maybe i'll feel better tomorrow.

Dean had been starring into his cup, waiting for Sam to pick which broken bastard’s story would fill up their night, when mind is changed. Little mountains between brows as Dean debates his next move. “Hoarders” he reaches for the remote so that he could get to it quicker. “These people have so much shit- watch” it was amazing to him that someone could keep their entire life in one place. He’d never had that experience. Hard to hoard anything when you’re constantly moving and loosing shit in the process.

Sam’s leg brushes his own and maybe Dean’s eyes fly up to his brothers face a bit too quick. Caught off guard is all. They haven’t- uh- there hasn’t been any- touching here for a bit. They’ve been working on and off. More on than off honestly. Physicality has been the last thing on Dean’s mind. Wondrously weird what a simple touch could do.

An episode plays. In the background Dean hears the lady on the television go into a sad sob story about death and change that she couldn’t cope with. A thing that made her keep cat skeletons among other oddities. Can’t even see the floor, the shrink says, but he’s only half listening. The rest of his brain is devoted to Sam. What’s he thinking? What’s he over there pondering? Why’s he got that look on his face?

So he drinks a few more big sips of his glass, drinks until he can feel the fuzz creep into his brain, then puts it on the table. “Alright I wasn’t gonna question it-” but “why the change? You finally realize serial killers are limp dick monsters?” His grin is cocky, easy because he can be here. With Sam. He can be whatever he wants instead of the stoic tough guy he has to play most of the time. He can just- be.

Legs stretch out a bit more making it harder for Sam to have his own space without touching Dean in some way. A good excuse. Easy to just….. relax into each other without a narrative attached.

Really? Hoaders? Dean didn’t even seem to think about it before leaping at the remote like it was going to jump away. Thank Chuck for streaming services, otherwise, they’d have to channel surf like in the olden days of the wheel, which never worked out well for them anyway. Always fighting over the channels they skip and it ended up, usually, with a broken remote anyway. Sam almost always did offer Dean pretty much whatever he wanted to watch. He shrugs and watches the insanity flickering on the television.

He and his brother grew up with nothing, essentially. Always hand-me-downs, always clothes way too big, and food that was always dwindling. Their upbringing wasn’t the best, but it was the best their dad could do, given the absolute unfortunate circumstances that put all of them there to begin with. Don’t get him wrong, John wasn’t the best father but — That’s a story for another time.

Baby brother notices the quick flash of Dean’s eyes to watch his face when their knees initially hit, but doesn’t move. Either Dean would move away or stay; and either way Sam was fine with that. There were seldom moments they were allowed to just exist. Where they got to unwind and just be Dean and Sammy, not the guys who save the world.

Sam’s body flinches as the glass is loudly set down, his own resting in his hand, pivoted on his stomach, as he turns to look at a reddened freckled face. Dean’s eyes hang heavy as the alcohol slowly pours over his mind. A head tilt, curious and puppy-like when given a new sound, brows furrowed just ever so slightly; a typical Sam Winchester special.

“Just wanna not think about work.” He lies easily, a tired, but soft smile crossing his lips. “Don’t wanna hear gruesome details of murder and torture — Think we’ve heard enough of that this week, De.”

When Dean stretches further, making it impossible for Sam not to touch him in some way, Sam prays it’s the alcohol that’s making his face flush red. He’s trying to keep pace with Dean. If day-drinking is what his big brother wanted, it’s what his big brother was going to get. The younger wasn’t usually into drinking like this — never really appealed to him after nights of wildly thrown bottles of beer or liquor tossed in their directions in anger, rage filling all the empty space around them, disappointment scents on their breath, empty space taken with fervor — another chill runs up his spine. It’s not a cold type of chill but rather one to shake old demons awake. He swallows sharply on another gulp of the liquor, watching what was left disappear on his tongue.

           Dean didn’t really get the allure of serial killers. Humans are fucked up. Fucked up. At least with monsters they have a method or they need to just, ya know, eat. There’s something that makes them need to kill in order to continue living but with humans- it’s just, broken. Like a genome snapped wrong. Gives Dean the hebbiejeebies to be honest. Not scared of’em but more grossed out. Like a centipede crawling up your leg in the middle of the night. 

