Maelstrom
Chapter Five
The silence that has dropped over the lobby is an unnerving one, because he's clearly on the outs of something here, lacking on the information front, and the quiet seems to cause the enormous room to feel even colder. A frigid wind audibly howls outside, beating against the thin boards of plywood covering missing windowpanes, and Bobby can near as feel it seeping into his bones.
"Told me what?" he repeats, shattering the silence and allowing a bit of sternness to harden his voice, the tone known to put these boys' spines straight when they're slouching and get answers when they're dead-set on being that special kind of coordinated quiet that had always infuriated their father.
His eyes go back and forth between Sam and Dean, searching out the familiar tells in their facial cues. Sam's jumping eyebrows or Dean's phantom itches, because Lord knows how these two are hard-wired to protect and lie for each other, and what comes next should be taken with a damned silo of salt, if it's anything halfwayserious enough to merit this degree of hesitance.
With a put-upon sigh Dean takes the lead, as is more or less to be expected, especially when Bobby takes this tone of voice. "'Bout this weird-ass…thing that's goin' on with us." He waves a vague hand around, then presses briefly against his side before dropping it into his lap like it weighs a ton.
"That's specific." Sam shakes his head, mouth slack in exaggerated disbelief. "No, really, well-put. I'm glad you've taken it upon yourself to be the spokesperson of the family," he chastises his brother, though it's said lightly, and seems equal parts good-natured ribbing and concern. All rounded out with a dollop of that general bit of exasperation the kid always seems to have, a John Winchester-inherited defect of an otherwise mostly pleasant personality. The pleasantness must've come from his mother.
Bobby tilts his head back, pausing to draw in another mouthful of coffee before it goes too cold to both drink and keep down. Sam had mentioned something the night before, true, about sensing a fear of some kind in the hotel, and he'd settled in his mind that it was coming from his brother. Was real convinced of it, too, but Bobby had mostly written it off as a guilty conscience, as understandable panic that maybe Hell had come and rung the doorbell a little early to collect what it was owed. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't felt a bit of that panic, himself, running up on Sam cradling his limp and bloody brother.
Truth be told, he froze, not that Sam noticed or, hell, even saw Bobby coming up on the both of them there on the steps. Losing John, well, they all knew that was coming. It was only a matter of time and the question of when, where, and how. But that's not supposed to be the end of the line for these boys. Not these boys. Not his boys.
Cold Oak. That's what it had felt like, seeing Sam and Dean, one of them limp and unmoving, and just enough blood to catch sight of from a distance. That dark, rainy night and nightmare come true. It's coming down to the wire here, and they've yet to find a way to keep the hounds at bay. Bobby knows he's not on the main stage in this production, but he also doesn't think he can do it again. And Sam…what broke Dean will shatter Sam. There won't be pieces big enough to put back together into a person.
But whatever this is happening now, they're both experiencing it, and that certainly warrants some level of further investigation. Bobby scrutinizes the boys for a moment, makes eye contact with Sam and jerks his head meaningfully at Dean. "All right, Sam. Whatcha got?"
"Seriously?" Sam scoffs a bit at being put on the spot. He sighs, shaking his head. "I don't know." He turns to regard his brother, who's swaying slightly from his seated position across from Bobby.
Dean squirms under the scrutiny and is working very hard to keep his own gaze pointed at the floor, like that's somehow going to protect whatever darkness he's hiding inside. He sniffs, scratches the back of his head, winces.
Bobby, strange enough, can tell that Sam does know. That they both do, and he doesn't need any special psychic connection for that, just the shifty body language and the dumb, guilty looks on their faces. The hell you two idjits get into now?
"You're annoyed," Sam offers the back of Dean's head, somewhat half-assedly, and lifting a shoulder under the pretense this is boring him as opposed to freaking him out. "And…maybe hungry."
Dean takes a moment, then reluctantly nods. The group falls into an uncomfortable, somewhat embarrassed silence. The portable camping heater hisses between them and fills the space with a vaguely gassy smell, and somewhere behind them, another chunk of rotting roof beam collapses under the weight of piled snow up top and thumps to the floor.
