First time writing pure angst so... did I do the thing?
"S'just some funky hoodoo, man. We'll hit the books and figure something out."
It's raining. Well, raining wouldn't be the right word. It's a weird drizzle that's light enough where windshield wipers would be over kill, but heavy enough to turn'em on anyway. Doesn't help with the cold Virginia air much, either.
"Yeah, whatever you say," Dean looks over at Sam—looks over his long and lanky limbs, all folded nicely to fit comfortably in the Impala's passenger seat. He's got his elbow on the doors arm rest, forehead pressing against the chilly window, face pensive and broody; pulling some serious bitchface.
Dean sighs.
"Look man, this sucks. I know. You were about to pull some serious tail back there—that Nancy chick was—"
"Marcy—"
"—all legs. But we'll get this whole curse thing fixed up in a jiffy and then maybe we can head back. We're the feds, remember? You can just say ya got called up to HQ for some serious federal business or some shit. Hell, make it out to be some kind of heroics—"
"Dean—"
"—I mean, I'm pretty sure you had her, did you see the way she was eye-fucking you the whole time we were questioning her? Girls got some questionable taste—"
"Dean."
"—but she's definitely interested. You've got to be a special kind of special to mess this one up, and come on. She's a secretary for some spiffy retailer. She's probably starved for some 6 foot glass of dark and mysterious. I really think—"
"Dean!" Sam's staring at him now, pensive bitchface more of a pissed scowl, "I get that you're just trying to help, but getting laid is the very last thing I'm worried about right now. Nobody can see me—besides you—and I think the fact that we're not even sure if there's a fix for this is just a little more important than Marcy-the-excitement-deprived-secretary."
Dean thumbs the Impala's steering wheel, taps out the opening tunes of Stairway To Heaven before blowing out a nervous breath.
"I know Sammy, I know. I just," he looks over at his little brother, flicks his eyes to the side mirror, to where a faint smudge of Sam's reflection should be—but isn't, "We're gonna fix this Sam, I promise."
Their gazes meet, and for a split second Dean feels an unbearable flood of grief and guilt wash over him. It's enough to make his breath stutter, and there's a moment where Sam flickers out of sight, but is back before Dean can even be sure he was gone.
Dean turns his attention back to the road, sees a sign advertising some cottage-themed motel, and steps on the gas a little harder.
"It's gonna be okay, you'll see."
"You can't keep saving me, Dean."
"Watch me."
"It's gotta be more than an invisibility thing if you can't use your laptop. But it's not, like, a ghost thing. You were sitting in the car just fine—got in and out of the car on your own too. This doesn't make any sense."
The motel is a run-of-the-mill shithole in the middle of nowhere. Their room smells musty, the sheets look scratchy, and the water pressure is probably slightly more than the not-quite-drizzling rain outside. But it's cheap, out of the way, and the guy at the front desk didn't seem to give a flying fuck about the strange man renting a double all by himself. All things considered, it's a decent place to crash and do some intensive research. That is, if they knew what they needed to research.
"You're being pretty unhelpful over there, Mister College-Education."
Sam shrugs from his spot on one of the beds, gives Dean the puppy dog look before eyeing Dean's phone, resting on the small table next to the open laptop.
"No way, man. We're not gonna bug Bobby about this. It's just a curse; we can handle this on our own."
"But we've called him for less, and we don't even know where to start. If anything he could hook us up with a specialist."
Dean rolls his eyes, leans back on the cheap wooden chair—huffs in exasperation.
"Sam, we're specialists."
"Not in curses."
"Sam."
"Dean."
The room's quiet for a beat, two, and then: "You can't keep saving me."
Dean gives Sam a steady glare. Fury runs through him quick like whiplash, coated in an emotion he can't quite decipher—not even sure if he wants to.
"Watch me."
Two days pass with absolutely no progress.
"Just call Bobby, Dean. Trust me. Everything's going to be okay."
Dean looks at his brother—really looks at him. Drinks him in and burns his image into his mind. He feels his eyes prickle a bit, get warm and wet, but he holds back the tears. 'Everything's going to be okay'—wasn't that Dean's line? Shouldn't he be the one comforting, be the one protecting—
"Sammy."
Sam leans forward in his chair across from Dean's at the dingy table—rests his elbows on his knees and fixes Dean with a look, the same look he'd give Dean when he knew something was bugging him, but wouldn't let it out himself. It wasn't fair that Sam could see through him so well, like Dean was made of glass—especially when Dean didn't know what the problem was himself.
"That's a lie, Dean, and you know it.
Dean's eyes widen a bit. "How did you—?"
"Tell me about the Hunt, Dean."
"What?"
"Tell me about the Hunt."
"What are you talking about, you were right there with me the whole time!"
"Just… humor me. Please?"
Dean huffs out a sigh, scrubs his hands over his face and rests his forearms on the table in front of the closed laptop. Thinking, he takes a deep breath and regrets it as soon as he does. The motel's rank smell has only gotten worse since their first night renting.
"Witch killin' locals to honor some BS demon trapped in the Pit. We tracked'em down, you got hit by some sort of whammy, and we ganked the bitch and split town. The end."
"Then why don't you call Bobby? If it's just a whammy, he'll be able to help us. It won't bother him—it's what he does, remember? Hunting things, saving Winchesters. It's like his own, personal business."
"We can't call him Sam, he's—" Dean stops short. In truth, he doesn't have a good excuse why. This is exactly something they'd call Bobby for, actually. But they just… Can't.
"It's going to be okay, Dean."
Dean looks at Sam, voice thicker than it should be. "You don't know that."
