#I just know he cried in the motel shower somewhere in Kansas | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

winchesterfanatic1967 · 3 years

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Picking Up The Pieces Part 1

Pairings: Dean AU x Reader

Word Count: 3,654

Warnings- Hard times

You clutched your jacket around yourself a little bit tighter. It was the beginning of November and the weather was starting to get really cold in Lawrence Kansas. You were currently standing in line for a bed at the shelter. It was really long so there was a slim chance that you were going to get a slot tonight. Sure enough, after about 10 more people the man at the door said that was it for the night. You sighed and slowly turned walking to Donna’s Place.

The diner didn’t have that many people in it, just a young teenage couple and an old guy at the counter sipping on his beer. You sat at the counter and the waitress approached you for something to drink, which you shook your head no.

“I’m sorry, you have to order something to keep your seat.” She said with sympathy in her eyes.

“I understand. I’ll just have some water please.” You say quietly.

“Coming right up honey.”

While you waited for your water, you counted the few bills you had in your small wallet. You only had 23$ to your name. You’ve been in this predicament for quite some time now. When you turned eighteen your parents kicked you out because you didn’t want to be a doctor. Your family was all doctors and nurses, and they looked down on other people who didn’t have the same career.

That was three years ago, and you were now 21. You had a job at Burger King for a while, but the bills were piling up and you didn’t have enough money for rent so the landlord kicked you out. All of your family disowned you, and you had nobody else. You slept at the shelter when you could, but most of the time it was packed with people.

When you were able to stay you took your showers. Most of the time you took clothes out of the donation bins, and only bought granola bars or fruit so you wouldn’t run out of money. The money was getting low now, and you didn’t know what to do. You’ve been searching for jobs all over the place but nobody hired you.

You sipped slowly on your water, and stared at your hands. You ran your fingers through your hair and cursed to yourself at how greasy it was becoming. This was the second night in a row you haven’t been able to grab a bed so you haven’t showered.

You were aware that you probably smelt bad, and you sunk your head down, avoiding the stares of the two teenagers. The employees were staring at you like you were some kind of animal, and it was making you uncomfortable. The bell on the door indicated someone else was walking in.

You turned to look, and it was four guys. They were attractive, and you quickly looked away. You felt disgusting, and went into the ladies room. You wiped cold water on your face and looked at your reflection ashamed. Your hair was definitely greasy, and you had dark bags underneath your eyes from lack of sleep.

Your clothes looked wrinkly, and you tried to make yourself look a little bit presentable as you made your way back to your seat. The four guys were sitting in the booth closest to the counter, and you kept your head down trying to avoid eye contact. These four attractive guys didn’t need to see how ugly you were. You were hoping that they couldn’t smell you.

You felt someone looking at you, and you shyly looked up to see the most attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on. He had the greenest eyes you’ve ever seen. He had light brown hair and a small amount of stubble. He was looking at you, and he gave you a small smile. You returned it, your cheeks flushed and looked away quickly.

You kept glancing over at him, and everytime you did he was looking at you. You couldn’t help but think he and his friends were making fun of you, and you tried to make yourself small.

“I’m sorry guys, we’re closing up soon.”

“No problem sweetheart, we’ll be out soon.” The green eyed man said.

“Okay.” You whispered quietly and she looked at you in sympathy again.

“Is there someone I can call for you? Somewhere that you can go?”

You shook your head no, and slowly got up out of your chair. You wrapped your jacket tighter around yourself as you walked out of the diner, but before the door closed you noticed him looking at you again.

You weren’t sure how long you were walking, but the low rumble sound of a car pulling up next to you broke your train of thought. You looked over to see a beautiful black car and sure enough the same man from the diner looking at you.

“Hey sweetheart. Do you need a ride somewhere?” He asked kindly and you shook your head no.

“No thank you, I’ll be home in five minutes.” You lie.

“Let me take you home, you’ll be there in 1 minute instead of five.” He shrugged and you shook your head again.

“That’s okay, but thank you so much.”

“I insist. My mother would slap me upside the head if she found out I let a beautiful young girl walk home at night. It’s dangerous out here sweetheart.”

He wasn’t letting up, and you sighed quietly before opening the passenger door, and sliding in quietly. He began to drive and asked where to go. You told him a random turn and luckily there was a motel there.

“Right there. Motel 99.” You say quietly.

“Okay.”

