hee... Couldn't help myself. Posting stuff just gets me so hyper.
It takes some convincing, but Sam finally agrees that any huge drastic changes – as in hell-on-earth kind of huge – right away would be bad. Sam's still set on opening the glorious gates to hell, but Dean has his word that the transformation will be gradual. That buys him some time, at least. He hasn't given up all hope just yet.
Ruby is still hanging around. Checking up on her little prodigy, all pride and disgusting, watery smiles. My little boy's all grown up, type thing. Dean shudders. She's worse than ol' Yellow Eyes.
He's still got her dagger, the demon-killing one. Every time she drops by for a friendly heart-to-heart with the Boy King, it takes all of Dean's self control not to unsheathe it and draw its jagged edges across her pretty little neck. Too bad the new host isn't the same hard-edged, tough blonde bitch as the original girl. Dean has always had a thing for soft brunettes.
But Sam has made it clear since day one, with a flash of opaque eyes and a rough shove that the two of them would get along. And if he ever found either one of them secretly plotting against the other – mind-reading certainly did have it benefits – they didn't even want to know what he would do. Ruby had smirked at him from behind Sam, smug and utterly infuriating, so certain that he would be the one to take the brunt of the psychic's anger. What he wouldn't give to rip her arrogant little face off…
The threat doesn't bother Dean much, though the unnecessary show of demonic prowess does unnerve him; but what really scares him is the doubt that had crowded his mind afterward. This isn't the same Sam that had once looked to him for guidance on every little thing. Dean's not sure where he ranks on Sam's priorities any longer. There used to be a time when there was no question. He knew all the answers to anything involving Sam. Now, Dean can't even tell you how his little brother takes his coffee. Or if he still drinks the stuff.
Hell, Dean isn't even sure where the border is between his Mr. Sensitive-Doe-Eyes Sammy and this new steely-eyed king who has full command over an army of demon hordes. The differences have blended, shoving his brother into a new cacophony of lights and darks, and he doesn't know where his real brother is hiding or how to get him back.
"Dean?"
Dean looks up from the gun he is in the motions of pulling apart. His extensive collection is spread across the bed before him in neat sections. He still cleans weapons when he's nervous; nothing, not even the end of the world, would ever shake that habit out of him. The motel is another crappy room somewhere in the seedy part of town, and Sam and Dean are still on the road, boy kings, demonic power struggles, and dark-eyed bodyguards be damned. Some things never change, no matter what, and for that at least, he has something to be grateful for. But in this case, even Dean can see he's trying to mask the truth of their new, even more screwed-up lives.
Sam is watching him fearfully, which, Dean thinks, is cruel irony. What does the Boy King have to fear now, when every other monster out there cowers from his very shadow? Dean can't remember ever being able to invoke that kind of emotion in his brother, not in that way. Sam had always been his own person, willing to do whatever it took to shape his own destiny, especially if that meant he had to rise away from a life that had only ever held him back. Sam had been independent. Fearless. If anything, Dean was the one who'd made a practice of watching his family through anxious, hooded eyes, waiting for the last bomb to come screaming down. This wouldn't be the first time Dean has suspected Sam's new kinghood has changed him more than just a difference in status. It'd practically been a given from the very start of this mess.
"Dean?" Sam repeats. He looks more anxious than before, if that's possible. Sam always was the one with the permanent worried frown etched into his forehead, cemented into place by genuine emotion. But that was before. Dean has the uncomfortable notion that Sam only seems uneasy in his presence. It seems like only yesterday that they were actual brothers. He knows the exact moment what all that had changed.
"Yeah," Dean coughs to cover up his lapse in attention. "What's up?"
Sam still has dried blood over the front of his button-up shirt from earlier that day, which he either doesn't notice or doesn't care enough about to clean up. Dean hadn't been there when that incident had taken place, but when Ruby walked in with a disgruntled look on her stolen face, he'd known it hadn't been pretty. Thus the obscenely large splatter of blood caking Sam's shirt. He was glad for his absence in that case. Either way, Dean can't even begin to try to comprehend the goings on in his little brother's head; it'd been hard enough when the kid was still his old geek self.
