nilchance | FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 33/36

Title: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:

beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, violence, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.

It started raining about an hour after Dean had passed the three mile mark, a gray miserable drizzle that cut to the bone and made his pack weigh about three thousand pounds. If he'd had any illusions that he could change his mind and skip town, the ache in his ribs and his back convinced him otherwise. Every heavy step had made him think of the canteen in his pack with a little more longing.

At least the rain covered his tracks. Not that Dean thought anything short of torching the dry brush behind him would stop Sammy short. Stubborn little bastard thought he was the only one who got to walk away-

Stop.

Dean closed his eyes, exhaling slowly at the wrenching pain of another memory sliding in sideways. Resentment-fear-emptiness battered around in his ribcage before settling down to join the quiet murmur, the low level hum of a thousand other memories stirring. Rubbing absently at the ache, Dean considered his hiding place.

As far as these things went, it wasn't great. An overhang of rock and tree roots jutting out just far enough to provide some cover against the rain and a solid place for Dean to set his back against. There'd been a tent in Missouri's cellar, but it had still smelled faintly of brimstone and it'd been a gaudy neon anyway. Bad enough that Sam would find him. Dean didn't need to set up an advertisement of Camp 'Fuck Off, I'm Brooding'.

Sliding into the little notch, Dean leaned his head back against the stone. The rain pounded steadily down around him, dripping off the ledge and onto his already soaked jeans. It reminded him of rain on the hood of the Impala, driving down slick highways that shone in the headlights like silver, his father at the wheel. Something soft and southern played on the radio, with the occasional whisper of static. Dean had known even then that it was an EVP, that Dad was ignoring the signal in favor of working out the noise. Dean had listened too, and so he'd caught it when the silver voice under the static whispered, Mary screams in hell.

After a minute, his father had clicked the radio off.

Dean had been six.

Grimacing, Dean pulled open the zipper to his bag. His promise to his father was the only thing that made him reach for the water first. He drank, and gritted his teeth through the meal replacement. Both settled uneasily in his stomach.

There were good days and bad. This was one of the bad, flashes of memories downloading fast and hard. He'd tried to focus on the grit of stones under his boots, the pounding of the rain on his back, the pack's straps starting to cut into the healing harpy bite even with padding between them. Tried to let the worst of it roll right past.

He'd walked past the gutted remains of a deer and remembered being up to his elbows in remains, digging through a knee-deep sea of barnyard and hitchhiker massacre as he looked for the key to some psycho's hurricane cellar. He'd heard the rain-swollen rushing of a stream and remembered diving into the black water of a haunted lake, searching for a kid he couldn't remember if he'd even found. He'd seen small scattered bones on the path and remembered the clatter of bone dice off a floor in New Orleans, the fall heat making the incense heavy and sick as someone read Dean's fortune as death, sex and a tower falling down.

Somewhere between then and now, a new scar cut Dean's lifeline in half. Probably not a good sign.

There were things he'd done that John Winchester didn't know, and wouldn't ever found out. Secrets whispered in the dark, triggers pulled, desperate trades. It wasn't that he hadn't thought his father could handle it. It was that the man had enough weight to bear.

So Dean bore the weight for him, and for Sam. As it came back memory by memory, it felt heavy enough that Dean wondered how the hell he'd even breathed before.

Dean shoved the empty bottles back into his bag and picked up the canteen, twisting its cap off. Three Wise Men was chokingly nasty, burning all the damned way down. It seared like the holy water, cutting a clean hot path through the chaos of the last few days.

Dean could still taste gunpowder and metal on the back of his tongue from where the barrel had rested. That desperation hung just out of reach, a silent reminder that he had almost toppled like a stack of cards.

He had to be okay. Solid. That was what they needed from him. They never needed to know how bad it'd been, how fucked up he still was. Dean had always been fucked up. Wouldn't know what to do without some kind of damage. Besides, left to themselves, Sam and Dad would either tear chunks out of each other or just wander apart.