"Well," Bobby says finally, the word echoing harshly off of the plain, stripped walls of the lobby. He slaps his bent knees with both hands, and the smack of the motion follows in a second rebound around the room. "I wouldn't go takin' this show of yours on the road just yet." He looks up at Sam and forces a crooked grin, though he's not particularly amused. "He's damn near always annoyed and hungry."
"It's real, Bobby, and I don't like him in my head," Dean says, his voice loud, but tight and rough. Strained. As though this could be the thing that's just one thing too many. "I mean, I don't even really like me in my head."
"Oh, and you think I like this?" Sam returns loudly, face turning a shade of red that isn't from the prevailing cold but from something hotter rising inside, because that's his instinctual response and he doesn't quite know how not to be angry. Not just yet.
"Yeah, Sam, I kinda do," Dean snaps back as he whirls from his seated position. He's been growing more and more short-tempered as the days run out, like he's finally realized there's not much to be gained from not speaking your piece. Learning his lessons a bit too late, just like his daddy. His jaw clenches against the pain the twist causes in his ribs, and his eyes are bright in a too-pale face. "You're always wanting me to talk about every goddamn thing and look, all of a sudden I don't even need to."
"You're saying you think I had something to do with this?" Louder still, Sam's voice rising in pitch as his feathers are ruffled just a bit more.
But Bobby doesn't move to intervene. He knows these two well enough to know they'll say just enough to say what needs said before backing off, and that will be that.
Dean turns back to Bobby and his head drops once more into his hands like he just can't hold it up any longer. "Calm down, Sammy, for the love of God," he groans. "Of course I don't think you did this. This is…it's just a…" He gives up and looks up at Bobby, eyes watery and squinty, his plate perhaps well and truly run over. "And you haven't been…"
"Havin' visions of gumdrops and whatever the hell else it is you two screwballs've got goin' on in those thick skulls?" Bobby's words and tone are much lighter than the weight he feels in his heart, and his fingers twitch for a glass of whiskey between them, regardless of the time of day. "No."
"You ever hear of a ghost doin' somethin' like this?" Dean, unsatisfied, presses.
Bobby shakes his head slowly. He'll consider all of the available options, as he always does, but that's one idea he's sure they can throw out easily enough. "Never. I don't think it's the ghost."
"What?" Dean doesn't seem to like that answer, frustration straightening his spine as he draws himself up. Almost seems like he was banking on the answer being something as simple as that, doesn't want to consider the fact it could be something that digs a bit deeper. "Why?"
Bobby recoils a bit. Because I said so, and I've been doing this a helluva lot longer than you. No one questions his intel or opinion quite like a Winchester, but he bites down on the retort. "Because all of my research says this is just your garden variety poltergeist. Deaths have been random, happenstance, and the victims were isolated, not connected in any way I can drum up." Bobby throws a hand to wave between the two boys. "Whatever this is, it seems to be very specifically about the two of you."
Sam crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows, taps an impatient foot against the floor. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning some kinda curse, I'd wager," Bobby says, mostly thinking out loud. That's pretty much all he can do, without any of his books or research materials. They've had the benefit of some spotty internet access on Sam's phone, but he trusts his own information cache more than anything they'd pull from that clusterfuck of mishandled and mistranslated information. "If you're sure it's nothin' to do with that crossroads deal." He can't help falling back on his first instinct, can't help feeling that little bit of inherited self-sacrificing is what keeps landing these two in all manner of shit.
"It's not because of the damn deal, Bobby," Dean exclaims, throwing out his hands. He immediately pulls the left back to brace his sore side, makes up for the dip of strength with his sniping tone. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Still planted behind the mouthy jackass, Sam jerks his chin pointedly at the back of Dean's head and mouths the word 'annoyed,' like this little outburst proves the validity of his previous read on his brother.
Bobby narrows his eyes at Dean. A little aggravation is bringing some color back to his pasty complexion, and that's good to see, so it's with a soft scold that he says, "I'm gonna chock that little fit up to the concussion."
"I don't have a – "
"You ain't dead just yet, boy, and maybe it's best you say that you do," Bobby continues evenly.
Dean blinks stupidly at him, and Sam nudges him in the back with his knee. Dean whirls fast enough, smacks his brother in the leg before Sam can get out of the line of fire, so at least they've managed to establish that he's gettin' to feeling a bit better.
"Now," Bobby continues, "if you're so damn sure it's got nothin' to do with your deal, then that brings me back around a curse of some kind."
