And You Don't Care So Much
Set season two, between "Heart" and "Hollywood Babylon."
Dean waited in the hall, his jaw set, prepared to do what he was half-convinced that Sam couldn't. He'd offered. But he didn't have to wait long, and he flinched when he heard the gun fire.
Oh god, he actually did do it, was his first thought. If it'd been him, he would've done it without a second's hesitation. Yes, it was murder, which made it…less than ideal, of course, and more than a little frightening to him because of the ease with which he knew he could take a life when put up to it, but it had to be done, and hell, he didn't actually know this girl. So for better or worse, this wouldn't have bothered him much at all. But Sam… If he was being honest with himself, he was a lot more bothered by what this was going to do to Sam than the actual killing.
He waited a few seconds longer. Sam didn't come out of the apartment. His instincts told him to barge in there and see what the holdup was—this was very quickly going to become a crime scene, which meant they needed to get the hell out of here before the cops started showing up. But his hand froze on the doorknob for some reason he couldn't define. Yeah, he could take a lot. A lot more than most people. But whatever he was going to find behind that door, he suddenly realized he didn't want to see.
"Sam?" he called. No response. He banged on the door. "Sammy?"
And at that point, whether it made any sense or not, he got kind of scared. Nothing could've actually gone wrong…right? The mere possibility of that was enough for him. He burst through the door.
And he was exactly right. He didn't want to see this.
There was Madison, dead, flat on her face in a growing pool of her own blood. And Sam, his back to the door, standing over her, the gun hanging by his side.
Well, at least this was what was supposed to happen. And he hadn't done anything stupid or "noble", like forced her to run.
"Hey," he said. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam half-turned to face him. His mouth was hanging half-open and tears were streaming down his face. He looked at Dean and said something that might've been "hey", but it came out sounding more like a strangled hiccup. He looked back down at Madison with an expression that suggested that he couldn't quite process what he was seeing.
Dean looked down at her, too. Her eyes were open and staring at nothing, her blood soaking into the carpet. And he opened his mouth to ask the first idiotic question that popped into his head—are you ok?
He shut his mouth again. Of course he wasn't. No shit. Instead cleared his throat and said, "Uh, you did the right thing."
Sam snorted.
Dean sighed. Yeah, like there was anything deep or philosophical that he could possibly say right now that would make this—any of this—better in any way. Philosophizing was Sam's specialty, not his, and at any rate, whenever Sam attempted to talk a problem out with him, it usually just made Dean want to hit him. Horrifying stuff was still horrifying, no matter what anybody had to say about it afterwards.
Eventually, Sam nodded at the body and managed to say, "S-shouldn't we d-do something with…"
"Yeah," he said. Lingering at the crime scene—always a bad idea. Especially with that new FBI guy out there somewhere, apparently tracing their every move.
"Okay," he whispered. But he was still looking down at Madison like he was about to throw up.
"Go wait in the car, Sammy." He held out the keys. "Give me the gun."
Sam nodded dumbly and took the keys. He looked a little surprised to find that the gun was still in his hand, but he handed it over.
"And if you see any cops, then get the hell out. I'll find you."
He nodded again but didn't move. He just kept staring at her. Dean shoved him in the direction of the door. "Go!"
Once Sam was gone, it was easier for him to think clearly again. It wasn't a murder anymore; it was just another case to wrap up. And he could deal with Sam later. He had two options—frame this as a suicide or as a murder. It was sort of both, when he thought about it, but somehow he doubted that the cops would buy that this was the sort-of-assisted suicide of a girl that had to die because while she was perfectly lovely most of the time, she could occasionally turn into a hellish, merciless, virtually unstoppable monster who wouldn't rest until her entire neighborhood was slaughtered, and had therefore begged his brother to shoot her in the heart with a silver bullet…
He tried not to look at the body as he went around wiping up fingerprints, which proved to be a pain in the ass because they'd both been hanging out here for days, and Sam had…well, slept here.
