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When Push Comes to Shove, 1/3
-- 1 --
Judging by the sun--still high and merciless in the sky, so bright it bleaches the sky to the same washed-out, blistered tones as the sand and rock under Sam's hands and knees--hardly any time's passed at all. The Impala's still on the edge of the road where Dean had parked her, her finish dusty and lackluster from the blowing sand; Dean's still on his back, sprawled lax and unmoving, his blood dark against the rocks of Agua Fria. Sam stares, unblinking, until he sees Dean's chest move, the slightest of breaths.
There's nothing around them now, only the two of them as far as Sam can see, and it's quiet, but his ears are still ringing. Screams and howls, human and not, twisted together into a solid wall of sound that scraped his nerves raw. He watches Dean breathe, in and out and in, and then carefully, carefully reaches out and touches fingers that seem like they should be covered in blood to the pulse under Dean's jaw. His skin is warm against Sam's, and his pulse is sure and steady.
After a while, Sam makes himself break the contact and crawl to where his backpack lies half-covered in sand and grit, the contents spilled across the rocky ground. His watch tells him that everything--the fight, Dean on his knees, gasping, "Sammy, Sammy," with his last breath, and everything that followed--everything had only taken twelve minutes. Sam laughs a little, wondering who would believe him if he told them that time does run differently in Hell, then laughs harder at how he must look, on his hands and knees in the Arizona desert, clothes ripped and torn and filthy, laughing over his equally battered but still-breathing--God, breathing--brother. When the laughter shudders abruptly into sobs, he goes with it, curling himself around Dean and crying until he thinks his head might explode.
It's not just this job--though, goddamn was this not the maybe-slightly-more-complicated-than-a-routine-salt-and-burn either of them thought they were walking into--it's the whiplash of seeing Dean dragged down again, like before; the sickening feeling of not being able to stop it and the desperation of knowing how every second counted a hundred times over and not getting it right the first time meant nobody got a second chance. It's way too familiar and it crushes down heavy and hard on Sam.
When he finally looks up, it's still quiet around them, which he has no right to expect, he reminds himself. Just because they won this round doesn't mean there still aren't a thousand ugly things out there who'd be thrilled to put the Winchester brothers down for the count. He needs to be smart, to remember everything Dad tried to teach him, everything Dean did teach him, and keep Dean safe.
He pulls himself to his feet, slow and not exactly painful--his body's whole and unscarred, but his brain wants to tell him he's been burned and clawed and cut. He remembers every wound, but there's nothing physical to prove it. He can't get Dean up, though; not even cracking an ammonia carbonate capsule helps, and he ends up half-dragging him to the car, a hundred and eighty pounds of not-dead weight. He tells himself he'll worry about why he can't wake Dean up later; now he just has to find them a place to hole up.
There's a mostly full bottle of water on the floorboard; it's warm and stale but it goes down easy and when Sam trickles a little against Dean's mouth, he doesn't choke. Sam keeps trying while he pulls out his wallet and starts going through cards. The pure thrill of knowing Dean's drinking is tempered by the growing knowledge that every card he has, every card Dean has, is useless. They've gotten slack in the last year and the last month or so, it's been especially bad; they've blown through every card they have on them. They shouldn't have even looked twice at this job, but they don't pass on anything these days. It's easier that way. Sam's pretty sure there are one or two new cards waiting for them at one of the post office drop boxes Dean keeps up with, but none of those are under a thousand miles away. He digs through the Ziploc that Dean keeps all the extras in, opening every single envelope, just in case he's missed something, but he's just going through the motions. He knows every card they have and all of them are at the "confiscate" stage. He sets them aside and starts going through the journal; since Lilith, he doesn't trust anyone but Bobby, and he's not going to bring the rain down on Bobby by calling him, but his dad's been known to make note of places that work for bolt holes. He doesn't need much, just someplace quiet and out of the way, where he and Dean can rest.
Dean groans just then, a small, pained sound that has Sam lunging over the back seat in time to see Dean's eyes flicker open and then back closed. He hasn't moved from where Sam lay him down, but he's breathing easier and Sam doesn't think it's just wishful thinking that he saw a flash of recognition before Dean went back out again. He props Dean up and carefully tips some of the water into the corner of Dean's mouth, smiling with satisfaction when Dean swallows. He watches Dean a while longer, then returns to the journal, determined to find somewhere to go.
He goes through every page, every scrap of paper, and barely restrains a whoop when he finds a piece of heavy, expensive letterhead, folded carefully and tucked between the last pages of the journal, addressed to one Cliff Burton.
