𝔻𝔸𝕄𝔸𝔾𝔼𝔻 𝔹𝕆𝕐 .

     they’re early ... sitting on a concrete bench, ticket stub in hand, and not saying much. the weekend was fun, but now it’s over. there’s a LUMP growing in his throat, one that had started somewhere in his chest, and he’s scared to death that if he opens his mouth now, what comes out will keep them from ever having this again. he just ... doesn’t want to be alone anymore. sam left for school, and dean feels broken on the inside. they haven’t talked about dad, not even once in the last forty-eight hours since dean set foot in california. they only chatted about surface things. like the tan on his brother’s skin. the hot girls in his co-ed dorm. nothing about any jobs he’s had. nothing about how he’s aching from outside in, crushed and empty and pissed the fuck off, because that would ruin it. the magic. if that’s what you wanna call it.  

     sure it can. why not? what makes tonight different than any other night? he’s over welcomed his stay, and even if sam say’s he hasn’t—- they both know the truth. there isn’t room here anymore. the spaces dean used to take up are suddenly overshadowed ... and he can’t make himself fit. and hell. he’d sure been trying the last few days. 

     the kid’s got friends here, and whether they know it or not, they look at him like they can’t believe he’s sam’s older brother. the conversations are short, never getting past the point where he explains he takes up unwanted part time jobs here and there—- and the looks he gets are coated in pity and mock respect. these kids have never worked a hard days work in their life. never held a gun loaded with silver bullets, pointed dead center at a werewolf’s chest. they don’t know the sound of a wendigo stalking your scent on a trail. how it feels to not only hear the sound of your own bones snapping, but the way it’s worse when it’s coming from someone you love. 

     no. they know safe world things. what they want for dinner and flashcards for tests they’re cramming for the next day. what’s worse. sam wants to be that too. blind to the world he knows is only a step away. dad was right. it’s better to just ... let his brother go. he heaves the duffel bag more securely on his shoulder, stares at the ground where sam’s socked feet are a strikingly stark comparison of his own mud caked boots.     ❝     good a’night as any.     ❞     he shrugs.

     like scenes from a hat, dean’s nightmares take turns. what’ll it be tonight ... ? 

     HELL.

     so thanks for playing, but the fun is over now. the screaming. the pain. flashes of light, pure TERROR. he’s back on the rack, alistair carving into his flesh with nothing but promises promises. the demon whispers in his ear, words spilling like thick poison not unlike the stream of blood that drip drip drips against the ground where he hovers, hands tied above his head, bare feet just shy of laying flat —- from the demons cursed lips to dean’s ears. i’ll carve you into a new animal, dean. one day you’ll say yes. c’mon. say yes. say yes now, and i’ll pull you off the rack. you could be great. i’ll make the pain stop  —-  and then there’s a slice.

     there’s nothing to see but red, his insides starting to spill like a stream from his body,  a cry so shrill and sharp, he doesn’t even recognize it as his own, at first. until  ... that too is cut out of him. the air is gone, and he can’t breathe —- he doesn’t know it’s a nightmare. not even when alistair puts his hand on his shoulder, shaking him, that red red red smile painted on his lips, with dean’s blood —- yes, dean’s blood, the one he can feel dripping down his chest, his throat sliced. 

     he GAGS. 

     awakened suddenly, gasping for breath, a hand at his throat —- he doesn’t even see cas. not at first. just sees soul after soul he tore into to get away from, well, all that. it’s never going to go away. it’s never going to end. maybe that’s half the reason he’s turning away from sam, but realistically, it’s hardly even half the reason why.     ❝     have you ever tried knocking?     ❞     he asks, still working to catch his breath as reality comes back to him in slow soft waves. hands releasing from  their grip around his neck, to palm down, pressing deep into his face. 

this night is liminal,    and it smells of storm,      or sanctity,    like the winds carrying the seeds of god,    or the crash of thunder as his word.    but the sky is empty.   it is only heaven and their haste preparations to meet the end of all ends.    the rain begins its approach then,    thudding softly against the ground.    the wind intertwines in intimate embrace,    crashing against the windows. 

          the silence hangs heavy.     a few minutes pass.

                 the lights tremble,     then shatter.     michael is there in a cacophony of wings.

