gavemea_45 | (no subject)

(no subject)

He wakes up before Dean the next morning.

Sam lies there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what was said... and what wasn't said. It's the latter that prompts him to get moving.

Twenty minutes later, he shoves the motel room door open with his elbow, not making any effort to be quiet about it.

"Time to get up!"

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Dean mutters something uncomplimentary into the air, letting the empty whiskey bottle drop from his fingers as he brings his hand up to cover his eyes.

Even the siren scent of bacon is gonna take a second to do its vile work.

"You wanna yell any louder, Sasquatch, or is this a Sam Winchester Special?"

"I can, if it'd help," he returns. Sam's tone is dry as dust.

"Here. Try this instead."

He walks across the room and sets a cup of coffee on the night table, along with a bottle of Excedrin.

"It'll help once I punch you in the face."

He snags the coffee, though, taking an enormous gulp of it before he even thinks about taking the Excedrin.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

He adds the white paper bag with breakfast sandwiches in it to the table, then takes a seat on the edge of his bed with his own coffee.

"I'm not gonna get a refill, am I?"

But some would sure go great with those breakfast sandwiches.

Oh well.

Sam gives him a look.

"Dude. I've only got two hands."

Dean opens his mouth to say something.

It would've probably involved the word 'powers'.

Which is why he opens his mouth even wider, instead, covering with a yawn.

That is a conversation he doesn't really want to have again.

Not right now.

"Yeah, yeah. You could've gone with bigger cups."

He shrugs.

"If you really want, I can make a second run while you're in the shower."

Uh.

"Okay, what's up?"

"Nothing much," Sam tells him, and takes a sip of his coffee.

"Just figured you'd want to be all the way awake when I told you Meg Ford asked how you were doing."

"Huh?"

For a second Dean's mind is blank, everything shoved away under a mask of white noise.

Then --

"Oh. Yeah. You tell her I was doin' all right?"

"Yeah. She said to tell you she said hi."

Sam's watching him carefully.

"What? Are you jealous all the redheads like me best?"

It's like Dean knows his own efforts at deflection are doomed, but he's gonna try all the same.

Plus all (well, most) redheads do like him best.

Or did.

Anyway.

"Dean. She's getting married."

He scrubs a hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the mental image. Muffled,

"And she also felt the need to assure me you two weren't sleeping together, thanks for the reminder."

"Wait. Did you actually think -- "

What?

"What? No!"

He sounds half-strangled, and quickly downs more coffee.

"No, of course not."

"Oh thank God."

Dean closes his eyes in relief as he finishes off his sandwich.

Then --

"So. What'd you tell her?"

"That you were good. That you were doing okay."

A beat.

"And when I asked her why she was glad to hear that, she said I should ask you."

"Figures."

Dean just looks tired now.

But he doesn't say anything else.

Just in case Sam decides, for some incredibly bizarre reason, not to ask.

"Should I not?"

Very quietly.

"Ask, I mean?"

"Well, it ain't like this pussyfooting's gettin' us anywhere."

He sounds snippier than he looks.

Maybe it's not that much of a surprise.

A muscle in Sam's jaw tightens, but he lets it pass.

"Fine."

A beat.

"So why was Meg so all-fired glad to hear you were doing okay?"

"Well, gee. I dunno. Why would a girl who's besties with our good ol' angel pal wanna know what's up with the lead-in to the apocalypse?"

He scrubs his hand over his face.

It does nothing for the tension headache he's got going on, by now.

"Plus, you know. She kind of saw me after Hell but before. Uh."

He's not looking at Sam at all, now.

"Before I came back."

Edited 2012-05-25 03:16 (UTC)

Sam stares at him.

"She saw..."

Moving with deliberate care, he takes a long swallow of his coffee and sets the cup aside on the cheap bedside table.

Styrofoam isn't that sturdy. He doesn't think it's a good idea for him to hold on to it, not right now.

"Before you came back," he repeats. "You were there. At Milliways."

"Yeah," Dean says, jaw tightening.

"It sucked, and I'm glad it's over."

Not withstanding the fact that he hasn't felt half as safe, since.

Not making any choices is damn easy, when you've got someone to pick up the slack.

His hands clench on the bedspread to either side of him as he struggles to keep his voice level -- or at least to keep from shouting.

"And you didn't think to, I don't know, leave a message for me?!"

"Yeah, well I was pretty fucking crazy at the time, so no."

If Sam thought Dean was shut down before --

Oh, it's got nothing on Dean now.

Yeah, looks like sitting still's not going to work.

Sam bolts to his feet and crosses the room, pacing over to stand by the window, head down and breathing fast. One hand's braced flat against the cheap wallpaper, knuckles white with tension, and the other's in a fist at his side.

"I come here often myself, and have for some time."

"I met her here some time ago. And I have found her counsel and insight to be invaluable."

"He took you there. Castiel. After."

And didn't tell me.

Sam turns around and looks at Dean.

"Didn't he."

A revelation of crazy and that's what he gets?

Right.

"Yeah. Okay."

Dean stands up now, shrugging his coat a little more firmly on his shoulders and heading for the door.

"We're done here."

He can't.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

"No, we're not."

Sam steps between his brother and the door.

"A freakin' angel, and that's what he did when you needed help? He left you at a goddamn bar with no one to watch your back?"

Dean's brain whites out.

"You really don't want to do that, Sammy-boy."

He tries to keep his fingers from curling into fists.

"And you have no fucking clue what you're talking about."

He can't.

"Then tell me."

The words burn like acid in this throat and the second they hit air he half wishes he could take them back, given what had happened the last time Dean had told him something of the truth about what had happened in Hell.

The memory tears at his gut, and try though he might to steady it, his voice shakes.

"Dean. Please. Don't walk out on me. On this. Not now."

"I can't."

That's all it boils down to.

Talking about it means thinking about it, and in the grand scheme of things it hasn't been all that long since he was there.

He'd give Sam a pleading look, but his face is like stone.

He couldn't move a muscle even if he broke every strand of his heart trying.

And it ain't like he's got a lot of that left, these days.

"Now get out of my way."

Please.

Sam searches his face for several long moments, then lets out a slow, quiet breath.

Silently, he steps aside.

Dean doesn't bolt, but goddamn would he like to.

Maybe next time.

It ain't like Dean thinks there isn't gonna be one.

Left alone in the oppressive quiet of the motel room, Sam moves slowly back to the bed.

He sits down on the edge of it and retrieves his abandoned coffee. Two swallows are all it takes to empty the cup.

With steady deliberation, one shred at a time, Sam focuses all his attention on tearing it into tiny pieces, dropping them one by one into the cheap trashcan.

Too bad it's not Lilith. Not yet. But she's going to pay.

I'm going to kill her for this. That's all there is to it. She's going to die.

She'll never get her hands on you again, Dean.

Never.

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