Becomes A Monster, Sam/Dean [NC17], (1/4)
Jun. 23rd, 2013 02:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runedgirlFic title: Becomes A Monster (Part 1/4)
Author name:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist name:tdorian
Pairing: Dean/Sam, with past Dean/Benny, Sam/Amelia
Rating: NC17
Word count: 35,800
Warnings: some violence
Summary: Sam's “normal” life dissolves when his brother mysteriously returns from the dead. But when Dean came back, Benny the vampire wasn’t the only thing that came back with him. Now Sam is in a race against time to save his brother. This is one race that Sam refuses to lose.
A/N: Thanks to my wonderful collaborator,tdorian, whose incredible art brings this story to life. From the start, we were on the same wavelength, and it was an honor to work with such a talented artist. Thanks to my unbelievably patient beta, without_me, who made the whole story better, and made sure I didn’t get carried away waxing poetic about Dean’s eyes and Sam’s hair. Special thanks to deirdre_c for title and summary help, and thanks as always to the mods for the great time that is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_j2_bigbang!
(Amelia)
The windshield wipers have needed replacing for months, Amelia insisting she’ll take care of it and Sam respecting her insistence, so she’s only driving about five miles an hour when she hits the guy. One second she’s about to pull into their driveway, nothing in front of her but streams of water running down the windshield; the next there’s a jolt and the unmistakable sound of someone in pain.
“Ohjesus,” she curses, foot slamming down on the brake. She lurches forward, caught by the seatbelt, fumbling for the release with the breath half knocked out of her. All she can think is Shit, Sam hit a dog but I’ve fucking hit a person. Finally the belt lets her go. She grabs for the door handle, but before she can throw it open, something hits the driver’s side window. It’s a hand, palm splayed against the glass as rivulets of rain stream around it, and then a face--at least she thinks it’s a face. It’s there and then it’s gone, a trickle of blood running down one side and that’s terrifying enough, but that’s not what makes her scream. It’s the eyes--they’re wild, insane, wrong.
“I know what I saw,” she insists as Sam throws on a jacket and follows her outside to where her car is still sitting in the middle of the street at the foot of their driveway, the headlights illuminating the driving rain in two shimmering beams. Sam reaches in to cut the engine, then checks out the front bumper, looking all around before he gets down on his stomach and peers underneath.
“I don’t see anything,” he says when he stands up, his long hair plastered to his face. “No sign that you hit anything, no blood anywhere.”
“It’s raining,” she protests, because goddammit, she knows what she saw.
He pulls the car into the garage and goes over it with the same concentration and attention to detail he uses when he repairs things around the house or fixes stuff at the motel. When he realizes she's still standing there watching him, shivering, he makes her go inside and get warm while he does a sweep of the neighborhood.
“I know what I saw,” Amelia repeats when he comes back hours later, shaking his head.
“Tell me again?”
She pops her third beer and hands one to him.
“I was driving slow--seriously, like five miles an hour, because the stupid wipers--I know, I know… And I was just about to turn into the driveway when there was this bump, and I heard someone shout like they got hit, and I jammed on the brakes and then when I went to open the door, he was like right there--he put his hand on the window right when I went to open it, and there was blood on his face, but he didn’t look--he just looked so wrong.”
She shudders, the image still too vivid.
Sam’s toweled off his wet hair and stripped out of his wet clothes, naked for a few moments while he pulls on sweatpants and a tee shirt. He’s gorgeous, she thinks distractedly, the awareness always there.
“What do you mean, he looked wrong?”
He’s not making fun; the expression on his face is totally serious.
“I just--his eyes, they were…"
Sam sits down, his beer untouched. “They were what?” he asks carefully.
It’s a good question, and she tries to put her finger on what gave her the creeped-out feeling she still can’t shake. “The whites were showing, like, he looked crazy--insane.”
“People probably tend to look like that when they get hit by cars,” Sam says patiently.
“But what was he doing just standing out there in the pouring rain anyway? I don’t even think he was walking; he was just standing there in front of our house. And it was more than that, his eyes were… they were weird, Sam! Something about them wasn’t right.”
“I’ll go outside and look around again when the sun comes up,” he says finally. “Why don’t we try to get some rest till then.”
Neither of them is very successful. Amelia tosses and turns, falling asleep only to wake with the image of the strange man with the wild eyes staring through her car window.
When Sam gets up, she’s already in the kitchen with a brewed pot of coffee.
“I figured out what his eyes reminded me of.”
Sam turns around, cup in hand. “What?”
“You know that commercial for George, the biggest crocodile in captivity? The one that’s visiting at the zoo here?”
“Um, yeah,” Sam says, brow furrowed.
“You know how in the commercial, they have a close-up of his face and you see him blink that one big giant crocodile eye?”
“Uh-huh.” Sam has put down his coffee.
“That’s what his eyes looked like. Just like that.”
He doesn’t make fun of her, or accuse her of having a runaway imagination or being hysterical or any of the other things she worries he might. He just finishes his coffee and puts on his jacket and goes back outside to comb the neighborhood. Amelia drives very slowly on the way to work, grateful for the sun drying out the roads and making everything look bright and cheery and normal. She comes home earlier than usual, reluctant to drive after sundown.
Sam’s on the couch, a beer in his hand.
“I watched the news, checked the neighborhood again, asked around. There’s nothing.”
“You think I’m crazy.” It won’t be the first time someone’s accused her of that, but she’d hoped Sam would be different. On the outside, he seems a lot crazier than her.
He shakes his head. “I think you’re tired and stressed. And it was raining.”
Like that explains the man with the crazy eyes. But it’s an easy out and she takes it.
There’s salt spilled all over the kitchen counter when she goes in to make dinner. She has to clean it up before she cooks the pasta.
They’re good at distracting each other. Sam’s a presence in bed, overwhelming her with the perfect press of his hands on her hips; the way his mouth fits to hers, leaving no room for anything that’s not physical. It’s a relief, always has been, and they’re both greedy for it. After, she gets up to close the window he likes to leave cracked while they’re working up a sweat. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a flash of movement behind the trees at the edge of the street. She freezes, staring into the dark. There’s no more movement, but the shape of the dark form to the left of the largest oak is unmistakable: the silhouette of a man, standing still. And staring back.
By the time Sam leaps from the bed at her gasp, there’s no one there. The wind billows the curtains and rustles the tree branches outside, and Sam wraps his arms around her waist and kisses the back of her neck.
It doesn’t reassure her as much as it used to.
After Don disappeared… after Don died, Amelia saw him everywhere. Across the street, as she turned the corner in another direction. In the next aisle of the grocery store they always shopped at, the one that had the cheapest hot dogs and the brand of baked beans he liked. Just out of reach in a crowded airport. It took her months to stop starting after him when it happened, to give up the hope that maybe… maybe.
Now it’s the stranger she keeps seeing, and it makes her heart jump for a different reason. She sees his dark form again the next night. This time he’s on the Millers' lawn when she goes to the window, unable to sleep. It's two houses down but the silhouette is clear in the moonlight, broad shoulders and wide stance and she knows he’s looking right at her.
“Maybe I am going crazy,” she admits the next day over dinner. Sam’s been quieter than usual, and she wonders if he’s angry with her, tired of the way she flinches when he goes to touch her.
He puts down his fork and sighs, pushing his long hair back behind his ear the way he does when he’s worried. “No,” he says. “I don’t think you’re crazy. If there’s something… someone… out there, I’ll find him. I’m pretty good at figuring out mysteries.”
For the millionth time she wonders what Sam did before he crashed into her life; how much trouble he was running from to be driving that fast. It's on the tip of her tongue to suggest calling the cops--it's the obvious thing to do; figuring out mysteries is their job--but over the past months she's definitely gotten the impression Sam and cops aren't the best of friends.
“We’re not even sure if it’s--if it’s anything. Just let me handle it,” Sam insists. “I can handle it.”
“Oh, really? What the hell makes you think you can 'handle' it, Sam? What does that even mean?”
He stares at her for a long moment, and that makes her even angrier.
“You can’t tell me, right? Just like all the other things you can’t tell me.”
“Amelia,” he starts, but she doesn’t want to hear it. She pushes her chair away from the table and grabs both their empty plates.
“Forget it, Sam. I said I wouldn’t ask questions; I meant it. But I won't live like this, not feeling safe in my own house. It took me a long time not to see shadows around every corner, and I won’t go back to that.”
Usually she’d put away the leftovers; instead, she scrapes the plates into the sink and lets the garbage disposal grind them up with a satisfying roar.
“Okay,” he says from the table, smart enough not to follow her. “I get it. Just give me 24 hours to figure it out. If I can’t, then you call the police and report it. Fair enough?”
She wants to tell him he’s a dick for making her wait another day, but he’s got that serious look on his face that says he’s trying to do the right thing even if neither of them knows what that is most of the time.
“Fine.” She stacks the plates in the dishwasher and shoves it closed with a resounding clatter.
“Fine,” he echoes, and by the time she turns around he’s putting on his jacket and throwing an already-packed duffel over his shoulder. “I’ll be back by tomorrow night, one way or another.”
“Be careful,” she calls after him, before she closes the door and turns the deadbolt.
* * *
Sam calls her 22 hours later. She’s surprised by the jolt of relief she feels when she sees his name on the screen.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine, yeah,” he says. “I’m… listen, I didn’t find anything. Whoever it was, I think they’re gone. Maybe I scared them off. Or something else did.”
“I haven’t seen anything either,” she admits, and the ball of anxiety that’s been stuck in her stomach loosens a little.
“I’m on my way back,” Sam says, and there’s no tension in his voice. He sounds relaxed, happy.
Amelia smiles, relieved that things feel back to normal.
“Oh, and I’m bringing someone with me,” Sam continues.
“Who?” she asks carefully. That was unexpected, and she doesn’t particularly like surprises.
“I’ll explain when I get there,” Sam insists. “It’s fine, I promise.”
She's not convinced.
“Amelia?” he says when she’s silent. “Did you hear me? It’s fine, okay? Everything’s fine.”
She watches from the window as Sam’s big black car pulls into the driveway. He’s not driving; another man is. Sam doesn’t let anyone drive his car, ever. Her skin prickles.
When the stranger gets out he’s smiling, looking right at Sam, who’s smiling back. When the man turns to follow Sam up the walk, his eyes catch hers in the window and the smile fades from his face instantly, replaced by a tightened jaw and narrowed eyes. His gaze cuts right through her, and she shivers.
“Amelia?” Sam calls as soon as he unlocks the door.
She steps into the room, telling herself she’s being ridiculous. This is Sam, and she trusts him. The stranger is close behind, and she watches his eyes dart around the room, taking everything in.
His eyes scan her up and down in a way that makes her feel like a piece of meat. Sam steps forward to kiss her on the cheek. She can see the stranger watching them over Sam’s shoulder; there’s a spark in his eyes now. It looks like a challenge.
“Glad you’re okay,” she says as he hugs her.
“I’m more than okay,” Sam answers, and he’s smiling now, warmer than she’s ever seen. “Amelia, this is my brother. This is Dean.”
Amelia’s hands go to her face, instinctively flinching. “Your brother,” she repeats slowly, because that can’t be right; people don’t come back from the dead. “Your brother who’s dead.”
“Rumors of my demise have been a bit exaggerated,” Dean answers, and he’s holding out his hand now, smiling at her. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
It takes her far too long to respond to his gesture. She flinches as their hands touch, expecting a too-tight grip, but he only takes her hand briefly, seeming as eager to let go as she is.
Sam bustles about making up the couch for his brother, smoothing their best sheets out over the cushions and adding one of his own pillows to the spare one. Dean chuckles and calls him a mother hen, and Sam rolls his eyes and stacks two blankets at the end of the couch even though Dean says he doesn’t need them.
