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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years

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In the Mind of a Writer - a Sam-centric coda to 15x04 that has Dean/Cas elements

Sam is tormented with strange dreams again. Being a demon and killing his brother was only the start. It seems night after night his mind plays a new, horrifying concept with him and his brother as the starring leads.

However one night he gets a break, and instead of being a part of the action can sit back and watch. Is it better or worse to not be included in the script? Will he learn anything new from the role of audience member? And just exactly what is the reason for these dreams in the first place?

Sam leans against the hallway, hand splayed across the wall and sliding it while he staggered towards his bedroom. Blinks bleary eyes downwards, he tracks his feet in case one decides to trip the other and send him sprawling to the floor. He stumbles when his hand skipped over a space in the hallway, Sam flailing. If it weren’t luck guiding him towards the door knob he would have fully fallen. Instead, shaken, he squeezes both the knob and the door jamb.

“What did I…” Glancing into the empty room, Sam knows exactly where he is. “ Oh .”

Cas’s room. Or what used to be of it. There’s not even a bed left, pieces remain from the night Dean dismantled it with the help of Jack and Whiskey.

He found him there, screwdriver and drink in hand, barely coherent. “What are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he drawled, stumbling over to a dresser with no drawers. Smashed to bits around his brother. “Had a totally… totally awesomeidea. Turn this into a gym.”

“A gym?” Sam asked, “Dean, we already have a gym.”

“We do?”

“Yeah… you just never go to it,” Sam frowned, cautiously approaching him, “Dean, are you -”

“Then it’ll be something else,” Dean said, swinging wildly. Narrowly dodging the tip of his screwdriver, Sam jumped a safe distance away. “Maybe a memorial room… Yeah, to r’member those we’ve lost.”

Sam liked the idea. “But here?” he continued, “Dean, this is Ca -”

“Why not here Sam?” Dean asked, surprisingly sober like he flipped a switch. Glared at him with cold, dead eyes nestled in puffy, red skin. “S’not like anyone’s using this room.”

Arguing with Dean like this is like taking tackling a demon without an angel blade. In no mood for it, Sam let him be. The curiosity of what drove his brother to demolish their friend’s room didn’t leave. So he texted Cas.

And texted. Again. And called after the fifth unanswered message.

Finally in his room, Sam checks his phone hoping Cas responded. He’s greeted by the mocking checkmark of a read-receipt on his most recent text. “Seriously,” Sam scowls, dropping his phone onto the nightstand, “why won’t anyone tell me anything .”

Dean loves talking about problems when they aren’t his own. Played nursemaid to distract from his own inability to deal with his trauma. While Sam appreciated it, he knew it wouldn’t last forever. Evidenced by the unhealthy habits Dean uses to bide his time between being a good brother.

The two buckets of greasy chicken Dean wolfed down were obvious clues he was not in his right mind.

“At least it’s not booze,” Sam mutters, pulling the thin henley over his head. After the first few nights of drinking, his brother locked the liquor cabinet and instead chose to stuff his face.

Sam walked in on a rare sight, his brother nursing a wicked hangover. Seeing only a bottle and a half of whiskey drank, his hackles rose. “It’s not like you to be taken down so easily.”

“It’s called aging Sam,” he growled, “Apparently I can’t hold my liquor like I used to…”

He sighs, shaking his head clear of the memories of his brother making coffee with the saddest scowl fixed to his face. Sam needs an empty head when he goes to sleep, refusing to allow his subconscious any foothold to create another horrible dream.

Besides the one where a demon version of himself killed his brother, there were countless dreams he had that ended as miserably. Dean, fueled by Amara’s Mark, chopping his head off. Both of them hunting as the very creatures they fought, tearing into innocent victims with no remorse. Last night Sam ripped Dean’s soul from his body so they could both be killing machines dictated by logic. He woke up after the light died in his brother’s eyes while thanking Sam for ‘fixing’ him.

Sam knows if this continues he might go crazy. In one he already was, haunted by visions of Lucifer while standing over his brother’s lifeless body.

“Not tonight,” Sam promises, slipping under his covers, “It won’t happen tonight.” Voice shaky, Sam doubts he can control what he dreams. Any answer to this problem seems out of reach since the lack of sleep muddles his mind. Crosses wires and makes it harder to think. A good night’s rest might help, but there’s no telling if that might be soon.

Not until he closes his eyes. Which Sam does, since he can’t keep them open any longer.

Unfortunately, he dreams.

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Long grass and weeds overgrown the Bunker’s entrance, vines overtaking the stairwell. From his overhead perspective, Sam sees Cas exit his truck. Unlike when he last saw him, his friend wears a black button-down over a t-shirt, torn jeans, and scuffed boots. Scars criss-cross the exposed skin of his forearms where the sleeves rolled up, and a heavy line was carved from his temple to his cheek. It enhanced the rough edges on full display.

