I'm popping my Supernatural Cherry! OMG!
Dec. 28th, 2006 03:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonflower_roseTitle: Hero Of The Day
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moonflower_rose
Pairing: Um. None, really. It has Sam and Dean, but!
Genre/Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Bit of angst...OMG NO WINCEST!!!! Sorry. And also, first time SPN virginism. Be gentle?
Length: 4600(ish) words
Beta:frances_veritas!!!
Summary: Forannella on her birthday. I'm sorry I'm late hun! I've been working on it for a few days, and it was like giving birth to an elephant, seriously.
Disclaimer: Please see my disclaimer here.
The mood in the bar was somber, if nowhere but their cramped table. He could feel Dean’s knees knocking against his own. Sam lifted his beer to his lips, mouth twisting as the sliver of lime stuffed in the neck jabbed him half up the nose. Fucking Coronas. A girl’s beer. All this godforsaken dive served, apparently. What kind of bar only served fucking Coronas? Part of his brain dimly protested that he’d say something, even just to himself, as sexist as ‘girl’s beer’ – sounded kind of like Jo, actually, which was just weird. That Sam was a Stanford pre-law, a fine upstanding, straight-A earning young man with a bright future and a beautiful girlfriend named Jessica who breathed his name just so when they made love. His mouth twisted again. That – that kid, was long gone, now. All that was left was a tired man of about 23, sweaty under his worn out jeans and faded t-shirt and perennial hooded sweatshirt, splattered in places with the insides of whatever made up the last thing he’d killed. Hair lank and in desperate need of a wash. Drinking girl’s beer in a bar in Who The Fuck Cares, USA. He smelled stale. He felt stale. What was with the damn lime, anyways? He yanked it out with annoyance and flicked it onto the floor, ignoring the amused look Dean gave him.
“Not a lemon fan, Sammy?”
He was sure Dean knew it was a lime and was hoping for some sort of rise out of him. Ass.
“Why’re you so happy, huh? I don’t see how either of us have anything to be grinning about right now, do you?”
God, he sounded like such a kid when he said things like that. Dean didn’t rib him any for it though. Not this time. Dean was sipping his beer with deliberately casual swallows, his long fingers hooked around the neck of his bottle, little white scars from a hundred hunts scattered across his knuckles, barely visible in the dim light. His expression was unreadable. Again. He got closed off so often, now. Since their dad…Dean smiled, and Sam noticed that it didn’t reach his eyes, not even a bit, and he pulled on his beer again.
“I don’t know about that, Sammy. We’re alive. There’s one less freaky son of a bitch out there. Seems like a job well done to me.”
Sam stared at him. Dean may have been able to sell that voice, that smile, to one of the clueless sheriffs or disinterested motel clerks they dealt with on a weekly basis, but he couldn’t sell it to him. Not him. They were brothers. Sam knew Dean better than that.
“That’s not what I mean. You know it.”
Dean rolled his eyes and showed his teeth again. Winked at a girl passing their table and followed her ass as she swayed by. “Shut up and drink your beer, Emo Kid.”
Sam slammed his bottle down on the table. Foam fuzzed up the neck, reaching desperately for the lip before settling down again. Dean’s eyes snapped back to his immediately.
“Why do you always shoot me down when I try to talk about Dad?”
Dean lifted a brow carelessly, but his eyes were hard and – and maybe a little angry, there. Finally, some damned emotion.
“I didn’t realize this was about Dad, Sammy. I thought this was about you and your apparent hate for all things lime.”
“As if you like the fucking beer any better than I do! I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Dean – what the hell this false grinning is all about. I’m you’re goddamn brother, and you’re pretending with me!”
Dean glared at him. Now he was good and pissed off, and looked ready for a rant. “It’s called making the best of what you’ve got, Sam. The bar only serves Corona, and I don’t drink those prissy pink watermelon things. So I’m drinking the Corona, and making do, and thanking God, if there is such a thing, that I’m even alive tonight. Either of us could wake up dead any morning, Sammy. Hell, I’ve been dead twice already. Pardon me for making the best of what I’ve got. You don’t think I’d rather have a pint of something dark and bitter in my hand, and a shot of Jack to chase it down? You don’t think I’d rather be hustling those preppy college boys with their matching loafers and their sweaters tied around their shoulders for all their trust money at the pool table?” Sam sat in silence, and Dean continued to glare. “Of course I would. But considering Little Miss Sunshine over there-” Dean gestured with the butt of his bottle at a bleached blonde, fake-tanned girl about their age who must have been painted into her designer jeans, “-seems to be the owner of the only bar in town that doesn’t have a shirt and tie dress code, and from the look of her she wouldn’t know a real drink if it poured itself down the front of her tank top, then I guess a girly beer that tastes like cats piss will have to do. And seeing as that huge Samoan over there-” This time Dean jutted his chin towards the bar, where said Samoan was watching them and cracking his enormous knuckles, “-minding the security has had his eye on us all night, I don’t really feel like risking a trip to the little cowboys room, let alone trying to swindle Brad, Chet and ole Chip out of their nice crisp greenbacks. Okay, Sam?”
Sam didn’t answer immediately. He ran his finger through the condensation on the bottle, making absent patterns, waiting for Dean to cool down again before saying anything else. Eventually, Dean took another sip of his beer, and Sam took the opportunity while Dean swallowed to prod at him again.
“You’re deliberately missing the point. Fine, I get the beer, I get the bar, I get the game face so that we don’t get thrown out on our asses. That covers things right now. But I’m talking about before, and after we leave here. When we get back to the motel. You’ll still be doing it. I know you will. You’ve been doing it since Oregon-”
This time Dean slammed the beer down on the table, and Sam could practically feel the pop of the Samoan’s knuckles, itching for a reason to toss them out.
