Author Notes: I'm ba-ack. This was my NaNoWriMo project, built, as has become something of the norm, upon a pile of prompts and story requirements from the brilliant - though somewhat odd - mind of Nova42. Prompts will be revealed at the end of the story, which should be eight chapters in total, unless these characters decide to do something that I don't know about and didn't previous approve as I finish up the last few chapters.

Set S3 between "A Very Supernatural Christmas" and "Malleus Maleficarum." Whump, banter, feels, and all sorts of bad language. Not nearly as much dialogue or action as is usually seen in one of my stories, as this became very much about character exploration as the boys draw closer to Dean's deal coming due.

Maelstrom

Chapter One

January 24, 2008

The one – and goddamn ONLY, he supplements with a curled lip – thing Sam's got going for him right now is that Dean's pretty sure the big oaf didn't mean to knock him out. What he's been able to glean from his brother over the past few days has been comparable to raw data, and he's not entirely positive of the intention behind that last hit, but he's pretty sure Sam wasn't trying to turn the lights out. Or maybe he's just hoping that was the case. Hurt like hell, either way.

Dean's got a hard head and he knows he's no one to be throwing rocks from a glass house at the moment, but Sammy hasn't been thinkin' straight since they arrived at the hotel, and he certainly wasn't looking to be gentle. Little brother's got fucking tree trunks for arms and there was a feral, unplanned and uncontrolled desperation in the attack that put him here.

He's not lookin' to make excuses or anything, but he'd taken a couple of hits already, and a couple of knuckles belted with that kind of force across the soft, fleshy part of the temple and a man twice his size would have gone down just as easy. The kid got in one good swipe, and at a bad angle, to boot.

Yeah. That's what's got Dean in this paddleless shit creek of a situation. Geometry.

Get it together, Winchester, Dean berates himself. He hasn't tried to move much yet, because his tired body is kinda liking this whole not-being-vertical thing, limbs feeling wooden and heavy and impossible to shift if he tried. He settles for squinting, for now, and allows his stubborn eyes to adjust to the dim, blurry room around him. Maybe a room, maybe not, maybe a…s'that tile? Tile covered in equal parts grime and bright blue graffiti.

Goddamnit.

He's in the pool. Sammy put him in the fucking pool. Or, what used to be the pool and is now a giant filthy pit in what a small brass plaque announced as the Natatorium. The deep end, too, Dean guesses, breath fogging in front of his frozen face as he leans his head back in an effort to determine how high the slime-coated tiling stretches. DEEP END, the black-on-white tiles scream redundantly from above his head.

The air is frigid, and littered with swirling particles of dust that are visible in the beams of moonlight bouncing from fresh snowbanks outside and filtering through the paint-covered windowpanes. Washes of dim orange and yellow light reflect off of the tiles, and spotty shadows drop from the ceiling as the snow continues to fall outside the building. It kind of feels like he woke up in the last act of a goddamn horror movie.

And maybe Dean's not thinking all that straight, either. It wasn't exactly sleep, and it was pretty damn far from being rest, but the amount of time he's spent unconscious has all the same managed to put a miniscule dent in the fug that's enveloped his own confused and restless brain the past couple of days. Turns out, it's exhaustive work, intuiting every damn emotion that passes through your Sasquatch brother's giant head. Turns out, sleep tends to elude you when you're struggling to isolate what feelings are truly yours, and what you're somehow sensing from a big, sulky asshat who spits out moods like an ATM ejects bills.

Dean's still a big brother before anything else, before utterly screwed, before inevitably Hellbound, and he hopes Sam didn't pick up on that bit of resentment that he's just allowed to slip out, wherever the kid may be. He swallows against the nausea that's suddenly joined the party that his pounding, rung skull has had raging like unchaperoned teenagers since he came to a few minutes ago. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his lips together, drawing slow, deliberate inhalations through his nose, steadying the turbulence inside and giving his dark surroundings a moment to politely cease their incessant spinning. Last thing he needs is to start puking on himself.

His stomach mercifully settles and Dean next forces aside the demanding, steady thrumof pulsing pain in the side of his probably bleeding head and parts his lips to suck in a single long breath, attempting to allow a fresh flush of oxygen to kick start his brain into putting together some sort of plan or exit strategy here. The air that hits the back of his throat is like ice, causing him to cough, and that's when he realizes he's shivering.

