Chapter Text
“I wouldn’t call that half-eaten,” Dean says, hovering behind Sam as Sam digs into his breakfast, tablet in hand. He’s got a news article open, and the picture illustrating it is fairly gruesome. The caption doesn’t do it justice at all. “That’s, like, two-thirds-eaten at least.”
Sam doesn’t glance back at him, slurping his cereal.
“You talking about the corpse or the burger you keep putting back in the fridge that you should’ve thrown away a week ago?”
Not this again.
“Throw it away yourself, smartass.”
“It’s your burger.”
“It’s your fridge, too.”
“It’s your section of the fridge.”
“Are you twelve?”
“Are you five?”
Dean hasn’t had enough coffee for this.
He pours himself a second cup and sits down opposite Sam, where his own cereal is getting soggy.
“Tell me about the corpse,” he says, scooping up a spoonful and spilling milk on the table.
Sam stares at the new stain, raises his eyes with ‘why are you like this?’ emblazoned across his pretty irises, and shakes his head with a rueful sigh.
Yeah, yeah, Dean knows. Sam hates him.
That’s what brotherly love looks like.
“Here,” Sam says as he gets over his wordless neat-freak bitching. He turns the tablet toward Dean. “Something’s been eating people in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, and leaving bodies on the beach.”
The corpse in the photo looks awful, guts—what remains of them—everywhere, face ripped off, limbs gone.
Grim, but hardly weird.
“Sharks?” Dean suggests.
Sam’s eyes go excited in that nerd way he has, when he gets to impart some obscure knowledge on his unsuspecting audience. Which is usually Dean. Who could quite probably live a happy life without that particular information.
“There was only one confirmed shark attack in the entire Connecticut,” he says, cheerful like he’s describing unicorns and not man-eating predators. “In 1933. A swimmer was bitten on the foot.”
Dean needs to stop this before Sam starts drawing the pattern of the bite.
“Okay, okay, got it.” He waves his spoon, leaving another milk stain on the table. Sam either doesn’t notice or is too busy marveling at his own erudition. “You thinking monster?”
“Something man-eating,” Sam muses, “that lives in the water or thrives near it?”
“That’s a no to a wendigo.”
“Or a chenoo.”
“A werewolf that likes swimming?”
Sam gestures at the photo.
“That’s way more than the heart missing.”
Dean taps the spoon against his chin, thinking.
“A rugaru? They don’t leave much.”
Sam nods, but he looks like his mind is elsewhere.
“Could be a mermaid,” he says.
Dean scoffs into his coffee. The table now has coffee stains, too.
“Those are nasty,” he says with a shudder. “But also extinct.”
“We thought vampires were extinct, too,” Sam reminds him.
He’s got a point.
Dean doesn’t like this point.
“Fine,” he surrenders, pushing his empty bowl away. “We’ll check it out.” He stands up to take the bowl to the sink, but stops to loom over Sam. “If it’s a fucking mermaid, I’m ganking it.”
“Whatever you want, Dean,” Sam says, adding to Dean’s retreating back, “just throw away the fucking burger.”
Dean doesn’t throw away the fucking burger.
*
It’s a long drive to Connecticut.
Which Sam spends feeding Dean what feels like every little scrap of information Men of Letters ever had on mermaids.
He starts with the basics—neck gills, scales on arms and legs, no fishtails—and veers from that to recorded attacks because gruesome death is what Sam considers fun.
“In 1718,” he says, all sunshine, “a mermaid attacked a pirate ship, guess whose?”
“Captain Hook’s,” Dean says, contemplating whether leaving Sam in the middle of Illinois would be in agreement with being a good big brother.
Sam slaps him on the shoulder.
“Blackbeard’s,” he says with reproach, like Dean’s just failed a test that was supposed to determine their entire future together.
“Wow,” Dean says dryly.
“That’s how he really died,” Sam says, undeterred. “Eaten by a mermaid.”
This goes on for another few hours.
“The records stop in 1837.” Sam sounds like it’s a personal tragedy. “The year The Little Mermaid was published.”
