he reads. Sam keeps his eyes on the screen. He knows if he turns his head Dean's mouth – Dean's scars – will be right there. He's never looked at them this closely. He's not sure he wants to.
After a few seconds Dean pulls away, heads towards the hallway that leads to the freezer. Sam glances at the door; they left Dale pacing in the outer lobby. Shaking his head, he follows Dean.
Dean's already found the guy they need, pulled out his drawer and folded down his sheet. He looks peaceful, as though he's sleeping, though the waxy-pale hue of his skin would never be found on any live person. The file said Marcus Johns died of an aneurysm while mowing the lawn, though his wife insisted on and paid for an autopsy because she couldn't believe that her husband, a healthy, happy 30 year old, could drop dead in front of her eyes
Sam pulls out the medical kit he has prepared, unwraps and uncaps a syringe. They don't need very much, and though the freezer is cold enough to keep the body from any decay (Sam estimates around one degree Celsius) it's still a few degrees warmer than the freezing point of blood. It'll be a slow process but they should be able to get what they need.
Dean gently lifts the guy's wrist, turning his arm so that the vulnerable inside of his elbow faces up. The blue veins stand out in stark relief against Johns' thin, dead skin. Sam swallows roughly, but he manages to school his features to give nothing away. He can still feel Dean watching him as he pulls the skin in the crook of Johns' elbow tight with his thumb, slides the needle through. He pulls the plunger steadily outward and watches the plastic tube fill with sluggish, dark blood. When he's finished, he recaps the needle, puts it carefully back in its case and into his bag. Dean busies himself with Johns, pulling his sheet back up and sliding his drawer soundlessly closed.
Sam jumps when Dean places a hand on his arm.
"I'm fine," he says automatically. Dean shakes his head and squeezes Sam's bicep reassuringly. Sam feels inexplicably better. He follows Dean back out to the lobby where Cole is waiting.
"You done?" Cole asks. He looks tired. "Wait here." Cole brushes past them to check that they left the morgue untouched. He comes back after a spare two minutes. "You get tonight at the school, but I'll be there at 6:30 AM sharp tomorrow morning, you got me?"
"Yessir," Sam says as Dean nods. Cole turns to go, hesitates, turns back.
"He ever talk?" He gestures at Dean. Dean looks wide-eyed at Sam. Cole looks narrow-eyed at both of them. "Never mind. When you're done with this I want the two of you out of here, and I don't think I ever want to see you again. We clear?"
He slams out the door before Sam has a chance to reply.
Sam lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Dean rolls his eyes, looks at Sam as if to say, Guess we wore out our welcome.
"Do enough weird shit and you always wear it out. Welcome to your life, Dean." Sam says dryly. Dean wrinkles his nose in a sneer. Sam ignores him, pushing past Dean to head for the parking lot.
:::
"Well, let's see it," Sam demands once they're holed up in the school gym once more. Cole let them in before he drove home, mouth set in a harsh line.
Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out a neatly folded square of tissue. Sam has no idea where Dean got tissue, but he pushes the thought from his mind as Dean unwraps the earring he found behind the bleachers. There's a small spot of what looks like rust on the gold hoop. Gold doesn't rust. Sam wonders just how much blood has congealed under the stands.
Dean places the earring at the center of the complex sigil Sam has marked out in tape on the floor. Sam gathers what he needs and dumps it into a pile on top of a relatively flat rock he keeps in the trunk of the Impala for just such a purpose. He sets the rock next to the earring and lights the pile of herbs and bones on fire. It's a summoning spell that Sam's hoping will bring in whoever called up the Daeva, the Daeva itself, or both. He's got his hand tightly wrapped around their Dad's journal in his pocket, the Persian text that will free the demons and turn them against their own master – hopefully saving Sam's, Dean's, and this whole damn town's collective asses – at his fingertips.
Dean's a warm presence at Sam's back, flares at the ready. The small fire begins smoldering, dying down.
Silence.
Then, Sam hears something. It sounds like someone whispering, muffled with distance. Dean elbows him sharply and Sam turns his head in time to see one of the shadows pooled under the bleachers pull itself laboriously up the wall, dusky claws extended. It shakes itself once, like a wet dog, before it goes still. Sam has the distinct impression that it's watching them, judging them. Then without warning it dives back under the bleachers, disappearing into the dark interior.
"Shit," Sam says. And that's when Dean's breath goes out in a pained woosh as the Daeva that's been sneaking up behind them takes a swipe at him. Dean sprawls onto the floor at Sam's feet, nearly knocking over the remains of the fire, three bloody gashes in the back of his shirt. Sam whirls, yanking dad's journal from his pocket, in time to get it smacked brutally from his hand. Something in his wrist gives with a twig-like snap, and he cries out. The journal slides along the floor, comes to rest maybe ten feet away. Dean scrambles towards it, dragging himself desperately to all fours, as the Daeva under the bleachers leaps forward, deadly dark.
Something grabs Sam by the hair, brutally wrenches his head back as a clawed hand digs into his side. Sam can feel its talons tearing through fabric and flesh. He can't help the hurt gurgle that escapes. Dean is immediately distracted, looking wildly back at Sam. Sam tries to motion him on, but the other Daeva has already reached the journal and gives it a hearty slap. It sails to the edge of the gym, fetching up against the wall at least thirty feet away.
Oh fuck. Sam gets a chance to think, before he's thrown in the opposite direction. He lands painfully on his wrist, put out unthinkingly to block his fall. A bolt of pain shoots up his arm, graying out the edges of his vision. For a second, he can't move, feels like screaming from the pulses of agony. Sam hears a frantic scuffling sound, manages to lift his head and sees Dean sprinting flat out for the journal, trailed by two terrifyingly large shadows. Dean drops, slides into the wall like he's kissing home plate, and in one fluid movement scoops up the journal and lobs it at Sam.
"Dean!" Sam screams, as Dean is suddenly slammed into the wall once, twice, as each Daeva hits him, tears into him. Sam's never moved so fast in his life, ripping the journal open and reciting the Persian quick enough to choke on the words, tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar diphthongs. Blood starts to drip from Dean's mouth, but he's still moving, still fighting. Sam's risen to his feet, hoarsely yelling the last of the incantation. For a second, nothing happens. Dean keeps heaving, fighting against his invisible opponents. More scars, he'll have more– Sam thinks unintelligibly, and is struck with the sudden fear that, oh God, he read everything left to right instead of right to left and what now what now – before there's a sharp crack, a flash and the smell of gunpowder.
Dean slides slowly down the wall, head falling forward.
Sam runs to him.
:::
Sam takes Dean to the hospital one town over. He breaks every traffic law in the book on the way, ignoring the shards of pain slicing into his wrist as he ruthlessly grips the wheel. He doesn't want to call Cole, he's not sure what will happen if he does.
They rush Dean through Emergency, frantic cry of internal-bleeding, pushing Sam away as they take Dean down a hall, through a pair of swinging doors and into the antiseptic sour, beeping unknown of the ICU. Sam sinks into a chair in the lobby, head in his hands. His wrist is starting to puff up as the adrenaline fades. When a nurse comes back out to ask him for Dean's information, insurance, all of the meaningless legal facts they've complied for just such an emergency situation as this – all of which will now have to be dumped to cover their trail – she notices the swelling and the blood staining his torn shirt and takes him into the back, schedules an x-ray. Turns out the wrist's broken – only a minor fracture – but he has to sit still for a cast and for a swath of bandages to be wrapped around his torso. He gives up all of his own fake medical information, sighing at the thought of having to rebuild both his and Dean's history for any future hospital visits.
Sam slouches down in his chair, his legs stretching almost the length of the tiny room, and waits for the nurse to bring back the ibuprofen she'd promised. None of this would have happened if Dean's annoying tendency to use himself as bait didn't pop up on every goddamned hunt, even now that Dean's not one-hundred percent. Physically he is, but Sam will never count him as fully healed until he's ragging on Sam for his "nasty tofu and granola habit" while simultaneously stuffing his own face with cheese fries. Disgusting.