You looked in your wallet, and pulled out 5 dollars and tried to hand it to him. “This is for you.” But he shook his head rapidly.

“No no no. I don’t think so.” He said gently and pushed the money towards you kindly.

“Please take it. I insist.” You say quietly.

“No. It’s no problem at all. I’m just glad I got you home safe and sound. My pleasure.” He said sweetly and you gave him a small smile.

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” You reply kindly.

“You’re welcome. Have a goodnight.”

You walked into the motel, and there was a sketchy guy sitting at the front desk. “Hello miss thing. What can I do for you?”

“How much is it a night?” You ask.

“100 bucks.” You winced and looked to the ground.

“Thanks anyways.” You whisper and begin to walk outside.

“I can knock it down to fifty if you repay me in favors.” He said cheekily and your face scrunched up in disgust. “No thanks.” You say in annoyance and continue your way outside.

You walked along the dirt path, and you couldn’t help but let a tear slide down your cheek. You haven’t cried that much over your situation. You didn’t cry when your parents kicked you out and shunned you, you didn’t cry when your landlord kicked you out, you didn’t cry when you lost your job.

But if you were being honest this entire thing was beginning to take a toll on you. It was cold outside now, and the money was beginning to run out. Nobody was hiring, and you cursed to yourself about not applying to Donna’s Place earlier.

You were starving, and you desperately needed a shower. You were going to make it your mission to get a spot tomorrow night at the shelter. You arrived at a park, and took a seat on the bench. You were shivering, and you tugged your jacket close to your body.

You tried to make yourself comfortable and laid down shutting your eyes. Sleep was failing you, and you sighed softly before sitting up again. You decided to head back to the shelter. They were most likely going to say no, but you had to try to get a proper bed tonight.

You knocked softly on the door, and after a couple of minutes a man opened it up. “Can I help you?”

“H-Hi, I was wondering if you had any beds left.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we do tonight honey.”

“O-Okay, I understand.” You say with tears welling in your eyes. You began to walk away when he stopped you.

“I can tell you’re going through a really rough time. Listen, go to Harvelle’s Roadhouse. My wife and I co own it, and she’s got a couple of beds in the back. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming. We’ve got a bed, a shower and she can make you something to eat.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. It’s about a 10 minute walk, would you like me to drive you?”

“No, I got this. Thank you for everything.” You say quietly before walking in the direction he pointed you to.

Harvelle’s Roadhouse was in bold letters on the front of the building. You sighed before knocking on the front door softly. A middle aged woman opened it up. “Can I help you sweetie?”

“Hi. Your husband told you I was coming here?”

“Yes. Of course, come on in.”

You stepped inside, and she led you to the back. There was a small bedroom connected with a bathroom.

“There’s shampoo and conditioner for guests in the shower already, and there’s a sealed toothbrush with some toothpaste in the vanity. I can lend you some of my daughters clothes and wash the ones you have on now if you would like.” She said and you nodded your head gratefully.

“Are you hungry? I can whip something up for you.”

“Please.” You whispered.

“What can I make you?”

“Anything.” You whispered and she looked at you with sympathy.

“Coming right up honey.”

You stood in the shower for a really long time, and you felt so much better when you got out. Your hair felt fresh, and you were able to shave parts of you that you haven’t been able to attend to in a while.

You dried yourself off, and slid the sweatpants and tank top over your body. You were grateful to everyone who’s been nice to you tonight. Nobody has been this nice to you in such a long time.

She entered the room with a bowl of soup and some crackers. “I figured you should take it easy on your stomach, it’s been a while since you’ve had a proper meal huh?” She asked and you looked away shameful.

“Hey..my name is Ellen by the way. What’s yours?”

“Y/n.”

“Beautiful name. Is there anyone I can call for you? Parents?”

You shook your head no, and she looked at you with sympathy.

“Well, I’ll let you eat your food, and then you need to get some rest.” She said gently and you nodded gratefully.

“Thank you ma’am.” You say quietly and she smiled at you.

“Call me Ellen, and you’re welcome sweetie. Sweet dreams.” She says as she leaves the room.

You ate like you’ve never eaten before, and you were out like a light within minutes. You woke up the next morning and your eyes widened at the time. 5:00 in the afternoon!?

Ellen folded your clean clothes on the bottom of the bed, and you quickly dressed yourself. You were about to run out the front door before she stopped you.

