Title: thunder is music to my ears
Author: romantiscue
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam
Genre: Gen, angst, curtain!fic, post-hell
Length: ~3500
Warnings: Dean's dirty mouth, mild references to torture, less mild references to insanity, references to demons mentioned in Ars Goetia
Spoilers: mild spoilers for Dean's and Sam's respective times in hell
Disclaimer:I don't own anything you recognize. Playing in Kripke's gang's sandbox.
Summary: In which Sam remembers the music of hell and Dean wishes he didn't.
Dean shook out the wet towel, grimacing as the droplets beat the side of his baby. Other than those droplets, his baby was fucking sparkling more than a fictional stalker vampire in sunlight. Gorgeous, she was. And yeah, Dean was pretty damn proud of that, because in this tiny town, getting a hold of the things his high maintenance first love needed wasn't too easy. And since they never really left the town... well, suffice to say, he had all the fucking right in the world to be pleased with himself.
Dean glanced to the side, the movement automatic, checking Sam's location and gauging his mood. He'd done it all his life, could always practically feel Sam's twitchy temper twirl in the air around him with a glance, and no matter all the other changes his brother had gone through, that hadn't fucking changed. Dean's eyes slid away from Sam's bent head, satisfied that the little geek was still firmly and contentedly stuck in the boring-ass book he'd been married to for the past few days.
There were good days and bad days, but mostly there were days like this one. Livable, no more but definitely no less. Dean cleaned up the specks of greasy oil splattered over the workbench and heaved himself up, knees creaking a little in protest at the quick movement. Rubbing the stiffness from his legs took a few minutes even on his best of days, but it wasn't like Dean was in any particular hurry to get anywhere. He stretched and let himself enjoy the sunlight for a moment, then tilted his wrist to read the cracked face of the watch he'd gotten cheap from a thrift shop a few days ago.
"Hey, Sam," he called and the shaggy head straightened, murky brown eyes taking a few long moments to focus on him over the large book he had rested against his bent knees. Dean pretended not to notice the way Sam stumbled to his feet, a parody of the hunter's grace his brother had once possessed, and grinned at Sam's slight smile (so what if it was a bit vacant?).
"Find anything interesting?" he nodded at the book, taking slow steps out the garage door and throwing glances over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure Sam was keeping up. His brother's steps were slow and laborious, shuffling forward and leaving deep tracks in the muddy ground.
Sam frowned, glancing down at the book he'd clasped tightly to his chest and his mouth worked slowly as he thought. Dean had almost given up on getting an answer, seeing his brother's slowly slackening expression and absent expression. "It's – Amdusias, I think..." Sam's voice was as slow as his steps and almost pointedly articulated, like every word required very precise pronunciation. Dean didn't mind, of course he didn't fucking mind, it was just that (Sam used to spit out explanations like lightening, quick and clear, eyes bright with the intelligence that had gotten him a full fucking ride to fucking Stanford and now -) he hadn't gotten completely used to it yet.
Dean fished his keys from his pocket, carefully putting the tip of the key to the lock and ignoring the persistent tremors in his hands. Alright, so he'd overworked himself a little today, but it wasn't like he was bleeding out or anything, so whatever. (Nobody was gonna yell at him about it.)
"You wanna tell me what the hell an 'amdusias' is supposed to be?" The lock clicked open and Dean kicked off his shoes before turning to where Sam was slowly crouching down to untie his laces. Dean purposefully didn't think about how much Sam moved like some little old man, and instead slouched against the wall. Because hey, he loved his brother, but even he had his limits and he wasn't going to act like Sam was some toddler who needed help taking off his shoes, okay? (Not for as long as Sam could do it on his own, anyway.)
"The – The thunder..." Sam made a gesture that was probably supposed to mean something to Dean but really just reminded him of how fucking graceless they both were these days. He half-herded his brother into the kitchen, pulling out a chair (so fucking sue him, okay? It wasn't because Sam couldn't do it, it was just... shit, it just was, it was Sam and -) and nudging him into it.
When the soup was slowly heating on the stove, Dean joined Sam at the table. He plunked into the chair opposite Sam and followed the careful circles his brother was tracing over the dusty book's cover with his eyes. "So, about that thunder?" Dean asked, slowly stretching out his legs as he watched Sam's face. The sunlit dust motes swirled in the air with his brother's every breath and though the bangs drooped over Sam's forehead, Dean could see it remained creased in a frown.