Sam aches with missing it.
He leans his head back, aiming to close his eyes and try to fight off the migraine that's building behind his left eye socket.
"Honey, wake up," a gentle voice says. Sam jerks out of his doze, blinks blearily up at the soft-looking nurse that's come to rouse him. "Your partner's awake," she says without a blink of an eye, "but we can't get him to talk. We need you to come, get him to say something."
"We're not–" Sam starts, but then remembers that their IDs have two different last names and that he carried Dean in himself, cradled Dean's body in his arms, ignoring all of their Dad's rules about not moving the injured, and yelled for somebody to help him, right now, please. What other assumption would she make when he stood there, covered in Dean's blood, arm outstretched as he watched them take Dean away? It's perfectly logical.
He sighs. "Take me to him."
Dean's lying pale in a bed, hooked up to any number of machines monitoring any number of things. He's got bruises around his mouth, darkening under his eyes. He looks worn-out, tired, his scarred left arm stark against the white linens. He's hidden his maimed hand under the sheets.
"Dean," Sam says, moves to touch Dean's shoulder. Dean closes his eyes, turns his head mindlessly towards Sam's caress.
The nurse – she'd introduced herself as Carol – steps forward. "We can't get him to agree to surgery. He's still bleeding internally and we need to go in and stop it, but as long as he's conscious we can't proceed without some form of consent."
Sam stares down at Dean's bruised face. Sam would make fifty deals just to see Dean unhurt, fifty more to hear him speak. Dean'd kick his ass if he knew Sam was thinking like that, but God. God. Just a few more seconds and Dean could have been dead – again – under Sam's eyes.
"Just do it."
"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't proceed until he's agreed himself."
"He won't talk. Can't you see that? He doesn't talk!" Sam's voice comes out harsh. He turns to the nurse, knows how hard his eyes must be by the way she steps back. Sam wilts; it's not her fault. "What if he signed something?"
"I – I guess that would be all right. If he's able."
"He's fucking able," Sam says, turns back to Dean. Dean's watching him, expression unreadable. The nurse leaves and Sam listens to the door close, counts to thirty, before he says, "You just had to put yourself out there, didn't you, Dean."
Dean quirks an eyebrow. Sam jerks his hand off Dean's shoulder, spins away. "You know what I'm fucking talking about! Even before you were a reckless shit and now – now it's like I can't even guess what you're thinking before you do it. You used to tell me before you set yourself up as bait, you know?" Sam turns back, forgets and tries to run his injured hand through his hair. Instead he knocks himself in the forehead with his cast, curses, tries not to get inexplicably angrier when he notice's Dean's eyes fixed on the cast. "Don't worry about me, anymore! Worry about you! Worry about yourself! I still don't know what the hell's wrong with you, what they did to you while you were down there, because you don't fucking talk."
Dean opens his mouth on a quiet breath. His scar pulls at his lower lip and Sam wants to scream and cry and why couldn't he fix this sooner, before Dean had to lose everything, and God it's all his fault, all his fucking fault–
"Bobby kicked us out because of you, you know that?" Sam says suddenly, angry at himself, so angry, and he has to lash out at something. He can't stop himself, his words spewing out like poison. "Yeah, you thought our stay was a little short, right? That's because Bobby was afraid of you. Afraid!" Sam leans close, "So sign these fucking papers and then let's get the fuck out of here. I was an idiot to start hunting again so soon. We are going to lie low until I figure out what's wrong with you, because something has to be wrong if you won't even tell me what a dumb shit I am for falling for the Daeva-behind-you trick."
Dean closes his eyes. His face is perfectly motionless, but Sam saw a flash of pain when he mentioned Bobby. Sam's guilt chews at his insides. What the hell is he thinking? Dean doesn't deserve to be yelled at. If anyone does, it's Sam.
God, he can't even do this right. He's turning into their father, gone hard and cold after the loss of his wife, bullheaded and unable to see how much he was hurting his sons through his misguided teachings.
He sinks into a chair, clenches his fists and ignores the dull tear of pain in his wrist. His anger fades as his guilt burrows deeper, and all that's left is worry and an odd hollow feeling in his stomach.
"I can't deal with this anymore if you won't talk to me. I need to know you're okay and you're not. You're lying to me and I want to know why."
Carol clears her throat awkwardly. Sam gets up, doesn't look at her. "He'll sign. I'll wait in the hall."
When they wheel Dean out to head to surgery, Dean reaches for Sam. Sam's there so fast he doesn't remember moving.
"What? What do you need?" He'd been prepared to sit here all night, but if Dean wants something from him he'll do it. He'd split the world open for Dean. He already has, crawled down the rip into hell, and he'd do it again if Dean so much as snapped his fingers.
Sam forces himself to focus as Dean moves, opens his hand and in his palm he's scrawled one word: JULIE.
Dean wants him to wrap up the case – of course – but Sam's not leaving yet. He's got one more thing he needs to do. "I'll finish it," he says, and then closes his hand over Dean's. "and I'm sorry." Sorry for yelling at you, sorry for throwing Bobby against you, sorry for getting angry when none of this is your fault, when it's all me, when I did all of this to you.
Dean's eyes go soft before he looks away, shakes his head. No, I'm sorry.
Why aren't you angry at me? Sam wants to scream.
Instead, he heads out to the Impala, prepared to drive back to their motel and gather their stuff. With the Daevas gone the most dangerous part of this hunt is over, but Julie Gathers is the last loose end. He feels calmer now that he's got a hospital database to hack and the last remnants of a case to solve, and he shakes his head ruefully as he realizes Dean is still finding ways to take care of him, to get him to slow down and think straight.
"Bastard," Sam mutters, cranking the ignition. He smiles. He doesn't think he'd be the first to call Dean incorrigible: there's a good chance Sam's going to be added to a pretty long list.
:::
Turns out Julie's been coming in for years now with odd bruises on her torso and arms. She's never had any facial injuries – her husband knew enough to keep her looking normal – but she's ended up in the hospital with bruised and broken ribs on three separate occasions. The last time she came in with a concussion and a suspicious contusion on the back of her head, hidden carefully under her hair. David probably hadn't known he'd hit her that hard and panicked, rushing her to the hospital when she collapsed.
There's an iffy gap in the file before Sam finds re-admittance papers, this time detailing a comatose state. Sam eyes the admittance time: 7:45 AM on the morning after the multiple murders were committed. He's got a hunch Julie had a little visiting to do. He's not sure exactly what happened, but reading between the lines he guesses that Julie somehow managed to escape the hospital, summon the Daevas and her husband to the school, and used the demons to kill him. She'd probably been feeling woozy the whole time and lost control, resulting in a kind of magical whiplash and her passing out – for good, this time. The Daevas remained bound to her since she was still technically alive – the only reason they hadn't gone on a wild killing spree – but now that they were dead, she was going rapidly downhill. Sam skimmed through the notes on Julie's file, stopping at one made about five hours ago.
Patient remains unconscious but appears to be suffering from dream-like hallucinations. Repeated claims of "killing my babies," though this is believed to be unrelated to the case. Sedative administered when violent convulsions threatened personal injury.
"She didn't mean to do it," Sam says out loud. Her children weren't supposed to be there; they were a mistake. Ten or more years of an abusive husband drove her to it, but something had gone wrong: he had brought the kids along and she hadn't been able to contain the Daevas in her weakened state.
Sam closes the file, logs out of the hospital network. He sits back in the uncomfortable hotel desk chair, his eyes prickling. He wishes he never had to deal with hunts like these, where the real monster is human and there's nothing he can do to save anyone.
He's gone too long feeling like there's nothing he can do, there's no one he can save. Most of all his own brother, lying unconscious now while doctors poke at his insides, fixing injuries Sam should have been able to prevent but couldn't.
