dean curls his fingers over his mouth. peeling it open when he drags his hand down his chin, letting it swing in the drop. their entire lives had been made of the same recipe: salt and burn. rinse and repeat. rise and shine, do it all again. this time, just like every other last time, shouldn’t be any different.
except, it is.
some kind of guilty conscious to monsters, snuck a wedge between them, growing wider with each second his brother won’t pull his head out his own ass and stop thinking about it. pissing dean off. showing it in his face. the extra gruff, like sand in this throat.
❝ OKAY — ❞ he throws out both hands. placating. letting it out as they clap to cloth on his hips. ❝ what? what then, huh? ❞
dean stares up to sam’s height even at the short distance they are from each other. he doesn’t know what he wants from him. everything that he’s doing right now—-the way he’s standing, ready, feet poised for surprise in the dark, that five percent of his attention, always on exactly where he keeps his gun, his knife—-the only thing he does know.
❝ that thing, killed three people t’day, sammy. people. i don’t give a crap if three hundred an’ sixty days outta the year, it thinks it’s just another guy ‘n the neighborhood, paying his taxes like everybody else. because guess what? s’not everybody else. it’s a monster, sam. an’ that’s good enough for me. ❞ he exhales out his nose. jaw twitched before he settles. ❝ but if you’re gonna start, then you better get it on over with. SO —- what is it? m’all ears. ❞
sam swallows, hard, tastes the sourness of the truth at the back of his tongue, sharp like bile. dean’s right. people have died, and they’ll keep dying, and that’s it. the only thing that matters.
( ------stubbornness is a family trait they both inherited. )
it’s easy enough to guess why sam’s uncertainty is bubbling up here, now. their ❝ monster ❞, such as he is, is a college kid ( had been a college kid? ). one of the first to die had been the girl he’d been dating, and maybe if she’d died in a manner that the police could comprehend or identify, they’d have suspected him. as it is, he’s still on the loose.
sam remembers what it feels like. standing in front of the flames and knowing you’ve killed someone you love. call it empathy, call it projection, call it delusion. either way, there’s something roiling in his gut at the thought of it.
❝ I don’t know. ❞ he’s never sounded bleaker, more defeated. ❝ you’re right, I guess. ❞
he’s already retreating into himself, arms folding across his chest as it rises and then sets with heavy sigh. tongue probes the point of canine idly, swiping back and forth across the sharpness of it. ❝ fine. let’s get it over with. ❞
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