Chapter Text
Dean kicked the mattress, testing it.
“Hmm. Will do. Go wash and brush your teeth, I’ll make the bed.”
“The mattress. You mean the mattress. There is no bed here.” Sam bitched.
“Tomāto Tomäto. Scoot!” Dean punched Sam’s shoulder with no actual anger behind it.
“Ow!” Sam leaned away from the punch, somewhat unsuccessfully, and brushed his brother’s hand away. “Jerk. Fine. Where is the bag with our clean stuff, anyway…? ‘am out of underwear.” Threw Sam, distracted, and turned around to look.
Dean walked over to the beat up closet at the corner.
He scoffed at it: It was missing a door and half of its shelves, and smelled of peeled lemons. Sighing, defeated, he began studying the content of the unlucky piece of furniture, resulting in a stream of trash flying all over, including predictable things like hangers and old newspapers, mixed up with an unpredictable withered bouquet, a pile of used condom wrappers (accompanied with a “Blach! some people…!”), a dog leash (accompanied with a snarky ”..those people…!”), two mini skirts (”well that’s getting better..”) and one cowboy boot, of all things (”Just one..?”). Finding nothing useful, Dean proceeded to the higher shelves.
“Would you ever try to find the thing first, and then - when you decide you were unsuccessful at your mission - only then, ask?” Dean grumbled, still looking through the closet. “It would make - “ He sputtered as he reached to the highest shelf, “ - so much more sense. Ha! Found it. A sheet. Nice. Oooh, a pillow! Jackpot! Wait, what, just one? Everything is one in this shithole- ”
Dean turned around to see a grumpy, glaring Sam, with his arms crossed over his chest, his bangs sticking to his forehead, his eyes tired and sunken.
Dean released a deep, defeated sigh. It was a long day.
“It’s behind the one with the body parts. What?” Dean chuckled at Sam’s disgusted face. ”Dad and I are gonna bury it tomorrow. Hey, I’m not thrilled about it either, but the - thing - we can’t have him resurfacing on the street just like that, covered in all that voodoo crap tattoos. It’s no good. Plus,” He pointed at Sam, “we need a special kind of burial grounds so he won’t walk again.”
Sam sighed, his hands dropping to his sides. “And it won’t burn?”
“Nah. Some curse! Dad was furious!” Dean snorted and shook his head, busying himself with the sheet. “We tried every possible flammable, - you were with the cops - gasoline, oil. Medical alcohol. Gunpowder. Just wouldn’t fuckin’ burn. You missed quit the show - dad used all of his cursing vocabulary on this pile of dismembered - thing. I was almost cryin’, it was hysterical. It just wouldn’t burn!” Laughed Dean, as if trying to burn the corpse of an undead being and failing at it was such a good memory.
Sam couldn’t keep his irritated, serious expression anymore. He smiled and gave out a small, yawny laugh. “Dad got riled up because of a pile of dismembered zombie crap. That’s one for the history books, most certainly.” He picked up the bag he needed and walked to the bathroom, shaking his head in amused disbelief.
Dean, now completely entangled in the sheet, laughed and shouted, “Don’t worry, the parts are all well wrapped in plastic!”
“I know! I wrapped the legs myself! I just thought you left it in the car!” Sam yelled back at him from the bathroom.
Dean finished his task, cursing through and through, then threw a judgmental stare at their only pillow.Could always hack it in two I guess…
He sighed, turned around and sat right on the bag with the body parts, staring at the ceiling casually while undoing his boots. He had a thought, and it was bugging him. “Huh.”
“Everything ok?” Asked Sam, peeking out from the bathroom, with his toothbrush stuck between his teeth.
Dean turned his glance at Sam and his toothbrush. “Yeah, yeah. All good. It’s just. This was one fucked up hunt. I mean, it was snackin’ on pets. Specifically. What’s up with that? Why voodoo-up a zombie, and just go and unleash it with the desire to munch on yorkies? What’s the fuckin’ deal? Voodoo priests, Sammy, I swear, they’re nuts. They have no reason to do what they do. No fuckin’ MOTIVE.” Dean complained. “I don’t get it. People are crazy.”