"Sam?" Dean prodded carefully when Sam remained quiet. Long fingers braided and pressed against the knuckles, and Dean wondered whether this was one of those times when Sam needed touch to ground himself, or if this was one of those times when he needed Dean to talk but remain well out of reach, or if it was one of those times where he needed to be distracted by actually doing something else (Jesus Christ Dean you should know this by now it's been months) but Sam didn't give any kind of indication, didn't do anything but swirl more dust with his breathing, and Dean clenched his jaw and refused to feel useless.
"Hey, Sammy." Nothing. Fucking nothing, not even a twitch. Dean didn't know what his brother saw when he was like this - but he could guess, and sometimes Dean thought those unwanted guesses his brain threw at him might actually one day (not too far off into the future) drive him crazy. He prodded the back of Sam's hand with a finger, drew a line up a strained tendon to see if the touch would relax his brother some.
Sam's gaze rose from where it had been resting on the tabletop and Dean's stomach dropped to his feet when he recognized the queer look in his brother's eyes, the way his pupils swallowed the iris. "It was – music. He used to - make music for us." Sam's peculiar articulation grew more pronounced, almost guttural in its sharpness, and Dean forced himself to remain still. To listen. It didn't fucking matter that he just wanted to turn around and run or scream at Sam to just fucking shut up, I don't want to hear it, all that mattered was that Sam was aware, was talking and as long as he was talking Dean had to listen. (Look for the silver lining. At least he's not screaming, right? Could be worse, right?)
Because Sam after hell wasn't like Dean after hell and Dean would have liked to say it was because Sam needed girl-talk to function, but maybe he actually did, and if that was the case that thought suddenly wasn't fucking funny. Dean liked to think this occasional need to talk was some lasting trait of Sam as he'd been before hell, fuck he'd like to think that was it, but he wasn't even sure if Sam knew he was saying anything, wasn't sure if his brother was making the choice to trust him with these sharp shards of the Cage or if the words just poured themselves out of him, like pus from an infected wound.
Sam's gaze grew vacant again, staring out through the grimy window, sliding over the half-dead bouquet of flowers on the windowsill and halted at the inappropriately cheerful curtains. He pushed a thumb into the scar crawling its way over his left palm, plucking at the scar tissue for a moment before placing both hands flat on the tabletop.
Dean cleared his throat, breathed in-out-in-out-in-out and then the part of him that had resisted Alistair for thirty years rose up from somewhere inside and was steady, even when everything else in him shook. "Who did?"
Sam stared at him, through him and Dean didn't scream (not even on the inside, which was still and quiet and attentive) and held Sam's eyes as much as his brother allowed. "Amdusias," he breathed, the name almost lost in a sudden convulsive swallow. One of Sam's hands crept up to an ear, cupping it, and then he leaned forward in a movement Dean didn't think was conscious. He wasn't sure, but it didn't look like much of Sam was at home right now.
Dean's heart thudded in his ears, because with a clarity he wished he didn't have, he knew what this was. Sam had said, months ago – they came to - visit, sometimes, Alistair and the others – and the words had echoed in the back of Dean's head for a long time. (Jesus, they came to visit.)
"He's a - maestro of ca-cacophony." Sam's eyes slowly glazed, words tripping over a sudden noise in the back of his throat. Dean's shoulders tightened, but he wasn't sure if it was due to the words or because of that awful little sound.
"He's not – bright, not like - like Venus, but he's loud like -" With the hand that wasn't occupied with an ear, Sam made that gesture again, a sharp downward movement. Dean tracked it without conscious thought, giving himself a reasonable excuse not to keep his eyes chained to Sam's too-bright ones. (There were good days, with madness resting only in the very back of his brother's eyes, and there were bad days, with madness riding every spoke in Sam's irises.) "Like thunder."
Dean swallowed, throat dry and tongue heavy. He wasn't going to pretend to himself that he completely understood what Sam was telling him, but (as always) he could unfortunately make a guess. If this Amdusias was as loud as the Morning Star was bright... well, Dean had become very good at not-thinking these past few months for a reason. He could imagine things too easily, too vividly (almost two full centuries, Jesus Christ, two fucking centuries, Sammy -) and so he smothered the mental images before they appeared. He got a good amount of practice in every day, without fail.