“What happened?” Amelia asks as soon as she and Sam are alone. “You went out looking for a burglar and you ran into your long-lost brother?”
Sam laughs, like it’s the most amazing, wonderful thing that’s ever happened to him. She supposes it is.
“I checked in with some sources--some old friends, people Dean and I used to work with--and he was checking in with them too. He was on his way here, to find me.”
Amelia isn’t sure why she can’t muster up the happiness that she knows she should be feeling.
“So where was he for the last year?”
Sam sits down on the side of the bed. He’s got a look on his face that she’s seen far too often, the one that says he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Somewhere that made it impossible for him to get in touch with me,” Sam says simply, and she knows he wants her to leave it at that.
Maybe Sam’s brother is a CIA operative. Maybe he’s been undercover, or in Iraq. Or in jail. Amelia isn’t sure she wants to know, but she’s hurt that Sam won’t tell her anyway.
“I think we probably scared off whoever was casing the place,” Sam reassures her. “With Dean here, too, I don’t think anyone will bother us.”
She and Sam sleep on separate sides of the bed that night, facing away from each other instead of curled together like they usually do. Dean is a barrier between them from all the way downstairs, and Amelia wonders what will happen now. They’ve never talked about tomorrow; it was always enough to get through today.
In the morning, she wakes up to an empty bed and muffled voices from downstairs. There’s an edge to Dean’s voice that makes her chest tighten, an anger that she thinks he could back up easily. She gets dressed before slowly venturing downstairs.
“That’s your excuse for not looking for me?” Dean is saying. She can see him pacing in the kitchen as he gestures at Sam impatiently. “All this time I thought you were going crazy trying to find me, and you didn’t even fucking look at all!”
“I thought you were dead,” Sam protests. “I didn’t have any idea where to look or any reason to think you were alive--and you told me not to; we agreed we wouldn’t--"
“Bullshit!” Dean raises his voice, and Amelia can see him getting in Sam’s face, the muscle in his arms corded tense where he’s braced his hands on the table and leaned in. “You fucking know we never meant that!”
Sam looks halfway to broken, like he did when she first met him, his expression anguished.
“He was a mess,” Amelia interrupts, and Dean whirls on her so quickly she takes a step backwards, nearly tripping over the end table in the hallway. His fists are clenched and his eyes flash with rage; for a second she’s absolutely certain he’s going to hit her.
“Amelia,” Sam says, “it’s okay,” and that stops Dean in his tracks. He stays where he is, but he’s practically vibrating with anger.
“It doesn’t seem okay,” she says, because goddammit, this is her house, too, and she shouldn’t have to be afraid to speak in it.
“It’s between me and my brother,” Dean says. His mouth is set in a tight line, resolute. He unclenches his fists slowly, deliberately. “We can work it out. We always do.”
“Fine. I’m going to the clinic.” It’s easier than getting in the middle of whatever’s going on between them. She gets her coat from the closet, slips it on, and gasps out loud when she turns. Dean is right there, his face five inches from hers as she stumbles backwards.
“Sorry if I scared you,” he drawls. His eyes are strikingly green; there’s a cut on his temple that’s not quite healed. “Have a nice day. And don’t worry about Sammy; I’ll take care of him. Always do.”
The entire way to the clinic, Amelia tells herself there was nothing weird in that statement. Dean is Sam’s big brother, even if Sam is a 6’4” giant of a grown-up man. She can’t quite make herself believe it, though.
Amelia works late three days in a row. She doesn’t know what Dean and Sam do during the day, but whatever they've talked about seems to have eased Dean’s anger. At Sam, anyway. Amelia still catches Dean’s eyes on her when Sam isn’t watching; his gaze is anything but fond. Once, she challenges him, cocks an eyebrow as if to say, "What?" He smirks, lip curled up so far it looks more like a snarl than a smile. Her skin crawls and she turns away.
“So, how long is your brother going to stay?” she asks on the weekend. Dean is in the bathroom; he likes to take half-hour-plus showers that leave their water heater drained and his skin flushed pink. Sam says that where he was for the last year, they didn’t have much in the way of hygiene.
“I just got him back,” Sam answers. “How would you feel if you got Don back?”
“That’s not really the same thing,” she says. For a second, Sam looks like he’s going to disagree, but then he sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“I know, but… he’s my brother.”
“He doesn’t like me,” Amelia blurts, and Sam looks up, startled. Had he really not noticed?
“He doesn’t know you,” Sam says. “The place he was for the past year, it was… terrible, violent, and he… he needs to get used to this again. Normal.”
She wonders again if Dean was in prison, or at war. He moves the way Don did when he came back from his first tour, easily startled and hypervigilant. Dean enters a room the same way Don did then, eyes darting quickly around, assessing every possible threat, as though there were poisonous snakes lurking in every corner.
“Okay,” she says, but she thinks Sam is probably wrong.
When she comes home on Wednesday evening, Sam is still at work and she thinks Dean must be with him. The house is empty, which is a tremendous relief after ten days of walking on tiptoe around the two of them. She grabs a beer from the fridge and kicks off her shoes as she climbs the stairs to the bedroom, grateful for the time alone and wanting nothing more than to relax for a bit in sweats and a tee shirt. She has her blouse half unbuttoned before she realizes the shades are open.
She moves to close them, one hand already raised, and then freezes, reflexively clutching her blouse to her chest.
At the end of their driveway, just to the left of the stand of trees that fringes their yard, is a shadowy broad-shouldered figure. Ohgod, she thinks, the prowler is back, and then she realizes it’s just Dean, waiting for Sam. He turns as though he heard her and tilts his head, gaze going unerringly to the window, and the light from the streetlamp catches his face just as his eyes meet hers. His white teeth flash as he grins up at her, and his eyes glint black and green in the moonlight. For a second, they look reptilian--the slitted, hooded eyes of a crocodile.
Amelia screams.
She refuses to unlock the front door at first when Dean tries to come inside, ignoring his calm-sounding “Amelia, it’s me, c’mon.”
He sounds perfectly reasonable; you sound like a hysterical lunatic. This is Sam’s brother.
She opens the door. Dean moves carefully around her, as though he knows she needs to keep an eye on him. “Sorry I scared you,” he says, and he sounds sincere, his tone warmer than she’s ever heard it when he’s talking to anyone other than Sam. His cheeks are pink from the night air, a contrast to the green of his eyes--which of course are perfectly normal.
“It’s fine,” she says, because it’s the first time he's seemed at all friendly toward her and she doesn’t want to fuck it up. “I’m just really on edge right now; it’s been a weird few weeks.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Dean says, and brings her a beer. He pops it and his own with his ring, the same way her father always has, and she notices for the first time that he has freckles spattered over his nose and cheeks. He’s handsome, like Sam--and yet they don’t look like brothers at all.
They watch mindless television in companionable silence. Dean sprawls on the couch, putting his feet on the coffee table the same way Sam does. Amelia is almost relaxed when he suddenly tenses, sitting up and looking at the window instead of the television. His shoulders square as he sits up straight, puts his feet to the ground, and if she didn’t know it was ridiculous, Amelia would swear Dean was scenting the air, nostrils flared and every inch of him vibrating with readiness. For what, she has no clue. A few seconds later, she hears it: the rumble of the Impala coming up the street. Sam’s home.
Dean is off the couch and at the door before Sam even gets out of the car. Amelia watches the way Dean's hand clutches the doorknob; the way his foot bounces, like he’s barely able to keep himself from springing into some kind of action.
The grin that splits Sam’s face when he sees his brother at the door is blinding. She gets it; she does. But it’s a smile she’s never seen directed at her, and that hurts.
She makes the decision that night. If Sam and Dean are a package deal--and she’s pretty sure they are--then they should probably be a package deal somewhere else. Sam hasn’t touched her since his brother returned from the dead, and Amelia doesn’t want to poke at the meaning of that too much. Same as she doesn't want to think about Dean’s expression when he thinks she’s not looking, when his boyish charm slips and his eyes are ice cold.
In the end, she doesn't have to say it. She gets the phone call the next morning, while Dean and Sam are laughing and mock-fighting over a plate of waffles and she’s trying to figure out how to tell them this isn’t going to work.
“What are the chances that both Dean and Don would come back alive?” she asks as she puts the phone down, still in the false calm of shock.
Sam just looks relieved. “There are a lot of things in this world that can’t be easily explained,” he says, and what kind of inscrutable bullshit is that?
“He doesn’t have to know if you don’t want to tell him,” Sam says as he packs. “I won’t bother you, I promise.”
“I know you won’t,” she says, and it’s the truth. “Dean wouldn’t let you.”
“Dean doesn’t tell me what to do,” Sam argues, and it makes her want to laugh. There’s something between them that feels all wrong, and Sam underestimates how powerful that something is. She’s suddenly afraid for him, the affection she’s felt for him tugging at her.
“Sam, be careful, okay?”
He looks up, surprised. “Yeah,” he promises, “I will. You too, okay?”
Dean’s waiting at the door when they come downstairs, an easy smile on his face. It's the first genuine smile he’s directed at her in all the time he’s been here.
“Take care of yourself,” Sam says, and hugs her again.
“She will,” Dean says, his hand on Sam’s shoulder to herd him toward the door. “She’s a smart girl.”
* * *
(Sam)
Dean drives too fast, but that’s nothing new. It’s clear he missed the Impala, and Sam is content to be back in the passenger seat where he belongs, watching the road fly by as Dean steps on the gas and takes them farther and farther away from Normal.
“It wouldn’t have worked out, Sammy,” Dean says when they stop at the Five Spot Motel. He’s picked an out-of-the-way place for them to stay, a rundown motel on a slab of asphalt in the middle of nowhere.
Sam thinks about the house he just left, the garden he and Amelia had planted in the back yard, and how the first shoots had started to sprout. A garden was something he’d never had and always wanted. When he was seven, he’d planted tomato seeds in Styrofoam cups as part of a school project. Dad inevitably yanked him out of that school before the plants had grown more than a few inches, and Sam had taken the three little cups with him, propping them up carefully in the trunk bolstered by weapons and duffels and blankets. It was 115 degrees as they drove across the New Mexico desert, and by the time Sam opened the trunk to retrieve the seedlings they were nothing but twisted brown stems, the soil blown away like dust. Dad had yelled at him for “putting that trash in the trunk.” When they got to the next long-term-rental motel, Dean stole a potted daffodil from the grocery store and put it in the window. Sam dutifully watered it every day, but it died anyway. Most things did, he figured, without any place to put down roots.
“How do you know?” he retorts. “You don’t even know her.”
Dean shrugs, already stripping down to hit the shower. “Just don’t think she was your type, that’s all.”
“You don’t have a clue what my type is,” Sam says. Hell, even he’s not sure what his type is. Amelia had felt right, at least for a while. She was all he’d had, and that was a version of right at least.
Dean looks like he’s going to come back with something sarcastic, but he shakes his head instead. In only his shorts, the way Purgatory sculpted his body is obvious. He’s toned in ways he never was before, fit or not; all sleek muscle and not an ounce of fat, scattered scars marking the costs of his time there.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” Dean says, finally. “Her husband’s back.”
“Yeah, thanks for reminding me.”
Dean’s grin makes Sam want to hit him. “’s what big brothers are for.”
It’s not, actually. Not what Dean’s ever been for, anyway. Sure, they tease, and Dean can be a dick, but not at times like this. He remembers Amelia’s insistence that Dean didn’t like her, and how easily he dismissed it.
“Go take your hour-long shower,” he says, waving Dean away. It’s been a tiring day, and he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.