Not that it wouldn't happen anyway. The hunt was over. The demon was gone. Sam had made his path pretty unmistakably clear: back to Stanford, back to real life. Dad would settle down in his own way, not that he'd even really expected to live through this (and there was irony, Dad telling Dean to take the gun out of his mouth).

Sam might call for a while. Dad would expect visits. There'd be the usual arguments, Sam raging about why the hunt had to claim their lives without ever figuring out that it was like being pissed at gravity. Somebody would say something harsh, somebody else would explode. They'd drift. Might remember to see each other at holidays. Might get back together when Sam got some pretty blonde like Jess pregnant, and Dean might even live long enough to hold his niece or nephew and see his kid brother's eyes looking back at him. To know that there had been a point to all this.

It was a better ending than Sam or Dad dying, a quick cheap burial. He could live with driving past Sam's house on his way to another town, another hunt. Not well, but whatever.

Another shot. Dean leaned his head against the stone and listened as the rain picked up, listened to the wet squish of footsteps and the regular sound of Sam's breathing above him.

"Dude," Sam said, "tuck your boots under."

"You'd find me anyway, psychic boy."

"Actually, not so much psychic anymore." Sam walked around the little hill until he could stand in front of Dean, and tapped his temple. "My head hit the window. Kind of fucked me up. Haven't had any visions since waking up from the coma."

And with that happy reminder of family trauma, of how he'd botched being there for Sam when he was damn near dying, Dean couldn't quite muster another snarl. Dean took another swig, tucked his boot under, and managed a half-hearted, "Aww, no more migraines. Cue the violins. Go away."

"Nope."

"Then shut up so I can pretend you went away." Dean squinted at Sam, who was drenched and looking bedraggled as hell, and sighed. "Get under here."

"Dean-"

"Continue shutting up. Stalker."

"Bitch," Sam muttered, sliding under the overhang. He shrugged off his own pack, pressed against Dean's side, all knees and elbows and wet clothes. "Are you okay?"

"Bitch is my line," Dean griped tiredly. "Did you even get a haircut? Because, dude. It's overgrown. You need to turn a weedwhacker on it or something."

"I brought more booze," Sam said.

"You can stay. Don't suppose you brought duct tape for when you get blotto and start singing Celine Dion or whatever."

"Backstreet Boys," Sam said darkly. "And that was only once. And dude, I was plastered."

"Oh god. Kill me." Dean frowned at the lid of the canteen. "Think I can get the demon back?"

"I put up with Dad. In the car. For hours." Sam dug out a handful of protein bars, handed one silently to Dean. "He knows the words to Mandy."

"Yeah, I know. It's one of those songs that gets stuck in your head. Ever since we took down that siren at the concert hall where Manilow was rehearsing... Jesus. That's just evil. Dad wouldn't let me shoot him, either." He washed half the protein bar down with another long swallow of the liquor. It was to the point where it barely burned anymore. Which really just meant that he was well on his way to being thoroughly trashed. "I think Dad wanted me to, though. Especially after three days of both of us humming that damn song."

Sam grunted. "Dad and I almost killed each other."

"The sky's still blue."

"We're doing better," Sam said with a shrug.

"Yeah. You can act like adults. Want a cookie?" Dean laid his head back, not looking at Sam. "The rest of us have been doing it for years."

For a moment, Sam was quiet. Then he started digging in his bag again, bringing out a bottle that he handed unceremoniously to Dean.

Dean frowned at the clear liquid, then at Sam. "What, trying to sober me up?"

The corner of Sam's mouth tugged. He looked tired as hell without his bangs to hide his face. "You're drunk. Already."

"I lost weight, dude, fuck off. Besides, I'm not drunk."

"You're not exactly sober."

"What, because I'm not telling you what you want to hear?" Dean grabbed the canteen protectively. "How about 'yeah, Sam, I'm digging the big boy haircut?' How's that work for you?"

Sam gave him a long, level look. "It's vodka. Not water. You want to keep drinking, fine."