“For fucks sake – when are you gonna let that shit go, Sammy? We just had a goddamn near death experience. People say shit they don’t really mean. I told you, I’m fine, everything is fine. Awesome. Lay off, already.”
He probably should have, but he just couldn’t help-
“But Dean, maybe if you just tried to talk about your issues with Dad making the deal with the yellow-eyed demon for your life, you might-”
“Stop-” Dean’s eyes were furious, and his knuckles were clenched around the bottle so hard Sam thought it might break. “-stop trying to psychoanalyze me. I’ve had enough.”
“Dean-”
“No, Sam, no. No more. You are the one obsessed with Dad’s death. You need to leave me the fuck alone to grieve, or come to grips, or whatever the fuck it is I’m doing on my own terms. I have to put up with enough shit every day, Sam. Do I really have to put up with shit from you too?”
Dean was so angry at him, Sam could tell. The beds of his fingernails were white where they pressed into the beer bottle. He wasn’t trying to psychoanalyze his brother…he was just trying to help. Share the load.
“Sorry, man. I just…”
“When are you gonna learn that you can’t fix everything? You can’t kill every bad thing, you can’t save every innocent victim, and sometimes things stay broken. That’s it.”
Did Dean consider himself broken? Sam looked at his brother closely, trying to read the answer in his face, but Dean was already looking away, over Sam’s shoulder, his expression changing from anger into resigned annoyance.
“Great. Just great.”
Before Sam could ask what that was supposed to mean, the shadow of something large and – well, large fell over the table. Dean was already plastering on his favorite fake smile, all white teeth and dimples.
“What can we do for you, big fella?”
The Samoan. Sam craned his neck to the right, and there the guy stood, or rather hulked. He didn’t look happy.
“You boys gotta leave.”
Dean’s smile forced wider. “But we haven’t even finished our drinks – surely it isn’t closing time yet-”
There was a crack of knuckles, and Sam hastily put his drink down.
“Ain’t gonna tell you again.”
Dean nodded, conceding. Not worth making a scene over a neon pink cocktail lounge and a half finished Corona. There was probably a bottle of whiskey back in the motel room, anyways, if they wanted it. Dean stood, and Sam followed, side stepping the Samoan with a muttered ‘’scuse me’. He could practically feel the mans eyes on his back all the way out the door. Whatever. He’d kicked the asses of bigger, badder sons of bitches on his own.
Dean was already in the car by the time Sam caught up with him, still shrugging into his jacket awkwardly around his fucking cast that seemed like it was going to be on him forever, tugging the passenger door of the Impala open – the engine roared, Dean stepping on the gas, and Sam scrambled inside bare seconds before Dean peeled away from the curb.
“You’re angry at me for bringing up Dad again.”
Dean blew a frustrated breath out between his teeth.
“You can’t help yourself, can you. For the last time, you need to stop trying to shrink my head, alright? You don’t know shit about what I’m feeling or thinking unless I tell you, and frankly, I don’t wanna talk about it. So until then, shut your pie hole, let me alone, and find a new hobby. Maybe knitting. The needles might come in handy on a hunt.”
He ignored the knitting comment, and managed to keep his tongue for a full five minutes.
“All I’m sayin’ is, if you want to, I’m listening. S’all I’m sayin’.”
Dean rummaged around under the seat, and came up with a cassette, shoving it harder than was probably necessary into the player. Silverchair. The guitars roared to life, much like the Impala had earlier, and swallowed Sam’s sigh. Dean was Dean, and Sam wasn’t trying to change him, exactly. But he was his brother, and Sam loved him, and all he wanted to do was help. Share that load. He was just too busy being stubbornly ‘broken’ to let him.
…
Dean hardly spoke to him for the rest of the next day. Sam woke up, and there was a cup of coffee from the nearby café sitting on his nightstand, but Dean wasn’t anywhere nearby. At least he wasn’t completely in the doghouse; otherwise there’d be no coffee. Sam sighed again. He seemed to be doing that a lot, lately. Sighing, crying, and pissing off Dean. His new routine. He hated all three. He sipped his coffee – still pretty hot. Dean probably wasn’t far.
He was out front, actually. Digging around in the back seat, pulling out screwed up napkins and burger wrappers, and cardboard burrito containers from gas stations all across America. Piffing them into the nearby trash can like he was shooting hoops.
“Dean.”
Dean scooped up the rest of the trash and dumped it into the bin. “Ready to go?”
Sam caught his next sigh just as it was about to leave his throat. Enough, already. “Yeah, sure. Help me load up the car?”
Dean didn’t answer, or look him in the face, but he strode back to the motel room and pushed open the door. Sam followed him silently, pausing just outside the door. Dean was really pissed off to be giving him almost-silent treatment. Did he really deserve that? All he did was ask Dean how he was doin’, surely this was a huge overreaction. “Maybe I do try to psychoanalyze him…dammit.”
“What’s that?” Dean strode back out again, duffle bags over each shoulder, and headed for the car.
“Nuthin’.”
They packed the car in relative silence from there on in.
They were on the road again before Sam said anything more. The traffic was light, AC/DC was loud, and thunderclouds threatened ahead of them.
“Look, this is the last thing I’m gonna say about it, okay? Just listen to me.”
“Sammy,” Dean’s voice was hard, and warning.
“No, Dean, let me speak. I just want to try and help. That’s all any of this is about. I’m not tryin’ to – shrink your head, or whatever. You’re my brother, and I want-” What the hell did he want? “If you’re hurting, I want to help. If you’re under pressure, I want you to put some of it on me – I want to know you trust me enough to do that. When are you gonna trust me again, Dean?”
He could see his brothers jaw working, his eyes on the road.
“Just – it doesn’t have to be just you all the time. I can help, okay? You can trust me to be there for you.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This all was getting perilously close to being chick flick material. “So, that’s all I’m gonna say about it. I won’t say another word.”