When he wakes up, Dean isn't in the other bed. Sam’s eyes dart around the room quickly, searching. Then he sees Dean curled up on the floor, bedding pooled around him. One hand is under his pillow, and Sam would put money on Dean's fingers being curled around his gun, and more money on a knife stashed somewhere beneath the blanket.
“Dean?” Even though Sam says it quietly, Dean startles awake, springing to his feet. As Sam predicted, Dean has a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. But instead of facing Sam, Dean’s eyes are on the door, his strong body coiled and ready.
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong,” Sam says quietly, the way he talked to Riot when he had to wake the dog up to give him his meds. “It’s only me--just us here.”
It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in, but gradually Dean relaxes and lowers his weapons. By the time he turns around he looks more composed, though Sam can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
“Oh. Thought I heard something.”
Purgatory left more marks on Dean than the scars Sam can see. Sam wonders if he’s been sleeping on the floor this whole time, instead of on the couch Sam carefully made up for him. It’s clear that Dean needs time to acclimate to the outside world again. Sam can be patient; Dean wouldn’t have been down there so long if Sam had done a better job of looking for him. That’s the worst part of seeing how different his brother is now. Every time Dean flinches, or goes for his weapon without provocation--or slips out of bed to sleep on the hard floor--Sam can’t breathe for how much he blames himself.
I’m so fucking sorry, Dean, so sorry. I should’ve looked for you, should have turned over every stone and followed every lead and tortured every angel and demon I could find to figure out where the hell you were.
Sam remembers those first months as a blur, first of shock and then of agony; the entire world narrowed down to losing Dean, losing everyone. Nothing made sense, there was no one to fight against, and Sam is pretty sure that the day he hit Riot he’d intended to keep driving faster and faster until something stopped him. Permanently. Then all of a sudden there was a dog, and a woman, and a reason to put one foot in front of the other every day, and Sam hadn't wanted to think any further than that. Amelia saved him.
In bits and pieces, Dean tells Sam how he got out, though it turns out he omits some pertinent details about who--or what--helped him. Then one day he disappears, and the panic Sam feels is paralyzing. When Sam meets Benny and realizes it was a vampire that got Dean out, only the intensity of Dean’s nonverbal warning keeps Sam from beheading Benny right then and there. Even so, he gives Dean an ultimatum. Sam cut Amelia off; Dean needs to do the same with Benny. Sam tells himself it’s practicality, not jealousy. Not an unbearable reminder of how he failed his brother.
“He’s a monster, Dean. No matter what he did for you in Purgatory. Up here, he’s a monster.”
Dean goes along with Sam’s rules, but he doesn’t seem to agree.
They work a job outside Las Vegas, and their rhythm is off. Dean moves a little more quickly than he would have before; Sam is a little more cautious. That lets the rugaru get the jump on both of them; leaves Dean with a gaping wound in his side and Sam feeling guiltier than ever.
“Stay still for godsakes,” Sam orders once they’re back at the motel and he's trying to stitch Dean up. Dean’s laughing, giddy with adrenaline and more glee than Sam thinks is appropriate given that the blood Dean’s covered in is partly his own.
“Just a flesh wound, Sammy,” he laughs, squirming to reach the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. “Gimme a drink, that’s all I need.”
Sam plants a hand on the middle of his brother’s bare chest and holds him down. “No, that’s not what you need. I said stay still.”
For a second, it looks like Dean’s going to push him off and go for the liquor anyway. His eyes are flashing dark and dangerous, and his chest heaves under the pressure of Sam’s hand. Abruptly, he breathes out a long exhale and settles, his body going still as he watches Sam with hooded eyes.
It’s a strange reaction, not what Sam was expecting. But he’s not dumb enough to second-guess it when Dean is pliant and he needs to do some serious stitching.
“Much better,” he says, and Dean nods, no smart-ass retort for once.
Dean hisses when Sam disinfects the wound, but doesn’t move a muscle as Sam pushes the needle through his skin and pulls the thread tight. The gash runs low across the cut of his abs; the flesh ripples under Sam’s fingers and Dean draws in a shuddery breath. It’s not pain. Dean's cock is full in his jeans, a hard line under the blood-spattered denim. Five years ago, Sam would have made a joke about how much Dean gets off on a little pain and violence. Jokes were always a good cover for the way Sam kind of wanted to look, fascinated by his big brother in every way possible. It had always been that way; Sam figures it probably always will be. Now he can’t bring himself to tease about it.
“You done?” Dean rasps, and Sam looks up from where he was staring. Dean’s eyes are blown black, from the pain or the sudden arousal or both. He looks demonic, blood all over his face and still smiling.
“Roll over, let me check your back.” It’s as much a way to break eye contact as it is a real concern.
Dean grunts but does as he’s told, rolling to his uninjured side.
“What the hell?”
Sam touches the pad of his finger to the mottled trail of markings that run from the nape of Dean’s neck all the way down his spine.
Dean cranes his head around to look at Sam over his shoulder. “What? I get bit there, too?”
“No, I don’t think--it’s some kind of bruising, but it’s weirdly regular. Did you get hit with something?”
Sam runs his hand down the curve of his brother’s back, and Dean shivers violently.
“It’s an odd color, sort of greenish,” Sam says, checking to be sure there aren’t any broken bones or fractures beneath the discoloration.
Dean shudders again and groans. “Stop… it, it tickles.”
He rolls over to his back, effectively stopping Sam’s exploration. Instead of calming down, Dean's dick is even harder, tenting his jeans.
Sam’s face heats, and he quickly averts his eyes.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to… to tickle you. I didn’t mean--"
Dean smirks and runs a hand down his own bare stomach to cup his dick. “No problem.” His easy smile and the way he cocks an eyebrow at Sam make Sam’s stomach flip. Sam scrambles to his feet.
“Get some rest,” he says quickly, taking refuge in the bathroom for his turn in the shower. When he comes back Dean’s asleep, curled up on the floor as usual. He’s wearing only boxers, the pale skin of his shoulders and back exposed. Sam moves closer, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. He leans down until he’s practically on top of his brother’s sleeping form. Dean’s shoulders rise and fall in the even rhythm of sleep.
There’s no trace of the mottled bruising that was there just fifteen minutes ago.
* * *
Sam wakes up first. Dean’s still asleep, sprawled on his stomach in his nest of blankets, one leg kicked out to the side and both hands beneath his pillow. In the bright light of morning, his back is marked only by the smattering of freckles across his shoulder blades and a few ugly scars he brought back from Purgatory.
Dean startles when Sam leans over him, springing to his feet so quickly that Sam stumbles backwards and sits down abruptly on the bed. Sam should know by now that the days of Dean waking slowly, scrubbing at his face and trying to flatten the unruly spikes of his hair, are long gone.
“Whoa, take it easy,” he says, but Dean doesn’t seem to hear him. He stays frozen there, knife in one hand and every muscle tense and ready, eyes narrowed at Sam like he’s the enemy. Or some kind of prey. Sam's skin prickles.
“Dean, calm down, it’s me.”
Dean shakes his head, assessing. It’s three beats before he finally lowers the knife and breathes.
“Fuck, Sam, don’t fuckin’ sneak up on me like that.”
He drops the knife on the pile of blankets and heads to the bathroom, still grumbling and still breathing a little too hard.
“Sorry, sorry, I--"
That’s all Sam gets out before his mouth falls open in surprise. The mottled discoloration is back, running from the nape of Dean’s neck down the curve of his spine to disappear beneath his boxers. In fact, it’s darker than it was the night before, a clear pattern of rectangular shapes in shades of brown and green.
“Wait a minute,” Sam calls after him, and he’s on his feet before Dean can slam the bathroom door. “That bruising, it’s back!”
Dean frowns at him. “Back? You saw it last night, Sam.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but then later it was gone--completely gone. And this morning--five fucking minutes ago--it wasn't there. And now it’s back.”
Sam puts his hands on Dean carefully, feeling for some kind of damage beneath the markings that he might have missed the night before.
Dean twists, trying to see his own back in the bathroom mirror. He scowls when he succeeds, craning his neck and throwing his own arm over his head to try to feel it too.
“What the hell?”
Sam shakes his head, tracing the markings down to the small of Dean’s back. There’s no apparent damage, just his brother’s smooth warm skin.
“I don’t know,” Sam admits. “I don’t feel anything, but--you can see it there.”
“Shit,” Dean says, blinking at his reflection.
They’re both still staring when the marks start to fade again.
Six hours of internet searching give Sam a headache and not much else. Dean is pacing, something he’s always done when he was anxious. It's been more frequent since he’s been back, basically whenever they’re stuck somewhere and Dean’s not eating or sleeping. He pauses every few minutes in his back-and-forth circling to pull the curtains open and stare out into the parking lot, like he’s expecting the thing that left weird disappearing bruises on his back to return at any moment.
Sam looks away from the screen, rubbing at his sore eyes. Dean’s at the window again. A pickup truck pulls off the road and into the lot, parking in front of the next room. The driver's door swings open and an older man in a cowboy hat gets out, sharing a joke with the guy exiting the passenger seat. Dean’s eyes narrow, his lip curling up in a snarl.
Sam’s about to ask what Dean’s problem is, since they look like two perfectly ordinary dudes, when Dean tugs the curtain so roughly he pulls it right off its rod. And then he growls.
“What the hell is the matter?” Sam asks.
Dean whirls on him, and for a second Sam fully expects a fist in his face. Dean looks that angry. His face is red, his eyes dark and dangerous.
“Dean.” Sam says it softly.
Dean pauses, and Sam can see him struggling to calm down.
“Gotta get out of here,” he finally exclaims, both hands fisted at his sides. “Why do we have to stay here, huh? I don’t wanna stay here!”
Sam holds up his hands, hoping it will broadcast his intentions. “We don’t. We can leave if you want; it’s fine.”
Dean ponders that for a second, then nods. He starts packing his duffel without another word.
Dean finds them a hunt, which seems to make him happier than anything else these days. They only manage to corner the thing after it’s taken out two security guards and a young woman who had the horrible luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dean rushes it, machete raised to behead it, when it suddenly changes direction and hurls itself backwards, catching him by surprise and knocking him off his feet. He goes down hard, grunting with the pain. Sam pushes down the almost overwhelming impulse to check on his brother, silences the No no not again in his head, and gets his own knife ready. He’s just about to swing when Dean is there, grabbing the thing by its mass of stringy hair as he raises his machete. With a bloodcurdling scream of victory, Dean lowers the blade with such force that it slices clean through, the creature’s head flying off to the side and a spray of hot blood hitting Sam in the face. Dean’s momentum sends him careening into Sam, knocking the breath out of both of them.
“Ugh,” Sam groans, trying to push Dean back enough to breathe.
Instead, Dean clasps his shoulders with both hands and shoves Sam up against the wall. Sam’s half blinded by the blood in his eyes, blinking furiously and trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when Dean pulls back so they’re eye to eye, only inches apart. He searches Sam’s face, then wraps a bloody hand around Sam’s neck, pressing two fingers against the pounding pulse in Sam’s throat. Two seconds--three, four, five--and Sam is frozen by the intensity of Dean’s expression and the rough urgency of his movements. Finally Dean seems to find what he’s looking for and relaxes the pressure against Sam’s windpipe so he can draw a shaky breath. Dean leans in closer at the sound, until his nose is pressed right to Sam’s throat. Sam can hear Dean breathing in short bursts; feel the tickle of breath against his neck. It’s like Dean’s smelling him. The thought sends a shiver through Sam’s body, a shudder so violent Dean can feel it too. He growls low in his throat, still pressed up against Sam, and Jesus, Sam doesn’t know what’s happening.
Dean nudges under Sam’s jaw and growls again; there’s no mistaking the sound for anything else.
