Archive of Our Own ^beta

Driving away from Gary Frankel’s house was a touch more silent than it should have been.

It wasn't even a tangible silence, which would have been all too easy to dispel; it would just be a simple matter of turning up the music again until “Rock ‘n’ Roll Never Forgets” drowned out the metaphorical crickets, reveling in the completion of yet another hunt.  The poltergeist was dead, after all, so --- complications aside --- they had been successful.

Apparently, though, they couldn’t just set those complications aside.

Dean would have loved to, if he made the dumb decision of being honest with himself.  He’d absolutely love to be able to slide the past day or so into a nice little box and forget about it, to bury it --- the patented Dean Winchester coping method --- beneath a beer or three.  He’d adore the ability to move past the memory of a fantasy he’d let himself fall into, to pretend he hadn’t believed any of it in the first place, to accept that Gary-Sam hadn’t been Sam-Sam and now Sam-Sam was back, so anything Gary-Sam had said or done didn’t matter.

But Sam --- the real Sam, he was sure, at least judging from the hunched way he sat in the shotgun seat, the sullen tick of his jaw as he kept in whatever Discussion was burning a hole in his brain, the unwillingness to listen to Dean’s music at anything above a light murmur… all of it --- wasn’t the kind to go for avoidance.  He was the kind to want to hash everything out, to trade in stubborn ignoring of the problem for sharing-and-caring conversations that really didn’t bear having.

Dean half-expected Sam to start talking as they drove, and was even more grateful that he didn’t.  He was already perched right on the borderline between his usual insistence that I’m-perfectly-fine-Sam-and-I-can-definitely-drive-no problem and I-feel-like-crap-and-don’t-want-to-crash-the-car-I-guess-you-can-handle-it.  Something had very clearly broken inside of him (literally, for once, instead of the more common, more figurative interpretation) in the middle of his skirmish with Heather McDemon, and even the tiniest jostles of the journey were uncomfortable.  The only thing keeping him behind the wheel was the memory of Baby being steered backwards into that dumpster, and yeah, technically, that wasn’t Sam’s fault, but there was still the unfortunate fact that his meat suit had done it and it would be a bit before either Dean or the Impala herself would forget it.

No, he got very, very lucky that Sam waited for them to book their usual two-bed motel room.  It gave him enough time to lug in their duffle bags and set those down, to flop on the bed and pointedly ignore both his shoes getting on the mattress and the weird, mildewy stain in one corner.  It almost gave him enough time to ignore Sam hunched over his bag at the foot of his bed, hands resting on the canvas without reaching for the zipper, motionless.  (Almost, but not quite enough.)  And then Sam was speaking and the time for waiting was gone.  “You know, I keep thinking about what that siren said-”

“C’mon, Sam, just forget it-”

“Shut up, Dean.  Just…”  He sounded tired, one hand rubbing at his eyes before dropping it again.  “Just shut up.”  Another moment of silence, then, “That you needed a brother that would look up to you-”

“Sam, just let it g-”

“A brother you could trust…”

“Oh, c’mon, Sam, don’t be an idiot.  The kid tried to kill me.  Twice.  What the hell trust do you think I can get from that?”

Sam continued to ignore him.  “And… I just… How…”  A pause, and then a shake of the head.  “Never mind.  It’s nothing.”

The kid’s jaw ticked again, and Dean raised an eyebrow at him.  That was the kind of tick that meant that his never mind was meant to be asked about, that his nothing would be far more accurate were it replaced with the word something in its stead.  So, much as he’d have liked nothing more than to do away with the entire damn topic of conversation, forever, he asked, “What?”

Sam shrugged, eyes downcast, not meeting Dean’s.  “How did you not notice?”  He didn’t wait long enough for an answer before continuing.  “I thought… I thought things were getting better.”

Dean had both expected the question and very much hoped it wasn’t going to be asked.  Knowing it was coming had done very little --- read: nothing --- to give him a sense of what to say.  He shrugged.  “I dunno, man, he was convincing, alright?”

“He wasn’t a superspy, Dean.  He was a 17-year-old virgin with asthma and a wheat allergy, in over his head.  How convincing could he have been?”

