Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kickingand) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
gameofmana2016-09-16 01:37 pm
kickingand) wrote in gameofmana2016-09-16 01:37 pm
Entry tags:
i've been up and down in prison
Who: Dean Winchester & YOUUU
What: waking up at Home and being confused out of his mind
Where: Home!
When: morning sometime
Other: talk of Hell & not overly graphic mentions of torture. also, prose or brackets are welcome!
Dean doesn't have a clue as to where he is. Granted, he doesn't have a clue as to what's going on altogether, but that would be said no matter where it was he was waking up. Because the thing is, he isn't supposed to be here. A thing that likely everyone said upon waking up here, but Dean isn't supposed to be anywhere but Hell. It's a thing he can't comprehend as he wakes up with a start and looks around to find himself not on the rack. The lack of shrill screams in the distance, the dank nonexistent smells wrecking havoc through his brain, making it impossible to do anything but shudder with anticipation of what tool was going to be used today to pry body parts from his soul, over and over and over--
Giving his head a shake, the place he is now is so opposite of what he's endure for the past years that it's nearly startling. It's beyond startling actually, and Dean doesn't know what to do about it when all he can think is he doesn't deserve it. This place is practically happy and somehow blossoms with an easiness that he can't comprehend, his stomach twisting with confusion and ultimately a sheer disorientation that he's struggling his way through. He hardly knows how to move let alone how to think his way through this and he tries to find his voice to shout for the existence of anyone else here. But it clams up in his throat, refusing to puff out from between his lips and instead makes him want to curl up that much more. It's terrifying and soft all at once and he's rejecting it aggressively, trying to butt himself up against the nearest wall and hide, wondering if this is a new breed of torture. Let him see something happy for two seconds before he's dragged back to the reality that is Hell, brutally laughed in the face by Alistair before the torture continues. A psychological thing, maybe.
He doesn't know.
But eventually, he begins to move.
Slowly, he pushes himself out of the bed, taking one cautious step at at time, moving forward and ducking around corners, peering around the edges of the spacious room and trying to adjust to everything he's seeing. Which unto itself is still just weird - if anything, he should've woken up in a dank motel room. His grave maybe. And some part of his mind wonders if he's been shot up to Heaven finally, in some sort of weird Brazil-esque filing error, but that's just ridiculous.
He's supposed to be in Hell. So what the fuck is going on.
Continuing to move, Dean soon finds himself on the stairway leading downwards, though he glances up for a moment and stares, before deciding that down is best way for now. It isn't as if any of this is truly ominous apart from the fact that he doesn't know why he's here altogether but he has to keep moving, try to figure out what's going on, understand this as best as he can before he finds himself getting tugged straight back to the one place he's actually supposed to be.
"The fuck is this-"
Rough words are finally pulled from his throat, scratchy and hard and he steps even further down, slow going as he tries to take it all in. He just wants to know where he is and why, maybe even find someone here. Or maybe he just wants to be alone for a minute, relish in the lack of pain and death fleeing across his vision, the wholeness of his body and the feeling of his limbs stretching out. It's all odd sensations after too long on the rack, at the hands of demons, souls at the hands of him, and he grit his teeth for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think before he keeps going, pushing himself forward, and finally gives a shout, sounding distant to his own ears.
"-- Anyone here?"
What: waking up at Home and being confused out of his mind
Where: Home!
When: morning sometime
Other: talk of Hell & not overly graphic mentions of torture. also, prose or brackets are welcome!
Dean doesn't have a clue as to where he is. Granted, he doesn't have a clue as to what's going on altogether, but that would be said no matter where it was he was waking up. Because the thing is, he isn't supposed to be here. A thing that likely everyone said upon waking up here, but Dean isn't supposed to be anywhere but Hell. It's a thing he can't comprehend as he wakes up with a start and looks around to find himself not on the rack. The lack of shrill screams in the distance, the dank nonexistent smells wrecking havoc through his brain, making it impossible to do anything but shudder with anticipation of what tool was going to be used today to pry body parts from his soul, over and over and over--
Giving his head a shake, the place he is now is so opposite of what he's endure for the past years that it's nearly startling. It's beyond startling actually, and Dean doesn't know what to do about it when all he can think is he doesn't deserve it. This place is practically happy and somehow blossoms with an easiness that he can't comprehend, his stomach twisting with confusion and ultimately a sheer disorientation that he's struggling his way through. He hardly knows how to move let alone how to think his way through this and he tries to find his voice to shout for the existence of anyone else here. But it clams up in his throat, refusing to puff out from between his lips and instead makes him want to curl up that much more. It's terrifying and soft all at once and he's rejecting it aggressively, trying to butt himself up against the nearest wall and hide, wondering if this is a new breed of torture. Let him see something happy for two seconds before he's dragged back to the reality that is Hell, brutally laughed in the face by Alistair before the torture continues. A psychological thing, maybe.
He doesn't know.
But eventually, he begins to move.
Slowly, he pushes himself out of the bed, taking one cautious step at at time, moving forward and ducking around corners, peering around the edges of the spacious room and trying to adjust to everything he's seeing. Which unto itself is still just weird - if anything, he should've woken up in a dank motel room. His grave maybe. And some part of his mind wonders if he's been shot up to Heaven finally, in some sort of weird Brazil-esque filing error, but that's just ridiculous.
He's supposed to be in Hell. So what the fuck is going on.
Continuing to move, Dean soon finds himself on the stairway leading downwards, though he glances up for a moment and stares, before deciding that down is best way for now. It isn't as if any of this is truly ominous apart from the fact that he doesn't know why he's here altogether but he has to keep moving, try to figure out what's going on, understand this as best as he can before he finds himself getting tugged straight back to the one place he's actually supposed to be.
