A/N: To be honest... I love my story. I hope y'all will too. It's vaguely based on the following quote: "Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like a thorn." - W. Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet
Story Details: Takes place after 2x02 "Everybody Loves a Clown" and before 2x03 "Bloodlust", when the boys where stuck to South Dakota for approximately 4 weeks, in order to repair the Impala.
I am aware that the song "The Day That Never Comes" by Metallica was released on 2008, but if you could just ignore that the brothers are listening to it 2 years prior to that date... it would be great!
Disclaimer: I DO NOT own Sam and/or Dean, but, *drums, please* I DO OWN Jeremiah 'The Bartender' (and, oh yeah, he's as cool as he sounds!)
Warnings: Rated M for profanity and Incest .
Part I: Stumble and Fall
Devils Lake, North Dakota Mid November - Early December, 2006
Rumors had it, that there was a section, about 5 meters long, on the road that led from Webster to Devils Lake where cars mysteriously ceased to function. The engines would die and one had to push the car further down the road, in order to manage to restart it.
The local residents, accustomed to this fact, gave no importance to it, but, some teenagers, with too much time and imagination, had began to disseminate widely that the place was haunted.
Sam, even though he had suspicions that all this fuss was caused because of large quantity of magnet alloy, inside the territory, over which the road was located, suggested to Dean they should check the area anyway. It was an opportunity, since they'd be nearby for some time and they had nothing else to do.
Dean, who was the type of guy to comply with the phrase 'better be safe, than sorry', agreed and so the two brothers, after provisionally renting a car (to Dean's great grief), had headed to North Dakota for another gig; one which would probably result to be coal instead of treasure.
Sam was in charge of driving them around with a sapphire 1969 Dodge Charger they had rented, since Dean tenaciously refused to touch anything with wheels while 'his baby was wounded'.
Once again though, Sam wasn't allowed to choose the music, Dean using as excuse that a) Sam's taste in music, and many other things that were irrelevant at the moment, was awful and b) he was psychologically traumatized, because of the situation with Chevy and he needed something to cheer him up (preferably Metallica, due to his agitation). Sam, ever the willing to ease his brother's pain, kindly told Dean to 'fuck off, stop complaining and push the damn play already'.
Flakes of snow were falling gently from the sky, clean and transparent to the point where they were indistinguishable for the brothers. Silence was enveloping them, inside the car's limited space, except for Dean's humming, along with the radio, to the lyrics of 'The Day That Never Comes'; his voice softly filling the air around, and acting more like a consistency of the quietness than a cessation.
"How 'bout we go out for a few drinks, tonight? Ya know, have a little fun, since we are, apparently, off duty?" Dean asked suddenly, averting his gaze from counting trees, as they surpassed the forest.
Sam sighed. He didn't like it, he decided, being the driver. It was as dull as a chore would have been for him, not to mention this was Dean's seat -no, it was more like... Dean's throne or something; his natural habitat.
"Yeah, sure, whatever." Sam responded without paying much attention.
Truth was, knowing Dean's definition for the words 'let's have fun', which meant getting drunk and getting laid (and not necessarily in that order), Sam wasn't up for it. In fact, Sam would rather stay at their motel room, reading a book to kill the time, until it would be late enough to go to sleep.
"Would it kill you, to show some enthusiasm?" Dean huffed, staring at his brother intently, as if willing with his mind for Sam to cheer out loud for the wonderful idea Dean just had.
"Uh-huh." Sam mumbled, as Dean's face scowled at him with enervation. Being a primarily physical creature, Dean punched Sam's shoulder, as if to prove his frustration.
"What the hell, you moron?" Sam yelled after making a dangerous maneuver, to reintroduce the car to drive straight, having deviate from his steady route with the sudden assault. Another reason right there! Sam is not supposed to drive and damn it, if everything weren't upside down today.
"Now that I have your undivided attention," Dean said lightly, as if he hadn't almost caused an accident, "will you explain to me why you've been behaving like a damn zombie, lately?"
Shit. What was Sam supposed to say to that? That he's been plagued by daydreams and such vivid thoughts, about stuff he wasn't allowed to have (or want, for that matter), and that had resulted into him becoming an insomniac? Oh, yeah, Dean would love that answer! In fact, he'd never let Sam forget about it. He really wouldn't!
"Wha? Uh, yeah, no, I'm fine. Just tired. Need some sleep, I guess." And perhaps a lobotomy. Who knows? It might actually help and Sam could stop behaving like a total creep.