"Well, that's just great." Dean's head bobs with sarcastic enthusiasm. "Like I'm not screwed enough."
"Hey," Bobby barks. "Both of you numbskulls are gonna need to keep cool heads while we figure this out."
"I'm cool," Dean says, though his posture would suggest otherwise. He might be on the slow train back to true form but his shoulders are still held too high and tense, and the lines around his eyes would suggest the raging headache that is more or less to be expected on the heels of the kind of fall he took.
Sam shoots him a glare that brings Dean kneading at his right temple. "Yeah, you're a cucumber."
"Huh?"
"Nothing."
"You know, you don't have to say anything to be a dick, Sam. I can tell."
"So can I, yet you seem to feel the need to go ahead and say it anyway."
Better get this shit straightened out before they kill each other, Bobby realizes, mouth twisting grimly. "Both of you, knock it off!" He comes to his feet as quickly as he and his stiff, frozen joints can manage, drawing the full, wide-eyed attention of them both. "Look, we're stuck here, least til the storm blows completely over. And there's still the matter of a ghost somewhere in this hotel who doesn't seem to have a problem poppin' out and shoutin' boo. So maybe it's for the best if you boys split up for a – "
"No," Sam refuses outright, sternly, shaking his head tightly.
Dean is slower to respond, but nods a hesitant agreement. "We can handle it."
Bobby sighs, but can't say he expected anything less. "I think you'll both be singin' a different tune, we don't get this mess cleaned up soon."
There's a decent chance Bobby's right, but Sam doesn't think he'll be singing any sort of tune for a good long while. At least not while he's fighting this persistent pounding in his head that is just about as annoying on the inside of his skull as Dean insists on being on the outside.
His brother has an obvious tendency to internalize, to zip his lips when he's dealing with discomfort of any kind, be it a compound fracture or some less evident but no less painful form of mental torture, usually brought about all on his own, but Dean can't seem to shut up about this particular intrusion of his mind. In fact, he'd been vocal to the point Sam is starting to get seriously concerned that he and Bobby may have been a bit hasty in their joint examination and glazed over a few of the proper concussion protocols the night before. When they agreed that while Dean might not be entirely fine, he was certainly Dean-fine, and made their peace with the fact he was bullheaded enough to not allow himself to be taken down by an elusive spirit and half a staircase.
Maybe Dean has just accepted – albeit a bit too easily to be completely within character – that there isn't much to be gained by internalizing at this point. If they aren't safe with their feelings within their own minds, then there isn't much point in continuing to stubbornly hide things from one another. Or maybe he's trying, as would be much more understandable and believable, to deflect. To throw Sam off the scent of what's really going on in his head. Because that's just gotta be a genuine horror show.
"I'm fine, Sam," Dean grits through clenched teeth as he stomps back into the lobby with enough force to bounce ceiling bits from where they've fallen in jagged wooden chunks to the floor. He's cutting a frustrated path towards them while cramming his arms back into the sleeves of his dusty coat, having already dragged on a new and mostly-clean shirt from his bag. He'd been complaining of the blood-stiffened collar irritating his neck, as though that's the worst part of what happened last night. At least he's up and moving around, and at least it had been a blessed few minutes in which he wasn't complaining about Sam.
"I didn't say you weren't," Sam says, frowning. "In fact, I didn't say anything." Did I? he second-guesses himself after a moment, looking across the wide room to Bobby for confirmation.
The man shakes his head but doesn't speak. He's leaning against the stone wall framing the fireplace, arms crossed with false casualness. Bobby hasn't moved or spoken in quite some time, and his posture is tense, face tight and lined as he watches the two of them, much like he's studying caged animals who are interacting for the first time.
To be fair, they're not catching Dean on his best day, here. Not between the second knock on the head he's managed this week and the fact he didn't get nearly enough coffee to meet his required daily amount of caffeine for proper interaction with other humans. Best thing he's got going for him is that he's not going to have to put up with this newest scar for very long.
Ouch. Sam, himself, is sent reeling by the morbid thought. It comes from so far out of left field, he's not entirely convinced the thought is actually his, and sets his troubled eyes searching his brother's face. The man can try all he wants to force his features to smooth into a passive and mostly unreadable canvas, but lucky for Sam, he's got the cheat codes for breaking through that wall. "Dean, we're gonna fix this."