❝    hello,    dean.    ❞       michael prompts,    and remains ever still in this ill-lit,    rundown motel room    ;    this room,    where vessel meets angel,    such a far cry from divinity,    with its groaning floorboards and peeling wallpapers the slip down to reveal ugly,    bare walls that have begun to rot at the edges.    outside,    in the dark like death of the night,    as the heavy rain crashes against the wet ground,    a broken sign flashes neon to attract weary cars,   perhaps like god had lit beacons for righteous pilgrims.   or,    at least,    that is the most biblical comparison michael himself can draw,   for there is nothing holy here.    he hadn’t expected anything less. 

          the archangel stalks forward,    and wills dean to catch his eyes.

he cants his head slightly to the side.    curious,    anticipating,    michael looks on,    with some hint of melancholy.    that is,    if angels are capable of lament    …    gaze traces the outline of dean’s being,    this stubborn,    desolate soul that had called out to him in the hush of eve.     he looks to his sword,    his destined vessel    :    he would know this man anywhere,    everywhere,    at the end of the world,    because there is a destiny keeping them tethered    /    because this was always meant to happen,    and it always will happen,    and there is no other way for it to end.        ❝    have you given thought to your situation?    ❞  

     thoughts come to dean one at a time, then suddenly all at once. too many to remember, and too many to ask. he’d been thinking ... first floor, room 101 —- at the end of the hall, as if michael could hear that location —- and needed it. to be  sure  he came to the right room with the right man at the right time. he didn’t though. dean knew the moment the room seemed to tremble; like it too was scared of what came next —- lights flickering, shattering, a steep plunge into darkness —- michael knew where he was and needed no aid. not from dean. no. the only thing michael really  needed  from him, was the body he lived in. 

     the one that had literally been through hell and back ... but to an average eye would never know. castiel had seen to that, hadn’t he? cleaned him up nice and pretty so that the only reminder it had ever happened, were the nightmares that terrorized him asleep and awake. god. he’d had enough. he was tired —- that’s what zachariah had been banking on all along, wasn’t it? 

     on the drive here, the destination where their crossroads now meet, he’d planned for this to go a different way. a way where he’d felt in charge. where he asked his questions and got his answers, and maybe even tried to negotiate if he didn’t like them. it was all out the window the moment michael landed before him in a jarring whirl of wind and wings. only a moment before it had been utterly silent. nothing but the rain pelting against the window pane and concrete outside, a distant sound of rubber tire on wet asphalt while he waited that almost cruel second it took to no longer stand here alone —- and god —- what a feeling that was.

     after the shock had left, breath returning from where it had been sucked from his lungs, it’s all he can seemingly feel. a hole he’d not known existed seemed filled, and he knows ... he knows he should fight that. the want that it craves. the serene feeling of completeness, of finality, just out of reach before him. he doesn’t want to chase it. doesn’t want to want it. but he does —- god —- he wants it badly. 

     enough that he feels pathetic to stand here, when all it would take is a yes.

     he’s careful not to say it though. not yet. 

     michael stands tall, looming, wills dean to look at him, but he can only manage it for a moment before he turns his eyes to the floor. without the yellow cast of light, bulbs shattered across the floor, there is only the moon that filters through. that and the flashing red of a vacancy sign that probably never flips to no.