"You sure? Is there something bothering you?" Dean inquired.
"Everything's fine, Dean." Sam deadpanned, keeping his eyes strictly on the road ahead of him. He always did have trouble with lying straight to his brother's face.
"Hmm." Dean stared at him, judging whether or not Sam was lying and Sam tried to keep his rising panic at bay. One of the rare times he honestly doesn't want to talk about it and Dean suddenly becomes Oprah. Nice.
Four hours, numerous measurements of the subsoil with excise sensors to make sure there was nothing other than magnets hidden behind this stupid 'case' they had taken, and a headache later... Sam was beat and eager to pass out on his uncomfortable motel bed. Dean, naturally, even though Sam thought he looked as tired as Sam felt himself, had other ideas.
"Alright, let's wrap it up and head back at the motel. You need a shower, Samantha." Dean said, mockingly sniffing at Sam and theatrically waving his hand to clear the air in front of his nose.
"S'not as if you smell like roses, jerk." Sam coiled deeper inside his jacket, suddenly feeling insecure, beside himself.
"Bitch." Dean retorted, winking at Sam and looking pleased with himself. "Then, we'll go get smashed!" He announced proudly, and Sam stared at him like he had gone crazy. "Don't look at me like that, brother. I'll drag your ass with me, if I have to, and you know it." He said to counter Sam's bitchface.
Sam sighed tiredly, quietly accepting his doom.
The bar was the perfect specimen of Dean's usual choices. The music was grotesquely loud, the space was crammed with trifling intoxicated people and perky waitresses, with big tits/lustful smiles, where roaming around the crowd offering drinks and, occasionally, their company.
The place was old, dusty and messy as if no one cared about it's fate. It looked as if drinkers and drinkers had spent their nights at the ramshackle tables, each with their own unsolved problem, trying to numb themselves into alcoholic bliss. All the while, their only achievement was to imbue their surroundings with despair and a nasty dose of repressed sexual tension.
Sam could almost feel the impact of all these lost souls that had sat onto his seat, for tonight, before him; it all added up to Sam's own conflicted issues, making him feel suffocated.
Not longer than thirty minutes, since they had arrived and Dean had already found an opponent for pool and a blonde bimbo to cheer him.
Sam sighed, staring at the floor, as if it was the most interesting attraction this den had to offer, with something resembling hope inside his eyes; thinking wistfully that if he could look at it for enough time, the floor would spare him and give him a clue, or two, about what to do to come out of his misery.
After a couple of beers and too many shots to count, Sam faded to the background becoming one more figure to add to the rest of the tortured extras around him.
It's funny, well, no, no not really, but Sam can at least appreciate the irony of finally understanding that old saying 'misery loves company' or some other philosophical shit like that.
"Life sucks." Sam said to himself out loud, glaring at Dean's direction, whom was currently heavily making-out with Blondie-my-IQ's-ratio-is-even-lower-than-my-dignity-McBust. Downing another shot of tequila, Sam motioned for the bartender to fetch him another one.
"Yes, at times." The barman decided to respond, even though it was obvious that Sam hadn't meant to get involved in any kind of pointless conversation.
"Do you know how many of those you had?" He asked Sam, nodding his head towards the shot he placed in front of the young hunter.
"No." Sam huffed, wondering why was the man talking to him when he had made sure to let everyone around him know that he wasn't up for socializing.
"Ah, I take it you have problems in the love field." The barman said undaunted, ignoring Sam's effort to tune him out.
Sam sent him his best death-glare, spontaneously evaluating the man on the other side of the counter - what can he say? blame the hunter's reflex.
The man was approximately 43-45 years old, kind of short, with a large forehead that indicated he had already started loosing his hair; lean body type, seemingly weak muscles, and he was wearing clothes that Sam thought would match a waiter at a high-class restaurant, rather than this pit.
Sam had heard how barkeepers supposedly knew everything, which was logical if one considered that their job involved interacting with all types of people and that they had probably heard countless stories and had dealt with all kinds of situations.
Well, it made sense he picked up on Sam's general mood, but Sam would bet the man could never guess the real nature of his problem. And if he could, he would become so disgusted he would end up throwing Sam out of the place.
"Look, man, if you think we're about to dive into this big conversation/confession where I tell you my problems and you say something along the lines of 'everything will work out, don't give up yet' and shit like that, I should warn you that this", Sam pointed at himself frantically, "is unlike anything you've heard before."
