gameofmana | i've been up and down in prison

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?"

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Right now, Dean doesn't know what's comforting. Doesn't even know what to begin to ask for to make anything feel better, and so he tells himself to ask for nothing, to look normal, to look like he's just lost his brother for too many months to count. What would he have done if Sam had just died, what would his life had looked like--

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?"

Sam is silent for a long moment, studying Dean's face as he runs through what's been said. Obviously, the thought hasn't crossed Dean's mind that this may be some sort of afterlife or the stop before an afterlife. Which probably means Sam was wrong and Dean hadn't died. Which is a comforting thought for many reasons, of course, but puts him right back where he started, without any answers at all. Well, that's not entirely true. He can give Dean what he knows, but it will do nothing to explain how they got here or what they're doing here. And he's skipping the question he just asked because he thinks he was wrong about that, anyway.

"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.

Dean's not entirely sure that these are the answers he wants.

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."

Clearly though, Dean's continued discomfort is making Sam uncomfortable. He can understand the being freaked about what was going on, even after a month Sam's not totally used to all this. But he'd already been making a plan by now after his arrival, to walk around, ask questions. To figure things out. He'd already left the panic stage, but Dean... Dean's too frantic. Something's not adding up.

"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."

It's the last words that Sam throws out that suddenly stop Dean in his tracks, as if he's been deflated upon the spot. The frantic worry that's so streaked across his features, the only kind that Dean ever really has: marred with frustration and annoyance at the same time, finally quiets and Dean heaves a breath, looking around the room and avoiding the topic for a whole few seconds. All he does is stare around himself, brow furrowed in disinterest but observation, taking in the things he's always been trained to take in, as if he has been captured against his will and placed in holding.

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?"

It had seemed like less of a cage to Sam not just because of the peaceful atmosphere of it, but because he'd had the suspicion that there wasn't any other place he was supposed to be. Because he was dead. Dean's thought process however seems to be that they're both still alive (or Sam brought back to life) but they're just both here. It's a possibility, of course. One that Sam prefers not just because it means being alive and the possible chance to get back home and go back to what they do, to saving people. To stopping Jake and the Yellow-Eyed Demon. But also because it means the teenagers and everyone else who were brought here against their will too might also still be alive, might also still have the chance to get back to their homes. See loved ones again. Live their normal everyday lives, the way they were supposed to.

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.

Everything feels like a cage to Dean when he's sure that everything is supposed to feel like one. He isn't supposed to be here, he isn't supposed to be relishing what it feels like to exist within a tree, within the safety of greenery and kindness. It's perverse and wrong and he's broken some rule managing this, escaping Hell by the skin of his teeth and being thrust back into a life he doesn't deserve. Ten years he spent torturing souls, ten years and he gets this? There's gotta be some bullshit behind it, some level he's not grasping and it makes him hurt so deep down that he can't even begin to know how to make it stop. He wants to scream against it, wants to shove Sam and make them both disappear, clamor his way closer and cling tight until he can feel himself whole again. He wants to rip himself to shreds and leave nothing left behind because it just doesn't make sense and there's nothing more to it than that.

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."

Heaving a frustrated sigh and tilting his head to rub at the back of his neck, Sam averts his gaze to the ceiling for a moment before looking back at his brother.

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.

In all honesty, Dean hadn't even realized that he didn't answer the question. He thought he had, figured that his answer would somehow be the right one to dissuade his brother from asking even more of them because he just knew what he was doing. Knew what he'd done, what he was talking about, how best to handle the situation without complaint. Because it was just obvious - Sam wasn't allowed to die. He wasn't allowed to be given a Hunter's Funeral like the rest of them because he was Sam, because they were brothers, because Dean didn't know how to do any of this on his own. And so of course he would have tried to do everything; why even list everything he'd tried? Especially when there wasn't a list in the first place, and nothing but a brilliant lie that stood in the back of his throat, waiting for it to come tumbling free.

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."

It's completely obvious, even if Dean doesn't want it to be, that he hadn't known the amulet wasn't there. The hands at his throat seem practically frantic, and Sam's worry just grows.

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?"

Dean doesn't want it to be obvious, not in any way. He wants to keep this hidden for as long as possible, stow it all away and stash it somewhere invisible where Sam doesn't have to see what he's done. Sam's already gotten pissed at him once for this, he doesn't need to do it all over again and Dean is starting to boil over with a cold sort of fear, viscous and frothing in his belly, gripping tight and holding fierce to the things he doesn't want to say.

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?"

All of the worry is just growing inside of Sam, a painful twisting thing as he looks at Dean and watches the emotions that do or don't cross his face. Either way is a concern really. His whole life has been people not telling him shit, Sam having to figure it out on his own. It's annoying and it's always been annoying, but with Dean it's more than just that. It's more than just "I want to know," it's "I have to know." Because it's something that's affecting him and maybe Sam could do something to help. At the very least, he has to try. He can't just sit around and let something eat away at his brother, he can't. Dean's never let him get away with that so Sam's not going to let Dean, either. Not if he can help it.

"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."

"Sam-"

It's tense, and it hangs right there, loud and raucous in his head like a promise he wants to give over but knows he can't. Instead he's lying from one side of the room and out to the other, tense and nervous and unwilling to share what he so desperately wants to admit to. Because he knows it's going to come bursting out sooner or later, the facts of what he's done, and holding on to it for longer and longer's only going to make it that much worse. Like a festering wound, something open and angry and raw, it's only going to consume him until he chokes up in front of his little brother and falls to his own demise. He knows it, entirely and completely, and yet the words won't come.

I sold my soul for you.