     ❝     i’ve thought about it.     ❞ 

     does he look as useless and naïve as he thinks? why doesn’t he just fall to his knees and weep like the overburdened man seeking forgiveness he is?     ❝     i wanted to know about what happens after. you know. i let you in ... you do —-     ❞     and he can’t speak the crime. lets the knowledge of what they both know hang in the air before he starts again.     ❝     what then? and don’t give me that paradise speech crap.     ❞     because there can be no paradise if he does the unthinkable to his brother. his baby brother. 

     but it’s not sam anymore. not really.

     he looks michael in the eye, finally. 

     take the night. decide. you know where to find me.

     yeah. he knows where to find him. only he’s not sure he wants to. he’s taken the night —- hell —- he’s taken the morning and most the afternoon too. still, he hasn’t figured out what he wants to do. which should probably be all the answer crowley needs, but it’s not a simple choice to make. he likes it here, surrounded by the comfort crowd of unknown faces, crappy bar food, and cheesy music. there is no future —- and that’s really what he seeks, isn’t it? at the end of all things that’s the truth he knows. there is no next step. there is no grand plan. he can lay here in this bed until he decides to leave, and then it’s the world as his oyster, and the last thing dean wants to consider, is taking their little road tour ... down stairs. 

     shouldn’t he hate the very idea of it? returning to hell —- it’s not as putrid a thought as he assumes the old him would of had. it sort of feels right. the continuation of their story. there are less rules down there than there are up here to be sure. still. it doesn’t feel like freedom.

          THE FEELING LIKE HE WAS JUST            kicked in the gut isn’t going away as quickly as he’d probably like . it burns from the bottom of his lungs, all the way to the top of his throat ,  esophagus on fire like he’s puked up straight whiskey .   when he’d fallen to the ground he’d been thinking about his first putrid cigarette at fourteen ,   of sucking in smoke against his body’s will ,   and the ache that lingered for two days after .    he drank cold water like a dying man and swished it around in his mouth ,  still tasting ash ,   trying to contain coughs so that his father wouldn’t catch on .   dean had known ,   though .   had peeked at him through the rearview every time his shoulders tensed and his throat got tight ,  smirks just for sam’s viewing .   he’d been drifting away in that memory ,  as good as any ,  when the red lights had cut off . 

          dean looks terrible ,   the gouge in his leg enough to warrant emergency attention even in their book .   he’s dirty and dusty and stinks like stale sweat , sour and ripe .   sam sticks his nose in regardless ,   feeling cartilage bend in dean’s shoulder .   he puts his weight on his brother mostly because his legs are still half -useless ,  tingling as blood returns to them .   like that teenager ,   he swallows his cough .   there are thirty things they need to do ,   that needed to have been done in the last two days that they’ve been cooped up here playing shawshank .   but he needs five seconds here ,   first ,   before the redemption .       ‘   …   yeah ,   I think so .   you should have yelled to me ,   before you climbed up there .   I didn’t see you .   there was all this smoke .  ’         he doesn’t finish the thought ,   trusts that he doesn’t have to .    ‘  let’s go find mom .   can you walk ?  ’

     sam starts to speak —- his face pressed sticky sweaty and hot against his neck with each breath he takes —- a confirmation of his fears, that he doesn’t have to explain.

     yeah ... he should of said something. even given a firm yell of success. he hadn’t, of course. just hobbled his way out of the hole with the sole desire of getting out and getting air. getting air to sam, because time had been against them. it might not of even been another hour before they’d start to drift off into a daze, lightheaded and suffocating. maybe each of them had been ready to go at some point. but certainly not like that. together ... a consolation. but not ideal. not with their mom brainwashed into ... well who knows actually what.

     ❝     sorry. sorry.     ❞ 

     he pulls sam closer. he knows. he knows. it’s not enough to say he’s sorry, to hug him like they both know that could have been it, or that his stupid reckless plan could have backfired enough to let his brother breathe, but not enough to save himself. would of been worth it though.  neither of them have to have dean say that though.     ❝     i’ve had worse —-.     ❞

     kansas is quiet. 

     it’s near midnight —- maybe after by now —- when dean steps inside the motel. just as dark and unassuming as any other he’d ever stayed in —- yet somehow the room seems less homely than he’d ever felt before. perhaps it’s due to what he knows will happen next  —- what act is about to take place. the truth in which his soul knows, yet denies all at once. 

     his soul ....