“Hey, where are you going sweetie?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep all night and all afternoon here. Thank you so much for everything you and your husband did for me. I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

“Wait wait wait, y/n you can stay, let me help you get back on your feet,-”

You cut her off but shaking your head. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. But thank you so much again.”

Before she opened her mouth, you were out the door. You appreciated everything she did, but you felt like you overstayed your welcome. You decided you were going to apply to Donna’s Place as a waitress. You would sleep at the shelter at night, and you would save up until you could afford an apartment.

The bell rang as you entered the diner, and it had a little more people than it did the night before. You looked to your left and the same four guys were sitting in the same spot. The green eyed man smiled widely, and you gave him a shy one back.

“Hey sweetheart! C’mere!” He said and you felt your cheeks burn.

You approached them slowly, and smiled shyly at the other three attractive men and they returned it with grins.

“This is Benny, Cas, and this is my brother Sam. Guys, this is...I’m sorry I don’t think I caught your name.” He says sheepishly.

“Y/n.”

“The beautiful mystery girl you drove home last night?” Cas teased and you smiled softly and your cheeks turned pink. You were shocked to see that the tips of his ears turned pink.

“Yes. This is her. I’m Dean. I’m sorry I didn’t formally introduce myself last night.” He said again and you shook your head.

“That’s okay.”

“Why don’t you have a seat with us?” He asked but you shook your head.

“Thank you, but I’m actually here to apply for a job.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” He said a little disappointed.

“Hey, my wife said you took off this morning. You know you could’ve stayed as long as you needed to.” A voice said next to you and you looked up to see Bill staring at you.

“U-Um yeah, I told her thanks but I’ll be okay.” You say quickly hoping he would change the subject.

“If you want a spot tonight, I can arrange that for you.” He says kindly and you give him a small smile.

“I would appreciate that, thank you.”

He just nodded and walked away and you slowly turned to look at the four men with confused looks on their faces.

“Y/n..Bill runs the homeless shelter.” Dean says and you could feel your face burn with embarrassment. “I thought I brought you home last night?”

“Well, not exactly.” You said hoping that the ground swallowed you up. “L-Look, I don’t want to talk about this. Enjoy your dinner. And thank you again for last night.” You say kindly and turn around walking to the counter.

As you were filling out an application you felt a warm hand place itself on the small of your back. You looked up into Dean’s green eyes and he was looking at you filled with sympathy.

“Listen, I know you don’t know me that well. Not at all actually. But I do know that you’re clearly going through a rough time, and if you ever need someone to vent to I’m here for you.” He says sweetly and you smile at him.

“Thank you.”

“They’re always hiring here. You should definitely get the job.”

“I hope so.” You say quietly.

“So I really don’t mean to pry, but you don’t live at the motel?” He asks and you shook your head.

“No. I’m sorry I lied to you. I was embarrassed.” You say.

“Don’t be. I promise I’m not judging you.”

“I don’t have a home. I stay at Bill’s shelter whenever there is a free bed. The past two nights in a row I wasn’t able to get a bed and last night I felt at my lowest point and I was desperate. I stayed at Harvelle’s Roadhouse and Ellen was very nice to me. She offered me to stay there but I’m just trying to get a job so I can get back on my feet and find myself an apartment.”

“It’s okay to ask for help every once in a while you know.” He said quietly.

“I know. But I’ve been on my own since I’ve been eighteen. I can handle it.”

“Listen, I know you don’t know me at all, and I know this sounds absolutely crazy..but stay with me.”

“What? No.” You say quickly.

“It’s okay to ask for help y/n. You’re going through a hard time and I want to help you. Let me be your friend. Let me help you get back on your feet.”

“Dean..even if I said yes I don’t have a job. I can’t help you with rent. I can’t help with groceries.”

“And that’s completely okay.”

“No, I can’t agree to that Dean.”

“Listen. If you get hired here, then stay with me. Save up a little bit, and if it means that much to you we can split everything. Okay?”

“Okay.” You say softly.

The owner Donna was thrilled when you applied and your availability was anytime everyday. There was only her with three other waitresses. Claire, Alex, and Kaia. She said you could start right away, and all the tips you got were yours. Your first shift began at 10:00 tomorrow morning.

You were embarrassed that you didn’t have anything to bring with you to Dean’s house. Just the clothes on your back. He could tell that you were ashamed, but he didn’t push you to talk.