He grinds his teeth together and stands, gathering their scattered belongings and throwing them all into the backseat of the Impala. He's got to get back to Dean.
:::
Dean spends five days in the hospital, recuperating. Sam starts to get twitchy around day three – they're technically dead, but there's no telling who stays up late and watches FBI's Most Wanted, so they need to get out of here. After Dean's released, Sam drags him to a hotel one state over and tells him they're staying for two weeks. At least.
"You need to get back on your feet, and I need some time to – to think, I don't know." He finishes lamely. Dean eyes him skeptically, before he shrugs and makes his way painfully to a bed, arm wrapped around his stomach where they cut him open. He lowers himself slowly, exhaling sharply, before he lies back and closes his eyes.
Sam stands awkwardly between the other bed and the TV, watching Dean's chest rise and fall through the thin hospital scrubs. He wants to go over and wrap Dean up in his arms, but he feels like it would be somehow bigger than anything they've done before. Both of the nights where they ended up sleeping together it's been Dean who started it, Dean who can't speak and who can only communicate his concern and his fear through touch. Sam doesn't have that excuse.
Dean shifts, his eyebrows drawing together in pain, and Sam's mind is made up. He goes over to the bed and sits, deliberately takes off his shoes and socks and tosses his over-shirt and jeans onto a nearby chair. When he finally turns his head, Dean's watching him through slitted eyes.
"You mind?" He asks, trying for overconfident. Confrontational. He knows this is weird. Brothers don't sleep together once they've become grown men. Brothers don't get heartaches thinking about missing smiles and old injuries. It feels like Sam's taking it one step further than they've ever gone before, but he needs to feel Dean warm and breathing against him. Dean's bravado and empty reassurances are all gone now, and Sam didn't realize how much they helped. He needs to replace them somehow.
Dean shakes his head no, he doesn't mind, and Sam stretches out stiffly next to him, their shoulders barely touching. He stares at the ceiling, trying not to notice where their arms are starting to sweat, squashed together.
Dean moves next to him, and suddenly their arms are perfectly aligned, flesh against flesh up and down and even their pinkies pressed together, straining towards each other. Sam closes his eyes. There's a warm feeling crawling through his gut that he doesn't want to name. He wants to roll over and bury his face in Dean's neck. He wants to twine their pinkies together in a ridiculous adolescent gesture. He wants to press his thumb across Dean's scar, watch his mouth move while Dean talks, while Dean laughs.
He wants. He doesn't know what to do about that. Brothers don't want, either.
Dean's breathing evens out next to him. Sam waits for about ten more minutes before he turns his head and stares at Dean. Dean's face is slack with sleep, his cheeks hollowed with the weight of recent pain, but his forehead is soft, relaxed. Unworried. Sam rolls onto his side, ignoring (savoring) the way it pushes his hand into Dean's, and reaches his other hand hesitantly forward. His cast-clumsy hand, but all he needs are his fingertips, turning Dean's face gently towards him.
Dean's mouth looks lush in the dim light, lips pushed outward with the breath of sleep. Dean's scar is still pink, fading to white in places, extending the split of his lips downward. Sam can't look away. He traces it with the pad of his thumb until suddenly his fingers aren't enough.
He doesn't think about it. He knows it's the stupidest possible thing he could do, and God help him if Dean wakes up, but he needs to feel the scar. He needs to really feel it, to take it into himself and in some small way shoulder a piece of the burden. He leans forward and delicately lays his lips against the side of Dean's mouth.
For a second he can't move. He can feel the sickle-curve against his lips, crossing from top to bottom, and it's like kissing a brand. Like he can feel the heat of hell in the core of it, searing his skin, before it goes cool against him and he has to push a little harder. Helpless against the draw of it he moves his mouth over the scar, tracing it blindly, and if his lips somehow end up more over Dean's than over the scar, well, he can deal with that later.
Dean sighs under him, turns his head, and Sam jerks guiltily away. Dean's face furrows into a moue of disappointment. He stretches towards Sam's warmth, makes to turn on his side before Sam pushes Dean's torso flat in an effort to spare Dean the pain. Instead, Sam moves closer, wraps their hands together as he presses up against Dean's side. He drops a gentle kiss on Dean's damaged eyebrow – not thinking not thinking about it – and settles his head on the slice of pillow between Dean's shoulder and the side of Dean's face.
He falls asleep.
He wakes up flat on his back with Dean sprawled all over him, brow wrinkled in discomfort because he's lying on his injured side. Sam exhales an exasperated breath.
He falls asleep again, thinking of the way Dean's lips pillowed under his mouth, warm and chapped at the corner.
The next morning Sam wakes up first, legs tangled with Dean's and sweating lightly where Dean's sprawled half across him. He shifts carefully, easing himself out from under his brother before swinging his legs off the side of the bed, sitting up and scrubbing his hands through his hair. He's not sure what last night means. Frankly, he's not sure what anything means right now. He needs to call Bobby.
His phone vibrates abruptly across the bedside table and Sam reaches for it without looking, checks the display. Speak of the devil. He flips it open.
"Hey, Bobby."
"Sam, good, I'm glad you're awake. Wasn't sure what time-zone you were in."
Sam stands and moves to the door of the room. Outside the sun has just come up, its peach-pink rays dispersing the early morning chill. He leaves the door open a sliver so he'll hear if Dean wakes up.
"So what's up?" He asks once he's outside, voice lukewarm. He's not exactly mad at Bobby, but he's still hurt that Bobby wanted them to leave. He asked them to leave. That's not what family does, but Sam so often forgets that Bobby's not family – not flesh and blood, anyway – and every time he remembers it's like a brand new loss.
"I think I know what's wrong with your brother."
Even though Sam said the same yesterday – There's something wrong with you – he still bristles to hear anyone else suggest it. He swallows back his irritation and asks, "So? Spill."
"You ever hear of a Promise?"
Sam's brow furrows in confusion. "Um, yeah. You discover the dictionary, now?"
"No, a Demonic Promise, Sam," Bobby says, exasperated. This time, even Sam can hear the capital letter. He picks at the hem of his T-shirt, eyes turned inward.
"You mean like a Deal?"
"Kind of, but you don't bet your soul on the outcome. See, it's kind of complicated, but to really understand it you need to think of the Orpheus and Eurydice myth."
Sam's silent for a moment, running over the Greek mythology in his head: Eurydice and Orpheus fall in love – the world ending kind of love – but she's bitten by a snake and dies. Orpheus, overcome by grief, travels to Hades to get her back. Hades agrees, but on one condition: Orpheus is forbidden to turn and look at her until they reach the upper air. Orpheus follows the directions exactly but in a moment of forgetfulness he turns to look at her as soon as he's reached the living world. Unfortunately, Eurydice hasn't quite made it out of the Underworld yet and she's torn away from Orpheus once more, dying a second time in front of his eyes as a result of Orpheus' broken promise. Sam blinks.
"What are you saying? Dean made a Promise to the Devil? And I'm the chick?"
"Exactly. I'm not sure what he Promised, but I'm thinking him being mute is part of it."
"Bobby, I pulled him out of Hell myself. I was watching him the whole time. He didn't talk to anyone – he didn't make any Promises!"
"Sam. Demons get in your head. He could've had a whole party going on in there and you wouldn't've known it unless he said something."
Sam sinks onto the dirty bench placed between their room and the next.
"So he Promised to - what - give something up? For the rest of his life?" Sam's voice rises, beginning to be hysterical, at the end. God, his whole life without ever knowing what it was, without ever being sure. "Why? What's he get out of it?"
"Well, that's where the Deal similarity comes in. It's an exchange of sorts: Dean Promises to give what seems to be impossible and he gets something in return – we just don't know what. He's tainted with it, yeah, but not in a way that'll affect anyone else."
"Still. Fuck," Sam says eloquently.