The man smiled ironically, seemingly saying 'I've heard that speech many times before and it has yet to impress me' and Sam wanted to punch him, because he was certain that yes, he had heard it before, but, this was probably the only time in this man's life where he had the truly/honestly/no-shitting-you real deal in front of him.
This wasn't about a wife that had cheated, or getting fired, or debts and no income to cover them. These would be an excursion in comparison with Sam's situation.
"Try me, kid." The man insisted defiantly, and Sam briefly entertained the thought of really telling him what was going on, just to see the dumbfounded look on the man's face.
"I'm in love." Sam started from the basics, saying the words like those were the taboo and not the object of his affection.
"Why do you people always say this as if it's a bad thing, I'll never know." The barman said looking amused (fucking amused!). Was he trying to get himself beated into a pulp?
"Listen, son. I don't know why everyone thinks Love is something filled with rainbows and unicorns, that makes you daydream, unreasonably sigh, and be abnormally joyful all the time. It's not that simple."
'Why not?' Sam thought. Songs and movies, make Love appear as something that makes you strong, confident, and feel like you could conquer the world if you wanted to. He was about to ask out loud, but the man continued.
"Love cripples you, burns you, breaks you... It makes you feel like you're unable to breathe, like you can't swallow, like you are someplace dark while suffering from nyctophobia. It's more often than not unrequited; sometimes cruel, or harmful even."
The man paused and sucked a generous amount of air, "And when she looks inside your eyes... none of these matter at all. Warmth and a tingling sensation would flood your body, your heart would beat faster and your lips would curve in a smile unintentionally."
Sam gaped with renewed interest.
Yes! Oh god, yes! It hurt, it hurt so fucking bad! It was as if Sam had a double personality. Sam would be gloom, sad, almost depressed, when he wasn't around. And the moment he would appear, all of Sam's problems seemed to melt away.
And Sam hated it. He hated him. No, he couldn't. He loved him; almost inadvertently. But Sam hated the power he had upon him. He hated that it took one of his smiles, or an imitation of a hug, or even a lingering glance from him, and Sam would suddenly transform into the happiest person alive.
Mostly, he hated feeling completely useless. This felt kinda like a hunt, only there's no bad guy to kill. Sam had to be patient so that, maybe, he could fight this off, put it behind him and hope he'll be fine in the long term.
Problem is, Sam's never been too good with patience, playing it cool and hosting a poker face. That's always been Dean's area of expertise. To Sam, this whole thing, was causing fear and frustration and, damn it, he wished he could just go to sleep forever, forget these hopeless feelings, and make everything go away.
"It's...uh... it's not a girl, I'm in love with." He found himself saying, lowering his voice and his head unwittingly and staring at his hands; not even daring to as much as glance at Dean's direction.
"These days? You should be proud it's a person!" the man exclaimed and Sam frowned purplexed.
"I'm telling you", the man nodded his head, ostensibly convinced that he was right, "I've seen people in love with money, fame, power... even in love solely with themselves. If you can look at me and say that you honestly love someone, then all I care to say is congratulations."
Sam's lips quirked up into a small smile, but all he could do was stare at the man sadly. If only it could be that simple. "What's your name?" Sam asked.
"Jeremiah." The bartender extended his hand for Sam to shake.
"I'm Sam." Sam answered truthfully; it didn't seem fair to give Jeremiah an alias.
But he had to leave, because this man was unusually understanding, and if Sam was to stay any longer, he would end up telling Jeremiah everything (or, even worse, he'd get his hopes up). Besides, a bartender could only give one customer a few minutes of his time; unless you were the last one left and the place was closing. Alas, it was only 12.30 pm and the place would be full for several hours still.
It had nothing to do with Dean currently dry humping Blondie-Wild-Things-Volumes1&2. It's not like it was a painful sight to watch. No, really, it wasn't.
Argh! Okay, fine, Sam's lying (and yes, even he is shocked by that fact). It hurt. Badly! Happy?
"How much do I owe you?" Sam asked and Jeremiah nodded as if he knew Sam couldn't talk, about the topic they'd been discussing, furthermore.
After paying for his drinks, Sam nodded his thanks, glared at the general direction of his brother and left.
Sam had barely managed to take a few steps away from the bar, when someone grabbed his shoulder.
"Dude, you leave and you don't even tell me? How many times do I have to remind you that we must know each other's location at all times, Sam?" Dean asked, angrily tugging at Sam's arm.