          But he knows how to kill a human. Doesn’t even need to look that one up. Doesn’t need to ask anyone about any special ritual or weapon or nothing. Shot to the head is all it takes. Hell- you get something sharp enough and that’ll do it just fine. Even a hard hit to the right spot on the head. Monsters aren’t like that. The only thing that scares Dean about serial killers is just how far the lines between him, and them, have blurred. 

           “Yeah the super loner dude whose girlfriend didn’t love him enough, or some shit like that right? Went out into the woods and put bombs together in a weird little cabin. I remember that asshole” Dean’s pouring Sam’s glass now. Just as much. Would pour until Sam pulled the glass away before starting to nurse his own. “We didn’t get enough hugs either and look at us!” There’s a prideful snort inserted here “Maybe cause we made up for it in other ways” sideways look at Sam and he winks. Grins. Dean’s over here thinking about past hookups now. 

            “Hm? Oh I don’t care- you’re pick Sammy” leans back to get comfortable, feet up on the table “Why they always got names like supervillains? Just call him Ted. No one can be scared of Ted.”

              Sam can’t help but snort a bit at the Ted comment. Honestly, Dean’s right. If they just stuck with serial killer’s name, they wouldn’t be as feared as they are. With names such as The Co-Ed Killer, Bay Harbor Butcher, The Crazy Necrophile, The Human Dracula — They were all a little ridiculous. A total media frenzy. It was literally just news outlets trying to sell papers and minutes to the executives on late night television, to scare mothers and little ol’ grannies. How disturbing.

                He nurses his glass next to his brother, knees touching ever so gently, deft and trying to go undetected. Moments like this, they didn’t get often. They didn’t get to put their guards down. They were always in fight mode, ready to kill whatever was necessary to end the big bad — Fuck, it was exhausting. However, it was their means of survival. Even though they didn’t get paid for hunting, that was their job. Saving people, hunting things; The Family Business.

                                                                But.

                The two of them always had to remember that as much as they were the hunters, they were also the hunted. And that was why their guards were always up, always ready in the event of. It was a shitty life. But it was theirs and they had to make the best of it.

                  Sam had fallen quiet though, letting his mind wander as Dean’s did, thinking to when they first started, when things were seemingly easier than they were now. When they sought soft touches of comfort and safety — sleeping in shitty motel rooms so they could sleep so lightly that the baby snores between them could be heard. Times when if one shifted, the other sat straight up, hand on gun metal, ready and raring to go. — He snapped himself out of it, taking a rather large gulp of his liquor to tame the wandering beast. His curiosity.

                  He’s silent for a soft moment. “Actually, do you wanna watch, like, Cops or something? Maybe TLC is running that Strange Addiction show that you like so much.”

                    Maybe Sam has started to realize, much like Dean has a while ago, that maybe those serial killers and themselves were just a bit too blurred. One bad night at a bar, one hunt gone wrong, just one missing piece of research and they’d be the next headlines.

           Of course there was a bitch face, there’s always a bitch face when it comes to continuing the job when it was done. Sure- serial killers aren’t the same as fucking vampires but you can’t tell me it’s not similar. Dean’s brows rise then eyes roll as he turns back around towards the living room “Fine” if that’s the price- fuck it. 

            “I’m not even gonna touch that” it relaxes me yeah that sounds about right. What kind of person finds Ed Kemper relaxing? They do. That’s who. Maybe just the fact that someone had it a lot worse then either of them. Sure- their lives weren’t sunshine and blow jobs but damn.  Throat clears as he plops on the couch, rights himself and begins filling the glasses. I mean filling. 

              Dean’s got a hankering for ‘relaxing’ it would seem. Long week. All he wants to do is forget. And be with Sam. “Who you wanna psychoanalyze tonight? Not Bundy. I hate Bundy. What a douche- like try harder right?”

            Look. Dean always chose what they watched. Whether it was another rerun of Starsky & Hutch or trying to gode his little brother to watch porn; Sam was gonna make Dean watch something else whether he liked it or not. Baby brother, pain-in-the-ass privilege. He feels confident when he hears Dean’s reluctant response. 

          “Hey, I don’t judge what relaxed you.” Magic fingers. Tiger moms. Liquor. Sam’s had his reservations and let his brother indulge in those on his own. But as for killers — while it may be close to their regular work, this was different. They were human. That made them more terrifying than the monsters they hunted, built only to do harm to humans. While humans? They were the worst, the scariest, and, to Sam, the most interesting. Human psychology was the whole reason he was so interested in these killers.

