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Wheeeeeeeeee! So late. I have *guilt* when i don't post, which is probably dumb, but...there it is! Seems like the holidays got me all discombobulated, and then i've been fighting this freaking *cough* since November... I'm now on *way* too many meds, but it's only for a week! And then maybe i'll be well! Yay!
Anyway - finally got this next chapter done and wanted to post *so much*. And my usual beta, the incomparable![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
darkhavens wasn't available. *whimper* So i had an 'emergency' beta done and now...i feel so dirty! DH - you know it's you, only you!!
:)
Actually, kudos toblack_samvara, who stepped up and did a wonderful quick beta for me. Thank you thank you! So much!
And, of course, there is alwayssweptawaybayou. *smoooches*
Previous parts are here.
And now - with tags! Yay!
"We used rail road track. Max just peeled it up off the ties like string cheese or something. Then Scott, he just, like, fused it, you know? With his Electro-touch." Andy flicked his lighter and held it to the bowl of his pipe. The pipe was anodized blue, green and pink and shaped like a fish. Sort of.
"It seemed kind of...dug in," Sam said, remembering his long look into the trap, greasy smoke from the funeral pyre still stinging his nose. The demons had swarmed and darted not five feet away, wailing and Sam had gritted his teeth and ignored them.
"Oh, yeah, that's Sherrie. She can control, like...earth? Rocks and stuff. She dug the trap out of the ground and then the Wonder Twins filled it in with the tracks." Andy inhaled hard and the sweet-sharp scent of pot filled Sam's nose.
"Wonder Twins?" Sam glanced across the room at Max and Scott, shoulder to shoulder, making a cross for the body they'd burned. Scott's fingers touching the rebar that Max held and twisted in mid air, little sparks flying and the ozone-smell of heated metal as he fused the lengths together.
"Yeah, they're pretty much inseparable." Andy spoke in a breathless squeak, holding the pot smoke in his lungs, gesturing with the pipe and lighter. "Max had this totally shitty childhood and Scott's the only one that keeps him, you know...calm." Andy blew the smoke upward, away from Sam – offered the pipe. "You want?"
"Nah. Think I'd better skip it." Sam let his gaze wander around the room, taking in the motley collection of salvaged couches and chairs, the scatter of kid's toys and the ranks of books and DVDs along the walls. A corner was set up with easels, paints and other supplies and the efforts of the Roach Motel's child population was pinned up on corkboards or displayed on table tops. Dean was in another corner of the room, inspecting a cache of weapons with Jake that someone 'on walkabout', as Andy said, had found in a basement in the suburbs of Detroit.
Somewhere behind a shelf there was a tv on, showing the limited stuff that was available. Sam wanted to watch it and shied away from it simultaneously, frankly too freaked out to confront all the differences. To see all the things they'd lost. Over all was the hum of conversation – the coming and going of the residents, the shouts and laughter of the kids playing. Music, too, and noise from the kitchen area, more cooking smells that threatened Sam's not-quite-settled stomach.
There were over a hundred people living semi-permanently at the Motel. A series of hidden, underground lakes had been revealed by the making of the crater – lakes that bubbled and steamed, heated by magma somewhere below. The Motel had tapped them for energy and heat. Strung out around the crater were half-buried greenhouses where they grew herbs, vegetables and fruit. And pot. Andy had gleefully promised Sam a tour later, if he wanted. The Motel was a strange, busy, mix-and-match kind of place – the first place beside the Roadhouse where Sam had seen more than ten people at a time. That, coupled with the low, mostly windowless confines of the bunker, was making Sam feel crowded and antsy. Claustrophobic, almost.
Sam nodded absently at Andy and got up – moved slowly around the room, cataloging. Books and movies, toys and newspapers, gadgets and practical things. Some of them intimately familiar, some of them utterly foreign. It was unsettling – a little frightening – and Sam just wanted to sit down somewhere and be still. On his third pass around the room, Dean stood up from his chair and grabbed his arm, dragging him toward a door – a hall – a little alcove that held flashlights and lanterns and boxes of candles.
"What the hell is wrong with you? You're pacing around in there like a fucking schizo."