“D--Dean,” Sam whispers, and shivers again.
The word seems to break the spell. Dean lowers his head and steps back. He’s covered with blood, too, splatters of it on his face and in his hair. He stares at Sam, and for a second his eyes look nothing like Dean’s at all. They’re…
Sam blinks; wipes a hand over his face to clear away some of the blood. When he opens his eyes again, Dean looks like Dean.
“You okay, Sam?”
“Yeah, I… I think so. Are you?”
Dean shrugs and nods, retrieving both their blades from the floor. “We should burn this thing,” he says, and kicks the headless body for emphasis.
They burn their jackets and over-shirts with it. The guy at the desk of the motel they stop at a few hours later doesn’t comment on the red patches on their jeans when he gives them the key to Room 16.
“Go ahead,” Dean says when Sam looks longingly at the bathroom, desperate for a shower to wash the rest of the blood out of his hair. Sam uses more shampoo and soap than is strictly necessary, like he can wash away not just the monster’s blood but all the weirdness that went along with it.
When Sam gets out of the shower, Dean’s in a tee shirt and boxers, his face and hands still streaked with red. He strips off the shirt as he heads to the bathroom. Sam turns at the last second, on a hunch. He’s not as surprised as he should be to see the green-and-brown mottling once again decorating Dean’s back. It’s darker this time, more substantial. He doesn’t say anything as Dean closes the door.
He doesn’t say anything about it for two days.
Neither does Dean. In fact, Dean hardly says anything at all… literally. The silence finally gets to Sam somewhere outside Colorado Springs.
“You’re pretty quiet these days.”
The sound of his own voice is startling, nothing but the purr of the Impala’s engine for the last two hundred miles. Dean shrugs, but keeps driving.
“Is something wrong? I mean, you’re never a brilliant conversationalist, but this is ridiculous.”
Dean looks at him this time, a quick sideways glance, but he still doesn’t answer.
“You pissed at me?” Sam persists, and he’s getting a little annoyed now. He’s tried to give Dean his space, allow for some Purgatory-induced PTSD and lingering Hurt Locker transition crises, but the silent treatment has always driven Sam nuts, and Dean knows it.
Dean shakes his head, and Sam notices for the first time how hard Dean's hands are gripping the steering wheel; how stiff his shoulders are.
“Dean?” he asks, and it’s not anger that’s making his voice shake now. “What is it?”
Dean grimaces, his fingers tightening on the wheel, and then he’s yanking it sideways, sending the Impala skidding onto the shoulder and slamming on the brakes.
“Jesuschrist,” Sam yells, bracing himself against the passenger door. “What the hell?”
Dean’s still got both hands on the wheel. His chest is heaving like he’s run a marathon.
“Dean, what is it?” Sam can feel himself panicking. “Tell me.”
Dean looks at Sam and his eyes are wild, equally panicked. When he finally answers, his voice is rough, unsteady. “I don’t. Don’t know. It’s. It’s hard.”
“What's hard?”
Dean shakes his head again, frowning. “It’s… hard to… say,” he says haltingly.
“Say what?” The dread is snaking down Sam’s spine, chilling him from the inside out. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.
Dean takes one hand off the steering wheel and reaches across the seat. His fingers find the hem of Sam’s shirt and clutch at it, and Sam can feel the desperation in his brother’s touch.
“Say what?” Sam asks again, nearly a whisper.
“Anything.”
Sam takes over the driving after that, and it's a sign of how off Dean is that he barely protests. Sam pushes the Impala to 80 even though he has no fucking idea where he’s going; even though it’s not like they can outrun this, whatever it is. Dean sits rigidly in the passenger seat, hands gripping his own knees as though he doesn’t trust himself not to do something with them that he shouldn’t.
“We’ll figure it out,” Sam says about a hundred times. Dean never answers, just nods each time.
They don’t stop until they’re far from anything that could be called civilization, a little desert town with a motel that’s mostly empty. Sam checks them in while Dean hovers in the doorway, silent and sullen. The desk clerk keeps shooting wary glances in Dean’s direction. Sam imagines it’s a survival instinct when you run a motel in the middle of nowhere: learn to pick out the dangerous ones quickly, before it’s too late. Sam watches Dean glare at the clerk, hands balled into fists and posture tense, eyes dark. Maybe the clerk is right.
As soon as they get into the room, Dean sits heavily on the bed nearest the door. He looks exhausted, circles under his eyes and skin paler than usual. The sight of his brother looking so defeated brings a rush of protectiveness that makes Sam’s chest hurt. Dean was stuck in Purgatory for a year, fighting for his life. Now he’s back and he should be allowed some peace, damn it.
“I’ll go across the road and get us some food.” It’s the only thing Sam can actually do for his brother. Dean nods, his hands still clasped on his knees.
He hasn't moved when Sam gets back twenty minutes later balancing a pizza box, a six-pack, and a garden salad, a greasy bag of cheese fries clutched in his other hand. Dean brightens at the sight of the food, and it makes Sam’s chest tighten all over again.
It’s been months, but Dean still isn’t used to plentiful food. Sam wonders how close to starvation he got during his year in Purgatory, how many times he curled up to sleep on the ground hungry.
“Good, right?” he asks conversationally. Dean grunts an affirmative, distracted from the elephant in the room by the immediacy of something that tastes good.
To Sam’s surprise, Dean eats half the salad with as much gusto as he attacks the pizza and fries. In fact, after he stabs at the tomatoes and cucumbers with the plastic fork a few times he just grabs them with his fingers, shoving them eagerly into his mouth. Sam has never seen Dean eat anything green like that. Ever. Maybe it’s a vitamin deficiency.
When everything is gone except the beer, Sam stops procrastinating.
“Dean, you need to try to talk to me. I need to know what’s going on with you, man.”
Dean looks up and sighs. He looks young, the freckles sprinkled over his nose and cheeks obvious with how pale he is, and his eyes wide, a little fearful. There’s a splotch of tomato sauce on his lower lip, and Sam wants to reach over and wipe it off.
“We can’t figure this out if I don’t know what’s happening.”
Finally, Dean nods. He takes a few swallows of beer and clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is so low he doesn’t sound like himself at all.
“I… words… hard to.”
He takes another gulp, shaking his head.
“Take your time, you’re doing fine. One word at a time, okay?” God, I sound like a kindergarten teacher, Sam thinks. But Dean doesn’t seem to mind, which would be terrifying even if everything else weren’t going to shit around them.
“Hard to find--can’t think--to say.”
“It’s hard to find the words for what you want to say,” Sam repeats, keeping his voice calm even though his mind is frantically leafing through everything this might be. Aphasia, damage to the frontal cortex, expressive language problem?
Dean nods. “Yeah. Yes.”
“Okay, when did this start? Because you seemed to be talking okay when you… when you first got back. Did you get hit on the head on one of the last hunts? When the rugaru threw you, maybe?”
Dean shakes his head. “No. No, it… it started… before. Slow. It’s… slow.”
“It started slowly?”
Dean nods, and Sam’s stomach flips, a wave of nausea flooding him.
“Dean, is it… is it getting worse?”
Dean nods again, and there’s more fear in his eyes now.
Keep it together, Sam. He needs you to.
“Okay, okay. Started slowly, getting worse. Then I need you to tell me as much as you can right now, okay? Can you do that?”
Dean swallows hard and takes another swig of beer. Sam can see him square his shoulders, like he’s going into a fight, and in that moment he loves his brother so fiercely it takes his breath away. Dean, who’s been through so much already, is not one to back down from a fight. And, damn it, neither is Sam.
“I--it’s like my… my head doesn’t work. Right. My head isn’t, I can’t. I don’t think like I did. Before.”
“Okay,” Sam says, letting Dean rest while he summarizes. Dean’s breathing hard already, like pushing the words out is as exhausting as running a sprint. “So you’re not able to think like you did before; it feels like your brain isn’t processing things quite right. Can you give me an example?”
“It’s--everything is all--big.”
Dean cuts himself off and hisses, clearly upset with himself. Before Sam can say "It’s okay," Dean slams his fist down on the nightstand in frustration.
“NO!” he shouts, and slams his fist into the wood again. “NOT big. Not… everything is... it’s all... all--"
“Take your time,” Sam says, trying to use the most calming voice he can. Dean looks so exasperated, so angry at himself, that Sam can’t help but reach out. He lays his hand over Dean's on the nightstand. Dean jerks at the touch, but doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he closes his eyes, and his fingers twine with Sam’s like he’s grounding himself.
“Everything,” he whispers, brow furrowed in concentration, “is all too. Too. Bright. Too loud. It’s too hot, then it’s too cold, and I--it feels wrong. And it… it smells wrong. Too much. Smell too much. See too much.”
There’s a lump in Sam’s throat, but he pushes it down. His instincts tell him to keep Dean talking. While he still can.
“So your senses are heightened. Like when you were turned by that vamp?”
Dean thinks about that for a minute, rubbing at his forehead like it will help his brain work. “No. But yes. Not--different. But not.”
“Okay,” Sam says and he pats Dean’s knee reassuringly. “Sort of like a vampire, but not. We know you’re not a vamp; we don’t have to worry about that.”
Sam’s talking to himself as much as to Dean, but Dean nods and opens his eyes. They’re still fearful.
“What else? Anything you can think of. What else is different?”
Dean takes another gulp of beer to fortify himself. “I want,” he begins, then shakes his head in frustration. Sam pats his knee again.
“I want--I need to--to hunt. Hunt.” He stops, staring hard at Sam like that will help Sam understand.
“You kinda go crazy when we stay in one place, right?”
Dean nods emphatically.
“Yeah, I noticed.” Sam smiles a little, but Dean doesn’t return it. He looks wrecked, the effort of communicating with Sam seemingly taking everything he has.
“Hunt. Every. Thing.” He pronounces each word carefully, taking a breath between each. “Hunt,” he says again. The hand he still has entwined with Sam’s on the nightstand clutches at Sam’s so hard it’s painful. “Kill.”
The word hangs in the air between them.
“You want to--Dean, you were in Purgatory for a year; of course you want to hunt and kill, you were being chased and attacked by monsters the entire time you were there. It’s understandable.”
Sam wants very much to believe it.
Dean shakes his head, and his eyes are glistening. “Wrong,” he says, the word only a gruff whisper. “Everything feels wrong.”
Dean squeezes Sam’s hand, looks right at him. “Except for you.”
It shouldn’t make Sam feel better. But it does.
Dean sleeps for ten hours that night, curled up on the floor like always. Sam can see the markings on the back of his neck, clearly visible above his tee shirt. He wonders if they’ll fade again, or if they’re there to stay.
The next morning, Sam tries to pick up the conversation after breakfast. Dean tries, struggling to find words and answer Sam’s questions. In the end, all he can manage is a growled and desperate, “Sam.”
He says it again and again, repeating it and pacing the length and breadth of the motel room as Sam frantically searches the internet. He says it like he’s afraid if he stops he’ll never be able to say it again.
It’s the last word to go.
By the morning after that, there’s nothing. The silence is deafening.
Part Two
Author name:
runedgirlArtist name:
tdorianPairing: Dean/Sam, with past Dean/Benny, Sam/Amelia
Rating: NC17
Word count: 35,800
Warnings: some violence
Summary: Sam's “normal” life dissolves when his brother mysteriously returns from the dead. But when Dean came back, Benny the vampire wasn’t the only thing that came back with him. Now Sam is in a race against time to save his brother. This is one race that Sam refuses to lose.