Sam pulled out his toothbrush and pointed at Dean’s impromptu sitting choice “Well, at least the thing is… immobile - “ he commented, with dry amusement, “ - for real now, and in bits and pieces. No need to worry anymore.” He shrugged, then walked back to the sink and turned on the water. “The priest was long dead, no one to go after. Leave it. That’s what you would’ve said to me.”
“’Suppose you are right.” Dean got up and switched places with Sam. “you go to sleep, I’ll be right over. I smell of… gasoline. Again. And cooking oil. I think. Have to wash it the fuck off.”
“Yeah, sure.”
A minute later, Dean came in, turning off the lights, leaving the room to the mercy of any ray of light brave enough to pass the filthy remnants of glass, still attached to the window frame, on god’s will alone as it seemed - or just sheer, old fashioned, pathetic stubbornness.
”This is the lowest of the lows we had ever squatted in, Dean.” Commented Sam, as if reading Dean’s mind. He was sitting cross legged, scratching his shoulder, and sporting the look of a person too tired to actually sleep.
“Unfortunately, yes. But hey, as long as there is a roof…” Dean rationalized with a yawn and a shrug, shirtless and not nearly dry enough. A rude drop of water was making its way down his navel. There was also a set of eyes following it.
And another set of eyes was following this set, knowing, measuring.
In a sudden motion, Dean threw his towel at Sam, who caught it without putting much thought to it, and catapulted it to the other corner of the room.
Static electricity.
Sam stared back and they locked gazes.
It’s a game of chicken. In reverse.
Sam. Sam was the one to break the moment. He stretched and turned over on his stomach, crashing into the pillow and planting his hands beneath it. “Oh god — I am gonna melt. These temperatures are killing me!”
“Then take off your shirt.” Said Dean casually, climbing over Sam to the other side of the bed - mattress,where it was pressed to the wall and had a better potential for cool air. “And sweatpants. I know I will be sleeping in my underwear, for christ’s sake, it’s a damn furnace here." Well that took an unexpected turn.
Sam grunted and turned around, “Yeah, sure,” he mumbled and pulled off his faded Ozzy shirt, clearly a familial legacy. Exhausted, he got stuck with his hands entangled in it over his head. Sam huffed and squirmed stubbornly, upper and upper, over the pillow, desperate to take it off, all in all achieving only one thing - a very disconcerting, maniacal laugh from his older brother. This was the last straw for the day as far as Sam was concerned.
“It’s fuckin’ small, I told you, I TOLD YOU, it was way - ! But NOOO, it’s OZZY, you can’t throw him away! Dean! Just! TAKE IT OFF ME!” He shouted, now somewhat frantic. Overreacting. Well done little brother.
“Fine! fine, stop moving, STOP SNAKIN’ AROUND - ” Laughed Dean, and grabbed the trapping t-shirt by its hem and pulled.
Sam emerged from underneath, heaving, blushing and annoyed. "Do me a favor and give it to charity.” He said dryly, after a moment of silence, and Dean’s muffled laugh.
“I will. Promise.” Dean chuckled, his tongue between his teeth, and turned to face the print on his once favorite shirt. “Well, Ozzy, dear, it’s time to say goodbye. It’s time for your eternal night!” He proclaimed, clearly talking to the t-shirt.
Sam stared and squinted. “Dean. Stop. That’s. I had enough weird for one day, thank you.”.
“Hey, you think we might dig it up from a good will box by some freaky coincidence one day? That would be so cool!” Dean suggested, eyes wide, all of his attention turned to Sam now, still holding the T-Shirt, as if on display, all dorky and playful.
Sam couldn’t hide his bitter laugh at the thought and his genuine amusement at his big brother.
“…That’s.. more then just grim, Dean.” He huffed, a crooked smile on his face.
“Eh, whatever.” Dean shrugged it off and threw the T-shirt away.
Sam was past exhausted. He rubbed his eyelids and turned over to bury himself under the pillow. Fakin’ sleep.
Dean couldn’t. He was sitting upright, his skin prickly and itchy, and his mind on third gear going onward.
I’m looking for trouble. Trouble is looking for me.
Ozzy stared at his previous owners from the floor.
Dean stared back.
Yeah I’m one for crazy trains, aren’t I.
