He lay there until the noise from camp faded away, and pulled himself up when he heard the Impala's engine. He picked his way up the hill slowly, on legs that felt steadier than they should have been. Any moment, he was sure, he was going to collapse into a shuddering heap.
They drove to the cheapest, nearest motel they could find, where Sam only managed to convince Dean not to get two rooms by reminding him how unwise it was to split up. On the way, Dean turned the radio up so loud that it was impossible to hear the lyrics, let alone say anything. He kept his eyes glued to the road.
In the room, he picked a bed and dumped his pack out onto it, picking the first thing he could sharpen and going to work on it. Sam listened to the even scrape, scrape, scrape of the knife against the whetstone until he couldn't take it any more. "Dean!"
"What?" Dean asked, not looking up.
"Do you think--" Sam shook his head. "Think maybe we should talk about what happened?"
"What's there to talk about?" The rhythm of the scraping sped up. "Our job, we run these risks. Demons screw with you. Play mind games. It happens."
"What, that's it?" Sam choked. Images were welling up at the back of his mind again, things he didn't believe but couldn't stop seeing. "It's that easy for you? You don't need any sort of--anything? Reassurance? External validation?"
"I didn't say easy, I said it happened," Dean shot back, "and no, I don't, because I know what's happened and what--"
"How?" Sam asked. "He was in our memories, Dean, how--"
"Because I know me," Dean said, "and I know you, and I know--"
He stalled out. Sam raised both eyebrows. "Adam?"
Dean inhaled. Licked his lips. The knife stilled for a moment, before he resumed sharpening. "Look," he blurted, getting the words out as fast as he could, "if you need to talk I'll listen, but if you don't mind, Sam, I'd rather not look at you right now, seeing as how last night I--"
He looked up for a second, eyes white and wide, and went back to his knife.
Sam turned away. One good thing about this place: plumbing meant running water meant glasses of water, and his mouth was getting dryer by the minute.
"Adam manipulated our memories," he said, spitting vitriol through his words. "He made us believe things that weren't real." And if that were true, maybe it hadn't happened at all. Certainly not the way he remembered it. Couldn't have.
"Yeah, well, that doesn't make it any less creepy, okay? If anything--"
"What, it's worse that it wasn't us?" Sam exhaled once, hard. "You get used to demons and their sick senses of humor, and--"
"And I can't get it out of my mind!" Dean yelled back.
A line of ice went down Sam's spine. "You're not still--?"
Dean didn't give him a chance to finish. "No! God, no," he said, and the tempo of blade against stone upped another notch. Sam didn't believe him, and couldn't suppress the stab of fear that went straight to his gut when he realized it.
He could have killed Adam again, for that. He never wanted to feel that way about anyone, especially not Dean. Not his brother.
His fingers raked the bedsheet. "That knife is going to be useless if you oversharpen it."
Without warning, Dean whipped it across the room into the wall. Then he collapsed, hanging his head.
"Things got so screwed up," he said. "I shouldn't have let it go that far wrong."
Sam looked from him to the knife in the wall, trying to return his heart to normal beating patterns. "How were you going to stop it?"
"I don't know. I just should have."
For a moment, the only noise was their breathing.
...which was apparently too much. Dean grabbed the shotgun and the workcloth, disassembling the former. "What did he make you see?" he asked. His voice was oddly flat.
Sam shook his head. "Nothing," he lied, then, when he realized it was obvious as a lie, he said "Jessica."
"You all right?" Dean asked.
Sam gave the only possible answer. "Yeah. Fine."
Neither of them believed it.
Sam rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. Everything still ached.
"Sammy," Dean began.
"Don't." Sam wasn't sure what he was warning Dean off, but he said it anyway. "It's not our fault."
"Yeah," Dean said. "Yeah. I know."
The rhythm of the gun, coming apart and being cleaned out, lasted them on into the night.