Dean gives up the charade pretty quickly after that, as he crams his soiled, balled-up button-down into his bag and chucks the entire duffel to smack to the floor, just in case his frustration wasn't evident enough. "We don't even know what the hell this is, Sam, so don't tell me we're gonna fix it."
Sam frowns. "No, I mean…the…" He means well, but has a hard time with the words.
"What? Spit it out, Boy Wonder." Dean's eyes narrow, then widen as something in his mind unwittingly syncs with Sam's. "You're talking about the deal? About my deal?"
Sam feels each individual hit Dean takes for himself as he says those words. He doesn't want to respond, but he also doesn't have to.
Dean levels a stare that doesn't match the persistent fear and pain Sam knows his brother is feeling. "Sam, I can't say this enough. Apparently. This was my decision, and I don't…" Dean breaks off and turns away, finds Bobby against the wall and throws a hand back toward Sam. "Bobby, can I get some help here?"
Bobby shakes his head, squints beneath the shadow of his trucker hat. "Sorry, kid. Gotta say, I'm on Sam's side of the fence, here."
"Thank you," Dean snaps, rolling his eyes.
A sharp line of fire rips through Sam's skull, from one temple to the other. He grunts and doubles over, brings a hand instinctively to the side of his head. In his periphery, he sees Bobby come away from the wall and senses Dean drawing nearer, feels his patented mix of panic and concern growing in intensity more than he views his brother approach.
Dean's hand drops heavy and cool on Sam's shoulder. And almost like the physical contact counteracts the emotional one, the pain in his head quickly subsides, leaving him feeling a bit foolish, but otherwise fine.
Dean's smiling when Sam straightens, but the look is grim, tight. Utterly false. He's always known Dean was good, but he'd never realized just how often his brother's expression doesn't match his feelings until those feelings were being jammed into his own head. "Good?"
Sam nods, and gives it a shot, one-upping his brother's lackluster acting prowess. "Yeah," he says tightly. "Good."
Sam's not good. He's not anywhere close to good. He's in a different area code from good.
Sam's an angry guy. That's not exactly breaking news; Dean grew up with the kid, and he's pretty sure Sammy broke the hinges of more doors than your average moody adolescent. Sam's always had an attitude that packs a wallop, but Dean hadn't ever realized that anger is less reaction and more a personality mainstay. The anger he senses from his brother is on a constant low-burn, seemingly unexplainable and impossible to ignore.
This whole whack-a-do mind melding thing certainly can't be helping that situation any. Dean likes his thoughts and feelings best when they're his, when they're locked up tight in his mental safe that doesn't have a key or code to break. His brother's getting a peek behind the curtain, and there's no telling what he's going to see to set him off, but it seems like an unavoidable hazard of being a perpetually screwed Winchester.
"What are we gonna do about this, Bobby?" Dean asks, rotating to face the older hunter. The answer man. "I mean, I know you guys want me to open up a little more but we can't just…stay like this." Something about what he's just said slaps Dean across the face, and he turns his attention back to his brother, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket. "Sam, you're sure you didn't…"
"No, Dean. God." Sam turns under his hand, levels a glare. "Is there anything you think I won't do?"
Dean raises his hands, the flush of heat rising in his pounding skull. Found a sore spot. "Okay, cool your jets, Sasquatch. Had to ask."
"No, actually, you didn't."
Dean claps his brother on the back before he moves away, maybe a bit rougher than needed, just to put that period firmly on the thought. Just to make sure Sammy knows, you're not shittin' me, either, little brother. He straightens, eyes going to the staircase across the lobby, where he'd apparently taken his little tumble, and redirects his focus on the ghost. On the job, because that's what he had wanted, and that's what he needs, and if there's ever going to be a time Sammy's going to give him what he needs, it's gotta be now.
His eyes slide back to his little brother, who still looks a bit pinched, like he's got a whole damn lemon slice in his mouth, but something passes between them unspoken but certainly felt, and Sam nods tightly, communicating, do the job.
Thanks, Sammy.
And then Dean throws his attention back to the staircase, where he'd apparently been attacked.
Apparently, because Bobby's right, and Dean's missing some time there, though he hates to admit it. He remembers seeing something, then very much feeling something, and then Sam and his nosy, giant-ass hands but couldn't for a million bucks confirm that's the scene of the night's action.