Dear Mr. Burton, Once again, let us thank you for your assistance in resolving our most unusual problem. Should you ever find yourself in Las Vegas again, please do not hesitate to contact our reservations department for complimentary accommodations.
There's a pay-as-you-go cell phone in the trunk, activated but never used, paid for in cash. Sam gets it with shaking hands. The letter's dated just a few months before he'd left Stanford, and even if it's not as long ago as it feels, it's still been a couple of years.
The call goes through without any problem, though, and as soon as Sam mentions the name on the letter things move from pleasant customer service to the kind of attention that generally involves CEOs and rock stars. Within two minutes, Sam has a confirmed reservation under the name of C. Burton and no one's so much as hinted at a credit card guarantee.
Vegas, Sam thinks, as he disconnects the call. Dean'll love that.
It's not even 300 miles, but all the cash they have between them barely amounts to gas money, so by the time they hit Nevada, Sam's hungry and tired and smells exactly like it's been as long as it has since his last shower. His voice is almost gone; he's been talking non-stop, babbling anything he can think of in the increasingly long intervals that Dean's awake. They stop every hour or so and he gets more water into them both and after the third stop Dean manages to walk a few steps, circling the Impala and eyeing it for damage. That wears him out, though, and he's mostly out of it for the rest of the trip.
By the time Sam's navigating the exit off I-215, the sun's almost down; the neon lights of the Strip are all on, and with everything that's happened in the last day, Sam's not entirely sure he's not in some fantastical hallucination. He drives with what feels like exaggerated concentration, expecting Dean to start laughing at him at any second, but he can't screw up now, when they're so close. The directions they'd given him over the phone are precise and exact, down to the tenths of a mile, and his world narrows down to the paper he's scrawled them on, the odometer, and the road in front of him, until the road turns into the entrance of the hotel and a doorman steps out to meet them.
"Checking in?" he asks, his eyes flickering over the crumpled, filthy clothes Sam's wearing and Dean, still crashed out in the back. When Sam gives the name on the reservation, though, he snaps his fingers and two bellboys rush forward, and neither of them even blinks at the battered duffel bags Sam hands over or at him helping Dean out of the car.
A concierge meets them a step inside the lobby with card keys in hand, showing them to the direct elevator to their floor, and escorting them to their room, which turns out to be a suite, complete with living room and dining room and a Jacuzzi tub looking out over the Strip. Sam's too tired to be anything but grateful; he files away the hundred or so questions he has until he's clean and not starving and has maybe slept for a week. He might consider kicking Dean's ass over the stunt out in the desert, too, but he's ready to leave that decision for later, especially since Dean's flat-out on one of the beds and Sam can barely manage to get his disgusting clothes off before he falls onto the second.
The universe turns out to have other ideas, and Sam manages about five hours before the nightmares kick in. He isn't particularly surprised, but it doesn't mean he isn't still exhausted. He lies in the bed, listening to Dean breathe and watching the clock for 37 minutes before he finally gets up. The walls in the living room are slanted, like the attic of Pastor Jim's house, except the view is neon and electric instead of the top of the old oak tree. He watches the glow for a bit, hoping his subconscious will switch off of the loop it's on--Dean on his knees in the desert, followed by fire and blood and then back to Dean--but doesn't really expect much success there.
He showers and looks at the For Our Guests book and reads the letter from the manager explaining the casino credits that have been assigned to the room. He thinks about going to find something to eat--the letter says that's all been taken care of, too--but ends up back in the bedroom, watching over Dean until the sky lightens and the sun rises. Dean mutters occasionally, curses and threats, and once Sam's name, but doesn't wake. By the time the sun's up, Sam's moved past pure exhaustion and fear and into trying to put together everything that went down.
He works his way through the incantation and the summoning, and knows exactly where things started twisting away from the plan, but then his brain goes right back to seeing Dean step in front of him and that endless, hideous second of knowing what they were going to do to him, and that there was nothing Sam could do to stop it. Again and again, that's all he can see, and it's just his kind of fucked-up irony that that's when he finally can't keep his eyes open. His dreams are more like memories than hallucinations, flames twisting over his hands, a trail of blood he knows is Dean's; always alone, but always watched. He comes awake breathing hard and reaching for his knife, shaking, and still with that prickly feeling of eyes on him. All that's there, though, is Dean in a studied slouch, one shoulder against the wall and his eyes on Sam.