"Man, I – I'm just not used to all the people, you know? It's just...so crowded." Dean stared up at him for a moment and Sam shifted uneasily under his gaze, hunching his shoulders and tucking his chin down – letting his bangs fall into his eyes. Hiding, like he used to do when he was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and taller than everybody – taller than Dad and Dean, too and it had felt so damn wrong.
Dean's palm hit his shoulder, driving him back into the wall – making his head and hands go up, automatic defensive posture. "Dude. Stand up straight, for fuck's sake. You're gonna be a hunchback."
"Oh, fuck off, shorty," Sam muttered, but he squared his shoulders, unconscious parade rest and Dean grinned.
"Don't get mouthy, kid. I can kick your ass from here to next week."
"Big talk," Sam said. He relaxed a little – leaned back against the wall behind him. Hooked his thumbs into his front jeans pockets and let his head tip back, looking down his nose at Dean. "Got anything to back up that mouth?"
"I got the whole package," Dean muttered, and then that mouth was on Sam's neck, teeth nipping over his jugular and Sam gasped softly, scrabbling to catch Dean's hip, wrist – something. "I get that you're a little buggy, man," Dean said, breath puffing over Sam's skin. "But it's too damn close to Solstice and sunset – we're here for the night." Dean drew back just a little – pushed his cheek against Sam's jaw at the same time his thigh pushed against Sam's groin – against his trapped, half-hard cock. "They've got lots of room here. Private rooms."
Sam dug his fingers in, up under Dean's shirts, fingertips catching at muscle and bone. He wanted to grind against Dean until they were both breathless and boneless and sated – was shaking with how much he wanted it. "God, you...you w-want –"
"Fuck yes. I want, Sam." Dean turned his head enough to put his mouth to Sam's and Sam kissed him, hard – fucking into the wet heat of Dean's mouth, tasting the burnt-sugar of pot and the mellow tang of beer. Running his hands up Dean's back and jerking him close, hands curving between Dean's shoulder blades. Making an embarrassing, helpless sort of noise when Dean's fingers curled into his hair and held him still – when Dean's teeth closed on his lower lip and sank in, just a little.
"Dean..." Sam whispered, and Dean pulled back – stepped back, his eyes huge and dark, his mouth wet.
"Got a few hours to kill. We should...should just go back. News from the satellite'll be on in a while, ought'a watch."
"Yeah, okay, sure." Sam felt dizzy – felt like he was floating an inch or so above the ground, everything in him loose and unfettered and just...spinning. Dean reached out and put his hand on Sam's chest, over his heart, and it was like a ground wire, steadying him down – giving him a minute or two to just breathe. Finally he nodded and Dean grinned – patted his chest a couple times and went back into the main room. After a moment more, Sam followed.
Of course, it was only three in the afternoon, and if Sam had felt twitchy and on edge before, now he felt like he actually wanted to punch something. Wanted to work out all the tingling, prickling energy Dean's touch had freed by going a round or two, skin and muscle and bone. At this point, though, it could only end in some kind of violent, up-against-the-wall, mutual jerk-off and that...
Well, it wasn't what he wanted, oddly enough. Not that it hadn't been totally fucking awesome a time or two in the past, but...
Not this time. Not here, and not now. This time – this first time... Sam shook his head, smiling to himself. *Could I get any more Young Adult Novel? Wow. Fuck it. I want that tour of the pot garden.* Sam got up with purpose and went to find Andy.
Moonrise – calculated but not seen through the sheet of clouds overhead – found Sam in an observation bubble at the far end of the main living bunker. It was a polycarbonate dome salvaged off some expensive hotel or mall, etched with runes and ringed with silver and iron. The cold came through it like water, tangible against Sam's skin – shivering down into his lungs with every breath. The rumpled fields of snow and earth spread out on all sides, gleaming dully in the trickles and pin points of light that escaped from the various bunkers and greenhouses. It was still snowing and Sam stood for a long, long time staring straight up into the sky, the snow whirling down and down like falling stars – endless tunnel of movement and white. Aching to be out of the Roach Motel – to be away from the demons and the people who could bend steel with a thought – start fires and move mountains and stop hearts.