Because, fuck, if it isn't cold as balls in here. There's something impressive to be discerned from Sam's plan, Dean figures, if he really tries to find it. The Natatorium is at the other end of the main building of the hotel, about as far from the lobby they've been squatting and hunting in as you can get without actually being outside. So he also maybe owes the kid a thanks for deeming this far enough to be FAR ENOUGH and not dragging him out to bury in a snowdrift. He's not gonna make his little brother bury him more than the once. Metaphorically speaking, of course, because he's pretty sure he remembers a blurry and heavily beer-laden conversation regarding that having already taken place.

Don't think about that now, asshole. That's not something Dean needs rattling around in Sam's head. Wherever he is, Dean can tell his brother is panicked and scared and…remorseful? Good. Anyway, the last thing he needs to round out this clusterfuck is the impression that Dean is sitting here feeling sorry for himself and thinking about dying. Not today.

Another deep, steadying inhale also reveals the presence of an uncomfortable band of pressure across his chest, and Dean drops his head to stare dumbly at the coil of rope there. He hasn't exactly tried to stand or anything, but he still isn't quite sure how he hadn't yet noticed he's tied to – come ON, Sammy – one of the grimy deck chairs he'd seen discarded here at the bottom of the shallow end on their initial sweep of the grounds. And now, he figures, it's well-past time he took full stock of this situation he's in here. The twisted rope is that nauseating shade of amber that means it was probably once white, and while Dean would like very much to not think about what substances have discolored the nylon so, he can fairly easily deduce that his restraint was probably once a lane marker. Considering he's in the pool and all.

All right. So far we've got head injury, cold, and tied up. I'll take Pretty Well Screwed for four hundred, Alex. And that's not even taking into account the pitiful fact he has no idea where Sam is, or what condition he might be in. Probably not great.

Probably freaking out – and there's really no probably needed there. Sam's for sure freaking out; Dean can feel it, in the tickle of sweat breaking out at his hairline and the quickening of his own pulse.

He really gives moving a try for the first time, wriggles his numb ass against the frozen plastic bands of the chair. With a scrape of rusted metal and without much ceremony, Dean ends up tipping himself right over onto the ice-slicked tiles beneath. Instinct and reflex order his arms to soften the impact, but they're unresponsive, the lazy bitches, and further restrained somewhere behind him. His cheek bounces off of the hard ground as the chair follows his trajectory and lands partly on top of him with a thud and a clatter.

Thinking first, smooth, and then, OW, Dean sends his tongue scouting for loose teeth while he tries to get his sore as shit arms to do anything. And he'd really settle for anything at this point. He gets a bit of feeling back in the form of pins and needles but the limbs seem to be stubbornly set on this whole not budging thing, and there's a familiar pinch to accompany the icy sensation locked around his wrists. He squints as he rotates cold hands, lightbulb clicking on. Because the rope and the fact you knocked me the fuck out wasn't enough, Sammy… Nope, Sam's got him cuffed to the sides of the chair, too.

As soon as they're both a little less crazy and connected in the heads, and maybe after Dean manages some sleep not given the assist by his brother punching his head into a wall, oh, Sam's gonna be doing dinner runs and laundry duty for a damn long time. For weeks. Maybe until the Hellhounds come home.

Dean attempts to flip the lounging beach chair back into its rightful, upright position – and maybe get his face off of the floor before he gets stuck this way – but to no avail. Without his hands he can't find the necessary leverage, so he finds the least agonizing twist on his arms and pulls his cheek cautiously from the floor without leaving any skin behind on the tile – he's pretty sure – and tilts his aching head up to stare uselessly and furiously at the ceiling.

There's a steady drip of water splatting into a puddle somewhere behind Dean's left ear, from a damaged and leaky pipe. He listens to the splat-splat for a moment, taking some momentary comfort in the fact it doesn't seem to actually be freezing, before rolling his eyes and laying his head back against the grody bottom of the pool.

Splat.

Splat.

And now I have to piss. Awesome.

Dean opens his mouth to shout for his idiot brother but catches himself before he looses so much as a pathetic squeak. There is still the matter of the malevolent spirit haunting this massive hotel, and he's pretty much a sitting duck at the moment. But there's also Bobby somewhere in the building, and he's no doubt wondering where the hell Dean's gone off to. There's also the blizzard outside the hotel, showing no signs of slowing down and the very real threat of hypothermia if he can't get his ass off of these chilly tiles.

One problem at a time, dude, Dean tells himself, teeth chattering. And that's good, he remembers. Chattering teeth is good. Shivering is good. It's when the shivering stops that you're in trouble. If the drippy pipe stops splat-spatting, that's when he's in trouble. If Sammy's still completely off his rocker and decides he was trying to knock Dean the fuck out, that's trouble.

