More R&R, with a side order of pain, because we're dealing with these brothers.
The moans wake him. Their beach house has four bedrooms but the ones they're in face each other, and the walls are thin, and Dean, every now and then, sleeps with his door open for no apparent reason (probably some convoluted security measure). Sam wakes up to Dean whimpering for the first time in… over a year, and feels his stomach sink. Logically, he knows that yes, Dean definitely still has nightmares because he still has nightmares, but knowing and witnessing aren't the same thing. He freezes and listens. There's no getting used to the sounds Dean makes when he can't help it, sounds he'd never let escape when conscious. Sam briefly wonders what he sounds like in the throes of a nightmare and assures himself that it can't be as bad as this.
Just as he summons the resolve to rouse his brother, getting so far as his threshold, Dean wakes with a loud gasp. Sam retreats, the dozens of times he's come out of a nightmare to Dean's distraught eyes likely influencing his decision. As soon as he steals back into his room, he knows for certain what his brother's next move will be. Sure enough, a minute later, the doorknob squeaks and a weak beam of light falls across the bottom half of his bed.
Sam holds his hastily contrived position, hoping he's convincing, as he senses Dean's gaze on him, feels his eyes roaming, darting, reassuring himself. As soon as he hears the gentle click of the door, he relaxes with a sigh. He thinks Dean bought it. Could tell he was trying to be quiet. Unless that was just his effort at furthering the act Sam initiated, which is a distinct possibility now that he thinks about it, probably even likely. Just another iteration of their decades-long, idiotic, non-game of chicken…
Sam decides to flinch.
He gets up, cracks the door, and slips out to the mezzanine. Dean's rattling around downstairs; the whoosh of the fridge opening, the clinking of bottles, a mutter in a tone reserved for swearing, a cabinet or two being messed with… Dean doesn't glance up when he appears in the living room so Sam chooses to observe. He expects him to settle on the couch and flip through a couple of channels before, inevitably, finding his way to an ancient Star Trek episode (if that's possible around here), but he heads for the front door instead with a bottle of whiskey in hand, passes a dozing Miracle and disappears into the night, away from Sam's covert watch.
Sam sits at the top of the staircase and seriously considers heading back to bed. There's nothing he can do. Odds are they won't talk about it. And even if they did, it's not like it'll fix anything. That's part of the reason they don't discuss this crap to begin with; nothing is solved by hashing it out. But… heading back to bed doesn't sit well with him. If this was the bunker, he'd probably retreat, if this was the bunker he wouldn't be awake in the first place, but they're not in the bunker, they're on vacation in Mexico, and Dean plus a fifth of whiskey plus a head full of horrors plus solitude plus the early-morning hour isn't a winning combo.
Sam gives him some time, splashing water on his face, brewing a pot of coffee, and skimming a Spanish architecture magazine lying around, before following. For whatever reason, he expects to find his brother at the pool, but the shimmering, underlit water is empty, as are the assorted chairs surrounding it, so he takes the leafy path down to the beach. He hears faint music as soon as he crosses the gate, though his eyes struggle to adjust to the moonlight. Once they do, Sam sees Dean camped out in the same spot where, just a few hours ago, they watched the stars and the sunset before that. They didn't see much, being firmly on the east coast but they've already made plans to remedy that when they reach the Pacific coast. Might be a while before they work their way there, though, because they've been taking their time since rounding the bend of the Yucatan Peninsula. Sam's not complaining. Their unhurried pace, their loose, often nonexistent, timetable, makes their road trip that much more enjoyable, and Dean, in laid back mode, has been more than willing to visit every hole-in-the-wall he discovers. He's found himself largely in charge of their itinerary and has already plotted a couple of forays for when they head inland. Sam's pretty sure he can coax Dean into nature; as long as there's beach time and steaks at the end of the road, he's alright.
