Post-Faith

[hopeitsworthit]

He's not thinking of Layla when they drive away from the motel, and he's not thinking of Layla when they stop for gas and coffee. He doesn't think about Layla and what's gonna happen to her when they pull into another motel, and he (well, Sam, because the frickin' giant insists on doing everything lately) hauls in their gear into the room and strips down his guns.

He's not thinking of Layla while he stares at the ceiling, feeling his ribcage expand and contract with every breath he didn't think he was ever gonna take.

He doesn't dream of Layla, her smile, that flash of humor, her faith in something bigger than they are.

After Dean trades her death for his, Dean doesn't think of Layla again.

He doesn't think of her because she never reminded him of Sam at all.

Because Sam is not going anywhere. He's not.

"Hey, dude."

Dean slams his hand down on Sam's bed, right next to the big lug.

"Dude. Come on, get up. Time to get goin'. We're kinda behind schedule."

Comments

[gavemea_45]

He jerks awake, blinking, and then focuses on Dean.

"I really hate it when you do that."

[hopeitsworthit]

"I know."

Dean really sounds incredibly smug.

He looks it, too.

"Now get a move on. We're burning daylight."

He's already shoving what few toiletries he has into his bag, swearing as he tries to find his toothbrush.

[gavemea_45]

Sam doesn't look like he's going to be moving anytime soon.

"What time is it?"

[hopeitsworthit]

"Ass o'clock. Same time as always, little brother."

Ha, there is his toothbrush. He grabs it, the toothpaste, his razor, and the ice bucket, and heads for the bathroom.

[gavemea_45]

As he walks into the bathroom, he'll hear a soft 'thud' from the pillow that Sam's just thrown after him, at the door.

"Jerk."

Sam flops back on the bed, then sighs with exasperation and gets to his feet.

[hopeitsworthit]

"I heard that!"

There's a moment of silence, then, as Dean finishes lathering up his face.

"Bitch."

[gavemea_45]

He makes a face at the bathroom door, then turns back and resumes stuffing his things into his bag.

It doesn't require any actual thought to do so, which means he's free to think of other things.

Like what almost happened to his brother.

Sam's movements slow, and he ends up staring down at the bag, frowning at it.

[hopeitsworthit]

There's the sound of running water for a while.

Dean spits.

The toilet flushes.

Then he comes out, wiping his face with a towel.

"Bathroom's all yours, man. Stop looking for your last pair of underoos and get to it."

[gavemea_45]

He doesn't turn around, not right at first.

"Dean--"

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean keeps himself busy with his own bag, tucking in his toothbrush, his razor, fiddling with his socks.

"Come on, Sammy. Get with it."

His tone's a little sharper than it was a second ago.

[gavemea_45]

"No, it's just--"

This time he turns, looking at Dean.

"You sure you're okay?"

[hopeitsworthit]

"Yeah, I'm fine. Hale. Hearty. Fit as a fiddle."

He thumps his chest with one hand, still looking resolutely down.

"Now can we just hit the road?"

[gavemea_45]

Sam doesn't budge.

"That's not what I meant."

[hopeitsworthit]

"Well spell it out, then, college boy."

His knuckles are white where he's clutching a ratty flannel shirt.

He's fine dammit.

The Reaper saw to that.

[gavemea_45]

"Layla."

There's a short, tense silence.

"Dean-- you know it's not your fault, right? I mean--"

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean looks up, face tight, voice rough.

"How's it not my fault, Sam? You tell me how. She could've been--"

He makes an inarticulate noise of irritation.

"Forget it."

[gavemea_45]

"Because it's not!"

Frustration tightens Sam's voice.

"What Sue Ann was doing was wrong, Dean-- you know it was."

[hopeitsworthit]

Something in Dean's face falls, and he turns away again.

"Yeah, Sam. I know. I could feel it, remember?"

He's gonna have to live with that, too.

It ain't easy.

[gavemea_45]

"Yeah. I remember."

He watches Dean turn away, and his fists clench at his sides before he spits defiantly,

"But I'm not sorry."

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean's shoulders tense, hunch, as if he's about to run, or turn around and throw a fist in Sam's face.

He does neither, just jams a couple more pairs of boxers in his bag, careless of the wrinkles.

Well, Sam should be.

Someone should be.

"I don't--"

He turns, and the look he gives Sam, full of frustration and resignation and a heavy, heavy weight, doesn't belong on a man of twenty-six.

"You better hope it's worth it, Sam."

Dean prays it is. It's all he's got left.

[gavemea_45]

Dean's look is met with one of absolute stubbornness from his younger brother.

"It's worth it."

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean doesn't know what to do with that look.

Dean has probably never known what to do with that look.

So he does what he's good at. He bluffs it.

"All right. It's your fu--"

Dammit. He tries not to stiffen again, and it almost works.

"You gonna use the bathroom, or what?"

[gavemea_45]

"Just hold your horses. We're not in that much of a hurry."

Sam looks at him for a second or two longer, then sighs and snatches up his kit.

"Fine. I'll only be a minute."

[hopeitsworthit]

"Clock's tickin', man."

Dean hefts his own bag over his shoulder, half-turning to face the bathroom door.

"Don't make me come back in here."

He'll give Sam fifteen minutes. He's being generous today.

[gavemea_45]

"What're you gonna do, drag me out?"

The only answer is the slamming door, and Sam rolls his eyes.

Ten minutes later, he stows his gear and shuts the trunk, then drops into the passenger seat.

"You ready?"

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean shoots Sam a grin.

He's in his Impala, his brother's in the passenger seat, and AC/DC is about to begin blaring from the speakers.

At the moment, all's right with his world.

"Always, Sammy-boy. Let's rock 'n roll."

He cranks up the music as he puts his foot to the gas, and they roar out of the parking lot with the sun at their back.

It's gonna be a good day.