"What the hell, man?" Sam's heart's going like he just sprinted a mile and he can barely breathe for the adrenaline rocketing through his body. It's dark outside the windows again, but every light in the suite's on and the plasma TV over the fireplace is cycling through the pay-per-view previews.
"Good question, Sam," Dean says. "What the hell was that? Out in the desert?" He's still wearing the same jeans and t-shirt that he's had on for the last however many days, his face still grimy and dusty and smeared with what Sam knows is dried blood--his blood, Sam's blood, demon blood, all splattered and streaked across the stubble that's just starting to come in a little gray like Dad's had. "You remember--" Dean snaps his fingers to get Sam's attention back on the here and now and it's like putting a match to the anger simmering just under Sam's control. "C'mon, the part about how you could handle all that mojo, that you standing up there like a fucking lightning rod wasn't going to be a problem."
"I'm pretty sure I get first dibs on that question," Sam grits out, pushing away the flash to that endless second when Dean had folded to the ground. "I told you I could handle it but the second I take my eyes off you, you're stepping in front of a fucking army of possessed zombies?"
"Oh yeah, that's what I was waiting to hear, nothing like 'Thanks, Dean, thanks for blocking those things out', not from you, huh, Sam."
"They dragged you down." Sam lets the anger out a little, to push the fear back. "I was set up to block them, twist them back--"
"Not from where I was standing, you weren't," Dean interrupts. "You didn't have control of the situation; I did what I needed to do." It's so like Dad used to be, always right, always sure, Sam can't breathe.
"We swore, Dean," Sam says, forcing the words out past everything that's sitting heavy and hard on his chest: anger, fear, pain. "We swore: no more martyrs. We were done with that; we were partners. Equals."
"Yeah, well, thanks for pulling me out of hell again, there, partner. And you're welcome for the other part, too, the part where it wasn't you there to start with." There's a bitter undertone to Dean's voice and it rasps along Sam's anger, stoking it higher and higher so that he can hardly remember what it was like when they just fought over each other's crappy taste in music or what was for dinner or how early to get up in the morning.
Before he can say anything, though, Dean turns away, pulling his shirt over his head. "First shower," he says, like it's the end of any normal day. Sam could push it--hell, he could follow Dean into the ridiculously over-sized bathroom and start the whole argument all over again, but there doesn't seem to be a point. He flops back down on the bed and pulls a pillow over his head and of course, now that he needs to talk to Dean, his brain sends him straight to sleep and by the time he wakes back up, Dean's long gone with nothing more than a three-word note: Out. Back later.
All things considered, it's probably for the best, but it still leaves Sam feeling off. There's not much he can do about it though, so he finds a pair of jeans and a shirt that don't look like they could stand on their own and decides to go see if he can find something to eat. Before he leaves, he writes a note to the maids, asking them to change the sheets on both beds--his skin crawls at the thought of sleeping on them again--and then scribbles, Me, too on the one Dean left him. Two can play that game, he thinks, and closes the door behind him.
The hotel's huge, and Sam doesn't have any kind of plan so he's just wandering, but even getting turned around twice, he manages to find Dean in the casino without too much trouble. Dean nods at him, but doesn't make any effort to move from where he's lounging at a blackjack table so Sam turns down the offer of a complimentary cocktail--free to anyone at the tables, the waitress says--and keeps going in search of breakfast. He hopes he was polite, because she's just doing her job, but seriously, his watch says it's only seven in the morning and he's not quite up for that.
He passes on the buffet--maybe later--and a food court and ends up at a café that's tucked in behind all the serious restaurants. They're serving breakfast and they have WiFi and don't seem to care how long he hangs out. He's pretty sure he sees Dean walk by the entrance at least twice; he's half-annoyed and half-settled by it. When he signs for the check and detours back through the casino to check on Dean before he even thinks about it, he figures he needs to lose the half-annoyed part.
Dean's back at the same blackjack table, which is kind of surprising, because Sam didn't really think that was his game, but then maybe poker's just easier to play in the places they usually end up in. Whatever the reason, Dean doesn't look like he's going anywhere any time soon, so Sam dodges the waitress coming his way again and heads for the elevators. The suite is clean and quiet; he should probably start looking for another job, but once he leaves a message for Bobby, letting him know they made it through the last one, he winds up surfing the seventy-odd channels the TV gets and falling asleep on the couch.