As he nears the pair of lawn chairs, the music clarifies into an unfamiliar, mournful, blues riff. He announces his presence with a cleared throat, setting down two coffees beside a mostly-full bottle of Buffalo Trace. Dean's head swivels slowly where he's lounging at a 120 degree angle.
"When'd you spot me?" Sam asks, taking the vacant chair.
"The light, when you opened the gate."
"Mhm."
Dean examines the coffee he brought, partly in amusement, partly gauging his own interest, and Sam takes the opportunity to examine him. He looks rough, even in the silvery light. His stubble's coming in and he's got shadows everywhere, and his eyes look weird, like he'd been… Oh. It'd been as bad as it sounded, then. Dean doesn't cry often. He tears up remarkably easily - Sam's seen him holding the waterworks at bay more times than he can count - but he rarely lets them fall. At least when Sam's around. He's about to ill-advisedly address the unaddressable, because he can't help himself, when Dean preempts him.
"I wake you?"
"I guess."
"Sorry."
"It's fine. What's with the blues?"
"It's not 'the blues', Sam, a little respect... It's John Lee Hooker. Man's a freaking legend," Dean protests, electing to sample the coffee. Sam congratulates himself. It's only recently that he's taken an interest in Dean's drinking, and though he knows it's a losing battle, he still cherishes every victory. He's pretty sure Dean's wise to his game but every time he humors him means one less drink.
"You've literally never mentioned him."
"Some guys don't even need a mention. Just listen."
Sam listens, finding the song incredibly sad. He peers at the phone's dimly glowing screen and finds the title: I Hated the Day I Was Born. Yeah… Track three of fifty-seven on a playlist named 'Feeling Blues'. He wants to check out the rest of Dean's playlists, unaware of their existence five minutes ago and finding them amusing, but resists.
"A whole playlist, huh? I didn't know you were such a fan."
"What do you mean? I love the blues. Always have."
"Dean, in the thousands of hours we've spent driving cross-country, I can't remember a single time listening to John Lee Hooker or… I don't know… Muddy Waters?"
"Yeah, well…" Dean shrugs, leaning his chair all the way back to stare at the stars. "I have some vinyls, Willie Dixon, Howlin' Wolf, the Kings… but those cassettes ain't easy to find. Besides, you gotta be in the mood for this stuff."
Sam snorts. "What, blue?"
Dean grins idiotically, way too pleased with the lame, obvious pun. "Didn't know you had it in you, Sammy, I'm proud. But, I mean, if that's the sole criteria, I coulda played this just about any day in the last… twenty years?"
"Give or take," Sam agrees. It's that kind of night then; the kind where we acknowledge the horror all matter-of-factly. The song ends and a vaguely recognizable one takes its place. Sam works on his cup of coffee, the air breezy enough to make the warmth comfortable rather than stifling. He loses track of time, listening to the ocean and the guitar solos and piano bridges and the rich, sometimes mellow, sometimes throaty singing accompanying them. It's sobering, but in a pleasant, calming way; he can see why Dean opted for this playlist. They should have been listening to this stuff all these years. Before long, he hits the bottom of his mug and Dean does the same and then makes a move for the whiskey but thinks better and rubs his right forearm unconsciously and stops when he realizes he's doing it, and Sam stares at him, remembering that chilling era, one of the many he's trying to forget. It's not a move Sam's seen him make in recent years; must've been the nightmare that brought it back. God, sometimes he really wishes he can erase specific things from his mind.
"You can stop the ogling, I'm fine," Dean says after what feels like an hour, pausing his activity which entails scooping up a handful of sand and letting it fall gradually through his fingers.
"Ever hear the one about the boy who cried wolf, Dean?"
Dean huffs in a smirky way. "Yeah, Sam, I have."
"Just saying."
"Just saying what? Moral of the story, let's hear it."
"Alright... You've had catastrophic bleeding and literal bullets in you while insisting," Sam does his sarcastic 'deep-voiced Dean' imitation "'I'm fine'. So, yeah, 'I'm fine' doesn't mean much coming from you."
