Chapter Text
Three months ago
Purgatory is hot and wet. It smells like rot: like decaying leaves and undergrowth and bodies. And Dean doesn’t want to die there.
Dean chokes on blood. Agony rips through his stomach, radiating through his chest. His abdominal muscles constrict around the open gash torn in his stomach, and a spasm rocks through his shoulders. His hand grapples against the wound across his belly, and he can feel warm, slippery blood, something bulbous and wrong under his fingers that might be an internal organ.
“C-Cas,” Dean gulps through the blood in his mouth. It spills down his chin. All he can taste is rust. The world swims around him: gray light, skeletal tree branches, and Cas’s worried, pained face.
“Don’t speak,” Cas says, voice clipped. He sounds angry. And Dean doesn’t blame him. Cas has a right to be angry with Dean because Dean, after all, is a huge jerk. A total douchewad.
“Mmh –” Dean tries to say, but liquid fills his throat. He coughs, sputters; he can’t get enough air into his lungs. And he doesn’t want to die here. He doesn’t want to die in Cas’s lap. He doesn’t want to die when Sammy is – and Sammy won’t know – And he sure as fuck doesn’t want the last thing echoing in his ears to be Rowena’s smug voice: Then one day you die. You go to Hell. And you can’t make it right. So fix it.
“M sorry,” Dean rasps.
“I said,” Cas says fiercely, wincing his eyes shut in concentration. “Shut. Up.”
OOO
Present Day
Dean wakes to an orange glow behind his eyelids that warns him, dear God, not to open his eyes. His head pounds: a line of pain from his ears down his jaw, splintering bone. He groans, or tries too; his esophagus is too dry to allow any kind of noise up his throat. His mouth is stuffed with cotton, or at least feels like it. And Dean remembers every time some goon gagged him with a dirty rag shoved between his lips.
Holy shit, he thinks and lies absolutely still, not wanting to rouse the fiery pain that waits in the rest of his body or tempt the nausea he can feel sitting wet and heavy in the base of his stomach.
He can’t remember exactly how much he drank last night, but he can smell sour whiskey on his clothes, and he knows that too much is probably the right answer to that question. That’s when Dean thinks dammit, Sammy like this is in any way his little brother’s fault.
Dean lets his arm fall limply to the bed beside him and he blindly grabs for a pillow, finds one and drags it over his face, dousing the sunlight that’s bleeding through his closed eyelids.
No nightmares, he reflects. No nightmares if he’s blacked-out drunk, and that’s an advantage if he’s ever heard one, even if he has to deal with a bitch of a hangover in the morning.
Then he thinks: sunlight? But he can’t bring himself to crack open his eyes to examine where he is. But it definitely can’t be the bunker. There aren’t any windows to let in natural light, and, besides, this place doesn’t smell like the distinct greasy food, booze, and gun smoke odor of Dean’s bedroom.
But Dean also seems to be alone in the bed, which means either he was not drunk enough or too drunk to go home with someone last night.
Dean hears a door creak open, senses the shadow of another person entering the room, and Dean knows he should be a lot more alarmed than he is: his body should tense, he should be reaching for some kind of weapon.
But, instead, he’s too preoccupied with trying not to throw up.
“You still breathing, dude?” says Sam’s voice, and Dean feels too sick to be properly relieved.
“No,” Dean grunts, and, holy crap, his vocal cords must have been put through a damn meatgrinder.
Sam snorts in that unique Sam way that’s sort of a laugh but also sort of pissed off: Dean’d know his brother’s bitchy voice anywhere.
“It’s almost noon,” Sam says.
“Fuck off,” Dean groans. He shifts, wanting to turn onto his side, but bile leaps into his throat and, son of a bitch, Dean thinks numbly. He rolls out of bed, and stumbles for the door. “Bathroom?”
Sam evidently senses Dean’s distress, because he backs out of his way and points, “Cross the hall.”
Dean makes it to the bathroom in time to vomit last night’s whiskey spectacularly into the toilet. Besides the booze, his stomach is mostly empty. He hasn’t eaten since…he can’t remember. And he mostly ends up dry heaving on his knees, head aching and sweat jumping to his hairline.