     that’s a thought that’s almost laughable, as before this moment, he may have even denied it’s very existence. but it seems to beat in time with his heart, pounding in his chest  —- and he hates to admit that what had been pulled up from hell with him, exists in time with him as well. shouldn’t they be separate? he half wonders ... could michael know his soul? find it even here? a random motel room that stinks of mildew and disinfectant  —- does he even care? does dean? nay, should dean? what happens to that part of him, if they should join together to end the very destiny he’s up till now been avoiding?

     but all paths lead here, doesn’t it? someway, somehow. he’s always known. 

     dean’s not going to get on his knees and pray though. as accepting of this as he may’ve become to be, he’s still not one-hundred percent on board. he has ... questions. needs answers. blind faith is bullshit, and the way he’s got it figured is michael wouldn’t want him if he wasn’t who he was. so daddy’s favorite archangel can answer a few damn questions before he says the magic words and open sesame’s his body up for a one way trip to destiny-ville.

        Sam snorts, shakes his head. Dean’s a pain in the ass but he’s always kept Sam alive. Even when it would’ve been better if he hadn’t. Sam had so far been able to keep his coughing fits a secret or excuse them away as allergies. He hasn’t told him about the blood. It doesn’t matter. The trials are purifying him. Dean won’t understand. ❝Look, I don’t need you lookin’ out for me. I need you lookin’ out for you.❞ His brows lift.     ❝You started these trials. We’re messin’ with God-level mojo here. I just wanna make sure you’re…you know…all good.❞ Then, ❝Are you?❞ Sam no sooner asks the question before he gets up and turns away, eyes squeezed shut, lips clenched to hold in the coughing he feels coming on. He tries to play it off like a sneeze and makes a noise in the crook of his elbow.

     dean isn’t stupid ... he knows what’s going on. at least ... mostly. the specifics are a little skewed, sure. but it would take a blind man to not notice the blood stained tissues in the trash. to ignore the line of sweat that seems to bead just at the top of his brother’s hairline like he’s ready to break into a fever any goddamn minute. no. he’s not stupid. but he is certainly playing dumb. which is what he assumes sam wants. otherwise, he’d have said something. anything.

     god. he wishes he would. 

     he turns his head like he’s listening for something in the kitchen, but they’re here alone. there’s nothing to listen to. he does it so sam can have some privacy--- for the way he stands so suddenly (was he planning to leave the room? for a sneeze no less?) has him scrunching up his lips in thought. maybe he should say something. ask if ... you know ... sam’s good. but he’ll just get a yes. and really. it doesn’t matter. whatever is going on with sam and the trials is obviously a secret. and if that’s what they’re doing, then that’s what they’re doing.

     ❝     me? i’m always good.     ❞ 

     even when he’s not. 

     smiling, dean turns his laptop around, flashing the screen of a could be case sam’s way. 

           He doesn’t wanna say the words. Doesn’t want the fight. Only he can’t help it. The truth in them is too potent and Sam needs them to see it. ❝ you can’t even look out for yourself, how the hell are you gonna look out for me ? ❞

     ❝     easy.     ❞ 

     he shrugs effortlessly, as if sam’s question isn’t actually a question at all. they both already know. speaking it into existence won’t change the answer.  you’re more important  hangs as an empty space between his lips. dean watches every damn move sam makes. knows almost all the tricks in the book ----  and if he doesn’t ---- he’ll stop at nothing to find someone that does.     

there is  no  good side.  

if it were  anyone  else besides his  BROTHER  saying such things,  he’d have probably put them down already.  as it were,  that’s the  ONLY  thought more frightening to him than the one where sam can kill demons with his mother fucking  mind.

so when they get a call from bobby,  the both of them the closest ones to memphis,  dean can’t help the twisted feeling in his gut when it’s clear to him the case involves  demons.  no wonder sam seems so  ...  springy.  he’d rather hunt  anything  else at this point.  even a fucking  rawhead  would be preferable;  keep his brother far away from those black eye sons of bitches as he can.  but sam’s the one who took the call.  and now they’re in the car,  and he’s only got about 300 miles to convince the guy to drop the case.