“Ain’t that the one that makes you cry every time?” Finally, Dean’s turn to feel glee.
Sam’s shoulders hunch and he clears his throat.
“It’s a sad story,” he says.
“You’re a sad girlie,” Dean says.
Sam gives him a long-suffering scowl, which, for them, counts as another expression of a deep, abiding brotherly love.
Dean reaches out to pat Sam’s knee.
“‘s okay, Sammy.” He winks at him. “‘m not gonna tell anyone.”
“Watch the road,” Sam grouses. His cheeks are a little red, and that’s a good look on him. “Anyway,” he says, perking back up, “people got wary of mermaids and started hunting them until there were no left.” He pauses dramatically. “Until now.”
“We don’t know if it’s a mermaid,” Dean points out.
“You’ll see,” Sam says.
Dean might gripe and grumble all he wants, but it feels good—being on the road with Sam, away from Mom and the Brits and all that mess.
This is family, he and Sam.
It’s a small one, but it’s all Dean truly needs.
*
In Old Saybrook, they go through the usual motions of aliases and cover stories, exhaling in relief when they finally get to examine the bodies.
Well, what’s left of them.
There are three corpses, although they don’t have enough limbs left in total for one full person. Most of their organs are missing, and only one has a face.
“Looks like a rugaru,” Dean says, peering at the peeled skin around one of the vic’s neck.
Sam’s busy poking at the torn chest of another body.
“A-ha!” he exclaims, straightening up. He’s holding something between his gloved fingers, Dean can’t see what. “Here.”
He shoves his hand into Dean’s face, almost smearing dead blood over the bridge of Dean’s nose.
“Cool it, tiger,” Dean says, leaning back, so he can focus on the tiny thing Sam’s showing him. It doesn’t look like anything Dean recognizes. “What am I looking at?”
“A scale,” Sam says, triumphant. “Dean, it’s a scale.”
Dean squints at the object, and now he can see it—a thin, almost translucent fleck, pale green turning white where it reflects the overhead lights.
“Godzilla got lost?” he asks, without much hope.
Sam doesn’t even roll his eyes.
“It’s a mermaid.” He gets a ziplock bag out of his pocket and puts the scale in it. “I win.”
Dean doesn’t point out that they didn’t place any bets.
*
The beach where the corpses have been found is, predictably, empty—no swimmers, no sunbathers, not even a bored lifeguard. Granted, it’s off-season, and Dean didn’t expect a crowd anyway, but this total desertion makes the place look more haunted than it already seems to be.
They’ve changed into their casual clothes after the morgue, which almost gives the entire scene a vacation-like ambience. If one ignores the creepy factor, which, granted, fits with the idea of a Winchester vacation.
“Hey,” Dean says, clapping Sam’s elbow, as they stand side by side at the edge of the sand, taking in the view. He waits until Sam turns to him to waggle his eyebrows. “Skinny dip?”
Sam glares at him in that special brotherly way that makes Dean go all tingly.
“You’re no fun,” Dean tells Sam, but he’s suppressing a chuckle.
He bends down to tug his boots and socks off, while Sam proceeds down the beach, no doubt getting full shoes of sand, probably too worried about preserving the modesty of his overly sexy feet.
Dean lets the little brown grains of bliss shuffle between his bare toes as he walks after Sam, unhurried.
He gets out his EMF meter, just in case, and waves it around, getting no readings. Sam crouches, staring at the sand, as if he intends to make it confess with the power of his irresistible eyes.
There are no weird smells, only the salt and fish of the Long Island Sound. It’s even nice, somewhat.
“We should totally go swimming,” Dean says, putting the EMF meter away and stretching his arms above his head. Sam raises his head to give him another glare. “What? You can keep your panties on.”
“It’s March, Dean,” Sam says, and ostensibly decides the conversation’s over, returning his attention to the sand. He picks at something, eyes focused, a little line between his eyebrows.
Dean resolves to get Sam into the water before they leave this place, even if it’s freezing.
Especially if it’s freezing.
“Found anything?” he asks, crouching next to Sam.
