alwaysenduphere | fic: The Moon is a Piece of Me [2/2]

V.

True to Dean’s word, they start small, going wherever the road and the case takes them. Most days they try not to stray too far from Bobby’s, two or three states at the most, short enough distance that Dean can make the drive back in a day if need be. Sam finally admits he feels safest in Bobby’s house -something Dean figured out six months ago - but they both agree they can’t stay there forever, underfoot like a couple of children. Well, mostly they agree.

"Stop treating me like a child," Sam says, knees hanging out the door of the Impala as Dean pumps seventy dollars worth of gas into her large tank. It’s cold, winter chasing them through state after state, and Dean shivers as he screws the gas cap back on. They’re only sixty or so miles from Bobby’s, but Dean’s tired of watching the price of gas rise and fall, playing the game to see where it’ll be cheapest, if he can just make it to the next station. He wants a full tank for whenever they choose to leave Bobby’s this time around, which, at the way his body’s still thrumming for more and the composed look Sam once again has in his eyes, will be sooner rather than later. But Dean doesn’t want to push it.

"Six months ago you weren't much better than a scared child, Sam, excuse me if I'm being a little cautious." It's an argument they have frequently, one that no one ever wins and solves nothing. Sam thinks he’s a-okay; Dean knows better.

They compromise by visiting Bobby, kicking back and having a beer by the fireplace, listening to Bobby talk about his latest haul of cars and helping him with the research of their next case, or maybe someone else’s. Bobby even mentions Castiel, but the news on their former angel friend is few and far between.

Sam can deal with the lit fireplace now, a prerequisite – according to Dean – for coming back on the job. “Half our job involves fire and death, Sam. If you’re not ready you’re not ready.”

“I’m ready,” Sam said, pulling the rocker up next to the fire and staring resolutely at Dean. Now he sits by it like everyone else, legs stretched out and warm beer in his hand, label half picked-off by hands desperate to keep moving, his body lazily drifting off as the night ambles on. Sometimes he still flinches when the flame gets too high or crackles too loud, a fact that Dean is wont to point out, but generally he holds his tongue, choosing instead to focus on the sound of Bobby’s voice as he describes whatever research he’s done for the case they may or may not take when they pull out of the drive the next morning.

“I’m sure even you two idjits can handle this one,” he says, handing Dean a tattered file folder of newspaper scraps and old photos. “Had it off to the side for a couple of months, didn’t really seem to take precedence over everything else. But honestly, there’s not much else on my radar right now. Things are quiet.”

“Because that’s not creepy at all,” Dean says.

“Yeah well, I’ve learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth, as the saying goes.”

Just as Bobby finishes speaking, there’s a loud boom against the door that startles Sam into dropping his beer, foamy liquid curling under the rocker’s legs and against his feet. Dean jumps up and grabs for the nearest shotgun, propped up in the next room against the poor excuse of a kitchen table Bobby keeps, rickety wooden thing about to fall down with too much weight on top of it. No one ever comes knocking on Bobby Singer’s door, and generally those that do bring with them trouble or pain or both.

“Shouldn’t have said nothing,” he whispers to Sam and Dean. Bobby’s still six feet away from the door, gun in his hand and Dean ready to back him up if need be. Sam just huddles by the fireplace. “Who’s there?”

“Open the door,” says the voice on the other side.

Bobby looks back and forth between Sam and Dean and Dean wonders if his face in any way mirrors the shock on Bobby’s as he says, “Castiel?”

They knew they weren’t going to be able to avoid him forever, still half confused why he let them go in the first place, but they never expected him to just show up on the doorstep.

Bobby opens the door, despite all of Dean’s protests otherwise. “Well if I don’t he’ll probably just Apparate in here. Or worse, destroy my front door. I just fixed that door last week after the last time you two fools destroyed it. Besides, if he wanted to kill us he’d probably have already done it a thousand times over.” Dean has to admit Bobby has a point, but he still doesn’t like the idea.

Castiel is a ragged, bloody mess when Bobby swings the door open, looking far more like a man having a shitty time of it than the ‘new God’ he claims to be. He’s barely upright, his whole weight resting against the door frame, and he stumbles into Dean’s arms the moment he steps through the threshold.

For a moment Dean is reminded of another time, one not better but simply different. But only for a moment.