The night was cloudless, and the illuminated shards of glass - reminiscent of sharp stalactites, decorating the innards of a cave - cast an intricate pattern over Sam’s back. A geometric wonder, of thorns - or teeth, a bit like -
“Woaa, Sammy - “ Dean blurted suddenly.
“What.”
“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me!” Said Dean, and poked Sam at his lower back.
“Ow. Stop. What?… A scar?… A bruise…? Doesn't hurt or anything…” Mummbled Sam into the mattress.
“No dude. You. OH MY GOD, YOU ARE SUCH A GIRL, YOU GOT - “ Dean jumped of the mattress, right over Sam, and ran into the bathroom.
I need -
“What… Dean - ” Sam exhaled a deep sigh, and turned over, coming to terms with his brothers’ sudden sugar-high mood. And to prove a point, he heard a rustle and the annoying screech of plastic against tile. Sam blinked, feeling the impending discord in his gut, and - of course, not a moment too late, Dean rushed back with the bathroom mirror in his hands.
“You… took the mirror… off the wall.” Pointed out Sam dryly.
“Yes.” Said Dean, apparently proud of himself, “dude, you GOTTA see them.”
“…see what…?” Asked Sam, now suspicious, and uneasy.
“Your STRETCH MARKS!” Announced Dean. - a distraction.
“I. DON’T. Have any stretch marks. What the hell - HEY!” Sam began, but it was futile, Dean flipped him over with one hand, the other still holding the mirror, two screws still hanging on it for their dear lives.
“Here, look. It’s probably ‘cause you shot up so much this past year - “ Dean started explaining, trying to place the mirror in a way that will allow Sam to see his own lower back.
“Oh. What the hell. Are these…?” Sam huffed, straining his neck backwards.
“I swear you are such a girl, you even got stretch marks! Huh!” Laughed Dean.
There was a moment of rustle and hustle, till Dean managed to place the mirror so Sam could see his own back perfectly.
Sam frowned, trying to reach the afflicted areas with his fingers. “…are they gonna go away or am I stuck with 'em forever…?” he wondered, now all thoughtful and worrisome, and traced one of the marks, obtaining a difficult position to do so.
“Hell if I know. But hey, who cares. It’s not like it’s an injury or somethin’. Hey Sam.” Dean silenced.
“What.” Sam was still tracing the marks and scowling at the mirror.
“They look like… little shark fins!” Barked Dean. That caught Sam off guard.
He froze over, and slowly shifted his gaze from the mirror to Dean, who was forcefully muffling a stream of giggles.
And that was it for him. Sam was tired, annoyed, and now he felt vulnerable, and he didn’t like it at all.
Sam flipped over in a blink of an eye, surprising Dean. Grabbing the mirror and sliding it down to the floor. He tackled his big brother and dragged him over the mattress.
“Stretch marks, huh? A girl, huh? Well, FUCK, I bet YOU got some of your own!” He seethed, both of them a mess of limbs and huffs and teeth. It wasn’t much of a fight, as both of them knew exactly how deadly they could be. It was more like two lion cubs fighting over an imaginary territorial privilege. Dean laughed and fought back, but he was right - Sam did shot up, and now, although not so bulky as him - Sam was indeed taller then before, and his strength - more prominent. Sam managed to flip Dean over, and nailed him by sitting on top of him, non apologetic and a little bit more then just giddy over his little victory.
“Now. Lets see.” Sam exclaimed, still fighting to take control over Dean’s hands. “Oh for GOD’S Sake! STOP SQUIRMING!” Sam laughed out, amused, and now totally awake.
“Huh! No way I got - “ Dean started.
“ - BUT YOU DO!” Laughed Sam out, cutting Dean.
“What??? Where???” Dean sounded affronted, as if he just got betrayed by his own body.
“…not on your lower back though…” Said Sam, deep in thoughts. Dean relaxed and tried to turn his head backwards even more then it was already possible.
“…then where?” Dean inquired, suddenly curious, as often as it was with him.
“Here.” Said Sam, and traced three barely visible white lines, starting from Dean’s right armpit and going over his shoulder. “But they seem real old, Dean, how the hell I haven’t noticed them before..?” Wondered Sam.
“Well, it’s not like you spend your spare time staring at my shoulders.” But you do. I know. “Let me see?”
