Work Text:
Your sentimental shakedown
rattles through my bones.
Honey won't you—honey please—
move your honey on?
Dean slugs back a shot of Jack, takes the sting of it in the back of the throat like a blessing. It's hot as shit outside and he's dumped his jacket into the backseat, his t-shirt’s clinging wetly against his back, but he doesn't want to go in. It's not like this shitty rental has air-con, in the middle of backward-ass Missouri, and anyway, it's not like there's anyone in the house. He might as well stay out here with the Impala. She's the best company he's got.
He drops one boot down to the thick-wild grass on the 'driveway,' rests the bottle on his thigh. Out here in the middle of nowhere the night's full of stars. No moon, and no lights on in the house, so there's a great view of the sky—but he's not interested, not now. He fumbles for another swallow of Jack, his fingers slippery-tight around the neck of the bottle. His luck, he'll drop it on the floorboards, and won't that be a fine thing to have to explain to Dad—that whiskey reek. No, sir, it's not you this time, sir.
Dean caps the bottle and drops it out onto the grass. Fuck it. And fuck the guilt at the thought, too. It's not like he'd ever work up the gumption to say it.
He drags a hand over his face, smearing wet. He's so tired of this.
Dad left on a hunt this morning. Dean could've gone with him, but somehow—like always happens lately—what should have been an easy scene of coffee/goodbye/go turned into a bitter shouting match, Sam screaming about unfair and unsafe, the same arguments, over and over, until Dean can pretty much recite them from memory.
Dean's a grown man, but sometimes he just wants to go down on his knees in front of his little brother and beg for mercy. But Sammy is nearly-seventeen, furious, self-righteous and fucking frustrating and just absolutely the center of everything Dean cares about, and isn't this always the way. So. Dad left this morning, alone (restless spirit, nothing he can't take care of on his own, but Dean should be there, should be at his back—), and Sam stormed off to school even though it's like the last week of the semester and they're gonna be out of this stupid town in less than a month, and Dean—well. He's right here. Where he always is.
He just doesn't know what Sam thinks the endgame on this is. Scream at Dad all you want, he feels like saying—it'll never make you normal. Winchesters are outsiders, and that's the way it's always going to be. There's no going back once you know how the dark can crawl up inside everything you love, how it can strip all that's good away until the only thing left is violence, pain. Fear. Sam doesn't know that, though, not yet. Not really. It's been everything Dean can do to keep Sam back from the really horrible shit, to keep him away from the torn-open bodies and the guts spilled out on the floor, from a husband clutching at the wet shreds of his wife, from little kids with empty eyes and blood on their hands.
He wipes at his eyes and then lurches half-over the seat to grab his jacket, digs for the phone in the pocket. He doesn't care if Sam's sulking at the library, or over at one of his little fake friend's houses, or hanging out in the parking lot of the Quik-E-Mart—he should be home. But, no, shit—Dean's Nokia is dead. Sam's always reminding him to charge it. He folds his fist around the plastic, brings his knuckles up to his mouth. Breathes in deep, eyes closed. It's late, but not unreasonably so. It'd be crazy to start driving all over town, to start looking, even if everything in his gut urges him to. He breathes out, shaky, puts a hand over his face. He can't even convince himself. He just wishes—but no, no. Better than anyone, he knows there's no point in praying.