“Whoa there, Cas,” he says, “Not exactly looking the part of an all-powerful being here.”

“Uh, Dean? I think it might be best not to taunt the celestial being that could kill us with a snap of his fingers,” Bobby says quietly, pulling the nearest chair underneath Castiel, into which Dean drops him with a heavy thunk.

“Point taken.” Dean likes to think he’s gotten over being terrified in the face of Castiel, just another one of those shitty things that happens in a long line of shitty things, but humor and sarcasm are his only defense, at this point. “So what happened? Purgatory-power not enough for you? Find someone who didn’t want to be your sheep?”

“I found a large pocket of resistance that overwhelmed me temporarily, yes. I just need a moment to rest and I’ll be on my way.” Bumpkin peeks his little head out from the basket he generally hides in, makes a confused ‘meow’ when he notices Castiel, then hisses when Castiel turns to look at him. “A cat, Bobby? I never pictured you the type.”

“Leave the cat alone,” Sam practically growls from the corner of the room.

Dean mostly ignores the exchange, though the anger in Sam’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed. “Every port in a storm, huh. Well that’s just… peachy. Remind me again why we should help you? Last time we saw each other you told me to bow at your feet. I think you know how I feel about that,” Dean snaps.

“What do you want me to say? ‘If you don’t let me rest for a moment I’ll kill you?’ I don’t want to kill you, Dean.” Castiel tilts his head to the left, in that awkward way Dean used to find amusing. Now he only finds it frustrating, a reminder of how things have changed and how he can’t change them back.

“Well I suppose that’s good to know.” The wounds on Castiel’s chest and face heal even as he speaks, claw marks and puncture wounds fading into nothingness. Dean watches the pieces of skin stitch themselves back together, smooth over, until the only sign that remains of Castiel’s injuries is the dried blood and ripped trench coat. Dean figures eventually those will disappear with a thought too. “Get healed and then get out. We’re not your friends anymore.”

Castiel departs not five minutes later, not another word spoken between the four of them, just Dean pacing a hole in the floor, Bobby with his gun trained on Castiel - for all the good it would do - and Sam silent in the corner.

“I can’t believe him. I can’t,” Dean says once the fluttering of angel wings passes, leaving nothing but an empty chair and a few drops of blood beneath it. “I mean, coming here, what did he expect, a red carpet welcome?”

“Dean, just… let it go,” Sam says quietly. “We’ll figure out Castiel later. Hey look, we’re still alive and I’m not a gibbering mess on the floor. Can we start there?”

“I notice you didn’t say much while he was here.” Dean says it harsher and more accusingly than he means to, especially considering the way Sam bristles in response. Dean doesn’t want to argue, sees the way Sam’s hands are balled up and how white his knuckles are, but sometimes he can’t help it, long-ago learned defense mechanism for any situation in which he feels helpless.

Sam scoffs. “What do you want me to say? ‘Hey thanks for the trip through mental hell – oh wait.’ It was pretty much all I could do to not lose my shit right there on the spot, especially after the way he looked at the damn cat that you wanted to keep as much as I did and don’t you try to convince me otherwise.”

“I –,”

Bobby, who’s been practically staring at the door with his mouth agape since the moment Castiel came in, finally smacks his hand on the desk and says, “I’m the only one who didn’t want the damn cat, and it’s my house. And yet somehow I’m stuck with it when you idjits aren’t here. All your strays end up here, and that still seems to include Castiel, for whatever reason. I say we just be grateful he still considers us friend and not foe, considering. ”

~

It’s not enough. But it’ll do. For now.

VI.

Some days are just different.

Over the years, Dean’s gotten used to stumbling into hideous motel rooms with all sorts of whacky designs – disco balls, westerns, seventeenth century gothic, the list goes on and on.

The room they’re checked into for tonight is none of those things. In fact, Dean thinks it’s the simplest room he’s ever been in – no ugly bedspreads, no tacky seventies wallpaper, no bizarre abstract paintings hanging on the wall above the bed. There’s not even a worn or stained spot on the carpet, just a simple blue and silver color scheme and polished wooden furniture. Dean will happily admit that Sam’s suggestion they pull over for the night here was a good one.