Cas doesn’t enter, instead drifting towards the haphazardly parked car nearby. Sam hadn’t recognized it. Dean’s Impala in such a poor condition he couldn’t put two together. With mud-splattered exterior and dented hood, she looked nothing like the pristine Baby he sat in hours earlier. Interior faring no better, Sam saw discarded wrappers, empty bottles with spill stains and even more mud.

Dean would flip if he knew what had happened to her, Sam thought.

Entranced by the sorry excuse for the Winchester chariot Sam nearly missed Cas heading inside. He followed his friend inside, pausing to stare at the unfamiliar wasteland their home became.

Dim lighting didn’t disguise the dump the Bunker was. Similar wrappers to the ones decorating Baby cascaded down the stairs in a trail that stretched into the depths of the Bunker. With each step Cas took Sam’s dread inched closer and closer towards a mountainous peak and he can identify more in the main room. Like the yellowed mattress thrown on top of the world map or pages upon pages of books crumpled and balled in a piles, competing with the wrappers.

Cas searches for something in the mess. Focusing on his features, however, Sam has the sense he looks for some one .

Trickling sounds from nearby, and the closer he follows Cas the louder it becomes. “Dean?” Cas calls into the emptiness, “Dean? Are you there?”

“Right here!”

Standing in the corner, Dean relieves himself. Backside covered by his robe, Sam sees only the thick pale stream pouring onto the floor in a puddle and flooding under his feet. Nausea grips him tight at his brother’s gross display, especially when he grunts near the end. Shaking the final drops free and finishes peeing.

Dean turns and fully reveals himself.

Sam gasps at the sight of his brother, completely unrecognizable had he not answered Cas’s call. His sandy hair looks more flaxen, long enough to curl atop his shoulders. Unkempt like his crumb-covered beard. Dean only wears the robe, nothing on underneath. Obvious by the blase way he walks over with the stained garment open. A calm expression settles across his face like being naked in front of his best friend shouldn’t bother him. Except, knowing his brother, it should.

“Dean,” Cas starts, a darkness settling over his features, “I… I had heard but… seeing it -”

“Seeing what?” Dean asks, skewing his head to the side in an innocent mirror of his friend. Somehow Cas’s stare hardens further.

“What… happened ?”

Sam wants to know the answer - needs to. The more exposure to this version of his brother, the more he notices. Like the softness of his body exposed by the gentle swaying of the robe. Belly round and extended, muscles hidden by extra cushion. More than usual. And all of it is covered in streaks of dirt and grease and other smears he dare not name, like Dean hadn’t showered for an extended period of time. If he could smell, Sam believes it would knock him to the floor.

He keeps ticking off more boxes that raise Sam’s hackles.

Dean thinks longer than necessary before speaking. His eyes flicker slightly as a thought connects, and an easy smile crosses his face while the green dims to a pale, lifeless moss. “You know what happened, Cas,” he says, dragging a chair forward and collapsing in it. Slamming his gross feet onto the map, nudging the bed slightly, he swipes a half-eaten sandwich from the floor and tears into it. While he chews with his mouth open Sam studies his food. An inkling of recognition tickles him. “Chuck did it,” Dean continues, crumbs spraying, “brought back the Leviathan to wipe away his work and then packed up - onto the next universe. And when they came they did with a vengeance… picked up where they left off…”

Sam remembers. Looking at the sandwich he now notices the grey blobs oozing from the sandwich.

“No,” Cas shakes his head, lips trembling, “No, Dean, that… I know it’s been too long but how could this have happened? This… what happened to you ?”

“Shit, Cas what didn’t happen?” Dean chuckles, “You were there for some of it… Dick running for President. Secret service men with all that extra teeth… Sam dying -”

“Sam? Sam’s dead?”

“Yeah, like a while ago…”

His heart beats loudly in his ears, unsure whether from finding out he’s dead in this nightmare or because of the flippant way Dean mentioned his death.

Cas reacts though. Sobs brokenly, shoulders shuddering like they might collapse. In the next second he shoves the sadness down. “How?”

“Like everyone else we knew,” he shrugs, “We stormed a compound, took down a few of the toothy bastards. Tried to free a few of the captive cattle. Sam was helping this woman, fighting her to get her to budge, but she wouldn’t… and that’s when a Leviathan snuck up and ganked him. Blood… everywhere!” Grey drops fly with how wildly he swings the arm holding his sandwich. “I watched the whole thing, man. Like, ten of ‘em piled on and ate him right there. Nothing left when they finished. After all the fat they were probably in the mood for some lean meat.”

If Sam could vomit he would. Already he imagines the scene as Dean described, feels teeth marking his skin and ripping it from his bones. Maybe that’s why he is nothing more than a silent voice among his family.

“And so you gave up?” Cas asks, “Without Sam you couldn’t go on any longer?”