"Yeah," Bobby sighs in response. Then, "Anyway, uh, I wanted to call and tell you, and I wanted to – I want to apologize. Dean was still – and you boys didn't deserve what I – I said some things–"
"Bobby. Bobby, it's fine," Sam says. He's suddenly tired. Bone deep. He doesn't want to hear Bobby verbally prostrating himself.
Bobby swallows audibly over the line. They're silent for a few seconds, listening to the other breathe.
"Bring him by anytime. I mean it." Bobby's voice is gruff, uncomfortably sincere. "He better?"
Sam realizes with a jolt that he hasn't called Bobby this whole time – hasn't told him about Dean's progress, Dean's lucidity, hunting, Dean's new injuries, nothing – and he wearily accepts this new guilt on top of the old.
"He's – kind of fantastic, actually," Sam says, and then it's like the dam breaks. He wants to tell someone, wants to share the burden. "He's not talking, obviously, but he reacts to what's happening around him. Sometimes he writes me notes. They're never more than one or two words, but they get his point across. We've gone on some hunts, too, but this last one he got hurt again. I told him we were gonna lie low until I figured out what was wrong with him, but now that we know. I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I don't want him hunting right now; it was stupid of me to start again. I – it's too soon. It doesn't work anymore."
"Yeah," Bobby says, the rasp of his beard over the phone. "Well, like I said, you boys can hole up here anytime you want."
"Thanks Bobby, really." Sam leans his elbows on his knees, stares at the cracked concrete between his bare feet. "We'll come by soon."
"Good. Keep in touch."
Sam hangs up the phone and presses it to his lips in thought. The chill air is seeping under the edges of his boxers. He stands and goes inside. Dean's still sleeping, twisted impossibly into the blankets with one arm tumbled limply off the side of the bed, fingers brushing the floor. He's moved into the spot Sam vacated, nose pressed to the pillow. Sam wants to slide back in next to him, wants to soak up Dean's warmth and use it to prove Dean's okay.
What did you Promise? What are you getting out of it? Sam thinks, resists the urge to shake Dean awake, yell at him or, God, kiss him again.
God.
Sam moves to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and by the time he returns, face washed and hair damp, Dean's sitting up in bed. His face lights up at the sight of Sam but he still doesn't smile.
:::
It started after Dean's two-day disappearance. The second time was after Dean narrowly saved Sam from Dale Tice's ghostly wife, the third after Dean's hospital stay, the fourth for no real reason except Sam bought them a bottle of tequila and they were both royally drunk enough to pass out mashed together on one bed. Now it happens for no reason at all, as far as Sam can tell.
Sam has a theory, however. He thinks their unusual sleeping habits have something to do with Dean's need to communicate. Dean can't talk, but in a way that's what makes him easier to understand. Before, Dean could shield what he really felt with a barrage of words, false bravado spewed from his lips, carefully concealing his insecurities, his rages, his sadness. Now, he has to rely on the one thing that never lies: his body language. Sam was always able to tell more from the way Dean stood – the way he held his shoulders, cracked his neck, sucked his teeth – than from the way he spoke. Since Dean is still a talkative bastard – and the only way he can talk is through touch – Sam's able to grasp more of how Dean's really feeling than he ever could Before.
Sam doesn't think Dean realizes not talking has made him the easiest person to have a conversation with that Sam's ever encountered, and that this whole sleeping-together thing has something to do with that. Dean's worried and he doesn't know how else to say so than to wrap Sam in his arms at night and sleep with his nose squashed to the swell of Sam's shoulder.
Unfortunately, Sam's starting to realize that he never wants that to stop, that even after Dean starts talking again – and he will – he still wants to sleep tangled together, Dean's hand cupped over his heart.
What most people don't know is that Sam's the one with the addictive personality. One look at Dean and they see it all – women, booze, gambling; the man's obviously a monster, not even worth a second glance. Sam with his big, gentle hands and his unassuming posture travels safely under the verbal umbrella of 'a good boy.' If only they knew. Sam's got a dozen habits he'd like to kick, and a dozen more waiting in the wings. Shit, after a few night of sleeping with Dean at his side, Sam's managed to hook himself another one.
Sam wakes up one morning with Dean's lips pressed to his neck, sweating where Dean's arm is wrapped around his chest. He blinks lazily. There's a water stain on the ceiling that looks like the Queen of England and Dean's lips are shaping words against the slow and steady beat of Sam's pulse.
Dean's lips are shaping words.
Sam sits bolt upright, dislodging Dean. Dean gives a disgruntled snort and promptly rolls over and falls back asleep, T-shirt wrinkled up to expose the pale, vulnerable scarred skin of his lower back. His spine throws soft shadows in the dawn light from the window, marching downward to the elastic waist of his cheap sweatpants; his ribs expand and contract slowly, pulling minutely against the sheets. Sam feels like his heart is beating out of his chest.
He rolls out of bed and goes to the bathroom, leaves the light off and gets into the shower in the half-gloom seeping through the open doorway. He didn't want to look at his face in the mirror. He doesn't know how he'll deal with Dean without demanding an explanation: can Dean talk? How long has he been able to speak? Why hasn't he said anything yet?
Can't he see what it's doing to Sam?
Sam has an .mp3 file saved on his laptop that he recorded on his phone last year, when he and Dean were terribly hung over and arguing good-naturedly about who should get out of bed and get coffee for the both of them. Sam remembers that Dean's voice had sounded so languid and rich, like Dean just couldn't be bothered to open his eyes because he already knew Sam would be the one to give in. Sam had lain there and, without thinking, snagged his phone off the bedside table and pressed record.
"Sammy, come on. Don't be an asshole. All day I drive the car and all you do is sit there like a useless flesh lump."
"Useless flesh lump? That's new."
"Shut up."
"Obviously you shouldn't be awake yet. Why do you even want coffee?"
"Because you're my bitch and I can't feel my feet."
"That's not my fault. That would be the incredible amount of alcohol you poured down your throat last night."
"Mm, you make me wanna do it all over again."
"Ha, that's rich. Does this mean you won't be bitching when you pass out in front of the toilet?"
"How can I be bitching if I'm passed out? … How much did you have?"
"Dean, don't be–"
"Your logic, it is failing!"
"You're so fucked up right now–"
"Failing!"
"Cut it out you–"
"Fail!"
"All right, I'm going."
"Ha. Knew you would."
There's the sound of Sam's exasperated chuckle, the muffled thump of a door closing, and then the recording stops.
After nearly ten months of Dean's silence, he's got the fucking thing memorized: the lazy drawl of Sam's name, the contented laughter infusing Dean's voice, the exasperated affection tinting Sam's own; he can almost picture the way Dean's eyes were closed but still wrinkling up into an idle smile, the sheets twisted around his waist and the hair flattened greasily to the side of his head.
He can almost picture it. Almost.
But he can't live for ten months – for ten more months, for the rest of his life – on forty-five seconds of his brother's voice and a memory that's faded around the edges. He wants more.
Sam's settled on the opposite bed, silently watching Dean, when his brother finally rolls over and blinks blearily. Dean smacks his lips, makes a face that clearly says his mouth tastes like ass, and peers questioningly at Sam. When he sees Sam's solemn, hurt expression, he sits up straighter, runs his hands over his face and through his hair, throws the covers back and twists his feet onto the floor. He leans forward, attentive. What's wrong?
"Can you talk?"
Dean immediately recoils, as though Sam threw a bucket of ice water in his face.
Sam persists. "How long have you been able to talk?"
Dean shakes his head, eyebrows pushed together. What're you talking about, Sam? Don't be ridiculous.
That's when Sam sees it. Dean's – God, he's lying. His body, usually so expressive, is stiff. It looks like he's actually thinking about where he's set his shoulders, how he's curled his fingers against his thighs. His face is open – too open – and his eyes are carefully empty. Sam can't believe it. All this time Dean's been totally easy to read, almost like he wanted to be read, and now he's hiding something from Sam.