Dean hears Sam’s heavy tread as he shuffles after him into the bathroom, then just hovers awkwardly over his shoulder. Sam tugs a few tissues loose from the box sitting on the toilet tank. He offers them to Dean, and Dean weakly accepts them to wipe his mouth.
Dean braces his elbows on his thighs and lets his head drop into his hands. His body feels heavy and unwieldy. He can’t imagine the effort it will take to actually get up off the floor.
“What’d I get hit with?” Dean croaks.
“Jim and Jack, Dean, what else?” Sam sighs. And, yeah, his brother is definitely pissed off. Shit.
Dean doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have the patience to deal with Sam’s crap right now. Instead, Dean tentatively lifts his head. He scans the bathroom; something about it feels familiar, but he can’t place it. His eyes skate past his brother, arms crossed and frowning, leaning against the sink, to land on the blue and green shower curtain, the gray towels, the bar of soap in an actual dish on the sink, and a painting of a bunch of lily pads. It all feels strangely and unnervingly domestic.
“Where are we?” Dean asks.
Sam looks at Dean, and his frown turns more concerned than disapproving. “You don’t remember?”
“The fuck m’I asking for?” Dean grunts, but looks away, immediately and alarmingly self-conscious, because clearly he’s supposed to remember. There’s a disturbing blank spot inside Dean’s head where last night should belong. He thinks he can vaguely recall yesterday morning: an insistent, unsettled feeling in his chest that chased him out of the bunker and – and what? To the nearest bar, clearly. But then what? And why?
Or does he not need a reason these days?
He scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to dig out the grit stuck in his eyelashes. His teeth are fuzzy. He can smell himself, and it makes him want to puke again.
“You’re at the apartment,” Sam says after a pause. “You know – Eileen and –”
“Fuck,” Dean cuts him off. “Fuck, yeah. ‘Course. Duh.” And he does recognize it, now. The apartment slots itself back into his brain: he remembers helping Sammy and Eileen move in two weeks ago, lugging cardboard boxes and cheap Walmart furniture up the flight of stairs to their second-story flat, ribbing Sammy about the patterned bedspread, matching salt and pepper shakers, and fancy-ass coffeemaker in an effort to suppress the spreading ache inside his chest that felt a lot like fear and a little like jealousy. And, the hell? Because what did Dean have to be jealous of, anyway?
Dean hoists himself back to his feet, groaning as dizziness and pain washes over him like a damn tidal wave, wincing past the pulse of agony in his head that comes from the change in altitude. Sammy makes a move to help him, but Dean shoves him away and grabs the lip of the sink, instead, when his knees threaten to buckle beneath him, floor tilting from a combination of too much booze and too little food.
Sam takes a step back, still frowning at Dean, and Dean wishes his little brother would just leave him the hell alone because Dean is fine. Just hungover. And it’s not like this is Dean’s first rodeo.
“Cas was worried,” says Sam.
Dean grunts. Cas sends off all kinds of warning bells inside Dean’s head: things he doesn’t want to look at too hard right now. Instead, he gets a good look at himself in the mirror as he braces his hands on either side of the basin: his hair is disheveled, greasy, and overly long. He’s got four days’ worth of patchy stubble on his chin. There are dark shadows under his eyes, which are sunken and bloodshot. He looks like death warmed over.
“He didn’t know where you were,” says Sam.
“Says you left without telling him you were heading out,” says Sam.
“Seemed to think it was because of something he –”
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean interrupts. “Can you let me breathe?”
Dean’s heart beats too fast against his ribs. His lungs don’t pull in enough air. He’s lightheaded in a way that he doesn’t think is connected to the hangover. He feels – he feels like he’s missed a step while running down stairs, like he’s stumbling, free-falling. Fuck. He pulls both hands into fists, digs his nails into his palms in an attempt to keep himself grounded.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam shrug. “I just think you should call him. Try to work out…whatever needs to be worked out.” You just got him back, man, Sam seems to be saying, and, shit, Sammy has no fucking clue.
“It’s none of your Goddamn business,” Dean growls, throat so tight he almost can’t get the words out, but the aggression helps. A little. Helps him feel less like he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff.
Dean can practically hear his brother roll his eyes. “Whatever, man. You should shower. You reek.”