He made his way back to the living room. Now he had to make himself look. The way she was lying there, all sprawled out in the middle of her floor, didn't really look much like a suicide. Maybe if she'd been shot in the head, lying on the couch and maybe with some depressing music coming out of the speakers as an added touch, it could work. And at any rate, framing a suicide would mean leaving behind the gun. And even though Sam probably wouldn't want to touch the thing for awhile, he really didn't want to have to replace it.
He shoved the gun into his pocket and left without looking back, leaving the door unlocked behind him, hoping that the recent series of "murders" that Madison and her neighbor had caused would mean that the cops wouldn't be too mystified by another body added to the count. He made it to the car without incident. Apparently nobody else had heard the shot. Or they had, and the cops just weren't here yet.
As he approached, Dean could see Sam slumped over the dashboard with his face buried in his arms. When Dean opened the door, he sat up quickly and wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. Again, Dean felt like he should say something, even though it probably wouldn't do any good. And out came Stupid Question Number One: "You okay, Sammy?"
He impatiently brushed away more tears. "Let's just get out of here, okay?" he muttered.
"Yeah. Okay." I'll take that as a "no." He revved up the engine.
They left San Francisco and started heading south. Not that they had a plan, or any other potential cases, but hell, they were in Cali. South was the place to be in California. He figured they might as well, and Sam didn't protest. The rest of the day, in fact, Sam didn't really say much of anything. Dean figured he wouldn't, but that didn't mean he wasn't concerned by the fact that he spent the whole ride either staring out the window and obviously barely managing to hold himself together or trying and failing to get some sleep. They stopped twice for food and then at a few rest stops; Sam insisted he wasn't hungry and he didn't get out of the car. Dean bought him food both times anyhow (which meant that two perfectly good burger meals were cold and untouched on the backseat by the end of the ride) and offered to let him pick the radio station. Sam didn't take him up on it.
By about eight at night Dean didn't know how much more of this awkward, heavy silence he could take. Five minutes down the road he saw a Best Western, and pulled off the highway.
"What, no motel?" Sam muttered. It was the first time he'd spoke in hours, aside from one word responses to all of Dean's half-assed attempts to make conversation.
Dean shrugged. "Not in the mood."
"Okay."
"Breach of tradition, yeah, but I figure that for once it'd be nice to stay somewhere that isn't a complete craphole." He grinned. It felt fake.
"Alright." Sam looked indifferent.
He started to pull into the parking lot, but something caught his eye and he turned back onto the main road.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked.
"Don't worry about it." Up the road a half mile or so was a little line of shops—drug store, dry cleaner, pizza place, liquor store. "Be right back. Sit tight." He parked and got out.
"Dean, what are you—"
Dean slammed the door behind him.
Five minutes later he dropped a brown paper bag on Sam's lap. "What's this?" Sam asked.
He rolled his eyes. "What do you freaking think it is?"
Sam opened it and pulled out a cheap bottle of whiskey. "Oh. Uh, thanks."
"Yeah, uh, I figured you probably wouldn't want to hit the bar tonight but…y'know, rough day." Huh, that was an understatement. And damn, could he use some of this stuff himself… He tossed Sam a big bag of Doritos and punched him on the shoulder. "And you should eat something. No fun boozing on an empty stomach." Again with the big, fake smile.
"Okay." So he must have been hungry after all—he popped open the bag and ate a few. "Thanks."
"Sure."
This was gonna be a long night.
"He-ey, look at this." Dean dropped his bags on the bed and looked around the room. A normal hotel room by most folks' standards, but loads better than what they usually got. Big, clean, brightly lit, with squishy beds and a big-ass TV set. And it didn't smell like a damn ashtray or have peeling, mildew-y wallpaper. "We should do this more often."
"You know we can't," Sam said dully. He was sitting on the edge of his bed and staring down at the half-empty chip bag. "It's easier to lay low if we—"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." He flung himself down on the bed. "Doesn't mean it isn't awesome."
