Sleeping With The Fishes for Amberdreams

[summergen-mod.livejournal.com]

Title: Sleeping With The Fishes
Recipient: amberdreams
Rating: PG-13
Word Count or Media: 4350 words; digital art
Warnings: canon-level allusions to suicidal ideation and addiction, mention of underage smoking
 
Author's Notes: For the prompt “a slender boy with a handgun,
a fast car, a bottle of pills”, because Siken. A big shout-out to my beta, Q, who’s the best at slapping my metaphor-happy hand. And a very happy Summergen to my giftee, Amberdreams! Brothers being brothers with an extra helping of Dean angst ahoy! <3

Summary: Dean won’t rest until Sam sleeps.



Sam wobbles on his feet.

Dean watches it happen in slo-mo. Sam’s eyes close for a yet another slow blink and don’t open back up again. His ever-tense shoulders drop and his knees buckle, the fed suit crinkling up, and then he’s sinking.

The witness they’re questioning stares at Sam, eyes wide.

Dean’s arms shoot up. He slows Sam’s fall as the guy’s about to faceplant on the polar bear-shaped rug lying in front of the chimney.

This whole thing comes as a surprise, even though it shouldn’t have. The warning signs were all there.

Sam’s always been an early bird. They need to leave at six in the morning to get to the next case ASAP? No worries! By the time Dean rubs the sleep goop out of his eyes, groggy and tired, Sam’s already up, fresh-faced and perky like that goddamn pink bunny from the batteries ad.

Sam still gets up before Dean these days. Less perky, but definitely awake. But come to think of it, Sam goes to sleep after Dean, too, researching away on his laptop in the dimmed room. Dean drifts away to the sound of Sam’s fingers restlessly tapping on the keyboard, click clack.

Sam’s been eating like a picky bird but throwing back more coffee than an undergrad student during the exams week. Every time Dean looked up from his beer, there Sam was, chugging away at some nonsense in a paper cup.

He’s been distracted, trailing away mid-sentence and keeping Dean waiting for whatever the tail end of it is. Staring at one spot like he’s seeing something there, like a spooked cat. Taking little naps in the Impala, head pressed against the glass and bobbing against it on the rough and bumpy road.

Sam hasn’t been taking care of himself, but Dean’s been satisfied with his cursory check-ins like ‘you good?’ and a hand on Sam’s plaid-wrapped shoulder and a ‘dude, maybe this is one cuppa joe too many’. ‘Cause they’ve got enough steaming shit on their plate right now, between Cas catching a god complex and sinking like a stone, Bobby taking a stray bullet, and prehistoric human-hungry bastards roaming the earth. So Dean didn’t want to see there’s something wrong with Sam.

Sam thought the same, no doubt. Dean has too much to worry about. Don’t want him to sweat over me, too. Like he doesn’t know he’s always right at the top of Dean’s priorities. Like he doesn’t know, better than most, that hiding a wound will only make it fester.

Dean didn’t want to see any of it, but it’s staring him in the face right now. Sam flinches and thrashes in Dean arms.

“Whoa, cowboy! It’s me. Easy, easy.” He forces Sam’s head up and meets his eyes, watching how his pupils react to light and if there’s any recognition there.

“Did I fall asleep?” Sam says, and Dean’s awash with the relief that Sam still seems in touch with reality. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Stevenson. I’ve stayed up for too long last night. Working on a crucial, time-sensitive case.” For real, he still remembers the name of the witness? Dean wouldn’t be able to remember it now even if it was a single million-dollar question.

“Yeah, he always burns the midnight oil.” Dean catches on, helping Sam back to his feet. The witness goes from worried to charmed at the sight of Sam’s I’m-a-totally-a-Fed-keeping-you-and-the-country-safe Boy Scout smile.

“I’m so sorry. Would you like some tea? I have chocolate chip cookies, too. Freshly baked.”

Sam says no at the same time as Dean says yes. “Dude, you need to put some food in you,” he hisses, kicking Sam’s shin as soon as Mrs. Stevenson looks away. “When’s the last time you ate, huh?”

Sam makes a non-committal humming noise. And even though Mrs. Stevenson pulls out all the cookie stops—warm and chewy and gooey, just the right ratio of chip to the dough—Sam only has two, and only because he’s being polite and because Dean keeps nudging at his side every time he looks like he’s about to say thank you, I’m full.

Mrs. Stevenson keeps an ashtray on every table and smokes enough for every crevice of the house to smell like tobacco.

Dean’s stomach clenches uncomfortably, near sending the cookies right back out.