"Be honest," Sam chokes out. Dean's eyes widen impossibly, his lashes stark against his cheeks. He shakes his head. "Dean, come on," Sam says. His lips feel clumsy. "Can you talk?"
If possible, Dean goes stiffer. The silence stretches for seconds, minutes – hours – but Dean doesn't shake his head. He doesn't shake his head.
"You can talk!" Sam exclaims, coming to his feet. There's a surge of emotion crowding into the back of Sam's throat. If Dean can talk, why hasn't he yet? Sam thought Dean was mute or something – that he physically couldn't speak – but if all it is is Dean keeping his obstinate mouth shut–
Why? Why would Dean do that?
Dean looks up at Sam with wide, blank eyes. His lips remain stubbornly sealed, but he's not shaking his head no.
Why?
Then Sam knows.
"What did you Promise, Dean?" Sam asks, voice low. It's the first time Sam's said anything about it and Dean immediately goes red, discomfort written into the lines of his face: a confession. "Yeah, I know all about your Promise," Sam continues, spitting the words, "Is this really it? You Promised your voice for the rest of your life? The rest of your fucking life?"
Dean turns away and Sam scrambles after him, gets in front of him, gets in his face.
"What are you getting? What makes this worth it?"
Dean closes his eyes, jaw clenched up tight. Sam wants to grab him, dig his fingers in until he feels bone under his nails. He strains forward. "Say something," he demands, yells, "Just fucking say something! I want to hear you!"
Dean blinks his eyes open, expression vacant. Sam drops to his knees, lays his hands heavy over Dean's thighs, supplicating. "Please. Please, Dean." His voice feels like it's scratching his throat raw, breaking into a million tiny shards in Dean's lap.
It's this – the begging – that makes Dean shudder, makes his eyes go sad and hopeless. Dean's mouth opens: A millimeter, two millimeters, before he closes it sharply and stands. Sam stumbles back, forced to sit awkwardly on his heels; his hands fly back to support himself as Dean pushes into his space, and then just as swiftly out of it, into the bathroom, shuts the door with a hollow click.
"Fine," Sam says. Then, louder, "Fine!"
That's when Sam stops trying.
:::
He can't stop completely – they need someone to make the motel reservations, order take-out, ask for directions – but when they're alone together in the car or in some nameless motel room, Sam says nothing at all. He no longer tries to fill the gaping hole left by Dean's constant ribbing, and eventually the hole becomes a chasm, and the chasm becomes a freaking abyss.
Dean notices almost immediately that Sam's gone quiet, but he only starts to get agitated by about the third day. He starts pacing their room, stopping every now and then to look at Sam, who's calmly typing on his laptop with his iPod ear-buds in.
He comes closer, stands in Sam's space. Sam has to work to ignore him, to continue scrolling through pages of supernatural news. Eventually, Dean drops a hand onto his shoulder, undeniable. Sam takes his ear-buds out and looks questioningly up at Dean.
Dean gestures, quick and choppy. Spit it out. What's wrong?
Sam doesn't say anything – a taste of Dean's own medicine, see how he likes it – and in the back of his mind he knows how irrational he's being, how unfair, but he can't seem to stop himself.
Dean's eyes go sad, before he bites his lip indecisively. Sam turns back to his computer, forces himself to start typing again like nothing's happened. After a few more seconds Dean moves away, turns on the TV and slouches onto one of the beds. Sam sneaks a glance and finds Dean staring at the remote, face blank. He's got one thumb rubbing along the scar next to his mouth and Sam flashes hot – ridged skin under his lips, burning, burning his mouth – before he manages to tear his eyes away.
Sam lasts a week before he can't take it anymore. He's angry all the time, it feels like. He feels as if he's bursting with it, burning with it, crucified on the cross of his own rage, slowly suffocating under the weight of his guilt. What fucking right does he have to be angry at Dean? What right does he have, as the one who lost him in the first place? The one who drove him to it? The one who got there too late?
None.
He calls Bobby.
"Sam, I was just thinking of y–" Bobby starts before Sam interrupts.
"Come get him. We're in Indiana. You need to come get him, I can't – he can talk, Bobby, but he won't and I don't understand–" Sam's voice chokes off with the extremity of his emotion, tied up tight in the bind of his throat. He casts a furtive glance out the window but Dean is washing the Impala, oblivious, stripped to his T-shirt and sweating in the sun, damp crescents growing under his arms.
"What?" Bobby grunts, and Sam can tell he says it for the lack of anything else to say.
"He told me."
"How–"
"I mean, obviously he didn't tell me, but I asked him and he didn't shake his head no, or whatever. He can talk! I thought it was because he was mute but this whole time – this whole time he could've – God, Bobby, what the fuck. What the fuck is he getting out of this, torturing himself – torturing me – like this?"
"Well, Sam," Bobby says, thoughtful, deliberately calming, "Promises are supposed to be hard. Nearly impossible, in fact. If he Promised not to talk, leaving him the ability to talk would make it incredibly difficult."
Bobby pauses. Sam makes a desperate, questioning sound.
"And giving him up to someone like you would make the Promise even sweeter. I'm thinking you've begged him to speak."
"Well, yeah!" Sam exclaims, his mind still not piecing it together. Why would Dean choose not to talk to him?
"Well, there you go. He's out of Hell but he's still living it. His baby brother, begging him to speak, and he can't? He can't or he'll lose something that he was willing to give up his voice for?"
"So come get him."
"Sam, I really think it's best if you two stick together on this one. I mean, his Deal, I know you don't want to hear it, but it was for–"
"Shut up!" Sam exclaims, unable to stop himself. "I know I'm the one who should be blamed, all right? I know! You think I haven't spent the past few years of my life feeling sorry?" He stops, taking gulping breaths. He needs to calm down. "Look, just. I can't be around him right now. I can't. Please. I'll come back for him soon but I need some time to get my head around this."
"Sam," Bobby tries one last time, his voice cracking.
"We're in Warren, Indiana – The Warren Motel. Please, Bobby. Please." Sam hangs up. He drops the phone on the bed, goes to stand at the window. Dean's found a towel somewhere and he's buffing the Impala's chrome. He should be humming Sam thinks wildly, and has to close the curtains before he runs outside and does something violent.
Dean comes in after about ten minutes. Sam's managed to get himself under control and he's settled on a bed, watching some local news program with the sound down low.
Dean comes over and sits next to him, easily letting their thighs brush, their feet knock together. Sam tries not to move. Dean's gotten gradually more physical every morning they wake up in the same bed. Sam hasn't kissed him since that night, but God. Every time he rolls over and finds Dean there, blocking his way; every time he wakes up and Dean's already awake, watching him, the whites of his eyes picked out by the morning haze; every time he slides under the covers at night and Dean gets in on the other side like it's expected, like it's something they've always done, Sam goes a little crazier.
He tries not to notice when Dean turns to look at him, breath ghosting across his face. He tries.
:::
Bobby gets there after three days. Sam figures one for changing his mind, one for the guilt, and one for the drive.
It's evening when Bobby rolls into the lot in some old junker he pulled out of the grave, pulls in next to the Impala and shoves his door open. He levers himself out of the low seat with all the gravity of an old hunter and old injuries. When he's finally sorted himself and stands upright, Sam's waiting in the open doorway.
"Sam," Bobby says by way of greeting.
Sam nods. Dean's suddenly behind him, pushing Sam aside so he can see. He stares at Bobby and Sam watches Bobby take Dean in: the old scars, the new scars, the lighter cast to his eyes contrasting the sadder tilt of his mouth. The smile lines fading from lack of use.
"Dean," Bobby says.