Dean shoves his middle finger up so he can save his breath. Sam moves toward the door. “Towels are under the sink. There’s coffee when you’re ready.”
Then Sammy leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, and Dean wilts. He shuts his eyes and breathes through his nose until he’s reasonable sure he’s not going to be sick again. His hands are shaking – just a steady, fine tremor that won’t let up, even when he concentrates on stilling them. It’s like something inside his blood is vibrating.
Dean swallows hard. He tastes acid, so he opens the cabinet behind the mirror and looks for a spare toothbrush. There’s a stupid double toothbrush holder, His and Hers or some shit, and a handful of body creams and makeup products.
It all feels so alien. So irrefutably not-Sam, that Dean can’t wrap his mind around it. And suddenly Dean’s back in that cramped campus apartment, picture frames on bookshelves made of plywood and cinderblocks, bicycle crammed in the corner, weird-ass modern art and plants. The fucking too-tight Smurfs t-shirt.
Dean shoves the thoughts aside. He can’t find another toothbrush, so he grabs one from the holder and hopes it’s Sam’s. He brushes his teeth, then he strips and gingerly climbs into the shower. He turns the water hot and just stands under the stream for a minute, braced against the slick wall, reminding himself to breathe.
There are a dozen fancy hair and bodywash products in the shower, and Dean bets about eleven of them belong to Sam. He scrubs himself down with a bar of soap. He thinks about the effort it would take to jerk himself off. How fucking tired he is. How his dick is just…there. Just fucking there, like it always is nowadays, and he thinks about how he woke up yesterday, harder than he’s been in a while, rolled into the warmth of the body next to him, and –
Son of a bitch.
Dean really wants to hit something, but he doubts Sammy or Eileen will be thrilled if he puts his fist through their new bathroom wall. So, instead, he shuts off the water and gets out of the tub. He finds the towels where Sam said they’d be, and he rubs his skin until it stings. He really doesn’t want to get dressed in his dirty clothes again, but he’s sure as hell not asking Sam if he can borrow an extra shirt.
Dean grits his teeth and pulls his jeans and t-shirt back on. He leaves the gross-smelling flannel. Then he thinks about shaving, but his hands are still trembling, which is annoying and a little unnerving, so he decides not to.
Sam’s in the kitchen at the end of the hall. So is Eileen. Shit. Dean really doesn’t want an audience right now. The two of them are silently signing to each other, having a conversation Dean can’t be a part of and that he feels uneasily probably has to do with him.
Sam turns at the sound of Dean shuffling into the room. Eileen looks over, as well, and shoots him one of her million-dollar smiles. All teeth. Eyes crinkled at the corners. But she looks genuinely glad to see him, unlike Sam, if not for the concern that hangs around her eyes.
“Hi, Dean,” she says. “Did you sleep well?”
Dean lifts a hand in a weak wave, “Hola,” he says, and doesn’t bother answering the question. “Coffee?”
Sam rolls his eyes again. He pushes a steaming mug across the counter. “Here,” he grunts, and nothing else. Dread sinks into Dean’s stomach, and he has a feeling he’s in for the silent treatment. He still doesn’t remember what he might have done that was so terrible.
“Do you need anything to eat?” Eileen asks. “I can make eggs.”
The thought of food makes Dean’s stomach squirm, and he raises his hand, shakes his head. “I’m good. Thanks.” He crosses the room, takes his mug, and swallows a slug of coffee, which burns his mouth but manages to settle a bit of his nausea.
Sam and Eileen look at him. Dean can feel their eyes: heavy and concerned from Eileen, irritated from Sammy. Dean doesn’t need this shit, so he turns around, braces his back against the counter, and stares at the rest of the apartment.
It’s a small place, sparsely furnished, because even though apartments are cheap in bumfuck Kansas, Sam and Eileen still have to pinch pennies until the two of them find sustainable, civilian jobs.
But Eileen has a good eye. The room is simply decorated, but it looks comfortable and soothing, all cool colors and soft edges. Homey. Which, shit, yeah, the bunker’s never been exactly inviting – with its concrete walls and sharp angles – and it probably could have used a few more comforts, like the filmy curtains framing the window and the throw pillows and fuzzy blanket on the couch.