The slow and stately dance of the snow made him dizzy finally, and he closed his eyes – tipped his head back against the dome. The cold sank into his skull, making it ache just there. Sam stayed until he was cramped with chill, shivering deep down in the pit of his stomach. Dean's hand on his knee startled him.
"Sam?"
"Hey – hey, Dean."
Dean was standing below him on the spiral stairs that led to the bubble, head and shoulders above the level of the floor. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"I just n-needed it to be quiet for a m-minute."
"Been more like two hours. Get down here." Dean retreated backwards and Sam straightened from his unconscious hunch and followed, stiff and shaky. The humid heat of the bunker was almost smothering. Sam pulled the insulated trap door shut behind him and navigated the stairs, feet slipping a little on the metal risers. At the bottom Dean was frowning at him, looking a little harried.
"Sorry," Sam mumbled, and Dean grabbed a handful of Sam's shirts and swung him against the wall.
"I didn't know where you were, Sam. You're supposed to check in."
"I was just – here, Dean. I'm not gonna get hurt here."
"This isn't a safe place, Sam."
"What?" Sam stared at Dean, absently curling his fingers around Dean's fist, tugging to get Dean to let go of his shirt. Dean didn't seem to notice. "Dean, this place has more wards than people. And the people can do some pretty amazing things – how is this place not safe?"
"You think a trap full of demons is safe? Or a fucking underground city full of scanners? Every place like this is like a...a beacon to any evil thing that passes by. The only reason the demons were at Bobby's is because of that ward he made. They're attracted to the power, even if it can fucking kill 'em."
"But...there are kids here." Sam finally managed to pry Dean's hand loose but he didn't let go, Dean's hand incredibly warm in his own, his freezing fingers throbbing gently as the heat started to soak in.
"Yeah, well...people do what they gotta do." Dean stared down at their linked hands, frowning a little. Lost in thought for a moment and his voice dropped down low, nearly to a whisper. "Safest place to be is on the road. If you keep moving – keep to yourself – they don't even notice you."
"That's pretty fucking lonely," Sam said finally, and Dean shrugged a little – tugged his hand free.
"I can slip around and get the sons of bitches before they notice me." He reached up – patted Sam's cheek and winced a little. "Christ, you're a fucking popsicle. C'mon."
"C'mon where?" Sam asked, walking after Dean down the corridor. His thighs burned, chilled flesh heating back up, the blood pumping hard to the surface.
"Where you can get warm, dumbass."
They walked down, deeper into the earth, and Sam imagined it getting thicker and thicker overhead. Like going down into a grave, and he had to clench his fists tight, nails digging into his palms to keep from breaking and running. He wasn't claustrophobic – he didn't imagine the walls were closing in, or the roof collapsing. He just... He'd died, now he was buried. His brain kept grasshoppering around in weird little circle, seeing the striated earth, the crumbling rock and the shale that heat from the falling object had blasted into slate, iron oxidizing in seconds and turning the stone a strange sort of rusty green. There were work lights about every five feet, strung on long bundles of wire and bright orange extension cords.
*This whole place is a grave. It's dying – it's Hell, Dean said. We're all in Sheol, or Limbo, or...somewhere. Not living. Barely alive...* The tiny differences – the missing things, and the things that made no sense – were adding up. Wearing Sam down. *Maybe this is why the angel never let me stay. Maybe you just go crazy. Maybe the universe knows I'm supposed to be dead and it's trying to fix it. God, just...want to get out of here, want...*
"Sam? Hey, man....Sammy?"
"Huh?" Sam realized he'd stopped dead, right in the middle of the corridor. In the middle of wherever they were going, just standing there staring at the rock of the corridor wall. More like a tunnel, really, but weirdly smooth and regular.
"Dude, what the fuck? Are you freaking out on me? Are you – did you, I mean, if you don't want –" Dean stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunched – eyes a little wide, looking acutely uncomfortable and what he was saying suddenly made sense.