"The fuck is this-"
Rough words are finally pulled from his throat, scratchy and hard and he steps even further down, slow going as he tries to take it all in. He just wants to know where he is and why, maybe even find someone here. Or maybe he just wants to be alone for a minute, relish in the lack of pain and death fleeing across his vision, the wholeness of his body and the feeling of his limbs stretching out. It's all odd sensations after too long on the rack, at the hands of demons, souls at the hands of him, and he grit his teeth for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think before he keeps going, pushing himself forward, and finally gives a shout, sounding distant to his own ears.
"-- Anyone here?"
SLAMS INTO THIS
He often takes Avandrel with him to go hunting, her being a hunter herself. She's got her own weapons, experience, and for some reason a want to make sure Sam stays safe. Wants to watch his back. He thinks it probably has something to do with him being maybe the first human ever to actually be polite and civil with the elf, even in the face of her initial wariness. He's not real sure, and he hasn't really told her (or anyone else) that much about himself. His skills, and his reason for those skills in the case of Avandrel and Tsukishima, but that's about it. Tsukishima also knows Sam's father was military.
It's been, what, a month since he'd woken up here? And he still hasn't mentioned Dean or the last thing Sam remembers to anyone. (Well he had shown the sketch he'd done up of Dean's face to a couple people in Domina, just to find out if they'd seen him, but beyond that...)
Even though the memory of what he's still convinced must have been his death often wakes him up at night, startles him awake. At this point his seventeen-year-old roommate seems to have gotten used to it. Maybe he's used to nightmares himself, who knows? Riku doesn't share a lot, just as Sam doesn't share a lot.
He's still holding out hope that his brother will show up, but at the same time the thought worries him because this could still potentially be some sort of afterlife. And if Sam's dead, Dean needs to go on living. He needs to find that yellow-eyed bastard demon and take him out. For Mom. For Jess. For Dad. For good.
Hope doesn't prepare him for the sight of Dean or the sound of his voice on the stairwell as Sam's coming back from practicing with the bow. He drops the thing, drops the arrows, and he feels his heart jump to his throat. No, he wasn't prepared for this in the slightest, seeing Dean's face again, and he has to look up to do so, because Sam's on lower steps and Dean is higher up, and as long as it's been since he's seen his brother, it's been even longer since he's had to look up in order to do it.
He hasn't so much missed Dean's voice because he hears it in his nightmares constantly, yelling his name, trying to reassure him that he's okay, that everything's okay, they'll fix him up and it's not even that bad-- Scratch that, yeah, he's still missed his voice, and just about everything else about him. Even the annoying things. Because he's his big brother.
And now... he's here.
Is it really him? Is it really Dean? Short and bossy, annoying, protective, untidy, unhealthy-food-loving, mullet-rock-listening, serial-flirter Dean?
"Dean?"
YES GOOD
Dean's face just about descends into something that's akin to desperation at the sudden appearance of his little brother, just seemingly there. It's not so much a smack to the face as it is a punch to the gut, direct and abundantly more painful than he knows what to do with, the shock of it so sudden and severe he almost wants to drop then and there. It's not a bad thing, not even a little bit, but it feels like forever since he's seen him, since he even knew what to do with seeing him, and the relief of it is like some kind of twisted up dam breaking inside of himself. Dean wants to do nothing more than clamor himself closer and tell himself it's okay, that they're both okay, it's fine, don't do this, don't react, don't feel.
Because not feeling is so much easier than anything else and Dean's gotten good at it down in Hell. Bracing himself against the constant terrors, Dean's had a lot of practice building himself up and numbing himself out, feeling nothing while he was meant to be feeling everything. There's some strange thing he's done to himself, turned inside out in an effort to keep from breaking every single day, and just like now in the face of his little brother who looks so... unsurprisingly surprised to see him, all Dean wants to do is be the brave big brother he always is. The one who knows what he's doing and can face the world with ease and bravado, keep Sam tucked safely into his shadow and protect him against the world.
Even though he proved to do a pretty piss poor job of that.
"Hey, Sammy."
It's the first thing he manages, like it's just that easy to speak up, as if it hasn't been months in between the last time he saw Sam and now, and just the words alone make him feel like he's splintering in a million different directions. He keeps trying to scoop himself back up and the smile he gives is fractured at best, it's a goddamn lie and it's stupid and he tells himself for the hundredth time that if he doesn't buck up that Sam's gonna ask him some stupid question about Hell. Mostly because he can't tell the difference between Sam's shock to see him at all, and Sam's potential shock to see that he's back from Hell. Dean doesn't know it yet, doesn't know that they're split from time and reality and just keeps guessing that Sam's going to out with the questions and the 'are you okay's' and 'what was it like' in two seconds and he can't do it yet.
He can't.
And so he takes a step downwards, bracing himself for the onslaught and gritting his teeth against it, willing himself to stand taller and straighter and without bending over with the weight of his own failures. Because he didn't just fuck up down there, he fucked up big time, and there's nothing he can do to take any of that back. Sam'll find out just by looking at him that he broke and Dean's waiting for it, the wash of guilt to run over him like a wave.
But another step he goes, heading down towards Sam like it's supposed to be easy.
"You got any idea what's goin' on here, because I think I missed out on the visitor's guide."
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Dean's expression, the tone of his voice, and his way of immediately trying to put on his game face, slip into his "brave and unbreakable" persona when he realizes this is his little brother, all makes perfect sense to Sam. For him, the last time they saw each other, Sam had died in his arms. He can only imagine how awful that must have been for him. Isn't surprised in the slightest that Dean would immediately try to hide, at least in front of Sam, just how awful it had been for him. And he has a million and one questions for his brother, absolutely. Just not the ones that Dean is expecting. The word "Hell" doesn't even enter into the equation.
