[It's about a day later, after that horrible, wonderful conversation full of snot and tears and tense promises to be better — do better — from both sides. Sam doesn't emerge, doesn't so much as make a peep, though any check-ins on him will find he's either sleeping or reading through the network with grimly set brows.
But then, with so much less fanfare:]
I have to pee.
[...]
I can't leave the weird fire circle without help.
[That's code for 'he's ready to come up and be a person in the house instead of an animal.
... But it's also code for 'I really do need to pee'.]
[ Honestly, he can't recall a time he ever read 'I have to pee' and smiled to himself. But that's what's happening right now. His Fluid is tossed onto the island counter in the kitchen and he wanders out the front to grab the hose.
This is a big moment and hell yes he's going to lighten the mood by a little hose down. For the fire, obviously. But if he gets Sam a little too? Well, that's what big brothers are for. Skating past the obvious momentous occasion not wanting to make a big deal about it in favor of being the jackass holding the hose.
It only just reaches down into the basement, though not quite far enough inside of the panic room. Pushing the door open he catches Sam's eye before returning to the hose head and squeezing the trigger. Water jets out and collides with the nearest side of the fire circle, and it takes way more than he thought it would to actually put it out enough for Sam to step through. ]
Thought I'd offer a shower service free of charge.
[ His expression is outwardly a shit-eating grin, but inside he's still nervous. What if he's not good enough to make sure that Sam's good? ]
[He stands nervously while he waits for Dean to come down. Some part of him wonders if Dean'll change his mind, have second thoughts about letting some idiot with Lucifer crammed down his throat out of here after all —
And then he gets a splash of water in his face, just as the stream peters down enough to actually hit the fire in front of him. He jerks like a startled dog, and then stands there with all the grace of one after the fact, his hair stuck to the front of his face before he slowly reaches up to peel his bangs back to reveal —
A bitchface, temporary and fleeting and unused in as much as five years.]
Dude.
[Clipped, huffy, that kind of petulance a shaggy-headed, sweater-wearing kid just out of Palo Alto would employ. His dimples flash with the disapproval before he steps out of the now defeated put-out ring.]
[... He stops in front of Dean after a few steps to meet him, hesitant, swallowing hard as his hands curl tightly on the straps of the backpack he's shouldering. Like he wants to say something.
Something big, something too difficult to put into words-]
[ Oh that bitchface is more than welcome. Hell, Dean might even admit at some point that he missed it. For now he's reaching up to wipe some of that gross hose water out of his damn eye. Thanks, Sammy.
Squeezing the trigger again, it's aimed at Sam's feet this time. It's just a short spurt of water, but it's enough in terms of payback. ]
Whoops. Finger slipped.
[ He might have an itchy trigger-finger sometimes, but he's never shot off a round without meaning to. Sam knows that. Either way he'll take this over Sam hiding out down in the basement.
After the conversation he had with Cas about the panic room yesterday? He needs something else to focus on. ]
Always here to help, Sammy.
[ It's been a long time since he's called Sam by that nickname. He knows it. Feels it in a way that means a lot more than he's really letting on, but he doesn't let the moment linger. Pushes on ahead to forge a path onward. ]
Get cleaned up while you're up there. I'm full on Martha Stewarting in the kitchen.
[ The smell of some kind of stew has permeated the air upstairs, and maybe it's starting to creep down into the basement. ]
[Sam jumps a little at the sudden spray at his feet, but then he nudges past his brother with a little huff of breath (but really, it had been caught in his throat at the nickname; hearing it lately from someone who is actually Dean has been — an experience). Whatever faux annoyance falls away and leaves that raw layer of reluctance, though, and he looks out the door of the basement with some uncertainty. Like he's not sure if he should actually go or not.]
... Martha Stewart if she wore combat boots and flannel, sure.
[It's a soft little jab, not quite as confident as it would have been years and years ago.
The moment the smell of stew hits him his stomach growls ferociously, clenching in boycott. He honestly couldn't remember when he'd eaten last; he brought snacks in the backpack, sure, but he had been too busy thinking for the last 24 hours.
As Dean comes up to meet him, he seems — to withdraw a little, looking at Dean with wild hair and a rumpled shirt. He probably looks like a crazy person. He kind of is a crazy person, to some degree; wouldn't blame anyone from turning tail and running if they crossed paths with him in a dark alley.
That stew smells really good.]
Right. Uh. Shower, I guess. Been too long.
[Lucifer never had to shower. Angels are apparently just perfectly content to never get a smudge of grime on even a single prissy wing.
... He said a shower would be good, but he seems frozen at the entrance of the basement anyway.]
[ The temptation to hover around Sam is so strong that Dean visibly has to check himself. Truth is he wants nothing more than to give Sam as much of a normal life as they've ever been able to have, and that's without the added layer that Deerington brings. But things can't work like that. Doesn't mean he has to like it. ]
Maybe her time in a 6 by 8 includes biker boots and leather.
[ Stupid, off-the-wall conversations that don't really mean anything. Eventually they're going to have to talk about what's going on here, about the fact that Sam's still housing the devil. But until then? He gets a running commentary complete with dumb references that nobody else around here seems to get. Ever. ]
I haven't seen Cas.
[ Which isn't to say he's not around, but Dean's yet to pick up a conversation with the dude again after he'd confessed to being the asshole who let Sam out of the panic room way back when.