He wakes up when Dean comes in and they do the not-exactly-not talking-to-each-other thing while the sun sets in an explosion of color outside the enormous windows. Sam thinks about marking the occasion, the first day after they probably shouldn't be here--again--but before he can think of anything suitable, Dean picks up the phone and calls for room service and the whole surreal thing hits Sam one more time. He can't help laughing at it all; Dean cocks an eyebrow at him as he finishes ordering steaks with all the trimmings: onion rings and fries and sautéed mushrooms, with creamed spinach on the side, which Dean always claims is for Sam, but Sam's never seen Dean not eat his fair share.
"You gonna share, or should I just assume I'm ready for an open-mike night?"
"Dude," Sam says, when he catches his breath. "We're in a 5-star hotel, in a suite. They're feeding us and I've turned down free booze twice already. I'll bet if we send the laundry out they'll take care of it, too--"
"Sammy," Dean interrupts. "You turned down the free booze? Have I taught you nothing?" He smacks Sam on the back of the head. "And don't forget, man, you're laundry bitch this week, so unless you're secretly planning on getting it on with the dirty stuff or you get off on the smell of Tide, you'd better be sending that shit out."
Dean still sounds a little forced, but he's trying and Sam is more than willing to go with it. The thought of two full duffels of clothes ranging from disgustingly filthy to only as clean as the last ancient laundromat could get them is enough to get him moving off the couch. Dean hijacks the remote and Sam only pretends to bitch about it. With the dirty clothes dumped out and random papers they've stuffed into the bags thrown all over the beds, it's almost normal.
Room service delivers dinner, setting everything up on the dining room table--the dining room table--while Dean signs the bill and Sam's back to surreal again.
"Seriously," Sam says, after they've paid the proper respect to the 20-ounce porterhouses on their plates, waving his fork around to encompass the whole suite. "What the fuck did Dad do for these people?"
"No telling, Sam." Dean shrugs after a split second, reaching for his beer, all casual nonchalance, but Sam catches a flash of something that looks a lot like anger in his eyes. The little easiness they've found drains away.
"What?" Sam tries to keep his voice calm, he really does, but they're sort of past that now.
"Nothing, Sammy." Dean shoves his plate away and stands up. "I'm gonna head out again. Find a game with my name on it."
"Dean--"
"Don't wait up," Dean says, closing the door behind him.
Sam stomps down on the urge to throw his beer across the room, but he does slam it back down on the table hard enough to rattle the dishes and send foam bubbling onto the table.
It's not until hours later, after two crappy movies that would have been hysterical to watch and laugh at with Dean, and a round of virtual poker that he loses in pathetic fashion, that he realizes that there's no way Cliff Burton, Metallica's original bass player, was his dad.
Sam dreams again, the grit of the desert cutting into his palms, Dean nothing more than a shadow in the cold flames; when he makes himself wake, the other bed is still neat, clearly undisturbed, and there are no messages on his cell or on the room's voicemail. He talks himself out of leaving right away to see if he can find Dean, but once he's showered, it's only reasonable that he go get some breakfast. And it's just as easy for him to cut through the casino on his way back to the café, but when Dean's not there, he gives up and calls Dean's cell.
"Hey," he says, not surprised that it goes straight to voicemail, but not particularly happy about it either. "Call me, okay?" He doesn't know exactly how to make up for last night, and until he does, he's not even bringing the subject up.
The café isn't crowded, and the waitress remembers him from the day before, bringing him coffee and OJ along with the menu and the daily newsletter the hotel puts out. He glances at it, and maybe it's just that Dean's on his mind, but the first thing he sees is a write-up of a new show by that magician Dean always geeks out over on cable--Watch this, Sammy. Check out how this chick gets off on freaking people out. The article isn't anything more than a glossy PR piece but at least if Sam's looking at it he's not checking his phone for messages every thirty seconds.
"They're in the last week of previews," the waitress says, seeing him reading as she drops off his pancakes. "Supposed to have opened last month, but…" She shrugs. "You name it, and it's gone wrong."
Sam tells himself he should take his time, but he's twitchy, not knowing where Dean is, so he eats quickly and walks back through the casino, where there's still no sign of Dean, and when he thinks to check the car, he can't find the ticket for the valet parking.
It's nothing, only a minor delay, but it feels like the proverbial straw. The ticket's just upstairs; he emptied pockets when he got the clothes ready to be sent out. The elevator takes forever to arrive and even the ride up to the top of the tower seems to take twice as long. He bangs the suite door open, moving fast, and nearly runs over the tall redhead wearing nothing but a towel who's backing out of the bathroom, laughing at Dean. Of course.
