weary_head | (no subject)

Dean sat where Angua had deposited him, staring after Angua's back as she went to rummage for pie ingredients. Sam was still at the bar, still hunched over his glass, shoulders tight and too long hair falling over his ears and into his eyes.

It made him look younger than he was, younger then the new lines around his eyes and mouth betrayed, and Dean's heart twisted a little tighter in his chest.

Sam would be okay here. Somehow, Dean could make that happen, and if not Dean than Jess or Dad or Twerp or any combination of people left on the island that loved him. The only person in the way of that was Sam himself, but Dean would find a way around that, too.

He just had to find a way around whatever it was that stood between them, first.

Sam had arrived on the island spitting words like apocalypse and Lucifer from his mouth, and those scared Dean, but not nearly as much as the look in Sam's eyes when he said them.

Dean sighed, tucking himself further into the booth, watching with an anxiousness barely contained while those around Sam came and went. Occasionally he looked away, out into the jungle beyond the Winchester, to his hands and the small but growing marks on his palms his own fingernails had left behind, but always Dean's focus shifted back to Sam at the bar.

"Fuck," he murmured, twitching helplessly as the long line of uncertain questions restarted themselves in his head. What the hell happened to us?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It wasn't the first time they'd sat grim faced across from one another, drinks on the table between them. Knowing the island and the particular set of miseries it had to offer, it probably wouldn't be the last time, but Dean still wished they were here under different, lighter circumstances. It seemed like forever ago that he'd sat at the bar and listened to Neil give him shit about Angua and their freaking sex toys.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I'm okay. It's just..." He shook his head. "Not how I thought it'd be."

It wasn't bad. Having Sam back would never be bad, but Dean had thought it'd be easier. Happier. It went against every second of their family's history, but it still hadn't occurred to Dean that their reunion would be anything but a joy and a relief.

I know that feeling. I know it so fucking well, in a lot of ways it never leaves. I think about it, about her, about how I hoped and wished and dreamed for over a year, and then when Wendy Peterson finally showed up, we just weren't the same anymore. She's not my sister, but she was as close to that as I've ever had. Closer. We were soulmates. Were being the operative word here. She came here, took one look at me and just knew I wasn't the same person she loved.

I don't say as much, though. None of that shit's what he needs to hear.

"He looks different," I murmur, and it's true, but it's not really what I mean. There's something inherently different about him, even I can see it. "How much time you think there was? Between you two gettin' here, I mean."

Dean couldn't give it to Neil in months, but he could name some pretty significant landmarks. "I had three months left when I showed up here." He put his lips to the glass, watching Sam over the top of it as he spoke. "Long enough for him to watch those run out. Long to enough to keep going without me, and for Cas to bring me back. After that I don't know."

Dean took a long drink and let the glass fall back to the table with a dull thunk. "Long enough for the world to go to shit."

"Doesn't take all that long for that to happen," I murmur, pouring a glass for myself, just to have something to do. The idea of him going to hell, even if it wasn't permanent, isn't something I like thinking about too often.

"You talk to Jess?"

Dean nodded. "First one I went to. Didn't talk long though, she wanted to see Sam, and I left them to it."

He wondered what they'd talked about, if they'd be able to forget about the uneven set of years they'd each spent apart and find a way back together again.

He wondered why Sam was alone at the bar.

"He was pretty shaken up."

"Yeah, I'll bet," I murmur. I can't help but wonder why she's not here with him now, but it's not like they can pick up right where they left off, seein' as how they left off in two different places.

"I guess it's been a while for him, huh?" Years since she died, if I'm doin' the math right.

Edited 2009-10-25 04:03 (UTC)

"Four years at least," said Dean. "Have to ask Cas to be sure." He'd have to ask Cas to be sure about a lot of things, and right now Dean wasn't anxious to learn the true depth of things. Just skimming the surface was bad enough.

"He looked at her like she was a ghost."

I nod wordlessly, knocking back what's left in my glass, watching the last drop or two swirl in the bottom when I roll the glass between my palms. I don't know what to say. I can't keep asking questions I know he doesn't wanna answer. It's rare, seeing him like this, and I never know quite what to do when I do.

Worrying my bottom lip with my teeth, I nudge his boot under the table with my battered sneaker, trying to say as much as I can without a goddamn hug or pat on the back or whatever.

Dean took some comfort in that single point of contact, unmoored from his endless, desperate circle of thoughts long enough to flush. "Oh man," he said, shifting. "Footsie? Now I know I look like ass."

"Fuck you," I mutter, rolling my eyes and scrubbing a hand across my face. "I didn't exactly go over too well over there, either," I say, jerking a nod toward where his brother's still hunched at the bar, "He pretty much told me to fuck off."

"He did what?" Dean followed Neil's brief gaze to the bar, expression suddenly as pinched as the set of Sam's shoulders. That wasn't like Sam, he'd always been the one with social graces. Try as he might, Dean couldn't picture him telling Neil to fuck off. "Why?"

"I dunno. I acted like I knew him, I guess. Said he wanted to just drink his drink and be done with it," I shrug, "It was my own fault, anyway. I called him a jackass." Which isn't the entire truth, but now, looking at Dean's face, I feel an unfamiliar need to take the blame.

I shouldn't have said anything at all.

"Well, I'm not...arguing that he can earn the title, some days," said Dean slowly, turning back to Neil. He was doing some shuffling, too, trying to push that information into a place that didn't make Sam out to be the bad guy.

"He's had a long day. Came right out of a battle back home," he said, willing Neil to understood it. Things weren't pretty back home, and neither were the Winchesters, most of the time. "He'll chill out. What'd he say, anyway?" he added, expression almost making it to a smile. "That made you call him a jackass."

"Yeah, I know he has," I say, coughing out a laugh and returning that weak smile as best I can, "Asked if we brewed the booze inna bathtub. I don't even know where this batch came from. He'd have to ask Ianto." I guess I'm more protective of this place than I thought.

"It doesn't matter, man. He doesn't even know me. I'm just the fuckin' mouthy bartender."

Dean whistled low, managing a decent smile this time. "Ought to know better than to insult another man's baby," he said, nodding at the Winchester. "He'll settle down. 'specially when he figures out that out of the few places to hang on the island, this is easily the nicest."

"Damn right," I say with a quiet laugh, "What we lack in decent booze, we make up for in... whatever the fuck this is," I wave my hand around the room, "Fuckin' ambiance or whatever."

I guess nudity and stripper poles counts for ambiance too, though.

"Atmosphere," Dean agreed, knuckles rapping light against the table. It was good to think of something else for a moment, even if thoughts of Sam had led him to it, and even if all thought would eventually wander back the same way.

"He'll get a look at those fucking concrete Compound walls and think better, I promise you."

"Yeah, whatever," I mutter dryly, rolling my eyes and propping my chin up in one hand with a snort of laughter. "I don't need his fuckin' approval."