We – Eileen’s done hunting, Sam said three weeks ago. Like somehow whatever Eileen wanted was constitutional, or some shit. And then they left. And Dean helped them move out while he tried not to think about Stanford or what-was-her-name-Amelia or all the other times Sam left. How many worst nights of your life can you have, Dean wondered, before you just get sick of worst nights?
I just – can’t do this anymore, Dean, Sam said when Dean didn’t reply. For a second it looked like Sammy’s face would crumble, but he collected himself with a deep breath and a furious blink. Dean didn’t want him to do that: close himself off like that. Dean wanted his little brother to fall apart, to cry, to stumble into Dean’s arms. Dean could cradle him like he used to when Sammy was a little boy and worried about Dad not coming home, afraid of the shadows and bumps in the night. I’ll protect you, Sammy.
We just…need some. I want this to work.
There wasn’t anything Dean could do to help Sam, now. Dean wasn’t what Sam needed anymore.
Okay, said Dean, trying to keep his voice measured. He could barely hear himself through the blood pulsing in his ears. Okay, Sammy.
We can’t – the bunker, said Sam helplessly. We we we. It meant Sam and Eileen now, when it used to mean Sammy and Dean, and – fuck, Dean should be happy for his little brother for finally getting what he always wanted.
I know, said Dean. He couldn’t feel his lips. Couldn’t feel his fingers. Couldn’t think.
And the – the motel rooms we spent half our lives inside? I feel like it’s strangling me, Dean.
I know, said Dean again, because what Sam meant to say was it’s you. I feel like you’re strangling me, Dean.
I just need a break, Sam said. We’ve talked for so long about what happens when it’s all over. And – I want to try that out, for once. Get my bearings with Eileen. Try to level out or something.
Okay, Sammy, Dean said.
And you – Sam started. You’ve still got Cas and Jack. And it’s not like Eileen and I will be far. And I still want to finish digitally cataloging the bunker’s library.
Yeah, said Dean, and it must have been one too many times, because suddenly Sam looked scared.
I’m not leaving, Dean, he said. I promise. You –
Sammy, Dean stopped him. Managed to put enough finality into his voice that the worry cleared from Sam’s face. It’s okay. I’m okay. Really. I get it.
Sam released a breath. Yeah? Sam said.
Dean shook his head, smiled even though it hurt his lips. Getting real sick of hearing you two fuck through the walls, anyway.
Sam rolled his eyes. Jerk.
And Dean almost forgot he was supposed to say bitch back. Sammy was already heading out the door, said he’d go pick up some grub.
Bitch, Dean said as the door swung shut, and sank onto his bed.
“Your car is still at the bar,” Sam tells Dean, tugging him back to the present. Dean knows he’s being kicked out. Your car rankles, and Dean doesn’t know why, because the Impala’s always been Dean’s car, but Sammy’s always shared in that, somehow. And now it feels like Sammy’s just casting them off: Baby and Dean both.
“Okay,” Dean answers.
“Great,” says Sam. He tosses back the rest of his own coffee. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
Dean concentrates on drinking his coffee. He stares at the stupid granite countertop. Thinks about the stupid walnut cabinets.
“Dean?” Eileen says, and Dean knows it’ll be impolite not to look up, so he does, and he wishes he didn’t, because she’s looking at him with so much concern it’s like he must be literally bleeding out of his pores, or something.
“Are you alright?” she says slowly and carefully, like she wants to make absolute sure he understands her.
Maybe it’s just the fact that Eileen is kind, that her face is soft and open, or maybe it’s the fact that Dean’s always felt more comfortable getting all sharing-and-caring with women rather than men, but for whatever reason, Dean suddenly desperate wants to tell her: no. fucking no. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but he’s definitely not alright. And he thinks maybe – maybe
But the words crowd inside his throat all at once, until he can barely breathe, let alone speak. So Dean forces a smile, and, because he’s a shit, stupid person and he hasn’t got around to learning sign language yet, he signs one of the only words he knows: makes a fist at shoulder-height and bobs it in an imitation of a head nod. Yes.
Eileen’s probably gotten really good at reading people’s faces over the years, and Dean’s expression clearly doesn’t fool her, because she’s still frowning.
“You ready to head out?” Sam walks back into the kitchen.