Sam shuffled around and brought up the mirror. “See any?” He asked, positioning it, trying to catch the right angle.
“There, stop!” Dean blurted into the mattress. “Huh. Well I be damned. You are right.” He huffed silently, his cheek squashed.
“Why, you thought I would lie…?” Scowled Sam.
“No. It’s just. When a guy thinks he knows pretty much all there is to know about his own body… huh.” Dean mumbled, thoughtfully. “Where else?” He added, his expression all investigative and curious, as he rose to lean on his elbows.
“Well…” Sam obliged and shuffled, getting off Dean’s back and putting the mirror aside. He concentrated on Dean’s shoulder blades first, his fingers going all over his brothers’ bare skin with the precision and interest of an archaeologist, examining some newly uncovered relic.
As he proceeded, he moved lower and lower, slowly, looking closer and closer, until his bangs tickled the very surface of Dean’s skin.
“Here… and - ” Sam’s spidery fingers gently traced four more thin lines on Dean’s other shoulder; “ - here…”; two more on Dean’s sides, over his ribs,
” - and, weirdly enough, here.”, he said as he traced five or six more - they merged and separated randomly - over his inner thighs.
It was hard to figure out as it was - the marks being quite old and hard to pin-point, and the light source was pretty useless, too: some intruding yellow from a local street lamp - a poor mishap of even poorer city planing; and the sickly white of the moon. Sam had to force his eyesight to its’ maximum.
“There. All I can see right now.” He declared as he straightened up, “huh. It’s very personal, I guess. Varies from body to body…” he added in an afterthought. Still, he traced Dean’s spine, from tail bone to nape, searching for anything he might have missed, just in case, meticulous as ever.
He was so engrossed in his exploration, that it took him a moment to realize how silent and still Dean was, his face frozen and slightly tilted to the side.
Sam’s palm finally rested on his brother’s neck and he turned to stare at Dean’s face.
It was a sight to behold, and to get stunned by.
Dean’s eyes obtained a conflicting and mismatching appearance: his left reflected the yellows of the street lamp, partially shadowed by a very well defined cheekbone and a frown, bleary and unfocused; the other - catching the moonlight - fixed and distant, as if it was staring past the window this whole time without blinking, all on its own, independent of its sister, dry and sharp.
It took Sam by surprise, more then he would care to admit: It was beautiful.
It was alien.
Sam shook it off. Suddenly it was too silent. “Dean…?” He prompted and sat back, retrieving his inquisitive hands. It was too uncanny for his brother to just shut up over a new, world-shattering discovery. A weird, misplaced kind of panic crawled over him, the stillness of the moment bothering him more and more.
Dean finally budged and broke the illusion. He stretched his hands and buried his head under their shared pillow, giving no sound.
“Good night Sammy.” He mumbled after a moment from under it and shut up.
Sam was more then confused. He was bewildered. “…what…? Dean… what’s goin’ on…?” He tried to sound confident, but failed.
There was no answer, no movement.
Sam shuffled around and set cross legged, staring at his palms.
He glanced at Dean’s back, now lit with a mix of yellow and white - sharp-edged - forms.
Dean’s breath was so shallow, that the reflections seemed almost still. Sam couldn’t stop staring.
And so he did. For a few whole minutes, silent as the room, as the street. As Dean.
“Sammy… just. Go to sleep. Ok? Never mind it.” Eventually Dean mumbled.
Sam bit his lip. It wasn’t something entirely new. It was going on for months now. “I’m sorry.” He whispered. Sam was suddenly very much aware, of recent events, of his own recent thoughts, of his surroundings, of the moonlight, the street lamp - that fuckin’ street lamp, Dean - Dean’s - “Nothin’ to be sorry ‘bout.” Dean whispered, cutting Sam’s line of thought.
“Yeah, no, it’s.” Sam silenced. Then, decidedly, he turned over and curled over on his side, facing the wall, taking up the rest of the mattress.
His exhaustion faded entirely, leaving him with cold, lonely wakefulness and the feeling of unfinished business. It was as if a full chunk of his own flesh got ripped off, and was lying by his side - silent and inanimate.
Sam shuffled uneasily.
Dean didn’t move.