Dean’s admiring the cable selection of their awesome motel room when Sam comes out of the bathroom, freshly showered and not covered in dust and bugs after being chased through a corn field by an angry farmer whose land did not, in fact, hold the body they were looking for. Dean can see the little cuts up and down Sam’s arms left by the sharp edges of the stalks, and there’s still a gash above his eye from one particularly sharp run-in. There are also matching fingerprint-shaped bruises along each hipbone and Dean feels himself flush slightly with the knowledge that he put them there.

Sam, meanwhile, is completely oblivious to the way Dean’s tracking his naked body, frowning deeper and deeper as he rummages through his duffel for a clean-ish pair of boxers to sleep in. “I don’t think I want to hunt anymore,” he says.

“What? Sam, the reason we’re hunting at all is because you said you wanted to!” Dean explodes, all notions of Sam’s skin left in the dust, anger rising like a tidal wave in his chest.

In response Sam just grins at Dean’s apparent overreaction, sticking his tongue between his teeth and tossing a stray sock in Dean’s direction. “I was just trying it on, listening to how it sounds.”

Dean should’ve known Sam was pulling his leg. “Yeah, how’d that feel?” He tosses the sock back in retaliation, but the loose threads catch around his fingers, making it land several inches short of his intended goal of Sam’s chest.

“Awful. Foreign.” Dean watches as Sam pulls on the last clean shirt from his bag, far too thin and old to wear out in public. It’s stretched out and there’s a faded pattern on the front that Dean vaguely thinks he recognizes as something he used to own, and it’s too big on Sam’s huge frame, a feat in and of itself -though staring at his brother, Dean notices the places where he’s not quite as filled out as he was when they first reunited last year, leaner in the hips and arms.

Dean snaps his attention back up to Sam’s face the moment Sam starts talking again. “Hunting is what we do, Dean. I feel wrong doing anything else, now, after everything. And we’ll do it until we die. And then probably do it some more, way things seem to go.”

Sam on a muddy old path falling to his knees, Sam jumping in a pit to save the world, Sam an automaton who doesn’t sleep – these are the things that flash through Dean’s head. “No,” he says, a little more heated than intended judging by the look on Sam’s face, but he pushes on. “No more deals, Sam. No more cheating death, not as far as I’m concerned. Don’t get me wrong, you die, I’m gonna try and follow as soon as possible. This world is shit without you in it. But we’ve spent too much of our lives with the consequences of dying hanging over our heads and I’m done.”

Dean hadn’t intended to make a big speech and bring the euphoric tone of the evening to a screeching halt, but he succeeded nevertheless. As he speaks, he watches as Sam’s expression, at first stubborn as usual, turns thoughtful and intense, then far away when he mentions he wouldn’t be long in a world without Sam in it. It’s as close to saying ‘I love you’ as he’ll probably ever get.
He waits for the tired and lame ‘you have to go on without me’ speech they’ve both given each other one too many times in their lives, but eventually Sam just shrugs, flips the covers back on their bed and says, “Okay.”

Dean likes every night that ends with them agreeing on something, considering how much things have changed as Sam’s mind heals - things like how well they work as a team again, how close they are, like sometimes Dean knows what Sam is thinking before he thinks it and vice versa, despite everything that happened between them the last few years. Dean often finds himself wondering if he’s locked up in a tiny white room somewhere, drugged all to hell and dreaming of a life only as perfect as his warped head could come up with.

The bed must be comfortable, if Sam’s quiet snoring is anything to go by. Dean will never understand how Sam somehow magically falls asleep in five minutes after dozing in the car for hours. Dean’s heart still thrums from the hunt, adrenaline still pumping and his mind still coming up with ‘what if’ scenarios, like ‘what if Sam hadn’t seen the flash of the farmer’s gun’ or ‘what if you’d zigged left when Sam had zagged right and you lost each other in the maze of corn?’ They’re the same fears about Sam Dean has dealt with his entire life, fears he thought he’d gotten used to, accepted as part of the job.

Except lately, Dean can’t shake them, like he’s twenty-two again and Sam’s stepping into the unknown without Dean there to protect him, like he’s watching Sam jump into a giant hole in the ground knowing he’ll never see him again. Dean knows it’s irrational, but that doesn’t stop his brain from running through every scenario it can come up with. Most nights, the only way Dean gets to sleep is by watching the rise and fall of Sam’s chest in the bed next to him, hands tucked under the pillow and his feet hanging off the edges.