“Yeah, sure,” Dean tears away from Eileen’s gaze. He leaves his coffee, half-empty, on the counter and pushes off. He stops off at the guest room for his shoes, which he knows Sam must have taken off after he dragged Dean’s drunk ass in here at some point in the night. Dean still can’t remember, and probably never will, which is becoming a more common occurrence lately. The not remembering thing.
Snippets gnaw at the back of his head: he remembers yelling at Cas, heart lodged in his throat, leaving Cas, fleeing the bunker, driving…somewhere. He pulled off at some point and downed a couple beers. Then he thought about heading to Sammy’s. He distinctly remembers deciding against heading to Sammy’s, for obvious reasons. Then he thought about driving up to Jody’s, seeing if she had wind of any cases. Then he ended up at the bar. He was already drunk, but he doesn’t remember how he got the rest of the alcohol. That’s when things peter out into a slur of hazy images and snatches of conversation, a barely cogent argument with the bartender about surrendering his keys and reluctantly giving up Sam’s name when the bartender asked if there was someone he could call.
Sam’s already waiting in the car by the time Dean comes back into the kitchen. Eileen steps forward and hugs him, which is – fine. It feels nice to at least be on someone’s good list.
“Sam is just worried about you,” she says when she pulls back from her hug. “He’s not really angry.”
Dean musters up a weak smile. “Yeah? Thanks for letting me crash.” He signs a thank you, and Eileen seems to understand that Dean isn’t interested in any heart-to-hearts right now, because she backs up, signs something that might be a you’re welcome or it’s fine.
Sam certainly seems angry when Dean climbs into the passenger side of his car. His brother stares straight ahead, barely grunts to acknowledge Dean’s presence. Then he starts the car and pulls out of the apartment complex’s parking lot.
The apartment is only about twenty-minutes from the bunker, situated in Lebanon’s neighboring town, Esbon, but Sam heads in the opposite direction, heading East on Route 36, and Dean’s too much of a coward to ask how far of a drive they’re in for.
Dean can feel it: a tacky, thundering silence that hangs between him and Sam. It sinks into Dean’s gut and stays there. A stillness that burrows into Dean’s body and makes him want to tear his skin off.
It feels like the air that coats the bunker, now. The static electric force that’s been building ever since Chuck and Amara and – the sickly emptiness of it all. Just the three of them – Dean, Jack, and Cas – after Sam and Eileen left. Team Free Will 3.0 doesn’t make a whole lot of sense anymore.
As much as the constant buzz of activity had grated on Dean’s nerves when the apocalypse hunters had bunked there – the multiple sets of footsteps ringing through the halls, the constant chatter, the bodies invading Dean’s home – Dean had gotten used to the momentum.
Now the air is crowded with silence and echoes of what used to be; memories of everyone they lost startle Dean around every corner. The walls are drenched in the blood of self-sacrificial martyrs and Dean’s sick of it.
He keeps waiting for the calm before the storm to break into a Goddamn storm, but it doesn’t. And somewhere inside of his belly, Dean knows it never will. And somehow, even if Dean hates himself for admitting it, the endless calm is a helluva lot worse than the storm ever was. Their lives have been plagued by plenty of open-ended questions, but maybe none worse than the massive, terrifying what now that hangs over their heads like some kind of hangman’s noose.
The silence keeps up until Sam finally pulls off at a dingy roadhouse where the Impala waits, shiny and beautiful as ever, and Dean lets out a breath of relief, happy that she’s, at least, still something he can take care of.
Sam pulls the car into the parking lot. He shuts off the engine. He doesn’t say anything.
Screw this.
Dean thinks about throwing open the door and leaving without another word, but Sammy’s silence reminds Dean too much of Dad, when Dad would get angry at something Dean had done wrong, but instead of coming right out and saying it, Dad would just sit there like a stone, miles and miles dragging beneath the Impala’s wheels, and Dean hated that shit.
“The hell’s eating you, man?” Dean demands.
Sam finally looks at Dean. His eyes are narrowed, lips are pursed. “You really don’t know?” he says, like some kinda sanctimonious bastard.
“Yeah, well,” says Dean, moving toward the door handle. “Fuck you, too.”