"Sorry," Sam says, taking a quick step back. He doesn't mean to sound quite so stiff and disapproving but he's not sure who he's madder at: Dean, for blowing him off without so much as a voicemail, or himself, for getting all torqued up over nothing. It's not like this is anything new.
"No, it's okay," the redhead says. "I really do have to be going." She scoops up an armful of clothes and disappears into the bedroom. At the very least, Sam expects to be getting the evil eye from Dean, but Dean just sighs, "Timing, Sammy. Timing," as he follows her. Sam stands awkwardly for a few seconds, not sure whether to stay or go and come back but then Dean laughs, really laughs, at something in the bedroom. It's been way too long since Sam's heard that and before he can move, they're coming back out.
"I mean it," she's saying. "No more playing on my shift."
"No problem, sweetheart," Dean says. "Blackjack's not really my game."
"No kidding. I never would have guessed with the way you ran through that stack of chips," she says, pulling her hair up and weaving it through itself into a quick knot. Sam hides a smile at the sharp zip to her words.
"I was distracted," Dean says, grinning.
"Please," she says, rolling her eyes, but she can't quite keep a straight face. "He's always this bad, isn't he?" she says to Sam, picking up a small leather backpack and glancing around the room in that Have I forgotten anything kind of way.
"Always," Sam agrees, sidestepping the elbow Dean throws as they head toward the door. He wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling window and watches the traffic move through the early morning, until the door closes and he can feel Dean watching him. "You could have called," he says, not looking away from the view.
"Yeah," Dean says. "I should have."
That's about as close as Sam's going to get to Dean actually admitting he was pissed, which means a straight-up apology isn't going to do any good.
"You know that magician you like?" Sam says instead. "The one who does the show out on the street, that you won't let me flip past?"
"Good-looking woman in leather, Sammy. The part where's she's screwing with people's brains is just a bonus."
"Yeah, well, she's got some kind of major show starting up here." Sam takes a deep breath and turns back to look at Dean. "I was thinking they'd probably comp us tickets for that, too. If you wanted to go."
Sam waits for the blow-off, the Dude, there's a topless show right next door, but Dean just nods.
"Yeah," he says. "We could do that."
"Okay," Sam answers, then can't hold back the half-smile at the huge yawn that suddenly attacks Dean. "I'll, uh, see what they can do for us, for tonight."
"You do that," Dean mumbles. "I'm gonna go sleep for a couple, ten hours." Sam doesn't make the old man crack that's on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't have to. Dean can read it on his face. "Shut up; she's works on the floor in the casino, didn't get off her shift until seven."
"Did I say anything?"
Dean grunts something and Sam doesn't have to hear a word to know it's all about punk-ass little brothers not being allowed to say anything, especially when they're not even getting laid. Dean heads back into the bedroom; Sam sits down and lets the last nagging shred of worry go before he picks up the phone and calls the concierge.
"Oh, hell, yeah," Dean says, catching sight of the bar as they find their way to their seats. "Gotta love Vegas, Sam."
"If you say so," Sam answers, but Dean's already angled off toward the bar. The room's set up with round tables, mostly big ones, but he finds their reservation number on a smaller one, along the wall, a couple of steps up from the floor. Even with only having called a few hours ago, they've clearly ended up with some of the best seats in the house, and Sam gets that surreal feeling again.
"Sweet," Dean says when he gets there, pushing his chair up against the wall so he can stretch his legs out and survey the crowd. Sam can't deny that having a wall at his back is definitely better than being out in the open. The stage is curved and low, maybe waist-high, with a catwalk and shallow steps down to floor level in the front. They could pack in more people if they ditched the tables, but this setup that gives the room a more intimate feel.
Dean slouches down, eyes half-closed. He's gotten about as much sleep as Sam has lately--Sam knows the sound of Dean jolting awake from the nightmares, choking back screams--but he's got that shuttered look that says they're not talking about it. Sam's not sure how much he can push things these days, so he keeps his mouth shut. The room's filling up fast, which is good people-watching but even that gets boring after a few minutes. Sam's actually glad Dean went and got them drinks--peeling the label off the bottle gives him something to do.
He gets into it after a bit, concentrating until he gets the entire label off in one piece, with only a little U-shaped tear near one corner. When he looks up, Dean's watching him with no real expression. Sam half-shrugs, smoothing the label out carefully on the table. This time, Dean shakes his head and Sam can almost hear the dork Dean's thinking, but the lights go down and a quick, sharp drum starts up.