The questions can come later anyway. Because once Dean makes a motion to move forward, Sam's unexpected paralysis at seeing him finally breaks, and he's rushing forward. He wraps his brother in a hug there on the stairs, not asking for permission or even giving warning of an impending mushy moment or telling him to suck it up and deal with it, Dean, if you make a joke about this I'm pushing you down the stairs. It would be an empty threat anyway, of course, it always is. Lifelong brother threats of 'if you do that one more time, I'm gonna kill you.' But Sam doesn't feel like making one now because it would hit too close to heart. They might both be dead already. And yet that prospect doesn't bother him as much as it should, now that they're both here.
Wondering about Dean constantly had been like a black cloud following him wherever he went. There was not a single thing in this fantasy paradise of a world that he could truly enjoy when he hadn't known for sure what this all meant for Dean, Sam showing up here, having in all likelihood died.
He's aware that Dean has asked him a question, that he's just as confused as Sam had been upon waking up here. Which also makes complete sense, but leaves him wondering just how Dean had died to end up here. If he did die. If that's what this place was about. Truthfully none of the others he had talked to about their last moments before arriving had seemed to indicate that any of them had died.
Suddenly he feels inadequate for not having much in the way of answers for Dean. He's been here a month and he still doesn't know anything about why or how he got here. Or who brought him here. It's terrible hunting work, Dean has a right to be disappointed in him when he finds out. Which will be any moment, because at some point the hugging will have to stop and Sam will have to answer.
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Or Sam can slam him into a hug that near knocks him to the ground, that works too.
Dean makes a soft 'oof' of breath as Sam collides into his arms, not even remotely prepared to be giving out hugs like this. But Sam is just there and Dean just gives, not because he has to but because he wants to. Even if hugs are an exceptionally foreign thing right now and he feels off kilter, like he doesn't know how to respond the right way. He spent years causing far too many souls far too much pain and he's not even sure he deserves this, a thing that nearly makes him shrink inside, his shoulders curling inward against it, almost trying to repel backwards. But Sam deserves a hug- he can manage a hug, he can do this. It's not as if it's an impossible thing, it's just a fucking hug, and Dean finally squeezes back, pulls Sam in close and claps a hand to his back, hard and resounding, trying to offer what comfort he can give.
In all honesty, he's not really clear on how long he's even been gone. He knows how long he was there, oh he knows, but after that everything gets a little murky. And really, the only thing he can assume is that Sam just showed up here as well, that they met in the same place at the same time in the only way that they can do. It's the only thing that makes sense and yet still doesn't because why would they be here in the first place?
Especially when whatever dragged him out of Hell, had no reason to go about shoving Sam into another life he wasn't supposed to lead. Sam should be back home, living the life Dean tried so hard to give back to him. Unless Sam was the one that did this in an attempt to bring him back- Dean doesn't know, and he wants answers more than he knows how to say them, instead just keeping his chin tight against Sam's shoulder like the hug's some kind of liferaft in the middle of the sea.
But eventually he's still gotta pull back, try to save himself some face and set his jaw like a man who knows what he's doing. Even though he hasn't got a clue, wouldn't know where to start even if someone gave him the directions.
"You got something to do with this?"
It's the first thing he can truly think to ask and it's not an accusation, nor does it sound like one. He was the one who sold his soul after all, he can't exactly point fingers at trying to save Sam from peril, and he tips his head a bit, trying to look Sam in the face like he can read the hidden messages behind whatever answers he has to give.
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"How would I have...?" He trails off, his confusion clear in the slant of his eyebrows, concerned frown on his lips. "Uh. Let's get off of the stairs first. There's some empty rooms on the top floor, we can talk there." Mostly because he doesn't want anyone else to know about his 'we might all be dead' theory, and standing and talking here meant anyone in the tree could overhear them if they wished. It would be safe to explain to Dean behind a closed door though, and then maybe his brother could tell him how he died. There was a conversation to look forward to. "Then I can show you around."
He turns to pick up his bow and the quiver of arrows he'd dropped on the lower stairs, slinging the latter across his back. He gives a nod to Dean, gestures upward with the bow in his hand for his brother to start climbing back up the way he'd been coming down.
"Should be one flight up. I'm staying right now in the room I woke up in a few weeks ago, on this floor, but I've got a roommate. Just the guy who also woke up there. I'll move my stuff out of there later though and we can choose an empty room to bunk in."
There's no question in there, just assumed. Like they never question whether to get one room or two at the motels. Sure two would cost more, but it was also about watching each other's backs and staying together. About being family. And in a way probably also just about it being the way they'd grown up.
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Which could possibly mean a whole bunch of other things but Dean hasn't gotten there yet, can't wrap his mind around it - Sam can show him around? How long had he been here anyway, Dean must have assumed wrong about them waking up at the exact same time.
Apparently Sam's got more than enough time on him if he knows his way around and... has a bow and arrow to boot. What the fuck.
"What are you, Robin Hood now?"
Just because he doesn't have a clue what's going on doesn't mean he can't give the occasional jibe, looking utterly baffled as he finally turns to start heading up the stairs. All Dean knows is... well, absolutely nothing and Sam's acting like it's no big deal like this is nothing, and Dean can't wrap his head around it because now Sam's saying he's been staying in a room which means he's been here even longer and dammit, Dean's so out of his league here with his cluelessness that he can't stand it.
He hates when he doesn't know what's going on, when he feels like he's been left out of the loop. It doesn't help that he's already disoriented, confused and nervous and bent out of shape in five ways to Sunday and he grimaces a bit as he makes his way up to the first floor, his words finally bubbling over into a frustrated question.
"Dammit, Sam- how long have you even been here?"
Oh. Right. He was supposed to be getting to the room first. He swears again under his breath and marches up the stairs, now two at a time, trying to get to the room for the dam breaks inside his mind that just makes everything rush out before he can even think to stop it.
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"Maybe."
Better than being the leader of Hell's army or whatever it was exactly that the Yellow-Eyed Demon had wanted from him. Who even knows if he was telling the truth. Demons weren't exactly well known for that, or for revealing their plans. At least not the ones Sam's met so far.
