a/n: so, this is my 3rd fic, yay! anyway, I wanted to try Dean's POV, and see if it would come out decent. Final result? Not sure. At all. So, be kind and tell me what you think, good or bad. Also, lots of made up facts (bad me), and if you haven't noticed I let you in on a secret: I am apparently obssessed with Dean's deal. Not so much him going to hell, but the beautiful angst of the deal itself. And the pain of it coming due. So, yeah. Um, general spoilers for 3.16.
GEN, just so's you know; could have Wincest-y undertones if you squint really hard. Disclaimer: still not mine. i know.
I.
Sammy's a fat little kid, sitting in the baby chair Dad has strapped him into. His pudgy face is turned to Dean, expectant, and Dean is staring at the jar of baby food, then at his brother. "Okay. Hold on." The plastic spoon he dips inside comes up red, smelling of stale spaghetti. "Open," he says, and Sammy obeys, smiling happily as Dean zooms the food toward him. "Yum." And Sam laughs, sauce smeared at the corners of his lips, which he rubs and spreads up along his cheeks.
His Dad is sitting in the other chair at the table, busy with a pile of papers. Dean knows from the muttering that he has no idea what's going on; after Dean had asked to feed Sammy his dinner, Dad had checked out. And that's okay, Dean thinks, he knows what he's doing. It's a little messy, yeah, and Sammy's food smells kinda gross, but he's a big boy, a big brother, and he can't hurt Sammy with a little bit of sauce, that by the looks of it is already starting to crust orange.
And when Sammy starts fidgeting again, Dean dutifully lifts the filled spoon into his brother's waiting mouth. Fresh sauce finds its way onto the little face, but that's alright, too; he'll just use one of the wet napkins on his brother after Sammy's full. He knows, because he's watched his dad do it every night. Spaghetti isn't the only food that gets everywhere--Dean's seen macaroni, mashed peas, and even broccoli and cheese make it into Sammy's hair and down his neck. So, yeah, he has this covered.
Sooner rather than later they run out of the first jar. Sammy's eyes are still trained on Dean and every once in a while he makes a light "ahhh" noise, until Dean picks up the second jar, lifts off the lid his dad preopened, and sticks the spoon in it. The stuff inside is a pale yellow color and smells faintly of overripe bananas. It makes Dean's stomach slightly queasy, but he gamely puts it to his brother's lips. Sammy looks a little unsure, too, but opens up anyway.
There's a second or two when his face is blank; Dean knows that Sammy's just holding the food in his mouth and not working it around, because he's gotten used to seeing his mouth twist and little jaw bulge with the effort. So he knows something's up and eyes him carefully. "Come on, Sammy. It's good."
But that's the trick that spurs his brother into action. His face screws up and turns red, then deciding he doesn't want to have it in his mouth, let alone eat it, spits it all out. Right into Dean's face. "Sammy. Eww."
But his brother is just staring at him, eyes slightly narrowed and mouth puckered. Years later, Dean will say this was his first bitch-face, one that roughly translated into: I can't believe you did that to me.
II. & III.
His dad has just paid for their hotel room, and as they finally pull into a space right outside of a room designated 10 (first floor, son, his dad says, I don't want Sam getting hurt on the stairs. It sucks, because Dean likes rooms on the second floor, but he nods agreement, anyway) by the key gripped in Dean's hand, he knows that their money must be low, because this? Is easily one of the worst hotels they've stayed at. Ever.
But he doesn't say anything. Just gets out and goes to the trunk when his dad says, "Alright, let's get our stuff." Sammy follows behind him, waiting for Dean to pass him a bag. And he does; he picks out a small carry case that always holds their toothbrushes and paste and combs, and puts that in to his brother's stick-like arms. "Here, Sam-sam," he deliberately uses the nickname that Sam himself had used when he first learned to talk. At six, it only vaguely annoys him, but Dean hopes it'll distract Sam from noticing the crap-tastic room they're heading towards. Dad's in a mood, and Dean doesn't know what'll happen if Sammy starts whining again.
For himself, he hefts two of the big duffels. At the lofty age of eleven he isn't nearly as clumsy as his brother, and he acts like the weight of the two bags is nothing as he heads toward the door, dropping one at his feet to stick the key into the knob and push it open. He slips the key ring onto his middle finger and picks the other bag up again, then carefully steps into the room. Even without the lights on he knows it's bad. The stale air reeks of too many people and not enough disinfectant. Once the lights are flipped on it's only gonna get worse, and no amount of big-brother needling is going to keep Sam's unhappiness quiet. Thanks, Dad, he thinks as he plops his burdens by what feels like a rickety table, and goes in search of the light-switch. "Hold on, Sammy," he says as uncertain footsteps herald his brother's arrival into the room. Their dad must still be at the car, because there isn't any more sound after that.