Dean didn’t say a word, either. So they sat there in silence, and drove, and the sky eventually opened up on them and rained hard. Sam looked out the passenger window, his breath fogging the glass a little, and hoped that he hadn’t just pushed his brother too far this time.
…
Four days, an entire state, and another motel room later, and Sam was just hovering on the edge of sleep, waiting to fall over into the blackness and whatever dreams might come.
“It’s not about Dad.”
What? Sam blinked and rubbed his face. “What isn’t?”
Dean made a frustrated sound in the dark, on the bed opposite Sam’s.
“You said you’d listen if I wanted to talk.”
Sam was suddenly wide awake. He half sat up, staring into the shadows, making out Dean’s profile prone on the other bed, his hands folded under his head like a pillow.
“I’m listening Dean, yeah. Of course, man.”
Dean didn’t say anything more, not for long minutes. Sam was beginning to wonder if he should maybe say something himself, but held his tongue. Anything could ruin this. Dean must have been brewing about all this for days now. No, shut up and wait was the best strategy right now. If he opened his mouth, Dean might dry up altogether.
“Everything we do,” his voice was soft, “-every hunt, has to do with Dad and Mom in some way. They’re the reason we’re in this. But this thing – my issues,” he said the word sarcastically, “aren’t really about them.”
Sam poked at the edges of his cast, trying to scratch a bit underneath. “So, what are they about?”
Dean brought his hand down on the mattress with an annoyed thud. “Jesus Sammy! I just said I’m tryin’ to talk to you, so could you just shut up for one second and let me freaken’ talk?”
“Alright, okay – sorry. Sorry.” Jesus. Apparently, showing an interest was a big no. Hadn’t he just told himself to shut up? He waited. Silently.
“I wasn’t lying that night in Oregon. I’m tired of this. All of it. But it has to be done, right? Cuz if I don’t do it – if we don’t do it – then who will?” It didn’t seem to be a question, so Sam didn’t answer. “Not enough hunters around to do the job. So, in that way, I want to do it. But I’m tired of it too, and I want to quit.” He sighed again, a frustrated sound. “I know I’m not making any sense.” Dean paused for a little while, and Sam lay still on his half of the room, thinking about it. It did make sense, to Sam. No one in their right mind would choose this life, but someone had to get it done. Someone had to be out there protecting people like Mom, and Jess. They both knew that. It was a responsibility, and a burden. It just happened to be theirs.
“I want…” The bed creaked as Dean rolled over. “I want to be a normal guy. I’d like to work in an auto shop, fixin’ up cars, gettin’ covered in grease, coming home and drinking beers with my buddies, watchin’ whatever game’s on TV. I want one drivers license, a real one, with my real name right next to my picture. I want to meet a girl and see her more than once or twice. I want to own a ride-on mower, like Forest freaken’ Gump, and cut the grass on Sundays. I just wanna be an average Joe. But there’s always one more vengeful spirit, or shape shifter, or fang, or pissed off PMS-ing spook around the corner, and we’re good, Sammy, but we’re never gonna get rid of the lot of them. Not ever. So I’ll probably die doin’ this job. Hunter’s don’t get to retire. It’ll never be over, even if we kill the demon who took Mom and Dad, and Jessica.”
Sam swallowed hard. That was their life, in a nutshell. Hunt, move on to the next job, hunt again. Fighting the good fight, sure, they could tell themselves that when things got hard, but even hero’s needed a break sometimes. He must have said so aloud, because Dean laughed, hard and bitter, and nodded in the shadows. “Grand Canyon, Sammy. And ten bucks says that when we got there, there’d be some kind of supernatural son of a bitch we’d have to put away before we even got to sight see.”
Sam let the silence fall back down upon them like a blanket, and stared up at the darkened ceiling, and scratched at his cast. No wonder Dean was so freaken’ depressed, if that was what was running through his head every day. “Dean?” There was a low hmm in response. “If Mom hadn’t died like that, what do you think things would have been like?”
The bed creaked again, and Dean’s voice was more muffled than before, his back to Sam now. “This is a kid’s game, Sammy. Come on.”
He shrugged, not that Dean could see him. “Humor me, okay? What if.”
Dean sighed. “Dad would’ve kept the shop and be semi-retired, with some young family man to run the place for him. Mom would probably have gone back to work once you were in school, and you, Sammy, you would’ve turned out just the same as you were already gonna before this all mess caught up with you – gone to school, be halfway through law by now, nice girl by your side all ready to settle down after graduation and have two point four kids. Dad would have a huge model car collection, all classics, all built from scratch, and Mom would complain they were a bitch to keep clean, but still would’ve gotten him another every Christmas regardless. Dad would’ve gotten her that perfume she used to like – I remember how it used to smell when she kissed me goodnight…” Sam could practically hear Dean swallow, and felt the lump in his own throat. “We’d’ve been normal. Well…you’d still be a freak.”
Sam almost smiled at that. “And what about you? What would you’ve done?”
Dean didn’t reply.
“Dean? Dean?”
He sighed. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.” Sam frowned.
“Sure you do – you had dreams as a kid just like anyone. What did you want to be?”
“What did I dream? When I was still stupid enough to have them, I wanted to play baseball, and work with Dad at the auto shop, and be a racing car driver…I had kid dreams. And they stopped as soon as I realized that we were never gonna settle down again. Dad was never gonna take us back to Lawrence to just be a normal family.” Dean paused. “Didn’t dream much of anything after that.” Fuck. Dean’s voice was as dark as the room now, and it made Sam feel kinda cold. “So, I don’t know what I would’ve been like. I’m not like you, Sam. Never did have any particular skills that would’ve taken me anywhere in the real world.”
“That’s bullshit, man,” Sam was almost surprised at the passion of his response. “Most of what keeps us going is you, Dean. You keep us fed, keep a roof over our heads – you were doing this on your own while I was still eating Lucky Charms with chocolate milk for breakfast. You brought this car back from – from an absolute heap of scrap-”
“Quiet! She’ll hear you!”
