roxymissrose (roxymissrose) wrote,

SpN: Scales

Title: Scales
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, implied
Word Count: 2425
Summary: Sam deals with Dean's phone call
Notes/Warnings: angsty shmoop, shmoopy angst—you choose. Bad words and a single kiss. Sorry. I pushed this through because Show's coming back and I had to get this out before it all blows into smoke! Who could resist such delicious angst, right?

They didn't stop running until they'd slung themselves into the Impala—Sam hitting the seat so hard he'd piled up against Dean, panting, sweating and feeling inches from a scream and it was telling how freaked Dean was that he didn't shove Sam back against his door.

Dean got the car in drive, and somehow he'd got his fist knotted up in Sam's jacket, even though he was driving like a madman and Sam wanted to say, hey, let go—you're gonna kill us and bam—he remembered. Not remembered, after all, how could he have forgotten—it just came back from behind the screen Sam tried to throw around it.

Dean's promise to kill him.

Dean was driving fast but not like a crazy person, he was just trying to put as much distance between the church and himself as he could. Sam kept glancing, wondering, waiting…it kind of hurt that Dean wasn't even looking at him, but then Sam saw he was throwing glances towards the dark roadside and he got it. Dean was looking for a place to stop, and Sam felt like throwing up.

"We need to get some distance first, and then we'll stop, and, y'know, figure shit out," Dean said, low like he was talking to himself, so Sam just nodded. "It's gonna be okay, Sam, just—it'll be all right."

Sam nodded again, and felt like a puss when a tear leaked out of his eye but really, what had he thought was gonna happen? Dean was gonna throw his arms around him and say, hey, since you helped me kill that bitch, I take it all back—we're cool. Dean'd called him a monster and the fucking thing about it was, Dean was right. He was a monster, and Ruby had been right—he'd done it to himself and fuck, he'd liked it. He'd killed an innocent girl and…"I killed someone. People. I killed them and drank their blood."

Maybe if he got it all out in one breath with no emotion, it'd be better....

Yeah, really? Not so much.

Dean cast a horrified look at him. "We're not—we're not going to talk about that now, okay? I can't hear that now."

"Doesn’t matter when you hear it Dean, you have to know, all of it. It'll help…"make you aim straight.

"That shit's over, Sam. It's done with. You hear? Not ever happening again."

Sam leaned his head back against the window and blinked, swallowed. Dean sounded determined. Sounded ready. Hell, he'd probably been ready from the first day he got out of hell. Fuck…Sam regretted his enormous *conceit*, how much he was fucked up, how ruled by his drug fueled ego—to have ever thought that Dean was weak? For even one second to have imagined he was the stronger one? Sam's eyes flicked shut. He wished he could make himself die, so that Dean wouldn't have to do it. "I'm sorry," he muttered again.

"Yeah, well, you're not alone there, okay." Dean's voice sounded strangely muffled, like the Impala was sucking up all sound and light, even the dash lights were darkened. Sam was afraid to look over at him; he really didn't want to see his brother's face….

"No, really, I'm sorry I backed you into this corner, sorry I'm making you do, y'know, what you gotta do…" he coughed out a wet laugh."Can't' even say it."

Dean shot him a weird look. "I don’t mind, Sam. I want to…hey, you did get my message?"

Sam shrugged, head plastered against the glass, not trusting himself to speak, floored again by just how much it hurt—and how careless Dean was with it.

"Then—I don't have to say anything right? We're cool? We understand each other?"

Sam swallowed acid and knives and glass and shrugged again, made himself say it. "Sure, absolutely. So, I really ruined things."

"No. It was me. Yeah, and you. And everyone around us. The blame doesn’t stop at one door, Sam. We all made mistakes and lied and were lied to. But that's not gonna happen anymore, right? You and me—everything above board."

Sam gaped at Dean—what the hell? He was going to blow his brains out—or use the knife on him—Sam thought about the knife, thick black blood covering the tip, painting the serrated edge. He wondered what it would feel like going in. Like any other stab wound…or would it hurt in some different way—the way holy water and silver stung now. The way the devil's traps felt…odd, made his skin feel stretchy and he'd never told anyone that and now. Now he wondered if he should tell Dean, or just let it go with everything else he hadn't told Dean, like how Ruby had changed so much while Dean was gone—gotten brasher, and funnier, and fuck--sexier. How being with her and the way she'd treated him had felt like balm. And now that everything had gone to shit and--and the scales fallen from his eyes, he knew why.

