More Than Words

~~~~~ MORE THAN WORDS ~~~~~

Dean's words echo through your head as if it's hollow.

“I don't think I can trust you.”

It tore you up when he called you a monster...but this...this is ten times worse.

No, a thousand.

You stand there in the parking lot, still unable to believe you ears.

“I don't think I can trust you.”

One helluva sucker punch.

It threw you for a loop because you were still flying high after what Bobby'd said.

God, you'd needed to hear that.

Even when you'd discovered that Bobby'd been possessed, you'd needed to hear it.

Something, anything to let you know that even though you'd totally fucked up, that somehow, someone understood.

You can't imagine how Bobby'd been possessed in the first place.

Had he been so preoccupied worrying over you that he'd been slack?

Sloppy?

Probably.

“Lose my number.”

Another mistake of yours.

A mis-calculation.

And Bobby might not walk again.

A total, complete clusterfuck.

You've heard people say that words can be sharper than knives; now, you understand.

You believe them.

You know.

“We can never go back to what we were.”

You watch as Dean strides over to the Impala.

He spares you a quick glance, and for once, you haven't a clue as to what his expression means.

You can't read it...or him.

And that's bad.

Your heart's pounding like crazy, a roar filling your ears like the noise from a thousand sea shells.

Dean pauses for only a second before whipping open the driver's door and climbing into the front seat.

You're stuck, frozen in place, as if the asphalt under your boots has turned to glue.

You remember to breathe, hoping to all Hell that you don't look half as screwed up as you feel.

The Impala roars to life and its lights blaze on, but yet, you still stand there, transfixed, stunned, momentarily unsure of what to do or where to go.

You stare at the taillights, noting that the outboard bulb on the passenger side is burned out again.

“I don't think I can trust you.”

But was it really all about trust?

“Lose my number.”

A demon may have uttered the words, but their aim was true.

The demon was right.

Bobby should lose your number.

You've brought about Armageddon.

The End of The World.

How in the fuck could you have believed that a simple “Sorry” could make up for that?

Dean revs the Impala.

You want to move; somewhere, anywhere.

You know where you want to go, where you want to be, but you're...afraid.

You want to jump into the Impala like always, slide into that passenger seat and hunker down, watch as Dean slams the shifter down and tromps on the gas, some classic rock blaring from the cheap radio.

That's what you want.

You want it the way that it was.

“It'll never be the same.”

A horn blares, jolting you from your thoughts.

You'd been so wrapped up in your own head that you didn't even notice the headlights.

You nod and smile and wave, because that's what you're supposed to do.

You gotta move now.

You've got no choice.

So you go on auto-pilot.

You do what comes natural.

You walk over to the Impala, you wrap your hand around the cool metal handle and depress the chrome button.

The familiar creak of the passenger door is instantly drowned out by the blare of rock'n roll.

“Walk Away” by The James Gang.

You force yourself to sit, slamming the door and staring straight ahead.

At least he waited for you.

At least he hasn't told you to get out of the car.

Dean slams the shifter into reverse, the Impala's rear tires spinning on the wet pavement.

Another slam of the shifter, and Dean steers the Impala out of the parking lot and onto the main drag, wheels still spinning, the Impala's rear end fishtailing from one side to the other.

Normally, you'd say something.

Some smart remark about his driving, and Dean'd respond with some cut down and then he'd smirk and you'd both fall into that comfortable notch, that normal place.

But things aren't normal.

So you say nothing.


~~~~~ * ~~~~~


Another motel.

You'd sat in silence as Dean drove, the motions of the Impala's windshield wipers oddly calming.

You didn't dare look at him.

You didn't want to make things worse.

For once, you said nothing, you kept your mouth shut.

You gave Dean time.

You know he has a short fuse.

That he tends to lash out when he feels he's been slighted or wronged.

Worse, it's Dean's pride that's stinging him.

You'd fucked with his alpha-male image.

You defied him and for once, you did what you thought was the right thing to do.

And that's what really pissed him off.

That, and Lucifer rising.

You kept your mouth shut as he dove up that anonymous, wide street, a street nearly identical to scores of others in town after town, all across the country.

Cheap, garish lighted signs and neon and flashing arrows.

Box stores, strip malls and greasy fast food joints.

Empty America. Fake America.

You'd wondered, and not for the first time, if seeing it all burn might not be such a horrible thing after all.

Perhaps a little taste of the Apocalypse might actually be the kick in the ass that humanity needed.

