glovered | fic: Talks with death

TITLE: Talks with death
WORDS: 1.7k
SUMMARY: Sam is distant and Dean needs a confidant.
A/N: A farce in five acts. This has nothing to do with 7x18. Contains a line from Bridesmaids, which inspired the whole fic. Beta'd by

oddishly who is great.

Dean rests his head back on the couch and lets the bottle hang between his knees from loose fingers. He says, "Sam's been kind of distant lately."

It's been bothering him a lot.

"And I know, I know...He has every reason. Head was cracked, of course he needs some time. It's just..." The sigh he heaves out leaves him flattened into the couch. Not depressed, but maybe getting there. He tells the cracked ceiling, "He calls me dude a lot."

"Dean."

Lolling his head, Dean looks over and asks, "What?"

"Kindly shut up." Death gets to his feet. He says, "Don't summon me again, I'm not your psychiatrist," and takes his Coke with him.

There is no honor among thieves, Dean keeps reminding himself. Sam had stolen his heart when they were too young to know what that meant and, as the definition of love became more faceted, he'd stepped into the new light to be reflected there as well. It's all very complicated.

"If anyone's gonna play the bank robber it's you," Dean says when he looks over to find eerie, pre-storm light making art of Sam in the passenger seat. The psychiatric ward is three weeks behind them. They are driving through Missouri.

Sam looks up from a map that's spread out over his lap and stares thoughtfully at the side of Dean's face until Dean's skin is itchy all over. He asks, "Are you pissed at me for something?"

Dean scoffs. "No."

"You sure? Because I could've sworn I heard you talking to yourself about me in that last house we squatted in. I'm not one to judge, but that's weird, man."

"What? When? No way. You were probably dreaming. That's what happens when you can actually sleep. Maybe you forgot."

He cranks up the soft rock, hoping it will knock Sam out like it usually does.

"Ha ha," Sam deadpans. Dean is an asshole, but he's never promised otherwise.

Glancing over again, he catches how Sam's got his legs bent awkwardly in the small footwell. He returns his attention to the highway, which is black with early spring, and then looks back to his right, past Sam's hand and its relaxed grip on the ripped and traveled sketch of the US, up to the side of his neck, his face. He remembers how Sam had been greyed around the edges by torment and days awake. But they're out now.

Sam's following the line of the 54 with his pointer finger. He says, breaking Dean out of it, "Dude, eyes on the road."

"Tell me how to drive," Dean grumbles, although he means, sure thing or more probably anything you want. Baby, anything at all. This has always been, and is becoming exponentially more, pathetic. He needs to talk to someone about this.

Sam looks out the window, at the field they're passing which is ripe with snow drifts. He folds the map into a small square and then shifts over to take a nap.

"Maybe if I got him a present, you know? Are you sure you can't build another wall? He's not seeing Lucifer anymore, but there are still moments...."

"As I recall telling you, one wall per customer. And the human race has been prone to hallucination since its inception. I'm hardly going to make an exception now for your personal woes."

"We're just having...." Dean is not drunk but he's definitely five past caring whether he's being a whiny bitch. He waves a hand. "You know, issues."

Death's gaze is tepid. "Oh?"

"For one thing, he keeps drinking my beer and then telling me that I drank it. It's like...it's like Lucifer's still around and he's an alcoholic and blaming it on me. It's really shitty."

"I'll make another one," Death tells him, and when Dean looks at the table, his beer is refilled.

He hates when Death does that.

Death leans in. "Now stop. Contacting me."

"Your choice to show up," Dean mutters.

He swallows around a lump of real fear, though, when Death says, in a way that sounds portentous, "And Dean— I'd leave the burgers to those who don't make a habit of getting in death's way. I can see your high cholesterol from here, and believe me, it's tempting."

"Where the hell were you?" Dean rages. "I called for hours."

"Speaking with you brother."

And sure enough, there Sam is, seated next to Death like a freaking princess, lips pursed and glaring. Death munches on one of the onion rings, which was obviously used to lure him. The fries Dean bought are now cold in a bag in the other room, on someone's abandoned coffee table.

Dean frowns. "Thirty years old, Sammy, but somehow you're still a little—"

Death is more impassive than usual when he cuts Dean off. "In my time, I've had worshipers and every creature alive has feared me. I have witnessed the slow birth of galaxies, and watched blades of grass flourish and die. But never before have I known this particular brand of fatigue. I'm leaving now."