“Enough.”

Sam huffed, rolling his shoulders back and dropping his hands to his sides.  He took a small step back from the bag before sitting down on the bed beside it.  “Fine, then… Kid was so good, what finally tripped him up?  What made you realize I wasn’t really… you know, me?”

It was easy to slip into his usual devil-may-care --- poor choice of words, perhaps, but the term applied --- grin.  “Decided to go home with a chick from the bar.  Far more my kinda thing than yours, Mr. Abstinence.”

He could see the second Sam saw through the false joviality, the tightening of Sam’s jaw and the slightly-more-squinting nature of his eyes.  “Dean-”

And that was The Tone, the word sighed out with too-familiar intonation.  The one that Sam always got, the one that made him think of Sammy, the one that, when paired with puppy-dog eyes, should rank as a weapon of mass destruction.  It was even more painful than usual, made worse by-  Well, made worse by reasons, into which Dean did not have the energy to delve since they’d been crammed into a box and, hopefully, would start to gather dust at some point soon.  And he couldn’t sit there listening to it, couldn’t deal with that with his ribs screaming in agony with every move, the taste of blood still clogging his throat, everything else --- the pressure of yes and Michael and Lucifer and the apocalypse --- lurking just over his shoulder.

It was enough to break open his box, though, and fill his head with what he could say.

He could tell Sam about how he and Gary had actually interacted, had talked over a meal and a drink without a laptop on the table between them, without research or a hunt or an argument hanging over their heads.  It felt like the way things had been before Hell, before sold souls and demon blood, before Ruby and Lilith and Cas and everything else.

He could talk about how the kid had been excited about the things Dean cared for, about how he liked good music and ate good food and didn’t give a bitchface at every single thing Dean did.  About how the kid’s glee over Baby had been so much like what he wanted from his brother but could never bring himself to ask for; it would just have felt fake anyhow.  About how he’d acted like their job wasn’t just a job, was something to be proud of, no matter how painful it was.

He could talk about how Sam had seemed happy.  Actually happy.  Not act-like-everything’s-okay happy, not I’m-not-going-to-address-it happy.  It had been smile-as-if-the-world-is-okay happy.  It had been like seeing Sammy --- back before he’d rejected that particular brotherly nickname --- all over again.  It was like living a day in the past, a flashback to when Sam would still smile if Dean brought him a book he’d really wanted (before the kid started realizing that Dean hadn’t had enough money to buy the book and thus had to have stolen it), a remnant of that Fourth-of-July-fireworks smile.

He could talk about how they almost felt like brothers again.

He could talk about all the hundreds of ways in which the last day had just been nice, if he just ignored the slight twinging of his gut that something is wrong every time “Sam” had acted like Dean and not like he wanted to be as different from his older brother as possible.

He could talk about how he’d just promised Sam that he’d trust him, would treat him like an adult, wouldn’t keep such a harsh control over him.  He’d vowed --- to himself, even if not (verbally) to Sam --- that he would ignore the way his skin crawled sometimes when his brother got too close too suddenly, memories of phantom hands punching him, shoving him into mirrors that cracked beneath his face, tightening around his windpipe until the already hazy room threatened to disappear into blackness.  He could talk about how he couldn’t break that promise by second-guessing the kid the moment he seemed happy; Sam hadn’t been happy for a long time, so maybe Dean had just been reading it wrong.

He could.  But nothing in Heaven or Hell would possess him to do that, so he just stood up, glad that he still had his shoes on, and walked to the door.  “You’re right.  I should have known.”  He’d seen a liquor store or a bar or something around the corner; it wouldn’t be that far to walk to.  “Sorry.”  Damn, but a drink or five sounded heavenl- er, great.

Sam tilted his head, one hand half reached out.  “Wait, De-”

“I’ll be back later.”  The door shut heavily behind him.

– – –

By the time he got back, it was definitely “later.”  The sky was still dark, but the world rested somewhere on the morning side of midnight, and the vicious seizing of his abdomen had been buried beneath the haze of more whiskey than he could bring himself to measure.  He didn’t really feel like going back --- Sam was probably asleep, but it couldn’t be guaranteed, and not even that would hold off the conversation permanently --- but the idea of sleeping somewhere else managed to be even less tempting.