Re: This may be the roughest thing I've written in three months. ...actually, it felt good.
He lay there until the noise from camp faded away, and pulled himself up when he heard the Impala's engine. He picked his way up the hill slowly, on legs that felt steadier than they should have been. Any moment, he was sure, he was going to collapse into a shuddering heap.
They drove to the cheapest, nearest motel they could find, where Sam only managed to convince Dean not to get two rooms by reminding him how unwise it was to split up. On the way, Dean turned the radio up so loud that it was impossible to hear the lyrics, let alone say anything. He kept his eyes glued to the road.
In the room, he picked a bed and dumped his pack out onto it, picking the first thing he could sharpen and going to work on it. Sam listened to the even scrape, scrape, scrape of the knife against the whetstone until he couldn't take it any more. "Dean!"
"What?" Dean asked, not looking up.
"Do you think--" Sam shook his head. "Think maybe we should talk about what happened?"
"What's there to talk about?" The rhythm of the scraping sped up. "Our job, we run these risks. Demons screw with you. Play mind games. It happens."
"What, that's it?" Sam choked. Images were welling up at the back of his mind again, things he didn't believe but couldn't stop seeing. "It's that easy for you? You don't need any sort of--anything? Reassurance? External validation?"
"I didn't say easy, I said it happened," Dean shot back, "and no, I don't, because I know what's happened and what--"
"How?" Sam asked. "He was in our memories, Dean, how--"
"Because I know me," Dean said, "and I know you, and I know--"
He stalled out. Sam raised both eyebrows. "Adam?"
Dean inhaled. Licked his lips. The knife stilled for a moment, before he resumed sharpening. "Look," he blurted, getting the words out as fast as he could, "if you need to talk I'll listen, but if you don't mind, Sam, I'd rather not look at you right now, seeing as how last night I--"
He looked up for a second, eyes white and wide, and went back to his knife.
Sam turned away. One good thing about this place: plumbing meant running water meant glasses of water, and his mouth was getting dryer by the minute.
"Adam manipulated our memories," he said, spitting vitriol through his words. "He made us believe things that weren't real." And if that were true, maybe it hadn't happened at all. Certainly not the way he remembered it. Couldn't have.
"Yeah, well, that doesn't make it any less creepy, okay? If anything--"
"What, it's worse that it wasn't us?" Sam exhaled once, hard. "You get used to demons and their sick senses of humor, and--"
"And I can't get it out of my mind!" Dean yelled back.
A line of ice went down Sam's spine. "You're not still--?"
Dean didn't give him a chance to finish. "No! God, no," he said, and the tempo of blade against stone upped another notch. Sam didn't believe him, and couldn't suppress the stab of fear that went straight to his gut when he realized it.
He could have killed Adam again, for that. He never wanted to feel that way about anyone, especially not Dean. Not his brother.
His fingers raked the bedsheet. "That knife is going to be useless if you oversharpen it."
Without warning, Dean whipped it across the room into the wall. Then he collapsed, hanging his head.
"Things got so screwed up," he said. "I shouldn't have let it go that far wrong."
Sam looked from him to the knife in the wall, trying to return his heart to normal beating patterns. "How were you going to stop it?"
"I don't know. I just should have."
For a moment, the only noise was their breathing.
...which was apparently too much. Dean grabbed the shotgun and the workcloth, disassembling the former. "What did he make you see?" he asked. His voice was oddly flat.
Sam shook his head. "Nothing," he lied, then, when he realized it was obvious as a lie, he said "Jessica."
"You all right?" Dean asked.
Sam gave the only possible answer. "Yeah. Fine."
Neither of them believed it.
Sam rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. Everything still ached.
"Sammy," Dean began.
"Don't." Sam wasn't sure what he was warning Dean off, but he said it anyway. "It's not our fault."
"Yeah," Dean said. "Yeah. I know."
The rhythm of the gun, coming apart and being cleaned out, lasted them on into the night.