Not that he's going to talk about that right now either. Instead he turns and heads for the stairs up to the ground floor, the hose dragging into a bigger loop behind him as he returns the way he came. ]
Clean up. Food's good any minute.
[ He tosses his words over his shoulder assuming Sam's following. He hopes he is. He's not going to hold his hand but he's trying real hard for normalcy here. ]
[Sam dreads that conversation, honestly. But Sam's also looking a little under the weather, and if Dean looks carefully, there's no doubt a jitter to one of his arms that hasn't quite dissipated — a kind of trembling that he'd had every once in a while after a hunt, when he'd been downing demon blood to keep steady. He can only be relieved that whatever Lucifer's doing to his body is also keeping him from reliving a genuinely heinous detox.
Gnawing his lip, he finally steps out into the hallway, looking... lost.
Stands there like a perturbed statue for a moment, and says softly-]
I hope he's alright.
[Cas, that is. He's still bruised up, probably. Sam did that. People say blame the person behind the gun, not the bullet — but Sam loaded that gun, didn't he? He said yes. He's culpable. There's so much blood on his hands, he's not even sure where to begin scrubbing them clean (if Dean knew just what these hands've done, would he have let him out here, like nothing's wrong?)
He snaps out of his little trance, shivering from a chill that came from deep within himself. He doesn't quite follow Dean; he moves to walk around the mud room before entering a bigger space, looking at the decor with quiet interest. These are the sorts of houses they'd occasionally investigate during hunts. Never would they live in one, before now. He's kind of scared to touch anything, like he'll dirty it up with his rotten germs.
Should you really be out here?
Who knows. But he looks back at Dean, clearing his throat.]
I've got spare clothes. Guessing the shower is, um. Upstairs.
[This place is big. He's very much used to living in single rooms, so much so that living with Jess in a very small apartment in California was still like hitting a lotto.]
[ Honestly? Dean does too. They didn't exactly part on the best terms, him and Cas. He'd grabbed Cas' wrist and pills had spilled all over the floor. Cas had been high and Dean's feeling some kind of way about that now that he's giving himself the opportunity to feel anything at all about anybody else.
It's complicated.
So he doesn't really say a damn thing about it outside of a non-committal grunt. The jitter he eyeballs for a moment before deciding that Sam's probably going to be on edge for a while. ]
Yeah. You got a bathroom attached to your room. Straight up the stairs, all the way to the end, on the left.
[ Not that it's much of a bedroom. He's been meaning to get Sam a few things to make it feel more like home, whatever the hell that looks like, but time slips away just like always. He makes a mental note to do better. He'll swing in somewhere next time he's on his way to work. ]
[Sam just looks kind of confused, maybe even a touch startled.]
My room?
[Honestly, just the fact that they'd left a room for him to take has him feeling some kind of way. He adjusts his backpack and starts up the stairs with slow and steady footfalls. It really is a bedroom. Bare, unlived in, somewhere for him to be other than the panic room. He has no intention of doing anything else with it, anyway; it has a place to sleep, and a place to put some clothes. It works enough for him. More than he'd thought he'd get.
(He thought he'd be dead by now; maybe he is? Maybe one of those dinosaurs bit his head off forever ago and he's in some weird quasi-heaven or something.)
No, wait, his stomach's growling wretchedly again. Definitely alive somehow. He's quick to get into the shower and wash away the shameful remains of an ex-junkie collecting dust in an abandoned apartment, greasy hair smoothing into shiny locks again that tuck behind ears. Sam, Lucifer whispers. He almost doesn't hear it over the water from above him. Sammy, this is a mistake.
Shut up.
Like its own wordy response, a chill works its way up his spine. The cause behind it is familiar enough, as he hikes up the temperature of the stream until it's almost too hot to handle, and squeezes his eyes shut while Lucifer's icy clench in his stomach eases up. He reminds himself to keep those locks and bolts tight in his head. Don't give him an inch, don't relax too much; Lucifer'll sit in the dark, just like you did.
When he comes back down in a fresher long sleeve and thrift store jeans a girl named Skye had kindly paid for, he looks at Dean in the kitchen with some apprehension. Thoughts whirl around in his head, and he's not even sure where to begin, but... Well. First he should probably start with what has been nagging at him.]
Hey, uhm.
Did... Cas talk to you about things from home? Recently.
[ Watching Sam disappear up the stairs, Dean doesn't move back to the kitchen for a couple minutes. Eyes fixed unseeingly on the grain of the wooden steps, he has a pretty good idea of how Sam feels about having his own room. He'd felt the same way when they moved over to this house, and the same about having a house in the place before this one even if it was falling down.
Leaving the thought where it is, when Sam reappears, Dean's already gotten him a bowl of stew ready, a singular spoon laid out beside the steaming dish. They haven't done this for longer than he can remember. Longer than five years. He's already sat up at the breakfast bar on one of the stools, a grimace set jaggedly into his features. ]
Stew's hot.
[ Which is something that any person over the age of five probably gets, but when has Dean ever been restrained when it comes to food? At Sam's question, he raises his eyebrows and then squints briefly. ]
You mean a panic room kinda talk?
[ Given how serious it is, Dean's just going to try ignoring the spike of anger lancing through his stomach. With an explanation of why Cas did it though... well, that anger's for Heaven more than it is for Cas. ]
Yeah. He did. And before you ask no, I didn't gank him. I don't know where he is, like I said.