"I got bored and you were... preoccupied." Sam answered, surprised that Bimbo wasn't hanging from his brother's arm. In fact she was nowhere in sight. Weird.
Dean spaced out for a while and Sam jerked away from him disgusted. Dean was thinking about SlutyMcSkank; the fucking asshole.
"I'm leaving. If you need me, and I strongly doubt it, you know where to find me." Sam spat, more angry with himself than with Dean. There was no reason for Sam to be acting like a jealous boyfriend. Apparently, the phrase 'Dean isn't yours to claim!', which is what Sam's brain was currently shouting inside his head, meant nothing to him.
"Hell no. First you're gonna tell me what are you pissed at me for." Dean demanded stepping in front of Sam, effectively blocking his way.
Sam sighed. "If I tell you, you're just gonna make fun of me." Or beat the shit out of him. Or both. It'd depend on Dean's mood, really.
"Sam," Dean sighed "I'm your brother. I'm gonna make fun of you anyway." He said wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Sam's rational part knew he'd be in deep shit if he was to tell Dean the reason he's mad at him. "You dragged me into that dump and I came without protest, even though I was exhausted, and then you abandoned me, the minute you got a distraction." He ended up saying, which wasn't really a lie, just, partly, a manipulation of the truth.
Dean stared at him dumbfounded. "Man, you know I always take care of you, but you need to step up and provide for yourself sometimes. You can't be seriously expecting me to hook you up while I'm working to get myself a little treat!" He said exasperated.
Sam threw up inside his mouth a little bit. Glaring daggers at Dean, Sam didn't even bother to answer. He just turned to leave, before he ends up doing something stupid. Like launching at Dean to punch the life out of him.
Dean grabbed his shoulder and span him around again. Sam was instantly pissed off. "What the fuck, Dean? Quit manhandling me!" He pushed his brother away.
"Not until you talk to me, Sam. You're freaking me out, okay? I'm not an idiot! Something's wrong with you, lately. You don't sleep, you get easily irritated," Dean was wildly gesturing with his hands, like he didn't know what to do, "And I could swear that I heard you crying in the shower, last night!" Dean fixed Sam with a glare, as if trying to force an explanation out of Sam's mouth, whether Sam wanted to give one or not.
"Now, a part of me is dying to make fun of all these girlish bullshit, but, I'm in a good mood, and I'll just choose to be your awesome brother. So, care to tell me what's wrong, bitch?" Dean asked, clearing his throat to get Sam's attention, while Sam avoided eye-contact with him.
This is the exact point where Sam should laugh hysterically, and yell something like 'Dude! Me? Crying? What the hell are you talking about?' but, thing is, Sam's tired of Dean's nonchalance. Plus, Dean's ignorance, of the fact that he is the one causing Sam's abnormal behavior, is driving Sam insane.
"Alright, Dean, you want answers? You'll have them. But, not until you face up to your problem." Because it's a problem and it affects them both, even if Dean doesn't know that. Sam's sick of Dean's... ways of relieving some tension in between their hunts, to put it mildly.
Dean stared at him stunned for a few seconds. "My problem? And what's that?"
When Sam quietly growled, realization seemed to dawn on him. "You mean you cock blocking me, back there? You've been doing that for years." Dean laughed casually, dismissing the thought. "Besides, that's another one of your problems, not mine. I can always get someone else, ya know?" He gestured at himself as if the reason was obvious. With that face and body, well, yes, it was obvious. Punching-Sam-on-the-jaw-with-an-uppercut, spitting-on-Sam's-neck, kicking-at-Sam's-balls, obvious.
"Your obsession with sex, needs to stop, Dean. Waitresses, barmaids, god knows who else -anyone that breathes makes the cut, so long as it's not real." Sam made a disgusted grimace.
"Real? Sam, considering our lifestyle, the span of the 'real' you're talking about would be a week. At best. So, what's the point?" Dean looked at him expectantly.
"Oh, I think 'real' is in your face every day, but you're just too much of a coward to admit it!" Sam was on the verge of punching some sense into his brother's head. It was like Sam was holding a giant neon-red arrow spelling REAL and pointing straight at him and Dean was blind to it.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, dude, so save your breath." And Sam would, save his breath that is, if he didn't know his brother like the back of his hand.
You see, Dean, when he really has no idea what's going on, or when the truth isn't close to whatever the other person is saying, would be passive at this point. He would be calm and collected and probably asking what Sam wanted for dinner, or something equally disorientating.