Dean frowns, forcing the angry yet still concerned bits of Sam in his head to the back burner, and downshifts into work-mode. "Either of you geniuses check for EMF this morning?"
Sam scowls, and Dean knows he's not thrilled about them pushing this mind-meld thing to the side for the time being. The resonating thrum of Sam's irritation through Dean's already-rung skull kinda takes away the need for interpretation out of his brother's facial expressions.
Bobby's missed the entire exchange save Dean's smartass comment, and he chuffs a laugh. "No, because this's our first damn job."
"Doesn't hurt to ask." But it does. God, it does. It hurts Dean to ignore, and it hurts Sam to be ignored. For the briefest of moments, their pain aligns, but then it's right down to business. Dean swallows, turns to Bobby. "What's our next play here?"
"Thought you'd never ask." Bobby seems more than happy to distract them, withdraws the blueprints for the hotel from a vest pocket as he crosses the room to meet them in the middle. The thin paper whooshes and flaps as he stoops and flattens it against the dirty floor, and he holds the floorplan in place with a few chunky pieces of found ceiling rubble on the four corners.
Sam, ever the curious cat, seems properly distracted as he crouches and leans over the plans. Bobby pulls out a thick marker and makes a few spots on the map, but he may as well have waved something loud and shiny in front of the kid's face.
Dean smiles, tired, amused and affectionate, then turns his own attention to the map, crossing his arms across his chest to keep from sending cold fingers to explore the gash in the back of his head that feels like the Grand fuckin' Canyon. Bobby's marker hastily eliminates the various corridors they've already searched with wide slashes before drawing a circle around the staircase.
Bobby shifts, and his knees give a protesting creak. He taps the map. "Mighta been a long shot, even checking the upstairs for remains, but I think we've safely ruled out most of the second and third – "
"I saw something else," Dean speaks up, staring at one of the thick black slashes drawn across an upstairs hallway. He squints as he forces the memory to the front of his mind. "Or, something somewhere else…" It's escaping him, and suddenly Sam's got him by the elbow, a steadying force. The effort of trying to recollect the encounter had left him lightheaded enough, he'd nearly sent himself to the floor. Son of a bitch.
Sam and Bobby shoot him a look in tandem, the same small, frightened glance they both keep throwing Dean, like they're half-expecting to see his brains leaking out of his ears. And with the way his head is pulsing and pounding, it's maybe not too far off being a possibility.
"Hey, easy with the heavy thinking," Sam jokes weakly, once Dean has shaken him off the way he's expected to. "We get that you got a face full of ghost last night, man. You don't need to go reenacting it for us."
Dean persists, crouching to rest a finger on one of the upstairs hallways. There's something there…blood, maybe. And, a teddy bear? That can't be right. "I saw it here," he says, confidently now, punctuating his statement with a double-tap against the map. "Before, you know…" He figures they've all taken enough hits without him needing to say it. Like Sammy said, he left some hair on one of the steps.
Sam shoots him a strange look, but Bobby just moves his marker to circle the area he'd previously eliminated as needing to be scouted further. The hunter mumbles to himself as he puts together the path of the day's search.
He thought he'd gotten something of a handle on this thing, and so it takes a while for Dean to realize the blood rushing in his head isn't actually blood, it's Sam.
Dammit, Sammy, he complains silently, Stay on your side.
Sam shoots him a strange look, left eyebrow disappearing somewhere into the depths of the shag atop his giant head. "What?"
"What?" Dean returns immediately.
Bobby's wide eyes dart between them. "I miss somethin'?"
The roaring picks up in volume and intensity, bringing about a ringing in Dean's ears, and a thump behind his eyes that makes him think he just might be concussed. There's the anger, so low and steady and even, he has to wonder if Sam himself knows of its constant presence. Because there's worry slathered over the top, to a suffocating degree. Dammit, Sammy, Dean pleads, the heel of his hand grinding into his temple.
Sam, of course, senses the pain, just not the fact that he's the cause of it. He steps toward Dean, eyebrows pulled together nearly into a single thick line across the front of his thicker skull. "Hey, man you all right?"
