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“Just drop it, man. I ain’t wanna hear ‘bout it.”
You’re in Nowhere, Arkansas, putting miles in the rearview on some unending stretch of roads between Beverly and Lavaca. It doesn’t mean anything. The night is warm enough, and the windows are rolled all the way down. The wind smells of rain and it mixes weirdly with the stale smell of the car’s leather seats. The road has seen better days. The tires bump into something every few minutes. Dean’s clearly annoyed.
You sigh, heavy, and turn your head to look at the graying sky over the fields. You can taste ozone and bile on your tongue. Your hands move vaguely in the direction of everything Dean, dropping back onto your lap soon after. It does not mean anything. Glass bottles clink in the backseat as you drive through another shallow hole.
“I’m tired of this, Dean.” You clear your throat, still looking ahead. “Just talk to me, dude.”
Dean only shoots a glance into the rearview mirror and loosens his grip on the wheel before pulling off the road. He mutters something about shrinks under his breath and catches his lower lip between his teeth for a short second. You don’t say anything. It means nothing. You think you can hear water splashing somewhere nearby. The car slows, the lights turn off. The engine is off before you can even say anything, and you’re convinced your brother thinks the Impala could use a break, too.
The door creaks open and Dean’s out. It closes again with a thump, and you can see him walking away from the car. You just sigh again. Shake your head slightly. Dean disappears behind the tree line. You reach back and grab two bottles of beer. The glass feels cool in your hand.
You get out of the car to sit on the hood. The metal is still warm. The air is still pleasant—still ozone and rain, late winter and fog gathering on the fields. Some trees are hiding you where Dean parked the Impala. It’s dark now, without the headlights. You unscrew the cap of the bottle, losing it on the ground. You take a swig and wait.
Dean comes back a few minutes later. His expression tells you enough—that he’s well damn annoyed with you and everything; that he would much rather be doing something else entirely. Doing a pretty blonde with too much makeup on, behind a sketchy bar somewhere, maybe. Or—or something. You choose not to think about it.
Your left arm moves toward Dean, handing him the beer that was propped against your thigh. You lick your lips and take another long sip. Dean works his own open and drinks what seems like a half of it in one go. His arms stretch to the sides, and he looks at you with expectant eyes, making his way to sit next to you.
“What do you want me to tell you, Sam?”
Dean raises an eyebrow at you, questioning. You want to shake your head; want to grab him by the collar of that stupid jacket and beat some sense into his thick skull—but you don’t. You only find enough will inside to let out an exasperated huff. The corners of your mouth twitch in a bleak, sheepish smile. You think your brother might’ve just gone off the deep end. For good.
“I don’t know. That you care. At all. Maybe. Anything,” you say and wave your hand around, gesturing at everything and nothing. Your jaw clenches. “I want you to tell me you’re not just giving up.”
You can feel Dean slouching next to you—the tension in his muscles melting away just a bit. You lean toward him. Slightly. Not much. Almost touching. It doesn’t matter. You tilt your head to look at him. The bottle feels slippery in your hand. You wonder if the glass would break if it hit the ground, falling from your grip and catching on a small rock buried in the dirt. You wonder if this is how it all is in the bigger picture, too. You feel anger boiling in your chest, heartbeat echoing between your ribs.
When Dean speaks again, his voice and his words are all wrong, and none of it is what you expected—what you were preparing for, what you were crafting your arguments against. He just sounds tired instead. Sort of hollow. Away, somehow.
“I’m tired,” he says, shrugging. “At least it means something that way. I don’t regret it, Sam. Couldn’t if I tried.”
You can feel him staring at you after you look away, trying to notice something in the darkness, something that isn’t even there. Your fingers clench around the neck of the bottle—you want to throw it, smash it. Break it. You want to punch Dean for being fucking stupid, too. You don’t.
“Don’t—don’t give me that.” You finally look at your brother, eyes narrowing. You lick your teeth, tasting the piss-like beer. “You should’ve left me dead.”
