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Ever since Dean came back from Hell, his life has become constant déjà vu. When he stood in that motel’s corridor, waiting for Sam to open the door, he didn’t know what to expect. It turns out, he expected anything but this.
He certainly didn’t expect to see poorly concealed panic in Sam’s eyes. Certainly didn’t expect to find a secret that was even more disgusting than the haunting smell of blood, even more horrible than memories of contorted faces, torn bodies.
That’s saying something, right?
Sam’s changed. Deep down, Dean hoped his brother would help him swim up to the surface, inch by inch, and redeem his sins. Apparently, he was wrong, and disappointment is pulling him down more than everything he went through.
Lying to each other has become their new reality. How are you—peachy—where’re you going—to get some air. Dean tries to remember how it was before, tries to live like before — when he didn’t torture the innocent and wasn’t tortured to death himself a hundred times a day. He tries so hard but fails every time. Sam knows he’s weak. He knows, but keeps trampling on him. Night after night, when Sam sneaks away from him, Dean can’t shake a feeling of the same betrayal happening over and over again.
Freaking déjà vu.
***
Waking up, Dean can’t grasp his whereabouts. A kaleidoscope of images kept swirling in his sleep: splashes of red on his face, hot streams of scarlet on his arms, dark crimson under his nails. Sam, sucking greedily on a cut, practically crushing Ruby in his arms. It’s difficult to distinguish dreams from reality nowadays.
After a few moments, Dean notices he’s not alone — Sam’s sitting next to him on the bed. He is so near that Dean can feel his body heat through the clothes. It’s almost dawn, and in the dimness of the room Sam’s eyes glimmer like the last fading stars. He is high, there’s no doubt about it. He’s vibrating with all the demonic energy coursing through his veins. Dean wants to get away from here as far as possible, but Sam leans in, pinning him down by his sheer presence.
"Dean," he exhales.
He smells like mints, perfume that's too sweet, and sweat that's not his. There's a smudge of blood in the corner of his mouth. He's clearly enjoying feeling so powerful, and it makes Dean so sick his whole body trembles and grows cold. And yet.
"Dean, I…"
Sam doesn't finish his sentence, gently planting his lips on Dean's pulsing artery. His hair tickles, and Dean throws his head back, baring his throat. Not even forty years in Hell could change the fact that Sam had him wrapped around his little finger. Sam knows he's weak. He knows, and kisses him more urgently, setting his skin on fire.
Sam moves and slides on top, blocking out the light, and then they are immersed in darkness, filled with the rustle of fabric and ragged breaths. Sam wants to claim him in the stupid hope of mending things between them, Dean is aware of that. He would happily forget everything and lose himself because it's Sam, his Sammy he thought about every second he spent downstairs. But still.
Dean doesn't recognize his scent, his touch, and his words anymore. They're different, not Sam's — hers. Sam chose her, and Dean can't accept it, can't stand second-hand affection. He can only throw himself on Sam's mercy.
***
They check out in the morning, leaving behind yet another motel, yet more wrinkled bedsheets, and ugly walls that will hold equally ugly memories. Dean turns up his collar to hide a hickey on his neck; he doesn't want to catch even a glimpse of it in the mirror.
"I missed you," says Sam, breaking the silence.
The next town is a few hours away. Dean stares into a long stretch of road ahead and makes himself ready for a conversation they could easily skip.
"Great."
He sounds gruff as if he hasn't used his voice for eternity. It's not that far from the truth: during his time in Hell screaming was all he could do. And now he and Sam don't have much to talk about.
"What should I do to make you believe me?"
There's desperation and bitterness in Sam's voice. Also sincerity, which is the worst. It's not easy for him, too. He doesn't understand why exactly he's wrong.
"For starters, how about you stop being a fucking vampire?"
This scenario is painfully familiar, and they both know how it ends. Dean is tired of this Groundhog Day, and Sam is getting more and more self-righteous. He still values Dean's opinion, but it will pass — it's happening already. Sam figured out how to live without him; he just has to admit it to himself.
"You know I need it. We need it!"
"We?"
Dean wants to tell him what they really need. Spend some time alone, make up for all the months — years. Get rid of angels and demons, forget about destiny and being chosen ones. Find a simple case, help good people, save lives.
Dean needs his brother — and everything this word meant before. He needs his kindness and stubbornness, his admiration and tenderness. His secret love of girly music and his nerdiness. He needs his hands and his sleepy smile in the morning.
"I tried," says Sam quietly, "to save you. But I was weak. I don't want to be weak again. Ever."
"I'm sorry, Sammy."
Dean's car has always been the safest place on the planet, but now he feels uncomfortable. Of course, Baby's not to blame. It's just he and Sam grew apart, and the realization of it poisons everything.
Soon, there will be a new town, a new room. Sam will find Ruby, and she'll make him strong. Then he'll come back, and Dean won't be able to say no.
This freaking déjà vu his life has become. It's far worse than anything that went down in Hell.