Because she'd acted just…like…Dean. Fucking her had been like what he'd imagined fucking Dean would be like, tight and hot. Wild, like he'd pictured Dean being, hot and crazy, full of filthy words and filthy moves. Maniac and dirty, and when they'd finished Sam imagined that he'd felt the way Dean would have left him feeling, hollowed out and used to bits, dirty and sucked dry, Dean sneering at him for losing it, just like Ruby did, letting him know that he was weak for wanting it, weak for begging for it. He'd let her fuck him crazy with other bodies, bodies as close to Dean's as you could get and he didn’t care—he deserved the knife just for that but he'd thought—I'll never get closer than this, this is as much of Dean as I'll ever have and then. Fuck, and then Anna ruined everything. Everything.

It had been…horrible to watch, to know just how Dean really was.

Sick. He'd felt sick. Like he'd woken up to find out that all along, he'd been a diseased, disgusting, *monster*.

Dean was…nothing like he'd imagined. Nothing like harsh, nothing like selfish. Nothing like Sam. Ruby'd lied to him the whole time and turned him into something Dean wouldn't ever have wanted, even without the blood. Ruby had lied.

He was still more than glad Dean killed her. Every time it re-played against his eyelids, he shook. Watching Dean kill her had been the second most incredible moment of his life. Dean had been fierce and implacable—an angel.

And now Dean was going to do it to him.

Rain dashed against the windows and the soft whup-whup of the wipers was the only sound in the car. Dean craned his neck, searching for something up ahead. "This looks good enough," he muttered. "We can stop here." Light crawled unevenly across them, over his legs and across the front seat as Dean pulled slowly into a motel parking lot—the Buena Vista, backed up against the highway, a junkyard serving as a back yard--miles from anything even resembling a view. Kind of fitting, actually.

Sam's stomach dropped, ice clung to his spine, curled in his heart. "Here's good as any place, right?"

The Impala seemed to sink to the asphalt like an exhausted animal, when Dean brought her to a stop. He threw Sam another weird look. "Eh-yeah…unless you want to stay in the car. I'd like to stretch, myself. Unlock my knees. I don’t know about you, but onna scale of one to ten, this day's been a fucking billion in terms of suck. Well, then again…" he stopped half in and half out of the car, drizzle collecting in his hair. "…we are alive. For now."

"Yeah, I get it Dean, I get it." Sam climbed out of the car, and looked up—looked up at miles of stars that even the shifting neon of the motel sign couldn't dim. "Fuck…" he murmured."I haven't looked up since…before your year was up. S'beautiful."

Dean glanced up and at Sam, tilted his head the way Sam knew meant, my brother's a dork and/or the clown prince. "Ye-eah…room?"

Sam nodded. "Get the key, I'll wait here."

Dean said, "Okay—but here." Reached behind himself and held his hand out. "I know you haven’t really needed one for a while but I'll feel better if…you know." He handed him a compact little Glock. "Should be okay. Your old one." Dean huffed and looked away from Sam. "It was in my bag for some reason.

Sam gasped; he tried to keep it quiet, but it slipped out, like blood welling out of a cut. He couldn't help looking up at Dean, knew his face was slack with shock and he just didn't have the willpower to fake a smile. Wow. He hadn't expected it to be like this, but…okay. Once he managed to draw a full breath, it was easier to smile.

"Sam—Sam? Hey, you’re not gonna pass out on me, are you, dude? I can wait—"

"No. no, it's okay. You go…get the key, or whatever. I'll finish up here."

He watched Dean walk away across the dark lot, towards the office. Dean blurred in and out.

It was okay like this. Dean hated him and it hurt too much and he didn't even have a fucking right to feel hurt. And that sick part of him pissed off because his brother won't kill him—still—he forced down, too. When that part of him was dead with the rest of him, he'd be glad.