***
You’re in Nowhere, Arkansas, stuck in a motel room somewhere on the east side of the White River. The case seems to be a dead end after a dead end. You’re growing restless, growing annoyed. You can’t crack it, and it’s pissing you off.
Dean’s chewing on something on the bed—too loud and too messy. You turn to look at him, to say something, bark at him. But you can’t find your voice when you see him. The words won’t come, stuck in your throat, just as you’re stuck in this goddamn place. You smack your lips instead. Dean looks at you, then.
“What?”
He asks like it’s nothing; like he’s offended by the way you’re looking at him, the way you might just be thinking too loud. The radio’s playing some mullet rock, distracting you from the research—it's playing some mullet rock, and Dean’s humming along, distracting you from everything. It doesn’t mean anything. You sigh.
“Nothing.” You shake your head, eyes angry. “Don’t know what it is that I’m not seeing. It’s just another blank.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“Dean.”
But he only stretches, then. Gets up, taking one-two-three steps in your direction, crossing the meaningless distance between you in the room. He puts a hand on your shoulder, leaning down to look at the screen, at your notes. He steals your beer and takes a swig. The ring on his finger clinks against the glass. His thumb brushes the skin over the collar of your shirt.
“Kinda looks like a zombie problem,” he says. “Awesome.”
***
You’re in Nowhere, Arkansas, and it’s the middle of the night. You’re covered in dirt and sweat, covered in old blood and kerosene. Your jeans are ripped from knee down, left leg stinging and going numb. That one’s on you—you fucked up. Dean’s crouching next to you, hands checking for any other wounds. You hiss when his fingers dig into the deep cut on your calf. You dig your fingernails into his shoulder in return.
“C’mon, Sammy,” he says. “Don’t be a pussy about it.”
Dean says it like he’s annoyed, but you know your brother. You know his voice is laced with worry. You know his heart’s beating fast, adrenaline kicking in again. His hands are gonna start shaking in a few minutes.
The Impala’s about half a mile away, the cemetery is dark, and you screwed the job up. You try to get up. Dean pulls your weight up and throws your arm over his shoulders. He’s murmuring something to himself before looking at you from the corner of his eye.
“We're outta here.”
You only nod and lean against your brother. His body feels warm next to yours. None of it matters. You know.
***
You’re in Nowhere, Arkansas, at a pit stop a few miles off the junction of Mississippi and Tennesse. Dean’s hunched under the hood of the car, cursing and spitting on the ground when something clinks and rolls off, away, disappearing from his sight. You’re bent over the map and notes, over the journal, all splayed across the closed trunk. You’re trying to figure out where to go from here, what to do.
You called Bobby a few days back. You told him about the bullshit case, told him you can’t do jack shit now, and you’re not gonna let Dean go alone because he’s only going to kill himself like that. Your leg still hurts. Bobby said he would send somebody else. He told you to rest up. Told you to keep Dean close. You wanted to scoff at him. You didn’t. It doesn’t matter, doesn’t mean anything.
When you close your eyes, you can almost smell the musky decay of the Mississippi River in the air, even knowing damn well you’re too far away. You think there’s a job in Oklahoma. You think Dean might just kill you if you tell him you want to cross the entire state again. You think you might just let him.
But Dean only emerges from under the hood and rubs his hands together. There’s oil smeared on them. There’s oil on his right temple where he must’ve scratched at it while working. He spits on the ground again, clearly pissed. You hand him a beer from the broken cooler. It’s warm and disgusting, but it’s all you have. He looks at you like you just handed him ambrosia instead.
“Know what’s wrong,” he says, and you know he’s still thinking about the car, too focused on that to be bothered with putting sentences together properly. You watch him gulp down a third of the beer in one go. “An hour, maybe.”