"Just…" Dean's eyes desperately roam the room helplessly before he finally points to a far corner, dark with shadows cast from the large mantle spanning the stone fireplace. "Go stand over there."
Sam, surprisingly enough, doesn't put up a fight but obliges, traversing the distance with long steps. When he's planted in his designated corner he holds his arms out. Better?
Bobby's caught on by now – not that they're by any means being subtle – and pulls upright with a wince, as quickly as his battle-tested joints will allow. He raises his eyebrows. "That help any?"
"Maybe," Sam says, ever the optimist, as Dean groans a miserable, "No," that has to sound as bad as this feels.
Bobby looks to Sam, and he sighs. "Yeah, no," he admits, a bit dejectedly. "It doesn't help."
Bobby takes a moment to ponder on that, his eyes narrowing as he determines their course of action. "Can't leave you two like this for much longer, that's for damn sure. One of you is likely to rip the other's head off."
"Can't leave the ghost here killin' people, either," Dean argues.
"Nice to see where your priorities are, Dean," Sam snaps, having already kept his retorts to himself to the point they're bubbling over.
You're alive because of where my priorities are, bitch, so I'd back up a step. Dean bites the words back, but Sam recoils the same as if he'd said them. There's no talking himself out of this one, so he doesn't even bother trying.
After a slow morning start, it's become clear that Dean is going to be fine. He's been feisty and on the mend, and putting up a hell of a fight against this veritable mind-fuck, but more than anything else, fine, at least physically-speaking.
This comes as a relief, but not as much of a surprise, because Dean is always fine. Sam had grown up thinking of his father as bulletproof, but it's his brother who's proven to be the truly resilient one, the one who smashes through brick walls and bounces back good-as-new from the hits that others wouldn't think of getting up from.
Except that one time.
Sam is forced to remind himself of that one time almost daily, every time his mind strays and he's awed all over again by the sheer strength of his big brother. It always comes back to that one time. They wouldn't even be here in this position, not without that one time.
And not without that first deal, the one Dad offered Azazel.
Without that deal, Dean never would have thought to offer his own soul. Never would have traded his life for Sam's, not without the knowledge that his life was a tradeable, barterable thing.
It had been a morbid but educated guess, the best possible reasoning as to how Dean woke so suddenly after doctors told Sam it wasn't likely he'd ever talk to his brother again. The crossroads demon Dean trapped cleared away the guess part, confirmed what they'd both dreaded to be true, and opened a brand new avenue for their trend of self-sacrificing.
And without that one time, without that one deal…they wouldn't be here, staring into the mouth of Hell and waiting for it to bite.
But without that one time, Sam wouldn't even have hadhis brother this long, would he?
As it is, Sam doesn't have his brother for very much longer, and he can't stop thinking about how he's about to lose him.
But Sam does have him for now, and Dean is a little pale, and keeps scratching at the scab in the back of his head, but he's fine. Physically, anyway, he's fine.
And so the worry he's been forcing on top of everything else, it starts to flow out of Sam, like a river rushing unimpeded to empty out into the ocean. He'd been relying on that worry, had been using it to dull the edges of everything else he's grown used to feeling under the constant presence of his brother as these months are wearing away. As the clock's running down. Everything else he's now powerless to keep Dean from sensing.
Dean's not saving him. Dean's leaving him.
And Sam tries and tries but he can't keep that thought out. Can't argue that logic, and can't fight the resentment that clings to the thought like a shrieking toddler…that anger that's been growing and festering on the heels of the resentment. He doesn't want it, and he didn't intend for any of it…but that doesn't mean he can stop it.
So he starts talking as they traverse these cold, empty hallways, a solid group of three fighting not to show weakness through frigid shivering as they search for remains of a spirit that needs very badly to be put to rest. He chatters at uncharacteristic length and speed, and he laughs nervously at odd breaks in conversation, drawing strange looks from both Dean and Bobby.
"Are you sure I'm the only one who hit my head?" Dean finally deadpans, but there are creases of stress and pain at the corners of his eyes, and pangs of the same stampeding through Sam's head.
Bobby doesn't see it, doesn't feel it, and he just chuckles. Just laughs it off and keeps walking.
Sam can't deal with that, not the joke and not the stress and not the pain. Not the fact Bobby can't see what is so damn clear to him, and he looses a strange high-pitched cackle in response, a sound that's strange and unnatural, because maybe he is really is doing little more than straddling the fence between hanging on and cracking the fuck up.