Dean's ears strain to catch the sound of the water as he throws another mostly numb and incredibly half-assed attempt at dislodging the rope securing his upper arms. With a snort that might graze the very, very edge of impressed, he finds no give in the bindings. Nice job, Sam. All those years spent spitting in the face of John Winchester's approval, the son of a bitch sure would have made the old man grinning ear to ear with these knots he's used to truss up his brother.

And it's all for naught, because whatever Sam's Hail Mary heave of a plan might have been here, it doesn't seem to have worked. Wherever he may be in the sprawling, still-haunted resort, Dean can sense his brother's panic and desperation just as when they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. And above all else, his stalwart anger, a seemingly ever-present fixture, somehow inexplicably kept separate in Dean's mind from his own unease and pain, but sending his pulse jumping violently all the same.

Something's gonna die. Whatever it is that caused this to happen, this Wonder Twin Mind Swap bullshit that's been screwing with them for days. Oh, Dean's gonna take pieces out of someone.

As soon as he gets moving, that is.

Let's go down the list here, one more time. Alone, knocked in the head, cuffed to a chair, and freezing. You get all that, Sammy?

"Well," Dean mutters aloud against a soundtrack of his own relentlessly chattering teeth, the dripping pipes, the creaking, shifting beams overhead and the swirling, howling winds of the raging snowstorm outside. His voice echoes and carries in the pit, the sound of it coming back to his ears deep and not a little hopeless. "Happy birthday to me."

Three days earlier

Sam would really, really appreciate it if his brother would stop distracting spirits and monsters by allowing them to beat him about the head and back with floors and walls and the like. It would go far in bringing a little sunshine back into his life if Dean would stop volunteering to be the party piñata. But if he's taking a hit meant for Sam, or one that could in any way miss its intended target and end up even remotely in the vicinity of Sam, then Dean makes that executive decision to step into the line of fire, considers the play well-called and the day well-lived.

And that right there is pretty much the reason they're in this entire mess. Or, the general mess of the clock looming over their heads, steadily ticking down, anyway.

This specific mess, the one with the Rawhead in the basement in Kettering, Ohio…this mess is just because Dean can't seem to stop hunting. Hunting with a violent, single-minded focus that reminds Sam too much of Dad in every way that twists his stomach into familiar and painful knots. Whether to pass the time that's already passing much too quickly, that hourglass pouring a stream of sand that Sam is powerless to stop, or simply to distract his little brother from valiantly digging into whatever lore or resource he can get his hands on to find some way to get Dean out of this deal. To distract Sam from – God forbid – engaging in some kind of serious and meaningful conversation in what is looking to be their last days together. Or maybe it's simply to distract himself, to keep it from being real. A sort of out of sight, out of mind attitude regarding the approaching Hellhounds.

Whatever Dean's intention, they haven't really had a day off from hunting since Christmas. Since Dean let his guard down and really, finally acknowledged that his given time was winding down, making it all the more real and horrible for Sam. Sam's lived his whole life taking his cues from his big brother, and until Dean blinks, the danger isn't real. Something about Christmas night made the danger real for Sam.

And Dean knew it, too. Woke the next morning with a drawn, dark look about him, like he'd completely shut it down. Which, it turns out, is exactly what he did. That dark look hasn't gone away, and they haven't had another moment like that in damn near a month now. Dean won't allow it. He doesn't want to talk, or share, or entertain any type of notion that he isn't mere months, weeks, away from hitting the wall and the wall hitting back. He just wants to leave one more bloody, violent mark on the world before he leaves it. He wants to hunt, which is somehow less dangerous than just talking, in the idiot's mind.

It's mostly hauntings Dean's been sniffing out, quick in-and-out jobs all across the country; a few spooks lingering in barns in the shorn cornfields of Midwest or glittery high-rises in the cities, and one particularly nasty poltergeist that had been interested in using their bodies for a little unscheduled demolition for the offended homeowners, who'd been willing to pay for the pest removal until seeing the state of their home after. A nest of vamps in Denver, a lone werewolf in Boise and a handful of demons making all sorts of noise across the Plains, feisty ones who'd wrestled their way repressed and antsy out of the pit through the Devil's Gates.