Sam shows him a palm full of scales, the same green as the one he picked from the body.
“You still think not a mermaid?” Sam asks, a bit too sly.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Dean says, deadpan.
“Well, what’s your theory?” Sam pours the scales into his ziplock bag and stands up, patting the sand off his jeans.
“A rugaru with an aquarium,” Dean says, not because he believes it, but because he’s gotta say something.
Sam scoffs, which, well, Dean expected.
“Sure.”
Sam pockets the bag with the scales and strides back to the car, an excited spring in his step.
Dean moves to follow, but the back of his neck feels abruptly cold, his hackles rising, as if someone’s watching him. He turns in the direction of his possible observer, but there’s only the water. Its surface is calm, unbroken.
If he were a civilian, he’d tell himself he’s watched too many horror movies.
As it is, he checks that his gun is loaded and gives his surroundings a long, studying look before joining Sam in the car.
*
The motel room is tiny, most of the space taken up by the two beds with little left for anything else. It comes with the standard weird stains, bathroom mold, and a sophisticated spiderweb woven between the wall and the coffee maker.
Well, at least it’s not inside the coffee maker.
Sam looks around the room like he’s forgotten what a motel is, spoiled by their life in the bunker. The expression of disgust on his face is hilarious, and Dean claps him on the shoulder before dropping his bag on the nearest bed.
“Look alive, Sammy,” he says with a grin. “We’ve seen worse.”
“Maybe I should sleep in the car,” Sam says, picking at the bedsheets that look like they haven’t even had any better days.
Dean ignores his griping in favor of stretching out on the bed and getting the tablet out of his bag. It connects to the hotel Wi-Fi, which is predictably slow, but Dean is nothing if not persistent.
Sam lets out a sigh so long, Dean marvels at the size of his lungs. He walks to his own bed, sitting on the edge, as if he can’t bear touching the sheets more than absolutely necessary.
“Seriously, dude.” Dean throws him an amused glance. “‘s not that bad.”
Sam gets his laptop and opens it, starting to type straight away, face stony with determination.
“If it’s a mermaid,” he says, watching something on his screen, “it can’t stay too long away from water.”
“If it’s a mermaid,” Dean says.
Sam doesn’t acknowledge his skepticism.
“We should look for anyone new to the town who stays close to the beach.”
“If it’s a mermaid,” Dean says again.
Sam looks up, his glare turning withering.
“You gonna work the case or not?”
Dean finishes his googling and sits up.
“I’m gonna hit the bar,” he says, throwing an easy grin at Sam, who stares at him like he can’t believe him, even though it’s exactly what he expected from him. “To talk to the locals, Sam.”
It doesn’t do much to change Sam’s expression.
“You just wanna get laid,” he accuses.
“I just wanna get laid,” Dean agrees because he doesn’t see any point in lying. “After talking to the locals.”
Sam’s lips are still tilted all the way down.
“Whatever,” he says at last, turning his eyes back to the screen. “I’ll try to see if I can identify the scales.”
“Don’t call me if it’s a shark,” Dean says, as he puts down the tablet and stands up.
“There are no green sharks,” Sam mutters absently.
“There are no mermaids, either.”
Dean leaves the room before Sam can stab him with his eyes again.
*
The bar closest to any of the beaches serves pretty good craft beer, which Dean consumes with a tourist’s eagerness. He scans the crowd, figuring out which company he can join without causing a scene.
A group of young people, likely students, look like a good match, tipsy enough to be friendly, but not so tipsy as to be useless.
Dean finishes his second beer and almost stands up from the counter, when a delicate hand in a green lace glove catches him by the elbow.
He looks up to see who the hand is attached to and forgets about the students immediately.
The girl is smoking hot, smooth black hair, sharp cheekbones, blazing green eyes. Great rack, small waist, delicious curves hugged tight by her dark jeans. Her red long-sleeve blouse is cut low, and she’s got a scarf in a matching color wrapped around her neck.
And she’s looking at Dean like he’s the very reason why she came here tonight.
“Well, hello,” Dean says, trying to keep himself from openly salivating.