Dean won’t admit it, but the suggestion Bobby of all people made for them to start sleeping in the same bed as a form of comfort for Sam has also been calming to Dean. He likes to keep Sam close, likes to keep him safe by keeping him close; likes to keep himself sane by keeping Sam close and safe. Sometimes he thinks that even with all the excuses he could make, he watches Sam sleep simply to remind himself that Sam is real and alive and whole.

Despite what a bed hog Sam has turned into, a far cry from the small curled ball he’d try to make himself become months ago, Dean doesn’t mind sharing, doesn’t mind feeling the bed move when Sam moves, hearing Sam’s calm breathing next to him, feeling the heat of Sam’s body radiating off of him in the dark. He especially doesn’t mind when Sam wraps an arm around him and pulls him in close, kisses the back of his neck; Dean never thought he’d enjoy being the little spoon.

Sam snuffles in his sleep, his face tensing up and his eyebrows bunching together. Dean knows the signs of Sam’s bad dreams like the back of his hand now, knows that next Sam will start whimpering quietly, his mouth forming the word ‘no,’ but no sounds will come out. If he’s fortunate, the dream will pass quickly and Sam’s breathing will even out as he drifts back to a peaceful sleep.

Dean’s tried to sleep through enough nights next to Sam to know that most evenings the nightmare grows until Sam twists himself up into a defensive position, shoving his knees into Dean’s sides or back or whatever part Dean’s decided is the least vulnerable as he drifted off to bed that night.

Tonight, Dean says, “Sammy?” before Sam’s barely started to move. “Hey. Wake up, kiddo.”

Sam’s eyes open slowly, bleary and still a hint of terror flashing. “Dean?” His voice is hoarse.

“Nightmare. Figured you’d want me to wake you before you, uh, hurt yourself again.” Once Dean slept through Sam’s thrashing, far too exhausted for his body to handle anymore, and woke up to red on the sheets and Sam in the bathroom patching up his arms where he’d scratched them bloody in his sleep. Never again, Dean promised himself as he wrapped up Sam’s arms and told him to stop apologizing for things he couldn’t control.

“Mother hen,” Sam says, a thank-you in his own sleepy way.

“You’re welcome.” Sam curls in closer to Dean on the bed, and Dean stretches his arm around to accommodate Sam’s broad shoulders. It’s not cuddling; it’s just getting comfortable. “How’s that head of yours doing anyway?”

“Mmmmm,” Sam responds , already halfway back to sleep before Dean asks the question. “Some days are fine. Some days are kinda confusing.”

“Like today?”

“Today was fine until you ran off without me.”

“You said run so I ran, Sam.”

“Oh.” Moonlight shines through the slim crack in the curtain, just light enough for Dean to watch Sam’s face. “I don’t remember saying anything,” he says, and the lines appear on his forehead as he frowns, thinks too hard about the past like he always does, as if he could go back and fix something, even after all this time. It’s a part of Sam Dean loves and hates all at the same time.

“Well there’s the answer to my question.”

Sam sighs. “I’m fine, Dean, really. Just…sometimes things remind me of…things and I freak out a bit. I’m pretty sure you can understand what that feels like.”

“My hell experience and yours were two different things,” Dean hedges. He’s tried to breech this conversation before, grasp some idea of the nightmares bouncing around inside Sam’s head to compare with his own, curiosity grabbing a hold of him, but Sam never opens up. The cage was a horrible place for Sam, Dean won’t argue with that, Lucifer and Michael trapped in there with nothing to do but play around with his mind. Even so, Dean’s grateful for one thing: at least Alastair wasn’t in Sam’s hell, too.

“Yeah, they were. Which is why even if I did tell you what was going through my head, you wouldn’t understand. Now can I go back to sleep?”

Dean rolls his eyes, thinks about pushing the subject. Used to be Sam wanted to talk everything out, and Dean never thought he’d miss those days. “And here everyone says I’m the one with avoidance issues. Fine. Goodnight, princess.”

~

Some days, Dean possibly wishes they could talk about their feelings like two emotionally stable men instead of dancing around the issues like a couple of injured ballerinas.

VII.

It doesn’t happen often, but some days actually go according to plan. Those are the days Dean considers himself lucky.