Lucifer see’s what it is he’s doing to Sam, of course he does- he just doesn’t care. If Lucifer paused to reflect every time someone was uncomfortable around him he wouldn’t get anything done. Sure he’s still interested in Sam’s story but there is more flavor of ‘duty’ here as well. Sam brought him back from the bowels of hell. At the very least a conversation- or consideration- is due. 

Throat clears as Lucifer comes back to stand before Sam. Hands smoothing down the front of his own suit- pristinely put together even though he’d just lurched from the ground like a dead thing. 

“Oh?” Curious curious curious “And what have you done this time? Surely you can’t have fucked up so badly your leashed angel can’t help you. What is it? What have you done?” A brow arcs “Or was it your brother, this time? Hm……. What a pity to have a brother so….. dissimilar. Of course I know how that feels……..” head tilts. Bird like “Tell me over breakfast. I should like some bacon with this begging” 

Ah, yes. Of course the devil needs to rub it in. Whiles the sickness continued to churn his insides like butter, he watches Lucifer closely; just in case. You never really know what the devil has up his sleeves. Whatever it is, it’s no good.

Watching Lucifer press his suit is oddly humanizing, but the Winchester also knows to never put his faith into a fallen star. He learned that lesson long ago. Wishing, hoping, and waiting never worked.

So many questions and insults hurled in one go made Sam almost unable to keep up with the devil’s inquiries. He stands before the ethereal, distanced and regretting his decision, but alas — there’s not much he can do now. He goes to open his mouth, but Lucifer cuts him off with the insults of his brother— and fuck. It hurts like a knife in the chest.

“— I have to take you out to breakfast in order for you to help? You don’t even need food.”

                Dean stands in the doorway of Sam’s room with a bottle of jack under his arm and two glasses held haphazardly with both hands. “Get up- we’re done being inside- it’s time to day drink” how long has it been since they could just shoot the shit? 

        Lucifer steps from the cavernous maw that’d split open, as if birthing him back into the world, and yawns. It had been a good sleep. A long sleep. One that he could continue had Sam not interrupted. Things were going exactly to plan. The world was in decline and the humans would soon take themselves out. Nary a finger lifted. 

         And what is this? 

         He is slow to move around Sam, noting the changes in the other- both clear and hidden. Something in Sam’s stance or look or demeanor-  Lucifer can’t be sure- creates curiosity. Though the devil could turn around and fade into the shadows he came from he chooses to stay, instead. He’s captivated.  

           “Sammy has summoned me of all things- sorry isn’t necessary but I would like an explanation. Did you miss me?” The smile curling his lips is cruel, eyes watch with unchecked interest. He’s hooked. 

                      Cold.

                     That is what is the most notable at first. It’s a familiar freeze that Sam had been hoping to avoid for the rest of his days and yet — here it was. He swallows the lump in his throat, eyes watching Lucifer very carefully. The Winchester has to fight the urge of flight in this instance, a foot tapping backwards as to keep distance between them.

                       He could read the emotion through Lucifer’s eyes — it was borderline primal. Feeling like prey was something Sam was unfortunately used to. However, in this instance, it made his stomach turn with disgust and anticipatory anxiety, waiting for the devil to pounce on him to tear apart his body to use it as shelter.

                       A tingle runs it’s up the human’s spine, sweat beading his hairline.

                       “No.”

                       That wasn’t very convincing, even for the hunter.

                       “I need your help.”

            He is out. Hell is empty and the devil is here. The world is different now. The smell isn’t the same. The wind blows through the trees differently then it had before. Lucifer has seen this before, sensed it, the precipice of dramatic change. Perhaps he is here to….. give humanity a slight push. 

                     “Was this you?” He asks the lone figure standing just a few yards away. The figure who must have spelled his freedom- lest, why would they be here of all places? 

                     “Yes.”

                     It’s probably the only time Sam would have the gull to say that singular word to the devil. It was time-- Time to finish what they had started so long ago. He felt fear, but more so, he felt the raging fire in his soul, one that pushed him to keep fighting through the bullshit. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease his own tension. Hard enough to do with the devil, the torturer, the plauge, standing before him.