"I don't need your permission," Dean bit off.

"And I don't need yours."

"Fine. Trade you bottles."

"Fine."

Dean was perversely happy to see Sam choke on his first taste of Three Wise Men. Rubbing at his throat, Sam coughed and squinted at the canteen. "What the fuck?"

"Dad's specialty. Y'know, those hunting buddies. Jim, Jack and Jose." Dean grimaced through the first mouthful of vodka. Christ, he hated vodka. Ever since he, Andrew and Caleb had gotten sick on it, and hell, there was another memory jarred back into place. Ow. "With Wild Turkey. Got drunk on that on my 21st birthday. But I'm sure you can get something with an umbrella in it if you go back into town."

"Not leaving, Dean." Leaning his elbows on his knees, Sam peered at him. It was that look. Dean didn't like that look. It meant prying was about to happen, all Sam's happy California 'tell me your feelings' bullshit about to come spilling out. Which would be tolerable, if Sam ever actually wanted to hear it. Sam didn't. Just wanted somebody to pat him on the damned head and tell him it was okay. Or that it could be made okay.

Dean hadn't come out here to pretend that it was all going to be okay. He'd get to that in a few days. And damn Sam anyway for his pushing, for his big sad eyes and his memories and for curling up in bed beside Dean and for giving him something to fight for and-

Damn.

Dean took another drink. Said tightly, "Stop staring. I'm not going to do a trick."

"Hey," Sam murmured. And yeah, there was the voice that went with that look. The deep, gentle voice that he used to milk information out of witnesses. Nice. "You've got to talk to somebody, man. You can't keep this in."

"Watch me."

"It hurt you," Sam said, an edge to his voice. "We all know it. It's okay to-"

"What, cry about it?" Dean gripped the stem of the vodka bottle, tight. "That'll help a lot. You'll sure feel better about yourself."

"Fine. Get angry. Whatever." Sam set the canteen down, spreading his hands. "Hit me. Yell. Say all the shit you've wanted to for years. Just don't sit there and let it eat at you, for fuck's sake. Get it out."

"I-" Dean began hotly, then stopped short, staring at the vodka bottle. The bubbles rising from the bottom, the slow liquid shift of the glass under his hands as it warped in the heat. His heat. His anger.

If he blew up at Sam, he might kill him.

With a throaty noise, Dean set the bottle down and turned away. "I'm walking perimeter," he said shortly. "Do whatever you want, just be quiet about it."

"I can," Sam begin, gathering his legs under him.

Dean got a flash of memory: Sammy at 15, legs coltish, wiping blood from his nose with the back of one hand. Dean had clocked him during sparring, only half on accident.

"I'm fucked up, Sam, but my legs are fine. I'll manage." Dean slid out from under the ledge, getting to his feet, then turned to look at Sam over his shoulder. "Unless you don't trust me to do that much."

Low blow, and he knew it. Sam gave him a dark look, but parked it. "I trust you. You're my brother."

"Yeah, thanks, I worked that out. I think it's the chin."

Sam flipped him off, going back to the canteen. His cheeks were already starting to color. Which was good, because damn, Sam had gotten pale in the last few weeks. Like poetry reading, 'my name is Lestat of the whiny vampire people' pale.

So. Perimeter. Dean could do perimeter. Especially since the woods around them were eerily quiet. This close to a gate of hell and their old house, there should've been something, even if it was just a residual haunt. He'd seen old traces of a skinwalker, long gouges carved in the trees and healed over, but now? Zilch. Dead space.

The demons had hung back in the gate. Afraid of him. The one goddamn time he needed a fight, something to concentrate on, and hell was whining under its bed like a pussy because Dean had given them a bloody nose.

"Heh," Dean said, under his breath. "That's right. Pussies."

"Are you talking to yourself?" called Sam from behind him on the trail. So much for brotherly trust. "'Cause, dude, that's a bad sign."