“Lucky?” Sam scoffs when Dean brings it up. “Honestly Dean, of all the words you can use to describe us, ‘lucky’ doesn’t even register. Unless it’s opposite day and no one told me.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” The rain’s hitting the window faster than the wipers can clear it off and Dean’s eyes are starting to blur, but he doesn’t yet want to pull over. He doesn’t want the good day to end, doesn’t want his stupid cheeky brother to stop mocking him, to fall asleep and wake up with nightmares in his eyes the next morning.

Sam’s sprawled out in the passenger seat, legs pressing up against the glove box, same position he’s been in since they left the last motel. He’s clean and showered, something they don’t usually have time for after a hunt, usually too busy getting the hell out of dodge before the cops show up.

Dean looks at his brother and decides to push his luck. “Hey, you want to drive?”

“What? You haven’t let me drive since –.” There’s a million ways that sentence could end, Dean thinks. Since Castiel became another something against us, Since you went a little cuckoo, since you said yes to Lucifer, since Ruby. Since a sea of other bad days piled one on top of the other, all of them ending in ‘since Dean trusted his brother.’

It’s not even a question he need ask himself now.

“Well, you haven’t been exactly a hundred percent lucid lately, you know?” He has been better, much better than nearly a year ago, but sometimes Dean still catches him looking at his hands like they belong to someone else or staring off into space like he’s in another place and time.

Sam sticks his tongue out, then smiles. “Who’s to say I am now?” Dean thinks maybe the trick to all ‘lucky’ days is to get Sam smiling as much as possible.

“Well, you’re doing a good job of faking it then.” A semi flies by them in the other lane and drenches the windshield in muddy, road-logged water and Dean flips the switch for the wiper fluid. It doesn’t really make a difference. Dean pulls the car to a stop on the shoulder and holds up the keys. The rain pounds down around them and the next car that drives by coats the windshield with more muddy slop but inside it’s just the two of them and a simple question, undemanding yet weighted all at the same time. “You wanna drive or not?”

“Of course I do.” Sam snatches the keys out of Dean’s hand and gives him a light peck on the lips, and Dean rolls his eyes. He hasn’t really gotten used to this new way Sam shows affection, touching him as much as possible and kissing him every quiet moment they have. It’s still new and he still has trouble accepting that his brother loves him like he does. One time he even tried to hold hands and Dean quickly rebuffed him, his hand still tingling from the warmth of Sam’s grip. Dean’s never been the public affection type but sometimes he wants to cling to Sam and never let go.

“You’re such a girl, Sammy.”

“Shut up, you love me.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.” The rain lets up the moment Sam starts the car, like nature’s acceptance that the Winchesters will continue on no matter what happens, and Dean gets comfortable, perfectly content to let Sam take the wheel and drive for awhile, not afraid anything bad will happen. It’s a rare feeling and he wants to savor it as much as possible, so he spreads himself out in his own passenger seat, feeling the way the leather is shaped to Sam’s ass, how it’s warm from Sam’s body, how comfortably he fits in the space Sam just vacated. He wonders if Sam’s having an equal experience in the driver’s seat. “Maybe I’ll show you how much if you think you’re up to it.”

“I’m up to it.” Sam’s always ‘up to it’ where Dean is concerned. Dean secretly loves it. At least, he hopes it’s a secret but judging by the lecherous look on Sam’s face, he’s not so sure anymore.

“Yeah well, keep the car on the road for a few hours then we’ll see about a blowjob.” Maybe he’s teasing, he doesn’t know and neither does Sam. But Dean’s never given road head, there’s definitely a first time for everything, and there’s no one he likes sharing first times with more than Sam.

Despite making several jabs about how he’ll be watching Sam’s driving like a hawk ‘just in case,’ Dean nods off after only a couple hours of sitting shotgun, the steady hum of the engine and rainfall too much for his forever weary body. He dreams of Sam, eighteen and going off to college on his own for the first time, and Dean feels a little lost, losing a piece of himself as well when Sam walks out the door for the last time. Then the dream changes, and Sam’s twenty-six, sitting in the Impala next to him like it’s just another day, endless road in front of them and the music blaring so loud Dean can’t actually hear what Sam is saying but it doesn’t matter, because Sam is there and Sam is smiling.

Dean doesn’t wake up until the car rolls to a stop in front of Bobby’s front porch.

~

In the end, every day is a good day, as long as they have each other.

Part One || Master Post

fic: The Moon is a Piece of Me [2/2]

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