Sam ignored him. “You’re a better hunter than me, Dean.”
“Yeah, well woo hoo. I did mention the real world, didn’t I? All my so called skills – great liar, hustler, credit card scammer, fraud. Those ‘skills’ go real far. Do you think Mom would’ve been proud to have a son with twenty seven aliases? A son who can rip off half-tanked truckers at roadhouses at three am for money they probably couldn’t afford to lose? Think Dad would’ve wanted to brag about how his firstborn could shoot just about anything; talk his way out of lockup with a wink and a smile? Those things are all great for bein’ a hunter, but I thought we were playing ‘What If’, Sam, and no one’s hunting anything in that universe. I got nothing.”
“Dean-”
“Go to sleep Sammy. I’m tired of talking.”
Sam laid still and quiet, until eventually he heard soft snores from the other side of the room.
…
They stood over the grave of Belle Gunness, or Esther Carlson, as the headstone read, Dean still pouring salt inside while Sam splashed out the kero. Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell. One day, one of them was gonna accidentally set themselves alight, if they weren’t careful. Dean shook out the last of it, and pulled a jumbo pack of matches from his jacket pocket.
“So long, psycho. You’ve butchered your last lonely fella, and now you’re goin’ to bed like you should have years ago. Sweet dreams.”
Sam stepped back, tossing the can aside, and Dean struck the flame, flicked it inside. The bones lit, flames spreading quickly. They stood there awhile, watching it all turn black. He looked at his brother – orange light flickered across Dean’s face. Reminded him of the night of Dad’s funeral.
“Time to go, Sammy.”
They were quiet in the car. Metallica was playing, but not too loud. Sam was a Load fan, personally, but he’d never say so to Dean. No way, Dean was all about …And Justice For All. Which was kind of ironic, really. Favorite track One. Very ironic.
“When are we gonna be brothers again?”
Leather creaked on leather, Dean shifting in his seat restlessly.
“Come on, now, Sammy. We are brothers. Always have been.”
Sam shook his head, staring out the window at the dark silhouettes of trees and fences, framing well-lit mansions. Los Angeles. They’d hardly seen any of it.
“How can we be brothers if you don’t trust me?”
Dean made a noise, a pissed off grunt, and abruptly pulled the car over. Turned off the engine.
“Sam.”
Sam stared stubbornly out the window. He wasn’t gonna cry over this like a big girl. No way.
“Sammy, come on. This isn’t about trust. I trust you with my life, you know that.”
He turned to face Dean angrily. “How about for once, instead of telling me what it’s not about, tell me what it fucking is. Because all I can come up with is that you don’t trust me anymore. You won’t talk to me – don’t just gimme some line about real men sucking it up, because if you do I swear to god I’ll give you that punch I owe you. I’m part of this too. Mom and Jess died because of me, remember. Dad’s dead – I’m not gonna lose you too. I’m not gonna just watch you turn into some kind of fucking zombie, until one day you fuck up and get killed too.”
Dean looked incredulous. “That’s what you think? That I’m gonna drop dead because I don’t wanna open up to you like Dear Abby?”
“Don’t make fun of this, Dean. This isn’t funny at all. I watch you slipping away from me a little more every job, and it – it breaks my heart.” God, he sounded like such a kid.
There was silence for a moment. Another car rumbled by.
“You’re not losing me.” Dean’s voice was soft. Not mocking him. “I made a promise to Dad that I’d look after you. I’m just tryin’ to do that the best I can. You don’t need my extra shit, Sammy. You’ve got your visions and stuff…you’ve got enough. You don’t need my shit to worry about. It’s not because I don’t trust you. You’re my brother, and I love you.” He paused. “Don’t go spreading that around. I’ve got a reputation to keep up.”
Sam laughed, a sudden burst, and he dragged the back of his hand over one cheek, collecting whatever wetness was there. “Sure.” Tugged on the cord of his hood, fraying the edge a little. “Dean, someone has to look after you, too. Just remember that. And it’s me.”
Dean nodded, thumbs hooked over the bottom of the steering wheel, eyes down. “Yeah, I know. I’ll try and do better.”
Sam nodded too. That was all he could ask for, right? Rome wasn’t built in a day.
“You know, you do a pretty good job with this big brother thing. I remember you used to climb into the crib with me when we were little, look after me during the night.”
Dean sucked in a breath. “You remember that? You were just a baby.”
Sam shrugged. “I used to dream about it sometimes. Still do. Wasn’t sure if it was just a dream though.” He picked at his sweatshirt again. “Glad it was real.”
There was a ghost of a smile on Dean’s face, and then it was gone, replaced with his favorite smart ass expression. “Alright, enough already Samantha. Jesus, I can practically smell the estrogen in here – any second now, and I’m gonna succumb to the urge to pluck my eyebrows and buy a box of Tampax.” Sam laughed again. The tension was gone, for now. The security of a new understanding between them settled warm in his stomach, and Dean gunned the engine and pulled back onto the road.
“Why don’t you pick the music?”
Sam raised his eyebrows, and grabbed for the box of cassettes. Dean stared out the windscreen at the road, a smug, indulgent little smirk on his face. Sam allowed one of his own and he slotted the tape in, and waited for realization to dawn. The first bars cranked out, and Dean lost the smirk, his face screwing up.
“Load? Ugh, Sammy. That just ain’t right.”
Sam sat back in his seat, grinning. “Shotgun picks the music – driver shuts his pie hole.”
Dean groaned. “This is gonna be a long drive. Where are we going again?”
Sam’s grin grew even wider. “New England – Maine. Seems Stephen King wasn’t kidding when he wrote all those horror novels about his home state.”
Dean grit his teeth, and gripped the steering wheel. “Let’s see if I can’t make a cross country record, then.”