A/N: Thanks to my wonderful collaborator,
tdorian, whose incredible art brings this story to life. From the start, we were on the same wavelength, and it was an honor to work with such a talented artist. Thanks to my unbelievably patient beta, without_me, who made the whole story better, and made sure I didn’t get carried away waxing poetic about Dean’s eyes and Sam’s hair. Special thanks to deirdre_c for title and summary help, and thanks as always to the mods for the great time that is spn_j2_bigbang!(Amelia)
The windshield wipers have needed replacing for months, Amelia insisting she’ll take care of it and Sam respecting her insistence, so she’s only driving about five miles an hour when she hits the guy. One second she’s about to pull into their driveway, nothing in front of her but streams of water running down the windshield; the next there’s a jolt and the unmistakable sound of someone in pain.
“Ohjesus,” she curses, foot slamming down on the brake. She lurches forward, caught by the seatbelt, fumbling for the release with the breath half knocked out of her. All she can think is Shit, Sam hit a dog but I’ve fucking hit a person. Finally the belt lets her go. She grabs for the door handle, but before she can throw it open, something hits the driver’s side window. It’s a hand, palm splayed against the glass as rivulets of rain stream around it, and then a face--at least she thinks it’s a face. It’s there and then it’s gone, a trickle of blood running down one side and that’s terrifying enough, but that’s not what makes her scream. It’s the eyes--they’re wild, insane, wrong.
“I know what I saw,” she insists as Sam throws on a jacket and follows her outside to where her car is still sitting in the middle of the street at the foot of their driveway, the headlights illuminating the driving rain in two shimmering beams. Sam reaches in to cut the engine, then checks out the front bumper, looking all around before he gets down on his stomach and peers underneath.
“I don’t see anything,” he says when he stands up, his long hair plastered to his face. “No sign that you hit anything, no blood anywhere.”
“It’s raining,” she protests, because goddammit, she knows what she saw.
He pulls the car into the garage and goes over it with the same concentration and attention to detail he uses when he repairs things around the house or fixes stuff at the motel. When he realizes she's still standing there watching him, shivering, he makes her go inside and get warm while he does a sweep of the neighborhood.
“I know what I saw,” Amelia repeats when he comes back hours later, shaking his head.
“Tell me again?”
She pops her third beer and hands one to him.
“I was driving slow--seriously, like five miles an hour, because the stupid wipers--I know, I know… And I was just about to turn into the driveway when there was this bump, and I heard someone shout like they got hit, and I jammed on the brakes and then when I went to open the door, he was like right there--he put his hand on the window right when I went to open it, and there was blood on his face, but he didn’t look--he just looked so wrong.”
She shudders, the image still too vivid.
Sam’s toweled off his wet hair and stripped out of his wet clothes, naked for a few moments while he pulls on sweatpants and a tee shirt. He’s gorgeous, she thinks distractedly, the awareness always there.
“What do you mean, he looked wrong?”
He’s not making fun; the expression on his face is totally serious.
“I just--his eyes, they were…"
Sam sits down, his beer untouched. “They were what?” he asks carefully.
It’s a good question, and she tries to put her finger on what gave her the creeped-out feeling she still can’t shake. “The whites were showing, like, he looked crazy--insane.”
“People probably tend to look like that when they get hit by cars,” Sam says patiently.
“But what was he doing just standing out there in the pouring rain anyway? I don’t even think he was walking; he was just standing there in front of our house. And it was more than that, his eyes were… they were weird, Sam! Something about them wasn’t right.”
“I’ll go outside and look around again when the sun comes up,” he says finally. “Why don’t we try to get some rest till then.”
Neither of them is very successful. Amelia tosses and turns, falling asleep only to wake with the image of the strange man with the wild eyes staring through her car window.
When Sam gets up, she’s already in the kitchen with a brewed pot of coffee.
“I figured out what his eyes reminded me of.”
Sam turns around, cup in hand. “What?”
“You know that commercial for George, the biggest crocodile in captivity? The one that’s visiting at the zoo here?”
“Um, yeah,” Sam says, brow furrowed.
“You know how in the commercial, they have a close-up of his face and you see him blink that one big giant crocodile eye?”
“Uh-huh.” Sam has put down his coffee.
“That’s what his eyes looked like. Just like that.”
He doesn’t make fun of her, or accuse her of having a runaway imagination or being hysterical or any of the other things she worries he might. He just finishes his coffee and puts on his jacket and goes back outside to comb the neighborhood. Amelia drives very slowly on the way to work, grateful for the sun drying out the roads and making everything look bright and cheery and normal. She comes home earlier than usual, reluctant to drive after sundown.
Sam’s on the couch, a beer in his hand.
“I watched the news, checked the neighborhood again, asked around. There’s nothing.”
“You think I’m crazy.” It won’t be the first time someone’s accused her of that, but she’d hoped Sam would be different. On the outside, he seems a lot crazier than her.
He shakes his head. “I think you’re tired and stressed. And it was raining.”
Like that explains the man with the crazy eyes. But it’s an easy out and she takes it.
There’s salt spilled all over the kitchen counter when she goes in to make dinner. She has to clean it up before she cooks the pasta.
They’re good at distracting each other. Sam’s a presence in bed, overwhelming her with the perfect press of his hands on her hips; the way his mouth fits to hers, leaving no room for anything that’s not physical. It’s a relief, always has been, and they’re both greedy for it. After, she gets up to close the window he likes to leave cracked while they’re working up a sweat. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a flash of movement behind the trees at the edge of the street. She freezes, staring into the dark. There’s no more movement, but the shape of the dark form to the left of the largest oak is unmistakable: the silhouette of a man, standing still. And staring back.
By the time Sam leaps from the bed at her gasp, there’s no one there. The wind billows the curtains and rustles the tree branches outside, and Sam wraps his arms around her waist and kisses the back of her neck.
It doesn’t reassure her as much as it used to.
After Don disappeared… after Don died, Amelia saw him everywhere. Across the street, as she turned the corner in another direction. In the next aisle of the grocery store they always shopped at, the one that had the cheapest hot dogs and the brand of baked beans he liked. Just out of reach in a crowded airport. It took her months to stop starting after him when it happened, to give up the hope that maybe… maybe.
Now it’s the stranger she keeps seeing, and it makes her heart jump for a different reason. She sees his dark form again the next night. This time he’s on the Millers' lawn when she goes to the window, unable to sleep. It's two houses down but the silhouette is clear in the moonlight, broad shoulders and wide stance and she knows he’s looking right at her.
“Maybe I am going crazy,” she admits the next day over dinner. Sam’s been quieter than usual, and she wonders if he’s angry with her, tired of the way she flinches when he goes to touch her.
He puts down his fork and sighs, pushing his long hair back behind his ear the way he does when he’s worried. “No,” he says. “I don’t think you’re crazy. If there’s something… someone… out there, I’ll find him. I’m pretty good at figuring out mysteries.”
For the millionth time she wonders what Sam did before he crashed into her life; how much trouble he was running from to be driving that fast. It's on the tip of her tongue to suggest calling the cops--it's the obvious thing to do; figuring out mysteries is their job--but over the past months she's definitely gotten the impression Sam and cops aren't the best of friends.
“We’re not even sure if it’s--if it’s anything. Just let me handle it,” Sam insists. “I can handle it.”
“Oh, really? What the hell makes you think you can 'handle' it, Sam? What does that even mean?”
He stares at her for a long moment, and that makes her even angrier.
“You can’t tell me, right? Just like all the other things you can’t tell me.”
“Amelia,” he starts, but she doesn’t want to hear it. She pushes her chair away from the table and grabs both their empty plates.
“Forget it, Sam. I said I wouldn’t ask questions; I meant it. But I won't live like this, not feeling safe in my own house. It took me a long time not to see shadows around every corner, and I won’t go back to that.”
Usually she’d put away the leftovers; instead, she scrapes the plates into the sink and lets the garbage disposal grind them up with a satisfying roar.
“Okay,” he says from the table, smart enough not to follow her. “I get it. Just give me 24 hours to figure it out. If I can’t, then you call the police and report it. Fair enough?”
She wants to tell him he’s a dick for making her wait another day, but he’s got that serious look on his face that says he’s trying to do the right thing even if neither of them knows what that is most of the time.
“Fine.” She stacks the plates in the dishwasher and shoves it closed with a resounding clatter.
“Fine,” he echoes, and by the time she turns around he’s putting on his jacket and throwing an already-packed duffel over his shoulder. “I’ll be back by tomorrow night, one way or another.”
“Be careful,” she calls after him, before she closes the door and turns the deadbolt.
* * *
Sam calls her 22 hours later. She’s surprised by the jolt of relief she feels when she sees his name on the screen.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine, yeah,” he says. “I’m… listen, I didn’t find anything. Whoever it was, I think they’re gone. Maybe I scared them off. Or something else did.”
“I haven’t seen anything either,” she admits, and the ball of anxiety that’s been stuck in her stomach loosens a little.
“I’m on my way back,” Sam says, and there’s no tension in his voice. He sounds relaxed, happy.
Amelia smiles, relieved that things feel back to normal.
“Oh, and I’m bringing someone with me,” Sam continues.
“Who?” she asks carefully. That was unexpected, and she doesn’t particularly like surprises.
“I’ll explain when I get there,” Sam insists. “It’s fine, I promise.”
She's not convinced.
“Amelia?” he says when she’s silent. “Did you hear me? It’s fine, okay? Everything’s fine.”
She watches from the window as Sam’s big black car pulls into the driveway. He’s not driving; another man is. Sam doesn’t let anyone drive his car, ever. Her skin prickles.
When the stranger gets out he’s smiling, looking right at Sam, who’s smiling back. When the man turns to follow Sam up the walk, his eyes catch hers in the window and the smile fades from his face instantly, replaced by a tightened jaw and narrowed eyes. His gaze cuts right through her, and she shivers.
“Amelia?” Sam calls as soon as he unlocks the door.
She steps into the room, telling herself she’s being ridiculous. This is Sam, and she trusts him. The stranger is close behind, and she watches his eyes dart around the room, taking everything in.
His eyes scan her up and down in a way that makes her feel like a piece of meat. Sam steps forward to kiss her on the cheek. She can see the stranger watching them over Sam’s shoulder; there’s a spark in his eyes now. It looks like a challenge.
“Glad you’re okay,” she says as he hugs her.
“I’m more than okay,” Sam answers, and he’s smiling now, warmer than she’s ever seen. “Amelia, this is my brother. This is Dean.”
Amelia’s hands go to her face, instinctively flinching. “Your brother,” she repeats slowly, because that can’t be right; people don’t come back from the dead. “Your brother who’s dead.”
“Rumors of my demise have been a bit exaggerated,” Dean answers, and he’s holding out his hand now, smiling at her. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
It takes her far too long to respond to his gesture. She flinches as their hands touch, expecting a too-tight grip, but he only takes her hand briefly, seeming as eager to let go as she is.
Sam bustles about making up the couch for his brother, smoothing their best sheets out over the cushions and adding one of his own pillows to the spare one. Dean chuckles and calls him a mother hen, and Sam rolls his eyes and stacks two blankets at the end of the couch even though Dean says he doesn’t need them.
“What happened?” Amelia asks as soon as she and Sam are alone. “You went out looking for a burglar and you ran into your long-lost brother?”
Sam laughs, like it’s the most amazing, wonderful thing that’s ever happened to him. She supposes it is.
“I checked in with some sources--some old friends, people Dean and I used to work with--and he was checking in with them too. He was on his way here, to find me.”
Amelia isn’t sure why she can’t muster up the happiness that she knows she should be feeling.
“So where was he for the last year?”
Sam sits down on the side of the bed. He’s got a look on his face that she’s seen far too often, the one that says he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Somewhere that made it impossible for him to get in touch with me,” Sam says simply, and she knows he wants her to leave it at that.
