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Stomp the drum good and loud, shake them walls down.
Scream and holler, jump about all together now.
Ain't nothing like a lie to gather 'round—
they promised me heaven,
I was hoping for so much more.
Dean’s eyes slam open into the dark and the sickness is twisting in him, his stomach a hard tight coil. He grips the sheets, pulls air deep and even through his nose, until the urge to vomit settles a little. He turns his face into the damp heat of the pillow, breathes his own sour breath for a few moments. He pushes himself up. It’s dark, still—two in the morning, by the bedside clock. He scrapes his hands through his hair, leans his elbows on his knees. He can’t count how many times he’s startled awake, just like this, dark in front of and behind his eyes.
Sam’s a huge, silent lump in the other bed. He can’t tell if he woke Sam up this time or not, but he’s not about to ask. He feels—nasty. Grimy, sweat slicking his neck and back, like there are terrible things under his nails, embedded in the lines on his palms. Can’t take a shower now, though, that’d wake Sam up for sure. Way too obvious. He realizes he’s dragging his palms over his jeans, jerky repetitive motions, and forces himself to stop—then forces himself to his feet. He’s breathing hard, for no good reason. He shoves into his boots in the dark, grabs the keys and his jacket and slips out of the motel room into the frigid November night.
A minute later he’s stretched out on the hood of the Impala, the fifth he’d hidden from Sam that morning in hand, the engine purring away under his back. He’s got one of his old mixtapes cranked just loud enough that he can hear it over the V8, and the combination of rye whiskey and internal combustion and Ritchie Blackmore’s guitar is slowly, slowly easing the tension out of his bones. Might be about thirty degrees out here, but the air is clear and cold when he takes a deep breath, clean. That’s good enough for him.
He turns up the collar of his jacket, takes a deep swallow off the fifth. God, he’s tired. Ever since they left Concrete, Sam’s been giving him these careful looks. Dean doesn’t know what he expects to see. He gave up something, back on that dumb boardwalk, just to get Sam off his back about the whole thing, but, shocker, that wasn’t enough for Sam. Nothing ever is. It’s not enough that Dean told him part of the truth. He wants to pry deeper, wants to get inside Dean’s head, wants to pull him apart to see what makes him tick—
He shudders all over, his stomach turning again with a surge of acid, and—damn it, damn it. He curls over himself, sucks in air ‘til it bites in the back of his throat, jagged and icy-sharp. Fuck, it hurts, and his head’s swimming a little (when did he last eat? He remembers the beer at dinner, but nothing else—nothing but Sam, biting his lip to not ask what he was so obviously thinking, his brow furrowed and his hands twisted, like it was Sam who had things behind his eyes he’d never un-see, like Sam was the one who was forever damned, like his was the soul that was corroded, twisted—)
He shakes his head. He’d head to a bar, but they’re closed. It’s late enough that the night people are going home, early enough that no one else is stupid enough to be out here, in the cold, self-pitying and alone.
The worst part, he thinks (takes another deep swallow, and he’ll need another bottle soon)—the worst part is the angels. If they’re not bullshitting, and there really is God, then—what the hell. What the fuck. How dare He. How dare this be the great plan, the guiding force behind life. Everything’s all wrong. The angels aren’t trustworthy and Sam’s always checking his phone, waiting for a demon’s call, and how can this be it.
Dean died seven months ago. He knew he was going down south and he was okay with that. It was worth the cost. But then, against all odds, he was rescued—the light reached down to him in the muck and blood, and pulled him up, and for what? For a second chance at an afterlife, this has been…fucking shitty. He’s not deluded enough to think that it’ll get better. He drains the last inch in the bottle, sets it empty on the hood. The tape has run out and it’s quiet, except for the engine. Maybe this is what hell is: that it never ends. His hands are shaking, but he can blame that on the cold.