Fifteen minutes later found them on the couch in front of the TV, pretending to watch some old Dukes of Hazzard reruns and pretending that things were normal. Or at least, Dean was. Sam looked like he was going to barf. Again. His mouth was pressed into a thin line.
It was only a few more minutes of this before he was about ready to bash his head repeatedly against the wall. Clearly, ignoring this wasn't going to make it go away, oh no. Not for his emo little brother it wasn't. So he muted the TV, sighed, and forced out the words that were almost physically painful for him to utter—"Hey, uh, do you wanna, y'know, talk about this?" Sure, he'd feel like Oprah goddamn Winfrey, but his hands were tied otherwise, and it was killing him not being able to do anything. So if Sam needed to talk it out and sniffle like a teenage girl in order to work through this, fine by him. Anything was better than this.
Sam shook his head and got up quickly, muttering something about wanting to take a shower. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey off the coffee table and slammed the bathroom door behind him.
Great, he thought. "You need an entire bottle of whiskey? To take a shower?" he called. Sam didn't answer. "That was for both of us, you know, I bought it," he added.
"Leave me alone," Sam yelled back. He didn't sound all that angry, mostly just really, really tired.
"Yeah, well, save me some." His eyes drifted back to the TV screen, and he stared blankly at it for awhile, trying in vain to pretend he couldn't hear any of the sounds that started coming from the bathroom. Retching, first. Apparently he really had been sick to his stomach. And then another sound that was so faint it was barely audible, but he'd heard it more than a few times when they were both kids that he could've recognized it anywhere. Muffled sobbing. Probably into a wadded-up sweatshirt or towel. Muffled, because when he was little, even if something really awful had happened, he'd never want their dad or Dean to see him crying, even if he always did a lousy job hiding it. Sam knew that Dad had never learned how to react to tears, that was fair enough. But Dean had never quite figured out why Sam had ever bothered hiding anything from him-it wasn't like he couldn't always tell something was off in about two seconds anyway, and it never took much effort to wheedle him until he confessed what was wrong.
But right now, his trying to hide it was almost making it worse.
Because it still was one of the most heart-wrenching sounds he'd ever heard.
Even if Sam happened to be puking up a bag of Doritos at the same time.
Because it wasn't like this was something Dean even knew how to begin to fix.
It went on for the better part of three hours. More throwing up, more sniffling, the toilet flushing, and a glass bottle being slammed down on a countertop. Damn it. This was the last thing he'd wanted Sam to be doing, getting totally hammered, because he knew it would have exactly the opposite effect on Sam than it would have on himself. For him, and for damn near every Hunter he'd ever met, alcohol was needed for this job, to numb you. A couple shots and you don't care so much, it doesn't hurt so bad. It's why Ellen got so much traffic at the Road House, because Hunters had yet to find a better coping mechanism. But clearly, a ton of alcohol was only gonna make Sam feel terrible now, and probably worse in the morning. He had half a mind to bang on the door and tell him to stop it and come out, but he figured he might as well let him get it all out of his system… Or at least that's what he told himself. Truthfully he didn't like the turn the conversation had taken the last time he'd tried to talk to Sam while Sam was wasted and upset, and didn't care to repeat it. Bringing all that up now—the if-I-turn-evil-promise-me-you'll-kill-me crap—would just make things ten times worse.
So there he was, stuck there on the couch, jaw set and eyes hard, not wanting to listen but not being able to help it, and helpless to do a thing about it. He hated it. Hell, at this point he was even starting to resent this Madison girl. If she'd cared about Sam at all, she'd have stopped to consider what having to kill her would do to him before she asked him to do it. Did she think it was poetic or something, like some sort of sick perversion of the ending to a romance novel? Sure, Madison had never known about Jessica, or why she was the reason Sam stayed away from women as a general rule, but surely she should've been able to tell, whether she knew the cause of it or not, that in sleeping with her he might as well have said "I think you're one of the most amazing women I've ever met, and I REALLY care about you, so let's move to Ohio someday and have 2.5 children together, and the consequences be damned." Or something like that. More or less. Or maybe he'd just been horny. Somehow Dean didn't think that was the case. Not entirely anyway. But he hoped for Sam's sake that it was, maybe he'd get over it faster. Somehow he didn't think he would.