Your brother’s rarely wrong when it comes to the Impala. Sometimes you think he knows the damn car better than he knows himself. Or that maybe he does know himself pretty well, but he can never be bothered enough to show you that. You know him, of course you know him, but you can’t tell what’s going through his head half the time these days. He doesn’t want to talk to you and there’s only so much you can come up with. You just hum in answer, trying to figure out his expression.
He shoots you a puzzled look. You disregard it. Tilt your head and reach out with your hand. Your fingers brush against Dean’s temple. He leans into it first, eyes fluttering slightly, and frowns at you second. You try to wipe the engine oil from his skin, your tongue moving against your teeth in the same motions as your fingers. Dean’s just looking at you, eyes wide and green in the sunlight. You take your hand away. It doesn’t mean anything.
“Right,” your brother says, looking away.
“Right,” you repeat, looking back at your notes.
Dean clears his throat, finishes the bottle and lets it drop to the ground. You’ll pick it up later.
He says, “We should be good to go in about an hour.” And goes back to work. He says, “You better figure out where we’re going by then.”
***
You’re in Nowhere, Arkansas, somewhere in the north-west, because you talked Dean into taking that job in Oklahoma somehow. Four people over the past month, you said, one person a week, same neighborhood. And Dean just agreed, because he’s been just as restless as you.
But right now, you’re in a roadhouse some miles outside Huntsville. It’s filthy and the air inside is stale, thick with smoke and sweat. Dean made sure the jukebox is blaring Warrant and Styx, some Zeppelin, and now he’s off in the crowd.
Your beer’s getting warm, but it’s still better than the one you’ve got in the car. The chair in front of you is empty, still waiting for your brother to come back and take a seat. Still taunting you with the idea of being alone like this. Because Dean’s got other things to do—girls in the bathrooms and waitresses in the backhouse. His jacket isn’t thrown over the chair—because it never is; because your brother never leaves it behind when he’s flirting, too convinced it helps him score. Like he needs any help with that, you think, like there’s a goddamn person in this world who wouldn’t give it to him if he asked.
Your jaw clenches and your leg stings when you move it, looking around and trying to find Dean in the crowd with your eyes. But he isn’t there, and you’re not sure how you feel about it. You bring the bottle to your lips again, debating if you should get another one, maybe. Or maybe just go back to the room you got for the night.
But there’s a hand on your shoulder before you actually do anything. You know it’s Dean before you turn back to look, but the touch still startles you. His hand rests more on your neck than on your shoulder, just above the junction there. Fingers brushing against your ear, sliding into your hair just a bit. Dean’s hand doesn’t move when you do—doesn’t fall away when you look at him. There’s a girl standing behind him. Her eyeliner is smeared, and her hair looks greasy in this light. You raise an eyebrow at her, eyes moving back to your brother, and you think she can tell something’s not right. She fidgets when you grab Dean’s wrist, pulling his hand away from your face. You narrow your eyes.
She says, “Maybe I should go, Sam.”
But she’s clearly looking at Dean. You want to laugh right there and then. Your brother’s expression falters, the lopsided smile falling from his face. That’s just rich.
“Yeah, Sam.” Your voice is low. You yank Dean closer, down. “How about she leaves, and you stay the fuck here, Sammy.”
It’s not even a question. The girl’s gone before either of you says anything else. Dean licks at his lips and steals your beer again, circling the rickety table to sit down. There’s a smirk dancing around his mouth, and it makes you angry. Makes you feel like you missed the joke by a mile; almost like you were supposed to be the punchline. You snatch the beer back. Dean only laughs.
“The hell, man?”
“Didn’t like her, much,” he only says, shrugging. “Figured you wouldn’t either.”
***
You’re in Nowhere, just outside of Arkansas, and your leg’s still acting up like a bitch. Dean didn’t ask and you didn’t say anything, but he still stopped to get a room just off the Interstate. Told you to rest and took off by himself before you even managed to say anything. You called him three times. Nothing. Nada.