However, it seems to Dean that in a sick way, Sam wears blood with a familiar ease, like it is a fashion accessory he'd always worn or even enjoyed flaunting to the public. Dean keeps trying to tell himself that it's the blood that bothers him and not the contentment with which his brother seems to finger the ruined piece of clothing. If Sam's new personality is to be believed, Dean wouldn't be surprised to find that exact shirt tucked safely away in the depths of his duffel, like a treasured souvenir, instead of dumped in a trashcan like a normal person would have done. Dean won't be the first to admit that Winchesters have never been normal, but this is just on a whole new level of weird. His world is so screwed up, he doesn't even know whether to laugh incredulously or swallow a bullet.
"Well," Sam says in the voice that always reminds Dean of a crying puppy. "I was just wondering… if you were mad at me,"
(what?)
Pre-hell Dean would have burst out in a fit of barking laughter at the look on his little brother's face. Overly-sensitive little geek…
Pre-hell Dean no longer exists.
"Why would I be mad, Sammy?" Dean says in the neutral voice that has almost completely overshadowed the sarcastic tones of earlier days. Though, in his head, he's racing through the events of the entire day, trying to figure out if he'd let something slip. Wondering if this is the day he'll finally lose his brother to this thing for good, and maybe, a traitorous thought, maybe he is finally free of the obligations of this life. He is only here because his job isn't quite done with. Orders disguised as a final death wish are the only anchors to this world he has left, more permanent than any chains hell can come up with.
"Yeah, Sammy. Why would big brother Dean be mad at you?" Ruby pips from the darkest corner of the room. (why's she even here?) Probably here to make sure her Boy King doesn't regress. Being alone with his decidedly human older brother is dangerous to her cause after all (the bitchy prick).
This time, she isn't quite as careful as she normally is, and Dean catches the flicker of motion that signals her silent entrance. Demons have just a big of a grudge against doors as angels, it seems.
"Well," Sam sighs, his shoulders rolling into his normal, laid back pose. He's relaxed now, Dean notices with a weird pang he can't identify. The moment he has an audience, Sam instantly loses the awkwardness of his rigid stance, and a strange confidence overtakes the nervous edge fixed into his face. Dean is forced to watch as the man before him grabs his brother by the scruff of his neck and tucks him away into the folds of his new, cursed identity.
He could really get used to hating this.
"You haven't been talking much, is all," Sam shrugs, flashing a smirk that Dean has seen hundreds of times everywhere else. Everywhere else but Sam's face. Sam doesn't smirk, Sammy smiles. Sammy is sincere and kind and empathic. This imposter walking around with Sammy's face and Sammy's mannerisms is anything but. It might be just a smidge mean, but Dean almost wishes he could see the uneasiness clouding his brother's face again, just to see something that belongs to Sam. His brother Sam.
"Oh," he replies, because Sammy would have expected him to come back with something. "I just figured, you know, with your demon posse stalking you wherever you go, you had enough to worry about without your 'human' brother holding you back."
Dean keeps his eyes on the metal and cloth shaking in his white hands (they haven't been able to hold perfectly still for a while now – never safe). Out of the corner of his eye, Ruby shifts. He doesn't know if it's in warning or if the maggots in her host's rotting body are just acting up, but he's tired of trying to find meaning in every little thing – doesn't really get him very far anyway.
Sam's been quiet for a few seconds now, and Dean finally thinks that maybe the 'human' comment might have struck a chord or something. Then he catches himself – that would be old Sammy. He's got to stop thinking of him like this guy is still his Sam. This man isn't his brother. Not anymore (time to get used to the idea, deano).
But what comes next is something he'd never expected from this Sam.
"I always worry about you, Dean," his voice is soft, and Dean can actually hear the truth singing through. That's Sam saying this. This time it's Sam. It transports him back through years of pain and loss and, literally, hell on earth. Now it's just Sam and Dean. Brothers. Family. Warmth. He chides himself for being such a sap, but in this moment, looking up at his bright beacon of a brother (surprised as hell), he revels in the light, and the darkness inside him is swept away. Right now, the boy before him is just Sammy, and he's just Dean. And they're just brothers. So he answers accordingly.
