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It’s raining bullets on the metal roof of the warehouse, droplets here and there landing with a soft plat as they leak through its rust-eaten holes. Inside the place is humid, the smell of weeks old blood and carcasses heightened by the rain. Some of it—blood, mostly—is soaked so deep into Dean’s clothes that he knows no amount of laundromat tokens are rinsing it out.
The werewolf—what’s left of it, at least—squelches under his fists, its face an ugly mass of red and purple. Sixteen half-eaten hearts, lungs, and kidneys are slowly defrosting in the cooler by his feet.
“Deanna.” John says. He places a hand on Dean’s shoulder; a warning. “That’s enough.”
Dean clenches his jaw.
Sam looks like he wants to say something, his face all twisted up into the beginnings of a classic Sammy pout, eyebrows scrunched up and the corners of his lips turned down, but he seems to think better of it because he doesn’t say anything after all, just slides a new clip into his handgun and leaves to scope out the other rooms.
It’s only after they’ve hit the road again, just the two of them this time, fire smoke and their dad’s pickup only faded specks in the Impala’s rearview mirror, does he open his mouth.
“Really?” Sam says, crossing his arms in the passenger seat like he’s just been personally insulted. “You’re letting him deadname you again?”
Dean rolls his eyes.
“Kind of hate that you know what that means.” Dean replies.
As if he didn’t feel enough like some freaky lab experiment. Sam’s constant need to come at everything with research didn’t end with hunts, he spent practically two months at the library researching trans stuff after Dean came out. And now he thought he knew every pile he should step in.
Dean hunches up his shoulders.
“Anyways, he slips up sometimes. It happens.” Dean says, though for some reason when he says it, he can’t quite meet Sam’s eyes. “Don’t make a big deal out of it, alright?”
“Bullshit. And like hell I’m leaving it alone—you’ve been out to the man for five years.” Sam says, voice rising
Dean grits his teeth
“Drop it, Sammy.” He says.
“You can’t just let him treat you like crap, Dean, like nothing ever happened and you’re just—“
“Sam.” Dean barks, tightening his grip on the wheel. “I said leave it.”
Sam stares hard at him for a moment, then scoffs and turns his face away to the passenger side window.
After a moment, Sam speaks again.
“Guess Deanna isn’t dead after all.” His brother mutters under his breath.
“Excuse me?” Dean replies.
He quickly pulls to the side of the road, stopping the car. The sound of the engine ticking as it cools is the only other sound when Dean says, “get out” through gritted teeth.
Sam looks back at him, dumbfounded for a moment, and Dean yanks open his and Sam’s doors.
“Get the hell out.” Dean says, and he’s shoving Sam halfway out of the Impala.
He doesn’t mean it.
Sam starts to argue back, to defend himself, but he isn’t budging.
Dean paces out past the back of the car, tears brimming in his eyes and he scrubs his face as if it can help hold them back.
He can’t do it. He can’t make Sam leave again.
He takes a deep breath. His ribs hurt, and his binder is sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Sam calls his name and Dean is walking, out into the bleary darkness of this lonely midwestern road. Frogs croak, a soft breeze stirs the wet blades of the grass.
Dean stops.
He takes a moment to collect himself and he gets back in the car. He shuts his door. He starts the car. He turns up the cassette player.
He clears his throat.
“If you say anything else tonight, I swear I’m really kicking you out.” Dean says. He doesn’t mean it.
They drive on.
***
“My name used to be Deanna.” Dean admits reluctantly. His fingers twirl through Cassie’s hair, twisting and untwisting, and twisting again. It's hard to get the word out of his mouth, like there's a barbed wire fence in front of it.
Her eyes peer up at him from his box of fake IDs, now half empty and splayed out on the bed between them.
“Used to be?” Cassie asks, prying for more. She says it gently but he can tell where she’s angling.
“Yeah, you know, used to be, as in ‘no more’,” Dean snaps back.
It gets him a wince, and he feels a twinge of guilt pull at his gut.
“Shit. Sorry.” Dean says.
He pulls back a little, widening the space between their bodies.
She always wants to know more.
“Touchy subject.” She says with awkward laugh.
“Kind of a reflex at this point.”