The Impala roared ahead, and Sam’s laughter was swallowed by the engine and wailing guitars.
Author:
moonflower_rosePairing: Um. None, really. It has Sam and Dean, but!
Genre/Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Bit of angst...OMG NO WINCEST!!!! Sorry. And also, first time SPN virginism. Be gentle?
Length: 4600(ish) words
Beta:
frances_veritas!!!Summary: For
annella on her birthday. I'm sorry I'm late hun! I've been working on it for a few days, and it was like giving birth to an elephant, seriously. Disclaimer: Please see my disclaimer here.
The mood in the bar was somber, if nowhere but their cramped table. He could feel Dean’s knees knocking against his own. Sam lifted his beer to his lips, mouth twisting as the sliver of lime stuffed in the neck jabbed him half up the nose. Fucking Coronas. A girl’s beer. All this godforsaken dive served, apparently. What kind of bar only served fucking Coronas? Part of his brain dimly protested that he’d say something, even just to himself, as sexist as ‘girl’s beer’ – sounded kind of like Jo, actually, which was just weird. That Sam was a Stanford pre-law, a fine upstanding, straight-A earning young man with a bright future and a beautiful girlfriend named Jessica who breathed his name just so when they made love. His mouth twisted again. That – that kid, was long gone, now. All that was left was a tired man of about 23, sweaty under his worn out jeans and faded t-shirt and perennial hooded sweatshirt, splattered in places with the insides of whatever made up the last thing he’d killed. Hair lank and in desperate need of a wash. Drinking girl’s beer in a bar in Who The Fuck Cares, USA. He smelled stale. He felt stale. What was with the damn lime, anyways? He yanked it out with annoyance and flicked it onto the floor, ignoring the amused look Dean gave him.
“Not a lemon fan, Sammy?”
He was sure Dean knew it was a lime and was hoping for some sort of rise out of him. Ass.
“Why’re you so happy, huh? I don’t see how either of us have anything to be grinning about right now, do you?”
God, he sounded like such a kid when he said things like that. Dean didn’t rib him any for it though. Not this time. Dean was sipping his beer with deliberately casual swallows, his long fingers hooked around the neck of his bottle, little white scars from a hundred hunts scattered across his knuckles, barely visible in the dim light. His expression was unreadable. Again. He got closed off so often, now. Since their dad…Dean smiled, and Sam noticed that it didn’t reach his eyes, not even a bit, and he pulled on his beer again.
“I don’t know about that, Sammy. We’re alive. There’s one less freaky son of a bitch out there. Seems like a job well done to me.”
Sam stared at him. Dean may have been able to sell that voice, that smile, to one of the clueless sheriffs or disinterested motel clerks they dealt with on a weekly basis, but he couldn’t sell it to him. Not him. They were brothers. Sam knew Dean better than that.
“That’s not what I mean. You know it.”
Dean rolled his eyes and showed his teeth again. Winked at a girl passing their table and followed her ass as she swayed by. “Shut up and drink your beer, Emo Kid.”
Sam slammed his bottle down on the table. Foam fuzzed up the neck, reaching desperately for the lip before settling down again. Dean’s eyes snapped back to his immediately.
“Why do you always shoot me down when I try to talk about Dad?”
Dean lifted a brow carelessly, but his eyes were hard and – and maybe a little angry, there. Finally, some damned emotion.
“I didn’t realize this was about Dad, Sammy. I thought this was about you and your apparent hate for all things lime.”
“As if you like the fucking beer any better than I do! I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Dean – what the hell this false grinning is all about. I’m you’re goddamn brother, and you’re pretending with me!”
Dean glared at him. Now he was good and pissed off, and looked ready for a rant. “It’s called making the best of what you’ve got, Sam. The bar only serves Corona, and I don’t drink those prissy pink watermelon things. So I’m drinking the Corona, and making do, and thanking God, if there is such a thing, that I’m even alive tonight. Either of us could wake up dead any morning, Sammy. Hell, I’ve been dead twice already. Pardon me for making the best of what I’ve got. You don’t think I’d rather have a pint of something dark and bitter in my hand, and a shot of Jack to chase it down? You don’t think I’d rather be hustling those preppy college boys with their matching loafers and their sweaters tied around their shoulders for all their trust money at the pool table?” Sam sat in silence, and Dean continued to glare. “Of course I would. But considering Little Miss Sunshine over there-” Dean gestured with the butt of his bottle at a bleached blonde, fake-tanned girl about their age who must have been painted into her designer jeans, “-seems to be the owner of the only bar in town that doesn’t have a shirt and tie dress code, and from the look of her she wouldn’t know a real drink if it poured itself down the front of her tank top, then I guess a girly beer that tastes like cats piss will have to do. And seeing as that huge Samoan over there-” This time Dean jutted his chin towards the bar, where said Samoan was watching them and cracking his enormous knuckles, “-minding the security has had his eye on us all night, I don’t really feel like risking a trip to the little cowboys room, let alone trying to swindle Brad, Chet and ole Chip out of their nice crisp greenbacks. Okay, Sam?”
Sam didn’t answer immediately. He ran his finger through the condensation on the bottle, making absent patterns, waiting for Dean to cool down again before saying anything else. Eventually, Dean took another sip of his beer, and Sam took the opportunity while Dean swallowed to prod at him again.
“You’re deliberately missing the point. Fine, I get the beer, I get the bar, I get the game face so that we don’t get thrown out on our asses. That covers things right now. But I’m talking about before, and after we leave here. When we get back to the motel. You’ll still be doing it. I know you will. You’ve been doing it since Oregon-”
This time Dean slammed the beer down on the table, and Sam could practically feel the pop of the Samoan’s knuckles, itching for a reason to toss them out.
“For fucks sake – when are you gonna let that shit go, Sammy? We just had a goddamn near death experience. People say shit they don’t really mean. I told you, I’m fine, everything is fine. Awesome. Lay off, already.”