"What? No! I'm just...it's..." Sam dragged his fingers back through his hair, frustrated – nearly angry, but why or at who he had no idea. "This place is just...kinda gettin' to me, man. I'm not...I'm just..." He looked helplessly at Dean, homesickness and longing and misery welling up in him. The only thing that felt right – that felt like home – was Dean. He just...wanted...Dean. "This place isn't home, you know? It's just...not home."
Dean took a step closer – untucked a hand from his pocket and reached hesitantly for Sam's shoulder. He squeezed gently, smiling just a little when Sam swayed into his touch. "I get it, Sam. I really do. I mean...after Dad...? After...I didn't come in for a year. I just...ran the roads, did jobs...holed up in empty houses and stuff. Camped out on Mount Rainier for a month in the summer. I couldn't stand to be around people, I was..." Dean laughed, but his eyes were focused elsewhere, remembering. "I didn't trust anybody – people made me so fuckin' jumpy I couldn't stand it. Couldn't breathe...fuck, I pulled a gun on Pastor Jim. That's when I knew I had to get the fuck away and just..." He stopped – looked up at Sam and shrugged a little.
"Just what, Dean?"
"Forget, I guess. Figure it all out and...find a place to put it in my head. Dad said...when he was in the war, over in 'Nam? He just had to be a soldier, be...someone else. Had to get into that headspace fuckin' fast or he'd have gotten his head blown off. That's what I had to do. Had to figure out how to...just..."
He stopped again, his eyes shimmering. Too full of heartbreak and sorrow, too close to breaking down. Sam put his hand up, over Dean's. Squeezed the rough knuckles with his fingers, ducking his head a little to catch Dean's gaze.
"Be alone? To do it...alone?"
Dean nodded – swallowed and sniffed and sighed. "Yeah. Me and Dad, we didn't always get along but we always had each other's backs, you know? Always knew I could trust him to be there. That was...hard to live without." Dean took a deep breath – let his hand slide out from under Sam's. "C'mon – you're still fucking freezing. Almost there." He turned – started walking – and Sam took three long steps and caught up with him – caught his shoulder, made him turn and kissed him. Trying to say, with the press of lips and the slide of tongues – pressure of his arms around Dean's ribs - that Dean wasn't alone, that he had someone at his back. That Sam was there, and they were going to be okay. They were both...going to be okay.
Part thirteen.
Anyway - finally got this next chapter done and wanted to post *so much*. And my usual beta, the incomparable
darkhavens wasn't available. *whimper* So i had an 'emergency' beta done and now...i feel so dirty! DH - you know it's you, only you!!:)
Actually, kudos to
black_samvara, who stepped up and did a wonderful quick beta for me. Thank you thank you! So much! And, of course, there is always
sweptawaybayou. *smoooches*Previous parts are here.
And now - with tags! Yay!
"We used rail road track. Max just peeled it up off the ties like string cheese or something. Then Scott, he just, like, fused it, you know? With his Electro-touch." Andy flicked his lighter and held it to the bowl of his pipe. The pipe was anodized blue, green and pink and shaped like a fish. Sort of.
"It seemed kind of...dug in," Sam said, remembering his long look into the trap, greasy smoke from the funeral pyre still stinging his nose. The demons had swarmed and darted not five feet away, wailing and Sam had gritted his teeth and ignored them.
"Oh, yeah, that's Sherrie. She can control, like...earth? Rocks and stuff. She dug the trap out of the ground and then the Wonder Twins filled it in with the tracks." Andy inhaled hard and the sweet-sharp scent of pot filled Sam's nose.
"Wonder Twins?" Sam glanced across the room at Max and Scott, shoulder to shoulder, making a cross for the body they'd burned. Scott's fingers touching the rebar that Max held and twisted in mid air, little sparks flying and the ozone-smell of heated metal as he fused the lengths together.
"Yeah, they're pretty much inseparable." Andy spoke in a breathless squeak, holding the pot smoke in his lungs, gesturing with the pipe and lighter. "Max had this totally shitty childhood and Scott's the only one that keeps him, you know...calm." Andy blew the smoke upward, away from Sam – offered the pipe. "You want?"
