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[weary_head]

Dean missed his fucking car.

So goddamn beautiful, that sleek black exterior, holding Dean's weight night after night when he'd drink on her hood, big bench seat cradling him when he slept it off after. Even at rest, Dean thought she might be the best thing that ever happened to him, and he missed her as much as he missed any who'd come and gone on the island.

But she was gone, and now Dean had an emptying neighborhood and a rooftop covered in snow, a hut beneath him threatening to get emptier at any second. He had a parka that wasn't quite doing the trick and a fistful of whiskey bottle, an eyefull of the nighttime sky up above, and it wasn't like the real thing, it wasn't even close, but at the moment...at the moment.

It was what Dean had.

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[one--song.livejournal.com]

Roger wasn't sure if Dean was just typically on the roof or of they'd developed a sixth roommate-sense, but the second Roger exited the hut looking for Dean, he looked up and there he was, drinking in a ridiculous parka, staring somewhat drunkenly at the night sky. It was the kid of existential thing only real douchebags and Dean could get away with, and Roger was half-tempted to just let it go on for a while, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he zipped up his jacket before climbing atop the roof.

"Did you figure out the universe?" Roger asked, and somewhere within him, it was confirmed that if Roger believed anyone could do it, it was Dean.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"Yeah." Dean watched his breath puff out and up, a tiny little cloud that vanished almost instantly on the wind. He turned his head, giving Roger the requisite, if sluggish, worried grimace. Roger shouldn't be out in this cold.

"Life's a bitch."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

In response, Roger fished some gloves out of his pocket and pulled his hoop up over his tumbleweed of hair. He lowered himself onto his ass before he even considered putting them on, and stole a swig of whiskey before even that.

"Wanna get a little more specific?" Roger pushed, feeling more and more like Mark every day. Usually brooding on the roof (or balcony, in his case) was Roger's trick, and following to ask asinine questions, that was all Mark's territory. If he stopped to think about it, Roger probably would pretend he didn't give a shit at all.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

Dean snorted and didn't waste any time watching that disappear. "Do I need to?" He leaned back, parka a weatherproof barrier between his body and the snow.

"Sick of seeing people leave, Rog. Sick of not being able to do anything about it."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Yeah, Roger figured that was it. When he and Dean had met, the Hunter had a rich family, complete with full bloodlines and honorary members that made up a virtual commune of comfort and familiarity. Roger had fallen into that, done his best to stay in it while doing his patented As Little Work as Possible regimen, with a side of Caring Way Too Much. Such was the Roger way, and similarly, they were living the Dean way at that moment.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Roger said, knowing it wouldn’t help, and knowing he had to say it for himself. “I had to learn that when Mark disappeared.” It even hurt to say, and mentioning Brian’s disappearance was quite literally impossible. He didn’t know how long it had been since his wayward boyfriend had gone wayward, but sometimes he still found himself thinking he wasn’t single.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"I know." Dean brought the bottle back to his lips, well practiced now at drinking with minimal elevation of his head, flat on his back and not spilling a drop.

"Back home there would've been a spell. Some kinda charm." He sucked cold air in through his nose. "A Deal. Here, we just...wait to be alone."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

"Some kinda charm for making people not disappear from some weird, conscious island?" Roger asked, skepticism apparent in both his voice and the crinkle of his mouth and nose. Sure, if anyone could do it, it was Dean, but no one could do anything on that island. No one was special, and maybe that was why Roger liked it there so much.

"Look, Dean, I don't wanna think about you making some deal to make people come back." He shook his head. "Shit happens but we're here. And I'm not gonna think about where I'd be without you, so let's just drink and think about what is here, okay?" He reached for the bottle, hoping it could be some kind of agreement, a vow of silence on the matter.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"S'all I ever think about," said Dean, but he passed the bottle, warm despite the chilly air from his near constant grip.

His head was full up with thoughts of the people he still had, of what it'd be like to lose them, some for a second, third painful time. He was scared like he hadn't been since that missive in a hospital bed, his own father asking him for the impossible and every moment after, every one of them spent in fear for Sam.

Dean dragged up his sleeve, dragged up a smile to go with it, and showed Roger the thin, white lines of the charm a Sam long gone had etched into his skin. "I get it, Rog. Deals, charms, not an option anymore."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Roger's brows met at the center line, as his hooded head bowed to get a closer look at the markings in his best friend. He shook his hair out of his eyes to get a closer look, slid gloved fingertips over the area, and still it only barely made sense.