Dean's agitation at not having answers is quite clear, and it annoys Sam a little because, seriously? He can't wait forty seconds? Maybe it's more defensiveness than annoyance. He still feels guilty he doesn't actually have all the answers. He has the one to that question, though. He answers, forging ahead as Dean starts taking the stairs like he's a big second grader or something, two at a time. Sam wants to tell him to slow down and be careful, but he grabs for different words.
"A few weeks. I said that already. Did you wake up in one of the rooms? Because that's how it happened when I arrived. Not even a wound on me or a sore back."
He's getting ahead of himself. But it's just as well, they're on the right floor now thanks to Dean's rush to get here.
"Check that room," he says, pointing. The majority of them should be empty, so odds are it will be and they can go in.
It's not that Sam actively mistrusts anyone here. It's more that the place is filled with teenagers he feels he needs to keep any harmful or potentially traumatic information from. Telling them they died probably falls into that category. Although whether that's true or not isn't a certainty yet. Still probably better for them to have as stress-free of a time as they can here. Sam's sort of made that his mission, partly just to have something to focus on so his thoughts don't run wild or his nightmares turn into day ones.
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"Better not make me Little John."
His gaze lifts upright, the words mumbled under his breath more than anything just for something to say that isn't outright mean and frustrated and pissed off. But they're all just for show, feelings that are by far easier to deal with than his real ones, the things boiling just beneath the surface. The terror and the upset, the pain that he wants to crawl his way away from just to breathe for one second. And he's faking all of it, trying to layer tolerable emotions on top of intolerable ones just for a seconds reprieve.
But okay, Sam really has been here for a few weeks and that he still can't wrap his mind around, wants to keep asking it over and over until he's really got a grasp on the idea. Because it means a variety of things, but mostly that Dean doesn't understand, and his jaw clenches in annoyance, bolting tight and hard until he can find a way to answer the rest of what Sam's asked of him.
Wait- a sore back? The fuck's that supposed to mean? Dean flashes a look over his shoulder and manages to look somewhat quizzical, before he's turning his attention towards the room that Sam's pointed him to, almost immediately trying to shoulder his way inside.
"Woke up in a room, yeah." Whether or not he was in any pain wasn't something he was going to address, not in the slightest, and he flashes a look around this room instead, trying to take in potential differences, all the things that are worth seeing, thinking on, trying to understand. "Pretty nice accommodations - always figured if we were gonna get kidnapped, we'd end up in someone's basement somewhere. Not in a--" He waves a hand around at all of this, because he doesn't know yet and it's starting to make him want to climb the walls.
"Whatever this is."
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Sam shuts the door behind them after following Dean in, and takes a cursory glance around the room too. Same as all the other bedrooms: beds on either side tucked into homey, comfy little alcoves in the wall, covered by warm-looking quilts and fluffy pillows. Window with sunlight streaming in, so much greenery out there it's like someone just went to town with a fucking Granny Smith Apple crayon. There are unlit candles on side tables and dressers, two chairs. That's about it.
A very small laugh, quiet, and he nods as Dean waves a hand around. "A scene from friggin' Lord of the Rings. Yeah, I know. It's crazy. We don't even have running water here, Dean, we have to bring buckets up from the well every morning to use throughout the day. Accommodations are nice to look at but a pretty big inconvenience, to be honest."
He shakes his head and drops the bow and arrows onto one of the beds, sitting down next to them with a sigh, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees.
"Better than being dead though, assuming we aren't." He looks up at his brother, a frown settling on his face, worry in his eyes as he studies Dean. Now's as good a time as any to get down to business. Question and answer time.
"I died, didn't I? Jake killed me? How long ago did it happen, Dean? How long has it been since you last saw me?"
He would have assumed a few weeks, since that's how long he's been here, except Dean obviously is confused by that timeframe. So maybe time here and time back home moved at different paces or something.
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Dean almost manages to contain his groan of annoyance, "Of course there's no running water. Like being a squatter all over again."
Which is to say it probably hadn't been too long since they've last been on, before Dean had been dragged off by the Hellhounds, but it's easy to act like it's just that easy. Like it's no big deal, the world isn't pressing in against him and making it harder to breathe than he can stand. But yeah, it's like a fucking Lord of the Rings movie, and it's ridiculous, but it still doesn't answer the question as to why he's here.
Watching as Sam makes himself comfortable, Dean instead stubbornly stands in the middle of the room, purposeful in his lack of desire to move. To get comfortable. He's going to resist because he can, because he doesn't want this and it's easy to push back against despite the fact that it's unchangeable.
And then, with Sam's words, Dean's left feeling like he's been hit by a bus.
He died?
Why does Sam think he died, why is he back to that day when they'd moved on from it. When Dean had saved him, sold his soul, turned it all around so fast that nobody could've done a thing about it; why hadn't time moved forward for him? Dean stares for a good few seconds, expression near blank he's so damn confused by it.
Until: Okay, okay- look alive, Dean. You can fake this, you can lie your way through it, make it work to your advantage. Means he doesn't have to talk about Hell or about torture or about any of those things if he can just figure out what this means without Sam noticing. Find someone else to ask about the transition of time around here, which is ludicrous, this is insane. It doesn't make any sense, but It's easy to look off for a moment, heartbroken and crushed and floundering under the reminder of his dead brother. It's so easy to be struck dumb by the memory of Sam's death which feels like so long ago now, to revert himself back to that moment where Sam dropped into his arms, a literal dead weight.
"Couple'a month, maybe? Kinda- I don't know, haven't been keepin' track of time."
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Months. For Dean, Sam had been dead for months.
He's filled with emotion again, chest tight, back to their moment on the stairs, and he stands up to move closer to his brother, rest a hand on his shoulder. A solid weight. Substantial, real. And Sam needs it as much as he thinks Dean does right now, that reminder.
"I'm here now, Dean. We're both here."