You'd thought of bringing that point up, as a sort of ice-breaker, but you'd immediately dispensed with the idea.

Way too many ways that could make things even worse.

So you'd been patient, even though every nerve had been screaming for you to say something.

But you didn't.

You watched Dean out of the corner of your eye, still unwilling to meet his gaze.

You hoped that he might say something.

Anything.

But the only sounds filling the Impala come from the radio: Metallica, Rush, Bad Company.

Good joke, that one.

Your heart fell a bit more when Dean flicked on the turn signal.

The Hide-A-Way Motor Lodge.

Not the choice you'd expected.

Not the usual.

The place was too white-bread, too clean, too bright.

Minivans all over the parking lot.

A pathetic, Disneyesque tropical island theme.

Plastic. Fake.

But you don't call Dean on it.

You just sit there, staring straight ahead.

Dean kills the engine, and he's out of the car before the last notes of UFO's “Rock Bottom” fade away.

You watch Dean through the plate glass window flanked by fake palm trees.

He doesn't look your way, but the clerk does, staring at you for a minute, sizing you up before looking back to your brother.

You watch as Dean leaves the motel office.

You watch as he looks in any other direction but yours.

This is bad.

You know it. You feel it.

Your gut twists into knots as Dean slides into the driver's seat.

Still nothing.

It's like you're not even there.

He starts the car and UFO picks up where it left off.

A minute later, and the Impala glides into a parking space.

Dean throws the shifter into park.

He kills the engine, and it's suddenly quiet again.

Too quiet.

This time Dean remains still, his right hand poised on the ignition key.

Almost like he's waiting for something.

Your muddled brain toys with the notion that now might be a good time to try to make things right.

To try to explain, to try to fix things.

Maybe he's calmed down enough to be reasonable.

But before you can open your mouth, Dean tosses a key into your lap.

Then he's up and out of the car, slamming his door.

Dean must really be pissed to treat his baby like this.

You sit there, staring at the room key as he opens the Impala's trunk.

“I don't think I can trust you.”

You watch as Dean opens the door to room 22.

And you've got the key to room 23.

The door to Dean's room slams, and an instant later, light floods through the large picture window.

Dean appears, one hand on each side of the open drapes.

He stares at you for a moment; if you try hard enough, you can almost make out his expression...

...and then Dean pulls the drapes closed.

You remember to breathe again.

You stare at the key to room 23 as the rain begins to fall harder.

Fat drops plink on the sheet metal of the Impala's roof.

You can't go on like this.

You're usually the thoughtful, patient one.

Not this time. This is different.

You've got to go in there.

You've got to explain again how it was.

You've got to tell him everything that you should have said when he first came back.

What it was like to watch as he was ripped apart by Hellhounds.

How it was without him.

Those empty days, weeks, months.

You've gotta make him understand.

How it was when you thought he was dead.

When you were alone.

How you realize that you screwed up when you trusted Ruby.

And you were weak when you fucked her.

That fact isn't insignificant to Dean, either.

But you need to say that you used her, too.

To get to Lilith.

To save The Seals.

You need to make him understand that no matter what, you were going to stop Lucifer from rising.

You were going to stop Lilith.

And if that meant that you had to suck some demon blood...so be it.

If that meant that you had to become...a monster...so be it.

If it all meant that you might not...probably wouldn't...survive...

So be it.

You'd nearly made a deal with Lilith herself to save everything...to save Dean.

But he didn't see your possible sacrifice the way you'd expected.

It'd only made things worse.

If he'd only listened to you. If he'd only believed in you.

Then things would have been different.

You have to tell him all this, you have to make him understand.

You have to make it clear that you did it all for everyone.

You did it to save the world.

You did it to save the one person who matters above all else.

That's what you've gotta do.

“I don't think I can trust you.”