Despite the fact they've both been more or less dead somewhat recently – Sam more and Dean only slightly less – they still have some advantage of youth on their side, and Dean's rarely required more than two hours of sleep and the biggest coffee he can find to get the day started anew. But without taking the breaks they need to recover, even bruises are beginning to take a toll, and every job leaves them sore and weary and just a step slower than the last job. From the time Dean threw the Impala into 'park' and made his way up to the house with raccoon eyes and just enough of a limp to notice, Sam had his fair share of doubts that his brother was going have enough left in the tank to provide the distraction necessary to take this creature down. Despite his seemingly endless supply of swagger and jokes to the contrary, he's still just as human as the rest of them.

The Rawhead's big and strong and fast, but that's nothing they didn't know going in. They've done this before, and that's exactly why Dean had gotten it into his head that he needed to run interference when they got inside, draw it out into the open and get Sam a good shot. Gotten it into his head that he's expendable, when he's anything but. When in actuality, Sam doesn't know what the hell he's going to be expected to do without his big brother behind the wheel or watching his six, and his big brother doesn't seem to care. Despite knowing exactly what he was saddling Sam with, from first-hand experience that will earn Sam a fist in the eye to bring up, Dean didn't give the deal a second thought. Because Dean is the definition of impulsive, and consequence isn't a word that's in his vocabulary.

Dean is all about instant gratification, and that applies very much to this deal he's made. Sam's alive, and that makes Dean happy. To hell with anything else.

Literally.

Sam feels guilt over being so mad at his brother, sure, an oppressing, suffocating smash of it, but that doesn't make the anger go away. Not entirely.

Dean's pretty damn quick but he's missing that last step, the one that gives him his oomph, and the Rawhead gets him around the neck in near-record time. It's got an arm like a major league starting pitcher, and Dean flies through the air at a remarkable speed, hits the cement slab with an impressive thwack-crack of spine and skull and crumbles at the base of the wall into a groaning pile of loose, sluggish limbs.

Son of a bitch, Sam curses silently from the shadows. Thing's out in the open, just as planned, and as he finally has a clear shot to take, he doesn't quite know whether his thought is directed at the monster or his mostly unconscious and constantly, needlessly self-sacrificing brother.

He watches with a mere moment's satisfaction as the Rawhead goes down in a brilliant spark of electricity that illuminates every dark corner of the basement, then hastily stuffs the spent taser into the back pocket of his jeans. Dean's let countless broken fingers and severe-enough lacerations go unattended, but God forbid they leave a weapon behind. Because he has Dad's prioritization skills drilled into his thick skull, and hasn't had enough time on his own as a man to recalibrate such idiotic notions.

And he isn't going to get that time.

Sam forces the thought away and swallows with some degree of difficulty. He crosses the drippy cellar to where the fallen Dean is struggling to find his sea legs and stoops to grip the martyr under the arm, hauling him forcefully but carefully vertical. Well, just about vertical. "Up and at 'em, Shmucky McBait," he encourages, mildly concerned but with the expected amount of sibling bite.

Dean squints at him as he staggers upright and leans on a hand flattened against the damp concrete wall. His face looks gray and his eyes are bright, not entirely focused. "Huh?"

When is one hit gonna be one hit too many? Sam had hoped to never find out. "Nothing," Sam says with a sigh. His own eyes go to work roaming in a quick evaluation, checking for visible injuries. Of course, with Dean, it's always what you can't see that becomes the problem. "You good?"

"Mmmm. Fantastic." But Dean's forehead dips to join his palm against the wall, in obvious juxtaposition to his bullshit-laden words.

Sam identifies sweat and dirt but nothing that appears to be blood on Dean's face or in his hair, but he's sure there's a nasty bump to be found if he really pushes the issue like he should. But Winchesters aren't traditionally known for doing what they should. He nods, but doesn't yet release the hold he has on his brother's jacket sleeve. "Do I need to make you walk a straight line or anything?" Give me something, Dean. Be HUMAN, just for one damn minute.

Dean rolls his head slowly against the wall and shoves off with a groan and an eye roll that doesn't appear to feel like the great idea he'd thought it would be. He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead and, under his own ebbing steam, weaves a preeetty straight line for the stairs.

Sam follows one step behind. There, as always, to catch him if he falls.

They get into something of a heated argument back at the car, or a tepid one, at least. In any case, Dean puts up a fight, and it feels good just to get him to exhibit any kind of emotion, even if it's nothing more than some tired attempt at annoyance, and even if it's part of a verbal contest Sam raised about something as benign as allowing Dean behind the wheel. Dean's stubborn as a mule on a good day, and he puts forth enough of a fight that they resort to Rock, Paper, Scissors to settle this, and Sam can only shake his head with affection, because it was Dean's idea. But he finds himself hesitating before he shoots, and he ends up throwing paper. Because son of a bitch if the guy doesn't deserve to put something in the win column.