He's still going to have to ask, about what happened once Sam was gone. Did he follow Jake? Did he stop him from doing whatever it was that the demon had wanted? Did he get the demon? Finally avenge all the people that they'd lost, their family?
But it can wait. Not like they're pressed for time here. Might even have all eternity, if this is some sort of afterlife or stop on the way to afterlife. To Heaven, maybe. And Sam still believes that exists, just as he still believes in God, in angels. He prays, even here. Had prayed for Dean to be safe, to be getting along without him.
It doesn't make a whole lot of sense though, because this place felt disconnected from their world entirely. Like a different universe, with its own monsters, its own inhabitants. Its own religions, even. And Dean was still going to want his own answers, too. About what this place is and how they got there, at least. Sam does at least know a bit about the place, and has his theory of course about how they got here. Which again begs the question: how had Dean died? And does Sam really want to hear about that, picture it? The death of another person he loves?
Not really, no. But he's pretty sure his own imagination can't be any more awful than the truth. Kinda funny how incredibly wrong he is about that.
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Finally, he looks back at Sam's words, tries to digest them for what they are, for what Sam believes to be real, here. That Dean's endured his brother's death and somehow managed to take it without doing something about it, that he sat on his ass for months and let Sam rot in a grave.
Not. Likely.
But he can't mask everything that flickers across his face and he's sure the pain is registering as just that: pain, the heartache of losing the one person who meant the most the most to him. And now that he's staring him down again, it's tearing him up inside to know he let Sam down, out of everyone. He's sorry, god is he ever sorry, but nothing he can do is gonna fix that or make it alright. All he wants to do is crumble but he's standing here, trying to take the onslaught of what he's feeling, and boil it down to the things that he's now trying to make Sam believe. That this is loss, cold and hard and real, and only loss, that Dean is trying to buck up in the face of getting his little brother back without having done anything to save his soul.
"Yeah. You made it back."
Except, Dean doesn't want to sit on that fact because Sam made it back because Dean made it so. He sold his soul and Sam doesn't know it and why not? Why is time different here, why's Sam off kilter from when he's from - Dean didn't think time travel was a real thing so what the fuck's up with that. It makes it so much easier to try and flee from the emotions of it, dragging a hand down his face and forcing himself into the land of confusion, trying to push away the dregs of terror that are reinforced in the back of his mind and settle on the things that he doesn't understand about this place.
That just seems so much easier than dwelling, than facing what he cannot stand.
"But why, Sam? Why are we here, we got no reason to be. You don't think this is all a little, y'know- freaky?"
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A memory resurfaces, of Dean locking them both in a room in that medical center in Oregon, thinking Sam had been infected with that demon virus. Refusing to give Sam his gun, or to leave. Resigning himself to dying with his brother when he didn't have to. Suicidal, basically. It had been suicidal.
Or maybe he just hadn't gotten a chance to go after the demon, and he feels guilty. It doesn't occur to Sam, doesn't even cross his mind that Dean would think of doing something (dangerous, sacrificial, or harmful to others) to bring him back. Not after the experiences they've already had with that. First Layla, and then their dad. There were consequences, and being the one brought back, especially in exchange for another, wasn't exactly good for the psyche.
"I didn't make it back," he points out, frowning. That had seemed like a weird thing to say to him, all things considered. Sam had gone from dead to waking up here. "I came here. I died, and came here. Without any trace of an injury. And now you're here, apparently only a few months after I died."
His voice drops and his shoulders slump. "...How did it happen, Dean?" He wonders if his brother will even tell him. Maybe he'll think Sam better off not knowing. It wouldn't surprise him, but Sam doesn't intend to just drop the subject if Dean won't answer the first time. He'll find out eventually.
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But that's not how this works because Sam knows him. Knows that the last thing he would've ever done is sit on his ass and let Sam stay gone. He doesn't know how to do this without his brother, and while John had filled in the space Sam had left behind for four long years, Sam is his brother again, and has been for long enough that he can't handle the separation. And so his life would've been a desperate attempt to bring his brother back, some sane way, using methods that didn't involve voodoo and black magic. He wouldn't have tried to raise a zombie but he would've looked for something, because sitting around existing without his brother just wasn't any kind of a possibility. Which was why he sold his soul so damn fast. It was the easiest way around it, the only thing he could think to do, the only option he had.
So there's nothing else to it. Dean doesn't truly know how to fake this to the best of any ability, apart from trying to convince himself to make it seem as if he hadn't gotten Sam back yet. That his months were spent conversing with demons in a spiraled attempt to earn back his brother's life while simultaneously hunting for Yellow Eyes. It's the best he can think of on the spot, anything too much more elaborate and he'd be caught in his lies. Keep it simple, keep it pained, keep it away from his own grief.
"I mean- You made it here. You obviously made it back somewhere, otherwise you wouldn't be trying to live out your days as Bilbo. I know you-" -died, say the word Dean. Say it. Say it. Say it. "I know it happened, but you're here now, aren't you? Might not be where we both want you to be, but you're here. That means something, right?"
He wanted it to sound like he was grasping at straws, his voice strained with the kind of tension that came halfway through a hunt, when nerves were fraying and there were no more explanations left to give. It was sheer desperation, trying to put across that they could figure this out and bring Sam home with him, however they could make it work. But Sam's next question makes him tilt his head, not entirely sure Sam's implying, and if he's already cottoned on to Dean's lie and figured that something must have happened during the 'months' he was gone.
"... How did what happen?"
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"Fa'Diel. This place is called Fa'Diel. We aren't the only ones who randomly woke up here, either. This house? Built inside of a tree, and everyone in it just woke up here one morning. Most of us are from different places... Like different worlds or something, Dean. We've got elves and robots and hell, I don't even know what all of them are. But then there are a bunch of teenagers too. A handful of them just regular Japanese high schoolers who play volleyball and I haven't been able to find any connection or explanation yet."