[Sam's brow crumples with exasperation for a fleeting moment, but moves to sit down. Really, he can't even remember the last time he sat at a table. He has a hard time remembering a lot — Lucifer tells him it's for his own benefit, because if any of that came flooding back, he'd be, uh. Fucked. For lack of a better term. A great mental wall full of cracks and holes that Sam sometimes peered through. Felt the reverberations through.
When he pressed his ear to it, he heard the carnage on the other side, sometimes.
Sometimes it's so much to think about, he could just explode into pieces.
He picks up his spoon instead, a stark contrast to Dean's impatience as he carefully stirs the stew and waits without complaint for it to cool off. His stomach's gone on for over a day without something on it; it can last another ten minutes.
Sam glances up at Dean. Glances back down. Eye contact has become so much harder, since he popped Lucifer free. It's been rocket science.]
I know you wouldn't do that, Dean.
... I just don't want to mess anything up here. The panic room — it's in the past.
[It's really not. But it isn't because Sam blames Dean or Bobby. Looking back after everything... they at least didn't just throw their hands up and take him out back to shoot him Old Yeller style. They probably should've, but they didn't. Sam makes that count for something.]
I'm sure they made Cas do it. He wanted to help, right?
[ Eventually he slows down as he processes Sam's words and he almost hates that he does. His tongue feels thick with how little patience he had when it came to trying to demolishing that steaming-hot bowl of stew, and for a second he's just frowning at that. Trying his best to keep this as normal as possible.
It's not that he's irritated with Sam for bringing it up, he's just irritated in general at the moment. Grumpy with a lack of sleep and the weight of the past few months on his shoulders. But he doesn't need to talk about that. Doesn't need to tell Sam what October was like and how he ended it.
Rolling his bottom lip into his mouth, he eventually holds the end of his spoon in his curled first, vertical and motionless against the counter top. This whole talking about things... thing. It's still hard, but fine. If Sam wants to broach this topic? He'll tell the guy what he knows. ]
He called it re-education. They took him back to Heaven and brain-washed him. Forced him back into their plan because he'd gotten a little too loose with it. Too close to us.
[ Trying to fit it all together in his head alongside how much he still feels about all of it? It's hard. Makes his head hurt but it makes his heart hurt more. There's still a thread of betrayal that he wishes he didn't feel anymore, but he can't help it. ]
So yeah, they did make him do it. Tortured him into it. He just never got around to telling me that it was him until yesterday.
[ Five years they spent living in each other's pockets and, yeah, he'd pushed Cas away just like he'd pushed everybody else away in that time. But to keep a secret that big for that long? That's what he's struggling with right now. ]
He doesn't say "too close to you, you mean", because it's not like he wants to be bitter about it. Praying to angels all his life and being pushed aside to the gutter was a whole different beast, and it's not exactly Castiel's fault.
So instead, Sam nods after a moment, supremely calm about it all. He'd known about the panic room door for a little while... mostly thanks to Lucifer. Sam knows (in theory, anyway) that it was just the devil making sure he was good and isolated from his prior connections to the world. Kept him from reaching out to Cas for help — because "none of the angels care for you like I do", and "Castiel won't help; remember what you are to him, Sam?" and "who do you think helped lead you to this moment?".
Emotional, psychological warfare isn't new. It just hurts whether it is or not.]
It seems like something the angels would do. They wanted it as badly as the demons, anyway. Seems like they'd have a, um... a Plan B for when their soldiers don't listen.
[He says it with some concern, because even though he... uh... he didn't know Cas as well, he'd worried about him. Still thought about him, sometimes. Hoped he was still with Dean. There were utterings, here and there... He'd known Dean's whereabouts at times, even when they were parted, and Cas always seemed close behind his brother.
He picks at a frayed spot on his jeans beneath the counter, thoughtful. Kind of has the jitters even now, especially in his fingers when they're too still for too long, but it's faded more with time — and with, uh... drying up from demon blood.]
I'm sure he was scared what you'd think of him.
[He doesn't say it: Scared you'd leave him behind.]
Edited (repetition??? don't know her ) 2020-11-29 10:23 (UTC)
[ And so is Heaven. He doesn't think he needs to ask if Sam knows that Heaven left their world to Lucifer because it was obvious when that happened. He watched Cas fall, and he hadn't been there to help him back up again, already too entrenched in his own obsession.
He'd failed so many people.
His throat clamps up, holds the lump that's there in stasis before he has to swallow hard to get it back down again. Between the three of them, he has no idea how they get back to something functional. But he's trying.
What he thinks of Cas, or what Cas thinks of him... it's complicated. Thing is, Sam hadn't been around to see what his brother had turned into, what he'd done to Cas by not being around. His absence of attention had shaped Cas just as much as his presence would have.
He knows what Cas is now? That's on him. He's got enough balls to confess this to Sam though. ]
Things weren't exactly a walk in the park between me and him back home.
[ He pauses, eyes fixing on the cooling stew in front of him. ]
[Sam's head bows a little lower, bangs falling around startled, rounded eyes that slide into defeated slivers. He's not... He shouldn't be shocked, not with how far the world at large had fallen, but it leads a large, cold lump in his stomach that makes him all the more hesitant to eat... Thinking about home left him little urge to do much of anything.
Dean fed Cas to Croats as a diversion.
Sam, of course, blames himself.]
... I knew he'd died. Lucifer told me. Before you — found us.