And just as you open the passenger door, the light in room 22 goes out.


~~~~~ * ~~~~~


You're sitting on the bed in room 23.

The rain has stopped.

The room is dark and you stare out of the big window, light from the parking lot and nearby highway washing across the dull beige carpet.

There's no way you can sleep, so you mull over your options.

Dean'd been pretty clear.

He didn't want to talk about it.

But you need to talk about it.

You turn events of the last year over and over in your head.

You analyze each and every decision that you'd made.

How would things have changed if you'd taken a different path?

If you hadn't trusted Ruby?

If you hadn't discovered how demon blood enhanced you abilities?

You go over it again and again, arriving at the same conclusions.

If you'd come clean with Dean at any point, if you'd told him everything at any given time...

...he'd have lashed out, hit the roof, gone ballistic.

Just like he did when he locked you up.

When he tied you down like some sort of demon.

Or monster.

You stand up, your knees popping after sitting so long.

You shrug out of your jacket, letting it fall to the floor.

So you have to concede that Dean may be right.

If you'd told him what was going down, then the end result might have been different.

If you weren't in that abandoned church at that exact moment, then Lucifer wouldn't have risen.

And Armageddon...

But it isn't that simple. It never is.

There was so much you didn't know.

So many forces were working against you.

You know now that the angels played a hand in this.

They'd filled Dean's head with delusions of grandeur.

They told him that he would save the world from Hell.

And who enabled you to escape from Bobby's demon-proof panic room?

No demon.

Which only leaves the angels.

Pretty clear that you've both been played.

Manipulated.

Used.

What could you have done to prevent it?

All the cards were stacked against you.

The combined forces of Heaven and Hell made sure that you were right were you needed to be at the worst possible time.

They made sure that you destroyed Lilith.

They made sure that the last Seal was broken.

Demons and angels; they both got what they wanted.

And the cherry on the cake: Dean's nothing but a vessel.

A husk.

A meatsack for Michael to invade and use.

And if Dean needed any proof concerning Zachariah's character, he had it now.

What sort of angel...a disciple of God...would so calmly remove someone's lungs on a whim?

Zachariah made Alastair look like a rank amateur.

Can't Dean see this?

Hasn't he figured it all out for himself?

Dean has to realize that against those odds, Lucifer's rising was inevitable.

Destiny.

You wonder if Chuck is typing away at this very moment.

Maybe he can tell you what you're gonna do next.

How it'll all work out.

You rub your eyes with your fists.

You're tired and your head's pounding.

Everything aches.

You'd told Dean that you were fine, that the cravings for blood were gone.

But you're not sure.

There's something left behind.

Something still there, deep down.

Quiet, dormant.

Dark.

You know that being filled with that much evil has left a mark.

There's no way that it couldn't have.

But you can't deal with that now.

Especially with Dean, no matter how much you want to.

Now is definitely not the time to bring up that.

It'll have to wait.

Now, there's only one thing you need to do.


~~~~~ * ~~~~~


You pound on the door to room 22 again.

You know Dean's in there.

You'd have heard the door open and close, and the Impala's right where you left it.

You pound again.

You can see dim light flickering behind the drawn curtains.

You know he's awake; Dean never sleeps with the television on.

You wait, you heart once again thumping away in your chest.

You're about to bang on the door again...

...and it opens, swinging wide.

You pause only second before stepping inside.

You nearly trip over something on the floor as you close the door: Dean's boots and jeans.

You eyes adjust to the wavering light cast by the mute television.

Dean's duffel and jacket on the nearest bed.

The cover, blanket and sheets on the far bed are a tangled mess.

He'd tried to sleep.

You can make out a shadow beyond the trashed bed.

You move toward it.

Some kind of Monster Truck competition plays out on the small screen.

Dean hates Monster Trucks.

You don't say a word.

You want him to speak first.

You need to know where to begin.

You need him to give you a clue as to where to start.

The shadow becomes Dean.

His back's to you.

You stop, just an arm's length away.

Sweat glistens on Dean's shoulders, his boxer briefs soaked and askew.

You see that his fists are clenched, his head bowed forward.

You step closer and reach out, those few inches like miles.

Suddenly unsure of yourself, you hesitate a moment.

Maybe you should have waited, given him more time.

But your hand moves anyway, your fingers closing over Dean's sweaty shoulder.

He tenses...you hold your breath.

You're about to say his name when he turns around.

You're startled, but you stand your ground.

It's too late now; whatever will happen, will happen.

Dean looks up to you, the light from the TV clearly illuminating his face.

He's exhausted, his eyes are red, puffy.

His cheeks are wet with perspiration or tears, you can't tell which.

You stare back, any words instantly dissolving on your tongue.

You watch as he takes a deep breath, almost as if to speak...

...and you take a step toward him.

But Dean's faster.

He's on you in an instant, both arms wrapped around your shoulders, his head buried in the crook of your neck.

You hug him back, with everything you've got.

You want him to know you're there.

That you've always been. And always will.

You've one hand at the small of his back, while your other cradles the back of his head.

His hot breath washes over your skin, and you hold him tighter.

Dean lifts his head.

He looks up into your eyes, and you see everything you need right there.

You try to smile back, to let him know you understand.