His hands get shoved into his pockets with a sigh and a slight shrug, his gaze flickering to his shoes before back to Dean. "So, yeah, we're both here now, and that means something. But if you're asking me what it means, I don't know yet. I've just been trying to keep everyone here safe and alive and stress-free so far. Especially the teenagers."
He'd say "kids" but he already knows that makes a few of them prickly, which is something Sam can definitely relate to. Ever since he'd gotten that reaction, he's settled on just "teenagers." They were old enough to look after themselves, it wasn't like Sam exactly needed to babysit. But he did like to check in on them every once in a while just to make sure they didn't want or need his help. Make sure they were living as happily as they could in this unexpected new residence of theirs.
And that had been his focus, so he wouldn't have to think too much about what the separation from Dean had meant, how long it could possibly last. He's relieved he's here now, though. Worried about what it all means still, sure, but at least they're together again. And they can figure shit out if they're together.
If Sam's having trouble reading Dean as well as he usually does, well chalk it up to the separation, everything else he's had on his mind, the constant nightmares and lack of sleep. He's definitely not at his peak here.
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Granted, not a whole lot would make him comforted right now, save for Sam's continued existence. That is a comfort, in the same way that it's always been a comfort, but until he figures out more of whatever the hell is going on, he's not going to be able to settle in his own skin. Or anywhere, really. The last thing he can imagine right now is taking a seat and going easy on himself. No- there's a million things he already thinks he should be doing, and none of them have to do with making himself comfortable.
Even the continuation of Sam's words don't really do that much to help, and Dean begins to pick up a frantic pace moving about the room as Sam carries on, talks about there being all sorts of things here, including teenagers. Kids. He'll worry about the robots and the other shit later, but the kids are one massive problem in that no kid should ever be subjected (then why them, why is it always them) to something like this. Dean doesn't want to have to worry about a bunch of kids being separated from their homes but he's already doing exactly that within seconds, putting the world on his shoulders because that's where it's always supposed to be. Sam's obviously been doing the same exact thing if he's trying to keep everyone here safe and Dean's quick to think to himself that it's his responsibility now.
Or maybe he's just frantically trying to find a distraction. Something to take himself out of his own head, remove his mind, put something else in its place. Don't let him be himself right now, he can't do it, he can't.
"So, okay- you're tellin' me that we stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone, because this is up there on the weird scale, you know that, right? I mean, you're seein' the same things i'm seein'?"
He's not trying to bust Sam's balls for not having all of this figured out, but he feels all squirmy and disgusting under his skin, as if he shouldn't be allowed to exist in the first place. Look at all you've done wrong, Dean Winchester is the one thing his brain can provide, over and over and over again, a reminder that there are souls that he- that he- that he-
Second chances aren't meant for shit like him. And wasn't that the point to begin with?
"Place seems pretty stress free, Sammy- we're in a goddamn tree like a bunch of Disney princesses, that doesn't seem a little weird to you? There's gotta be something else involved here, something else goin' on."
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"Yeah. We're seeing the same things. And yes, it's weird. But being taken from your home and the safety of what you're familiar with, without warning or any idea why or how to get back, that's stressful for normal people. Hell, you're stressed! You can't stand still for two seconds! You can't say this is stress-free when you're... I don't know, acting like you're ready to crawl out of your skin. What's going on with you, man?"
Because to him it seems like they've covered all of the things that could be causing that. They've both established they're here, together and alive and unharmed (for lack of evidence otherwise, anyway). But this is like... Airplane Dean. Flying Dean. This was not how the Dean he remembers would be acting in this situation. Because they've been through some pretty weird shit before. Plus, the last time Dean had seen him, Sam had been dead. And the fact that Dean's not practically giddy seeing him alive again is just... It's kind of odd, the more he thinks about it. Extremely weird setting or not, he would have thought the happiness of that would have lasted at least a little longer.
Come to think of it, there hasn't been any trace of any true smile on Dean's face since they'd reunited. Not a one. Just his masks. And Sam hadn't really thought that strange until now, but. If Dean had died and Sam had found him again, pretty much no matter where, he's pretty sure he'd have a genuine smile. Not a broken one. Not a fake one. At least one genuine smile.
"There's something you're not telling me, and I don't think it's got anything to do with this place. I think it's about us. You and me. Whatever it is you're trying to protect me from..." He trails off, shaking his head though his gaze never leaves his brother. "Just tell me."
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Which he has been, all things considered.
Dean still isn't happy with this, but Sam is cottoning on to his strain and that's a problem. Sam isn't supposed to be picking up on what Dean isn't doing a good enough job at hiding and he lets go of a slow breath as he stares around the stupid room and takes in the fact that it just doesn't feel as much like a cage as he's trying to make it out to be. Even though it is, it just happens to be fanciful at the exact same time. It's weird and wrong and Dean doesn't like it, doesn't like the fact that it seems gentle and kind while simultaneously being nothing that they want.
He doesn't want to be here, but what is his other option- Hell? Does he really want that that much more? Because he doesn't, he simply doesn't want more on his plate that he can't begin to understand and it's a strain on his ability to tolerate what he can't grasp. He already doesn't know how he's been pulled from Hell but to end up in an entirely different, what- world? Dimension? Universe? It had to have taken some mighty ass mojo to work that kind of magic and Dean just wants answers. That's all.
But he also doesn't want to tell Sam the truth.
Giving up, Dean stops his agitated pacing and moves his way over to plop down onto the bed next to Sam, stretching his boots out in front of him. He remains stubbornly silent for a good few more second before he finally glances over and shakes his head, trying desperately to keep up the act that nothing is as wrong as Sam is making it out to be.
"The only thing i'm trying to protect you from is whatever the hell's going on here. I mean, c'mon Sammy, you just came back from the dead. I couldn't, I- I mean." He scrubs a hand down his face for a moment, trying his damndest to keep working up the lie he'd started this off with. "You don't think this place isn't working some big ass mojo? How'd it do it? I couldn't do it and Sammy, you don't think I didn't try? I tried everything, anything I could think of to bring you back and this is what we get for it? This... whatever this is?"