He finds the light switch behind the door and flips it on. It takes a moment, but slowly the bulb over the table flickers to life. The room looks like how it smelled: closed in and old. There is an overlay of dullness that Dean attributes to bad housekeeping or no housekeeping. The beds are stiff-looking and the kitchenette consists of one counter, a sink and a hotplate. Dean's not that hungry, but he really hopes they aren't gonna heat up Sammy's Spaghetti-O's in this place, because he's pretty sure that even sealed food wouldn't be safe in here.
"Dean? Hey, Dean." Sam's voice is tiny, almost like he's afraid to speak up. Which is stupid, because Dean knows that the reason Dad took so long to get back to the Impala was because he was checking the place out, first. "Dean," Sam says again, then a huff of air, "This is gross. Are we really gonna stay here?"
And even though his brother is echoing his exact thoughts, it's Dean's turn to sigh. "Shut up, Sammy. It's not that bad; and, anyway, it's only for a few days. 'Til Dad finishes his work, okay?" Sam's just staring at him, and it dawns on Dean that they've left the door wide open without pouring the salt, without doing any of their usual chores. Dad's gonna have a fit. "Alright, Sam, just strip the bedspreads offa the beds, okay?"
Another loud breath--this time less fear and more annoyed-little-brother, but Sammy goes to yank the starched material off the two twin beds. That's good; Dean knows that his dad hates them using the bedspreads at these cheaper hotels, always tells them they're what carry the most germs. Dean doesn't know if it's true or not, though his dad has no reason to lie, but either way, he figures, it might cheer his dad up that they remembered and did it. Maybe.
Sammy's balled up the two covers as tight he could and stuffed them beside the tall bureau by the time their dad comes to the room. As he enters he carefully steps over the salt lines, and the fact that he didn't look, just assumed it was done makes Dean feel proud. But Sam's bottom lip starts sticking out like he's four years old again when he sees their dad; Dean rolls his eyes and hisses, "Sam."
It's too late, though, 'cause Sam's already whining, "Why can't we go back to Blue Earth, Dad? We don't hafta take anything off the beds there." And Dean's caught, sure thing. Because he knows how Sam feels, but his Dad's having a bad day, and Sam really should know better by now. Shoulda just kept his mouth shut, 'cause, really, what's a few days, anyway?
Their dad just ignores the outburst, unzips the bag full of notebooks and print-outs and sets them on the bed nearest to the door. "Dean, make sure your brother washes up for bed. It's late."
Dean watches as his dad gathers some of the papers, and a blue notebook, then shoves the rest back inside the bag and zips it closed. This means his dad's going out, somewhere, and Dean has no idea when he'll be back, and he has no intention of asking. So he nods, quickly adding a solemn "Yes, sir," but before he's even finished, Dad's gone, and all Dean hears is a quiet snick as the door clicks into place, already locked.
Turning to find Sammy, he hears water running in the bathroom; he really hopes this place is better than it looks, 'cause the last thing they need is Sammy catching something weird from the water. "Sammy, you hungry?"
He takes the muffled nrgh he hears as a no, and untucks the blanket and sheets from the other bed. Even though Dad's gone, they'll share the bed just in case he comes back during the night. Really, Dean feels better knowing Sam'll be close in this place, 'cause if there's bugs--and he's almost certain there is--he's pretty sure it'd only take one to carry Sammy off for a snack.
Sammy comes out of the bathroom, then, in the middle of that thought, and catches sight of Dean's face. "See?" He says, as he gets onto the bed, "You think it sucks here, too."
"Shuddup! Just go to bed." It's all he can say, and he mirrors his brother's actions, climbs up and lays down against his pillow. Go to sleep, and it's that much closer to check out.
There's silence, and Dean cracks open one eye. Sam's still poised on his knees at the edge of the bed, something close to him on the sheets has caught his attention. "Sam. What?"
"There's a stain."
Propping himself on one elbow, he peers at the area Sam's looking over. "Oh. That. Pro'lly pee."
He can't miss it; not with the light that Sammy refuses to turn off on nights like these (we'll leave it on until Dad comes back. Okay?). Dean categorizes this, years later when he's drunk and Sam's gone to California and Dad's just gone, as his baby brother's second most important bitch-face: you are the nastiest person alive.
A few moments later Sammy barrels into him, pressed close to his side and forcing Dean painfully closer toward the night-table separating the two beds. And his expression morphs into something else, frown eased out into a smile that is no less snotty, and Dean knows this is another worth translating from Sammy-speak. Dean finds the equivalent to mean: I am so much smarter than you.
IV.
They're doing a salt and burn on their ghost of the week, some poor fucker who got shot (wrong place, wrong time) walking home from a convenience store. Just another guy who turned serial killer rather than cross-the-fuck-over. And Dean is feeling good; it hadn't taken long to find the name, find the site, and start digging. Their spirit didn't even show up 'til late in the game, and still then only stirred a few leaves. So, yeah, as easy a job as they ever had.