Not that it mattered if he was mad at the girl or not. She was dead, and for something that wasn't her fault. And they couldn't save her.
This job could really suck sometimes.
Eventually he really did hear the sound of the shower running. At least he isn't drinking anymore. But if he didn't come out in maybe 20 minutes, Dean was gonna start banging on the door. So here's hoping Sammy isn't drunk enough to drown in his own shower…
As it turned out, he didn't drown. Fifteen minutes later the door of the bathroom opened and Sam came stumbling out. His hair was dripping wet and he was dressed in the clothes he'd worn that day, which were also pretty wet. Clearly he was sober enough to survive the shower, but too drunk to towel off. His eyes were unfocused—he didn't seem to notice Dean was there- and he was leaning against the hotel wall, bracing himself like he didn't know which way was up. In short, he looked like hell.
Dean stood up. "Sammy?"
Sam blinked and attempted to take a step towards him. He pitched forward.
"Sammy…whoa, hey…" He managed to catch Sam before he fell flat on his face, steered him towards one of the beds, and made him sit down. "You alright?"
Sam was staring down at the carpet. "S-she's dead…" he muttered.
Great. Friggin' fantastic. Obviously it wasn't all out of his system. "Why don't you go to bed now, okay?"
He looked up at Dean. His eyes were bright; he looked sad and dazed and confused and…well, a bit like a helpless three-year-old. "She's dead," he repeated. "I killed her."
"You had to," he said as gently as possible, hoping to God that Sam wouldn't remember any of this in the morning. "Go to sleep, Sammy."
"I h-had t-to," he repeated, slurring his words. "I h-had to, because s-s-she was hurting people. S-she was hurting people so s-she made me do it. She d-didn't want to hurt people."
"Sam—"
"I d-don't wanna hurt people, Dean." His expression was pleading.
Damn it. This scene was all too familiar. Note to self—don't let Sam get drunk ever, EVER again. "I'm not gonna let you hurt people," he said sternly, "And I told you, I'm not going to hurt you. I don't care what you do."
"B-but—"
"No." He nearly yelled the word. Sam flinched. He sighed and tried again. "Look, you should go to bed. Okay?"
"Dean—"
"Okay?"
Sam shut his eyes tight and nodded. "Okay…"
"Now."
Sam flopped himself backward onto the bed and Dean tugged the blanket over him before stalking off to the bathroom himself. On the counter he found the bottle; when he picked it up, it was much lighter than he'd expected it to be. He took a swig out of it himself before crawling into his own bed, trying hard not to think about anything at all as he drifted off to sleep.
Sam didn't stir until nearly 1 PM the next day. Not like it mattered; they weren't exactly headed anywhere. Dean had been watching TV on the couch. A muffled groan coming from beneath a mound of blankets told him Sam was up.
"Morning, starshine," he called.
Another groan.
"How're you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a bus," Sam mumbled. He didn't move from where he was lying.
"Yeah, I bet. Well there's coffee." He jerked a thumb at the half-full coffee pot sitting on the counter.
"Maybe later."
"And I got these too," he said proudly, flinging two miniature boxes of a very sugary brand of breakfast cereal and a tiny carton of milk at Sam. "From that continental breakfast thing they had in the lobby. Which, by the way, was awesome. I had muffins. I saved you some of those, too. Best cure for a hangover in existence, you know."
Sam laughed weakly. "Muffins are?"
"Yes. Yes they are."