The girl smiles. It’s a beautiful smile.
“Hello,” she says, her voice soft and velvety.
Dean would follow it anywhere.
“Can I—can I help you?” Not his best pick-up line, if it even counts as a pick-up line, but his brain is scrambled.
“It depends,” she says and slides onto the bar stool next to Dean, turning to the bartender. “A margarita, please.”
Dean orders himself another beer, eyes glued to the girl’s lips. He’s tasting those before the night ends, or he isn’t Dean Winchester.
She twists to face him and offers him her hand.
“Mira,” she says, and Dean memorizes it, so he can whisper her name into her little ear later.
“Dean,” he returns, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the lace of her glove.
She looks pleased, and Dean mentally gives himself one point.
He’s so gonna score tonight.
The bartender slides the cocktail over to Mira, who takes a sip of it and smiles. She looks at Dean over the rim of her glass with expectant eyes, like he’s a contestant on some talent show and she’s the judge.
“Are you from around here?” he asks, hoping he can work the case and get laid within one conversation.
God, Sam’s face will be priceless.
Mira puts the glass on the counter and leans on her elbow.
“Are you already asking me where I live?” She sounds like she’d love to share that information with Dean. While Dean tries not to gape his way into rejection, she shifts on the stool, leaning toward him. “You are new in town, aren’t you?”
“Could say so,” Dean agrees, grabbing his beer and downing half the glass like it can save him.
She takes another sip of her cocktail and sits up, looking at Dean in a way that makes him feel bigger than he is.
“What brings you to Old Saybrook?” she asks, with a curiosity that appears sincere.
Dean’s got a whole host of cover stories for just such occasions. A talent scout, an ecoactivist, a mystery writer, hell, he’s even pretended to be a firefighter on vacation once. Chicks dig firefighters.
Sometimes, though, truth also works. As long as no one believes him.
“I’m looking for a mermaid,” he says with a conman’s smile.
“Oh?” Mira looks around the room pointedly. “On land? In a bar?”
Dean shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. It appears to be stronger than he expected, making his head hazy, as he answers Mira’s questions.
“They can walk,” he says, a bit defensive. “Pretty sure they can drink.”
“They can walk?” Mira asks, like she’s going along with whatever game Dean’s playing.
He likes her. He likes her a lot.
“Uh-huh,” he says with a conspiratorial nod. “They can do a lot of things.”
Mira considers this, as she sips her cocktail.
“Like what?”
“Like eat people,” Dean says casually, taking a swig from his glass.
Mira’s eyes go round.
“Really?” She sounds a little scared.
“Really,” Dean confirms. “Not your regular Disney princesses.”
Mira finishes her cocktail and shifts, her shoe brushing against Dean’s leg in a way that doesn’t feel accidental.
“Why are you looking for one, then?” she asks, as she plays with the ends of her scarf. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Are you worried?” Dean asks back with a grin.
Mira chuckles and tosses her hair back.
“Should I be?”
“Danger’s my middle name, sweetheart,” Dean says, and winks at her.
“Do you often do dangerous things?” Her tone is conversational, but there’s an interested twinkle in her eyes.
Time for his next move.
“Listen,” Dean starts, making a show of looking around them. “I shouldn’t be talking about it here. Someone could overhear.”
Her lips quirk up.
“Are you suggesting we move this elsewhere?” She drops her voice lower, and fuck, that’s a hell of a voice.
Dean can’t wait to hear her scream his name.
“Is it working?” he asks, all sly.
Mira laughs, but it’s not an offensive laugh.
“Oh, Dean.” She waves her hand at him. “Do you always rush things?”
“Am I?” He leans closer, lowering his voice, too. “Rushing things?”
Mira gives him a vague smile before curling her fingers into the front of his shirt and tugging him close.
“Maybe,” she says, “maybe not.”
She kisses him.
Fuck yes.
Her lips are salty from the margarita, and he drags his tongue over them, until she opens her mouth and lets him in.
That’s a hot, hot mouth.
It just starts getting real good, when Mira draws back, her eyes still twinkling, but in a different way. Darker, more sinister, like Dean’s the one who should be afraid.