[Lucifer knew too much at once. Had his demons and Croats pillaging and killing and dwindling down the population. That horrible day, Lucifer peeled the muffling cotton from his ears and let him hear the distant sounds of gunfire and death. He'd combed his hand through Sam's hair, let him feel it for a moment. A cool and steady comfort. Lucifer's always been gentle where he had no right to be. "It's okay, Sammy," he'd said, with his own voice. "It's okay. They won't suffer anymore, will they?"]
I, um... I...
[He'd ran a hand over a collection of roses. Sam knows because he felt the scratching of thorns, the pinprick of them as Lucifer plucked a rose loose. "He's coming, Sam. He wants to finish it." And then — the click of a gun being cocked. And Sam started screaming all over again, desperate for Dean to hear him just one last time —
("I had to, Sam. He wanted to kill us. Kill you. Don't you understand? Just like he let Cas die.")
At the kitchen table, Sam's eyes become a thousand yard stare into a bowl of stew. Everything goes muffled, like before, and his heart races in his chest as the spoon he'd been fidgeting with droops with the sudden slack of his hand. A throat under his foot, and he feels the reverberation of a snapping neck while he could hear a heartbeat of "no no no no"s in the sound of his own voice—]
[ It's not often that Dean looks truly uncomfortable. The real bad stuff he buries deep enough for it never to make it to his expression until he can't hold it down any longer. It's always spectacular when he goes off the damn rails. But this isn't that. This is some weird scenario of time going sideways. Or... forward and back and-- honestly? It makes his head hurt thinking about it.
He shifts on the stool, chews on the inside of his cheek and realizes that he's said nothing at all for a while now. Whatever Sam was going to say has been aborted abruptly and the silence is getting thick enough that he might choke on it any damn second. ]
I didn't make it that far before I got here, but I know what happens when I do.
[ Which isn't to say he doesn't know what's going to happen to him when they get sent home. Whenever the hell that's gonna be.
Still, he actually looks up from his bowl of stew and across at Sam who's lost. He can see his brother's somewhere far away from where they're sitting now. ]
Sam?
[ Reaching out, he grips at Sam's shoulder, squeezing just enough to try pulling him back to where they are now. His failure at killing the devil isn't Sam's fault. It's his own. ]
[Sam flinches back into awareness. He blinks up at Dean with clearer eyes, and reaches up without really realizing it, patting Dean's hand once, twice, three times where it squeezes his shoulder — an old gesture they'd used sometimes in hunting to say I'm okay, I'll live, carry on; usually something after one of 'em gets their heads knocked into something or claws disentangled from their clothes.
And sure, he doesn't believe his brother's words for even a moment, but... there's no point in smothering him in all of the shit going on in his head, not anymore than he probably already is. He sits up straighter instead, running a hand through his hair. His hand, controlled by him. Nobody else. That's a good thing. Gotta start zeroing in on the good things.
(Or you just go crazy.)]
... Yeah, well... We've all made mistakes, right? Some... more than others. [Sam would like to crown himself the king of mistakes. The Number One Fuck-Up. Pry it from his cold, dead fingers, big brother.] Cas got to make his like the rest of us.
[Not the mistake of being brain-washed, obviously, but he knows what actually is eating Dean about it now, five years after the fact. So he shrugs, attempts a smile.]
New beginnings, right? Uh. Fresh start.
Here in... Horrortown, USA?
[Maybe he doesn't necessarily believe it for himself, because his rap sheet is just so fucking long it probably circles the planet, but... this is all good, even when it's bad. Better than their world. Dean and Cas get a house with all the nice fixings, and there's a real working town with stores, things to do, new faces...
Even with the bullshit, it's. It's good. He's gotta remember that.]
[ Everybody makes mistakes seems less than a good summary of how he feels about his own life so far. Not that it matters. If he could etch the words 'find your purpose' into the inside of his eyelids maybe he'd try. It's a hard notion to keep hold of a lot of the time.
Either way he lets it slide, just nods slowly while giving Sam an appraising kind of look before turning his attention back to his bowl of stew. At least it's slightly less hot than the sun now? ]
This place is a freakin' trip. Been here since July and every month brings something new and fun to discover.
[ The sarcasm is thick, oozing all over his words. Not that he thinks Sam would have missed the tone of his words. Maybe he sounds a little like a commercial for Six Flags. ]
Me and Cas were talking about going to check out the sinkholes that opened up. He heard something about one of 'em being full of--
[ He pauses, considers his stew again and shrugs a shoulder, shovelling a spoonful into his mouth. The next words he says are from around his food. ]
[Sam's about to take a bite of the stew, determined to fight the slight roiling of a stomach that is both hungry and unwell all at once — but then stops at umbilical cords, much like a car hitting the breaks. Slowly, he lowers the untouched bite, nose wrinkling and grimace forming.
Well, that's unpleasant.]
Umb—
[Wait, hold up, back it up. Tired eyes sharply focus on Dean's. He may be a jittery mess that is held together with the bare basics of elmer's glue and scotch tape, but he can see a concerning plan when its presented right under his nose.]
... That's a horrible idea.
You know it's crawling with monsters, right? It's a crapshow down there. [He's just going to not mention how the hell he came to find this all out, because it's a content warning all on its own, okay? Okay. Goddamn.] Also, just gotta... point out how weird it is that you're doing it for umbilical cords.
[ Why wouldn't he want to throw himself into a pit of monsters? Sounds like an awesome way to cope with the everything that's happened the past few months. Finally he swallows that mushed up mouthful of stew and that's harder than it was just chewing on it, thinking about umbilical cords.
He's played himself. What's new? ]
They're supposed to have some kinda healing mojo. Cas mentioned making jerky.