But, Dean's posture? With all the clenched muscles, squared shoulders and gritted teeth? Oh, he knew what Sam was talking about, alright. The fucking chicken!
"Really, Dean? Really?" Sam says, pulling Dean close and sweeping a knowing hand across his chest.
Dean gasped, even more shocked when Sam yanked him up against his chest and ran a finger across his cheek. Dean's a good actor, Sam decided. But how he expected to keep Sam from feeling Dean shiver against him, Sam will never know.
Sam has always been the observational one, and, although he may be an idiot when it comes to noticing things about Dean, at times, he has a knack for knowing the things Dean doesn't want him to know.
"Sam! Have you lost your goddamned mind?" Dean's hunter-sharp reflexes had Sam pinned against the Dodge's hood, which was parked outside of the bar, before Sam had the time to blink.
"I don't know what you're trying to do here, but you need to back off before you really get on my nerves!" He squeezed Sam's arms, bended on an awkward angle behind Sam's back, for emphasis. "Now, cut it out and let's go get some food. Aye?"
Sam sighed and nodded, and Dean released him.
Goodbye progress, hello point-zero. Again. That's Dean for you: deny everything, admit nothing, and always make counter accusations.
This is what happens every time they attempt to solve their issues. They blur out things they're not supposed to and when they get close to either fight or make a huge revelation, they physically cancel each other out. Sam had actually expected a punch along with the restriction, for good measure.
Sam and Dean, they operate for one another like magnets. Together, they produce a magnetic field; invisible, but, responsible for the most notable property of a magnet: a force that pulls on other ferromagnetic materials and attracts or repels other magnets. Thus, they keep one another into a regular equilibrium that, despite the erratic flow of their lifestyle and the fact that they often seem to repel each other, instead of attract each other, holds a powerfully insurmountable worth.
Dean keeps Sam in vigilance, permanetly alert and ready for battle. And Sam in his turn softens the hard, cutting edges that Dean has developed over the years of behaving as Dad's perfect little soldier; the toughened outer exterior that he has design to keep people out.
Then again, if Sam could say so himself, he had already been pretty sharp to begin with (your dad thrusting a gun in your hand, when you tell him about the bogy inside your closet, does that to a boy...) and Sam knows that Dean only ever lets loose of the reins enough to let Sam in. They know these stuff about each other, and, most of the time, this knowledge translates itself into reciprocal understanding.
These small concessions are because of their awareness of one another. And they constitute the reason their existence has become so very codependent . As such, it's not so much who Sam would be without Dean and who Dean would be without Sam, but that they are, and can only ever survive as SamAndDean; entities, that had once existed as individuals, and which, because of what they've been through, have now united and operate as one intact being.
At least that's what Sam has been trying to achieve. He remembers what it's like to be alone. It wasn't until after he came back on the road with Dean, and his brother made him see what it's like to be whole, that Sam realized just how alone he truly had been; even during the time Sam was with Jess.
Dean's stubborness and to some level the instinct to protect Sam, still separates and divides them, and Sam can see this because Dean is cautious around him, watching Sam from inside the secure amid of silence, as he had done when Sam was vacillating between leaving for college or take on the 'family business'. And even though Sam has been trying to reassure the older hunter that he doesn't plan on abandoning him -ever again- he can see and partly comprehent why Dean feels reluctant to believe and accept that fact.
Sam hopes that though it'll take time, soon everything will slid into place and each and every shift in their relationship will simply bring them closer together.
"Stupid men and their recalcitrant emotions." Sam grunted, quietly enough for Dean not to hear him, and banged a hand against his own head.
It's not as much that Sam wants to think about all this shit, all the damn time. It's simply that he can't forget it.
Sometimes it feels like Dean is under Sam's skin; inside his veins. It's like, on every beat of Sam's heart, there's a needle that carves a tattoo there with Dean's name on top of it. And it sucks, but he can't quite reach in there to stop it.
It's like everything around him are running- no, swirling... with a crazy speed. Until they fade into this huge blur, which makes Sam dizzy. And, then, all he can do is surrender; give up, numb his senses, because, if he doesn't feel... he might survive.
Determined to do just that, Sam kept his mouth zipped and got in the car to drive them to a dinner.
A/N: So, I hope you enjoyed reading... Tell me what you think about it. Part II (and last) is also completed, and will be up soon.