It's kind of sad, the little things that bring this smile to the jackass's face. He chomps at Sam's flattened palm with his index and middle fingers and smirks like he just collected the winnings on a 10-1 bet from a busty Vegas casino cashier. If he hadn't been so recently dented in the skull, it'd have been obvious Sam threw this one to him, but as it is, Dean drops slowly and stiffly behind the wheel, his crossroads deal and these newest bruises riding bitch between them.

They don't drive for long, which might actually be a contender for Understatement of the Century. Sam stays silent but raises his eyebrows at his brother as they rumble away from the interstate before even really clearing the city limits, pulling into the lot of a fill-up joint on the corner of a sparsely populated exit ramp.

"My baby needs gassed up," Dean explains flatly as he pulls the Impala to a stop at one of the pumps, lest Sam think he might just need to take a break or, God forbid, relinquish driving detail for the next hundred or so miles, realizing just how much concentration and hand-eye coordination is required to maneuver a vehicle with such a horrible turning radius.

Yeah, and so do you. But Sam bites his tongue and keeps his commentary to himself, because Dean's made it perfectly clear over the past several months that as long as he's around, he'll be making the decisions, be it where they eat or when they sleep or what they kill or when they stop. Who lives, and who dies.

Dean pushes the door open with its usual unoiled creak but is slow to extricate himself from the car, seemingly giving in to his stiff muscles and otherwise weary body as he lays his head back against the seat instead.

"Dean," Sam prods gently.

"Yup." Dean's eyes fly open as he grips the handle of the door. He heaves himself out onto the cracked pavement of the gas station's lot with a grunt of general discomfort, muttering an additional curse as his boot lands in a puddle of equal parts rainwater and oil.

They live a life that's kept mostly to shadows that soften, hide, and conceal, and when Dean passes under the harsh, unforgiving glare of florescent soffit lighting on his way into the convenience mart, and in contrast to the inky blackness of the dead of night that surrounds them, Sam is taken aback by the sight of his brother's pale and battered face.

It's been painfully obviously that Dean's been throwing himself into each job like he's looking to make it his last, like he'll be damned before he gives those Hellhounds the satisfaction, and Sam knows he shouldn't be shocked by the sight of damage piling on. The bright and buzzy lighting surely isn't doing Dean any favors, the extensive layering of scrapes and marks on his cheekbones and jawline are exacerbated by the stark illumination. But they've been there, stacking and spreading and changing colors for weeks, and Sam tries to bring forth an image of Dean grinning, carefree and unmarred, and realizes in the moment that he's maybe managed to forget what his brother's face looks like without bruises.

The bruises don't seem to hold much weight on his personality, as Dean pauses on the threshold, holding open the stainless steel-framed door to the mart. He purses his lips and summons Sam with a sharp whistle. "Anytime you're ready, Cupcake."

Sam throws open his own door, and hates how easily he smiles at the crack from his brother.

Once inside the otherwise empty gas station, there's evidence to be found that they might actually, mercifully be nesting in town for a few days, or at least one night, as Dean detours from the counter and snakes his way slowly through the aisles, gathering an assortment of items into his arms in the way of Winchester grocery shopping. Sports drinks, chips, two six-packs of whatever beer was behind the first cooler door he happened to pull open. They each have their preferences for taste, but it usually comes down to whatever gets the job done. Especially these days. It's been damn near impossible for Sam to have missed the way Dean needs a little alcoholic assistance in getting anything resembling sleep at night.

He leans an elbow on the counter and waits as Dean lastly drags a pair of plastic quarts of motor oil from a nearby rack. Fuel for me and fuel for my baby. Sam frowns. "Dean, I'm pretty sure I saw some oil in the trunk."

Dean shakes his head as he approaches with loaded arms, wincing a bit. "No, I'm out."

"No, there was a bottle of motor oil back there."

Dean drops his load to clatter across the cracked plastic counter mat, drawing a curled lip from the skinny clerk. It might actually be the state of his face more than it is his lack of manners. In any case, he pays the guy no mind, turning his attention to Sam. "First of all, seriously, dude, it hurts my own manhood to hear you say 'bottle of motor oil.'"

"Quart," Sam allows with a sigh, not that he feels a need to prove himself.

Dean rolls his eyes at the clerk in some show of unreturned solidarity, tugging his wallet free of his back pocket. "And forty on pump seven."

"Seven's out of order," the attendant replies, sounding over-proportionately bored. "There's a sign."

