Author: BlueIris
Title: "Catharsis"
Pairing/Characters: Sam, Dean, no slash
Spoilers: General Season Two
Summary: The drunken, angsty
post-"Croatoan/Hunted" scene that didn't happen.
"So, how are you going to do it? Knife? Gun? Smother me in my sleep?" Sam swirled the amber liquid around in his glass. "Don't choke me, okay? I hate it when they choke me."
He'd seen this coming, been waiting for it for a week. Maybe he'd even suggested they hit this dive bar so they could just get it over with, but that didn't make it any easier.
"So, I'm one of them now?" he asked.
The table between them was sticky, scarred, and laden with two overflowing ashtrays. A cheap and loud bar got you off-brand liquor and a waitress who heard 'Leave the bottle' more than 'I'll have a glass of white wine,' not a surface clean enough to put your elbows on and free of some chain-smoker's butts.
"You know what I mean." Sam tossed back his shot, grimacing at the harsh aftertaste. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."
Sure, Sam. Because everyone knows I'm the murderer in this family, right?
A piercing shriek cut through the din behind him. He tensed, hand slipping smoothly beneath his jacket, as Sam's head jerked up. His eyes were harder than any drunk's had the right to be, but then, when had Winchesters ever had the right to be soft?
Sam shook his head slightly—it's nothing—as the shriek fell into a loud giggle. He eased his hand away from the butt of his gun and Sam went back to staring moodily into his glass.
"You want to know the worst of it?" Sam asked after another shot. "He didn't trust me enough to give me one last order. You know, like, 'Sam! Don't turn evil!'" His voice rose to a bark on the last line, then dropped again. "How hard would that have been, Dean? What could it have hurt?"
He rubbed at his reddened eyes, thinking that you should get used to smoke in their line of work. "Dad trusted you, Sammy," he responded.
"Dad," Sam said with the blurred-precise enunciation that only the inebriated can manage, " told me to toddle off while the grownups decided if should live or die. And he told you not to warn me it was coming. Real vote of confidence there, dude."
He looked up sharply, but Sam avoided his eyes. "No one's dying," he said, skirting around whatever else his brother was implying.
"Mom did. Jess did. Dad did," and that was a sucker punch to the gut. He flinched, and maybe Sam caught the motion, because his next words were, "That's my fault too, you know. That's what Dad told me. And I told him…"
"Sam, please," he begged.
Sam, thank God, had already cut himself off with a soft groan as he reached for the bottle. He watched his brother refill his glass, suddenly wondering if he wasn't the only one who'd come here to get Sam drunk enough to spill his guts.
"'Wish you hadn't fought with me so much, Sammy. So long.'" Sam's lips twisted before he drank again. "A fucking cup of coffee, Dean."
"I know," he said neutrally, wishing to God he'd been the one sent on that errand.
Braying male laughter joined the giggling behind him. Sam glanced over reflexively, and then let his gaze wander back to nothing. "Know what I was supposed to be doing this weekend?" he asked.
He shook his head, and Sam went on, "Graduating from college. Money was tight, so I was going to finish a semester early and work until I started law school." He picked up one of the flimsy squares of paper the bar was passing off as a napkin and twisted it between his fingers. "You remember asking why I applied to so many schools when I could only go to one?"
He gave a noncommittal shrug, but yeah, he remembered. Yale, Duke, Rice, Chicago, and more, all over the country, with no rhyme or reason that he could see.
"Because for just once, I was going to have a choice. I was going to decide what to do with my life." Sam chuckled humorlessly. "Just once. Should've asked for more than that, huh?"
Sam's stream-of-consciousness ramblings were hard to follow at the best of times; when he was drunk, they were unnavigable. He kept quiet and waited it out.
"Whatever the demon's plans are for me, Dean…," Sam threw the balled-up napkin into one of the overfull ashtrays. "If Dad made you keep it a secret, either he figured I'll do the wrong thing, or nothing I do is going to matter for shit."
"Sam…," he began, and trailed off. Who the hell knew?
Sam picked up his empty glass, and set it back down. "Didn't he say anything else? Anything?"
He shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing about you."
"Then what—." Sam's eyes flicked to his. "Oh." Comprehension, envy, and shame crossed his face in rapid succession before he looked away. "Good," he said, blinking rapidly. "Good. He owed you that, man."