Sam smiles understandingly, calmly, like everything is dandy.
"Just call Bobby."
Dean picks up the phone, slowly, like it'd break into a thousand pieces if he handles it too roughly. This is ridiculous, he knows, they've asked Bobby for help a million times, so why should now be any different? But it is, he's not sure how (liar), it just is.
He turns it on—not entirely sure when he flipped it off—and sees 15 missed calls. Dean doesn't bother checking them, or the voicemails for that matter, and just dials Bobby's number—listens with trepidation as it rings.
Dean looks at Sam again, they catch each other's eyes. Dean remembers when he was sixteen and they were in Florida for the whole summer. Dad was due back in a couple of days, but the motel's AC unit was fried, and it was hot as all Hell. He barely scrambled up enough change for a tub of ice cream, but he managed. Got mint-chocolate chip. Dean hated the stuff, but Sam just couldn't get enough of it.
Dean I'm so hot! I'm gonna melt into a puddle and die!
Shush it drama queen, ain't nobody dying on my watch. In a softer voice: It's going to be okay, Sammy.
Another ring, and again—the motel's odor achingly noticeable: wet and thick.
Dad was late coming home again, a few days late to be precise. Dean hadn't been too worried (Sam had)—it was almost a routine thing by then. But it was still hot, and they were out of money and running low on supplies. Dean got a job at the local pool cleaning up garbage. The pay was horrible, but they didn't need much, and while Dean's working, Sam swam in the pool to cool off—made friends.
When Dad got home… He'd been oddly proud. The main rule was to leave the warded motel as little as possible, but for whatever reason, John wasn't mad. He let Dean keep his job at the pool for the rest of the summer, Sam got to keep his new friends for a few weeks longer, and John even put aside research for a bit every other day, and joined his boys on an occasional dip.
Sam had always mutually agreed with Dean that, that had been their best summer as kids.
"Dean? Boy, is that you?"
Sam's still wearing that understanding smile, but it's tinged with a certain sadness now. He motions for Dean to answer.
"Yeah, Bobby. I'm… I'm here. Listen, Sam and I, we need some help with a, uh, some kind of whammy."
"Whammy? What are you talking about? Dean, where are you? I've been trying to get a hold of you for days!"
"It was just supposed to be a run of the mill Hunt."
Sam flickers out of sight again, this time just a terrifying heart beat longer than before.
"I know Dean, I know. Just… Tell me where you are."
"There's something wrong with Sam."
There's a pause. A long one, actually, long enough that Dean breaks eye contact with Sam to make sure Bobby was still on the line. When he looks back up, Sam's not sitting in the chair across from him. He's lying down on the bed—looks like he'd been there the whole time, like he's asleep.
"Dean…"
"We were on a Hunt. Witch killin' locals to honor some BS demon trapped in the Pit, but we managed to track her down… Sammy got hit by some sort of whammy," He's still, not breathing, lips and pale face tinged with blue. Dean'd always thought they'd both go out bloody. But it's just so clean, he looks like he could be sleeping. Like if Dean reached out and shook Sam's shoulder this would all just be a bad dream, "and I ganked the bitch and… and Sam never…"
He's crying now, not sure when he started, but his cheeks are wet and throat soar. He can't stop, not sure if he even knows how.
"Dean, I— I know. You called me after, remember?"
He does actually, now. He called Bobby in a fit of hysterics—he'd been told to stay put. Obviously, he hadn't.
"Dean—son—I need you to tell me where you are."
"Sam's my responsibility, Bobby. And I—" He drops the phone, whole body numb and in agony at the same time. It feels as though someone's pried open his chest and gutted him—left him empty save for his savaged, bleeding heart. His head is filled with cotton and ears assaulted by a high pitched ringing—he feels his body flush and the room spin. Suddenly the odor is a thousand times more prominent, and Dean almost pukes because that's his baby brother's rotting corpse lying there on the bed. Sam's not asleep. He'll never wake up again, Dean'll never see his eyes again. His smile, his scowl—will never hear him laugh or cry.
Dean used to hate it when Sammy cried, but now he'd give anything to hear it just one more fucking time.
He stands on shaky legs and walks to Sam's side, ignoring the phone—
"Dean? Dean! God damn it, boy—just tell me where you are so I can help!"
The carpet does little to cushion his knees from the packed concrete underneath. Dean ignores that as well. He lays his head on Sam's still chest and imagines it moving in a peaceful, steady rhythm beneath his cheek. He finds he doesn't really mind the smell anymore—they'd both stunk worse after particularly nasty, successful Hunts in the not-so-distant past—and grasps one of Sam's hands in a tight grip, waiting for his baby brother to wake up.
"I'm coming for you boy, you hear me? You're not alone in this—I'm coming for you, Dean. It's going to be okay."
"It's alright Sammy," Dean mumbles, gaze locked on Sam's unmoving eyelids. "When you—when you wake up, it's all going to be okay."
Dean thinks he sees Sam's lip twitch up at the corners, feels his chest heave a small, warm sigh. He must be having a good dream. Dean would let him sleep a little longer, he deserved nice dreams.
Tears stream from Dean's eyes and soak Sam's shirt almost apathetically. The eldest Winchester pays them no mind as he watches over his little brother.
"It's going to be okay."
So I was considering a Hannibal crossover sequel.
Bobby finds Dean and patches him up the best he knows how, and then months (years?) after, he sets Dean up in Baltimore with a job and a place to live so he can start fresh and get back on his feet. Somehow, Hannibal Lecter becomes a prominent figure in Dean's life. I was spit balling Disassociate Personality Disorder, or something akin to it as well... Just a thought.