He probably should have, but he just couldn’t help-
“But Dean, maybe if you just tried to talk about your issues with Dad making the deal with the yellow-eyed demon for your life, you might-”
“Stop-” Dean’s eyes were furious, and his knuckles were clenched around the bottle so hard Sam thought it might break. “-stop trying to psychoanalyze me. I’ve had enough.”
“Dean-”
“No, Sam, no. No more. You are the one obsessed with Dad’s death. You need to leave me the fuck alone to grieve, or come to grips, or whatever the fuck it is I’m doing on my own terms. I have to put up with enough shit every day, Sam. Do I really have to put up with shit from you too?”
Dean was so angry at him, Sam could tell. The beds of his fingernails were white where they pressed into the beer bottle. He wasn’t trying to psychoanalyze his brother…he was just trying to help. Share the load.
“Sorry, man. I just…”
“When are you gonna learn that you can’t fix everything? You can’t kill every bad thing, you can’t save every innocent victim, and sometimes things stay broken. That’s it.”
Did Dean consider himself broken? Sam looked at his brother closely, trying to read the answer in his face, but Dean was already looking away, over Sam’s shoulder, his expression changing from anger into resigned annoyance.
“Great. Just great.”
Before Sam could ask what that was supposed to mean, the shadow of something large and – well, large fell over the table. Dean was already plastering on his favorite fake smile, all white teeth and dimples.
“What can we do for you, big fella?”
The Samoan. Sam craned his neck to the right, and there the guy stood, or rather hulked. He didn’t look happy.
“You boys gotta leave.”
Dean’s smile forced wider. “But we haven’t even finished our drinks – surely it isn’t closing time yet-”
There was a crack of knuckles, and Sam hastily put his drink down.
“Ain’t gonna tell you again.”
Dean nodded, conceding. Not worth making a scene over a neon pink cocktail lounge and a half finished Corona. There was probably a bottle of whiskey back in the motel room, anyways, if they wanted it. Dean stood, and Sam followed, side stepping the Samoan with a muttered ‘’scuse me’. He could practically feel the mans eyes on his back all the way out the door. Whatever. He’d kicked the asses of bigger, badder sons of bitches on his own.
Dean was already in the car by the time Sam caught up with him, still shrugging into his jacket awkwardly around his fucking cast that seemed like it was going to be on him forever, tugging the passenger door of the Impala open – the engine roared, Dean stepping on the gas, and Sam scrambled inside bare seconds before Dean peeled away from the curb.
“You’re angry at me for bringing up Dad again.”
Dean blew a frustrated breath out between his teeth.
“You can’t help yourself, can you. For the last time, you need to stop trying to shrink my head, alright? You don’t know shit about what I’m feeling or thinking unless I tell you, and frankly, I don’t wanna talk about it. So until then, shut your pie hole, let me alone, and find a new hobby. Maybe knitting. The needles might come in handy on a hunt.”
He ignored the knitting comment, and managed to keep his tongue for a full five minutes.
“All I’m sayin’ is, if you want to, I’m listening. S’all I’m sayin’.”
Dean rummaged around under the seat, and came up with a cassette, shoving it harder than was probably necessary into the player. Silverchair. The guitars roared to life, much like the Impala had earlier, and swallowed Sam’s sigh. Dean was Dean, and Sam wasn’t trying to change him, exactly. But he was his brother, and Sam loved him, and all he wanted to do was help. Share that load. He was just too busy being stubbornly ‘broken’ to let him.
Dean hardly spoke to him for the rest of the next day. Sam woke up, and there was a cup of coffee from the nearby café sitting on his nightstand, but Dean wasn’t anywhere nearby. At least he wasn’t completely in the doghouse; otherwise there’d be no coffee. Sam sighed again. He seemed to be doing that a lot, lately. Sighing, crying, and pissing off Dean. His new routine. He hated all three. He sipped his coffee – still pretty hot. Dean probably wasn’t far.
He was out front, actually. Digging around in the back seat, pulling out screwed up napkins and burger wrappers, and cardboard burrito containers from gas stations all across America. Piffing them into the nearby trash can like he was shooting hoops.
“Dean.”
Dean scooped up the rest of the trash and dumped it into the bin. “Ready to go?”
Sam caught his next sigh just as it was about to leave his throat. Enough, already. “Yeah, sure. Help me load up the car?”
Dean didn’t answer, or look him in the face, but he strode back to the motel room and pushed open the door. Sam followed him silently, pausing just outside the door. Dean was really pissed off to be giving him almost-silent treatment. Did he really deserve that? All he did was ask Dean how he was doin’, surely this was a huge overreaction. “Maybe I do try to psychoanalyze him…dammit.”
“What’s that?” Dean strode back out again, duffle bags over each shoulder, and headed for the car.
“Nuthin’.”
They packed the car in relative silence from there on in.
They were on the road again before Sam said anything more. The traffic was light, AC/DC was loud, and thunderclouds threatened ahead of them.
“Look, this is the last thing I’m gonna say about it, okay? Just listen to me.”
“Sammy,” Dean’s voice was hard, and warning.
“No, Dean, let me speak. I just want to try and help. That’s all any of this is about. I’m not tryin’ to – shrink your head, or whatever. You’re my brother, and I want-” What the hell did he want? “If you’re hurting, I want to help. If you’re under pressure, I want you to put some of it on me – I want to know you trust me enough to do that. When are you gonna trust me again, Dean?”
He could see his brothers jaw working, his eyes on the road.
“Just – it doesn’t have to be just you all the time. I can help, okay? You can trust me to be there for you.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This all was getting perilously close to being chick flick material. “So, that’s all I’m gonna say about it. I won’t say another word.”
Dean didn’t say a word, either. So they sat there in silence, and drove, and the sky eventually opened up on them and rained hard. Sam looked out the passenger window, his breath fogging the glass a little, and hoped that he hadn’t just pushed his brother too far this time.
