Summer heat
Plot summary: On a job in a small town where the brother have a history things come to a point. Sam is angry all the time and Dean is distracted by people from the past, can Dean fix this while keeping everyone alive as a flesh eating beast haunts the town? Slash content
Warning this story contains slash, explicit such, ye be warned!
1. Strife
Dean drags his fork over the empty plate, metal making a screeching, rasping sound on the porcelain. He is so tired his head feels as if filled with cotton and his eyes full of grit. Sam winces at the sound, head resting in his left hand as he pokes despondently at his food.
"Fuck Dean, stop it," He manages, but it is empty, lacking in spite and Dean can tell his brother is just moving on autopilot.
They are both bone deep tired, not having slept properly in days, or was it weeks? Dean can't remember when he last slept; sleep is a foreign luxury they can't allow themselves. They aren't even on a job right now, just moving as far as they can across the country, hoping against hope that they will outrun themselves. Leave everything behind and become new people.
The waitress comes up, she looks bleary eyed and sick of life. Dean heard her talking on the phone earlier, to her kid by how it sounded, telling her or him that yeah she would be home soon, she promised. He decides to tip her real well.
He looks over at Sam who has fallen asleep; head still resting in his hand, mouth open and he is almost snoring. Dean thinks they can't keep this up, have to stop, have to rest, but he knows they won't. Instead he picks up Sam's toast and eats it, teeth crunching through the hard crust and the noise is too loud in his head.
Dean pays and tips the waitress who smiles almost believable at him but he can't for the life of him care at the moment. They have been doing this too much since their father died, he knows it, but they are both too fucked up to slow down. Only thing keeping them going is the hunt, the thing they grew up to do, the only thing they know how to do together.
Dean looks at Sam, the remnants of his broken family, and he almost regrets going to Stanford and picking him up. Should have left him he thinks, left him in his safe world of books and pretty girls.
Sam wakes up then, sits up with a jerk, a streak of saliva on his chin and he stares at Dean.
"What the fuck man, why did you let me fall asleep?" Sam twists his mouth, eyes staring hard at his brother, not really seeing him.
"Looked like you needed it dude," Dean replies tiredly and he whishes Sam would just let things rest.
"Who the fuck are you to tell me what I need," Sam sits up, refusing to look his brother in the eyes.
Craptastic," Dean says and a default sneer settles on his face.
Something ugly crosses Sam's face, "Dude, that's not even a proper word, what are you twelve?"
ooo
It is some days later and Dean is lying on his back on a lumpy motel bed, arms stretched straight out from his sides, his left leg hurts; a vendigo getting way too close. He must have slept an hour or two because it is starting to get light outside, grey starting to eat away at the solid black. He is so tired he thinks he is hallucinating, pink elephants dancing across his retinas, but he can't sleep. It had been too close, much too close. His reflexes dulled by lack of sleep and mind not really caring if he lives or dies anymore.
He thinks again that they need to stop this, need to slow down. Every time he says something to Sam an evil glare settles on his brother's face and Dean knows it means, you got me back into this so quit complaining. So he shuts up and he keeps going even though he knows it will kill them both eventually. All he hopes for is that they will go at the same time; he knows he can't live without Sam but he can't leave him behind either. He feels nauseated, it is his task to take care of him and right now he is doing a crap job of it.
He gives up sleeping and turns his face down from the ceiling, for half a second he sees Sam looking at him from the other side of the room; strange feverish look in his eyes, like glowing embers. He is not sure though because as soon as he catches his eyes Sam looks away, haunted face turning back to the flickering screen of his laptop. No hunt for three days and Sam is searching for something, anything to give them a purpose. It is like he can't be alone with Dean a second more than he has to, like every moment the two of them are relaxing together is hurting him. Dean knows it is him who twists the dagger but he can't understand why.
He sits up on the bed, his whole body aching, mind reeling from the fact that his brother probably hates him and he is too tired all the time to figure out why. Much less do something about it.
"You find anything?" He asks, because it's expected of him.
"Yeah maybe," Sam says, voice all gritty and slow and Dean thinks that Sam hasn't slept at all. He looks to his side and the other bed still looks made up and neat. He glowers at the ugly sheets as if their orderliness is a personal affront.
Dean nods his head and goes to take a shower. Under the warm water the mud in his head clears for a bit and the taste, like broken glass, in his mouth dies back to a background noise. He lifts his head into the hot stream and it scalds his face, burns away everything that he is and for a second he is almost complacent. The warm water runs out fast though and too soon he is shivering in the cold and has to get out, face the world again.
As he exits the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist Sam doesn't look up, face intently turned to the screen, even though to Dean it doesn't look like he is actually doing anything.
"So tell me," Dean says.
Sam scowls, "What?", still not looking at his brother.
"About the case," Dean says rummaging around in his bag for clean clothes, too tired for this shit he thinks.
Sam looks confused, eyes glancing over Dean then slapping back to his screen fast, then he says, "Two dead, brother and sister age 17 and 19, all doors looked, police has no idea what happened. Sounds like our kind of thing."
Dean nods, pulls a pair of boxers and a t-shirt on and throws away the towel, a wet crumpled pile on the floor.
"Good."
Sam nods; head turned down and away, bangs hanging down into his eyes hiding them. Dean walks over, placing a hand on his shoulder, he wants to console him, say that everything will be ok if Sam would just look at him. If he would just meet his eyes then Dean would know if they would be ok eventually, if they can get through this latest thing.
"Don't you fucking touch me," Sam growls, shakes him off and rises as he picks up his wallet, back to Dean.
They should go get breakfast anyway; Dean grabs his own stuff on auto-pilot as he watches Sam out of the corner of his eye. His head spinning and he thinks that he should do something, he just don't know what.
There is something so fundamentally wrong between them; yet, it is his job to fix it. There has to be something he can do to make things right again, something that will keep Sam by his side. Anything, as long as Sam does not leave him.
He has no idea what though and it hurts, hurts like nothing before.
ooo
"Belmont," Dean says again and Sam looks like he wants to thump him over the head with something heavy. They are in the Impala half a day's drive away and Sam is driving since Dean wanted to go over the info about the case himself.
"Just give it up Dean, we'll be there soon so just quit it," Dean looks over at him, faked injury on his face, making his best puppy dog eyes at Sam. Sam ignores him, like he always does nowadays, so Dean just huffs and turns his concentration back to the newspapers.
'"I just know I have been there before but I can't place it." Sam shakes his head and turns up the volume on the car stereo until it's blasting too loud to hear anything and his brother's mutterings are drowned out by Bon Scott's piercing vocals.
Chapter two coming shortly, please feel free to leave a note of what you think so far!