"Whatever," Dean sighs, shooting a glance out the window at where the Impala waits for them. "Eight, then. Eight workin'?"

"Yeah."

"Yahtzee." Looking at least as tired as he sounds, Dean slaps a handful of wrinkled bills onto the counter.

Sam's phone rings as Dean's replacing the gas nozzle, and he feels a conflict of emotions when he sees it's Bobby calling. As great as it is to hear from the man, especially during these really rough days, he's usually calling about a job, because he doesn't seem to know any better than Sam how not to give Dean whatever he wants right now.

Dean's got a sickeningly accurate sense about these things, and he perks up as he swipes his hands along his jeans and drags the driver's side door open once more. "S'that Bobby?"

"Yeah." Which means Sam's going to have to put this call on speakerphone. Which means if Bobby is calling about job, there'll be no getting out of it, because Dean won't say no. He drops onto the bench and hits all of the obligatory buttons, holding the cell aloft between them. "Hey, Bobby."

"Sam."

It's a simple greeting, but there are more figurative volumes in that single word than there are actual tomes in Bobby's home. And that's saying something. Are you okay? Is your brother there? Is he okay? Can that jackass hear me? Do you need me there?

"How's it goin'?" Sam asks lamely, answering every question in tone and inflection, even if he doesn't do so with his words.

"You know me. Always manage to find ways to keep busy. Where you boys at?"

"Um…" Dean yanks the receipt for the snacks, oil, and gas from Sam's hand. He leans into the light, cramming his shoulders against the window of the door, and squints at the tiny print on the small slip of paper. "Kettering, Ohio. Wherever that is."

"How do you not know where we are?" Sam shakes his head incredulously. "You drove us here."

"That's close enough. When you two're done squawkin', you think you can meet me in Liberty, New York?"

"What's in Liberty, New York?" Dean asks, like that matters. He's already got the keys in a tight grip, inching toward the ignition.

"A job, and an old man askin' for a hand with it. That enough for you?"

Dean recoils from Bobby's tone, that familiar bark, a patented mix of snark and affection. Or maybe Dean just has that effect on most people. "We can be there in…"

Sam watches with a small hint of near-forgotten amusement as his brother digs into his internal atlas and struggles to figure the mileage between here and Liberty from memory.

"Wait, gimme a reference point," Dean says finally, conceding defeat and digging fingertips into his forehead, against the headache his attempt at mental math has surely ratcheted up. There's a smear there below his hairline, from where he'd leaned his head against the basement wall, making the pallor of the skin around the mark glow all the more ghostly.

Dean literally needs another hunt right now like he needs a hole in the head. "We can be there by tomorrow night, Bobby," Sam offers, hoping the older hunter takes the hint.

He does, because the two of them are both merely existing in this same time zone, Dean Hell Time, and Bobby knows he's co-piloting here. He might give Dean whatever the asshole wants, but he'll still do it on Sam's terms. "Good enough for me."

Good man, Bobby. Sam nods to himself. "All right, see you then."

Dean is staring at him long after the phone beeps and signals the call has been disconnected.

"What?" Sam asks, feigning poor ignorance. "You really gonna tell me that you'd rather drive through the night than sleep in a bed?"

"I'm not sayin' that." Dean tears his eyes away, twisting the key in the ignition. "You gonna start ordering for me, too? Cuttin' up my food so I don't choke?"

Sam swallows, feeling all of the nervous, angry ticks of the muscles in his face. "Yeah," he answers honestly. "Yeah, if I have to."

Dean's no lightweight, but then again, he hasn't really been looking to drink lightly. The amicable nights of two rounds of beers and darts in shady bars are so far behind them, Sam can hardly drum up the memory.

Sam had longed for a night to pull over and rest, a real bed instead of the stiff and cold backseat of the Impala, but not at this cost. He hasn't forcefully taken an unfinished drink from his brother since they were much, much younger though Dean was somehow twice the idiot he is now, but his fingers are twitching in the direction of the piling bottles with varying levels of anxiety and responsibility as they stack up, as Dean grows slurrier and more glassy-eyed by the moment. By the moment and by the beer, and those have been taken down at such a speed it almost seems like this is what he wanted. Something to dull the razor's edge of the words dripping slowly from his tongue.

Inevitability isn't an idea the Winchesters tend to entertain, because there's always a move to be made. Or, at least there was for Sam. For Dad. But they're the ones who run when they need it, who escape when everything gets to be too damned much, and maybe their choices have always left Dean dealing with the inevitable. With the aftermath. And if this is what it feels like to be in that position, to have no control, to have to just…sit here and let the hand play out…Sam doesn't know how Dean did it for all of those years. No question about it, he's the strongest of them.