In the end, he let himself into the motel room quietly --- that, at least, was made easy by experience, even in the dark --- and, as an unusual afterthought, toed off his shoes at the door.  He was just about to walk over to his bed --- the one closest to the entrance, as per usual --- when one of the bedside lights flicked on.

Sam was sitting there, feet crossed at the ankles, expression back in another bitchface.  (It said something that Dean couldn’t quite place which number it was, couldn’t quite place what, exactly, it meant.  It could have been 22: you drink too much.  It could have been 3: you walked out on an important conversation, Dean.  It could have been something he wasn’t even aware existed.)  He’d watched enough random television in enough crappy motels to feel like the teen trying to sneak back into their house as their parents waited inside.

He shook aside the feeling of shit, I’ve been caught and walked over to the bed, sinking onto it and heaving his feet up behind him (which had the unfortunate side effect of setting his ribs twinging again, but he could deal).  “Go to sleep, Sam.”  He let his eyes flutter closed and did his absolute best to follow his own advice.

It didn’t work.  “I tried.”  Dean opened his eyes again.  “Couldn’t.”  Another pause, which Dean deliberately didn’t interrupt.  “What tipped you off?  About Gary?”

“I told you.”  He shrugged, lifting one arm and pillowing his head with it.  It hurt like a sonuvabitch, but he didn’t let it show; forced nonchalance was better than nothing.  “Dominatrix at the bar was a pretty big clue.”

Sam pursed his lips, a more recognizable bitchface (4: you’re an idiot) taking over.  “I can read you, Dean.  Drop the bullshit.”

“I’m really not in the mood, Sam.”

He paused for a second, then changed tacks.  “You didn’t come looking, Dean.”

So much for sleeping.  He stood, wandering over to the kitchen and taking one of the beers from the fridge.  Popping it open with his ring was a familiar gesture, and the bottle-cap clanged against the sink as he tossed it in.  “He chucked the phones.  I didn’t get your messages.”  Sam should have known that; he’d been there when Dean went dumpster-diving to get them all back.

“It was a day, Dean.  Twenty-four freaking hours.”  A pause.  “You’re telling me you didn’t wonder once?”

“It wasn’t a full day, Sam.”  He took a swig from the beer, setting it on his nightstand and settling back against the pillows.  “And I wasn’t exactly expecting someone to Freaky Friday my brother, now was I?”

“Oh, c’mon, it was close enough and you know it.”  Dean couldn’t say he was wrong.  It might not have been a full day, but it wasn’t that far off, either.  “It’s a simple question, Dean.”

And- Well.  Yeah, Dean could keep arguing, but he really just… didn’t want to.  His ribs were killing him, his head was aching, and he very much just wanted to drink another beer and pass out.  He lacked the energy to fight against Sam’s latest chick flick moment.  “Fine.  Yeah, sure, I wondered.”

“And you didn’t do anything?  Come looking?  Anything?”

“No, Sam, I didn’t.  It wasn’t that cut-and-freaking-dried, alright?”

The kid was on his feet in a few seconds, taking an agitated three steps towards the bathroom before turning back, almost like a tiger pacing in its cage.  “How the hell was it not, Dean?”

Screw it.  “Because he was you, whether or not he was you.”  Sam squinted at him, rolled eyes and bitchface 4 making a reappearance.  “Did he act weird?  Yeah.  Sure.  But he was exactly the kind of nerdy little shit you’ve always been.  He knew the legend of Maggie Briggs, the lore about willow moss.  I didn’t have to tell him to salt the bones when he burned them.”  He paused, taking another swig.  “And c’mon, Sam, it was a hunt.  It’s not like we were sitting there chatting about some profoundly enlightening topic.”

“D-”

“No, Sam, shut up.  You asked, I’m answering.”  Dean passed his hand through his hair, meeting his brother’s frustrated glare for a few seconds.  So much for not telling him.  “And… You were happy.  Or, well, as close to happy as I’ve seen you for a bit.  And, when I asked him about why --- why you were suddenly in such a good mood, for once --- and he talked about avoiding a future decided for him, a Plan dictating where things were going… Yeah, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that you were actually talking to me again.”