"Nah. Think I'd better skip it." Sam let his gaze wander around the room, taking in the motley collection of salvaged couches and chairs, the scatter of kid's toys and the ranks of books and DVDs along the walls. A corner was set up with easels, paints and other supplies and the efforts of the Roach Motel's child population was pinned up on corkboards or displayed on table tops. Dean was in another corner of the room, inspecting a cache of weapons with Jake that someone 'on walkabout', as Andy said, had found in a basement in the suburbs of Detroit.
Somewhere behind a shelf there was a tv on, showing the limited stuff that was available. Sam wanted to watch it and shied away from it simultaneously, frankly too freaked out to confront all the differences. To see all the things they'd lost. Over all was the hum of conversation – the coming and going of the residents, the shouts and laughter of the kids playing. Music, too, and noise from the kitchen area, more cooking smells that threatened Sam's not-quite-settled stomach.
There were over a hundred people living semi-permanently at the Motel. A series of hidden, underground lakes had been revealed by the making of the crater – lakes that bubbled and steamed, heated by magma somewhere below. The Motel had tapped them for energy and heat. Strung out around the crater were half-buried greenhouses where they grew herbs, vegetables and fruit. And pot. Andy had gleefully promised Sam a tour later, if he wanted. The Motel was a strange, busy, mix-and-match kind of place – the first place beside the Roadhouse where Sam had seen more than ten people at a time. That, coupled with the low, mostly windowless confines of the bunker, was making Sam feel crowded and antsy. Claustrophobic, almost.
Sam nodded absently at Andy and got up – moved slowly around the room, cataloging. Books and movies, toys and newspapers, gadgets and practical things. Some of them intimately familiar, some of them utterly foreign. It was unsettling – a little frightening – and Sam just wanted to sit down somewhere and be still. On his third pass around the room, Dean stood up from his chair and grabbed his arm, dragging him toward a door – a hall – a little alcove that held flashlights and lanterns and boxes of candles.
"What the hell is wrong with you? You're pacing around in there like a fucking schizo."
"Man, I – I'm just not used to all the people, you know? It's just...so crowded." Dean stared up at him for a moment and Sam shifted uneasily under his gaze, hunching his shoulders and tucking his chin down – letting his bangs fall into his eyes. Hiding, like he used to do when he was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen and taller than everybody – taller than Dad and Dean, too and it had felt so damn wrong.
Dean's palm hit his shoulder, driving him back into the wall – making his head and hands go up, automatic defensive posture. "Dude. Stand up straight, for fuck's sake. You're gonna be a hunchback."
"Oh, fuck off, shorty," Sam muttered, but he squared his shoulders, unconscious parade rest and Dean grinned.
"Don't get mouthy, kid. I can kick your ass from here to next week."
"Big talk," Sam said. He relaxed a little – leaned back against the wall behind him. Hooked his thumbs into his front jeans pockets and let his head tip back, looking down his nose at Dean. "Got anything to back up that mouth?"
"I got the whole package," Dean muttered, and then that mouth was on Sam's neck, teeth nipping over his jugular and Sam gasped softly, scrabbling to catch Dean's hip, wrist – something. "I get that you're a little buggy, man," Dean said, breath puffing over Sam's skin. "But it's too damn close to Solstice and sunset – we're here for the night." Dean drew back just a little – pushed his cheek against Sam's jaw at the same time his thigh pushed against Sam's groin – against his trapped, half-hard cock. "They've got lots of room here. Private rooms."
Sam dug his fingers in, up under Dean's shirts, fingertips catching at muscle and bone. He wanted to grind against Dean until they were both breathless and boneless and sated – was shaking with how much he wanted it. "God, you...you w-want –"
"Fuck yes. I want, Sam." Dean turned his head enough to put his mouth to Sam's and Sam kissed him, hard – fucking into the wet heat of Dean's mouth, tasting the burnt-sugar of pot and the mellow tang of beer. Running his hands up Dean's back and jerking him close, hands curving between Dean's shoulder blades. Making an embarrassing, helpless sort of noise when Dean's fingers curled into his hair and held him still – when Dean's teeth closed on his lower lip and sank in, just a little.
"Dean..." Sam whispered, and Dean pulled back – stepped back, his eyes huge and dark, his mouth wet.