The show starts off fast with a levitation and never lets up, rocketing along at a hectic pace driven by the heavy techno beats of the DJ mixing live off to the side of the stage. Sam can appreciate the work that has to go into making something like this, the split-second timing and the sheer physicality of it, but he still doesn't get into it like Dean does. Maybe it's just that he knows there's a trick and he's seen too many things that are real. It doesn't matter, though--he keeps sneaking looks at Dean, kicked back and seriously having a good time and that's not something Sam can often take credit for, especially not lately.
Everything's fine, right up until the end, an escape from a suspended, fire-engulfed barrel, with timing and music so precise that it really does catch Sam's attention. He's watching closely, keeping the whole stage in view, working out where everyone's slipped off to, so he sees it clear as day when the first assistant, a guy Sam vaguely recognizes from the TV show, stumbles and falls, a nasty twisting tumble, hard enough that he doesn't get up. It happens fast, right as Melina appears through the smoke and flames and the audience is buzzing with adrenaline.
"You see that?" Dean asks, under cover of the cheers of the audience.
"That didn't look like natural stumble to me." The stage goes dark, waiting for the encore bow, but there's no curtain. Sam can just barely make out a clump of people huddled around where he saw the assistant fall.
"Yeah, it looked like somebody took him down, only there wasn't anybody near him." Dean's watching the shadowed group just as closely.
"The waitress at breakfast said the opening's been delayed. Weird problems," Sam says.
"Weird how?"
"She didn't say."
"Well, how 'bout you find that out, and I'll see if I can get anything here." Dean puts his beer down and starts off toward the stage, looking back and frowning at Sam. "Problems, Sammy?"
"You sure you don't want a second pair of eyes?" Sam says, even though he knows the answer.
"Nah," Dean says. "I wouldn't say no to an EMF meter, but since they're all out in the car, I'm just going to go see what I can see and check that later."
Sam nods and finishes off his beer. It's the logical thing to do, splitting up covers more ground, all very normal, except for the part where he distinctly feels like he's being ditched.
The waitress from breakfast doesn't come on until 5 and the guy who's working the overnight shift isn't particularly friendly, so Sam signs for his latte and heads back upstairs to do some online research. Google gives him thousands of hits, which is kind of refreshing given that he's usually starting with nothing, but the novelty wears off somewhere after the hundredth breathless fan site, with nothing new and very little even spelled right.
Dean calls while he's taking a few notes.
"Nobody's talking," Dean says. "But it's that not-talking where I know damned good and well something freaky's going on."
"I got nothing online that you couldn't have told me," Sam says. "Melina Kominos, thirty-three, born and raised in New York, early career more hustling than performing, big breakthrough was about five years ago in a Vegas revue." He rubs at the headache behind the bridge of his nose. "Cable shows, network specials...if I have to read one more quote about how Houdini was a huge influence in her life, I might throw up."
"As long as you don't puke in my bed, Sammy, that's between you and your laptop."
"Your concern is touching, as always." Sam can hear noise in the background, voices and music, a big crowd, like you get in a casino. Dean covers the phone. Even so, Sam can hear him talking to someone on his end, and from the rhythm and cadence of his voice, he's flirting.
"Hey, look, I did get one thing," Dean comes back on to say. "The assistant is her cousin; see if you can find anything there."
"Did you get a name--"
"Gotta run, Sam," Dean says and the call goes dead.
"No problem," Sam says, to his phone. "You have a good time there, big brother."
He puts the phone down carefully, so he doesn't throw it across the room and stares at the screen. He should see what he can find out now; it's not like this would be the first time he's researched while Dean hung out and did his thing. Instead, he scrawls cousin? across the bottom of his notes and goes to bed.
Lilith smiles at him this time, her true face fading in and out of the fire, her laughter shivering high over the screaming--the old nightmares mixed with the new--waking him and when he squints at the clock, it's the usual five hours. He lies there for a few minutes, but it's pretty clear his brain isn't going to let him get any more sleep, so he might as well go see if the friendly waitress is willing to give him a little inside dirt on Melina and her cousin and whatever problems they've been having. He's sweaty and thirsty, though, so a bottle of water and a shower are in order first.
He doesn't notice them until he's all the way out of the bedroom, and then it's like he's fallen back asleep and somehow wandered into a weird Oedipal variation on a wet dream. It's only Dean's voice that convinces him that what he's seeing is real, Dean and a woman on the floor between the hot tub and the full-length windows, the only illumination coming from the underwater lights and the neon outside and far below.