"What is that?" Roger asked as he passed the bottle back, more fascinated by stories of Dean's idea of home than he was sorry for himself. Maybe if he could just understand what Dean had lived through, he could offer some kind of comfort on the matter, as it seemed Sam had a soothing effect. That or the exact, complete opposite, but he attributed that to the grating effect of any kind of family.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"Sigil," Dean murmured, holding still for Roger's inspection. He traced the outline of the charm himself, coming to rest at the slash cutting through the symbol on its right side.

"Sam cut it into both of us my first week here. Didn't want to lose me again, he said," Dean exhaled around a quiet laugh. Everything he was feeling now, in reverse. "Back home, it would have bound us together. I broke it myself before my Deal came due."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

"So you broke it," Roger said, squinting at the slash that cut the symmetry of the sigil. It made sense, Dean not wanting to drag Sam down to Hell with him, but the fact that he was still here and Sam had come and gone so many times that Roger had actually lost count...

"Why? You didn't... go anywhere. So can't it, like, bind you back now that you know you're... here?"

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"Can't do anything," Dean snorted, pulling his sleeve back down, shivering when the wind found its way up his forearm anyway. He took the bottle back from Roger and drank deep.

"S'useless, same as me and every other skill I had back home."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Roger snorted back, "I thought this self-pity rap was my thing." So this was what it was like to be a roommate to himself. It wasn't that bad, actually; he had no idea what Mark ever bitched about. Getting drunk and melancholy was a lifetime staple, and people that didn't go to college had to have something to play as a strength, so why not that? Never mind that Dean had more usefulness in his little silver ring than Roger had in his entire fluffy-headed body.

"How do you even know it's useless? Have you ever done anything to know that?"

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"First thing I did when Sam disappeared," said Dean, gesturing with the bottle like Roger could see the spot, "went straight to a crossroads and tried to deal. Nobody came." He took another swallow.

"Trust me, man, it doesn't work. No demon turns down hot property like this."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Yeah, Roger remembered that, too. He remembered hijacking the idea so that Dean wouldn't go anywhere in case there was an all-access road to Hell somewhere in the vicinity. More than that, Roger was pretty sure whatever they had was useless because he'd known Tonks and Sirius and how their magic didn't work and how so many people were just different in the island. But still.

"Lemme see that sigil-whatever-the-fuck again," Roger said definitively.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

Dean raised a brow, only just visible in the depths of his overly furry hood, but handed his forearm over again, pulling on Roger's own hood to make sure it was snug before he dropped his wrist into Roger's palm.

"Why?"

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Roger ignored his question, digging in his pocked. "Do you have a knife on you?" He figured he probably did.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"Uh, yeah," said Dean, and it was a testament to his level of trust that he actually offered it, even with the soft, vulnerable skin of his wrist on display in Roger's hand.

"Don't make me regret this, dude."

[one--song.livejournal.com]

"Naw, hold onto that," Roger said, producing his own blade from his pocket and then balancing Dean's forearm on Roger's bent knee. He took a look at the design -- Roger always had enough artistic skill to get by -- and thought better of it. He moved Dean's wrist to Dean's lap and scooted away a smidgen.

Somehow, even just pushing his sleeve up was enough in the weather to make him shiver once, and when the steel of his own knife was pressed beyond the border of freezing skin, the cold quite literally got inside of him. It wasn't long, though before he'd carved the outline of the sigil to his satisfaction, still angled away from Dean so as not to risk any of their blood crossing.

"Figured we shouldn't use the same knife."

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"Jesus christ, Roger." Dean had picked himself up, one knee in the snow angled towards Roger and fingers flexing like they wanted to wrench that knife out of his skin. Couldn't do it, though, not without hurting Roger any worse than he was hurting himself, and all Dean could do was watch and glare.

And...blink back a sudden ache behind his eyes. It wouldn't work, he knew it, but the gesture was a powerful one, and he wouldn't toss it aside. His jaw trembled just the smallest bit, voice unsteady when he recited the same words Sam had used nearly three years ago.

"Redimio. Servo. Subsisto," Dean murmured, picked up his own knife, and began to cut.

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Since this was not a preempted action, Roger had nothing to sop up his toxic blood with, but Roger pulled the sleeve of his undershirt down. He would just make sure to wash the shirt really thoroughly and by hand so none of it got in the washer or whatever.

He didn't feel anything when Dean recited what he assumed was the accompanying incantation, but the look on Dean's face brought enough warmth within Roger to heat the entire fucking island.

"There," Roger said, "now you're stuck with me. Just be sure to cut that shit when I'm on my deathbed or whatever." He sorta laughed, but then just looked down. It was the kind of joke that wasn't at all, and he didn't know what he could do to ease Dean's suffering. He wanted to help but beyond what had just happened, he was clueless.