Dean pouts, tapping his sandwich to his chin. Smearing juices against the beard. “Nah,” he says, “It hurt when I saw it, I think? But y’know what I remember more? All the other people who were watching… doing nothing. Sitting like it didn’t matter… because it didn’t . Not caring because they weren’t able to, man… that’s the dream. It’s awesome . The chick Sam was 'saving' ended up drenched in his blood and she didn’t even scream. After that I guess I reconsidered what I wanted and… it’s not that bad being cattle. Eat as much as I want until one day I get eaten? Turns out I’m more okay with it than I first thought…”

“It’s not okay, Dean,” Cas pleads, closes the distance between them and kneels at his side. Lays his hands over Dean’s thigh, digging into the soft flesh. “Humans were made for more than this. You’re more -”

“Sure,” he scoffs, “And what did we do with all that more ? This is exactly what we deserve -”

“You’re not in your right mind.”

“I feel like I’m thinking clearly for the first time ever. And if I’m not who cares ?”

“I do!” Cas screams, “Because knowing what the Leviathan has done to Sam, has done to you … it fills me with so much anger . You should be just as angry as I am.”

“Anger leads to nothing,” Dean tells Cas with nihilistic wisdom, “Everything leads to nothing . Our story’s over, man. Chuck made his ending. Why should we carry on with the plot if the author doesn’t want to?”

Cas’s expression dips into righteous fury. “We continue for the people we care about, for ourselves. I know Sam is gone Dean but there are others you care about right? Who you love? Don’t you care about yourself ?”

“Maybe once,” he says, crumbling the wrapper into a tiny ball and tossing it at Cas’s face. Laughing, he leans back in his seat and stretches. “But the only thing I care about now is that I’m hungry .” Dean stands, ignoring Cas on his way towards the exit.

“Dean!” Cas calls after him, “You need to keep fighting. I… I need you.”

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, Dean cranes his neck to meet Cas’s gaze. Grinning with acted mirth, Dean says, “Needing people is overrated. I thought I needed Sam… Hell, I thought I needed you . I never needed anyone… love? Fake. You don’t love me and I don’t love you. I never have… you were just there. You were there until you weren't, and that's the same for everyone. We’re all trying to fill a void… the Leviathan found how to exactly do that.”

During his speech Cas’s features shattered into heartbreak, Sam being buffeted by the shards from where he watches.

“Want my advice? Hit up Biggerson’s… since you’re human it’ll be fine. Grab a sandwich and move on .” Dean trudges up the stairs to the door, slam echoing after him.

Physically alone, Cas finally crumbles. He curls into a ball on the floor surrounded by Dean’s filth and garbage. Sam shudders, hit with the heavy-handed symbolism. As a tear slips past Cas’s chin Sam feels a tugging from the side.

Cas’s sob sounds far away. When Sam blinks, his friend looks smaller than he did before. He realizes too late that he is being dragged from the Bunker. Sam fights to stay with Cas, to comfort him. To prop him up, encourage him that there’s still hope. Dean can still be saved.

A voice whispers from behind. “No more happy endings…”

Sam leaves the Bunker. Flying higher in the sky he sees Baby swerving lazily on the road, her frame becoming tinier and tinier. When she’s nothing more than a speck of black against grey, his vision whitens.

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Sam wakes, gasping against his sheets. Twisting, he sits up and splays his hand across his chest. When his heart beats a hasty rhythm for his fingers, he calms slightly. The more he breathes, the calmer he becomes.

Another nightmare. Dragging his hand across his face, Sam curses the latest hellscape he created for himself. Remembers the broken figures of his brother and best friend. Normally their jagged edges fit together perfectly. Only there, the remains were too incompatible.

They all end the same, tonight’s being no different. Death. Sadness. Hopelessness .

Why his dreams can’t stick to a plot, Sam can’t imagine. If they repeated, after a time Sam could prepare. The spontaneity of their content keeps him on his toes in the worst way possible.

He scratches at his gunshot wound, it irritating him more than usual. Sam yawns and shifts off the bed, moving towards the door.

If he cannot sleep, then he’ll do something else. It’s worked every other time.

Sam doesn’t think about what will happen once he runs out of distractions.

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Chuck pushes away from the desk, scrubbing his hands down his face and heaving a tired sigh. Glaring at his work, he forcefully shuts the laptop with a thought. “Don’t know what Becky was talking about,” he growls, standing. Pacing across the workroom from the Roadhouse to the Bunker. “Adding Cas never does anything… can’t drive the story where I need it to go…”

He pauses, considering his story from another angle. “Or maybe she was right?” he asks himself, “The Leviathan… weren’t good?”

As soon as it enters his mind Chuck crushes it into ash. Shaking his head, he grins. “They were good, Chuck,” he says, “with all those teeth… how couldn’t they be? But maybe they’re not final draft material…"

Returning to the desk, Chuck opens the laptop. Knuckles cracked, he begins anew. “The perfect ending is in here somewhere…”

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