“Listen y/n..if you want I can bring you to the mall. Pick out whatever you want.” You shook your head.

“I can’t do that Dean.”

“I insist sweetheart. Please.”

“Alright…” You sigh and he gives you a small smile.

“And then we can pick up bathroom stuff for you. I’m sure you don’t want to use my axe shampoo and cologne smelling deodorant and body wash.” He chuckled and you giggled quietly.

“Okay Dean. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

At the end of it all, you felt terrible for how much Dean was spending on you. He bought you all the bathroom products you needed, along with a bunch of clothes. He even bought you makeup.

He pulled into his small house, and you helped him carry everything inside. You placed everything on the kitchen counter and you looked up at him with tears welling in your eyes.

“Thank you Dean.”

“Hey...stop it. Don’t you do that to me.” He said as he pulled you gently into his arms and you buried your face into his chest. It’s been a long time since somebody hugged you, let alone be this nice to you.

He was rubbing his hand up and down your back. “Listen, I’m always here for you. I want to get to know you. You’ve been through tons of crap and I can’t even imagine. You deserve better than what the world has done to you. Let me be there for you. Let me take care of you. You deserve to be happy.”

“I’m crap Dean. You don’t know me. When you find out how shitty I am you’ll kick me out.” You sniffled.

“I highly doubt that, and you’re not crap. You need help, and there’s nothing wrong with receiving it. Now, I’m going to give you a tour, show you where the guest room is that’s now yours, and then you’re going to take a nice long hot shower, and I’m going to order us a pizza. You like pizza right?” You nodded against his shoulder.

“Good. Now let me show you around.”

He showed you around his small house, and for a guy it was neat and clean. Your room was really nice, and the walls were a nice beige color with a queen size bed in the middle.

You gathered up all your bathroom stuff along with your pajamas and shut the bathroom door. You showered, thinking to yourself that you’ve never met anyone as nice as Dean. When you finished you went out into the living room. Dean was handing the pizza guy money, and he turned around and smiled when he looked at you.

“Hey sweetheart. Do you feel better?”

“Yeah, much better.”

“Good. Want to watch tv?”

“Yeah sure.”

“Okay, make yourself comfortable on the couch and I’ll be right out.”

“Okay De.” You say softly.

“Hey..you okay?” He asks in concern.

“Yeah..yeah I think that everything is just sinking in you know?”

“Yeah..I understand.”

You ate together in silence, with Friends playing in the background. You felt Dean glance over to you every few moments, but you pretended not to notice.

“Are you excited for your first shift tomorrow?” He asked.

“I’m a little nervous. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a job.”

“You’ll do great. I go there every night and it’s mainly the same people who eat there. Everyone is super nice to the staff and the ladies get good tips. I believe in you y/n.”

“Thank you Dean.” You let out a small yawn.

“Are you sleepy?”

“Getting there.”

“Why don’t you head to bed? You need rest sweetheart.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

“Here, I’ll walk you.”

He trailed behind you, and you gently hugged him before entering your room. “Thank you for everything. You’ll never know how much I appreciate it.” You whisper to him and he held you tighter against his body.

“You’re welcome y/n.”

You crawled into bed, and moaned softly at the memory foam mattress. It was so soft, and you felt your eyelids droop instantly as you became more comfortable.

After Dean finished another episode, he shut the tv off and locked up. Before he went into his room he quietly checked on you and he smiled at the sight of you snuggled into the mattress. You were wrapped up in the covers like a cocoon, and he felt his heart swell.

You were such a sweet and beautiful girl. He wasn’t sure what happened to you for you to end up in the position you were in, but he was a patient man and he was going to be there for you and pick up the pieces.

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zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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fic: the apprentice year

Here’s something I wrote for a zine, a while back. Maybe someone’s in the mood for quiet s8 angst.

(read on AO3)

It's raining when Sam crashes the car. Middle of the night, Texas somewhere. Not enough sleep, not that sleep could possibly help, and bad visibility, and this numbness that started in his gut but has taken over every part of him. Not the best conditions. Narrow two-lane highway, headlights blurring through the dark wet, and then there's a flash—white-and-brown and small, a dog?—and he swerves hard, and then it's—squeal of brakes, the tires sliding, a smash.