Maybe Sam’s brother is a CIA operative. Maybe he’s been undercover, or in Iraq. Or in jail. Amelia isn’t sure she wants to know, but she’s hurt that Sam won’t tell her anyway.
“I think we probably scared off whoever was casing the place,” Sam reassures her. “With Dean here, too, I don’t think anyone will bother us.”
She and Sam sleep on separate sides of the bed that night, facing away from each other instead of curled together like they usually do. Dean is a barrier between them from all the way downstairs, and Amelia wonders what will happen now. They’ve never talked about tomorrow; it was always enough to get through today.
In the morning, she wakes up to an empty bed and muffled voices from downstairs. There’s an edge to Dean’s voice that makes her chest tighten, an anger that she thinks he could back up easily. She gets dressed before slowly venturing downstairs.
“That’s your excuse for not looking for me?” Dean is saying. She can see him pacing in the kitchen as he gestures at Sam impatiently. “All this time I thought you were going crazy trying to find me, and you didn’t even fucking look at all!”
“I thought you were dead,” Sam protests. “I didn’t have any idea where to look or any reason to think you were alive--and you told me not to; we agreed we wouldn’t--"
“Bullshit!” Dean raises his voice, and Amelia can see him getting in Sam’s face, the muscle in his arms corded tense where he’s braced his hands on the table and leaned in. “You fucking know we never meant that!”
Sam looks halfway to broken, like he did when she first met him, his expression anguished.
“He was a mess,” Amelia interrupts, and Dean whirls on her so quickly she takes a step backwards, nearly tripping over the end table in the hallway. His fists are clenched and his eyes flash with rage; for a second she’s absolutely certain he’s going to hit her.
“Amelia,” Sam says, “it’s okay,” and that stops Dean in his tracks. He stays where he is, but he’s practically vibrating with anger.
“It doesn’t seem okay,” she says, because goddammit, this is her house, too, and she shouldn’t have to be afraid to speak in it.
“It’s between me and my brother,” Dean says. His mouth is set in a tight line, resolute. He unclenches his fists slowly, deliberately. “We can work it out. We always do.”
“Fine. I’m going to the clinic.” It’s easier than getting in the middle of whatever’s going on between them. She gets her coat from the closet, slips it on, and gasps out loud when she turns. Dean is right there, his face five inches from hers as she stumbles backwards.
“Sorry if I scared you,” he drawls. His eyes are strikingly green; there’s a cut on his temple that’s not quite healed. “Have a nice day. And don’t worry about Sammy; I’ll take care of him. Always do.”
The entire way to the clinic, Amelia tells herself there was nothing weird in that statement. Dean is Sam’s big brother, even if Sam is a 6’4” giant of a grown-up man. She can’t quite make herself believe it, though.
Amelia works late three days in a row. She doesn’t know what Dean and Sam do during the day, but whatever they've talked about seems to have eased Dean’s anger. At Sam, anyway. Amelia still catches Dean’s eyes on her when Sam isn’t watching; his gaze is anything but fond. Once, she challenges him, cocks an eyebrow as if to say, "What?" He smirks, lip curled up so far it looks more like a snarl than a smile. Her skin crawls and she turns away.
“So, how long is your brother going to stay?” she asks on the weekend. Dean is in the bathroom; he likes to take half-hour-plus showers that leave their water heater drained and his skin flushed pink. Sam says that where he was for the last year, they didn’t have much in the way of hygiene.
“I just got him back,” Sam answers. “How would you feel if you got Don back?”
“That’s not really the same thing,” she says. For a second, Sam looks like he’s going to disagree, but then he sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
“I know, but… he’s my brother.”
“He doesn’t like me,” Amelia blurts, and Sam looks up, startled. Had he really not noticed?
“He doesn’t know you,” Sam says. “The place he was for the past year, it was… terrible, violent, and he… he needs to get used to this again. Normal.”
She wonders again if Dean was in prison, or at war. He moves the way Don did when he came back from his first tour, easily startled and hypervigilant. Dean enters a room the same way Don did then, eyes darting quickly around, assessing every possible threat, as though there were poisonous snakes lurking in every corner.
“Okay,” she says, but she thinks Sam is probably wrong.
When she comes home on Wednesday evening, Sam is still at work and she thinks Dean must be with him. The house is empty, which is a tremendous relief after ten days of walking on tiptoe around the two of them. She grabs a beer from the fridge and kicks off her shoes as she climbs the stairs to the bedroom, grateful for the time alone and wanting nothing more than to relax for a bit in sweats and a tee shirt. She has her blouse half unbuttoned before she realizes the shades are open.
She moves to close them, one hand already raised, and then freezes, reflexively clutching her blouse to her chest.
At the end of their driveway, just to the left of the stand of trees that fringes their yard, is a shadowy broad-shouldered figure. Ohgod, she thinks, the prowler is back, and then she realizes it’s just Dean, waiting for Sam. He turns as though he heard her and tilts his head, gaze going unerringly to the window, and the light from the streetlamp catches his face just as his eyes meet hers. His white teeth flash as he grins up at her, and his eyes glint black and green in the moonlight. For a second, they look reptilian--the slitted, hooded eyes of a crocodile.
Amelia screams.
She refuses to unlock the front door at first when Dean tries to come inside, ignoring his calm-sounding “Amelia, it’s me, c’mon.”
He sounds perfectly reasonable; you sound like a hysterical lunatic. This is Sam’s brother.
She opens the door. Dean moves carefully around her, as though he knows she needs to keep an eye on him. “Sorry I scared you,” he says, and he sounds sincere, his tone warmer than she’s ever heard it when he’s talking to anyone other than Sam. His cheeks are pink from the night air, a contrast to the green of his eyes--which of course are perfectly normal.
“It’s fine,” she says, because it’s the first time he's seemed at all friendly toward her and she doesn’t want to fuck it up. “I’m just really on edge right now; it’s been a weird few weeks.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Dean says, and brings her a beer. He pops it and his own with his ring, the same way her father always has, and she notices for the first time that he has freckles spattered over his nose and cheeks. He’s handsome, like Sam--and yet they don’t look like brothers at all.
They watch mindless television in companionable silence. Dean sprawls on the couch, putting his feet on the coffee table the same way Sam does. Amelia is almost relaxed when he suddenly tenses, sitting up and looking at the window instead of the television. His shoulders square as he sits up straight, puts his feet to the ground, and if she didn’t know it was ridiculous, Amelia would swear Dean was scenting the air, nostrils flared and every inch of him vibrating with readiness. For what, she has no clue. A few seconds later, she hears it: the rumble of the Impala coming up the street. Sam’s home.
Dean is off the couch and at the door before Sam even gets out of the car. Amelia watches the way Dean's hand clutches the doorknob; the way his foot bounces, like he’s barely able to keep himself from springing into some kind of action.
The grin that splits Sam’s face when he sees his brother at the door is blinding. She gets it; she does. But it’s a smile she’s never seen directed at her, and that hurts.
She makes the decision that night. If Sam and Dean are a package deal--and she’s pretty sure they are--then they should probably be a package deal somewhere else. Sam hasn’t touched her since his brother returned from the dead, and Amelia doesn’t want to poke at the meaning of that too much. Same as she doesn't want to think about Dean’s expression when he thinks she’s not looking, when his boyish charm slips and his eyes are ice cold.
In the end, she doesn't have to say it. She gets the phone call the next morning, while Dean and Sam are laughing and mock-fighting over a plate of waffles and she’s trying to figure out how to tell them this isn’t going to work.
“What are the chances that both Dean and Don would come back alive?” she asks as she puts the phone down, still in the false calm of shock.
Sam just looks relieved. “There are a lot of things in this world that can’t be easily explained,” he says, and what kind of inscrutable bullshit is that?
“He doesn’t have to know if you don’t want to tell him,” Sam says as he packs. “I won’t bother you, I promise.”
“I know you won’t,” she says, and it’s the truth. “Dean wouldn’t let you.”
“Dean doesn’t tell me what to do,” Sam argues, and it makes her want to laugh. There’s something between them that feels all wrong, and Sam underestimates how powerful that something is. She’s suddenly afraid for him, the affection she’s felt for him tugging at her.
“Sam, be careful, okay?”
He looks up, surprised. “Yeah,” he promises, “I will. You too, okay?”
Dean’s waiting at the door when they come downstairs, an easy smile on his face. It's the first genuine smile he’s directed at her in all the time he’s been here.
“Take care of yourself,” Sam says, and hugs her again.
“She will,” Dean says, his hand on Sam’s shoulder to herd him toward the door. “She’s a smart girl.”
* * *
(Sam)
Dean drives too fast, but that’s nothing new. It’s clear he missed the Impala, and Sam is content to be back in the passenger seat where he belongs, watching the road fly by as Dean steps on the gas and takes them farther and farther away from Normal.
“It wouldn’t have worked out, Sammy,” Dean says when they stop at the Five Spot Motel. He’s picked an out-of-the-way place for them to stay, a rundown motel on a slab of asphalt in the middle of nowhere.
Sam thinks about the house he just left, the garden he and Amelia had planted in the back yard, and how the first shoots had started to sprout. A garden was something he’d never had and always wanted. When he was seven, he’d planted tomato seeds in Styrofoam cups as part of a school project. Dad inevitably yanked him out of that school before the plants had grown more than a few inches, and Sam had taken the three little cups with him, propping them up carefully in the trunk bolstered by weapons and duffels and blankets. It was 115 degrees as they drove across the New Mexico desert, and by the time Sam opened the trunk to retrieve the seedlings they were nothing but twisted brown stems, the soil blown away like dust. Dad had yelled at him for “putting that trash in the trunk.” When they got to the next long-term-rental motel, Dean stole a potted daffodil from the grocery store and put it in the window. Sam dutifully watered it every day, but it died anyway. Most things did, he figured, without any place to put down roots.
“How do you know?” he retorts. “You don’t even know her.”
Dean shrugs, already stripping down to hit the shower. “Just don’t think she was your type, that’s all.”
“You don’t have a clue what my type is,” Sam says. Hell, even he’s not sure what his type is. Amelia had felt right, at least for a while. She was all he’d had, and that was a version of right at least.
Dean looks like he’s going to come back with something sarcastic, but he shakes his head instead. In only his shorts, the way Purgatory sculpted his body is obvious. He’s toned in ways he never was before, fit or not; all sleek muscle and not an ounce of fat, scattered scars marking the costs of his time there.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” Dean says, finally. “Her husband’s back.”
“Yeah, thanks for reminding me.”
Dean’s grin makes Sam want to hit him. “’s what big brothers are for.”
It’s not, actually. Not what Dean’s ever been for, anyway. Sure, they tease, and Dean can be a dick, but not at times like this. He remembers Amelia’s insistence that Dean didn’t like her, and how easily he dismissed it.
“Go take your hour-long shower,” he says, waving Dean away. It’s been a tiring day, and he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.
When he wakes up, Dean isn't in the other bed. Sam’s eyes dart around the room quickly, searching. Then he sees Dean curled up on the floor, bedding pooled around him. One hand is under his pillow, and Sam would put money on Dean's fingers being curled around his gun, and more money on a knife stashed somewhere beneath the blanket.
“Dean?” Even though Sam says it quietly, Dean startles awake, springing to his feet. As Sam predicted, Dean has a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. But instead of facing Sam, Dean’s eyes are on the door, his strong body coiled and ready.
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong,” Sam says quietly, the way he talked to Riot when he had to wake the dog up to give him his meds. “It’s only me--just us here.”
It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in, but gradually Dean relaxes and lowers his weapons. By the time he turns around he looks more composed, though Sam can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
“Oh. Thought I heard something.”