"Shit, Sam." His voice came out thick, fists pressing into his thighs as he frantically didn't think, didn't imagine or draw conclusions. He hadn't mean to say anything, but fuck, Jesus fucking Christ (what could he do, what was he supposed to do, this was Sammy, his baby brother fuck why wasn't he helping him?)
"Dean?" Sam blinked, head tilting to the side, expression morphing from that hysterical brightness into one of confusion. The glaze faded from his eyes, hands loosening from their tight grip around each other. Train of thought disappearing. Dean swallowed whatever sound wanted to bubble out of his throat and then almost jumped out of his skin when the timer on the sink beeped. Wiping a hand over his mouth, he rose to dig through the cupboards for bowls, more because it gave him something to do with his hands than because he was actually hungry. Dean doubted he'd be able to eat at all right now, but since Sam was still much too skinny and Dean didn't feel like being a hypocrite just then, he placed two pale orange bowls on the table and poured the soup.
"It's hot," he said, indicating the steam, and his voice was so steady it was brittle. If Dean didn't remind him, Sam would start eating immediately, unheeded by what should be scorching heat. (There is a real fire in the pit.) It gave Dean something to focus on, some tangible way he could be of use, if only a little. He couldn't cut out the hell parts of Sam (because maybe all of Sam was steeped in hell) and he couldn't, wouldn't, make any more deals for any other walls (because look what that had gotten them) but he could fucking warn Sam about the fucking soup.
Sam waited for a few minutes for the steam to dissipate and then started eating, movements mechanical, and Dean wondered if his brother could even taste the soup. He deliberately hadn't asked and alright so maybe that made him a bad brother, but between everything else going on with the kid, he just wanted this one small break of ignorance. He didn't want to know if his brother still truly favored those pansy-ass vanilla lattes Dean bought for him or if he couldn't care less anymore, okay?
They ate the soup in silence that slowly grew less tense as Dean piled more everyday crap on top of this new nugget of hell to not-think about. He glanced up at Sam at one point, lips slowly inching upwards in tired acknowledgment of Sam's absent smile. This – all this, the colorful curtains and flowers in the window and beds they'd slept in for a lot more than just a week in a row - it was nothing like hunting, some days even nothing like living, but it was still something and that had to be enough. And if it wasn't, well, Dean was used to things not coming easy, so that just meant he'd have to ride it out until it was enough.
He got up to rinse their bowls, startling a little when Sam's fingers brushed against his. It wasn't that Sam avoided touching him, exactly, it was just that a lot of the times when his brother touched him Dean got the feeling Sam didn't really know he was. Or at least that the touching wasn't deliberate.
"All right, there. You owe me for that, by the way. It was your turn to do the dishes today," Dean softened the grumbling words with a half-smile, watching the way Sam's eyes stuck to his mouth as he spoke. He hadn't asked about that new habit yet either, and he knew he probably definitely should. And he would, just – not today.
Sam hummed something at him, and Dean always felt like an fucking idiot when he couldn't tell if Sam was speaking to him or to something only he could see. He should be able to tell the difference, because before life decided to club them half (entirely) to death, Dean had been able to read the nuances in his brother's every turn of inflection.
"Do you remember?" Dean turned to find Sam's arm raised, pointing with his whole hand at something lying beside the sad bouquet. Dean took a step closer, focusing more on the kid than on whatever had caught Sam's attention. Oh. It was that keychain – Sam had gotten it years ago, after that wishing well case with the alcoholic teddybear. A stylized bolt of lightning that Dean had called 'masochistic' and hadn't found very funny at all, and Sam had replied something about how keeping it on him should ward off any other frisky thunderbolts that might come his way.
"Can't blame it for mistaking you for a lightning rod, Beanstalk," Dean had said, because back then Sam had lacked the muscle definition he'd gained later, when Dean was - away (learning Alistair's tricks of the trade). He'd dropped those muscles now, had dropped pretty much everything except his skin and bones, but Dean was working on that.
"Yeah, Sammy, I remember." Too well. And he'd known what it felt like to be fucking electrocuted, so Sam playing lightning rod had brought up all kinds of unpleasant memories and subsequent nightmares, only this time starring his brother as the main character of the show.
