Taedium Vitae
Sam's noticed Dean hasn't slept in a week.
"Find anything?" Dean asks from the post he's been holding consistently since last night - reclined on his motel bed with a cold beer in one hand and a sanitarily questionable remote in the other.
"Well . . ." Sam hesitates with his fingers on his laptop's keys. "There're a couple small jobs we could look into." His gaze sails over his shoulder and catches on Dean's mildly intoxicated form; his olive-drab eyes are unfocused, loitering around the droning television with something like ennui.
They've been working small cases since mid-February.
Dean's brows rise when he finally senses the staring, and he angles his face Sam's way. "So . . . You wanna tell me what they are?"
Sam's forehead creases, and he half-turns to the computer, half-wishes he knew what to say. "Dean . . ."
"Cases, Sam." Dean takes another swig of beer and looks back at the T.V.
There's a moment of commercial-filled tension.
"How many of those've you had?" Sam grills instead of following orders, rotating back toward his brother.
"'Smany as I want."
Sam's noticed Dean's been drinking non-stop since Valentine's Day.
"It's just beer," Dean adds, clicking the remote.
"They're just small jobs," Sam blurts, a little matter-of-factness edging into his tone.
Dean blinks and continues to surf, knuckles whitening just noticeably around his beverage.
"What about the Devil, Dean? The Apocalypse?" Sam presses.
"They're prob'ly still around," Dean theorizes sarcastically.
Sam rolls his eyes and goes all-in. "You haven't talked to Cas in weeks."
Dean twitches a little at that. "He hasn't called."
"Neither have you."
"You gonna get to a point? I'm busy."
Sam's noticed Dean's been watching as much television as possible when they're not out on a job.
"You can't avoid the End of the World."
Dean mutters something against the mouth of his bottle, and even though Sam only hears "stop" and "either," he pieces the pessimism together effortlessly.
"We can try."
Dean shakes his head, and his jaw tightens.
"What, Dean?" Sam snaps. "What's that mean? You're just gonna give up? Sit here and watch soap operas?"
"Is that an option?"
Sam can't believe Dean is completely serious. "Of course not!" He stands, throwing his hands out helplessly. "What's wrong with you?"
"Hey, you're the one who doesn't wanna save people," Dean snarks without enthusiasm, not even batting an eye at Sam's stricken face.
"What! I do wanna save people! Why -" All of a sudden, Sam is sure this is about the demon blood, and his towering shape deflates in self-loathing. "This is 'cause I relapsed, right," he declares more than asks.
Dean's double-taking is a good sign of responsiveness but only a little reassuring. "No! I didn't mean -"
"What then?" Sam interrupts, back to angry as Dean moves his legs over the side of the bed and sets his beer on the nearest hard surface. "Ever since Famine, you've been -"
"I was talking about the jobs, Sam. When I said you didn't want - I meant the small, stupid, pointless jobs you don't wanna do." Dean looks up at him warily, and after an appropriate stint of hesitation, Sam lets his guilt dissipate, making a different connection.
"Cas told me what Famine said to you," he informs.
Dean's lip curls, and he breaks eye contact. "And you wonder why I haven't called."
"I heard most of it first-hand, anyway," Sam amends quickly. "He was just worried - wanted a second opinion."
Dean sighs. "So, I've got an empty spot inside me. What's the big deal? You two're like a pair of manly moms."
"We're supposed to be fixing this, Dean, and all you wanna do is sit around and do the easy stuff."
Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "Easy? You think that, up until this whole demon versus angel bullshit, our lives were easy?" He scoffs and reaches for his beer again. "I dunno where you've been the last thirty years, but that's not how I remember it."
"You know what I mean. We have work to do, but all this month, we've been hunting ghosts and poltergeists and cursed objects; some of the jobs we took weren't even dangerous!"
"So, what? Now our job is all about this holier-than-thou battle? Good to know, 'cause I was thinkin' we were s'posed to kill evil and protect people wherever we can. Boy, was I wrong!"
"Don't do that," Sam objects lowly. "Don't make this into some kind of joke. You know how important it is for us to stop Lucifer and fix -"
"Whadda you wanna do, Sam?" Dean demands. "We don't have any leads; we're watching people we know die, left and right; and man, I dunno about you, but I'm so tired of fighting monsters and angels and fucking divine will; I'm not up to 'fix'ing a goddamn thing right now."
With that, Sam watches Dean's broad shoulders sink inward, his posture decay into something almost pitiful. "We don't have a choice."
Dean exhales a wry laugh through his nose and moves back into his original position, taking up the remote to flip through channels. "We always have a choice. That's the point."
It's not that Sam can't see where Dean's coming from; Hell, he's tired, too - exhausted, but that doesn't mean they can just quit the big game. It's their fault Team God is on a losing streak, and he knows it just as well as Dean does; they have an obligation to Heaven, to Humanity.
"We have to keep looking, Dean. There has to be a way."
"Okay, Optimistic. You keep looking for some Godly sign, and I'll keep hunting supernatural sons of bitches and actually helping people," Dean compromises mockingly.
"The fact that we saved eleven people this month won't matter when six billion of us are dead!" Sam barks and aims a glare.
Dean's face splits into a wretched scowl. "Don't you get it, Sam?" he shouts back, throwing the remote aside. "If God wanted us to win, He'd've shown up by now! Or left a message for Cas! He'd've fought off all those evil bastards or given us a place to sleep when we're outta money! He'd've warned us about Ruby and the angels! He'd've answered me when I-" He cuts off abruptly, panting mouth hanging open for a few seconds before he shuts it and hopes Sam went temporarily deaf.
Sam frowns at the mortification that washes over Dean's countenance and questions slowly, "When you what?"
Dean turns his head away, one hand dragging over his eyes.
"I'm not gonna drop this, Dean," Sam warns. "When you what?"
Dean breathes out. "When I asked for help," he responds as if in mourning.
Sam breathes in and can't detangle his thoughts for the next twenty seconds, wave after wave of disappointment undertowing him into paralysis; he doesn't know if it's for God or for his big brother.
Sam's noticed Dean's persistent gloom.
In time, he forces out an insubstantial, "Oh," and stares at Dean blankly.
Dean scans the label of his bottle in silence, waiting for something more, something he can hang onto.
As if sensing this, Sam worries the inside of his cheek and runs his fingers through his hair. Consolations trip over one another in his head, all too clumsy to carry proper weight in this conversation. He drops his rigid stance and approaches Dean's bed with quiet purpose.
Dean still has his eyes glued to his beer's quality guarantee when Sam nudges him out of the way, gigantic limbs burrowing a place next to Dean's shorter ones on the whiny queen. Sam picks up the forgotten remote and buttons back a couple channels, to where he caught sight of Dr. Sexy's cowboy boots strutting across screen.
For the rest of the evening, Sam and Dean don't talk; they don't look at each other; and they certainly don't touch; but Sam notices Dean sagging into the lumpy pillows next to him, easing into a messy facsimile of relaxation.
For the rest of the evening, Sam and Dean avoid their life.
A/N: I found the title in a 1952 medical dictionary when looking up tachycardia (too much House). Instant inspiration!