Dean nods slowly. "Fair enough, how's this? I'm in sound health, no injuries to speak of, fit as a freakin' fiddle, and I promise to let you know next time I take a slug. Happy?"
Sure. "You know you never actually fooled anyone?" Not true, especially when they were young, but it's been years since Sam fell for Dean's brush-offs. He wonders how he ever did.
"Well, in that case, your whole parable collapses."
Sam has to laugh at this point, at the two of them, at the absurdity of this conversation. They're on the beach at… 4:43 a.m. drinking whiskey and listening to the blues because Dean's nightmare was bad enough to wake them both and because he's clearly having a hard time with it. Yet they still feel the need, or Dean does, to dance around the issue, arguing semantics instead. Nothing new about it, though.
"So what was it?" he asks, taking the leap once the hilarity wears off.
Any hint of humor disappears from Dean's face and his lips compress as he looks away. A few deliberate blinks later, and Sam regrets ever asking. He already knows, roughly, what the subject matter was and the only reason he asked is because, on the odd chance Dean wants to talk, he needs the opening offered. He wonders if Dean's aware of how readable he is. He used to at least have that stone-faced veneer he could don but that got lost along the way. Sam wishes… well, he wishes a lot of things, for himself and for his brother.
"Running helps a little, for me," he tempers, looking away. He's worked at changing his lifestyle in recent months; getting out, getting exercise, hell, even some meditation. Sam's not above trying anything that may work and it does, to a degree. Some things will never go away, some things there's no healing from, but the rawer stuff can be alleviated. Of course, it helps if you're not in denial about those things. It's a constant battle to stop himself from slipping into old patterns of thinking, to accept his new reality. He's decreased his alcohol intake too but he's not gonna go there now. "Wouldn't kill you to get some exercise, some sun."
In true Dean fashion, he hones in on the single area of interest to him, completely missing the point. "You're still having those dreams?"
Sam glares at him. "Stress relief. It works. You should try it."
"We're on a private beach in Mexico with nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no one coming for us. Doesn't get less stressful than this."
"And yet."
"Yeah, well, that's just life. It ain't perfect. And I hear vacations can be pretty damn stressful too."
Sam rolls his eyes but drops the topic. Dean gets edgy about inquiries into his wellbeing, especially when he's feeling it. If you're going to corner him, better do it in the light of day. Besides, the suggestion is what counts. Put the idea out there enough times, it may start penetrating his ironclad defenses.
"Go back to sleep, Sam," Dean says after a few minutes.
"Right after you."
"I'm staying out to watch the sunrise. How's that for 'a little sun won't kill you'?"
"How many hours did you get?"
"I don't count," Dean scoffs. Less than five, then. "How many hours did you get?"
"You need to sleep. You're not twenty anymore." There's something relaxing about familiar arguments; they've got a stress-relieving quality of their own. Might be why they engage in them all the time. "It messes with everything. Mood, appetite, uh… cognitive ability, the immune system, stress. Everything."
"You a somnologist now?"
"Somnologist?" Sometimes the things that come out of Dean's mouth still surprise Sam.
"I know a big word or two."
"Yeah, clearly," Sam replies, unthinkingly, marveling at his brother's power of distraction. It truly is a thing of beauty. Or the opposite. He's a master illusionist when he turns it on; you don't even realize you're being redirected until you're arguing Trek vs Wars for the thousandth time instead of finding out if that gash needs stitching, or whether a trident is an advisable weapon against a werewolf, or where the rest of your butter pecan went. He still falls into these traps, despite his familiarity with them. "Anyway, if you're staying out, so am I."
Dean rolls his eyes, trying and failing to stifle a smile. "We're on vacation, Sam, no need to be a martyr."
"Says the pot..."
Dean, wisely, refrains from forcing an exposition.
Thanks for reading :)