"No, I was calling you my bitch. Make me a sandwich." Dean turned. "What, Sammy, scared of the dark?"

Sam made a face. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"You are stalking me. Jesus."

"I'm not stalking you! I'm just... following you."

"Uh-huh."

"Closely."

"Uh-huh."

"C'mon, Dean." Sam dragged a hand through his hair, frustration raw on his face. "I thought you were dead."

"Oh, Christ," Dean muttered, turning on his heel to walk the rest of the circle.

Sam followed, still talking. Of course. "I almost had to watch you die. Like, more than once. Excuse the fuck out of me for being a little twitchy."

"Yeah? And guess what? I almost died. Like," Dean mimicked, "more than once. So I'd like a little quiet time. The kind where you're not here. You're really good at not being here. Go practice and you can not be here for the fucking Olympics."

Sam paused. "That doesn't even make sense."

Goddamn it, Sam hurt his brain. Dean spun, and Sam was close enough behind him that they almost collided. It made Dean's skin tight to think that anybody, even Sam, got that close without him noticing. So he shoved Sam, slightly harder than he probably ought to. And God, that felt satisfying, the little shocked face Sam made as he rocked back on his heels. "Space, Sam. You're not the only one who needs it."

"All right," Sam snapped, "what the fuck is your problem?"

"I don't have a problem!" Dean shot back. Which was kind of ridiculous, considering.

"That's total bullshit. You're tearing strips out of Dad! You!"

"What, afraid I'll steal your thing? Don't worry, sweetheart, I've got about ten years to make up for before I even get close to the damage you've done."

Sam glared at him. "That's not f-"

"Not fair?" Dean growled, fists clenching. "You know better. Life isn't fair." He turned on his heel, stomping down the trail back to the camp, such as it was. By the time the sun set, he'd drank half the canteen of Wise Men.

Finally, ignoring Sam's continued attempts at conversation, Dean rolled over, pulling his father's jacket up against the chill. It smelled like Dad. Gun powder and smoke. With a sigh, he relaxed, letting the sound of Sam's breathing lull him.

He didn't sleep, not for long, but at least his brain stopped for a little while. The next day dawned misty and cool. Perfect for a good hike. He looked down at Sam's snoring form, debating.

Finally, he kicked Sam's foot. "I'm going for a hike," he said shortly. "I'll be back."

Sam scrambled to his feet, eyes sleepy. Fucker always did wake up faster. "I'll come."

"Of course you will," Dean muttered. "Fine. Let's go." He set a brutal pace, feeling his ribs ache with each deep breath. Sam scrambled behind him. Even with his long legs, he was struggling to keep up.

Around lunch, it rained again. Dean didn't bother slowing down, just kept on going at a pace that had Sam stumbling along behind him. Finally, close to sunset, he slowed down, walking the last two miles to their camp.

Sam flopped on the ground, breathing hard. Dean looked at him, oddly angry at him for showing weakness. "You're out of shape."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam gasped. "You're better than me. Does that make you feel fucking better?"

"I'd feel better if you'd get off my ass, and let me have time to think!" Dean growled.

"I'm not leaving you-"

"Why the hell not? You do any other time!"

"Is this about Stanford?"

"Of course it's about fucking Stanford," Dean snarled. "You know, that place you went so you could be a real person, instead of like Dad and I?"

"Dean-"

"I wanted you to have your life. Wanted you to have your dream. I just thought, stupidly that it would involve us now and then! But no, you were too fucking ashamed of us for that," Dean snapped.

Sam came to his feet slowly. "It wasn't like that-"

"It was exactly like that. You act like no one else ever wanted to get out of this life. Like from the moment I watched Mom burn with you in my arms, I wanted to hunt! Guess what? I wanted to have a life. I wanted to go to school, have a job, maybe have kids!"

"Why didn't you?" Sam asked hotly.

"Because Dad needed me! Because without me, you two would have torn each other apart! Because it was the right thing to do. So, instead I helped you with homework and applications, and hoped you'd be able to do what you wanted to. I just didn't expect that when you got it, I'd get kicked to the curb," Dean said bitterly.