Maybe he smiles back; you're not sure, because the next instant he mashes his lips to yours.

You respond as Dean's tongue demands entrance.

Dean pushes away slightly, just enough to slide both hands under your t-shirt.

He shoves it up, only breaking the kiss when the shirt can go no farther.

You raise your arms, and he pulls the shirt over your head, tossing it into the darkness.

As you move in for more, Dean shoves you backward.

You land on the bed.

You unbutton and unzip your jeans while Dean removes your boots.

You smile; you're working together again.

Like always.

You finish with your jeans and start to slide them off; Dean finishes the job and sends them away after your t-shirt.

He climbs onto the bed, crawling toward you on all fours, like some kind of predatory animal.

You scoot across the mattress, your undershorts sliding down as you go.

Dean rises to his knees, grabbing your shorts and yanking them down your thighs.

Your fully hard dick bobs and slaps against your stomach.

Dean inches closer, staring at your erection.

You awkwardly pull your legs up, bending your knees as Dean wrenches your shorts the rest of the way off.

He runs a hand along the underside of your long thigh as you straighten your legs out again.

You can't really make out Dean's face; the television is almost directly behind him and he's reduced to shadow again. But you can tell he's hard too, the outline of his own hard-on straining against his briefs.

Dean leans down, his tongue teasing the underside of your dick.

You reach out with one hand, your fingers curling around the top of Dean's head and pulling him closer.

Dean licks and nibbles his way along your entire length, giving the swollen head of your cock a few swirls of his tongue.

It's not what you wanted to have happen, but you don't care. What's happening now is better than any conversation could have been. You didn't understand that maybe words weren't what was needed.

What's happening now means that things hadn't changed as much as he'd feared. Maybe things could get back to the way they were.

Maybe...

You reach down, curling the fingers of one hand around your dick as you watch Dean struggling a bit to remove his boxer briefs. You still can't make out Dean's expression.

He's just sitting there on his haunches, watching as you lazily fist your cock. Dean spits in the palm of his hand before stroking his dick. He moves over you, hovering above you like some sort of...what?

It's been so long...you'd nearly forgotten how it feels. How Dean feels.

He drops down onto you, sliding into position, the head of his cock pushing against your balls.

You shift a bit, pulling your knees up and spreading your legs.

Dean slides his dick under your balls and along the crack of your ass.

You wish you could see his face, to be able to stare into his eyes, and you feel certain that he's doing the same thing to you. Only he can see you clearly.

With one hand still stroking your own cock, you reach around to grasp Dean's ass with the other.

The next moment, Dean enters you, pressing his entire length inside. You can't help but gasp, no matter how many times you've done this. The initial pain quickly morphs into pleasure as Dean slowly thrusts in and out. You hoist your ass up slightly, hooking your knees around Dean's butt.

Dean grunts his approval, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss.

You hold onto his clenching ass as Dean drives into you, faster and harder. You're sweating too now, and your bodies slide together, his chest to yours.

You're both breathing heavily, and Dean pulls away from the kiss, his forehead touching yours.

You want to say something, but you finally realize no words are necessary. You keep stroking your dick while Dean fucks you. You've missed this. You've needed this.

With a harsh intake of breath, Dean shudders to a stop.

You dig your fingers into Dean's ass as his entire body tenses. You lift your head up, smashing your lips to his as you feel Dean's load fill you. Releasing your cock, you hold Dean's ass with both hands, preventing him from pulling out.
You don't want him to withdraw just yet. You need to feel him, to be connected for just a minute longer.

Dean's relaxed now, breathless, his head resting on your chest.

You lie like that for a bit longer before finally releasing him.

Dean pulls out of you, re-positioning himself, his softening dick aligned with yours. He slides one hand under the pillow beneath your head, sighing as he gets comfortable. You notice the remote on the bed table, and you're just able to reach it and kill the Monster Truck crap.

You feel Dean's breathing ease, his heart beat slowing to normal. Most of the weight has dissipated from your shoulders. Most, but not all. Dean was right...you needed to trust him. And yourself. There was more to it than the machinations of Heaven and Hell.

More than words.

You shift to your side a bit, reaching behind you to pull a good section of sheet over your lower bodies. You'd really like to clean up, but you're just too damn sated. You can tell Dean's asleep now, his slow, even breathing all too familiar. So you close your eyes, hoping to fall asleep before the snoring starts.

Tomorrow...tomorrow will be a better day for that talk.


~~~~~ fin ~~~~~~