And now that the hard part didn't even rear its ugly head and leave them decapitated, Dean's already thinking about that bar he saw downtown last night. Maybe darts, a few rounds, and a pretty girl and he'll be ready to call it a night. It'd be nice, and maybe Sam'll come around, have fun, and be able to fucking sleep a night through. He doubts that his brother will ever come down from his high horse enough to find out, but what the hell, gotta try. If at first you don't succeed…
When he finally notices something's gone south about the job, he's pouring salt on the guy's bones and wondering how high would the horse have to be so Sam's gigantic feet couldn't reach ground. He never comes to a satisfactory answer, because Mr. Hang-Em-Up-And-Split-Em-Open suddenly kicks it up a notch.
He has about two seconds to notice a fuckin' twister heading up Sam's way, it's either yell and hope to fuck Sam hears him or move, and so he chooses action, because Sam, goddamn Sam, is bending over the pack they brought, digging around like he can't fucking hear or see this thing coming right at him, and that makes Dean wonder exactly how long it's been since his brother actually slept and how this spirit can create honest-to-god natural disasters and they didn't know about it.
But he's over the few headstones between him and his brother, and he has a second to notice Sam mouthing something, and the rhythm--the rhythm--
He hits Sam head on and they tumble down together; Sam's hands are caught between them, and Dean's having a hard time keeping him down, seeing as he's intent on getting back up and presenting a nice, big target to the pissed-off ghost.
"Dean! Dean! Get the fuck off me, man," Sam's screaming, and shoving as best he can, bent and twisted under Dean as he is. "Fuck, I almost had it." But the wind's dying down, and the snapped tree limbs (hugefuckhuge) have settled, and it seems safe again.
He graciously rolls off, not really expecting thanks, but definitely not expecting Sam's next reaction.
"Seriously, Dean, what the hell was that? Did you honestly think I didn't see it coming? What were you thinking?"
Sam's up, towering over him, and all he sees in his brother's green eyes is fury. "Dude, I didn't know! The way you've been acting lately, I wouldn't surprised if you were in fucking la-la land or angsting over dead puppies. How the hell am I supposed to keep track of when you're with it or fuckin' playing emo-boy?" He sits up, dirt is pressed into his back, and he shifts his shoulders trying to dislodge his shirt, trying to get away from the wet/cold of it. "If you could just be here I wouldn't have to do this shit, Sam. Ever think of that?"
"Whatever, man. We're gonna have to come back tomorrow and finish; that twister took out the gas can and matches, and if anyone saw that thing, they might be coming down here to investigate." With that, Sam starts gathering what he can of their scattered belongings, leaving Dean sitting in the grass feeling like shit.
"Yeah, let's get a move on, then," is all he can think to say. But as they're headed back, and he switches his plans to figuring out how a spirit, a freakin' spirit made a twister, he catches Sam glaring at him.
Dean thinks if he looked any more constipated he'd keel over, but he knows this is a Face, the bitchiest yet, and with a snarl he translates it to: I am a PMSing freak and will kill you with my brain if you ever do that again.
V.
It's quick, he thinks. By the time they come face-to-face with Lilith he knows how it's all gonna end. His bill's coming due, and he didn't lie when he said he'd pay rather than live in a world without Sam in it. It's still true, it's still the most fundamental part of who he is.
But being paralyzed, seeing his brother helpless against that wall, puts a different spin on things. Makes him more desperate than he's ever been, more furious because if that bitch kills Sammy after this, when all Sam wanted was to save him…
The sound of scratching comes first, then the growling and snapping. He knows, he knows what's gonna happen, and as the door is flung open by whatever psychic mojo the demon has, he shuts his eyes. He doesn't need to see them coming; he'll feel them in a minute.
He hears Sam's scream, hears "NO! Nonononono--" as he's dragged from the table and his chest is filled with a crushing weight, but it's that sound that seems to go on forever, echoing in his ears even after Sammy must've stopped saying anything at all.
He can barely turn his head, but he does--gathers the strength from godknowswhere and opens his eyes to Sammy's face. He sees grief and horror and pain; sees the utter hopelessness that he knows means Sam's thinking he's failed Dean. But Dean always knew Sam couldn't help, it wasn't his bed to lie in.
And in the long seconds between the first wave of pain and oblivion, he thinks Sammy, Sammy.
fin
a/n 2: So, the title was taken from Snow Patrol's album, specifically the second song on it ("Hands Open"). The verse I took it from just seemed to fit Dean so well; so I thought I would include it: It's hard to argue when/you won't stop making sense/my tongue still misbehaves/and it keeps digging my own grave. See?