-

“What’s wrong with you?” Dean near demands as soon as they’re in the car. Key in the ignition, but the car’s still parked. Wants to watch Sam’s face when he answers, and the streets are narrow enough for it to be kind of dangerous on the go. Last thing they need is to mow down a garbage bin.

Sam opens his mouth and closes it again. Dean leans closer and looks, really looks. Now that he’s up close and personal with the guy, he finally notices how worn-out Sam seems. Fine lines spread like cracks on the dry skin near his eyes, the eyes themselves reddened and puffy as if he’s been crying.

“Talk to me. Is it,” Dean touches his own hand, pressing his thumb in, “your bad acid trip?”

Sam nods, jerky.

“He won’t let you sleep?”

Another nod.

“C’mon, Sammy, I always hated these guessing games.” Dean rubs a hand over his face and digs his knuckles into his closed eyes until he sees stars.

“I can control him most of the time,” Sam says at last, pulling the words out of himself like splinters. “But when I’m trying to fall asleep, I have to let my guard down. And if I let my guard down...” Sam shrugs, almost guilty. “He comes by.”

“Did you try the hand thing?”

“Yes. It’s still working.” Dean doesn’t like how Sam says ‘still’, like he expects it to give any day now. “But I have to press hard enough for it to hurt. And when it hurts, I wake up.”

Dean can see the conundrum there, alright. “It’s okay,” he says, voice faux-chipper. “We’ll get you there. I mean, after all the stuff we’ve been through, getting you to grab some shut-eye should be a piece of cake.”

Sam’s mouth thins into a worried line as if to say, doubtful.

-

“Here.” Dean waves an orange bottle in the air, the pills inside it rattling against the walls. “This is the good shit. Could knock an elephant out, forget an average-sized Sasquatch.”

Sam inspects the bottle and smooths his nail over the remains of the glue where a label for a painkiller has been half-peeled off. “These don’t exactly look on the up and up, Dean. Why’d you even have them?”

“You never know when you might need to send someone to dreamland in our line of work. Or something.”

Dean plops on his bed across from Sam, right on top of the colorful duvet. He picks at a loose thread. The duvet is covered in tiny drawings of tropical birds.

Sam keeps looking at the pills as though they might bite him.

“C’mon, buddy.” Dean tosses a bottle of water over to Sam. Sam doesn’t think fast, and it softly lands on the covers. “One of these puppies down the hatch, and you’ll be sleeping like a baby.”

Sam pops the bottle open and fishes a single circle of a pill out. He rolls it around in his palm.

“Gonna melt it, dude. Just take it.” Like talking to a toddler. Dean needs a boatload of patience here, and he’s got barely a thimble full. “We don’t have all day.”

Finally, Sam does.

It doesn’t help much. Well, at first, it does knock Sam out, and he snores for a solid twenty minutes, just to jolt back up again. He makes these little hitching noises as he’s drifting in and out of sleep, crossing that line back and forth what must be a couple dozen times throughout the night. Dean doesn’t sleep much better, waking up at every noise.  He stares into the dark as Sam rolls around on the bed.

Suddenly, he can’t sleep either.

-

“You know what you need?” Dean looks up. The TV mumbles something soapy-stupid. Morning sunlight drips into the room, and they both stopped pretending that either is sleeping.

“What,” Sam says, not a question lilt. Flat, short words, like he’s conserving energy even there.

“You need to get laid.”

Sam cracks up, and it’s this pitiful, watery sound that makes his chest rattle. “Oh. Oh, you’re serious?” he adds after a beat of frustrated silence from Dean. “It’s not happening.”

“Why not? I always fall right asleep after.” Dean snorts.

“Bet you do. You’re a real gentleman.” Sam actually bothers to sprinkle his words with sarcasm. Dean takes it as a loss in their endless game of brotherly jabs and a tiny little win where Sammy’s well-being was concerned: the guy still can bitch.

“So that’s an x-nay on the sex route or...?”

“It is,” Sam says, firm enough for Dean not to push it. He gets up and pulls out a package of instant coffee. Hums as he fixes himself a cup and makes a face at the first sip.

“You gotta stop drinking that crap.” Dean follows Sam to the kitchenette counter.

“This is all I’ve got. If you want to bring me better coffee from the diner, be my guest.”

“I mean all coffee. It’s messing with your sleep even more, the rate you’re chugging it at.” Dean pulls the mug out of Sam’s fingers, and Sam grits his teeth, about to spit poison. “Sam, don’t.”

“Quit bossing me around,” he says, reaching out for the cup, but Dean holds it right out of his long-fingered reach. “I can’t sleep. Doesn’t mean you get to give me orders.”