Purgatory left more marks on Dean than the scars Sam can see. Sam wonders if he’s been sleeping on the floor this whole time, instead of on the couch Sam carefully made up for him. It’s clear that Dean needs time to acclimate to the outside world again. Sam can be patient; Dean wouldn’t have been down there so long if Sam had done a better job of looking for him. That’s the worst part of seeing how different his brother is now. Every time Dean flinches, or goes for his weapon without provocation--or slips out of bed to sleep on the hard floor--Sam can’t breathe for how much he blames himself.
I’m so fucking sorry, Dean, so sorry. I should’ve looked for you, should have turned over every stone and followed every lead and tortured every angel and demon I could find to figure out where the hell you were.
Sam remembers those first months as a blur, first of shock and then of agony; the entire world narrowed down to losing Dean, losing everyone. Nothing made sense, there was no one to fight against, and Sam is pretty sure that the day he hit Riot he’d intended to keep driving faster and faster until something stopped him. Permanently. Then all of a sudden there was a dog, and a woman, and a reason to put one foot in front of the other every day, and Sam hadn't wanted to think any further than that. Amelia saved him.
In bits and pieces, Dean tells Sam how he got out, though it turns out he omits some pertinent details about who--or what--helped him. Then one day he disappears, and the panic Sam feels is paralyzing. When Sam meets Benny and realizes it was a vampire that got Dean out, only the intensity of Dean’s nonverbal warning keeps Sam from beheading Benny right then and there. Even so, he gives Dean an ultimatum. Sam cut Amelia off; Dean needs to do the same with Benny. Sam tells himself it’s practicality, not jealousy. Not an unbearable reminder of how he failed his brother.
“He’s a monster, Dean. No matter what he did for you in Purgatory. Up here, he’s a monster.”
Dean goes along with Sam’s rules, but he doesn’t seem to agree.
They work a job outside Las Vegas, and their rhythm is off. Dean moves a little more quickly than he would have before; Sam is a little more cautious. That lets the rugaru get the jump on both of them; leaves Dean with a gaping wound in his side and Sam feeling guiltier than ever.
“Stay still for godsakes,” Sam orders once they’re back at the motel and he's trying to stitch Dean up. Dean’s laughing, giddy with adrenaline and more glee than Sam thinks is appropriate given that the blood Dean’s covered in is partly his own.
“Just a flesh wound, Sammy,” he laughs, squirming to reach the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. “Gimme a drink, that’s all I need.”
Sam plants a hand on the middle of his brother’s bare chest and holds him down. “No, that’s not what you need. I said stay still.”
For a second, it looks like Dean’s going to push him off and go for the liquor anyway. His eyes are flashing dark and dangerous, and his chest heaves under the pressure of Sam’s hand. Abruptly, he breathes out a long exhale and settles, his body going still as he watches Sam with hooded eyes.
It’s a strange reaction, not what Sam was expecting. But he’s not dumb enough to second-guess it when Dean is pliant and he needs to do some serious stitching.
“Much better,” he says, and Dean nods, no smart-ass retort for once.
Dean hisses when Sam disinfects the wound, but doesn’t move a muscle as Sam pushes the needle through his skin and pulls the thread tight. The gash runs low across the cut of his abs; the flesh ripples under Sam’s fingers and Dean draws in a shuddery breath. It’s not pain. Dean's cock is full in his jeans, a hard line under the blood-spattered denim. Five years ago, Sam would have made a joke about how much Dean gets off on a little pain and violence. Jokes were always a good cover for the way Sam kind of wanted to look, fascinated by his big brother in every way possible. It had always been that way; Sam figures it probably always will be. Now he can’t bring himself to tease about it.
“You done?” Dean rasps, and Sam looks up from where he was staring. Dean’s eyes are blown black, from the pain or the sudden arousal or both. He looks demonic, blood all over his face and still smiling.
“Roll over, let me check your back.” It’s as much a way to break eye contact as it is a real concern.
Dean grunts but does as he’s told, rolling to his uninjured side.
“What the hell?”
Sam touches the pad of his finger to the mottled trail of markings that run from the nape of Dean’s neck all the way down his spine.
Dean cranes his head around to look at Sam over his shoulder. “What? I get bit there, too?”
“No, I don’t think--it’s some kind of bruising, but it’s weirdly regular. Did you get hit with something?”
Sam runs his hand down the curve of his brother’s back, and Dean shivers violently.
“It’s an odd color, sort of greenish,” Sam says, checking to be sure there aren’t any broken bones or fractures beneath the discoloration.
Dean shudders again and groans. “Stop… it, it tickles.”
He rolls over to his back, effectively stopping Sam’s exploration. Instead of calming down, Dean's dick is even harder, tenting his jeans.
Sam’s face heats, and he quickly averts his eyes.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to… to tickle you. I didn’t mean--"
Dean smirks and runs a hand down his own bare stomach to cup his dick. “No problem.” His easy smile and the way he cocks an eyebrow at Sam make Sam’s stomach flip. Sam scrambles to his feet.
“Get some rest,” he says quickly, taking refuge in the bathroom for his turn in the shower. When he comes back Dean’s asleep, curled up on the floor as usual. He’s wearing only boxers, the pale skin of his shoulders and back exposed. Sam moves closer, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. He leans down until he’s practically on top of his brother’s sleeping form. Dean’s shoulders rise and fall in the even rhythm of sleep.
There’s no trace of the mottled bruising that was there just fifteen minutes ago.
* * *
Sam wakes up first. Dean’s still asleep, sprawled on his stomach in his nest of blankets, one leg kicked out to the side and both hands beneath his pillow. In the bright light of morning, his back is marked only by the smattering of freckles across his shoulder blades and a few ugly scars he brought back from Purgatory.
Dean startles when Sam leans over him, springing to his feet so quickly that Sam stumbles backwards and sits down abruptly on the bed. Sam should know by now that the days of Dean waking slowly, scrubbing at his face and trying to flatten the unruly spikes of his hair, are long gone.
“Whoa, take it easy,” he says, but Dean doesn’t seem to hear him. He stays frozen there, knife in one hand and every muscle tense and ready, eyes narrowed at Sam like he’s the enemy. Or some kind of prey. Sam's skin prickles.
“Dean, calm down, it’s me.”
Dean shakes his head, assessing. It’s three beats before he finally lowers the knife and breathes.
“Fuck, Sam, don’t fuckin’ sneak up on me like that.”
He drops the knife on the pile of blankets and heads to the bathroom, still grumbling and still breathing a little too hard.
“Sorry, sorry, I--"
That’s all Sam gets out before his mouth falls open in surprise. The mottled discoloration is back, running from the nape of Dean’s neck down the curve of his spine to disappear beneath his boxers. In fact, it’s darker than it was the night before, a clear pattern of rectangular shapes in shades of brown and green.
“Wait a minute,” Sam calls after him, and he’s on his feet before Dean can slam the bathroom door. “That bruising, it’s back!”
Dean frowns at him. “Back? You saw it last night, Sam.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but then later it was gone--completely gone. And this morning--five fucking minutes ago--it wasn't there. And now it’s back.”
Sam puts his hands on Dean carefully, feeling for some kind of damage beneath the markings that he might have missed the night before.
Dean twists, trying to see his own back in the bathroom mirror. He scowls when he succeeds, craning his neck and throwing his own arm over his head to try to feel it too.
“What the hell?”
Sam shakes his head, tracing the markings down to the small of Dean’s back. There’s no apparent damage, just his brother’s smooth warm skin.
“I don’t know,” Sam admits. “I don’t feel anything, but--you can see it there.”
“Shit,” Dean says, blinking at his reflection.
They’re both still staring when the marks start to fade again.
Six hours of internet searching give Sam a headache and not much else. Dean is pacing, something he’s always done when he was anxious. It's been more frequent since he’s been back, basically whenever they’re stuck somewhere and Dean’s not eating or sleeping. He pauses every few minutes in his back-and-forth circling to pull the curtains open and stare out into the parking lot, like he’s expecting the thing that left weird disappearing bruises on his back to return at any moment.
Sam looks away from the screen, rubbing at his sore eyes. Dean’s at the window again. A pickup truck pulls off the road and into the lot, parking in front of the next room. The driver's door swings open and an older man in a cowboy hat gets out, sharing a joke with the guy exiting the passenger seat. Dean’s eyes narrow, his lip curling up in a snarl.
Sam’s about to ask what Dean’s problem is, since they look like two perfectly ordinary dudes, when Dean tugs the curtain so roughly he pulls it right off its rod. And then he growls.
“What the hell is the matter?” Sam asks.
Dean whirls on him, and for a second Sam fully expects a fist in his face. Dean looks that angry. His face is red, his eyes dark and dangerous.
“Dean.” Sam says it softly.
Dean pauses, and Sam can see him struggling to calm down.
“Gotta get out of here,” he finally exclaims, both hands fisted at his sides. “Why do we have to stay here, huh? I don’t wanna stay here!”
Sam holds up his hands, hoping it will broadcast his intentions. “We don’t. We can leave if you want; it’s fine.”
Dean ponders that for a second, then nods. He starts packing his duffel without another word.
Dean finds them a hunt, which seems to make him happier than anything else these days. They only manage to corner the thing after it’s taken out two security guards and a young woman who had the horrible luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dean rushes it, machete raised to behead it, when it suddenly changes direction and hurls itself backwards, catching him by surprise and knocking him off his feet. He goes down hard, grunting with the pain. Sam pushes down the almost overwhelming impulse to check on his brother, silences the No no not again in his head, and gets his own knife ready. He’s just about to swing when Dean is there, grabbing the thing by its mass of stringy hair as he raises his machete. With a bloodcurdling scream of victory, Dean lowers the blade with such force that it slices clean through, the creature’s head flying off to the side and a spray of hot blood hitting Sam in the face. Dean’s momentum sends him careening into Sam, knocking the breath out of both of them.
“Ugh,” Sam groans, trying to push Dean back enough to breathe.
Instead, Dean clasps his shoulders with both hands and shoves Sam up against the wall. Sam’s half blinded by the blood in his eyes, blinking furiously and trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when Dean pulls back so they’re eye to eye, only inches apart. He searches Sam’s face, then wraps a bloody hand around Sam’s neck, pressing two fingers against the pounding pulse in Sam’s throat. Two seconds--three, four, five--and Sam is frozen by the intensity of Dean’s expression and the rough urgency of his movements. Finally Dean seems to find what he’s looking for and relaxes the pressure against Sam’s windpipe so he can draw a shaky breath. Dean leans in closer at the sound, until his nose is pressed right to Sam’s throat. Sam can hear Dean breathing in short bursts; feel the tickle of breath against his neck. It’s like Dean’s smelling him. The thought sends a shiver through Sam’s body, a shudder so violent Dean can feel it too. He growls low in his throat, still pressed up against Sam, and Jesus, Sam doesn’t know what’s happening.
Dean nudges under Sam’s jaw and growls again; there’s no mistaking the sound for anything else.
“D--Dean,” Sam whispers, and shivers again.
The word seems to break the spell. Dean lowers his head and steps back. He’s covered with blood, too, splatters of it on his face and in his hair. He stares at Sam, and for a second his eyes look nothing like Dean’s at all. They’re…
Sam blinks; wipes a hand over his face to clear away some of the blood. When he opens his eyes again, Dean looks like Dean.
“You okay, Sam?”
“Yeah, I… I think so. Are you?”
Dean shrugs and nods, retrieving both their blades from the floor. “We should burn this thing,” he says, and kicks the headless body for emphasis.
They burn their jackets and over-shirts with it. The guy at the desk of the motel they stop at a few hours later doesn’t comment on the red patches on their jeans when he gives them the key to Room 16.