He breathes slow, both hands curled around the steering wheel. Car's still on, rumbling idle. His head hurts. Hard to see through the rain but it looks like he killed a sapling. He unclenches one hand from the wheel and touches his forehead—wet—and the windshield's cracked again, and he turns around in the seat to see the dog bolting off down the road. He opens the door and steps out into the mud and, yes. A broken tree, and a mile marker crumpled, and the paint all scraped up, and the windshield. He wipes his forehead again and his fingers are smeared red. He puts that hand on the car and then has to—his legs crumple—he crouches, letting the car take his weight, feeling the engine in his bones. He can't think, with the rain this loud. His head hurts. He says, out loud, "I don't think I can do it," but it's hard to hear over the downpour, and anyway, no one's there to hear. No one's there.

There's a mechanic down the street from a motel. The windshield will be three hundred and that feels like too much but then, who would Sam ask, who'd be honest. He asks them to repaint, too, so he doesn't have to see the gouges of his fuckup. The mechanic looks at his forehead instead of at his eyes. "You get that looked at, sir?" he says.

Sam walks through the damp morning to the motel. The clerk frowns at him but Sam puts a hundred in cash on the counter and then there's the room, dim with the curtains drawn. Two beds—why? Habit. He's been sleeping in the car so that people won't ask the question. Trying to sleep. He takes off his wet muddy clothes and runs a shower, hot, and there's mud on his hands and blood too and the cut on his head bleeds pink against the white tub, and he's so tired he wants to just sit down, right there in the bathtub and let the water pound against his face and make it so he can't think about anything else, so he can't, so he won't have to—but he can't. He has to pick up the car at some point. He turns off the shower and dries off and walks naked through the dim room to the bed closer to the door and he crawls under the blanket and puts his face into the pillow and thinks that he won't sleep, because how can he sleep in a queen bed in a motel room in a town he doesn't know without his brother. He can't possibly. He can't, but he has to, because his brother is dead.

It took a while to come to that conclusion. Dick was gone. The air, throbbing thick and strange. The room empty. Sam stood alone in that awful building with distant alarms wailing and his head and heart entirely still, because there had been a place where his brother was, and now he wasn't there anymore.

He did research. He asked questions. He prayed, and when there were no answers to his praying he burned acacia and camphor and blood-red petals of anemone and demanded a demon, but none came. He knelt on the road at midnight with dirt caked under his broken nails and was prepared to offer—what little it was worth, that he could offer—but no one arrived to take a deal. It was like the world he'd always known was there, that darker mystery that swirled under the daytime normalcy everyone else knew, had just vanished. Gone. He was finally free to live a life that was average, and safe, and boring, but what did it matter—how could it matter, without Dean.

There was booze but then there wasn't. There was a brief, considering moment when a dealer in Kansas City saw Sam's expression and offered relief, but it would've failed the same way the booze had. There was staying up until he had no choice but to pass out in the backseat and forgetting to eat and driving, nowhere, with no destination in mind, because what was there? A job, a ghost, a brutal and pointless putting of one foot in front of the other, when the only thing that had ever mattered, the only thing that had made the life he'd chosen worth choosing, was—

He drove until he nearly hit a dog, and hit a tree instead. He stopped not because he wanted to but because there didn't seem to be any point in driving more. He got a motel. He slept, because that was all there was left to do.

When he wakes up the room is dim with afternoon. The sun on the other side of the building. A reflection, from the vacancy sign outside, that throws up a white square on the wall. He watches it for a while, tracking how it moves slow over the wallpaper, thinning out as the sun falls. A slow eclipse, until it disappears.

What the hell, he hears.

He sits up, ignores the head-throb from moving. There, boots on the carpet, standing in the way of the bathroom, looking around like the motel's a surprise—six feet (forget the lie about the extra inch) and strong and beautiful as he ever, ever was—Sam swallows, drags in air that feels like it can't fit in his chest with everything that's roaring up in it—Dean frowns, and looks at him, and says, in a voice that sounds distant, Sammy, what the fuck.

Sam stands up and staggers. His head, god. He tries to step forward and it's Dean who comes to him, looking around, saying what's going on, where is this—are you— and Sam braces on the bedside table and reaches out but then Dean flickers, somehow, like a broadcast jolted with static, and Sam's hand curls in the air between them, his body flinching even if his mind doesn't quite get it yet.

