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[personal profile] elohvee
and we ain't had no time to drink that beer.
Supernatural. Implied Sam/Dean, brief Sam/OMC and Dean/OFC. R. Approx. 1,300 words. Warnings for language, possessed!Sam, hurt!Dean, implied incest, implied D/s, and some OC sex. Hurt!Verse, set after But There's a Border to Somewhere Waiting. This is more a transition than anything else. Beta and coding love to [livejournal.com profile] la_folle_allure, because this all pretty much belongs to her anyway. *kisses and clings* Title from America.

It takes five months, but in Knoxville, he hits three bars in three nights. It takes time to adjust to the idea again, but in Tennessee he finds a girl with an open smile and no expectations. He buys her a drink she never finishes, and ten minutes later, they're out the door. By nine, they stumble through hers.

She's got her hand in his pants when his phone starts going off. Her cheap, metal-tasting lipstick's smearing all over his throat and his mouth, and she says into his skin, "Leave it." Her breath is hot and damp and alcohol-soured, and her hand is small and determined around his dick.

Dean groans and says, "No, no, I gotta—let me up, sweetheart, just a second. Just give me one second."

She pouts and lets it quirk into a mischievous smile while he fishes the phone out of his pocket. He glances at the number, something he doesn't know, and flips it open. "Yeah?"

"I fucking hate you, you know?" The voice is small and indistinct against a backdrop of pounding music, laughter and chatter he can't make out. "Fucking hate you so much sometimes, you wouldn't believe."

Dean goes rigid. Absolutely still. He reminds himself once or twice to breathe, but it does no good. "Sam? Sammy, that you?"

"You did this to me. You let it do this to me. Just sat back and let it fuck you and hurt you and you left me trapped and alone and I can't think and I can't do anything anymore and how could you fucking let it? All that time you never did a goddamn thing, Dean, and I kept waiting for you to, I kept bracing for it but you just let it take over, just let it—"

Dean pushes the girl away as gently as he can manage with his hands shaking like this. He stands, stumbles to the other end of the room. "You're drunk," he says. "Fuckin' plastered, Sam."

"Yeah, yeah, and it doesn't help a goddamned thing. I kept waiting, Dean, those first weeks – you've got not idea what it was like. I kept telling myself you'd give it the slip, you'd find its weakness and get me out, and I kept bracing myself to fight it when that happened, but you just let it destroy you, you selfish bastard, you let it keep me tied up too, and all you wanted was what it did."

"Sam," he tries, and he swears he can feel the phone bending out of shape under his grip. "Sammy, tell me where you—"

"I swear to God, I'd hit you if I could, give you what you want so bad you'd let that thing keep me all that time, just because I wouldn't fuck you, because it's not normal to fuck your baby brother just 'cause there's no one else around, goddamnit, and I—"

Silence. For a second, he thinks he's gone deaf. And then there's the tone, and after a minute, more silence when the line goes dead. Dean lowers it from his ear, stares stupidly at the little screen until the light dims and there's this little bleep-bleep: Call Was Lost.

Tentatively, "Is everything all right?"

He'd forgotten she was even there.


Sam breaks off mid-sentence and stares at the phone in his hand. A mechanical voice speaks in his ear and he doesn't speak Czech, but even fucking drunk as hell, he can piece together that he's out of time. "God damn it," he growls, slams the receiver back into the cradle.

Even at three in the morning, it's too loud in the bar for anyone to hear or pay any attention to him at all and for that, at least, he's grateful.

He stalks out of the bar and into the street.


It's actually a pretty nice out, that day Sam leaves. Autumn's a good season for the southeast.

He leaves knowing Dean will wake up and expect him back soon, but he makes it to the airport and gets on the first flight out of the country. He pays for his ticket in cash – the result of a week's worth of late night poker games. Dean's just relearning, just hitting his stride again. He cleaned up big last Thursday.

Sam falls asleep and he wakes up in France. He's always heard that Paris in November is rainy and freezing, but he's never experienced it before. He hitchhikes south, then, and uses broken, high-school Spanish and the little Italian he learned from Jess to go east.

In Rome, he sleeps on the Spanish steps for a solid week and almost gets killed by a vampire on Piazza Navona. That's when he moves on.

He spends Christmas in India and greets the New Year from a Thai prison, a little misunderstanding that takes a week to clear up. He sits in a corner for hours on the first, ignoring the others locked up with him, and he thinks to himself, I wasn't like this. It did something. Something's wrong. And sitting, thinking, he starts to blame Dean, because there's nothing else to do.

He's not used to this, to having no direction and no plan. He moves as quick as he can, always unfocused and always running. He's not sure he understands, anymore. Any of it.

By Valentine's Day, he makes his way back to Europe.

He knows no German, but in Hamburg, there's a kid maybe a little younger than Sam himself, but he's got Dean's wide shoulders and Dean's mouth and big, innocent eyes that make Sam itch to kill something, to sharpen knives and feel blood slippery and hot on his hands.

Sam fucks him with his eyes shut tight in a back alley. In a foreign country, surrounded by strangers and a language he doesn't know, he suddenly feels right at home.

The last day of February, he goes to Prague on a whim and there's a girl with Jessica's smile who tries to buy him a drink, whose cheeks turn the color of strawberries when he says no.

He drinks too much and for too long alone, and a few hours later, the reasonable voice in his head passes out. Sam's got just enough money left for a call back home, and the DJ's playing some metallic shit that he can only associate with hours and hours on the road in a long, low car with his brother beside him.

From where he's sitting, he can just glimpse the phone.


Two weeks out of Prague, he starts hunting again. It's less coordinated. He can't read most of the papers, but he follows local legends. He exorcises a thirteenth-century spirit in Luxembourg, and he goes grave robbing in Belgium. He wakes and swears there's something after him, runs twenty blocks one night and collapses in an alley. He falls against the brick and half-sleeps on broken glass for hours.

He wakes feeling choked, small, trapped, and he can't make his hands move. He can't make himself stand. He tries to scream and his lips won't move.

This thing, this possession—he doesn't think it can speak to him in his head. But he panics, he tries to move, tries to wake up, and finally it says aloud, "You really don't have to bother." It uses his body to stand, to find a pay phone and drop a few coins through the slot. It dials from his memory.

Eight in Lyon is two in South Carolina.

"Yeah," Dean mumbles, sleep-thick and soft.

And Sam's mouth moves, and it's his voice but none of his words that come out: "Dean, it's me."

And Sam, pushed out of the way for something else to fill his skin, squeezed into some small, cramped part of himself, he wonders if his brother can tell the difference over the phone. Wonders if he cares.
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