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He turns his head to look at Dean when his brother drops onto the bed beside him, and copies him by stretching out his own long legs. As Sam is prone to do, he lets the silence stand between them for those few moments while watching Dean. It's not really uncomfortable to him, not since Dean's stopped with the pacing around the room, and not since they've had a whole lifetime of comfortable silences for one or both of them to think in. It feels normal and Sam holds onto that close because it's the first thing that has felt normal in a while. He soaks in the utter relief of having him close again without having to worry about him. Except... Well, maybe he should be worried about him.
Sam listens to everything Dean tells him, the relaxed neutral expression that had settled over his features once the pacing had stopped shifting right back into a worried frown.
"What? What did you do? Dean, how do you know it wasn't something you did that led to us being here?"
He should feel angry, he thinks, but then it wouldn't really be fair, either. Not after Sam had worked so hard to keep Dean from dying when his heart was giving out. But this was different, Sam had actually died, had taken his final breath. There were a lot less ways to save someone from that, and he knows because he'd done his research last year to save Dean, had run across the supposed ways one could theoretically bring back the dead once they were in full-on decomposition mode. And Dean just told him he'd tried anything and everything. Sam's not angry. Not yet. But this is probably the most worried he's been in a long time, imagining a panicked Dean trying anything and everything and none of those ways were exactly pretty or good for one's health, he knows.
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But Sam's question still makes him cringe most of all.
Because maybe something he did made this all his fault. Granted, he doesn't know what that would be, but it's entirely likely at this point, a kind of thing he can't deny because who knows what he's done wrong, what more he's fucked up, what lives he's ruined and tortured and sinned. It makes his gaze drag away and stare down between his knees, head shaking out of sheer desperation because Sam doesn't get it. He didn't get it the first time either, the fact that Dean can't go it alone. He can't. He doesn't know how. Without Dad, without Sam- he's nothing. He's not whole, he's not anything, and to think that he could keep fighting the good fight with only his skin and bones is ludicrous. He's a shell of a human without them at his side, and they had to have known that.
They have to still know it, even know.
"Because, Sam. I know, okay? Nothing I did could'a brought us to this place." His voice was strained, words toppling over one another to try and get there first as Dean squeezed them out between his clenched teeth. Nothing he did would have been idiotic enough to transport them to another world just... because and Dean didn't want think that this was his fault. But more importantly, he knew it wasn't solely because he knew the outcome of what he'd done. Everything had gone right. He'd gotten what he'd wanted, he hadn't fucked it up, and this wasn't his fault.
So whose fault was it?
"Just- just believe me. Nothing I did would'a shot us here- world travelling wasn't exactly what I was goin' for, Sam."
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Because. 'Because I'm older.' 'Because I'm the big brother.' If Sam had a fucking nickel for every time in his life he's gotten that as an answer.
"You realize you didn't actually answer my question."
He hadn't told him what he'd done, the things he had actually tried in order to get Sam back. But Dean is just as stubborn as Sam and Sam knows it, so he's realizing this may be a battle he'll have to save for another day. Not concede defeat, just call a truce maybe until there's a better time. If there ever will be a better time. As much as he'd like to keep pushing to get actual answers, rather than Dean asking Sam to 'just believe him,' like they're still kids. Like Sam's asking about why they move around all the time and where's Dad always going and Dean's telling him just stop asking questions and trust me. Protecting him, or trying to. At his own expense often enough, which is what bothers Sam. His mind is going to keep supplying possible things that Dean may have done to try and get him back, like Sam's life held more meaning than his own, like Sam would just be okay with being brought back at Dean's expense. Because that's what it came down to, didn't it? When bringing people back? You had to make some sort of sacrifice.
It occurs to him then, something else that's struck him as wrong and out of place this entire time that he couldn't exactly put his finger on, since Dean had shown up. His gaze flickers to Dean's neck, where there's always been a chord, down to where the amulet always sits right there on his breastbone. There's nothing. It's gone. Sam straightens up immediately, brows furrowing. How did I even miss that?
"Dean, where's...?" He lifts his hand, touching it to his own chest before pointing at Dean's, looking him in the eye again with a frown.
Had he tried to use it somehow? Because it was something Sam had given him? It didn't seem out of the realm of possibility, that some magic spell or whatever might call for something like that. It held a lot of importance to Dean and he knows, because it's incredibly rare for him to take it off. But he's sort of jumping to conclusions about it, isn't he? Maybe it had absolutely nothing to do with the anything and everything Dean apparently tried to get him back, and his brother just had it in his pocket tucked away for... What, safe-keeping? Or another bad thing had gotten it, like that shapeshifter Sam still has nightmares about occasionally, right along with everything else he has nightmares about. Because being tortured by a sadistic, murderous being wearing your own brother's face wasn't a trauma anyone could get over completely, even after a year. Even after a lifetime, probably.
And it's not like he doesn't trust Dean. He trusts that he's full of good intentions, he trusts that this is Dean and not another possible shapeshifter. It's just that the problem doesn't lie in trusting him, in believing him. It lies in knowing him. And Sam does.
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That he'd tried one thing.
And it had worked.
But the real kicker is, the real one, is not the fact that Dean's lied or the fact that he knows it and doesn't want to say it because he knows what will happen, is what Sam points out next. Dean's brow furrows as Sam gestures and suddenly, Dean's hands are going around his neck like he's trying to throttle himself, feeling out for the leather band that keeps the amulet around his neck and it's not there. Nothing's there. His neck is fresh and clean and sure, everything is in its place, except for the one most important thing of all. The amulet's gone, completely and utterly gone, and he knows its not on his person because why would it be anywhere else but around his neck? It doesn't go anywhere, never leaves his body. Except for, perhaps, in death.