“Loo-”

“And sure, I thought some of what you --- well, not you, but you --- said was weird; it’s not like you’ve got so much experience with Halo that I’d expect you to be referencing it…”  He shrugged.  “But I don’t know everything about you.  I wasn’t there at Stanford, and I’m sure some of your friends probably knew their way around a controller.”  He huffed out a chuckle, setting the beer bottle on the night-stand.  “And the rest… Yeah, maybe I knew you wouldn’t be saying shit like that, but maybe I wanted you to be.  Maybe, it felt true because I hoped it was, and I let myself think that maybe --- just maybe --- it was.”  And boy if it didn’t sting a helluva lot more, as a result, to find out that it wasn’t.  “But then it got to be a little too much and I figured it out.  Okay?  Happy?”

Whatever Sam had been about to say, he stopped.  His pacing calmed, replaced by stock-still hovering at the foot of his bed, and Dean could feel his staring eyes even when he let his own fall closed again.  He didn’t want to deal with any of it, and his ribs were back to their violent stabbing, and, for once, he just wanted to sleep; he even might avoid the nightmares.

Apparently, though, it wasn’t in the cards.  “What shit?”

“Huh?”

Sam shifted, a rustle of cloth sounding from his direction.  “You said he was saying shit.  What did he say?”

Dean shrugged, fighting the resulting inclination to wince.  “Nothing important.  It doesn’t matter.”

“Obviously it is, Dean.  And does.”

Apparently napping was out too.  He reached over, grabbing the beer again and downing the rest.  “Dude, no.  Let it go.”

Sam frowned.  “You really trust me that little?”

“It’s not about you, Sam.  Just drop it, you hear?  You didn’t even say any of it, so just let it the hell go.”

“No, Dean, I’m not going to-”

“Fine, alright?”  Sitting up was more uncomfortable than he wanted it to be, but it was worth it to resolutely avoid Sam’s gaze.  “He said I was a good guy, okay?  You gonna let this go now?”  He picked up the beer and headed to the kitchen again, dropping the empty bottle into the sink and pretending he hadn’t just left the room solely to avoid Sam’s reaction.  (He really wasn’t in the mood to deal with his brother scoffing at the idea, which, after all, was the most likely result.)

Intellectually, he knew he had to go back into the main room to go to sleep.  It didn’t stop him from contemplating a way out of it, though (thwarted, for example, by the lack of a sizeable kitchen window).  His avoidance of Sam was also prevented by Sam following him in, leaning against the door frame and blocking the way back out.  “Dude, really?”

“Sam, just drop it, alright?  It wasn’t you.”  He was used to that particular speech.  He’d given it after the Meg-possession ordeal, after Jessica, after any and all of the things Sam blamed himself for without cause, and apparently he was going to give it again.  “It really doesn’t matter.”

“Is… Are you saying that’s what made you realize that I, uh… Wasn’t me?”

Dean shrugged.  “Dude, just let it go.”  He’d had enough practice with his brother over the years to figure out how to push past him easily enough.  “Gary’s gone.”  A pause.  “You know, we really gotta figure out a way to keep you in your body, man.  You’re developing bad habits.”

“C’mon, Dean, focus-”

“Sam.  I talked.  I shared.  I spoke words.  My quota has been fulfilled.  Let it go.”

“No, man, you just told me that you realized I’d been replaced because I said you were a good person.”  He chuckled, that bitter kind of half-laugh Dean always hated to hear.  “That’s a problem.  Tell me you see that it’s a problem?”

“Nah, man, I told you, it’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big d- How?”

Dean couldn’t hold back a snort; as if you don’t know.  “Why would I hold that against you?  C’mon, Sammy, I’m not an idiot.”

“Your destiny is entwined with the angels, Dean-”

Another snort.  “Yeah, because they ’ve been just peachy.  Being associated with them is just brilliant.”