Gun in his hand, he moved away from the car, because he didn’t want Dean getting pissed off by him splattering shit over the Impala. Once in the shadows, Sam took a steadying breath, opened wide, and laid the barrel on his tongue. It tasted…bad. Like metal and oil and death, or maybe that was a little overdramatic….

The weight and taste made him drool a little, and that made him feel stupid. He swallowed, grimaced. It was…nasty. His eyes were squeezed so tight, red pinwheels exploded behind his lids and he started to squeeze the trigger.

"Sammy?" Said so quietly, so gently, Sam almost felt like laughing.

"Sam, can you put that down. Please? Careful, okay, just…give it to me, please."

Dean was standing close, but not too close—a fast two or three footsteps away. He looked scared, really scared, like something horrible was coming up behind him and for a moment Sam almost turned to look, to see if something was coming up at his back. His chin was wet, and okay, he should take this thing out of his mouth and spit and then—

"Sammy please, give me the gun, okay…just let me…"

Dean had his hands out and looked pissed and scared and Sam wondered just how much it would make Dean happy to shoot him, he was begging so hard. Fucked up again, Sam, he wanted to do it himself. Let him have that last bit of fun--Alistair would certainly approve.

Sam handed over the gun and closed his eyes. "Okay, quick, though, please. Forget everything else, okay, we were brothers. You cared about me. Sorry, I'm really sorry. Fuck." He wiped his face, warm tears mixing with the rain running down his cheeks, and he apologized again. "Sorry. I can't—can't seem to stop. I—"

"Fucking hell. Fucking motherfucking hell what the fucking FUCK."

Sam staggered and stuttered, "Wha—what—"

Dean was shaking him back and forth, so hard Sam's neck whipped around like it was made of putty. "You stupid sonofabitch, why would I—how could you even think I'd want you dead—you thought I gave you the gun to—to shoot yourself?" Dean yelled so loud lights were popping on up and down the motel courtyard.

Sam opened his eyes. "You said."


"You called—you said you were going to—all I want is quick, please don't stretch it out. I know you're not that kind of person, no matter what you did in hell, you won't—" Stars exploded in his head and when the world stopped spinning he was on the ground, ass in a puddle and Dean was standing over him. Sam spit and mumbled, "We keep doing this—"

Dean dropped down, grabbed him by the back of the head and kissed him—not nearly as wet or as open as his dream Deans did. It hurt like a bitch, and no way should it be sexy but shit, he was halfway to hard and praying Dean wouldn't notice. "Okay," Sam muttered against Dean's chin, "that part's different."

Dean didn't look happy or shocked or anything but completely pissed off—fury bled off him in waves and again, Sam wondered when he'd ever believed Dean was weak....

"Give me your damn phone." He snatched it out of Sam's hand, listened to his message and his face grew darker, darker—"FUCK! No! No, Sam, no. either the angels or that skank demon bitch fucked with it, but that's not what I said." He grabbed Sam's face in his hands, "No. I said I was sorry, that no matter what, you're my brother—my everything. I couldn’t ever kill you. Don't give a fuck what I ever said before this. I couldn’t leave you, and I can't hurt you, not like that."

Sam's eyes swam shut, all he felt was Dean's hands on him…and after a bit, Dean's thighs bracketing his. He slid his hands up and planted them solidly over Dean's. "Okay. Okay…I hear you."

Dean stumbled to his feet, and pulled Sam up. "Okay, so. It's a start, right? We're really good now? We can talk it out later, like…much later?" Dean reddened and flicked his eyes away when they tracked Sam's mouth.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, later we can talk. Because we're starting this thing all over again, new beginning. And this time, we're doing it right."

"Partners, Sammy, partners."

Sam agreed, snatched the bags out of the trunk. He watched Dean walk away, not really acknowledging what had happened. What a surprise.

Sam's lips tingled still—from the kiss. His eye was puffing--from the punch, and it hurt when he grinned. This was the do-over he'd wanted. Whether it was the one Dean wanted he didn’t know…and he didn’t care. Dean was going to want it…sooner or later, Dean was going to want it, too. Sam had a feeling.


Tags: spn: scales
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