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There was a dream—
I had it, too.
You could see it coming true.
It would travel in the air:
you could make it, if you dared.
Dean drops the needle onto the record and Bobby’s speakers hiss for a second before pulsing out the low sound of the blues. It’s an old one, older than anything they’ve got in the box of tapes. Bobby doesn’t have anything post-1980, anyway, so he’ll take what he can get: crackling-old guitar, a low humming in an empty room. Yeah. This’ll do.
It’s late. Bobby’s in bed, or at least not here. Giving them some space, maybe, though he’d paralyze himself again before he’d admit it. “You want a beer?” Dean says.
There’s no answer. He turns around and Sam’s just… sitting there. Elbows on his knees, hunched forward so the huge muscular shape of him looks small against the dusty couch. His hands are twisted tight together, like he’s praying. Dean’s chest is tight, but he clears his throat, shoves through it. “Hey, Jumbo,” he says, a little louder. “Beer or no.”
Sam shrugs. Doesn’t look up. “Yeah, thanks.” His voice is quiet, subdued.
There’s a horrible heat behind Dean’s eyes, but he blinks it back. Has to. He retrieves four beers from Bobby’s fridge, the last of the twelve-pack, and thinks that they’ll need to restock, soon—but they won’t, will they. He closes the fridge door and leans against it for a second, eyes closed. Fuck. Fuck, but he can’t wallow, not right now. He sniffs, hard, clears his throat again. When Sam takes a bottle from him, wordlessly, his fingers are freezing.
Dean wants, more than anything, for this not to be happening. He wants to go back to that conversation on the car and go down on his knees and beg Sam, please, anything but this. Anything but willingly sending his brother alone into the fire.
On the record, a new song starts: Lord, have mercy on me, and Sam flinches. “Can we—Dean—“ he stammers, finally glancing up, and Dean’s already over at the record player, yanking the needle away with a long scratch over the vinyl.
“Sorry, Sammy,” he says, throat thick, but Sam shakes his head, says, “No, it’s fine, put something on, I want—just, something else. Please.” His face is buried in his hands. Dean swallows bile, nods, even if Sam can’t see it.
In the sudden quiet, Dean flips through the records, inspecting the dusty sleeves. Finds a familiar picture. “Huh,” he says.
Folky guitar, a woman’s voice. He takes the remaining beers and sits on the couch right next to Sam. It’s melancholy, slow, but at least it’s not talking about the goddamn Lord. “I think Mom used to listen to this one,” Dean says.
Sam lets out a sigh, long and shaky. Dean doesn’t dare look over at him. He takes a deep swallow from his beer and Sam follows suit. They’re pressed close, bodies aligned at shoulder and hip and knee, their boots knocked together.
“Dad used to play this, didn’t he,” Sam says.
Yeah, he did, Dean remembers. When he was drunk, and lonely, and life was too hard. When it was too much to bear. He doesn’t say anything. His throat’s still stopped up. How did it come to this, he thinks. Beside him, Sam breathes low and slow, familiar, and there are so many things Dean wants to talk about. So much he wishes they could have done. Lives they could have had. But—those days are gone, if they ever were. In the morning, they’re going to hunt demons. They’re going to cut them, bleed them dry, so that Sam can take the poison into himself, so he can be strong enough to save the world. So that he can—Dean shudders, all over, his bones flinching inside his skin. Sam presses closer, their shoulders grinding painfully together, but when Dean looks Sam’s eyes are closed.
There’s nothing to say. They drink their beer. Eventually they’ll have to sleep, or not; eventually they’ll have to pile into the car and head into the vile, broken future. For now: this. Dean closes his eyes, matches his breathing to Sam’s. He takes what he can get. On the record, the woman sings, alone, accompanied by a single, quiet guitar.