Dean doesn't do anything for a full thirty seconds. The three of them stand there, a frozen tableau in the evening shadows. Then Dean moves, a hand comes up – his maimed hand, Sam notices. Dean never leads with his right anymore, but he must have forgotten. He must have forgotten because he trusts Bobby – and the next thing he knows Bobby and Dean are hugging. The old, fierce kind of hug, where you hold on a little too long but you pound each other on the back for added masculinity; hide the wet eyes in the flashy bravado of gruff sentiment. Bobby finally lets Dean go, takes him by the shoulder and shakes him lightly.
"Dean, you bastard. Good to see you back."
Dean still doesn't smile – still – but he slaps a hand onto Bobby's shoulder, high up, half on his neck, betraying the intimacy and care behind the gesture. I missed you, it says. I'm sorry, it says, and Bobby shakes his head.
"I shouldn't have treated you that way, Dean. Should've known better."
Dean shrugs. Bobby laughs suddenly, loud and surprising, before he ruffles Dean's hair. Dean ducks away, swatting at Bobby's hands, and Sam can't even crack a grin. It feels like his face is broken, like he can't move it, even faced with all this joy.
Dean will understand soon.
"So, uh – Sam's told you why I'm here?"
Dean looks confused, darts a glance at Sam. He shakes his head no. Bobby throws an exasperated look at Sam.
"Well, I'm sure as hell not telling him if you haven't. I'm not the one who thinks this is a good idea."
Dean turns to face Sam fully, his face a question.
"Bobby's here to take you with him."
Dean doesn't move.
Sam repeats, rephrases. "You're going with Bobby, Dean, and I – I'm staying here. I need to sort some things out."
Dean looks at Bobby. Bobby's studiously ignoring the both of them. He's taken his battered old ball cap off his head and is playing with it, turning it around and around in his hands. Sam suddenly wishes Bobby didn't have to be here for this, that he'd found the courage to tell Dean sooner.
Too late.
"Dean, I – I need you to go. This is important."
Dean's face – there's no other way to describe it: Dean's face collapses, caves in on itself under the weight of his sorrow. He looks old, decrepit, the scar wrinkling his mouth unnaturally.
"I'm gonna go get a room," Bobby says abruptly and walks off in the direction of the office, giving them some privacy.
"Dean–" Sam starts, and that's when Dean hauls off and punches him in the face. Sam's head snaps back and he can feel something in his nose grate horribly together. The blood spurts warm, dribbling down his upper lip. Sam staggers into the wall of the motel, clutching his face. His vision blurs, and then slides back into focus. The first thing he sees is Dean, shaking with what can only be anger.
"Stop," Sam says calmly, his voice clogged with blood. He doesn't know how he manages to keep himself steady as he pushes himself away from the wall, reaches towards Dean. Dean immediately draws his fist back once more, threatening.
"Dean, stop," Sam says again. "I know you don't – this isn't the answer."
Dean throws his arms out wide, demanding. And this is? Sending me away? He looks broken open; his anger binds him together but his seams are showing – his sad, frayed edges. His eyes suddenly well up, and Sam says, "Hey–" steps forward, helpless to stop himself even if Dean slugs him.
Dean spins, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. He angrily dashes a hand across his eyes, stalks about ten feet away and stops, shoulders tense. Even the back of his head looks angry.
"Look, it's not permanent, okay? I'll come get you," Sam says, and even as he says it he knows he's a liar. He wants to believe he'll come get Dean, but he doesn't know if he can.
Dean shakes his head once, whip-swift, before he goes to the Impala, wrenches the door open and slides into the back seat, locks himself in. He drops his head between his knees and Sam can see his back heaving with the force of his angry breaths, his tears. When he turns around Bobby's standing with a key in hand.
"I'm three doors down," he says softly. He looks worn-out, thinner somehow. "See you in the morning?"
"Yeah," Sam says quietly. After Bobby finds his room, Sam slumps against the wall of the motel for a while and watches Dean. It's eleven o'clock before he finally goes inside, washes the blood off his face and tends to his nose. After, he lies on his back on top of the covers – it's the bed closest to the door, Dean's bed – and wonders how he'll be able to sleep tonight. He drifts off as soon as he closes his eyes.
When he wakes up Dean's standing over him. He immediately tenses up, expecting Dean to attack him or to at least hit him one more time, but instead Dean lays a gentle hand on Sam's chest. Sam looks down and sees that it's Dean's maimed hand, dimly outlined in the moonlight. Dean knees his way slowly onto the bed, his face shadowed.
"Dean, I'm sorry," Sam says quietly, because he needs to. Because he can't stand Dean hating him any more than he can stand Dean's silence.
Dean puts a finger to his lips. Quiet. Sam lets out a small, sad laugh. "Funny you should say that."
Dean stares down at Sam, impassive. When he takes his hand off Sam's chest, Sam takes the opportunity to sit up.
"What can I do?" He asks softly. He can feel Dean's breath on his lips and it's making him dizzy. It's making him want to lean forward and mouth at Dean's scar, lick across Dean's mouth until it opens for him so he can taste how alive his brother is.
Dean lays a hand against Sam's cheek, thumb rubbing contemplatively across the mole next to Sam's nose. Sam's eyes slide closed involuntarily. He hadn't realized how worried he'd been that Dean wouldn't want to sleep with him tonight – wouldn't want to spend their last night next to each other like they've gotten used to.
Dean's lips against his are a complete surprise. Sam jerks back, his eyes flying open.
"Dean –?"
Dean chases him, pushes him down into the scratchy motel blankets and follows quickly after, layering himself on top of Sam, a leg between Sam's thighs and hands wrapped around his biceps. He kisses Sam again, presses at Sam's lips with his tongue and Sam almost gives in. Almost. He twists his head to the side, pulls free. He can hear himself, panting loud and hot in the small room, and Dean licks a liquid path down his neck, sets his teeth in Sam's exposed flesh.
"Dean, what –" Sam starts. Dean's fingers find his jaw, turn his face inexorably back. "We can't –" Sam tries again, but Dean presses a thumb heavy against Sam's lower lip, breath hot in his ear, and Sam's hips jerk helplessly, his cock hardening. "Oh, f-fuck," he moans, and Dean mouths at his chin, pushes a hand up under Sam's T-shirt, palm rough against Sam's tensed belly.
Sam can't help it. He has to get his hands on Dean, has to pull at his shirt weakly while Dean kisses the sense out of him. Until Dean finally gets the picture and hauls their mouths wetly apart. Sam chases mindlessly after until Dean presses him back. When Dean reaches behind his head and wrenches his shirt off, Sam's hand immediately falls on the scarred skin of Dean's side. The ridges feel hot and alive under his hand, so incredibly there and in the moment. He drags Dean back down.
They're both still wearing their jeans but Sam can feel Dean, rock-hard against him. He mindlessly ruts up, working for the sweet-painful glide of friction.
Dean scrabbles at Sam's shirt, pulls it off, and then they're fumbling at each other's jeans, buttons and zippers giving way until the denim is bunched around Sam's thighs, flayed open at Dean's hips. It's only then that Dean pushes a hand inside the slit of Sam's boxers.
Sam tenses up, mouth falling open as Dean rubs his thumb slowly around the head of Sam's dick, smearing the welling pre-come into Sam's hot flesh.
"God, Dean," he says, his voice a shock in the gasping silence. His ears go hot listening to himself lose it and Dean's not saying anything. Dean's not even asking him to and Sam's still fucking going crazy.
"Dean, unh, I – I n-need. Please." Moaning. Fucking begging for it. Dean dives down, kisses Sam again, and they're tongue-fucking each other's mouths frantically as Sam fucks Dean's fist. Finally, Dean rears back, paws at Sam's jeans, and in an awkward flurry of limbs they manage to get each other naked. Sam rolls them without thinking, hooks a hand behind Dean's knee and spreads him open, settling in between his thighs. Sam groans as their cocks push together. Dean's eyes are closed. His head falls back into the pillow, tendons straining, and Sam has to lean in and suck a bruise onto the base of Dean's throat, has to trail his tongue along the livid mark.