“This, Dean!” Sam blurts out and Dean stops. “Just – all of this! Shit. This is the – the fifth time you’ve turned up blackout drunk inside a month, man.”
“Screw you, Sammy,” Dean says. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“No,” Sam says viciously, shaking his head. “You’re right. You didn’t. The damn bartender had to call me because you refused to hand over your keys.”
Dean’s throat is dry. He’s not quick enough on the draw, and apparently Sammy thinks that’s some kind of permission slip.
“Cas says the nightmares are getting worse. You’re barely eating. You’ve clearly lost weight. A lot of weight. You look like crap. And you think I haven’t noticed the shaking hands? Cas says your memory’s blown to hell, you keep spacing –”
“Cas says?” Dean spits out, tasting poison. “What the fuck does Cas have to do with this?” But a cold vice closes around his heart and clenches. He wants to get out of the fucking car. He wants to get out now, but he thinks maybe Sam will put him into a headlock if he tries to move.
“He’s your best friend, Dean!” Sam yells. “And I’m your brother. We’re worried about you? Can’t you get that into your thick skull?”
“I’m fine!” Dean spits. “Fucking fine.”
“You’re not fine!” Sam says. His hands are balled into fists. He looks like he wants to hit something. Dean has the sneaking suspicion that something is him.
“Then what is this?” Dean shoots back. His hands are shaking harder now, and he digs his right fist into his left hand, squeezes tight, because he doesn’t want Sammy to see. You think I haven’t noticed the shaking hands? Your memory’s blown to hell. “Some kind of damn intervention?”
“Dean – shit.” Sammy’s breathing is wet. Shit. Fucking shit. Because Dean knows that sound. Sure enough, his little brother’s eyes swim with tears when he looks at Dean. “Man,” he takes a breath. He sounds like he’s pleading. “If you just tried to pull back the drinking –”
Fuck this. Dean is out of the car before he registers moving.
And he’s drowning. Michael’s hand stuffs Dean’s head under water. Dean tries to hold his breath, but his lips explode open and he sucks in lungful’s and lungful’s of water. It fills his throat. Suffocates him. Takes like blood. And smells like blood. And fuck. He wakes up with an unfamiliar presence in the bed behind him, smells musty thrift store flannel, feels a stubbly chin nuzzle against the back of his neck. “Dean.” “Cas.” Chapped lips and warm tongue and –
Dean hears a car door open. He hears Sam’s shoes grind on the gravel parking lot.
He needs a drink, Dean thinks urgently, just a quick swallow to make his head stop spinning, but there’s no way in hell he can head into the bar without Sam freaking out. There’s a half-bottle of Beam in the backseat of the Impala. If he can just hold out for a second longer until Sam leaves.
“Are you going back to the bunker?” Sam asks. His voice is painfully gentle.
“I don’t – fuck. Maybe,” says Dean.
“You should call Cas,” says Sam.
“Give me my damn keys, Sam,” says Dean.
“Where are you going?”
“None of your fucking business, give me the keys!”
For a split-second Dean is sure he’s going to hit his brother. Sam must see him tense, because Dean sees his brother’s infinitesimal responses, drilled into his muscle-memory after years of training: the slight step back to find more level footing, the half-raise of his left shoulder into a blocking position.
Dean drops his shoulders. Sam relaxes. But his eyes are dark when they scan Dean’s face.
Without a word, Sam digs the keys out of his pocket and tosses them to Dean. Dean catches them. His fingers feel numb, but he catches them.
“Whatever, man,” Sam says. He turns his back, walks back around his car. Dean expects Sam to pause for some kind of platitude: a be safe, watch out for yourself, or call me when you get there. But there’s nothing.
Sam opens the driver’s door and slides behind the wheel. He turns the engine over and then drives out of the parking lot.
Dean watches his brother drive away. There’s something in his chest that wants to climb out. It’s hard and pointy, makes his esophagus bleed as he tries to swallow it back. It doesn’t go away until Dean opens the Impala’s trunk and roots around in the emergency duffle. He finds his bottle of whiskey and climbs behind the wheel. The shaking in his hands finally still around the familiar curve of the bottle. Then he takes a couple swallows, lets the alcohol eat the acid in his throat, burn away the tears that prickle in the corners of his eyes.