"Somehow I doubt that." He pushed himself up onto his elbows with a grunt. "But thank you." He picked up the tiny box of Frosted Flakes. "I love this stuff."
"I know."
His face paled and he let himself flop back down, looking nauseous. "Ugh, but not right now I don't. Oh god…"
Dean grinned and rolled his eyes. "Well don't mind me. I'll just be here…watching shitty daytime TV…all day long."
"You do that."
"But don't feel bad or anything."
"I don't."
"Fine." Under his breath, he added, "Bitch."
"Jerk."
Well, at least things were back to normal. Or something like it.
It wasn't until around six or so until Sam was up and about. Dean came back to the room with the sandwiches he'd picked up for them for dinner, and—surprise, surprise—he found Sam on his laptop. He was squinting at the screen like he had a bad headache, but looked absorbed in whatever it was he was doing nonetheless.
He handed Sam the sandwich and a drink. "You're not already looking for another case, are you?"
"Yes, I am. Did you get the Advil?"
"Yeah." He handed Sam a pill bottle and sat down across from him at the small table. Sam took three or four Advils and went back to his laptop. Dean sat there for a minute or so, waiting for him to say something. When he didn't, Dean reached across the table and snapped the laptop shut.
"Hey!" Sam protested, and started to open it back up, but Dean kept his hand on top of it, and pushed it closed again. Sam sighed. "Okay, you have my attention."
"I think we should go to Vegas," Dean said simply.
"What? No. Let go of my laptop."
"Why not?"
"I don't want to go to Vegas. I want to work, which isn't very easy when you're—" He tried and failed to shove Dean's hand off the laptop.
"Will you just listen for a second?"
"What?" Sam sounded irritable.
"Don't you think that after…yesterday, we ought to—"
"I don't want to talk about yesterday," Sam snapped.
"Sammy."
"I don't want to talk about it," he repeated softly. "Please."
"Okay, we won't talk about it. But still, don't you think that we should, I don't know, take a break?"
Sam shook his head. "The stuff we fight isn't gonna be taking any breaks, Dean. The demon certainly isn't."
Dean frowned. He wasn't going to bother with pretenses anymore. "Look, I'm tired as hell right now. I am damn sick and tired of just about everything right about now. Aren't you?" He'd wanted a break more for Sam's sake than his own, but as the words came out of his mouth, he realized the truth of them. He didn't know how much more of this he himself could take, either.
Sam looked away. "I found two potential cases," he began in a lifeless voice. "One's in Seattle…"
Dean sighed.
"…And one's in LA."
"Let's take that one," he said without hesitation. Case or no case, in LA maybe he could at least pretend that they were on vacation. He could bang an actress. It was an okay substitution, he thought.
But driving down the highway the next day through the scrublands and deserts of southern California, as he listened to Sam describe the case that he made Dean promise that they would look into (something about a Hollywood starlet watching some guy get murdered on the set of her own horror movie), Dean couldn't figure out why he felt so uneasy. Wasn't this better than what he'd hoped for after the San Francisco case? Sam seemed okay enough, if a bit too focused on this case and less talkative than usual. So maybe he was dealing with…what happened.
…Or not. Something told him that Sam was dealing by not dealing, trying to outrun it. And he should know, because it was precisely how he dealt with his own problems. The law of ignore-them-and-they'll-go-away. And he didn't think that it was a good way for Sam to try to function. Hell, even he was starting to realize more and more, especially since Dad had gone, that it was hard to outrun much of anything when you could hardly force yourself to put one foot in front of the other anymore. Especially when at any moment you could very well be stumbling into something that could finally break you—some sort of "last straw" that could knock you flat on your face and leave you without the strength or will to ever pick yourself back up and keep going….
Dean grimaced. It hurt his head to be as philosophical as all that.
But as far as he was concerned, the bottom line was this: As long as they were going to be crawling blindly towards some big, awful unknown, neither of them was going to have to face it alone. Come hell or high water, he would make sure of that much.