Chairs clattered as the table of partiers behind him gathered themselves up. The crowd had thinned, he realized. He hadn't been paying attention.
Sam's hand shook as he poured his next drink. A few drops spilled onto the scratched formica. They'd probably still be there, dried and sticky, the next week.
"I've been meaning to ask you. You figure that's why he didn't…" Sam, usually so fastidious, dragged a finger through the slopped bourbon to trace some pattern over the grime. "I mean, you figure that's why he always shoved me off on you? He didn't want to get attached, just in case?"
He opened his mouth to deliver either a comforting platitude or a smackdown on the kid's self-pitying ass—whichever came out—and stopped at Sam's shadowed expression. The face across from him wasn't that of a little boy pleading for attention or a sulking adolescent. It was the bleak face of a man dragged down into despair by a burden he hadn't chosen, and bleeding from wounds that would never heal. He'd never before had so much in common with his brother, and never had Sam been more of a stranger.
"Dad loved you, Sam," he said.
"You think?" Sam's lips curved into his despondent smile. His doodle could have been an initial, could have been a protective rune, could have been nothing. "Do you think I'm even his son?"
To some people that would be the million-dollar question, but to him, it didn't matter. Dad knew it didn't matter, and he'd done it anyway.
"I know you are," he answered.
Sam looked him straight in the eye for the first time that evening. There was still no plea for reassurance in his face. No real curiosity, even.
No hope.
"How?" he asked.
"Because you're my brother." He raised his own glass with a grin and a wink. "And that makes you one lucky bastard."
Sam blinked at him for a moment and then laughed, soft and melancholy but real. "Maybe it does," he conceded, returning the toast before he drank.
He automatically tracked the movements of the last pair of drunks staggering out as he finished his shot. The waitress caught his eye; he shook his head and she leaned over the bar, scribbling out their tally.
"You didn't deserve this, you know," Sam said, offering him the bottle. "You're the only one of us who didn't."
He accepted the bottle and poured the remaining liquor into his brother's glass instead of his own. It'd be worth listening to Sam puking all night if he didn't remember anything in the morning. Catharsis had gone too far; he hadn't come here to bleed too.
"You didn't used to be such a sloppy drunk, Sammy," he said lightly.
"Didn't used to be a lot of things," Sam responded, tipping his head back to drain the last drops.
The waitress bustled over with the bill as soon as Sam finished, eager to gather up the chipped glasses, swipe at the tables with a filthy rag, and get out of this hellhole. Sam slid the empty bottle and glass over to her with sheepish eyes and a soft grin that faded as she turned away. He tried without success to pinpoint the moment when Sam's sincerity had become an act too, wondered if Sam had even noticed it happening. Wondered if anything was real with them anymore.
"Long-range rifle would be best," Sam said, jerking him out of his musings. He rubbed his face tiredly. "Back of the head if you can. You shouldn't have to see it. And don't pull anything like in Oregon, you hear me? You take your shot and you go, Dean. Prom—"
"I hear you, Sam," he interjected before his brother could finish. He'd had enough promises for one lifetime. Sam squinted at him, like he was going to push the issue, and he moved to head it off. "Let's get out of here, kiddo. The lady wants us gone, and you're going to be hurting come morning."
Sam rolled his eyes, but came along docilely enough. It was all about tone with Sam. Dad never understood that.
Sam lapsed back into morose silence as they made their way back to the motel, fumbling out of his clothes and into bed as the last couple shots caught up with him.
"Hey, Dean?" he said after the lights were turned out, like when they were kids.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "What, Sammy?"
"About what I said before." Sam's voice was soft and slurred—he was on the verge of passing out. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I'd want you to look me in the face, y'know? Dying won't be as bad if you're there."
"No one's dying, Sam," he said again. "Go to sleep."
He waited for Sam's breathing to fall into an even rhythm before he settled himself at the table by the door and pulled out a knife and whetstone. The soft, even scrape was a soothing as a meditative chant, and yeah, what did that say about who was the killer?
He glanced up as the sheets rustled, and then went back to his mental list. Knife. Handgun. Explosives were out—he couldn't do that to Sam. Sniper rifle would be easiest, but…
Dying won't be as bad if you're there.
Yeah, Sammy. It won't.
Author's notes:
Feedback and concrit are welcome. All my fic can be found on my lj, linked on my ffnet profile. Feel free to pop in for a visit.