"I didn't know. Then. I didn't know that it was – music. The sound." Sam's other hand moved from his ear to tug at the hem of his shirt, staring at the keychain. Dean felt all that crap (horror) welling up from underneath everything he'd piled on top of it, but in one thing he'd never failed: he'd never avoided listening when Sam spoke. And he didn't this time either, just fucking stood there and watched Sammy watch the keychain and talk about music as lightning or thunder or whatever -
Thunder, Christ. He really needed to skim whatever Sam had been reading these past few days, because he didn't have a fucking clue what kind of creature this 'Amdusias' was or what it had to do with thunder and music, or what kind of demon showed up to play a tune for the residents of hell.
Sam abruptly slapped his hands together and Dean jerked at the unexpected sharp smacking sound. "Like that. That – that's the start." His eyelids did this fucking fluttery little thing that always made Dean's heart skip a beat (too much like how a seizure starts, okay?) and then drooped. And there was ten year old Sammy right there, rubbing the back of a fist across his eyes as he yawned.
As he forced his shoulder to loosen, Dean wondered if he'd eventually end up with whiplash from all the sudden mood swings. His neck ached and he turned his head from side to side a few times, choking back a sigh.
"C'mon, Sammy," he said, talking a few steps forward to hover a hand over Sam's arm. When his brother just looked at him, not seeming concerned one way or other, Dean allowed his palm to fall on top of Sam's wrist and gently tugged him forward.
He got Sam into bed with little hassle, and then perched himself in one of the ratty armchairs in what passed for their living room, broke out the brandy and the small notebook he kept in a drawer and jotted down today's comments as well as he could remember them. Dean wasn't sure if it would help establish some kind of pattern or even just a better understanding of what was going on in his brother's head, but hopefully (fucking hopefully) having Sam's words in writing would do some good in some way (please). He hesitated a little over that name, 'Amdusias', and then got up to retrieve the book Sam had left on the kitchen table. It wasn't like his brother, not even this new and unimproved version of his brother, to leave half-read books lying around. But perhaps Sam had already found what he was looking for and just forgotten about it. Or perhaps - and Dean knew it was a stupid fucking thought to entertain - but perhaps Sam had left it for him to find.
Having been half-worried the thing would be written in ancient Greek or something equally incomprehensible, Dean was both relieved and annoyed (he didn't want to know) to find the pages covered in perfectly readable, if strangely worded, English. He flipped through it, not finding any clues to what he was looking for in the index, but when he got about halfway through, the pages spread on their own – like they had been open there often or been held open there for a long time.
Dean stared at a paragraph title on the lower part of the page and breathed in through clenched teeth. His heart beat like a drum in his chest and up his throat, and that was all kinds of fucking pathetic, of course, but...
'Great Duke Amdusias (also Amdukias, Amduscias or Ambduscias)'.
He was willing to bet that Amdusias was the right name (because that was what Sam had said, who knew this fucking crap personally) for the Great Duke thing, or at least the name he'd been called down there.
Dean breathed some more, wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and then read, eyes snagging on certain words as he passed over them. '...thirty legions of demons under his command... hands and feet in the form of claws... head of a horse with a spear protruding from its forehead... powerful voice... associated with thunder... been said that his voice is heard during storms...' Dean breathed some more and stared at the page and didn't think, '...in charge of the cacophonous music played in Hell...' And Dean breathed and breathed and the sound of fire crackled and roared in his ears, and the smell of sulfur curled in his nostrils.
A few minutes passed before Dean slowly stood up, went back into the kitchen and threw up soup in the sink. Retched and heaved for a while. Washed his hands, gurgled water to get rid of the taste of bile in his mouth. Didn't think. Brushed his teeth, went to bed and knew the dreams would do all the thinking and guessing and imagining for him.
Lay very still in the dark in the bed next to Sam's and listened to the whoosh of wind battering the windows, vaguely wondering if the storm raging a few towns over was about to hit them.
A/N: Not dead, just very busy. This has been on my LJ for a while, and I figured I might as well post it. I feel like I just plunked you down in the middle of a timeline in a universe I haven't created yet. I had a lot of fun writing this, so there'll probably be more pieces to come (err... eventually). Comments and critique very welcome – this piece is my first dip into this fandom, so I'm a little nervous.