[ Yeah, okay, he really does need to stop. Something that becomes all the more clear as he pauses, a fist curled up and pressed against his chest as though he needs to the help getting that mouthful down towards his stomach instead of it putting in a reappearance. ]
Crapshow is our natural environment. How bad can it be?
[... He quirks a brow, watches Dean struggle for a moment, and then just leaves him to it without comment.
Suffer for your terrible choices, Dean.]
Okay, well. For one, you're probably gonna puke halfway down that thing. It smells like a body-dumping site. [And the less Sam smells something like that, the better; sometimes he gets little flashes from Lucifer's time wearing him, and the smell of the dead, it —
... He just doesn't need that in his life.]
And uh. For another... It can be bad enough to get you two eaten by freakish cave monsters. I can't exactly get to you guys in time, if you need back-up. If you even have reception that far down...
I'm not gonna puke. Come on, man. We've seen some pretty bad shit in our time. It'll be fine. Cakewalk.
[ He's definitely going to puke, but he's still playing the macho game so, he's going to deny that until it happens. And all of these are going down as famous last words.
But whatever's going on in his head, going down into that sinkhole isn't his top concern. ]
What, you don't think me and Cas got it covered?
[ Something's working its way to the front of his mind. Slow at first. And then crashing like an elephant through trees. ]
You know I'm not purposely leaving you behind, right? I just don't think it's a good idea for all of us to...
[ He gestures and it's vague. Just like he's being right now. ]
Way things are right now? I just want you to focus on what you gotta focus on.
[He rolls his eyes under a mess of hanging bangs, but leaves it be. Once Dean has his mind set on something, it's extremely difficult to get him to not do whatever he's plotting; that's just something Sam's learned in the last... 30 years of life, really. But with that, Sam shifts awkwardly. Suddenly he's on a park bench over five years ago, looking anywhere but at Dean's eyes as the other agrees to go their separate ways.
Sam swallows and nods, and looks down at the middle of the table.]
I know. Not fit for much, right now.
I'm, uh. I'm dangerous to have out there.
[He'd make things worse. Hell, he almost just stepped right off the edge of the sinkhole, last time he'd been near it. The thought of going back and feeling that pull, thinking about the damage he'd caused and how he'd just cause more - isn't great.
No, the house is safer. He shouldn't leave its space.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
text. | dated to a day after their dramatic talk in the basement
But then, with so much less fanfare:]
I have to pee.
[...]
I can't leave the weird fire circle without help.
[That's code for 'he's ready to come up and be a person in the house instead of an animal.
... But it's also code for 'I really do need to pee'.]
no subject
This is a big moment and hell yes he's going to lighten the mood by a little hose down. For the fire, obviously. But if he gets Sam a little too? Well, that's what big brothers are for. Skating past the obvious momentous occasion not wanting to make a big deal about it in favor of being the jackass holding the hose.
It only just reaches down into the basement, though not quite far enough inside of the panic room. Pushing the door open he catches Sam's eye before returning to the hose head and squeezing the trigger. Water jets out and collides with the nearest side of the fire circle, and it takes way more than he thought it would to actually put it out enough for Sam to step through. ]
Thought I'd offer a shower service free of charge.
[ His expression is outwardly a shit-eating grin, but inside he's still nervous. What if he's not good enough to make sure that Sam's good? ]
You reek, by the way.
1/3
And then he gets a splash of water in his face, just as the stream peters down enough to actually hit the fire in front of him. He jerks like a startled dog, and then stands there with all the grace of one after the fact, his hair stuck to the front of his face before he slowly reaches up to peel his bangs back to reveal —
A bitchface, temporary and fleeting and unused in as much as five years.]
Dude.
[Clipped, huffy, that kind of petulance a shaggy-headed, sweater-wearing kid just out of Palo Alto would employ. His dimples flash with the disapproval before he steps out of the now defeated put-out ring.]
Yeah, well.
I had other things to worry about.
2/3
Something big, something too difficult to put into words-]
no subject
He just shakes his head sharply and gets gross hose water all over Dean's face.
Lips pursed thin, he adds:]
Thanks for the help, though.
no subject
Squeezing the trigger again, it's aimed at Sam's feet this time. It's just a short spurt of water, but it's enough in terms of payback. ]
Whoops. Finger slipped.
[ He might have an itchy trigger-finger sometimes, but he's never shot off a round without meaning to. Sam knows that. Either way he'll take this over Sam hiding out down in the basement.
After the conversation he had with Cas about the panic room yesterday? He needs something else to focus on. ]
Always here to help, Sammy.
[ It's been a long time since he's called Sam by that nickname. He knows it. Feels it in a way that means a lot more than he's really letting on, but he doesn't let the moment linger. Pushes on ahead to forge a path onward. ]
Get cleaned up while you're up there. I'm full on Martha Stewarting in the kitchen.
[ The smell of some kind of stew has permeated the air upstairs, and maybe it's starting to creep down into the basement. ]
no subject
... Martha Stewart if she wore combat boots and flannel, sure.
[It's a soft little jab, not quite as confident as it would have been years and years ago.
The moment the smell of stew hits him his stomach growls ferociously, clenching in boycott. He honestly couldn't remember when he'd eaten last; he brought snacks in the backpack, sure, but he had been too busy thinking for the last 24 hours.