“Don’t you know, Dean?” She brushes her gloved hand over his cheek and slides off her stool. “There are no mermaids.”
Stupefied, Dean watches her weave between the tables toward the exit, taking the promise of a fantastic night with her.
He licks his lips, tasting the lingering salt, and wonders what the fuck just happened.
*
The long walk to the motel sobers him up somewhat, though that doesn’t help him figure out where the night went wrong.
He should be buried balls-deep in that nice, soft body, but all he’s going to get is his smug little brother.
Could be worse, he reasons with himself. It doesn’t help much.
He half-hopes that Sam’s already asleep when he steps into the room, but he’s got no such luck.
“Oh,” Sam says, surprise quickly melting into something very annoying. “What, the kraken shall remain leashed?”
Dean glares at him and walks toward his bed, face-planting onto it.
He’s still a little dizzy, and his skin feels weird. Maybe he should’ve gone easy on the beer.
“It’s a mermaid, by the way,” Sam says, and yeah, that’s the smug voice Dean hates. “I looked up the scales in the Men of Letters database.”
“Awesome,” Dean mumbles. He rubs his throbbing forehead against the blanket. “How do we gank one?”
Sam’s on-the-drive lecture focused too much on the gory murder details, skipping this vital piece of information, which Dead didn’t think to ask about because of all the extinct deal.
“Chlorinated water,” Sam says, like it’s a totally normal thing.
Dean cranes his neck to stare at him.
“In 1837?” There, he listens.
“Dismemberment also works,” Sam says, which sounds more up Dean’s alley. “Very thorough dismemberment.”
“Well, let’s sashimi that bitch.” Messy, but loads of fun.
Sam gives him a look that means he isn’t a fan of the messy part.
“Twentieth century Men of Letters swore up and down that chlorinated water is deadly to all aquatic monsters,” he says, and Dean wants to argue, but he’s got no energy for that.
“So what, we shove it into a pool?”
“It’s an option,” Sam says with a placid shrug.
Dean really, really wants to sleep.
“Okay,” he says, making an aborted wave in Sam’s direction. “You—that.”
He drags his jacket and top shirt off, which requires more effort than usual, and doesn’t bother with his jeans and boots.
A faint ringing starts in his ears, and his lips still taste salty. He shifts on the bed, trying to get to the pillow, but his body feels too heavy. His eyes refuse to open, and something like cold sweat breaks out on his skin.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice tugs at him, tinged with worry. “You okay?”
Maybe he’s got food poisoning. He doesn’t feel nauseous, though, so it’s probably not that.
He lifts his hand, curling his fingers into an okay sign.
“Peachy.”
He can feel Sam’s distrustful eyes on him, but he zones out before he can be subjected to any bitching.
His dreams are full of water and salt.
*
“Dean.”
It’s Mira’s voice, that velvety purr, and Dean’s ready to do anything for her, even in his sleep.
He tries to tell her that, but his mouth isn’t moving.
“Dean.”
Vaguely, he remembers that she left and wonders why she did that. But it’s not important, ‘cause she’s here with him now, and everything’s fine again.
“Dean!”
Wait.
It’s not Mira.
It’s a good voice, too, but it’s not Mira.
Dean jolts awake to see Sam bent over him, watching him with narrowed eyes.
“The fuck?” He tries to swat Sam away, but he misses by a long shot.
“Who’s Mira?” Sam asks, and he sounds pissed.
Dean rolls onto his back and spreads his arms to the sides.
“A dream,” he says, a little wistful, though mostly still bleary from sleep.
Sam bends lower, squinting at Dean’s face, like he’s going to find the map to their monster on it.
“You look terrible,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like just a jibe.
“Look who’s talking,” Dean grumbles nevertheless.
Sam doesn’t even scoff at that, which means he must be really concerned.
Dean does feel pretty terrible, now that he thinks about it. Like all his blood has been replaced with something thin and cold, his organs not receiving enough nutrients, his body shutting down on itself.
Sam’s hand lands on his forehead. Dean tries to swat him away, but his arm flops as soon as he lifts it.