"Shit."
Dean's got nothing. Nothing. He has no lies saved up for that one because in all honesty, he doesn't truly know where it could be. All he can figure is that Sam took it when he died, kept it as some kind of keepsake and now it's gone in some other world that Dean can't reach. It's out of his possession and there's nothing he can dredge up quite so quick to make room for the fact that his keepsake, the one thing that says without words what their relationship is, what they mean to each other, is gone and Dean has no explanation as to where it could be except for the obvious. And he can't give the obvious, he can't do it, he doens't know how. He doens't know how to bring the words to a Sam who's only just freshly dead and he sure can't say the words that he just spent the last forty years in Hell without falling to pieces.
And he can't fall. He can't break. He isn't allowed to crack or splinter or let himself falter, he isn't allowed to be anything but strong in the face of all of this because that's his punishment. His failure is his defeat and he knows it, knows that Sam can't see the parts of him that are so tarnished they'll never be unsung and Dean just hangs his head, because what else can he do?
What else is there but the truth? What Dean can do but not give it, except for how there's nothing else to offer in its place?
"Sam, it's not gone, okay? Didn't lose it."
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How could he have not known? And if he hadn't known, how is he so sure it's not lost? Of course, there's always the possibility that that's a lie, one meant to reassure Sam just the way Dean had done while Sam was dying in his arms a month ago. 'It's not that bad' and 'You're fine' and whatever else he had said as Sam's consciousness and very life had faded.
He'd been wearing the amulet then. Sam can remember clearly it pressed to his own chest while Dean had felt out the damage, the wound at his back.
He wouldn't get mad at Dean for losing it, though, sometimes shit like that happens, and he knows Dean would feel bad and guilty for losing it enough for both of them without Sam expressing disappointment.
The amulet hadn't started out as Dean's. It hadn't even started out for Dean. There hadn't really been much meaning to it at first other than "thanks for being better than Dad," which, granted, was a big part of their relationship, because Dean had always been better at taking care of Sam than John was. The decision to give the amulet to Dean hadn't been a long thought-out one. It was made in the moment because Dean had shown he cared more about Sam and his happiness by trying to make Christmas special for him. Had even tried to give the credit to John, like he'd deserved it. For all of that, Dean had deserved something from Sam. The amulet had been a way to thank him.
But to Sam it had really gained more of its meaning through the fact that Dean had cherished it and kept it on him all these years. The fact that it represented something to him made it represent something more to Sam. But as far as he was concerned, it being lost or being gone would hardly erase their entire relationship.
So he's not mad. He's worried. He's worried what could have happened to Dean that he would have taken it off and forgotten about it. Or lost it entirely. It's Dean he's worried about, not the amulet. Not an object. His older brother.
"What happened?"
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In an instant, images skitter across his mind.
Black pits and the rack, trussed up and losing limbs like nobody's business. Bone took hours to carve through if they wanted it to and everything else took just as long - not that time really mattered when they got right down to it. But it all blipped by in an instant, the steady drip of blood like a echoing scream, bouncing in his ears, sounds he refused to give and panicked chokes that made the world seem as if it was hanging on a wire. Everything was always so frantic, sped up and slowed down and strewn about, his organs a thing that were no longer his to keep in any way shape or form. And then it was everyone else he dug deep into, bodies that became his to tear apart, to take for keeps, to explore in ways that sent blood dribbling up to his elbows.
In the flash of a second it's gone, drops back behind his eyelids and Dean blinks again, emptied and hollowed out and wondering when it will all just go away. When he can forget it, when he can pretend it had never happened. Maybe if he'd been stronger he'd be allowed to forget but as it stood, it's his shameful burden to bear and so he puts it on his shoulders the same way he does everything else, as if he has more than enough room to carry the world and more. And Sam can't know, can't begin to know.
But what lies does he have? What can he come up with on the spot that will be enough, that will be a good enough lie to reflect what has happened.
Can he skip on by all of this, just say he doesn't have a clue where it went and go from there? Because that's the truth: he doesn't know where it is, not physically, but he knows why it was lost in the first places and it still remains as much of a lie as he can figure it to be and it still hurts, makes him hate himself that much more for wanting to twist the words he gives to Sammy in some kind of marbled fashion. Lies with truth, intertwined against the spaces between them until Dean gets away with everything he doesn't want to give when he's always so good at giving Sammy his all.
So what's he supposed to do? What's the outcome of this that doesn't have him climbing up the walls from the sheer weight of his own self hatred?
"Can we just-" The words are gritted out until Dean has to freeze again, jaw clenched until it aches in the pounding of his own head, trying to find the things to say that aren't dickish but are still entirely wrong. Because everything is wrong, nothing is how he wants to say it and no matter what he gives, it isn't the words he wants to say. "Can we just stow it, Sammy? Please?"
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"Dean, you understand I'm just worried about you though, right? I'm not trying to pry into whatever you feel is your business, but... I'd like to help you if you'd let me. And if it has anything to do with me, then I have a right to know, too. If there was something you did for me that you're trying to protect me by keeping it from me or you're afraid I'll be mad at you for it..." He shakes his head. "I'm going to find out sooner or later. But you're my brother and you know I'll forgive you."
He thought that much was obvious by now. Whatever fights or hard times they went through, Dean was and will always be his brother. And Sam will always forgive him his screw ups, his flaws, his wrong-doings, whatever. Some may take more time than others, some fights may leave scars that take longer to heal completely. But there was nothing Dean could or would do that could make Sam hate him, he's certain of that. Outside forces like possession of course could control either one of them to make them turn on one another, but of his own volition? No, there was nothing.
"Better to just get the blows out of the way instead of letting it eat at you, you know?" He wrings his hands together once before placing them back on his knees, leaning back a little with a sigh. "But if you want me to let it go for right now, fine. I'm not giving up, though."
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