As Dean comes up to meet him, he seems — to withdraw a little, looking at Dean with wild hair and a rumpled shirt. He probably looks like a crazy person. He kind of is a crazy person, to some degree; wouldn't blame anyone from turning tail and running if they crossed paths with him in a dark alley.
That stew smells really good.]
Right. Uh. Shower, I guess. Been too long.
[Lucifer never had to shower. Angels are apparently just perfectly content to never get a smudge of grime on even a single prissy wing.
... He said a shower would be good, but he seems frozen at the entrance of the basement anyway.]
Nobody else is here?
no subject
Maybe her time in a 6 by 8 includes biker boots and leather.
[ Stupid, off-the-wall conversations that don't really mean anything. Eventually they're going to have to talk about what's going on here, about the fact that Sam's still housing the devil. But until then? He gets a running commentary complete with dumb references that nobody else around here seems to get. Ever. ]
I haven't seen Cas.
[ Which isn't to say he's not around, but Dean's yet to pick up a conversation with the dude again after he'd confessed to being the asshole who let Sam out of the panic room way back when.
Not that he's going to talk about that right now either. Instead he turns and heads for the stairs up to the ground floor, the hose dragging into a bigger loop behind him as he returns the way he came. ]
Clean up. Food's good any minute.
[ He tosses his words over his shoulder assuming Sam's following. He hopes he is. He's not going to hold his hand but he's trying real hard for normalcy here. ]
no subject
Gnawing his lip, he finally steps out into the hallway, looking... lost.
Stands there like a perturbed statue for a moment, and says softly-]
I hope he's alright.
[Cas, that is. He's still bruised up, probably. Sam did that. People say blame the person behind the gun, not the bullet — but Sam loaded that gun, didn't he? He said yes. He's culpable. There's so much blood on his hands, he's not even sure where to begin scrubbing them clean (if Dean knew just what these hands've done, would he have let him out here, like nothing's wrong?)
He snaps out of his little trance, shivering from a chill that came from deep within himself. He doesn't quite follow Dean; he moves to walk around the mud room before entering a bigger space, looking at the decor with quiet interest. These are the sorts of houses they'd occasionally investigate during hunts. Never would they live in one, before now. He's kind of scared to touch anything, like he'll dirty it up with his rotten germs.
Should you really be out here?
Who knows. But he looks back at Dean, clearing his throat.]
I've got spare clothes. Guessing the shower is, um. Upstairs.
[This place is big. He's very much used to living in single rooms, so much so that living with Jess in a very small apartment in California was still like hitting a lotto.]
no subject
It's complicated.
So he doesn't really say a damn thing about it outside of a non-committal grunt. The jitter he eyeballs for a moment before deciding that Sam's probably going to be on edge for a while. ]
Yeah. You got a bathroom attached to your room. Straight up the stairs, all the way to the end, on the left.
[ Not that it's much of a bedroom. He's been meaning to get Sam a few things to make it feel more like home, whatever the hell that looks like, but time slips away just like always. He makes a mental note to do better. He'll swing in somewhere next time he's on his way to work. ]
no subject
My room?
[Honestly, just the fact that they'd left a room for him to take has him feeling some kind of way. He adjusts his backpack and starts up the stairs with slow and steady footfalls. It really is a bedroom. Bare, unlived in, somewhere for him to be other than the panic room. He has no intention of doing anything else with it, anyway; it has a place to sleep, and a place to put some clothes. It works enough for him. More than he'd thought he'd get.
(He thought he'd be dead by now; maybe he is? Maybe one of those dinosaurs bit his head off forever ago and he's in some weird quasi-heaven or something.)
No, wait, his stomach's growling wretchedly again. Definitely alive somehow. He's quick to get into the shower and wash away the shameful remains of an ex-junkie collecting dust in an abandoned apartment, greasy hair smoothing into shiny locks again that tuck behind ears. Sam, Lucifer whispers. He almost doesn't hear it over the water from above him. Sammy, this is a mistake.
Shut up.
Like its own wordy response, a chill works its way up his spine. The cause behind it is familiar enough, as he hikes up the temperature of the stream until it's almost too hot to handle, and squeezes his eyes shut while Lucifer's icy clench in his stomach eases up. He reminds himself to keep those locks and bolts tight in his head. Don't give him an inch, don't relax too much; Lucifer'll sit in the dark, just like you did.
When he comes back down in a fresher long sleeve and thrift store jeans a girl named Skye had kindly paid for, he looks at Dean in the kitchen with some apprehension. Thoughts whirl around in his head, and he's not even sure where to begin, but... Well. First he should probably start with what has been nagging at him.]
Hey, uhm.
Did... Cas talk to you about things from home? Recently.
no subject
Leaving the thought where it is, when Sam reappears, Dean's already gotten him a bowl of stew ready, a singular spoon laid out beside the steaming dish. They haven't done this for longer than he can remember. Longer than five years. He's already sat up at the breakfast bar on one of the stools, a grimace set jaggedly into his features. ]
Stew's hot.
[ Which is something that any person over the age of five probably gets, but when has Dean ever been restrained when it comes to food? At Sam's question, he raises his eyebrows and then squints briefly. ]
You mean a panic room kinda talk?
[ Given how serious it is, Dean's just going to try ignoring the spike of anger lancing through his stomach. With an explanation of why Cas did it though... well, that anger's for Heaven more than it is for Cas. ]
Yeah. He did. And before you ask no, I didn't gank him. I don't know where he is, like I said.
no subject
When he pressed his ear to it, he heard the carnage on the other side, sometimes.