Dean's arm shoots out suddenly, fumbling once more for his jeans. Sam's distracted, moves to lick at Dean's nipples, when Dean grabs the back of his head, pulls him up into another kiss and presses a small tube into his hand.
"From the Impala?" Sam manages to ask breathlessly, and Dean nods, tugs insistently at Sam's arm. I want you to.
Sam doesn't wait. He quickly gets the top off the tube and squeezes the slick onto his fingers, leaves shiny fingerprints on Dean's thighs as he rubs back behind Dean's balls, finds his hole and presses a finger inside. Dean inhales sharply, the gloss of his lips mesmerizing in the dim light, and Sam has to kiss Dean again as he works his finger in and out of Dean's ass.
When Dean's pushing back against him, mouth shaped into a rough "o" of pleasure, Sam adds another finger, then a third, until Dean's grabbing at Sam's hips, pulling at Sam weakly. Dean's trying to drag his knees up, spread his legs as wide as they'll go. Sam just holds him down, rubs his thumb along the rim of Dean's ass, fingers slipping easily in and out of Dean's hole. Dean's dick is sloppy against Sam's stomach, smearing a wet trail, and Sam thinks he could come from this alone: Dean fucking himself on Sam's fingers, a red blush working its way down Dean's chest.
But – Dean's still silent. He hasn't said one word, hasn't even groaned, and Sam wants to hear that. He wants to hear how much Dean's loving it.
"Dean," Sam chokes out. "Tell me. Tell me how much you want it." He presses his mouth to Dean's neck, moans, "Please," and Dean shudders against him, bites his lip and bucks up into Sam's hand.
Dean still doesn't say anything. "Dean," Sam pleads, starts to pull away. Dean shakes his head violently, clutches at Sam's waist. He keeps shaking his head until Sam has to kiss him again. Dean reaches down and wraps a hand around Sam's cock, gives him a few uneven strokes before tilting his hips up, a clear invitation. Sam slops some lube on his dick, well beyond finesse or arguing, and gives in to it. Lets Dean guide him, press and stretch around him, until he's got Dean squirming on his dick and he can't take it anymore.
His first thrust is tentative, slow, but then Dean shoves his hips against Sam, squeezes down, and Sam jerks forward helplessly, hitting a spot that makes Dean's eyes roll back into his head.
"Fuck, Dean. Fuck. Oh, God, you're – you're so tight," Sam gasps, shoving forward again and again. Dean's panting under him, the most sound he's heard Dean make in months, and he tips forward, rests his sweaty forehead against Dean's shoulder as he works his hips in deeper, makes Dean clench blissfully around him. "Dean. Dean, I love you. I love you. Don't – don't let it – ah – e-end like this."
Dean grabs Sam's hand, wraps it around his dick, presses their mouths clumsily together as he comes messily between them, body jerking. Sam follows quickly after, unable to stop himself after feeling Dean spill across his fingers, smear between their bellies.
He doesn't really remember what happens next, but Dean manages to heave himself out of bed at some point. Sam hears water running in the bathroom, and then Dean comes back with a warm, wet cloth and cleans Sam gently. Sam's drifted further towards sleep before Dean comes back again. He lies down next to Sam and pulls the sheet over them. Dean kisses Sam and Sam turns automatically, opening into it and lazily dragging his tongue against the velvet of Dean's lips. He falls asleep with Dean's mouth moving slowly against his, Dean's hand wrapped possessively around the back of his neck.
When he wakes up, he goes outside and watches Dean pack his stuff into Bobby's car. Bobby comes over and touches Sam's shoulder, his eyes sad.
Dean never once looks at Sam, and he slams the car door without saying a word. Sam feels something break inside of him – something that shattered at the hollow thump of the door.
Sam watches them drive away, then goes inside to pack.
:::
He spends the first two weeks driving. He saves money by sleeping in the car; he loses money by buying inordinate amounts of gas. He eats at drive-thrus, showers at pay-by-the-hour motels, and doesn't answer his phone. He doesn't stop to wash his clothes. When he starts to smell himself even with the windows rolled down, he pulls over, locks the car and starts walking. He makes it maybe two miles through open fields before he hits a farmhouse and has to turn back. It feels good to walk, and when he gets back to the car he ignores the newly-sharpened smell of sweat and pulls back onto the road.
At the end of the two weeks he forces himself to stop at the Splish-Splash coin-laundromat, picks up a newspaper and finds a hunt.
"Huh," he says, and goes to buy salt and lighter fluid.
After that, he hunts pretty much constantly for another two weeks. Possessions, restless spirits, poltergeists, a werewolf, and a bizarre swamp thing that kind of falls into his lap while he's in the woods hunting down a harpy. After he wastes it and cleans up, he goes back for the harpy.
He doesn't call any of his contacts and he still doesn't answer his phone. He's sure his inbox is so full it's started deleting the older messages, pleas for attention that never made it to his ears. He's sure they're all from Bobby – and Ellen, since Bobby never could keep his mouth shut – and he's sure that none of them are from Dean, so he doesn't really care.
He almost gets his head taken off by a ghoul, and that's when he decides to give hunting a break for a while. He finds a hotel close to a library and settles in, holes up with all of the books he never gets the chance to read and spends days not reading any of them. He checks them out of the library, brings them back to the room with every intention of cracking one open and then finds himself staring at the wall thinking of Dean. He wonders what he's doing, hates himself for leaving but shrinks from the thought of going back.
Dean must hate him by now, anyway. Dean did everything for him – went to Hell, Promised his voice, took care of Sam – and Sam can't even handle it, abandons Dean at the first hint of something gone wrong. God, he's a fucking coward. He berates himself for hours on end, feeding his anger and his shame.
He carefully doesn't think of the night before he sent Dean away. If he does – if he remembers the way he spilled his guts (Dean, I love you. I love you.) he's not sure what he'll do. Punch a hole through a wall, probably. Or cry.
After another three weeks of taking out and returning library books, trying to glare the answer out of the wall above the TV, he decides he's not doing anyone any good – least of all himself – and resolves to make a pilgrimage to California, the site of his pitifully few years of "normal" living.
Sam visits all of his old haunts – the bars, the Stanford library, the Starbucks across the street from his favorite bookstore – cruises past his apartment and tries to remember why he wanted Jess. Would he have done the same for Jess? Bargained away his soul to keep her? Would she have run from him, after?
No.
He wouldn't have and she wouldn't have had to. Sam hates himself a little more, checks into a motel nearby and drinks himself sick in a nearby bar. He throws up three times in the alley out back before he feels well enough to make it back to the motel and drink a glass of water. He's barely collapsed into bed, sweaty and smelling strongly of puke, before he feels a headache coming on with startling intensity. He falls asleep with his eyes squeezed shut, trying to breathe through the alcohol-induced pain.
When he wakes up he drives to Montana. He doesn't want to see anyone for a while.
He still doesn't answer his phone.
After three months he's struck by the fact that it's been more than a year since he got Dean out of Hell. More than a year of quiet, and he thinks of his own foolishness: three months of radio silence for no reason other than he feels guilty. God, he's an idiot. He's a fucking idiot who left Dean – again, don't forget – and disappeared. Dropped off the map. If Bobby's calling him now, even after all this time, it's probably to reassure Dean. Sam feels like a colossal asshole. The next time the phone rings he picks up.
"Boy," Ellen says, voice sharp, "You've got a hell of a lot of talking to do. Don't you dare hang up on me."
"I won't," Sam says, and he's startled to find he means it.
After his talk with Ellen – or rather, after Ellen rips him a new one – he starts to drift back towards Bobby's part of the country, telling himself he just wants to be in the area. Just in case.
He doesn't visit Dean. It's enough to know that he's okay. It's enough to ignore the ache in Sam's gut every time he thinks of Dean, anyway.
:::
Sam's cell rings as he's eating lunch one day, paper-wrapped sub tossed next to him on the bed as he flips through TV channels. He mutes the TV, scrabbles around in his pocket.