"What are you talking about? I'm fine?" Sam grins and throws out an elbow, bumps Dean with enough accidental force to send his already off-balance brother stumbling into a wall. "Shit, man, my bad." Each word rings falser than the one before, and the confusion in Sam's head is only mostly his own.
Dean straightens wordlessly, brushing plaster dust and cobwebs from the sleeve of his jacket with his flashlight hand. He seems extremely intent on something the floor is doing, and Sam finds himself leaning forward, squinting, trying to get a read, but it's becoming harder and harder to discern any one emotion, let alone know whose is whose.
"Boy, you really are special, ain't ya?" Bobby comments. He, as always, appears equally concerned and amused, those emotions split between the both of them, though Sam's always wondered about the ratio.
Dean doesn't appear to be either concerned or amused at the moment, but he's clearly working on something. He chews his lower lip, eyes darting all over, everywhere except Sam. "Hey, Bobby," he says suddenly. "You mind givin' us a few minutes?"
Bobby's a different sort of sentimental, but he's just as prone as Sam to giving Dean whatever the hell he asks for. He and Sam have bonded a bit over this combined trauma of Dean's looming Hell sentence, but his brother has always been the man's favorite, since they were kids. He kindly bobs his head at Dean as he moves down the corridor, eyes skimming sympathetically over Sam's face as he passes. At least, Sam thinks it's sympathy. It's hard to know what it is Bobby's thinking exactly, since the man doesn't have a manual the way Dean now does.
Dean stays there, almost pressed against the dirty wall, almost like he needs the support, or maybe like he just wants to stay as far away from Sam as he can get in this narrow hallway. He watches Bobby's light bob and weave down the dark passageway until it disappears entirely around a corner.
Sam swallows, and right on cue, a muscle in Dean's jaw visibly jumps. He jerks his head, like he's trying to fling a thought from his very mind. Like he's trying to fling Sam from his mind.
"What is it?" Sam asks hesitantly, worried that he already knows what Dean's managed to ferret out.
"Sam, you…uh. You…" Dean's eyes screw up as he works to process whatever it is that's flashing through his mind. He's fought it tooth and nail, but the previous night's knock to the head seems to be catching up with him, causing him some trouble in coming up with what exactly it is he's trying to say; a crease appears and deepens between his brows as he exhales a frustrated breath in the form of a hot cloud in the otherwise cold air.
Sam tries to clear his mind, but fails. Tries to cling to the guilt of the moment, or at the very least bring forth the morning's worry, or the previous night's panic. Anything but the resentment. But he's been angry for so long, about so much, that it's hard to wash his mind and body of it completely. When Dean latches onto to it, Sam can feel the intrusion, and already knowing what's coming, all he can do it wait for Dean to take stock and assemble all of the pieces.
Dean rocks back a step, finds that wall at his back and is forced to finally meet Sam's eyes with a wounded, betrayed expression that completely matches the strange, offended twinge flaring suddenly in the back of Sam's own mind. "You're madat me?"
There's no point in denying it, as his brother would immediately know that he was lying. But if Dean forces this conversation to happen, neither of them is likely to enjoy the outcome. It's hopeless, even as Sam weakly protests, "Dean – "
"For the deal, for saving you…you're madat me?"
"Dean, don't – "
His brother's face hardens, and what lies beneath only serves to dial up the anger Sam's already got there, just biding its time. "How the hell can you be mad at me, Sammy?"
"Of course I'm mad at you, Dean!" Sam explodes, because Dean's not the only one with a clock ticking down to Go Time. "Do you have any idea what I've been living with? What it feels like to know that…" He stops, because Dean does know how it feels to have someone pull you out of line and take your place on death row, and there's more than enough on the Winchester angst plate without bringing Dad verbally into the equation. He's always there, and his deal with Azazel is always there, whether it's spoken of or not.
Sam tries to bite his lip, but the words seem to be stronger than his will. "It's just…not a great situation to be in, you know? And it's not like I had any choice in the matter." It's the closest he's come to throwing any kind of accusation at his brother. And now that he's gotten going, he can't seem to put a stopper back on the flow of them pouring out, like heat-seeking missiles all programmed to hit Dean. "You did this without my knowledge and without my consent. You can't play with people's lives like this, Dean."