Sometimes it's so much to think about, he could just explode into pieces.
He picks up his spoon instead, a stark contrast to Dean's impatience as he carefully stirs the stew and waits without complaint for it to cool off. His stomach's gone on for over a day without something on it; it can last another ten minutes.
Sam glances up at Dean. Glances back down. Eye contact has become so much harder, since he popped Lucifer free. It's been rocket science.]
I know you wouldn't do that, Dean.
... I just don't want to mess anything up here. The panic room — it's in the past.
[It's really not. But it isn't because Sam blames Dean or Bobby. Looking back after everything... they at least didn't just throw their hands up and take him out back to shoot him Old Yeller style. They probably should've, but they didn't. Sam makes that count for something.]
I'm sure they made Cas do it. He wanted to help, right?
Afterward, he helped you. So.
no subject
It's not that he's irritated with Sam for bringing it up, he's just irritated in general at the moment. Grumpy with a lack of sleep and the weight of the past few months on his shoulders. But he doesn't need to talk about that. Doesn't need to tell Sam what October was like and how he ended it.
Rolling his bottom lip into his mouth, he eventually holds the end of his spoon in his curled first, vertical and motionless against the counter top. This whole talking about things... thing. It's still hard, but fine. If Sam wants to broach this topic? He'll tell the guy what he knows. ]
He called it re-education. They took him back to Heaven and brain-washed him. Forced him back into their plan because he'd gotten a little too loose with it. Too close to us.
[ Trying to fit it all together in his head alongside how much he still feels about all of it? It's hard. Makes his head hurt but it makes his heart hurt more. There's still a thread of betrayal that he wishes he didn't feel anymore, but he can't help it. ]
So yeah, they did make him do it. Tortured him into it. He just never got around to telling me that it was him until yesterday.
[ Five years they spent living in each other's pockets and, yeah, he'd pushed Cas away just like he'd pushed everybody else away in that time. But to keep a secret that big for that long? That's what he's struggling with right now. ]
no subject
He doesn't say "too close to you, you mean", because it's not like he wants to be bitter about it. Praying to angels all his life and being pushed aside to the gutter was a whole different beast, and it's not exactly Castiel's fault.
So instead, Sam nods after a moment, supremely calm about it all. He'd known about the panic room door for a little while... mostly thanks to Lucifer. Sam knows (in theory, anyway) that it was just the devil making sure he was good and isolated from his prior connections to the world. Kept him from reaching out to Cas for help — because "none of the angels care for you like I do", and "Castiel won't help; remember what you are to him, Sam?" and "who do you think helped lead you to this moment?".
Emotional, psychological warfare isn't new. It just hurts whether it is or not.]
It seems like something the angels would do. They wanted it as badly as the demons, anyway. Seems like they'd have a, um... a Plan B for when their soldiers don't listen.
[He says it with some concern, because even though he... uh... he didn't know Cas as well, he'd worried about him. Still thought about him, sometimes. Hoped he was still with Dean. There were utterings, here and there... He'd known Dean's whereabouts at times, even when they were parted, and Cas always seemed close behind his brother.
He picks at a frayed spot on his jeans beneath the counter, thoughtful. Kind of has the jitters even now, especially in his fingers when they're too still for too long, but it's faded more with time — and with, uh... drying up from demon blood.]
I'm sure he was scared what you'd think of him.
[He doesn't say it: Scared you'd leave him behind.]
no subject
[ And so is Heaven. He doesn't think he needs to ask if Sam knows that Heaven left their world to Lucifer because it was obvious when that happened. He watched Cas fall, and he hadn't been there to help him back up again, already too entrenched in his own obsession.
He'd failed so many people.
His throat clamps up, holds the lump that's there in stasis before he has to swallow hard to get it back down again. Between the three of them, he has no idea how they get back to something functional. But he's trying.
What he thinks of Cas, or what Cas thinks of him... it's complicated. Thing is, Sam hadn't been around to see what his brother had turned into, what he'd done to Cas by not being around. His absence of attention had shaped Cas just as much as his presence would have.
He knows what Cas is now? That's on him. He's got enough balls to confess this to Sam though. ]
Things weren't exactly a walk in the park between me and him back home.
[ He pauses, eyes fixing on the cooling stew in front of him. ]
I fed him to Croats as a diversion.
cw: dissociation
Dean fed Cas to Croats as a diversion.
Sam, of course, blames himself.]
... I knew he'd died. Lucifer told me. Before you — found us.
[Lucifer knew too much at once. Had his demons and Croats pillaging and killing and dwindling down the population. That horrible day, Lucifer peeled the muffling cotton from his ears and let him hear the distant sounds of gunfire and death. He'd combed his hand through Sam's hair, let him feel it for a moment. A cool and steady comfort. Lucifer's always been gentle where he had no right to be. "It's okay, Sammy," he'd said, with his own voice. "It's okay. They won't suffer anymore, will they?"]
I, um... I...
[He'd ran a hand over a collection of roses. Sam knows because he felt the scratching of thorns, the pinprick of them as Lucifer plucked a rose loose. "He's coming, Sam. He wants to finish it." And then — the click of a gun being cocked. And Sam started screaming all over again, desperate for Dean to hear him just one last time —
("I had to, Sam. He wanted to kill us. Kill you. Don't you understand? Just like he let Cas die.")