On the table, the empty bottles frame an open, half-full and long-cold pizza box that signifies another colossal failure to share something resembling a normal meal. They're running out of opportunities to do so, but it seems that Dean didn't see much point in downing slices of carb-loaded cheesy and meaty goodness when he was looking to get drunk, to get shit-faced,and Sam lost his own appetite somewhere around the time his brother started talking about dying.

Dean's gone to a place in his head that's morbid as hell, and he'd resigned himself to the beer only because the gas station didn't stock anything stronger, because whiskey is the habit he'd picked up from Dad even after Dad was gone and is the warm milk that Dean now turns to, to get anything resembling sleep at night. But, as it turns out, he wasn't lookin' to sleep, either. Turns out that after nearly a month of bullshit he's finally, maybe regrettably, ready to try talking again.

And he's talking about dying. And maybe worse, about what Sam's supposed to do after.

"You're gonna hafta do it, Sammy," Dean says for maybe the fifth time, softly and deeply like a cat's purr. Stretching out the vowels and losing a few of the distinguishing consonants to the alcohol he's put down, as he stares at a candle burning in the window of a small home across the street.

They're too far away for the flame to actually be reflecting in his green, bright eyes, but Sam can see the distant fire there all the same. Can see the thought the gruesome son of a bitch is thinking. He always sees the thought, always thinks it for himself, and he doesn't have much need for the words.

That night, in the farthest corner of Bobby's expansive property…Sam knew Dad was dead but all the same, he didn't really know it until Dean had lit that first log. Knew it then because, after that, there's just no coming back. Not after the fire. That's why they have them. Things are gone after they burn. People are gone. Mom, Jess, and Dad.

Sam wants to scream out for the cruel happenstance of it all, as though this entire tableau of awfulness was brought about simply because some lazy asshole in Ohio couldn't be bothered to take their Christmas decorations down in a reasonable amount of time, and landed him in this inevitable and inescapable moment of time. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't have a clue how to derail this train, and he'll be damned if he allows himself to stand there in the middle of the tracks as it barrels towards him.

He doesn't do inevitable.

Dean doesn't seem to notice or care that Sam has yet to speak, or maybe he cares exactly as much to hear Sam's input as he ever has. If he'd asked for his little brother's opinion, his little brother would never had allowed him to put himself in this position. Would never have allowed Dean to put a value on his life and barter it away as something worth less than Sam's own.

Dean's fingers blindly grope the tabletop for liquid relief, for a fresh beer to soothe or silence the thoughts he won't dare give voice to. Comparatively, this is small ball, and Sam knows that. There're much, much worse things to come, for both of them. Things that are inevitable. This night might suck out loud, but with some graceful maneuvering, he can manage it.

"Dean." Sam finally reaches that place inside where he can no longer bite his tongue, and he chastises his brother quietly from the other side of the table. Chastises Dean for the drinking and the wanting more and for the words he's allowed to slip loose, though Sam knows he's about the last person on the planet to be critical of the man right now. For anything. Or maybe he's the only one who can do so.

"Gonna hafta…" Dean starts again, then swallows audibly over the lump in his throat as he flattens his palm against the surface of the table.

Sam feels the familiar fire of defiance rise up from his belly, bites down hard against the feeling and the words. Not so easy to say it, huh, Dean?

"S'the only way to be sure, Sammy," Dean drops, quieter now, but all the more heavy. "You know it is."

Sam hasn't yet put up any kind of argument, but Dean doesn't seem to need any opposition to justify the fight in his voice. The fight that's always in his voice. The fight that's always in him. But he's going to give in to the terms of this deal; that's the one thing he won't fight, and won't allow Sam to fight for him. Dean's slowly slumping over the table as his eyelids grow heavier, forearms sliding across the chipped laminate tabletop and nudging the pizza box, pushing a line of empty bottles precariously close to the edge. Inches away from leaving Sam another mess to clean up.

"Gonna hafta make sure…"

Make sure what, Dean? It's the anger building again now, pure and steady and born from desperation and the hollow, ravenous ache inside Sam that misses his brother already, even when he's still sitting right across from him.

Do it. Say it.

Tell me to burn your body.

Just like Dad. Because that's the way they were taught. That's what they're supposed to do. To make sure he has no physical body on this earth to cling to. To make sure that he doesn't come back.