"I didn't-" Sam started, heat rising in his face and promising a fight. Just as Dean was tensing, finally feeling something that wasn't fatigue, Sam shut his mouth sharply. He looked at Dean, his hands sliding back to his side, his shoulders relaxing. "Okay."

"Okay what?" Dean snapped.

"Okay. You're right. I fucked you over." Easing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, Sam shrugged. He looked younger, standing there with his shoulders down and his body at ease, waiting for Dean to yell at him. "I'm sorry."

"Great. Sorry makes everything better." Dean moved back a step, narrowing his eyes at Sam, trying to figure out his strategy. Who the hell put their hands in their pockets when there was a maniac yelling at them? Fuck, he'd taught Sam better than that. "Maybe that works in California, but not here. Not with us. I'm tired of giving you a free pass."

"I'm not asking for a free pass, dude. I screwed up." Sam tilted his head, watching Dean, that damned look on his face. "You're pissed. I get it. I'm listening. Say it. Say anything you want. Just..."

"Just what?" Dean demanded, flinging the words back. "Get it off my chest? Feel better about myself? Spank my inner child? Fuck you, Sam, you don't even know-"

"So tell me."

"-what it was like, how many times I wondered where I screwed up with you- what I've done for this family only to have you, both of you, dump me on the roadside like a fucking sick dog you don't want following you around."

And that, finally, startled the patronizing look off Sam's face. Sam drew his hands out of his pockets, taking a step towards him. "Dean, Jesus-"

Dean backed up, away from Sam's reach. It was way past time to shut the hell up, but here he was, barreling down the slope with no goddamn brakes. "But I kept turning up, and you needed my help, so you decided to slum until you got what you needed out of it-"

"That wasn't it!"

"The demon's gone." Dean stopped backing up, sensing the tree just behind him. His fists clenched as Sam kept coming. "It's over. You've got what you wanted. So walk the hell away, because I don't want your goddamn mercy fuck bullshit. I'm tired of it. I'm tired."

Sam stopped just short of too close, his hand hovering at his side. He blinked the rain out of his eyes and said, too softly, "So stop running."

Dean punched him.

Not too fast; it gave Sam time to twist out of the way, and even if he hadn't, the impact would've only been bruising. Nothing faster than they used to do when they sparred. Still, when Sam's head snapped back up, surprised outrage had taken over for pity.

Sam was braced for the next punch. He knocked it aside, and the next. By the fourth, Sam had found the rhythm of it, so Dean switched it up on him. Got contact, finally, a glancing blow across Sam's jaw that probably did more damage to Dean's knuckles than Sam's face.

Dean fell back as Sam stumbled, grabbing at a tree for balance. Sam started at Dean through his wet bangs, his eyes very wide. Then he bared his teeth in a quick, resigned grimace. "That what you want?" he demanded. "That what it's going to take?"

Sliding into a defensive posture, or at least as close as he could come without his ribs protesting, Dean gave Sam a level stare.

"Goddamn it," Sam breathed. "Fine."

Sam came for him, in probably the worst approach Dean had seen from him since Sammy was twelve and old enough to know better. Clumsy. Sam thought Dean wouldn't fuck him up. He was right, but it was a stupid assumption.

Everyone else looked at Dean and expected the worst. Katya, Bobby, Dad. They had sense. Sam trusted him, trusted his control, and Dean hated him a little for that.

He dodged Sam easily, pausing as Sam's foot slid in the slick mud. The fumble nearly took Sam down, but he compensated fast enough to get a blow in, smacking Dean upside the head while he hesitated.

Dean spun, teeth bared. He darted in, catching Sam on the jaw with an open handed slap. It stung, but mostly his pride. It still was enough to piss Sam off. His next blow wasn't as light, a sharp uppercut that rocked Dean back.

