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A lazy ray of morning sunshine crept through the window. Slow, meticulous.
A cold, unforgiving light, a sharp-edged form, catching and freezing flakes of powdery dust on its way.
—Withered plaster, decaying fibers, dried off hair and skin, broken wings of flies and moths, remnants of wooden splinters —
It was stealth enough, but Dean saw it, slowly tracing its path, always a hunter, always alert, his eyes open wide, focused. Over the curtains, the chair, the pile of clothes on the floor. Up the bed. Over the pillows. Over pale skin of five gently curved fingers. Over resting muscle and bristling fine hairs.
Up and up and upper it slithered -
Up onto Sam’s shoulder, over it, over the headboard -
Dean blinked.
Sam.
Sammy.
Sam was sprawling on the bad, the heavy covers reaching up to the middle of his back, his face tucked into the angle of his own arm, his neck and hair being the only parts to bath in this harsh, white light.
Dean took another sip from his beer.
It was too early for alcohol, but he didn’t care. Not really. It was better then the alternative.
His bare chest was rising and dropping in slow motions, stunned by the cold air, the alcohol and the early hour. His body was carelessly slumped over a wooden rocking chair, whose rocking days were long gone and forgotten; his bare skin clothed in a pair of raggedy, unzipped jeans and nothing else. Barefoot, bare knuckled, raw… pliant and accessible to the cool bite of winter.
Numb.
Stunted, emotionless white marble.
Or better yet, a pile of withered plaster, decaying fibers, dried off hair and skin, broken wings of flies and moths, remnants of wooden splinters —
Dean felt his body shrink at the cold, his ribs quivering; marveled at the feeling, recognized it.
His mind was dimly obsessed with a muted sense of a tingle, carefully leaving it’s post at his fingertips and slowly climbing up his limbs, to center somewhere along his torso. It gathered there all at once and lingered for a while, before it sank down to his abdomen, then his belly, and all the way down, down and down.
It was more then he could ask for, this calm, detached reality. He wanted it to last forever. To drown in it. To drift away, be forgotten.
Left alone.
Alone with -
A sudden screech from the driveway woke him up - his eyeballs running amok within their respective sockets before anything else had the chance to respond. Then, in a sudden display of sheer muscle memory, his body animated itself, just seconds before his brain managed to follow.
He jumped off the chair he was glued to for the past twenty minutes or so, and without giving much thought to it - rushed up to the door as he was - just him, his unzipped jeans clinging to his hipbones for dear life, and the beer bottle.
Me, myself and I…
…Dad.
He had to meet Dad outside, alone, oh god, there was no other option.
That was the only conscious thought he managed to produce, to explain to himself his own behavior.
John slammed the door of a stolen pick-up truck, and approached the cabin.
That was Dean’s cue, his heart beating faster, cold sweat - colder then usual- gathering at his hair line. He opened the cabin's door and stepped outside.
Taking another sip - play it cool - he leaned on the wooden railing.
He managed to overcome the heartbeats; the damp, rotting wood becoming the new center of his attention.
“Hey.” John greeted, his hands inside his jeans pockets, his breath sending little huffs of heat into the cool air.
“Hey.” Answered Dean, his gaze planted into the dirt beneath the porch.
“So.. the sheriff sends her regards…” John began, closing in the distance.
Dean huffed, and gave a crooked smile, “Really…? What did she say..?”
“That.. you… are … always invited to.. investigate…” John paraphrased, stepping closer with each word, suggesting a completely different, original, wording.
This was familiar territory. By some celestial intervention, by a total coincidence, John managed to throw his son the best possible end of rope to pull himself up with: Sexual hints and innuendos. Dean grinned to himself, and span on his heels, meeting his father with a smirk, leaning on the railing in a way no son should ever lean in in front of his father. Or any other member of his family, as a matter of fact.
John gave out a little laugh and rolled his eyes at the roof of the porch, in a gesture that could only mean something along the lines of “..dear Lord, what am I gonna do with ya…”.
Dean felt saved. By the bell, the cow and the whole fuckin’ grass field itself.
His heart beats were decreasing, and his sweaty palms were now obviously sticking to the bottle.
…And to the railing - wooden or not, it seemed to be irrelevant to the frosty morning air. Ice is ice…
He calculatedly shifted and placed the bottle aside, averting further damage to his skin.
“Sam awake?” Asked John, right back to business.
“Uh, no Sir. No.” Answered Dean, his face as plain and simple as he could manage, and cleared his throat. He plastered a casual smile on his face just to be on the safe side. The cold was getting to him by now, making him stutter and shiver.
“Wake him up, we are out of here in an hour tops.” Rushed John, and turned around. “And put something on will ya. What were you thinking going out like that…? You’ll get sick and I’ll be in deep shit.” He reasoned with a shrug and a - justified - frown, lighting a cigarette.
Then, with a creak of his leather jacket, he picked up the beer bottle from the wooden, icy floor, toasted at Dean, for a job well done and a case well solved, and turned towards the car, taking a sip with each step.
Dean released the air that was trapped inside his cold-bruised lungs and stepped inside the cabin, silently closing the door behind him.
His lips and fingertips tinted blue.
His feet ice-cold.
His vision disoriented, panicked. His jaw clenched.
Sam was wide awake and set on the edge of the bed, his hands to his sides, clutching the fabric of the covers with the grip of a drowning man.
His long legs and the battered bed resulted in his ankles splaying flat on the floor instead of his heels, toes curled almost defensively.
He was naked and flushed, his cheeks the tender shade of pink, hair tousled in every which way. His stare was lowered and focused somewhere on the floor.
Somewhere at Dean’s feet.
Looking for clues, for any kind of guidance. From me.
Dean pulled himself up and focused, regaining a smidgen of his usual composure.
He had a situation to maintain.
“Dress up.” He commanded hoarsely, and without giving Sam any second glances or much time for thought, he marched towards the bedside, where their pile of clothes was lingering accusingly, and crouched beside it.
Sam didn’t budge.
Dean shuffled through the pile. Then, registering no moves, he looked at Sam intently, licking his lips, trying to phrase his urgency as non-violently as possible.
“Now Sammy. Don’t think too much. Don’t stop, don’t hesitate, just roll with it. Got it?” He spouted the commands dryly, as if they were a grocery list, sorting through the clothes methodically, making myself useful - don’t you give it much thought there is no need better this way just don’t think it over too much is just is MOVE
“Got it.” Whispered Sam finally.
A pair of socks made their way to his lap.