Dean stops in his tracks and looks down. Spreads his hands, looking at the scarred knuckles and the more-scarred palms. Sam manages to get himself under control and stands up straight, and takes the step that means he's inches away, but no longer dazed from waking he can see: Dean's not here. Dean's not quite here. There's an almost-shimmery distance to him. A projection, on an inadequate screen. Sam looks at his face and just faintly the outlines of the room present are present, showing through him. A bitter taste in the back of his throat and he swallows, again, but manages to say, out loud, "Are you real?"

Dean looks up at him, brow furrowed. Could ask you the same thing, sport. Sam laughs, sort of, caught in his throat, and Dean's face changes. Jesus, you look like shit.

"Thanks," Sam says. Dean flickers again and it's nauseating to see the blank space where he was, even if he half-solidifies a second later. "God. I—can't believe this is happening."

Okay, but what is happening, Dean says, and looks around again. This isn't… He shakes his head and even half-there Sam can see the confusion, the annoyance at the confusion. His brother. His chest aches. I wasn't here. Where's here?

"Texas," Sam says. He still hasn't caught the name of the town. He reaches out because he can't not and his fingers brush—what? Nothing. The air's insubstantial because it's air. Dean looks down at his chest where Sam's not touching him and he says, very quiet, shit , and then he looks up and says shit, Sam , more loudly, and he reaches up and doesn't touch Sam's face because of course he can't, and it's only then that Sam realizes he's crying.

Hey , Dean says, and Sam shakes his head. "It's fine," he says, although of course it's not fine. Dean's eyes, concerned, and his nose with the bump Sam's so often traced with one finger, and his mouth, full and worried. He passes his thumb over where he ought to be able to touch Dean's bottom lip and Dean's eyelids flicker, his mouth parting. Sam shakes his head again, dizzy. Dean. He didn't think he'd see him again, outside of an afterlife he hadn't yet decided to try for.

Texas, huh? Dean says, after a few seconds. He smiles, fake devil-may-care, the expression that Sam's always loved and kind of wanted to smack him for, in equal measure. He looks Sam up and down, and raises his eyebrows, and says, guess it's true they make things bigger here, and it's only then that Sam remembers that he's naked, and even like this, a ghost or a hallucination or a fever-dream, Dean can make him roll his eyes. Dean's grin widens and he passes a never-there touch over Sam's bare chest. Hey, slugger, can't blame me for—

He disappears.

Sam stands there, alone, for a few seconds. He breathes deep, in and out. He passes his hand through the space where Dean wasn't and of course there's nothing there, and then he sits back down, on the bed, braced on his knees, looking at the faded plaid of the wallpaper and the day through the flimsy curtain. His face is still wet and so he knows—he hasn't cried, since that day, so he knows that something happened today that was different from all the ones that came before it. Dean's dead, gone, and yet he isn't. Sam licks his lips. That means there's—something to do.

He eats. He sleeps. He goes and picks up the car, and the mechanic looks less concerned when Sam takes the keys. He goes back to the room and reads a book, for a few hours, and doesn't remember a thing when he lifts his eyes from the page. He showers, again, before bed, and when he comes out the room is hot, and he taps the air conditioner and realizes, shit. Busted.

The clerk in the office is unhelpful. "I can move your room," he says, reluctant to do even that, but Sam's not leaving the room where he saw Dean. "Maintenance guy quit, so we're gonna have to call someone, might be a day or two."

Sam looks at him and chews the inside of his cheek. "You have the last guy's tools?"

He's never fixed an air conditioner but he knows how to use the internet. It turns out it's a little harder than the diagrams make it look. While he's got sweat between his shoulderblades and he's considering percussive maintenance that there's a huff of a laugh, behind him, and Dean says dude, you look like you're gonna have a stroke .

Behind him, raised eyebrows and amusement. A cut on his cheek—new? From what? "Sue me," Sam says, irritated. "I didn't go to HVAC school." Dean's grinning and the irritation washes away like it was never there. Sam steps forward and Dean's face changes, too, looking all over him. "Dean," Sam says, and feels— "Where are you? What's going on?"

Dean shakes his head. You know as much as I do, man. He hesitates. It's like—I've been asleep and I just woke up, but I can't remember what I was dreaming about.