But Dean won't say it, and Sam would do anything to stop this from coming to pass. He'd sell his own soul, would sign his name with gusto and in blood on the dotted line to keep his brother here.

It's something he keeps telling himself, but it's weaker a statement each time it's repeated, and is starting to feel more like wishful thinking or obligation than it does certainty of conviction. There's nothing he CAN do, no way to offer his own soul. No one would take it if he tried, and Dean hadn't left a loophole, hadn't given Sam a chance the same way he hadn't given him a choice.

Sam's had two beers, himself, and that's a nice start but it's not nearly enough to participate fully in such a conversation. Not nearly enough to dull the furious roar pounding in tandem behind his eyes and ribcage. There's still one bottle between them that's near-about half full, and he drags it away from its fallen comrades and into his own possession for a reason that's yet to be determined. Drink it himself or pour it down the drain. Give in, or put up a fight. Some days it's hard to tell which is which. Like if Dean dies, is that giving in, or is it fighting?

Dean makes a protesting noise as the glass base of the bottle scrapes noisily across the surface of the table. He hits a nasal note that's a little high for his own liking, between the copious amounts of alcohol and the wall that left that mark on his temple. He screws up his nose, dropping his head and grinding a few knuckles against the side of his sore head. Which all seems a little counterproductive to Sam, who still has yet to determine whether he wants to pat Dean on the shoulder or hit him over the head with the bottle clutched between his fingers.

"Can't just…" Dean finally goes on slowly, voice muffled by his hands but undeterred by the alcohol or the pounding headache, one or both of which has gone to serious work stealing his color and equilibrium as he begins to sway in his chair.

He's pale as virgin snow as he suddenly pushes himself upright from the table and stumbles a few steps into the cold glass of the picture window behind Sam. Sam twists in his chair and swallows as he watches his inebriated brother press his palms against the windowpane and take a deep breath. All points of contact on the glass bring a plume of fog spreading across the cool surface as he stares at that damned candle flame across the way. It's not even real; it's plastic, a lightbulb. Tacky decoration. "Can't just bury me, Sammy. S'not gonna be enough."

It's the closest he's come to actually saying what Sam already knew his brother was thinking, and he sucks in a breath that brings a sharp pain to his chest. He shakes his head, and scans the room, doing a quick inventory of what they've got left. Maybe no more than a single beer or two in the cooler because, as previously established, Dean is no lightweight. At this rate and without the assist, there won't be more than guilt to be found when Sam finally closes his eyes tonight. "I don't think you understand what you're asking of me, Dean."

The sound Dean makes might almost be a laugh, if he's still capable of such things. "I don't think I'm askin.'" Said like he honestly doesn't know how to distinguish a plea from a demand anymore, or how either one should sound slipping off the end of his tongue. He doesn't have plans or forethought, only reactions. Only instinct.

Sam frowns, or he thinks he does. At the very least, his face shifts into an expression that feels both saddened and disapproving, and either would work, given the circumstances. "Dean…"

Dean turns away from the window and faces Sam, sagging against the wall. There's nothing but stubbornness of will and muscle keeping him upright anymore, and it doesn't seem as though he'll be that way for much longer. It also seems like he's not yet said all he has to say, and Sam somehow both wants to hear it and yet wants to clamp his hand over his brother's mouth. This is a rare glimpse into the inner workings, but that hardly ever leads to something good.

"If it was anyone else," Dean says, words sliding out like soft butter melting on a cast iron skillet, "what would you do?" Asked with such complete clarity of thought and want of answer, it throws Sam for a loop.

"You're not – " Sam breaks off, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard. A small bit of warm blood wells in his mouth and for a long moment, the only sound in the motel room is the long, muted blare of a train's horn a few roads over, warning drivers to stay clear of the tracks. This time Sam ignores the warning, stepping forcefully into the path to be run down. "You're not anyone else, Dean."

Dean lifts a shoulder, won't seem to even consider the validity of Sam's words. "Gonna die just like anyone else." He levels a serious, stone-cold sober gaze. "Sammy, we knew this was comin.'"

And there it is, the inevitability. As though it's inevitable. Sam shakes his head, feels the itch his legs to get up and moving, to run away from this table and this conversation. "You're an asshole," he says, because any intelligent thought or intention is escaping him at the moment.

"No," Dean says with a long sigh, and the sober moment of clarity is gone as quickly as it had appeared. He melts against the pockmarked plaster, and Sam darts forward to intervene his sloppy descent to the dirty carpet. "I'm a big brother."

To be continued...