He levers himself up out of the chair, and takes his time adjusting his cuffs. Dean shifts in the doorway with a coil of anxiety. Sam's watching the whole thing, waiting.

Only when he's ambled across the room, does Death say, in a stage whisper and brushing against Dean's shoulder, "This seems to be your chance. Don't. Waste it."

Dean can smell dust or dried flowers, and feels sick to his stomach with hope and dread. "And what if I do?"

Death leaves without answering. Dean goes to sit on the couch and grabs pieces of the rifle he'd cleaned earlier. They're scattered everywhere. At least the TV is on, playing something scratchy and low. He begins cracking the parts into place.

Sam finally breaks. "Dude."

Dean gives the ceiling a look before acknowledging this. "Yes, Sam?" Sam misses the sarcasm.

"You've been talking to Death about me."

"Oh, that." He turns his attention back to the TV.

"Death?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"Dude!"

Dean turns. "Stop. Stop saying that."

Sam affects an accent, "Sam your brother's heart is not a rubber ball. You can steal it, but don't bounce it."

Dean gets shivers. "His face is a rubber ball."

"What did he mean by that?"

Ladies and Gentlemen, Captain Oblivious. Dean grumbles and loads the rifle but doesn't cock it or anything. This isn't an action flick, and Sam is the opposite of the enemy, despite how Dean wants to lash him to the bed with a couple of their ties.

He says, "You've been all...distant. Or something. Man, don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" Sam stares at him and Dean flicks his eyes his away a couple times but mainly just focuses on reassembly. He wonders what Sam wants from him. Sam's always pushing at bruises. For someone Dean knows like the back of his right hand, his meaning is impossible to read sometimes.

Dean says, "If you don't know, you don't know. Intelligence doesn't run in the family, I guess. Neither do good looks." And keeps going with fake insults until Sam says, "huh," like that's the answer to that.

One week later, Sam actually jumps him. Dean had thought he was in the clear, but he never is, not with Sam. His brother is a criminal and he takes what he wants, Dean should accept this as read by now.

It makes him sort of proud. After the fact, he's sitting at the edge of the motel bed with hair flattened on one side, half-moon marks from fingernails pressed into his back, and a smile that just won't quit. He looks over his shoulder at Sam, who meets it instantly by rolling his eyes and saying, "All class, as usual."

"Live like there's no tomorrow," Dean tells him. Sam rolls his eyes again and Dean shrugs like, so sue me, I don't listen to half the shit that comes out of my mouth. He wonders if Sam will take a shower with him, and also wonders how the hell this even happened, especially considering Sam has been the least receptive to his charm ever over the past couple weeks. "Hey."

Sam opens his eyes again. "Hm?"

"You were being all weird."

When Sam frowns in thought, Dean crawls back up the bed to stick his thumb in the line between Sam's eyebrows, pressing it out of existence.

Sam prompts, "Dean?"

"You kept like, calling me dude and not making eye contact," he says, then grimaces, because not only do they appear to be discussing their feelings, but it's in the wake of some pretty affectionate making out, which had followed some unexpectedly romantic handjobs. He's experiencing a flush of embarrassment for both of them, but Sam looks shifty about it too, so.

"Something you're not telling me?" he asks. He moves back a little to let Sam get up on elbows, watching the sheet slip down his chest. He has not forgotten that Sam is Not Wearing Any Clothes.

Sam says, "I was, uh. Nervous."

"Huh?"

"Stupid, right? But almost dying kind of reminds you what you're living for, you know?"

Dean gets tingly all over. It must show on his face because Sam sighs like he can't believe he admitted that, and, when Dean dips down, ducks away and gets a tongue in his ear. He rolls out from under him and says, "Asshole," with little heat.

"Yeah," Dean agrees.

"Didn't know how you'd feel about me owning your ass, though. Had to make you think it was your idea."

"Hey, you hear me complaining?"

"Fine, you're mine forever. Happy? Now let me up." He's got half of Dean's heart, or his soul or something, stolen. He escapes to the bathroom with it like some guileless thief.

Dean yells after him, "You're mine more," and doesn't even wince at how stupid that sounds. He flops back into the dip Sam made in the mattress, and rubs his cheek against the pillow, feeling fine with the fact. If Sam takes something, it's pretty much his still, anyway.

There's a feeling in Dean's chest that's burning him up whole, and it only gets worse as he listens to Sam doing some OCD shit with his floss and toothbrush. He needs to tell someone about this, and he knows just the guy.