"Got a few hours to kill. We should...should just go back. News from the satellite'll be on in a while, ought'a watch."
"Yeah, okay, sure." Sam felt dizzy – felt like he was floating an inch or so above the ground, everything in him loose and unfettered and just...spinning. Dean reached out and put his hand on Sam's chest, over his heart, and it was like a ground wire, steadying him down – giving him a minute or two to just breathe. Finally he nodded and Dean grinned – patted his chest a couple times and went back into the main room. After a moment more, Sam followed.
Of course, it was only three in the afternoon, and if Sam had felt twitchy and on edge before, now he felt like he actually wanted to punch something. Wanted to work out all the tingling, prickling energy Dean's touch had freed by going a round or two, skin and muscle and bone. At this point, though, it could only end in some kind of violent, up-against-the-wall, mutual jerk-off and that...
Well, it wasn't what he wanted, oddly enough. Not that it hadn't been totally fucking awesome a time or two in the past, but...
Not this time. Not here, and not now. This time – this first time... Sam shook his head, smiling to himself. *Could I get any more Young Adult Novel? Wow. Fuck it. I want that tour of the pot garden.* Sam got up with purpose and went to find Andy.
Moonrise – calculated but not seen through the sheet of clouds overhead – found Sam in an observation bubble at the far end of the main living bunker. It was a polycarbonate dome salvaged off some expensive hotel or mall, etched with runes and ringed with silver and iron. The cold came through it like water, tangible against Sam's skin – shivering down into his lungs with every breath. The rumpled fields of snow and earth spread out on all sides, gleaming dully in the trickles and pin points of light that escaped from the various bunkers and greenhouses. It was still snowing and Sam stood for a long, long time staring straight up into the sky, the snow whirling down and down like falling stars – endless tunnel of movement and white. Aching to be out of the Roach Motel – to be away from the demons and the people who could bend steel with a thought – start fires and move mountains and stop hearts.
The slow and stately dance of the snow made him dizzy finally, and he closed his eyes – tipped his head back against the dome. The cold sank into his skull, making it ache just there. Sam stayed until he was cramped with chill, shivering deep down in the pit of his stomach. Dean's hand on his knee startled him.
"Sam?"
"Hey – hey, Dean."
Dean was standing below him on the spiral stairs that led to the bubble, head and shoulders above the level of the floor. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"I just n-needed it to be quiet for a m-minute."
"Been more like two hours. Get down here." Dean retreated backwards and Sam straightened from his unconscious hunch and followed, stiff and shaky. The humid heat of the bunker was almost smothering. Sam pulled the insulated trap door shut behind him and navigated the stairs, feet slipping a little on the metal risers. At the bottom Dean was frowning at him, looking a little harried.
"Sorry," Sam mumbled, and Dean grabbed a handful of Sam's shirts and swung him against the wall.
"I didn't know where you were, Sam. You're supposed to check in."
"I was just – here, Dean. I'm not gonna get hurt here."
"This isn't a safe place, Sam."
"What?" Sam stared at Dean, absently curling his fingers around Dean's fist, tugging to get Dean to let go of his shirt. Dean didn't seem to notice. "Dean, this place has more wards than people. And the people can do some pretty amazing things – how is this place not safe?"
"You think a trap full of demons is safe? Or a fucking underground city full of scanners? Every place like this is like a...a beacon to any evil thing that passes by. The only reason the demons were at Bobby's is because of that ward he made. They're attracted to the power, even if it can fucking kill 'em."
"But...there are kids here." Sam finally managed to pry Dean's hand loose but he didn't let go, Dean's hand incredibly warm in his own, his freezing fingers throbbing gently as the heat started to soak in.
"Yeah, well...people do what they gotta do." Dean stared down at their linked hands, frowning a little. Lost in thought for a moment and his voice dropped down low, nearly to a whisper. "Safest place to be is on the road. If you keep moving – keep to yourself – they don't even notice you."
"That's pretty fucking lonely," Sam said finally, and Dean shrugged a little – tugged his hand free.