Four days, an entire state, and another motel room later, and Sam was just hovering on the edge of sleep, waiting to fall over into the blackness and whatever dreams might come.
“It’s not about Dad.”
What? Sam blinked and rubbed his face. “What isn’t?”
Dean made a frustrated sound in the dark, on the bed opposite Sam’s.
“You said you’d listen if I wanted to talk.”
Sam was suddenly wide awake. He half sat up, staring into the shadows, making out Dean’s profile prone on the other bed, his hands folded under his head like a pillow.
“I’m listening Dean, yeah. Of course, man.”
Dean didn’t say anything more, not for long minutes. Sam was beginning to wonder if he should maybe say something himself, but held his tongue. Anything could ruin this. Dean must have been brewing about all this for days now. No, shut up and wait was the best strategy right now. If he opened his mouth, Dean might dry up altogether.
“Everything we do,” his voice was soft, “-every hunt, has to do with Dad and Mom in some way. They’re the reason we’re in this. But this thing – my issues,” he said the word sarcastically, “aren’t really about them.”
Sam poked at the edges of his cast, trying to scratch a bit underneath. “So, what are they about?”
Dean brought his hand down on the mattress with an annoyed thud. “Jesus Sammy! I just said I’m tryin’ to talk to you, so could you just shut up for one second and let me freaken’ talk?”
“Alright, okay – sorry. Sorry.” Jesus. Apparently, showing an interest was a big no. Hadn’t he just told himself to shut up? He waited. Silently.
“I wasn’t lying that night in Oregon. I’m tired of this. All of it. But it has to be done, right? Cuz if I don’t do it – if we don’t do it – then who will?” It didn’t seem to be a question, so Sam didn’t answer. “Not enough hunters around to do the job. So, in that way, I want to do it. But I’m tired of it too, and I want to quit.” He sighed again, a frustrated sound. “I know I’m not making any sense.” Dean paused for a little while, and Sam lay still on his half of the room, thinking about it. It did make sense, to Sam. No one in their right mind would choose this life, but someone had to get it done. Someone had to be out there protecting people like Mom, and Jess. They both knew that. It was a responsibility, and a burden. It just happened to be theirs.
“I want…” The bed creaked as Dean rolled over. “I want to be a normal guy. I’d like to work in an auto shop, fixin’ up cars, gettin’ covered in grease, coming home and drinking beers with my buddies, watchin’ whatever game’s on TV. I want one drivers license, a real one, with my real name right next to my picture. I want to meet a girl and see her more than once or twice. I want to own a ride-on mower, like Forest freaken’ Gump, and cut the grass on Sundays. I just wanna be an average Joe. But there’s always one more vengeful spirit, or shape shifter, or fang, or pissed off PMS-ing spook around the corner, and we’re good, Sammy, but we’re never gonna get rid of the lot of them. Not ever. So I’ll probably die doin’ this job. Hunter’s don’t get to retire. It’ll never be over, even if we kill the demon who took Mom and Dad, and Jessica.”
Sam swallowed hard. That was their life, in a nutshell. Hunt, move on to the next job, hunt again. Fighting the good fight, sure, they could tell themselves that when things got hard, but even hero’s needed a break sometimes. He must have said so aloud, because Dean laughed, hard and bitter, and nodded in the shadows. “Grand Canyon, Sammy. And ten bucks says that when we got there, there’d be some kind of supernatural son of a bitch we’d have to put away before we even got to sight see.”
Sam let the silence fall back down upon them like a blanket, and stared up at the darkened ceiling, and scratched at his cast. No wonder Dean was so freaken’ depressed, if that was what was running through his head every day. “Dean?” There was a low hmm in response. “If Mom hadn’t died like that, what do you think things would have been like?”
The bed creaked again, and Dean’s voice was more muffled than before, his back to Sam now. “This is a kid’s game, Sammy. Come on.”
He shrugged, not that Dean could see him. “Humor me, okay? What if.”
Dean sighed. “Dad would’ve kept the shop and be semi-retired, with some young family man to run the place for him. Mom would probably have gone back to work once you were in school, and you, Sammy, you would’ve turned out just the same as you were already gonna before this all mess caught up with you – gone to school, be halfway through law by now, nice girl by your side all ready to settle down after graduation and have two point four kids. Dad would have a huge model car collection, all classics, all built from scratch, and Mom would complain they were a bitch to keep clean, but still would’ve gotten him another every Christmas regardless. Dad would’ve gotten her that perfume she used to like – I remember how it used to smell when she kissed me goodnight…” Sam could practically hear Dean swallow, and felt the lump in his own throat. “We’d’ve been normal. Well…you’d still be a freak.”
Sam almost smiled at that. “And what about you? What would you’ve done?”
Dean didn’t reply.
“Dean? Dean?”
He sighed. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.” Sam frowned.
“Sure you do – you had dreams as a kid just like anyone. What did you want to be?”
“What did I dream? When I was still stupid enough to have them, I wanted to play baseball, and work with Dad at the auto shop, and be a racing car driver…I had kid dreams. And they stopped as soon as I realized that we were never gonna settle down again. Dad was never gonna take us back to Lawrence to just be a normal family.” Dean paused. “Didn’t dream much of anything after that.” Fuck. Dean’s voice was as dark as the room now, and it made Sam feel kinda cold. “So, I don’t know what I would’ve been like. I’m not like you, Sam. Never did have any particular skills that would’ve taken me anywhere in the real world.”
“That’s bullshit, man,” Sam was almost surprised at the passion of his response. “Most of what keeps us going is you, Dean. You keep us fed, keep a roof over our heads – you were doing this on your own while I was still eating Lucky Charms with chocolate milk for breakfast. You brought this car back from – from an absolute heap of scrap-”
“Quiet! She’ll hear you!”