There’s silver tangled in Sam’s hair. Dean always wanted to see Sam grow older. Live until all of his head’s gray, even if this means Dean has to carry the guy to that finish line. Little did he know what a hefty price they’d have to pay just to stay above water. All their friends gone, Sam’s mind cracking at the seams, and that’s after years of hits coming and coming. Nothing short of a miracle’s going to fix all that, and Dean’s way past believing in miracles.   

Dean would carry Sam anywhere, but Sam is a heavier weight to carry with each year, and Dean’s so tired. It’s not like he would actually drive them off a cliff, but the idea crosses his mind whenever he’s real low, aching under his ribs. The roar of the car, Sam next to him… there are much worse ways to go out.

“I won’t be awake enough to hunt otherwise,” Sam says, snapping Dean right out of his queasy Thelma and Louise dreaming.

“Damn straight. You shouldn’t be hunting at all.”

“That’s ridiculous, Dean. I can’t just stop—”

Dean doesn’t bother arguing and swipes at Sam’s ankles instead. Sam lands firmly on his ass, full of righteous indignation.

“Hey!”

“You can’t hunt when you’re skipping on sleep like this. But I have another idea ‘bout what can help. Booze.” Dean’s got a flask tucked away in the pocket of his jacket, got a heavy bottle of Jack glinting like a treasure on the bottom of his duffle, got a whole cooler of beer in the car.

“No,” Sam says, even louder.

“Dude, give it a chance.” Dean pulls out the big guns: the whiskey bottle. “You’ll be too chilled out to care about the voices in your head.”

“I said, no.” Sam narrows his eyes and slowly pulls himself back onto his feet, hand white-knuckling the edge of the counter. “Drop it, Dean.”

“Quit pissing all over my ideas.”

“Quit having bad ideas.”

“My ideas are great.” Dean gets in Sam’s face. “You’re just way too fucking straight-laced, but right now’s not the time for your prudish health nut thi—”

“I don’t wanna end up like you!” Sam snaps. His face drops into remorse immediately after. Dean staggers back like he’s been punched square in the stomach. “Dean, wait. That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it’s not.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“I’m not the one who’s got an imaginary Satan friend up in his melon.”

Sam waves his hands in frustrations. “So because I’m screwed myself, I can’t worry about you?”

“Yeah. That’s how it works.”

“It’s not how it works!” Sam hisses. “You’re gonna make me quit drinking coffee, but, oh, you getting hammered every other night is perfectly a-okay?”

“Hey. Hey!” Dean raises his voice. Sam stares at him with bleary eyes. “You haven’t had proper sleep in months. You’re barely standing. I’m trucking along just fine. How is this about me, again?”

Sam doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look up when Dean offers him a glass, doesn’t take a single sip from it even though Dean leaves it on the nightstand for him to drink at his leisure.

Whatever. Dean’s totally fine going through this booze all on his own.

-

The knife goes in with a squelching noise. She looks up, pupils narrowing to vertical slits, tries to say something, but her voice is garbled by the blood in her mouth.

Steps resound behind him, small and scared ones. Dean would look back, but he’s glued to the spot as the blood keeps leaking out of the dead body he’s holding. It drips slow at first, but the drizzle quickly turns to a downpour, the body gushing more blood than it could’ve possibly held in the first place. It pools on the floor, rising to Dean’s ankles, his socks getting wet with it. Pours and pours, a veritable biblical flood.

He just stands there. He holds her and slowly she goes under, swallowed up by the red. He stands still until the blood comes up to his chin, his nose, until the metallic taste rings through his mouth and he’s choking on it, too—

Dean wakes up with a start. Turns out the steps in his dream were Sam tiptoeing through the room, clad in his stupid running pants and an old shirt that hangs off his shoulders like a tent.

Sam’s face grows confrontational the moment Dean sits up in his bed.

“I’m going for a run,” Sam says, and you can’t stop me clearly evident in his voice. Dean looks Sam over. Horror movies full of Sam passing out in a ditch somewhere and getting eaten by wolves or slipping and falling right into some mud and drowning in it flicker right through his head.

“Not alone, you’re not.”

“Watch me.”

“I’m coming with.” Dean slowly gets out of bed, one foot after the other, his muscles complaining at the movement.

“You what?” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t even have sneakers or anything,” he says in that condescending voice people save up for those who newb-creep into their hobbies. You like running? Bet you can’t even name five brands that make athletic wear!

“I’ll wear my boots. Running isn’t about neon-colored Nikes and spandex, dude.”

Sam looks up from his bright green knock-off Adidas sneakers just to give Dean the stink-eye.