It's happened before, Sam walking in on Dean and one of his girls, but not since before Sam left for school and back then, even the thought of sex was enough to send Sam stammering and blushing out of the room. He's set to do that now, minus the blushing, but then Dean looks up and sees him and smiles. Sam's seen that smile before--it's the one that comes out when Dean's baiting a scam, luring some dumb hick into double-or-nothing on the pool table. It says he knows exactly how fast Sam's going to run from this, and it's enough to plant Sam's feet firmly on the floor.
He holds Dean's eye long enough to know he's gotten to Dean. That probably shouldn't give him such satisfaction, but it's like scoring a hit in a prank war, even after Dean goes back to focusing on the girl on the floor with him.
Her hair's spread out on the floor around her head, red and wavy, distinctive enough to clue Sam in that it's the same woman he met wrapped up in a towel the day before. Knowing that makes everything even more real. He knows how she laughs and what her voice sounds like and how she looks at Dean with a sort of exasperated fondness that feels so familiar.
The sky outside the window is lightening toward dawn, but it's the underwater lights that let Sam see the shift and play of muscles under Dean's skin. In the dreams, the nightmares, the memories, that skin's scratched and scored, sheened red with Dean's blood. Sam drinks in its perfection now, smooth and whole, and it's still not light enough to see the freckles across Dean's shoulders, but he knows they're there.
He's not sure when the satisfaction of seeing the living proof of the debacle they dodged morphs into something more, into seeing Dean, hearing him, and falling so far past turned on Sam almost forgets how to breathe, but it happens between heartbeats and he's grateful for the doorway to lean against. He should leave, he knows that, but he's not going anywhere, he knows that, too. It doesn't matter that he's wearing nothing but a t-shirt and some sweatpants, old and soft and stretched out; they're still too much. He wants nothing but air against his skin--or he could work with knowing what Dean feels like, a little voice whispers in his head. It wouldn't be all that different than the hundred thousand casual touches over the years, except in all the ways it would be.
"C'mon, baby. C'mon." She's barely murmuring, voice husky and low, but it's as loud as a shout in Sam's head, a sharp reminder of just how fucked-up this all is. Dean's quiet when he comes, nothing more than the change in his breathing tipping Sam off. He looks up again, though, and there's enough light from the rising sun now that Sam can see everything, from the tremors rippling across shoulders and arms to the way Dean's pupils have all but eaten the green. Sam takes it all in, everything that Dean's giving him, and wants more, greedy and possessive, watching until Dean drops his head to mouth along the curve of her jaw, and then he stumbles back into the bathroom. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he fights to get his clothes off, eyes just as blown as Dean's, hair wild and out of control.
The shower's loud enough to drown out any noises that might be coming from the other room, and the water's hot against his back as he leans against the wall and strips his cock with hands that he can't pretend are anything but shaking and eager.
The suite's empty when Sam gets out of the shower, everything tidied away, no sign that he'd been invited to stand and watch his brother have sex. It's what he expected, but he shouldn't be so relieved not to have to deal with the whole mess just yet. He grabs his laptop and escapes downstairs.
The table in the back corner is open again and the same waitress has coffee and juice in front of him almost before he slides onto the chair.
"Thanks, Deb," he says, finally paying attention to the name tag pinned to her white blouse.
"No problem," she answers. "What'll it be this morning?"
Sam does his best to not appear completely brain-dead, but even trying to decide between pancakes and an omelet is apparently too much to ask his brain.
"How about I just let you think about it," Deb says after a moment, heading off to deal with a group of older women, clearly fresh off their early-morning turn at the slot machines and ready to wreak a little havoc on their diets.
Sam drinks his coffee and tells himself to shut it down, to take the loop of Dean watching him watch and shove it in the box labeled Family Shit to be dealt with later. He's managed that all through his life; he should be able to do it now, when it's just breakfast on the line. By the time Deb comes back, he's at least figured out that he wants something different, not the same diner breakfast he's always had, except for while he was with Jess. It's pretty transparent--and pathetic--as gestures go, but if eggs Benedict is what it takes to keep things compartmentalized, he's going with it.
Of course, he's no sooner got the plate in front of him, complete with steamed asparagus and a fresh fruit and flower garnish than Dean throws himself into the seat across the table, all smooth moves and casual attitude, except for the shadows under his eyes and the way his mouth never quite relaxes.
"Please don't tell me you actually ordered that," Dean says.