And now you’re trying to call him again, but it goes straight to voicemail—and it’s only making you more annoyed. You’re closer to throwing your cell against the dusty motel wall than you’d care to admit when the door finally unlocks and opens. Dean slips inside, a six-pack in one hand, and a plastic bag in the other. He’s got a stupid smile lingering around his mouth, and you want to punch it off his face. He looks at you and that smile turns into a grin, teeth showing.
“Hey, I got you that,” he pauses, setting the beer down and digging around the bag with his free hand. “That rabbit food you like. The thing.”
He throws a protein bar and a sealed bowl of salad at you. You look between the food and your brother. It’s sort of making you feel like an idiot. Dean pulls some pie from the bag. You just scoff instead of saying anything then.
He sits next to you on the bed. The TV you put on earlier is playing quietly in the background, an old slasher flashing on the screen. It suddenly feels like it’s too loud. You only look at Dean, putting the bowl away, leaving it on the nightstand.
“Thanks,” you struggle out, suddenly feeling lost. The annoyance is fading away, replaced by something else, and you don’t really want to think about it.
“You owe me.”
He’s biting into the pastry, mouth full and crumbles falling everywhere, on your bed, but the smirk is audible in Dean’s voice, so you just shake your head. There’s a knot in your stomach. It’s almost making you feel sick, but you swallow it down, the muscles in your cheek twitching. The cherry filling from the pie smears in the corner of Dean’s mouth, and that makes you somewhat angry again, or—or something. You scoff again. Dean only shoots you a weird look out of the corner of his eye.
You think about your brother, and you think about your life three months from now. You want to smash Dean’s head against the wall for being a reckless idiot. You want your roles reversed so you would taste the hell you deserve. You want Dean to live. You grab his wrist instead, fingers digging into the skin, his pulse thrumming under your touch. It feels like there’s acid in your veins instead of blood, flowing through your heart and making it burn in your chest. Your jaw clenches. Dean frowns at you.
“The fuck, Sam?”
He looks at you like it’s you going off the deep end, and not him. He looks at you like it’s you making insane decisions and not himself, like you’re the crazy son of a bitch that made the deal at the crossroads. It feels like you’re dying all over again.
“Doesn’t matter.” You pull him closer, teeth showing. “Doesn’t mean anything.”
Your mouth tastes sour when you lean in; sour and stale with the irony of your entire life. You want to breathe the time you’ve stolen from Dean back into his lungs. You taste the pastry from his lips instead.
Dean goes still. His breath catches, and this is all wrong. It’s all wrong because you’re stealing everything from him again, and you can feel the taste of decay in the back of your throat. You’re supposed to be dead, and Dean’s supposed to have a life outside of you, outside of this rotten thing haunting you. But he opens his mouth—and you hate him for it. Hate yourself for feeling alive right then.
Dean bites down and you’re both tasting blood, mixing with breath and saliva. You push him down. Splayed your hand on his chest, pressing your weight down on him until he’s got trouble breathing. The pie slips from his hand, falls down and hits the filthy carpet. You’re still holding onto his wrist, pinning it to the mattress next to his head. You can feel his heart, still beating. You want to crack his ribcage open and crawl inside.
“Sam,” he hisses.
You know his spine must hurt under the pressure. He doesn’t try to fight you.
“Shut up.” Your hand moves up from his chest, fingers wrapping around his throat to feel the blood pumping through his veins, to feel his pulse under your fingertips. “I hate you.”
Dean huffs out a humorless laugh. Your fingers tighten.
You repeat, “I hate you.”
You kiss him again.
***
You’re back in Nowhere, Arkansas, because the guy Bobby sent didn’t make it. Your leg’s still fucked, but it’s better than it was, and it’s got to be enough. Dean’s driving, humming a song and tapping his fingers against the wheel, and there are bruises in the shape of your fingers around his throat.
The night is warm enough, and the windows are rolled all the way down. The wind smells of rain and it mixes weirdly with the stale smell of the car’s leather seats. You look at the sky, feeling hollow inside. It doesn’t mean anything.
It means everything instead.