"I can slip around and get the sons of bitches before they notice me." He reached up – patted Sam's cheek and winced a little. "Christ, you're a fucking popsicle. C'mon."
"C'mon where?" Sam asked, walking after Dean down the corridor. His thighs burned, chilled flesh heating back up, the blood pumping hard to the surface.
"Where you can get warm, dumbass."
They walked down, deeper into the earth, and Sam imagined it getting thicker and thicker overhead. Like going down into a grave, and he had to clench his fists tight, nails digging into his palms to keep from breaking and running. He wasn't claustrophobic – he didn't imagine the walls were closing in, or the roof collapsing. He just... He'd died, now he was buried. His brain kept grasshoppering around in weird little circle, seeing the striated earth, the crumbling rock and the shale that heat from the falling object had blasted into slate, iron oxidizing in seconds and turning the stone a strange sort of rusty green. There were work lights about every five feet, strung on long bundles of wire and bright orange extension cords.
*This whole place is a grave. It's dying – it's Hell, Dean said. We're all in Sheol, or Limbo, or...somewhere. Not living. Barely alive...* The tiny differences – the missing things, and the things that made no sense – were adding up. Wearing Sam down. *Maybe this is why the angel never let me stay. Maybe you just go crazy. Maybe the universe knows I'm supposed to be dead and it's trying to fix it. God, just...want to get out of here, want...*
"Sam? Hey, man....Sammy?"
"Huh?" Sam realized he'd stopped dead, right in the middle of the corridor. In the middle of wherever they were going, just standing there staring at the rock of the corridor wall. More like a tunnel, really, but weirdly smooth and regular.
"Dude, what the fuck? Are you freaking out on me? Are you – did you, I mean, if you don't want –" Dean stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunched – eyes a little wide, looking acutely uncomfortable and what he was saying suddenly made sense.
"What? No! I'm just...it's..." Sam dragged his fingers back through his hair, frustrated – nearly angry, but why or at who he had no idea. "This place is just...kinda gettin' to me, man. I'm not...I'm just..." He looked helplessly at Dean, homesickness and longing and misery welling up in him. The only thing that felt right – that felt like home – was Dean. He just...wanted...Dean. "This place isn't home, you know? It's just...not home."
Dean took a step closer – untucked a hand from his pocket and reached hesitantly for Sam's shoulder. He squeezed gently, smiling just a little when Sam swayed into his touch. "I get it, Sam. I really do. I mean...after Dad...? After...I didn't come in for a year. I just...ran the roads, did jobs...holed up in empty houses and stuff. Camped out on Mount Rainier for a month in the summer. I couldn't stand to be around people, I was..." Dean laughed, but his eyes were focused elsewhere, remembering. "I didn't trust anybody – people made me so fuckin' jumpy I couldn't stand it. Couldn't breathe...fuck, I pulled a gun on Pastor Jim. That's when I knew I had to get the fuck away and just..." He stopped – looked up at Sam and shrugged a little.
"Just what, Dean?"
"Forget, I guess. Figure it all out and...find a place to put it in my head. Dad said...when he was in the war, over in 'Nam? He just had to be a soldier, be...someone else. Had to get into that headspace fuckin' fast or he'd have gotten his head blown off. That's what I had to do. Had to figure out how to...just..."
He stopped again, his eyes shimmering. Too full of heartbreak and sorrow, too close to breaking down. Sam put his hand up, over Dean's. Squeezed the rough knuckles with his fingers, ducking his head a little to catch Dean's gaze.
"Be alone? To do it...alone?"
Dean nodded – swallowed and sniffed and sighed. "Yeah. Me and Dad, we didn't always get along but we always had each other's backs, you know? Always knew I could trust him to be there. That was...hard to live without." Dean took a deep breath – let his hand slide out from under Sam's. "C'mon – you're still fucking freezing. Almost there." He turned – started walking – and Sam took three long steps and caught up with him – caught his shoulder, made him turn and kissed him. Trying to say, with the press of lips and the slide of tongues – pressure of his arms around Dean's ribs - that Dean wasn't alone, that he had someone at his back. That Sam was there, and they were going to be okay. They were both...going to be okay.
Part thirteen.