“It’s better than being vessel to the damn devil, Dean.”  Sam huffed out another bitter laugh, letting his hand card through his hair and push it out of his face.  “You didn’t start the apocalypse the way I di-”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sam blinked  “Demon blood?  Ruby?  Last seal?  Any of that ring a bell?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.  But you know what else rings a bell?  First seal.  Sheds blood in Hell.  A-Alastair.”  He swallowed, a little too heavily if the way Sam keyed in on it was any indication.  “And I told you: it’s not like you had any reason to think that killing Lilith would be a bad thing.  It’s just how you did it.”

“What does any of that have to do with anything?”

“Oh, c’mon, Sam, think about it.”  He did, but merely ended up shaking his head.  “If the last seal was just Lilith dying, you really think they’da just given up?  Whoops, Sammy Winchester didn’t bite, guess the apocalypse can’t happen, oh well?  Nothing in that damn prophecy said it had to be you to kill her; she’d just have gotten someone else to.  Or done it herself.”  He shrugged, still very carefully avoiding looking at Sam.  “The first domino, though… That’s what sparked all the rest.  They couldn’t knock down any of ‘em without that one.  And torture, Sam?  Ain’t no way that’s a sign of a good man.”  Damn, he was exhausted.  “Just let it go, alright?”

“No, Dean, I’m not going to just let it g-”

“Yes, you are.”  That was at least enough to get him looking at his brother, even if it was just to impress the words upon him.  “You’re gonna let go of it, and you’re gonna let go of blaming yourself for the apocalypse too.  It wasn’t your fault, and, the sooner you accept that, the better a lot of things will be.”  Another pause, but not long enough for Sam to get away with interrupting.  “And, look… Gary was in your body for… What, a day?  Tops?  Most o’ that, he was with me.  Aside from goin’ off with that chick --- and trust me, she could handle herself --- he wasn’t anywhere.  There’s nothing he did for you to worry about.”

Sam changed tactics again, the shift so abrupt that it almost gave Dean whiplash.  “Was it easy?  To get along with Gary?”

Dean shrugged.  “I guess.”  Apparently, that was coming out too.  “He didn’t give me shit about my music or my food or my drinking.  Yeah, it was easy.”  He couldn’t help laughing then, short, sharp, and bitter.  “But it wasn’t real, Sam.  I knew it, even then.  It was just… easier to pretend.”

“Because you view it as pretending that I’d think you a good person?”

Dean had absolutely no inclination to stop the resulting eye roll.  “Oh, leave it.  I’m not some weepy-eyed teenager you need to coddle.  We’ve got bigger things on our plate than some throwaway issue that doesn’t even matte-”

“The apocalypse can damn well wait, Dean.  I think we need to address thi-”

“You always think we need to address shit that really doesn’t need talking about, Sam.  I’m not in the mood for pretty lies, so just… let me get some damn sleep, alright?  I could do with at least a few hours tonight.”  He shifted, tucking one arm under his pillow and pretending he didn’t immediately seek out the cold handle of the knife he’d placed there.

“Look, Dean… I mean, I can’t even imagine what Hell was like for you, but, either way, it was rigged.  You made it thirty years.”

“Yeah, and Dad made it a helluva lot longer without picking up Alastair’s damn razor.  He didn’t start the damn apocalypse.”

“Dad wasn’t Righteous, Dean.  And there’s no way in Hell-”  Dean couldn’t hold back the resulting flinch, but Sam didn’t address it.  “-that he didn’t say yes at some point.”

“Alastair told me, Sam.  He didn’t brea-”

“Yes, because demons are trustworthy,”  Sam’s own flinch passed across his face, and Dean could see what he was thinking.  Whether or not he recognized some damn kid had taken over his brother, he still knew him, still knew that a litany of Ruby, Lilith, Azazel, Lucifer was running through his head.  “He got out, Dean.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, I know.  He was stubborn as shit, Sam, of course he got out.”

“No, Dean, I mean… He got out.  You haven’t said much about Hell, but I cannot believe it’d be possible to climb off the damn rack, much less to follow that escape with a tooth-and-nail slog out of Hell through a damn devil’s gate.”

“You don’t know that’s how it went down.”