Sam ignored him. “You’re a better hunter than me, Dean.”
“Yeah, well woo hoo. I did mention the real world, didn’t I? All my so called skills – great liar, hustler, credit card scammer, fraud. Those ‘skills’ go real far. Do you think Mom would’ve been proud to have a son with twenty seven aliases? A son who can rip off half-tanked truckers at roadhouses at three am for money they probably couldn’t afford to lose? Think Dad would’ve wanted to brag about how his firstborn could shoot just about anything; talk his way out of lockup with a wink and a smile? Those things are all great for bein’ a hunter, but I thought we were playing ‘What If’, Sam, and no one’s hunting anything in that universe. I got nothing.”
“Dean-”
“Go to sleep Sammy. I’m tired of talking.”
Sam laid still and quiet, until eventually he heard soft snores from the other side of the room.
They stood over the grave of Belle Gunness, or Esther Carlson, as the headstone read, Dean still pouring salt inside while Sam splashed out the kero. Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell. One day, one of them was gonna accidentally set themselves alight, if they weren’t careful. Dean shook out the last of it, and pulled a jumbo pack of matches from his jacket pocket.
“So long, psycho. You’ve butchered your last lonely fella, and now you’re goin’ to bed like you should have years ago. Sweet dreams.”
Sam stepped back, tossing the can aside, and Dean struck the flame, flicked it inside. The bones lit, flames spreading quickly. They stood there awhile, watching it all turn black. He looked at his brother – orange light flickered across Dean’s face. Reminded him of the night of Dad’s funeral.
“Time to go, Sammy.”
They were quiet in the car. Metallica was playing, but not too loud. Sam was a Load fan, personally, but he’d never say so to Dean. No way, Dean was all about …And Justice For All. Which was kind of ironic, really. Favorite track One. Very ironic.
“When are we gonna be brothers again?”
Leather creaked on leather, Dean shifting in his seat restlessly.
“Come on, now, Sammy. We are brothers. Always have been.”
Sam shook his head, staring out the window at the dark silhouettes of trees and fences, framing well-lit mansions. Los Angeles. They’d hardly seen any of it.
“How can we be brothers if you don’t trust me?”
Dean made a noise, a pissed off grunt, and abruptly pulled the car over. Turned off the engine.
“Sam.”
Sam stared stubbornly out the window. He wasn’t gonna cry over this like a big girl. No way.
“Sammy, come on. This isn’t about trust. I trust you with my life, you know that.”
He turned to face Dean angrily. “How about for once, instead of telling me what it’s not about, tell me what it fucking is. Because all I can come up with is that you don’t trust me anymore. You won’t talk to me – don’t just gimme some line about real men sucking it up, because if you do I swear to god I’ll give you that punch I owe you. I’m part of this too. Mom and Jess died because of me, remember. Dad’s dead – I’m not gonna lose you too. I’m not gonna just watch you turn into some kind of fucking zombie, until one day you fuck up and get killed too.”
Dean looked incredulous. “That’s what you think? That I’m gonna drop dead because I don’t wanna open up to you like Dear Abby?”
“Don’t make fun of this, Dean. This isn’t funny at all. I watch you slipping away from me a little more every job, and it – it breaks my heart.” God, he sounded like such a kid.
There was silence for a moment. Another car rumbled by.
“You’re not losing me.” Dean’s voice was soft. Not mocking him. “I made a promise to Dad that I’d look after you. I’m just tryin’ to do that the best I can. You don’t need my extra shit, Sammy. You’ve got your visions and stuff…you’ve got enough. You don’t need my shit to worry about. It’s not because I don’t trust you. You’re my brother, and I love you.” He paused. “Don’t go spreading that around. I’ve got a reputation to keep up.”
Sam laughed, a sudden burst, and he dragged the back of his hand over one cheek, collecting whatever wetness was there. “Sure.” Tugged on the cord of his hood, fraying the edge a little. “Dean, someone has to look after you, too. Just remember that. And it’s me.”
Dean nodded, thumbs hooked over the bottom of the steering wheel, eyes down. “Yeah, I know. I’ll try and do better.”
Sam nodded too. That was all he could ask for, right? Rome wasn’t built in a day.
“You know, you do a pretty good job with this big brother thing. I remember you used to climb into the crib with me when we were little, look after me during the night.”
Dean sucked in a breath. “You remember that? You were just a baby.”
Sam shrugged. “I used to dream about it sometimes. Still do. Wasn’t sure if it was just a dream though.” He picked at his sweatshirt again. “Glad it was real.”
There was a ghost of a smile on Dean’s face, and then it was gone, replaced with his favorite smart ass expression. “Alright, enough already Samantha. Jesus, I can practically smell the estrogen in here – any second now, and I’m gonna succumb to the urge to pluck my eyebrows and buy a box of Tampax.” Sam laughed again. The tension was gone, for now. The security of a new understanding between them settled warm in his stomach, and Dean gunned the engine and pulled back onto the road.
“Why don’t you pick the music?”
Sam raised his eyebrows, and grabbed for the box of cassettes. Dean stared out the windscreen at the road, a smug, indulgent little smirk on his face. Sam allowed one of his own and he slotted the tape in, and waited for realization to dawn. The first bars cranked out, and Dean lost the smirk, his face screwing up.
“Load? Ugh, Sammy. That just ain’t right.”
Sam sat back in his seat, grinning. “Shotgun picks the music – driver shuts his pie hole.”
Dean groaned. “This is gonna be a long drive. Where are we going again?”
Sam’s grin grew even wider. “New England – Maine. Seems Stephen King wasn’t kidding when he wrote all those horror novels about his home state.”
Dean grit his teeth, and gripped the steering wheel. “Let’s see if I can’t make a cross country record, then.”
The Impala roared ahead, and Sam’s laughter was swallowed by the engine and wailing guitars.