Are you dead. The sentence forms under Sam's tongue and he swallows it. If Dean doesn't know then asking won't help, and if he is then Sam's sunk the same way he's been for the last month. Are you real is the next question, but then if he's not real then that means Sam's crazy, and Sam knows from crazy and, really, if he is, this is the best crazy he could hope for.

Dean's looking at him, not smiling at all, now. I miss you , Dean says, unexpectedly. He flickers—like he did before, a projection cutting out—but he's shaking his head hard when he resolidifies. Shit. I don't—I don't know what that is. I don't get it. You're right here and I'm missing you. How does that work?

"I don't know," Sam says, "but I know exactly what you mean."

The corner of Dean's mouth turns up, but it's not glad. Sam breathes out slowly, the hard knot of grief in his chest barely allayed.

It feels impossible. Maybe it is. He doesn't try to reach out again and neither does Dean. Dean's eyes flick up to the A/C unit and he jerks his chin. You need to take out the compressor , he says. Check the fuse box. I can walk you through it.

Sam's eyes are hot. "I know how to check a fuse," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows at him. "Not completely useless."

Prove it , Dean says. Bitch .

Sam rolls his eyes and turns away so Dean won't see that they're wet, and does.

Dean comes and goes according to some clock Sam doesn't get to see. Most days, Sam doesn't do much. He eats, showers, shits, sleeps. He watches bad daytime TV and not-much-better nighttime TV. He reads. He takes the car out on drives through the country. Flat around here, and what little green there is browning in the heat of summer. The office manager says he can stay at the motel for free if he keeps fixing things and so he does, and sometimes he's got his head under a kitchenette sink trying to figure out how not to dump backed-up foulness onto his face when there's a presence, all of a sudden, and his brother's voice saying why the hell are you using that wrench?

Sam's alone except when he's with Dean. The days smooth out into a routine. He wakes up sometimes and Dean's sitting there, on the edge of the bed somehow even though he can't really touch anything, and Dean'll say took you long enough, sleeping beauty , and Sam will roll his eyes and say, "Look who's talking, didn't you sleep through an actual earthquake once?" and Dean will grin and Sam will stretch out on his back and they'll bicker about the time in Portland, Maine, when Dad tanned both their hides for not being ready for the werewolf hunt at midnight, and they both insisted it was the other's job to set the alarm. I told you , Dean'll say, eyes crinkled like he's trying not to laugh, and Sam'll launch into his theory about how Dean's memory is shot from too much booze, and they'll waste the time, that way, ragging on each other. Other times Dean will be quiet, and so Sam will too, and they'll look at each other with their hands an inch apart on the blanket, and Dean will say, after a while, you remember? and Sam won't know what he's referring to, exactly, but he'll swallow and he'll say that, yeah, yeah. He remembers.

Moonlight makes Dean's face a strange, alien blue. In the day he's golden, gorgeous, cracks jokes and makes fun of the way Sam holds a screwdriver. Sometimes he has bruises; sometimes there's blood dried on the angles of his eyesocket. Once he shows up holding his ribs like something got him, wherever he is, and he just sits with his back to the kitchen cabinets while Sam fixes a garbage disposal and rambles about some time in Tulane when he dropped a ghoul and then banged a supermodel, that same night. "Oh, really," Sam says, pulling open the gears while he tries not to think about splintered bones, about the fragility of lungs, about the soft vulnerable edge of Dean's beating heart. "Tyra Banks or Kate Moss?"

Okay, Dean says, and does it sound thin? Hurt? So maybe not a 'super' model. But she was hot. He rolls his head to look at Sam and winks. Not as hot as some people, though. Don't worry .

"I was in a panic," Sam says, dry, and Dean chuffs laughing and then coughs, pained, and says, nodding at Sam's job, you're gonna want a 5/8ths for that , and in the next second he's gone. Sam braces his hands on the counter and breathes deep for a solid minute, bleeding inside his chest, before he goes into the toolbox, and gets the 5/8ths wrench.

The first time they were young, even if at the time Sam would've said otherwise. Their dad was gone and they were alone, really alone, for the first time in their lives—only, they weren't. They'd never been. An argument and a bad night and going out and finding Dean sitting on the hood of some wreck in Bobby's junkyard, and they'd said—he can't remember. Not everything. He does remember very precisely the moment when he gripped Dean's wrist and Dean looked up at him like he was surprised and Sam had said, you know, Dean, you know what I— and Dean had covered Sam's mouth with three fingers like it wouldn't be true, if he didn't say it. But then he tugged his hand away and he leaned up and kissed Sam, anyway, so it didn't matter so much, if Sam said it or didn't. That was the first time.