When he finally gets it out, he sighs at the sight of Bobby's number. Bobby's called him a few times – Sam always refuses to speak until Bobby promises him Dean's out in the yard, safely out of earshot – and it always makes Sam tired, makes him hate himself even more. Sam flips his cell open, presses it loosely to his ear with his shoulder as he arranges his takeout carefully on his lap, placing the mustard packets on the bedside table as he hunches against the headboard.
"Hey Bobby, what's up?" he says, tired. Mayonnaise drips out of the side of his sub sandwich. He'd asked for no mayonnaise.
The voice that comes over the line isn't Bobby's. "Sam," Dean says.
Sam drops the phone directly onto a blot of mayo in shock. He stares at it for a full thirty seconds before fumbling it up next to his face, smearing mayonnaise across his cheek and not even caring.
"Don't you fuck with me, Bobby," He grates out, voice shaking.
"Sam," Dean says again, voice gone rough. "I wouldn't, not after all this time."
"Dean," Sam chokes out, and suddenly he's crying, tears running openly down his face. He can't breathe. He can't fucking breathe. He cups his hand over his mouth, his shoulders bowing inwards, and starts to sob: huge, choked off gasps of air clogged with tears and snot and relief.
"Sammy." Dean's half-laughing, half-crying. "Don't cry. God, don't cry. I just – come home. Come home."
"I–" Sam manages to get out, before he has to stop. He feels like screaming. He feels like running outside and grabbing the first person he sees and dancing. He feels like locking himself in the bathroom and never coming out.
"Please," Dean says, voice soft, and Sam is seized with a violent desire to see Dean. He can't believe until he's seen Dean's mouth forming words, giving voice.
"Don't you fucking go anywhere. Don't you leave – I want to hear – I missed your fucking voice, you don't know how much, oh God," Sam shoves his fist against his mouth, forces himself to shut up. He wants to hear Dean again, he wants to hear Dean for the rest of his life.
"I won't. I won't. Hurry the fuck up, I don't want to wait for you anymore." Dean says, his voice muffled and overloud. He must be pressing the phone to his face. Sam's eyes slide closed.
"I'm coming."
Sam hangs up, goes to the Impala with tears still welling in his eyes. He's about four-hundred miles from Bobby's and he doesn't think he'll make it without having to pull off the road and dance a jig in a cornfield or something else equally crazy. It's been more than a year since he's been able to look at his brother and say, "Dean, you idiot," and know that Dean is going to answer him. Out loud. Going to call him a stupid shit with a grin on his face that's pure Dean and pure cocky devil and Sam's going to simultaneously want to pound his face in and hug the life out of him. Sam didn't know how much he needed that, how much he wanted to know Dean was okay, how much he wanted Dean to tell Sam he was okay.
Sam drives through the night and it still takes too long.
:::
Dean comes out to meet him. Sam staggers out of the car, legs tingling from sitting too long and stares. Dean's still scarred, still missing fingers and part of an eyebrow and his mouth is still closed, silent. But then Dean smiles. God, for the first time, Dean smiles, this beautiful, crooked, radiant smile that almost knocks Sam on his ass, and says, "What took you so long," and Sam has to sit down. Sit down right there on the stony ground, Rumsfeld trotting over to nose wetly at his ear, as Dean steps forward, smile fading into concern.
"I didn't – I wasn't sure. Until I saw you, I wasn't sure," Sam manages to say. Rocks are digging into his ass and his palms but he can't bring himself to get up until Dean reaches out a hand and pulls Sam to his feet.
They stand, staring at each other, fingers linked.
"Say something," Sam says at the same time Dean says, "Sammy," and Sam has to kiss him; has to swallow the words in his own mouth to prove that they're there, to taste Dean's sounds and to keep himself from falling over as he digs his fingers into Dean's shoulders and pushes their mouths clumsily together.
Dean's just as desperate, clutching at Sam's back, at his sides, winding himself into Sam's shirt like a puzzle piece finding its place.
"God, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, I can't believe I left you, I can't –" Sam whispers against Dean's lips, eyes closed because he doesn't want to see the pity on Dean's face, doesn't want to know that Dean thinks he's weak.
"Sam," Dean says over his apologies, "I don't care. All I care about is that you come back – you fucking come back to me, every time. I hated that you had to leave but I knew you'd be back."
Sam takes Dean's mouth again, rough and sweet all at once, cupping Dean's face in his palms. Then he remembers, pulls back and quickly scans the yard.
"Where's Bobby?"
Dean smirks. Sam drinks it in, the way the scar pulls the corner of his mouth up that extra saucy inch. He can't stop looking at Dean, can't stop running his hands over him. "He decided he needed to go into town."
"Oh thank God," Sam says, and Dean lewdly gropes Sam's ass, making Sam laugh. It feels like the first time Sam's laughed in decades. He kisses Dean again, makes their smiles fit together and somehow the scar makes it even more perfect, more Dean. Finally, Sam pulls back again.
"What did you get?"
"What?" Dean says intelligently. He looks dazed, his lips swollen. His hair's longer than he usually lets it grow, just beginning to wind softly around Sam's fingers.
"For your Promise. What did you get?"
Dean looks down, steps away. His eyes are serious when he looks up again. "I don't want you to think you did anything wrong, but what you did – it wasn't completely foolproof. You could've dragged me out of there, sure, but I wouldn't've been the same. I had to make a Promise or they would've kept my soul down there and you'd've been stuck with only my body, watching me die all over again."
"Orpheus and Eurydice," Sam breathes, unbelieving. He can't believe Bobby got it spot-on like that. For what must be the thousandth time he thanks his lucky stars they have Bobby on their side.
"Huh?" Dean grunts, eyebrow raised.
Sam shakes his head. "What was your Promise?"
"I couldn't talk for a year and a day."
Sam gapes. He'd thought it might be something like that, but he didn't think it would be so close to some kind of mythology. "Really? That's so –"
"Biblical? Grecian? Fucking annoying, is what it was," Dean grumps, and Sam has to kiss him again. Dean laughs against his lips. "Pushy, are we?"
"God, Dean, you have no idea."
"I think I might," Dean says, and shoves Sam towards the house.
Dean blows Sam on one of the rickety twin beds in Bobby's guest room. Sam twists his hands into the sheets until his knuckles go white, trying not to fuck up into Dean's mouth and choke him. Dean chuckles around Sam's cock, scratches his nails against the thin skin behind Sam's balls. He greedily swallows when Sam comes without warning, helpless to stop it. Dean licks his lips and kisses Sam while he fucks himself open on his own fingers. He's moaning filth into Sam's mouth – God, so loud, he's so loud, fucking perfect – and then he sucks Sam hard again, until Sam's begging for it, and fucks himself down on Sam's dick, groaning obscenities the whole time.
"Fuck, Sam. Y-you, fuck. Ah. Ah, God – love it. Love you. Love – Jesus – love your cock –" Dean moans, fists his dick until he comes, mouth swollen and his head thrown back. Sam has to grab him, fuck up into Dean until Sam's losing it a second time, almost painfully intense. They fall together in a sweaty heap and Sam traces the occult symbols scarring Dean's back, mere lines in his flesh, meaning nothing at all.
"Dean," Sam sighs, just to hear Dean answer.
"Shh, Sam," Dean says, rubs a thumb over Sam's mouth and leers down at him. "I'm here now."
Sam rolls his eyes, presses a kiss to Dean's palm, kisses each of Dean's missing fingers. "So'm I," he promises, and Dean smiles one of his radiant smiles, the kind that make Sam's heart stutter in his chest, the kind that make Sam weak in the knees and all those other ridiculous metaphors.
"God, Dean, when you smile –" Sam says, stops himself.
"Well, you've got the rest of your life to look at me."
"Yeah," Sam says, "I do," and presses Dean's hand over his heart.
END