Dean scrambled for a second, his boots looking for purchase in the mud, then launched himself at Sam, dropping his good shoulder to plow into Sam's midsection. They went down in a tangle of limbs, each searching for a grip as the mud slicked their clothes.

Dean managed to headbutt Sam, mostly by accident, and Sam retaliated with an elbow to Dean's ribcage.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath at the wave of pain from his still-healing ribs, and quickly brought his knee up. Much to his annoyance, Sam shifted, and he only managed to glance a blow into his thigh.

Sam cursed, grabbing at Dean's wrists, forcing him down, kneeling at his side and pinning him. "Jesus," Sam wheezed.

Panic welled abruptly, and Dean bucked, bringing both legs up, feet slamming into Sam's head. Sam fell off him, and Dean followed, fists flying.

Sam yelped, hands coming up to protect his head, but Dean moved too fast, each blow calculated. A sharp shot landed on his jaw, and he rolled with the impact, trying to come to his knees, to get his footing.

Dean followed him, his fist slamming into Sam's mouth.

Sam moved faster than Dean would have guessed he could, power and body slamming him backwards, forcing him back down to the ground.

Sam stared, watching the anger in Dean's eyes fade, replaced by... oh, god. Terror. Utter, mindless terror. Dean was afraid of him. He felt his stomach sink, suddenly understanding. Shit. Moving slowly, he slid off Dean. "Dude, it's me. Relax. I'm not going to hurt you."

Dean struggled, soft, animal noises coming from him, eyes wild.

"Dean!" Sam said sharply.

Dean's struggles slowed, but his eyes were still filled with stark, uncomprehending terror.

"Come on, please. It's me. Sammy," he whispered, voice cracking.

Dean froze, eyes on Sam's face. After a long second, he blinked. When Dean looked back up, his eyes had quieted, a disturbing calm acceptance in them. "Dude, I love you, but get the fuck off me," he drawled, voice low and deadly.

Sam jerked his hands back, staring at Dean as he rolled to his feet. "I'm sorry. Dean, I'm so sorry-"

"What have I told you about chick flick moments?" Dean muttered. He looked at Sam's split lip and swelling eye. "That's gonna suck tomorrow. Want a drink?"

"Yes," Sam said numbly, stumbling after Dean, mind whirling. What the hell was wrong with his brother? Was Bobby right?

No. No matter what happened, what Dean did, he wasn't too broken to save.

When they got to camp, Dean handed him the canteen. "Here." He turned, walking down the trail.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked, hating the touch of desperation in his voice.

"Jesus, Sam. I'm just going to the stream down the hill." He held up the empty water bottle.

"Oh. Okay." Sam sat back against the rock, wincing as the Three Wise Men burned the hell out of the split lip.

By the time Dean got back, Sam was feeling no pain. Dean shook the canteen, grinning when he heard the tinny slosh. "Dude."

"Wha?" Sam blinked, noting that Dean had cleaned up a little. "Fucker."

"Is that anyway to talk to the man who brought you ice?" Dean held up a bag.

"Was I supposed to drink it cold?" Sam asked.

Dean laughed. "So wasted. Dude."

Sam stared blearily as Dean shrugged his muddy jacket and t-shirt off, digging in his bag until he came up with a clean one. Another quick rummage and he pulled out a clean sock, filling it part way with ice, and pressing it to Sam's cheek. "You're such a fucking bitch, Sammy," Dean muttered.

"Screw you. Gonna have a black eye."

"Probably. Didn't ask you to follow me," Dean pointed out reasonably.

"Didn't ask you to punch me, either," Sam sulked. "Can't always get what you want, huh?"

"No shit," Dean breathed, leaning back next to him and scooping up the vodka bottle. Settling his shoulder against Sam's, he sighed heavily and repeated, "No shit."

Current Mood: migraine-y
Current Music: "You can't always get what you want..."

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From: (Anonymous)

Good chapter.Poor angsty Winchesters.I can see them fighting.Update soon.

From:

Especially when you make plans...

FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 33/36

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