“Go ahead,” Dean says when Sam looks longingly at the bathroom, desperate for a shower to wash the rest of the blood out of his hair. Sam uses more shampoo and soap than is strictly necessary, like he can wash away not just the monster’s blood but all the weirdness that went along with it.
When Sam gets out of the shower, Dean’s in a tee shirt and boxers, his face and hands still streaked with red. He strips off the shirt as he heads to the bathroom. Sam turns at the last second, on a hunch. He’s not as surprised as he should be to see the green-and-brown mottling once again decorating Dean’s back. It’s darker this time, more substantial. He doesn’t say anything as Dean closes the door.
He doesn’t say anything about it for two days.
Neither does Dean. In fact, Dean hardly says anything at all… literally. The silence finally gets to Sam somewhere outside Colorado Springs.
“You’re pretty quiet these days.”
The sound of his own voice is startling, nothing but the purr of the Impala’s engine for the last two hundred miles. Dean shrugs, but keeps driving.
“Is something wrong? I mean, you’re never a brilliant conversationalist, but this is ridiculous.”
Dean looks at him this time, a quick sideways glance, but he still doesn’t answer.
“You pissed at me?” Sam persists, and he’s getting a little annoyed now. He’s tried to give Dean his space, allow for some Purgatory-induced PTSD and lingering Hurt Locker transition crises, but the silent treatment has always driven Sam nuts, and Dean knows it.
Dean shakes his head, and Sam notices for the first time how hard Dean's hands are gripping the steering wheel; how stiff his shoulders are.
“Dean?” he asks, and it’s not anger that’s making his voice shake now. “What is it?”
Dean grimaces, his fingers tightening on the wheel, and then he’s yanking it sideways, sending the Impala skidding onto the shoulder and slamming on the brakes.
“Jesuschrist,” Sam yells, bracing himself against the passenger door. “What the hell?”
Dean’s still got both hands on the wheel. His chest is heaving like he’s run a marathon.
“Dean, what is it?” Sam can feel himself panicking. “Tell me.”
Dean looks at Sam and his eyes are wild, equally panicked. When he finally answers, his voice is rough, unsteady. “I don’t. Don’t know. It’s. It’s hard.”
“What's hard?”
Dean shakes his head again, frowning. “It’s… hard to… say,” he says haltingly.
“Say what?” The dread is snaking down Sam’s spine, chilling him from the inside out. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.
Dean takes one hand off the steering wheel and reaches across the seat. His fingers find the hem of Sam’s shirt and clutch at it, and Sam can feel the desperation in his brother’s touch.
“Say what?” Sam asks again, nearly a whisper.
“Anything.”
Sam takes over the driving after that, and it's a sign of how off Dean is that he barely protests. Sam pushes the Impala to 80 even though he has no fucking idea where he’s going; even though it’s not like they can outrun this, whatever it is. Dean sits rigidly in the passenger seat, hands gripping his own knees as though he doesn’t trust himself not to do something with them that he shouldn’t.
“We’ll figure it out,” Sam says about a hundred times. Dean never answers, just nods each time.
They don’t stop until they’re far from anything that could be called civilization, a little desert town with a motel that’s mostly empty. Sam checks them in while Dean hovers in the doorway, silent and sullen. The desk clerk keeps shooting wary glances in Dean’s direction. Sam imagines it’s a survival instinct when you run a motel in the middle of nowhere: learn to pick out the dangerous ones quickly, before it’s too late. Sam watches Dean glare at the clerk, hands balled into fists and posture tense, eyes dark. Maybe the clerk is right.
As soon as they get into the room, Dean sits heavily on the bed nearest the door. He looks exhausted, circles under his eyes and skin paler than usual. The sight of his brother looking so defeated brings a rush of protectiveness that makes Sam’s chest hurt. Dean was stuck in Purgatory for a year, fighting for his life. Now he’s back and he should be allowed some peace, damn it.
“I’ll go across the road and get us some food.” It’s the only thing Sam can actually do for his brother. Dean nods, his hands still clasped on his knees.
He hasn't moved when Sam gets back twenty minutes later balancing a pizza box, a six-pack, and a garden salad, a greasy bag of cheese fries clutched in his other hand. Dean brightens at the sight of the food, and it makes Sam’s chest tighten all over again.
It’s been months, but Dean still isn’t used to plentiful food. Sam wonders how close to starvation he got during his year in Purgatory, how many times he curled up to sleep on the ground hungry.
“Good, right?” he asks conversationally. Dean grunts an affirmative, distracted from the elephant in the room by the immediacy of something that tastes good.
To Sam’s surprise, Dean eats half the salad with as much gusto as he attacks the pizza and fries. In fact, after he stabs at the tomatoes and cucumbers with the plastic fork a few times he just grabs them with his fingers, shoving them eagerly into his mouth. Sam has never seen Dean eat anything green like that. Ever. Maybe it’s a vitamin deficiency.
When everything is gone except the beer, Sam stops procrastinating.
“Dean, you need to try to talk to me. I need to know what’s going on with you, man.”
Dean looks up and sighs. He looks young, the freckles sprinkled over his nose and cheeks obvious with how pale he is, and his eyes wide, a little fearful. There’s a splotch of tomato sauce on his lower lip, and Sam wants to reach over and wipe it off.
“We can’t figure this out if I don’t know what’s happening.”
Finally, Dean nods. He takes a few swallows of beer and clears his throat. When he speaks, his voice is so low he doesn’t sound like himself at all.
“I… words… hard to.”
He takes another gulp, shaking his head.
“Take your time, you’re doing fine. One word at a time, okay?” God, I sound like a kindergarten teacher, Sam thinks. But Dean doesn’t seem to mind, which would be terrifying even if everything else weren’t going to shit around them.
“Hard to find--can’t think--to say.”
“It’s hard to find the words for what you want to say,” Sam repeats, keeping his voice calm even though his mind is frantically leafing through everything this might be. Aphasia, damage to the frontal cortex, expressive language problem?
Dean nods. “Yeah. Yes.”
“Okay, when did this start? Because you seemed to be talking okay when you… when you first got back. Did you get hit on the head on one of the last hunts? When the rugaru threw you, maybe?”
Dean shakes his head. “No. No, it… it started… before. Slow. It’s… slow.”
“It started slowly?”
Dean nods, and Sam’s stomach flips, a wave of nausea flooding him.
“Dean, is it… is it getting worse?”
Dean nods again, and there’s more fear in his eyes now.
Keep it together, Sam. He needs you to.
“Okay, okay. Started slowly, getting worse. Then I need you to tell me as much as you can right now, okay? Can you do that?”
Dean swallows hard and takes another swig of beer. Sam can see him square his shoulders, like he’s going into a fight, and in that moment he loves his brother so fiercely it takes his breath away. Dean, who’s been through so much already, is not one to back down from a fight. And, damn it, neither is Sam.
“I--it’s like my… my head doesn’t work. Right. My head isn’t, I can’t. I don’t think like I did. Before.”
“Okay,” Sam says, letting Dean rest while he summarizes. Dean’s breathing hard already, like pushing the words out is as exhausting as running a sprint. “So you’re not able to think like you did before; it feels like your brain isn’t processing things quite right. Can you give me an example?”
“It’s--everything is all--big.”
Dean cuts himself off and hisses, clearly upset with himself. Before Sam can say "It’s okay," Dean slams his fist down on the nightstand in frustration.
“NO!” he shouts, and slams his fist into the wood again. “NOT big. Not… everything is... it’s all... all--"
“Take your time,” Sam says, trying to use the most calming voice he can. Dean looks so exasperated, so angry at himself, that Sam can’t help but reach out. He lays his hand over Dean's on the nightstand. Dean jerks at the touch, but doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he closes his eyes, and his fingers twine with Sam’s like he’s grounding himself.
“Everything,” he whispers, brow furrowed in concentration, “is all too. Too. Bright. Too loud. It’s too hot, then it’s too cold, and I--it feels wrong. And it… it smells wrong. Too much. Smell too much. See too much.”
There’s a lump in Sam’s throat, but he pushes it down. His instincts tell him to keep Dean talking. While he still can.
“So your senses are heightened. Like when you were turned by that vamp?”
Dean thinks about that for a minute, rubbing at his forehead like it will help his brain work. “No. But yes. Not--different. But not.”
“Okay,” Sam says and he pats Dean’s knee reassuringly. “Sort of like a vampire, but not. We know you’re not a vamp; we don’t have to worry about that.”
Sam’s talking to himself as much as to Dean, but Dean nods and opens his eyes. They’re still fearful.
“What else? Anything you can think of. What else is different?”
Dean takes another gulp of beer to fortify himself. “I want,” he begins, then shakes his head in frustration. Sam pats his knee again.
“I want--I need to--to hunt. Hunt.” He stops, staring hard at Sam like that will help Sam understand.
“You kinda go crazy when we stay in one place, right?”
Dean nods emphatically.
“Yeah, I noticed.” Sam smiles a little, but Dean doesn’t return it. He looks wrecked, the effort of communicating with Sam seemingly taking everything he has.
“Hunt. Every. Thing.” He pronounces each word carefully, taking a breath between each. “Hunt,” he says again. The hand he still has entwined with Sam’s on the nightstand clutches at Sam’s so hard it’s painful. “Kill.”
The word hangs in the air between them.
“You want to--Dean, you were in Purgatory for a year; of course you want to hunt and kill, you were being chased and attacked by monsters the entire time you were there. It’s understandable.”
Sam wants very much to believe it.
Dean shakes his head, and his eyes are glistening. “Wrong,” he says, the word only a gruff whisper. “Everything feels wrong.”
Dean squeezes Sam’s hand, looks right at him. “Except for you.”
It shouldn’t make Sam feel better. But it does.
Dean sleeps for ten hours that night, curled up on the floor like always. Sam can see the markings on the back of his neck, clearly visible above his tee shirt. He wonders if they’ll fade again, or if they’re there to stay.
The next morning, Sam tries to pick up the conversation after breakfast. Dean tries, struggling to find words and answer Sam’s questions. In the end, all he can manage is a growled and desperate, “Sam.”
He says it again and again, repeating it and pacing the length and breadth of the motel room as Sam frantically searches the internet. He says it like he’s afraid if he stops he’ll never be able to say it again.
It’s the last word to go.
By the morning after that, there’s nothing. The silence is deafening.
Part Two
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2013-06-24 04:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 04:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-24 10:12 pm (UTC)It works beautifully.
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Date: 2013-06-26 01:31 am (UTC)I think I got the idea for writing this partly because we just didn't get to see enough of the ramifications of Purgatory for Dean, so I needed that void filled. Glad it worked for you too! :)
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Date: 2013-06-25 08:37 am (UTC)“Sorry if I scared you,” he drawls. His eyes are strikingly green; there’s a cut on his temple that’s not quite healed. “Have a nice day. And don’t worry about Sammy; I’ll take care of him. Always do.”
Oh WOW!!! ILU! and ALL of this! it's so brilliant and I'm so excited and how the hell do you ALWAYS get it so right every. single. time????! so damn impressive.
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Date: 2013-06-26 01:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-27 06:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-28 02:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-30 01:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-30 02:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-30 03:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-30 03:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-06-30 11:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-01 01:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-08 11:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-09 01:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-09 08:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-10 12:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-22 03:59 am (UTC)And of course Sam is the last word to go. It's beautiful.
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Date: 2013-07-22 04:09 am (UTC)*big hugs*
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Date: 2013-08-02 08:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-03 12:07 am (UTC)becomes a monster 1
Date: 2013-09-14 04:39 pm (UTC)Re: becomes a monster 1
Date: 2013-09-14 07:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-29 05:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-09-29 07:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-02-22 07:48 pm (UTC)