"Okay, fine, I won't tell you." Sam pretends not to notice Dean gagging as he cuts into the eggs and lets the yolks mix with the sauce. "It's nice," he says, scooping up a bite. "Very lemony." He takes his time, to maximize gross-out factor. As disgusting things go, it's way down on the scale, but it's basically a freebie, so there's no sense in hurrying.
Dean actually does look a little green by the time Sam finishes dragging an asparagus spear through the mess, but recovers enough to order a bacon cheeseburger and gravy-cheese fries when Deb shows back up. Given that it's not even nine in the morning, it's Sam's turn to be a little sickened.
He watches Dean as he eats, trying to figure out how they ended up like this, but as soon as he opens his mouth, Dean cuts him off.
"No, Sam, we really do not need to talk about it."
Sam grits his teeth but doesn't back down. "Yeah, Dean, we really do--"
"What's to talk about?" Dean swallows down the last bite of cheeseburger and drags a fry through the half-bottle of ketchup he's dumped on the plate. "You get off on watching. Not exactly a world-class kink, little brother."
"Leaving out the part where you got off, too, that's not what I'm talking about." Sam deliberately loosens his grip on his fork and forces his voice to stay low, if not calm. "I'm talking about the way we keep push--"
"I said, leave it, Sam." Dean shoves his plate toward the center of the table and stands up. "Talk to your girl here and see if she knows anything that'll help. I'm gonna go see if I can run an EMF sweep over that stage."
Sam bites back the comment that's dying to be said, the one where if Dean hadn't taken the night off to fuck around, he'd already know if there was EMF on the stage. The last thing they need is to get into it in public, because there's a growing certainty in Sam's head that when they do, it's not staying verbal. Getting tossed from the room when they're still cleaned out for cash is really not a good idea.
His eggs are cold and congealed and way up on the disgusting scale now, the yellow of the yolks swirled into the paler yellow of the hollandaise and dripping down over the bright green of the asparagus. Deb shows up right as he's poking at the mess and trying to decide if he's still hungry. She has a plate of pancakes and bacon in one hand and a little pitcher of maple syrup in the other.
"Figured you might want to switch off for something a little less… colorful," she says. "It's what you had yesterday, but I can get you something different if you want." She swaps the plates efficiently and is gone almost before Sam can thank her.
He eats absentmindedly, letting his mind wander under cover of surfing on his laptop, trying to figure out what they need to be doing after they sort through whatever Dean thinks is going on here. Deb deals with the middle-aged crowd and keeps his coffee cup full, and when he comes out of his zone, it's easy to catch her eye.
"Check?" she asks.
"Yeah, that'd be great," he answers, because it's almost always easier to strike up a conversation when they think you're on your way out the door. She tucks the hotel newsletter in with his tab this time, and it's practically an engraved invitation.
"We got a chance to check out Melina's show last night," Sam says, before she can leave. "Very fast-paced." Maybe it's just because he feels the same way, but Sam can almost see Deb's eyes rolling behind the noncommittal, corporate face she wears. "Still having some problems, though."
"You weren't supposed to notice that." There's a flash of a genuine smile in her eyes. "That's what everyone said, when they came in here to figure out the damage control. It happened so fast that no one would have noticed."
"My brother and I, we're pretty sharp about stuff like that," Sam says.
"I'll remember that," Deb says, and Sam doesn't doubt it at all..
"I remembered you said they'd had problems all along." Sam keeps his voice light, keeping his his attention on the check and figuring the tip.
"Well, this is the first time anyone's gotten hurt. The other stuff--things weren't up to Melina's standards, so they've been firing musicians and rewiring the whole place and stuff like that. She's a perfectionist."
"You, uh, say that like you have personal experience," Sam says, because he can hear the air-quotes in her voice.
"We're open 24-7." Deb shrugs. "All kinds of people end up in here, not just the ones who come out of the casino trance and realize they haven't eaten in a couple of days." She's looking at him curiously, like she's trying to figure out why he cares, but when she takes the check, she adds, "She really wasn't happy. People don't get hurt on her watch, that was what she kept saying this morning. One of the suits made the mistake of saying it was just a broken ankle, nothing life threatening and I thought we were going to have to pick little bits of him out of the carpet."
Sam nods and lets it drop. His gut's telling him he's pushed far enough--and honestly, it doesn't sound like there's anything worth pushing for; the whole thing is starting to feel like nothing but some bad luck. The only reason Sam isn't writing it off completely is the utterly impossible way the guy fell. Well, that and having been raised to know there was bad luck in the world, but how what most people thought of as luck, wasn't.
***
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Acknowledgements & Thanks