Dean steps forward like he might throw a punch. Sam knows he won't, doesn't budge. "The only life I played with is mine."
Sam shakes his head forcefully, and somehow enjoys a pocket of clarity, a moment of solitude in his own mind, and he grits out, "I can't believe you ever had the nerve to call me selfish."
Dean runs a hand down his face and sighs with such heavy exasperation, Sam can feel it thrum behind his eyeballs. "Come on, Sam. You'd've done the same for me."
And on the heels of his brother's exasperation is an unwavering sureness. A sense of such fierceness of certainly radiating second-hand through Sam's mind that he's forced to drop his gaze guiltily to the floor without saying anything.
He forgets, for just a second, that he doesn't have to.
Dean's eyes widen just slightly, and he rocks back a step like he's been physically struck. He takes a couple of long strides down the hall, down the way Bobby disappeared. Puts some pointless distance between them before he turns back. "Wait, wait…you, uh, you wouldn't have. Would you?"
"Dean…"
"You would've let me die. Or, whatever, stay dead." Dean stabs at Sam with his flashlight. "You wouldn't have made the deal I made for you, that's for sure."
It's futile to lie here, so Sam shrugs his shoulders helplessly. "I don't know."
But Dean is at least as stubborn as he so frequently accuses Sam of being, and like a dog with a bone, is looking to make his brother say something that can't do anything to help the situation. He shakes his head with some version of his trademark cocky-ass grin stretching across his face, but there's not anything approaching humor tugging at his lips or his intention. "You wouldn't have."
"I don't know, Dean, okay. Okay? There's no way to know for sure." He found the faith healer, sure, but Dean's heart was cured of any defect at no cost to Sam, himself. If Sam had been told that he was the one who would have needed to take Dean's place on the chopping block…he just can't say for sure that he would've made the same play his big brother did. Not in that moment, not with Dad missing and Jessica's killer unrevenged.
Dean leans his head back, scrutinizing his brother. "No, you know. Hey, it's cool, Sam, I get it. It's not like it was an easy decision to make." He holds up a hand, and the sarcasm coming curls Sam's lip before Dean even speaks again. "No, wait. It was."
"Yeah, because it was a decision that took your pain away." Sam feels his nostrils flare, the flush of heat on the back of his neck as he takes a step forward. Dean frowns and steps backward to match, and Sam doesn't know if it's due to the look on his face or the fact his selfish, dumbass brother can sense just how angry he's getting. "Stop acting like you did what you did to save me, Dean. You made that deal for you. Because of what you needed."
The extent to which he's angering DEAN doesn't even occur to him, because there's no definitive warning, no war of emotions taking place within the confines of his skull, just a dial of rage that's suddenly been turned up to eleven.
Dean's right hand clenches tightly around his shotgun, knuckles standing out stark and white. "10-4, Sam. I get you, loud and clear." It means, shut up, Sam, because Dean gets violent when he gets angry, and Sam is no exception. He's more than once worn the bruises of his brother's explosive fury.
Sam's molars grind painfully as Dean fights the urge to throw a punch. "Dean, I'm not gonna lie to you. God knows, there's really no point in trying right now, but I don't know."
"I got it," Dean says again, quieter.
"Dean – " The anger in his head abates by half as quickly as if he'd snapped his fingers, and Sam is left dizzy and stumblingly off-balance as a sense of pain flashes through his head. Not physical pain, but a definite knowledge of something less tangible than muscle or bone breaking inside. An agonizing feeling, a sometimes forgotten one.
Jess. Sam's first thought, the connection he makes, the only experience he has with a pain that runs this deeply.
This pain isn't his, and it's a pain he hasn't felt since losing Jess. Not even…not even losing Dad had drawn this kind of…
Sam raises his eyes to his brother, sees the darkness in his expression, the loss. He's not saying he wouldn't have made the swap, but even his uncertainty is breaking something inside of Dean. Sam can feel it.
He swallows roughly. "Dean…" I'd do anything for you. But if that's true, then why can't he seem to say it?
If that were true, wouldn't Dean feel it?
Dean doesn't even give him a chance to try and recover. "Don't worry about it, Sam," he clips, and continues down the darkened hall in search for Bobby.
To be continued...