It’s still dark out, not even an early-bird dog owner in sight, only lonely street lamps lighting up the damp pavement. Who the hell runs when it’s still dark out? Sam does, apparently. Running for the sake of running is stupid. You run after someone. Or away from something, every once in a while. A good soldier knows when to retreat and regroup.

Sam’s running at a steady pace. Dean’s kinda surprised the guy’s got it in him. He was near collapsing the other day. But if there’s any real higher power in the world, it’s not God, it’s Sam’s sheer stubbornness.

They run long enough for a burn to start spreading in Dean’s chest. He’s a sprinter, not a goddamn marathon runner. You either catch what you’re chasing or you don’t, either way, it’s usually solved in the matter of minutes.

One time, John caught him with a pack of Marlboros, curled up behind the motel and sneaking a cigarette. This one kid from his school at the time slipped Dean his first, and—after the initial coughing fit—Dean got hooked for about two and a half weeks until John busted him.

And if there’s something John didn’t let slide, it was putting his hunting career in danger. Ain’t gonna do. How are you gonna fight if you’re out of breath in the first five minutes of a brawl, huh? If you like putting that poison in you that much, c’mon, have another one. And another one. Yeah, c’mon, go until the pack’s up. Do you still like it? You’re gonna bring crap like that home? To Sam? Really?

He made Dean run laps, one after the other, until his legs burned with every step, until his lungs hurt with wheezing breaths, and all he could think with every next stumbling footfall was I get it, I get it, I’m sorry, I get it. Sure, John’s been looking out for him, but Dean was in no state to be grateful for that.

Sam keeps running, breath after steady breath. Dean’s so used to the noise of his inhale-exhale that he knows something’s wrong before Sam does, even. Dean twists around on his heel, near running into a puddle. Sam’s brandishing his gun, the silver of it glinting in the darkness. Eyes glazed over, the light’s on but no one’s home.

“Sam?” Dean calls out, slowly looking around. A white picket fence house right behind them. With a single light on, the window aglow with yellow. Someone’s home. Fuck, what if they see Sam waving a gun around? Worse, what if Sam starts shooting? Dean ought to be panicking harder, but he’s bone-tired. So, fine, the neighborhood watch calls the cops on them. They’re already mass murderers, where the world’s concerned. Just another Thursday.

“We never got to have one of those.”

“Huh?”

“Jess and I.” Sam’s hand is loose around the gun, then wraps tight again. “She’s right here.” Bitter chuckle. “Telling me we should move in.”

Dean looks over to the spot where Sam’s looking, to make sure. No figure wearing white, no U-haul boxes in her ghostly hands. Sam clutches the gun like he’s ready to serve this poor soul in the house a bullet-shaped eviction notice.

“No one’s there, dude. I promise. We’ve been through this already. Stone number one, remember?”

“Maybe you’re not the real one.” Sam shrugs.

“I’m real,” Dean says. That dive off a cliff looks more appealing with every day, but yes, he’s still real. Flesh and blood. Sam’s blood.

“See, I don’t want to believe that,” Sam says at last, gun twitching in his hand. It’s aimed at the silhouette in the window behind Dean.

Dean takes a step to the side and looks up into the blackness of the muzzle. Then up, past that, right into Sam’s eyes.

“Why?”

Sam chortles, near hysterical, like it should be obvious why Sam doesn’t want to believe in Dean. Like some people don’t want to believe in God or ghosts or zombies. Like the other option would be too terrifying to consider.

“Because,” Sam says, the gun aiming squarely in the middle of Dean’s chest now, “that means you broke your promise.”

“What promise?”

“Right before I jumped, you said you’ll let me grow up. I guess you’re only okay with that if I’m dead?” Sam’s voice grows louder. “You’ve been telling me what to do and ignoring me when I’m worried.”

He takes another step, so close the shot would be point blank. Dean wants to think it’s all Lucifer pulling the strings, but he suspects there are parts of Sam mixed into this cocktail, too. “You’ve been pushing me to take pills. To drink. All that stuff... Dean, I’d rather stay awake for the rest of my life than get addicted to anything ever again.”

Fuck. The ice cold realization runs straight through Dean. Like when you make an ill-timed joke and no one’s laughing.

“You— you could’ve told me that,” Dean mutters.

“Yeah. Right. Because talking to you goes so well, doesn’t it?” Sam laughs, bitter. “You killed my friend when I told you she was fine! Never said a word to me about it, either.”

Like Sam would give him the okay to do what needs to be done? This job means doing dirty work sometimes. “I thought we talked about it. I thought we were good.”

“We’re not good! I need you on my team.” Sam grabs at his shirt blindly, but Dean ducks out of the way.

“I am. I am on your team.”