“You’re cold,” Sam says, frowning.
Dean’s skin feels clammy, and he wants a shower somewhat dreadfully.
“‘m fine,” he says, moving to sit up.
Sam puts his hand at the center of Dean’s chest and pushes him back onto the bed with too much ease.
Dean’s gotta fix this.
While he contemplates how to fight his brother in his inexplicably weakened state, Sam sighs and straightens.
“How much did you drink?” he asks, resigned. “And who’s Mira?”
Sam and his constant questions.
“None of your business and none of your business.”
Sam folds his arms across his chest.
“It’s my business if it makes you too sick to work.”
That actually makes sense, not that Dean’s going to tell Sam that.
He gathers all the strength he’s got left and sits up. His head spins, but he tries not to let it show.
“I’m grabbing a shower,” he tells Sam, making it sound like a threat, “and then we’re ganking that son of a bitch.”
“We need to find it first,” Sam points out.
“Then do that,” Dean says, climbing off the bed and staggering toward the bathroom.
At least he makes it to the shower stall without falling over his feet.
He turns the faucet all the way to the hot side, intending to bask in the steam, like he usually does, but when the hot water hits him, he balks, almost jumping back.
Reaching around the spray, he pulls the faucet to the other side, until the water runs cold, and steps under it.
Now that feels right.
Maybe whatever bug he’s got makes his skin too sensitive. It’s fine. He’ll just take a cold shower today.
As he scrubs the sweat off himself, his arms and legs start to itch, the skin there going pinkish under the freezing spray. It builds slow, and he doesn’t notice when it started, just finds himself scratching at his forearms, his nails leaving long white traces in their wake.
He forces himself to stop this before he does any lasting damage, and turns off the water, no matter how much he wants to stand under it forever.
His skin feels too dry, but he ignores it, as he towels off and stands by the sink to brush his teeth.
What he sees in the mirror, makes him flinch.
He’s pale, almost paper-white. His eyes look bloodshot, and there are weird reddish welts on the sides of his neck. The cold sweat returns despite the shower, making his skin acquire an unhealthy glint.
No wonder Sam got fussy.
Dean’s vision blurs, but he manages to get the toothpaste onto his toothbrush on just a second try. By the time he rinses his mouth, he’s shivering so hard, he almost misses the tiny sink as he spits.
He pulls his boxers on, which uses up all his energy, and skips his other clothes, leaving them on the bathroom floor. Sam will bitch about it, but Dean honestly couldn’t care less.
All he wants is to get to his bed and sleep through whatever this is.
He almost stumbles over the bathroom threshold, cursing under his breath as he rights himself.
“Dean?” Sam appears at his side, like he was waiting for him just out the door.
“What?” Dean snaps, moving past Sam toward his bed.
Sam catches his wrist and stops him. Dean whirls on him to find him frowning.
It’s a bad frown.
“You got—” Sam looks up and down Dean’s body, his expression growing more and more concerned.
Dean looks at himself, too.
The skin up his arms and down his legs isn’t just pinkish. It’s covered with angry-red rash, and it itches like fucking hell.
“Please don’t tell me you got an STD,” Sam says, dropping Dean’s wrist.
“Fuck you,” Dean says, because Sam really should know him better than this. “I think it’s just allergies.”
Sam reaches out to trace the welt on the side of Dean’s neck. Dean backs away from him.
“To what?” Sam asks, voice tight.
“Maybe someone kept a cat here.” It’s plausible, even though the motel doesn’t allow pets. Dean has a feeling the guests don’t always follow the rules. “Maybe it’s the air.”
“Uh-huh.” Sam doesn’t look convinced.
Dean’s head swims, and he drops onto his bed in a helpless heap.
“‘m fine,” he hurries to say with a flap of his hand. “Just gimme a minute.”
“Dean, you can’t even stand,” Sam says, but it’s not his angry voice, it’s his caring voice, soft and gentle and making Dean feel a little fuzzy, though he does his best to act like he hates it.
It won’t do to have his little brother take care of him, when it should be the other way around.