Over the years they fell closer together and farther apart. They hurt each other, sometimes so badly Sam thought it'd be forever broken and he'd just have to live that way, with his ribs split apart, bleeding where anyone could see. When they came back together it felt like nothing could ever split them up again. Not demons, or angels, or death.

The last time, they were in a cabin in Montana, and they were going to do something nuts in the morning. What else was new. It was quick, and then it was slow, and afterward Dean lay half-sprawled over Sam's chest, the two of them sticking together with sweat and worse, and Dean tipped his forehead against Sam's collarbone and sighed. This is such a dumb plan , he said, and Sam drew two fingers up from between his shoulderblades to the little soft hollow at the top of his spine, where his hair was shorn to velvet, and where Sam tended to bury his nose, when they slept in the same bed. When they let themselves do that. Yeah, Sam said, after too long, but when has that ever stopped us? Dean snorted, and rolled away, and Sam curled behind him that night in the too-small bed, and in the morning, for once, Dean woke up first, and he smacked Sam's shin and said come on, sleeping beauty, time to ride , and Sam groaned and got up and didn't think about it, much, and then that night Dean was dead. Gone, or dead.

He thinks about it, now. What he would've done, if he knew that was the last time he'd be allowed to touch his brother. What he might've said, if they'd had the chance. Before hell—before hell for both of them—they'd known what was coming down the pipe, and they'd been scared, and they hadn't screwed either time, or slept together, even. They sat, shoulder-to-shoulder, staying awake past midnight and through to dawn, and when it was time—they'd gotten in a goodbye, each of them, and Sam had ached to know how little that was. How it wasn't enough. This time—he didn't get a goodbye. He gets to look, but not touch. He gets to smile at him nearly every day and he gets Dean's jokes and his ridiculous stories and his safe, sure guidance, his eyes on Sam's speaking the promise they always gave each other—and it isn't, it isn't nearly, it isn't close, to enough.

Summer passes into fall, and fall into winter. Sam doesn't reach for the wrong wrench as often. He takes a drive through a cool twilight and when he opens the motel room door with a six-pack in hand, Dean appears one second later, looking out at the car through the window, and he says hey, how's the carb treating you?

He sits at the table in the room, taking the carburetor apart piece by careful piece. Dean looks over his shoulder, leaning on the table (somehow), pointing out where Sam's screwing it up (constantly). "Maybe if you weren't breathing down my neck," Sam says, and Dean snorts and says wouldn't have to if you'd ever paid attention to anything that wasn't Eskimo poetry , and then Sam tells Dean that Eskimo isn't an appropriate word to use, and Dean tells Sam that he need to clear the sand out of his vagina, and—it's not enough, but god if Sam isn't happier than he's been in—how long? Since the last time Dean was sitting right there, with his arms folded over the back of a chair, grinning at Sam and getting under his skin and just being—everything. Everything that mattered.

It starts to rain, before Sam's done. He leaves all the parts spread out and clean to dry on the table and sinks onto the couch with his beer, and Dean looking at him still from his backwards perch on the chair, and his grin softened down to something else. "What," Sam says, tipping his head against the wall. He's feeling mellow. In pain, maybe crazy. Content. Desperate. The usual. He's gotten used to it. Thinking maybe it'll be this way, ever after. Thinking he can handle it, if that's so. Dean's here even if he's not here, and that means that Sam doesn't want to be anywhere else.

Dean's got a bruise on his cheekbone, again. A cut on his lower lip. He looks tired. He flickers, precursor maybe to disappearing, but he stays. In the dim light he looks almost real. Almost present, like Sam could reach out and get his hand around his jaw and tell him everything he's ever thought, everything he ever wished for the two of them. How he meant it, when he told Dean there was nothing he wouldn't do. Even live, if that's what it came down to, just for the hope to see Dean's face, one more time.

The rain's loud, on the eaves of the motel. Dean hasn't said anything. Still just watching, his eyes steady. His mouth that soft curve. "What?" Sam says, again.

Oh, Dean says, quiet. You know.

Sam does.

#wincest #my writing #the formatting on this keeps feeling fucked but i'm just going with it #if i can't write right now #i can at least post stuff i wrote like six months ago

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