Sam shrugged.  “You don’t know that’s not how it went down.”  A pause.  “And anyway, it was Hell.  You didn’t know the stakes with that anymore than I did with Lilith.”

Dean blinked over at him, trying to keep the incredulity in his expression to a minimum.  “Killing Lilith was objectively good, Sam.  Torture?  That’s exactly the kind of shit we stop on a daily basis.”  He pulled out the knife from his pillow, gesturing with it until the silver metal glinted in the light.  “This?  I don’t care if it was Hell, but there’s no damn circumstance where this is anything but bad.”

“Yeah, Dean, it was Hell, of course there were only bad options.  No one blames you for doing whatever you had to.”

Dean didn’t prevent the ensuing snort, either.  “It’s not just Hell, Sam.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I found out about Gary… before I knew it was… well… Gary, the 17-year-old kid in over his head…”  He shrugged, more a roll of his shoulders than anything else as he ducked his head again.  “I knew you were missing.  I didn’t know where you were, didn’t know what had happened to you.”

Sam nodded.  “Yeah?”

“I was…”  He swallowed, pretending it wasn’t a gulp.  “I told him I’d torture him.  To find you.”  The sudden urge to justify was strong enough that he didn’t resist, letting himself ramble.  It might have been his ribs, might have been the alcohol, might have been some combination of all of the above, but he didn’t have enough mental blockade to head it off.  “Y-you were gone, and the demon had only been exorcized, and I was willing to do anything it took, and… Yeah.  If that meant water-boarding, then so be it.”

Sam must have nodded, judging by the swishing sound that followed, but Dean couldn’t bring himself to meet his eyes.  When he spoke, the vaguely-gentle tone of voice --- or, at least, as close to gentle as a Winchester ever got --- was unexpected.  “I saw her, you know.”

Dean’s throat was dry as he asked, “Who?”

“Nora.  The demon possessing Nora.  She smoked into the girl right in front of me, mentioned the bounty on your head, said she was gonna kill you…”

The moment stretched on in silence until Dean finally worked up the courage to ask, “Yeah?”

“I was gonna drink her.”

Dean shot a look over at his brother, unable to avoid the surge of panic.  “What?”

“If she got close enough, I was gonna drain her dry.”  His voice was cold, merciless.  The same tone of voice he’d used so many times over the past months.  “I didn’t even think about Nora- No, that’s a lie.  I did think about her; I just didn’t care.  And yeah, maybe my mojo’s just because of the meatsuit, but maybe it’s my psyche, and I was gonna find out.”  He shrugged.  “I couldn’t, but I was going to.”  Another shrug, and then he looked over, met Dean’s eyes again.  “You blaming me for that?”

“What?”  Dean was shaking his head before he really decided to do it.  “No.  Extenuating circumstances and all that crap.  They were probably gonna kill you once they got that yes.”

Sam nodded, almost like he’d known Dean was gonna answer that way.  “How is that different?”

“It just is.”

“No, Dean, it’s not.”

And… Yeah, the kid was wrong.  Yeah, Dean was definitely eager to fight back against the idiotic stance he was taking.  And yeah, ending on that note wasn’t exactly the end goal.  But Dean had even less no-energy than he’d had at the start of the conversation and his ribs were still killing him and Sam was looking so damn triumphant that Dean didn’t have the desire to keep arguing.  “Alright.  Fine.  I get it, bitch.”

“Good.  Jerk.”

“Can I get some damn sleep now?  All this damn chick-flick shit’s exhausting.”

Sam snorted, walking over to his bed and crashing down on top of it.  “You’re telling me.  And yeah, get some damn sleep, dumbass.”

“You wound me, Sammy.”  Dean couldn’t help grinning as he settled back, even despite his ribs and every other damn thing going wrong around them.  “No snoring tonight.”

“As if.  I don’t snore.”

Dean hummed sceptically, grinning despite himself at the return to familiar banter.  His hand closed around the hilt of the blade again, and he let himself drift off.  They’d be okay.  At the point Sammy was still getting under his skin in that patented Sam-Winchester way, things couldn’t be too badly damaged.

They had a job to do and, if one thing had been made abundantly clear, it was that they should damn well do it together.