"You would, you pansy. Gotta turn everything into a lifetime special, don't you? Dude, whatever happened to the 'no chick-flicks' rule?"
Dean doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Sam replies with a genuine smile that is purely Sam. (score one for team human)
"Shot to hell the second I turned thirteen, jerk,"
It's more than Dean had ever anticipated, all these weeks of watching his brother turn into a stranger. And god, he's missed this. So he laughs. He laughs long and hard, and by the time he's done, they're both reduced to short pants of amusement. It's the best he's felt in weeks – months even – but he knows it won't last.
Ruby's gone from her hovering position in the corner, and Dean's surprised by her generosity, but he doesn't question it. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth sort of thing. She probably knows she won't be talking to her Sammy boy anytime soon, anyway.
He wipes hysterical tears from his eyes; even though it hadn't really been all that funny (sam – the real sam – would have come up with something better). But his brother is full-on grinning. Nothing fake or unfamiliar about it, something he hasn't witnessed since he showed up at his door after four months in hell. It's the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen.
"Yeah, well you're just a little bitch,"
He would get used to missing this.
- - -
Dean didn't know how long he sat on that lumpy excuse for a mattress, but when he looked up from his examination of the carpeting (now he knew why Uriel had found it so fascinating), light was no longer streaming through the ragged curtain drawn over the window. If that was supposed to mean something, he wasn't the one to go to for explanations.
He turned from the sickly yellow of the drapes and curled on his side, facing the door, feeling (hoping) as if someone with furious hazel eyes would come barging in through at any second. They had the same eyes; he was pretty sure, just a shade or two off. Mom's eyes.
Somewhere along the way, Dean managed to doze off. The scattered dreams his muddled mind somehow came up with were riddled with scenes of death, screaming, and blood. A flurry of pearl white feathers and a pulsing roar and Dean jerked awake. His frantic gasps seemed to echo too loudly in the suffocating silence of the room. They hurt his ears.
He took a moment to calm his raging heart and smooth out his breathing. Then he realized his phone was going off. It vibrated agitatedly on the nightstand between his bed and the empty one, screaming out some rock tune he couldn't remember. (should remember, picked it out)
It took years to crawl over the vast desert rumpled sheets. The distance between him and his cell seemed to stretch further with each beat of the song. He finally scraped it off the beaten wood, the smooth plastic scratchy against his bare skin. He slid the phone open and pulled it to his ear, croaking.
"'lo?"
"Dean,"
He froze.
No.
"Dean, please,"
This was worse. This was worse –
The raw fear in the impossibly familiar voice sent claws tickling up his spine. The hair on his neck stood on end, itchy pinpricks.
"Dean,"
He hardly dared to believe it. How could it –? It wasn't possible, but he couldn't help himself.
"Samm-y?" his voice cracked embarrassingly, but now wasn't the time for macho self-consciousness. "Sammy… what the hell?" Blunt.
"W-what?"
"I thought – I thought… Where are you?" The older brother finally emerged, and he let instinct take over.
"I… I… Dean, I don't kn-know. Dean, please,"
He swallowed sickly and forced his hand to hold still. It wouldn't stop shaking. He let his voice disguise the wave of queasiness, retreating into the shell of the soldier.
"Come on, man. Tell me what you see,"
"I… there's a motel…"
"Hold on, Sam, I'm coming,"
"O-okay,"
The phone slid shut and he was in motion before his brain had the chance to catch up. When he caught himself, he was already at the door of the Impala, duffel in hand, phone burning a hole in his pocket. He collapsed into the driver's seat and sat for a crazed second. The urgency from the moment before was pushed under temporarily.
His mind couldn't stop spinning, repeating over and over: whathappenedwhathappenedwhathappenedwhathappened
(how was he still alive?)
Dean breathed in deeply. A mental breakdown was undoubtedly in order, but not yet.
He quickly righted himself, jammed in the keys, and twisted edgily, barely waiting for the soft growl of the engine before slamming on the gas. He would apologize for the manhandling later.
(coming, sammy. coming.)
He could hardly drive; his hands were shaking too hard.
Ok... I can't write angst worth jack. Reassure me?