They're sitting there, on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be pushed forward and yet Dean can't manage it, can't make himself come to terms with what he's been through. Because the question comes with the answer of his own death and Sam's survival and while he desperately wants to let his little brother know that he lived, he doesn't want him to think upon Dean's death. His deaths, a hundred times over, something that'll leave him guilt ridden and more than unhappy. It won't be mad that Sam is with him but mad with himself, furious and pained and feeling as if he should've done everything to keep Dean from going to the pit. He knows it, and he can't do a thing to change his own decision or what he's been through, but he can keep Sam from hearing any more than he has to.

He can keep a secret, he's done it before. And he tells himself again and again that he can keep this one, that it can just be his to have, to keep Sam from even coming close to having to deal with the ultimate ramifications of what they've both been through.

It's easier that way, right? The lie wraps up the whole thing, neat and tidy and Dean's not even lying so much anymore as he's saying that he just can't say it. Can't give himself over yet, because it's too much, because it's everything. In that it's everything Sam doesn't need to know for his own well being. Dean can hold onto it, can keep it safe and can pretend it solves all the problems just be not telling and so he stares down into his lap and gives his head a little shake, pushing his palms against his thighs like he's preparing to dust himself off and then he just shrugs.

No big deal. He can tell himself it's no big deal.

"Just got transported to another world, think there's probably a better time for just about every conversation."

It shouldn't come as a surprise to him, really, that Dean decides to deflect and push it all away. But for a second there he'd really thought Dean was going to tell him something big.

Sam's lips pull into a tense line for a moment before he nods and tries not to sigh anymore. "Then we'll talk about this world. I can show you around the place, try to answer any questions. But honestly we're mostly still just trying to figure things out. We haven't been left any clues as to who brought us here or why. It doesn't seem malicious, but there's always that chance... especially since we were all brought here involuntarily."

He shifts on the bed, bringing his legs up to sit cross-legged so he can face Dean. It occurs to him he never actually told him his whole afterlife theory, even if it feels like Dean had probably debunked it.

"To tell you the truth, before you got here, I'd considered the possibility that maybe this is just some sort of afterlife, somewhere you go when you die. A way-station between Heaven and Hell, maybe. I asked you how it happened when I first saw you because I thought maybe you had died, too."

And he's a little unsure now whether or not he prefers a theory where Dean didn't die. Because Sam definitely had. So if they were to leave, would they be going back to the same place? Could Sam leave? Would Dean just continue to try and bring Sam back?

Honestly, the thought that Dean may have tried selling his soul for him has occurred to Sam by now. They were both pretty sure John had made some sort of exchange of himself for Dean, and they both were aware of the crossroads demon and the deals they could make. But Dean said he'd tried everything and nothing had been successful. And he was weirdly certain that nothing he had done had caused them both to end up here. All in all, it's still in his head as a possibility, one he doesn't like in the least, that maybe that's what Dean's not telling him. Even if he has his suspicions about that though, the fact that Dean has already been to Hell hasn't crossed his mind at all.

Dean listens, but his mind is somewhere at a distance. Usually he's so much better at disconnecting from the things he feels and the things he does, but it's taking him a moment right now to push it all aside. To distance himself from where he'd just been and where he is now, the electrostatic memories of hell creeping like vines at the edge of his business, a haunted house charade playing at the back of his mind. It's like he can still smell it, the fraying edges of burnt flesh and the way it all burned to the very core of his body, every time they-

every time-

Pay attention.

Dean finds himself looking up when Sam is already facing him, talking about the afterlife and thinking that this was somehow it. Their Heaven. Or some version of it, he's not entirely sure, but he supposes he could get behind that theory apart from the fact that you didn't really get transitioned from Hell out of anywhere. And if he could, if he was willing, he might even still be able to make Sam's idea work but he doesn't want to. Can't bring himself to offer the facts to the table that he was dead. It was his fault. It was what he'd asked for so that Sam could keep on living.

The only problem is he doesn't know what to say instead, and so he cants his head a bit, bobbing as if in thought, trying to figure out the best way to broach this without answering or deceiving any more than he has to.

But he's already lied. Why not lie some more.

"You mean what, like- Limbo? Be a pretty nice spot for it, I always thought limbo was, I dunno- supposed to be kind of a shit show." Granted, Dean thought most things were supposed to be a shit show so how was that any different from the norm. He still twists a bit, angling his shoulder against the wall so he can look at Sam straight on, brow furrowing a bit in construed thought, as if he's thinking really hard when he isn't truly thinking about much of anything apart from, well, all the things he doesn't want to think about.

"Could just be another Trickster thing, make us live in our very own little Hobbit Hole for awhile."

Of course, the more he lies and the deeper he goes into the lies, the bigger chance their is of Sam realizing that he's lying. Or, at the very least, omitting information. Hell, he's pretty much already figured that out, though. He just has to settle for not pushing it right now, leaving the possibilities sitting in the back of his head until the time is right to ask about it again.

"Maybe..." The Trickster theory is as good as any they've got so far, really, even if the one they'd met they'd already (at least as far as Sam knows) permanently gotten rid of. They hadn't even known about Tricksters before running into that one though, so who was to say there was only one? It seemed odd though that they'd randomly bring a bunch of people from seemingly different universes to one place. What reason was there? The previous one's motivation seemed to be entertainment and their own version of justice. Okay, then entertainment sort of made sense. But what had any of them done that would warrant them this as... what, punishment?

Whatever is going on, it's becoming clear that even with Dean here now and the two of them together, they're not going to solve it by sitting around talking, especially when Dean is avoiding telling him things. So Sam sighs and stands up. "Alright. I'll move all my stuff from my previous room. Then I'll show you around."

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i've been up and down in prison

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