Sam scoffs. “Only when you feel like it.”

Dean thinks about Sam’s own transgressions, from Ruby to demon blood to Stanford, whatever he could drag up, ball up and toss into Sam’s face, yell, Hey, buddy, you aren’t always on my team, either! Fuck you! But he’s so damn tired of keeping score of each other’s fuck-ups, tally mark for Dean, tally mark for Sam, it makes them both losers when you look at the chalkboard from afar.

“You betrayed me,” Sam says, voice echoing, hollowed out and there’s nothing inside. Sam’s hand quivers and if Lucifer’s calling the plays, he’ll take Dean right out. Not to toot his own horn or anything, but Dean’s hand’s the only one holding Sam back from the ledge. If Sam’s insanity wants Sam dead, it will order him to pull the trigger.

Huh. His brain splattered on the asphalt, one of the more popular ways to go among hunters. Top of the charts. There’s always been a part of Dean that wanted to keep kicking, the part that kept him together and said, No, fuck that, I don’t wanna die. And right now, when his head’s full of images of Sam curled up over his body, sobbing his eyes out—he swears, he can see Sam’s trigger finger curl—he wants to live, hard and fast, all of it, the bad and the good, if the good ever comes along.

Here, at Sam’s gunpoint, he wants to live.

Dean waits for the bullet, but it never comes. He finally, tentatively, opens his mouth. “My bad,” he says at last. “Sam, fuck, I’ll do better.” He’s promised that way too many times before. Apparently, he still hasn’t exhausted his luck, because Sam’s face grows softer.

Sam holds the gun to his chest and sinks down to his knees. Now that he’s curled up like that, Dean looks right past the white hairs and sees a kid all over again, the kid he raised, skinned knees and sharp bony elbows. A book about true crime cracked open on his bed, a .45 tucked under his pillow, shaggy hair sticking up, growing out faster than Dean ever could hope to clip it. Looking up at him. Looking for some big brother advice. How do I tie my shoelaces, Dean? How do I reload a Beretta, Dean? How do I talk to girls, Dean?

Old habits die hard and painful.

Dean kneels on the damp pavement next to Sam, wetness seeping through his jeans at the knees, and pulls him in.

“It’s me. I’m here.” Sam’s so quiet, face buried in Dean’s shoulder. One hand grabbing at Dean’s shirt, another at the nape of his neck. Hesitant, like he doesn’t know if he wants to press closer or shove Dean away.

Dean leaves him some give in case he does want to get out, arms loose around Sam until he makes up his mind and holds on tighter.

Dean grabs at his brother’s back, shushing him with meaningless words, we’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay, hey, hey, I gotcha… Can’t keep a promise, can’t keep his brother safe, only can run his stupid mouth and even then he side-steps the stuff that matters, like a landmine.

Dean ended up passing out on that field back when, woke up to John’s concerned face hovering above him. Mouth worried into a thin line, fingers splayed on his neck to check his pulse. He walked Dean to the car and drove him to the motel in silence, only interrupted by Ramble On. Back then, Dean thought John was still angry at him, felt shitty about it for days, but looking back, he realized John was feeling guilty over pushing him so hard. Could’ve apologized, but he did always like shoulder squeezes and playing Dean’s favorite album more. ‘Cause that’s easier, isn’t it?

“I’m sorry,” Dean finally forces out. “Y’hear? I’m fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have… not behind your back like that. And for sure not in front of her kid. I should’ve talked to you. I, I don’t know, feels like you’re hanging by a thread these days, Sammy. I didn’t wanna yank you under with something like that. But I just made it worse.”

Sam doesn’t reply for a scarily long while. Dean ends up patting his back to no reply and finally pulls him away. Sam slumps in his arms, head lolling. He’s fast asleep, his eyes closed, but his chest heaving with proof-of-life breaths. Sam’s cheeks are shiny, and Dean’s shoulder, the one Sam was pressing his face into, is warm and wet.

Dean sits on the pavement with Sam for far too long, scared to stir him. They’re tucked away deep enough in the suburbs for the streets to be deserted. No one’s there to see the two guys that robbed a bank and shot up a diner curled up on the ground together.

He only shifts when rain starts, the droplets blooming into small dark stains on Sam’s shirt.

Sam looks so young right now, all the worry lines smoothed out. Dean forgets sometimes that Sam’s only twenty-nine. Or that Sam’s already twenty-nine. Sam’s just Sam. His little brother.

Dean looks up at the gray sky. The world’s miles away. Water closes above his head but somehow he’s still breathing.

Dean doesn’t believe in miracles, but he does believe in Sam, and that has to be good enough.