At the kitchen table, Sam's eyes become a thousand yard stare into a bowl of stew. Everything goes muffled, like before, and his heart races in his chest as the spoon he'd been fidgeting with droops with the sudden slack of his hand. A throat under his foot, and he feels the reverberation of a snapping neck while he could hear a heartbeat of "no no no no"s in the sound of his own voice—]
no subject
He shifts on the stool, chews on the inside of his cheek and realizes that he's said nothing at all for a while now. Whatever Sam was going to say has been aborted abruptly and the silence is getting thick enough that he might choke on it any damn second. ]
I didn't make it that far before I got here, but I know what happens when I do.
[ Which isn't to say he doesn't know what's going to happen to him when they get sent home. Whenever the hell that's gonna be.
Still, he actually looks up from his bowl of stew and across at Sam who's lost. He can see his brother's somewhere far away from where they're sitting now. ]
Sam?
[ Reaching out, he grips at Sam's shoulder, squeezing just enough to try pulling him back to where they are now. His failure at killing the devil isn't Sam's fault. It's his own. ]
It's not on you, man.
no subject
And sure, he doesn't believe his brother's words for even a moment, but... there's no point in smothering him in all of the shit going on in his head, not anymore than he probably already is. He sits up straighter instead, running a hand through his hair. His hand, controlled by him. Nobody else. That's a good thing. Gotta start zeroing in on the good things.
(Or you just go crazy.)]
... Yeah, well... We've all made mistakes, right? Some... more than others. [Sam would like to crown himself the king of mistakes. The Number One Fuck-Up. Pry it from his cold, dead fingers, big brother.] Cas got to make his like the rest of us.
[Not the mistake of being brain-washed, obviously, but he knows what actually is eating Dean about it now, five years after the fact. So he shrugs, attempts a smile.]
New beginnings, right? Uh. Fresh start.
Here in... Horrortown, USA?
[Maybe he doesn't necessarily believe it for himself, because his rap sheet is just so fucking long it probably circles the planet, but... this is all good, even when it's bad. Better than their world. Dean and Cas get a house with all the nice fixings, and there's a real working town with stores, things to do, new faces...
Even with the bullshit, it's. It's good. He's gotta remember that.]
no subject
Either way he lets it slide, just nods slowly while giving Sam an appraising kind of look before turning his attention back to his bowl of stew. At least it's slightly less hot than the sun now? ]
This place is a freakin' trip. Been here since July and every month brings something new and fun to discover.
[ The sarcasm is thick, oozing all over his words. Not that he thinks Sam would have missed the tone of his words. Maybe he sounds a little like a commercial for Six Flags. ]
Me and Cas were talking about going to check out the sinkholes that opened up. He heard something about one of 'em being full of--
[ He pauses, considers his stew again and shrugs a shoulder, shovelling a spoonful into his mouth. The next words he says are from around his food. ]
Umbilical cords.
no subject
Well, that's unpleasant.]
Umb—
[Wait, hold up, back it up. Tired eyes sharply focus on Dean's. He may be a jittery mess that is held together with the bare basics of elmer's glue and scotch tape, but he can see a concerning plan when its presented right under his nose.]
... That's a horrible idea.
You know it's crawling with monsters, right? It's a crapshow down there. [He's just going to not mention how the hell he came to find this all out, because it's a content warning all on its own, okay? Okay. Goddamn.] Also, just gotta... point out how weird it is that you're doing it for umbilical cords.
no subject
[ Why wouldn't he want to throw himself into a pit of monsters? Sounds like an awesome way to cope with the everything that's happened the past few months. Finally he swallows that mushed up mouthful of stew and that's harder than it was just chewing on it, thinking about umbilical cords.
He's played himself. What's new? ]
They're supposed to have some kinda healing mojo. Cas mentioned making jerky.
[ Yeah, okay, he really does need to stop. Something that becomes all the more clear as he pauses, a fist curled up and pressed against his chest as though he needs to the help getting that mouthful down towards his stomach instead of it putting in a reappearance. ]
Crapshow is our natural environment. How bad can it be?
no subject
Suffer for your terrible choices, Dean.]
Okay, well. For one, you're probably gonna puke halfway down that thing. It smells like a body-dumping site. [And the less Sam smells something like that, the better; sometimes he gets little flashes from Lucifer's time wearing him, and the smell of the dead, it —
... He just doesn't need that in his life.]
And uh. For another... It can be bad enough to get you two eaten by freakish cave monsters. I can't exactly get to you guys in time, if you need back-up. If you even have reception that far down...
[+30% more concern, in the lines of his brow]
no subject
[ He's definitely going to puke, but he's still playing the macho game so, he's going to deny that until it happens. And all of these are going down as famous last words.
But whatever's going on in his head, going down into that sinkhole isn't his top concern. ]
What, you don't think me and Cas got it covered?
[ Something's working its way to the front of his mind. Slow at first. And then crashing like an elephant through trees. ]
You know I'm not purposely leaving you behind, right? I just don't think it's a good idea for all of us to...
[ He gestures and it's vague. Just like he's being right now. ]
Way things are right now? I just want you to focus on what you gotta focus on.
no subject
Sam swallows and nods, and looks down at the middle of the table.]
I know. Not fit for much, right now.
I'm, uh. I'm dangerous to have out there.
[He'd make things worse. Hell, he almost just stepped right off the edge of the sinkhole, last time he'd been near it. The thought of going back and feeling that pull, thinking about the damage he'd caused and how he'd just cause more - isn't great.
No, the house is safer. He shouldn't leave its space.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
cw: animal hunting
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)