“‘m fine,” he says again, as if repeating it will make it true.
“You’re not.” Now it’s Sam’s stubborn voice, and there’s nothing Dean can do against that, short of standing up and walking out of the room, except he’s not in any shape for it.
He tries to say something anyway, but all he manages is a weak mumble that doesn’t have a single complete word in it.
His skin feels clammy and dry at the same time. His neck is burning up. His limbs itch.
All he wants is for his smart, genius brother to figure out how to make it all go away.
“You stay here,” Sam says, all business, with a strong undercurrent of worry. He shrugs on his jacket and walks toward the door. “I’ll be back soon.”
He’s out of the room before Dean can ask him anything about the hunt.
People are dying out there, and that should take precedence, except nothing takes precedence when either of them is hurt, Dean should know it by now.
Sam will—has burned the world for him, and he’ll do it again, and so will Dean.
Maybe it’s wrong. It’s most probably wrong.
But it still makes Dean a little happy.
He scoots up the bed to lay his head on the pillow and closes his eyes, uninterested in anything until Sam comes back.
The room feels colder without Sam, like it always does. Everything feels blander, more muted when Sam isn’t there.
Dean’s mind drifts, images popping up and breaking down, half-dreams, half-delirium.
Water keeps chasing him, and he tries to run away, but it follows, nipping at his heels, calling to him. It’d be so easy to give in, to let the stream take him wherever it wants, except he can’t go without telling Sam.
He’s tossing on the bed, whimpering for the water to go away, when the door opens and closes.
Sam walks up to Dean’s bed and sits down next to him, balancing a small plastic bag on his lap. He reaches out to put a hand on Dean’s forehead again, and Dean doesn’t swat him away, barely keeps himself from leaning into the touch.
Judging by Sam’s frown, he doesn’t like what he finds.
Dean needs to do better. He needs Sam to stop frowning.
“Here,” Sam says, handing Dean a white pill bottle. “Antihistamines.”
Dean lifts himself on his elbows, taking two pills and swallowing them. His throat feels so dry.
“Good call,” he says, while Sam takes another item from his bag. It’s a medium-sized bottle with something clear in it. “What’s that?”
Sam pops the bottle open and squeezes what appears to be gel-like substance onto his palm.
“Aloe gel,” he says. “For the rash.”
Okay, that’s new.
“What happened to Vaseline?” Dean asks, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.
Sam puts it on the night stand, like it belongs there, in the room with them.
“It’s organic,” he says, rubbing the gel between his palms.
“That’s—” Dean doesn’t even know what to say to that. “Ain’t that for chicks?”
“You really need to rethink your binary worldview,” Sam tells him, and takes Dean’s wrist in his hands before Dean can come up with a retort.
Dean watches Sam’s palms massage up his arm, and retorts are the last thing on his mind.
Sam’s fingers are gentle over his burning skin, steady and soothing. The itch doesn’t quite go away, but Dean can focus on this new sensation, choose to feel Sam over whatever is wrong with him.
When Sam moves on to Dean’s legs, Dean’s head goes light, cotton-fuzzy, and maybe he should examine this closer, but he’s too tired, so he just lets it happen, lets Sam fuss over him, lets himself like it.
He slips in and out of a grainy, dreamless state, barely noticing when Sam gives him two more pills to swallow. Sam’s always kinda there, sitting on Dean’s bed, touching Dean’s forehead, rubbing more gel over the rash. He’s doing something else, too, must be working the case, although it feels like he doesn’t leave Dean’s side for a moment.
It could be a couple of hours or half a day since Dean collapsed, he has no idea, when he gets a familiar and unwelcome feeling of his body betraying everything he stands for.
Something’s changing in his very composition, on a cellular level. He remembers this horror from that time when soulless Sam let him be turned into a vampire.
He felt like he was being torn apart, piece by little piece, taken farther and farther from who he is, who he always believed himself to be.
This is what he feels now.
His head swims, realization floating close to the surface, except he doesn’t want it, doesn’t want anything to do with it, and yet he can’t escape it.
He’s almost opened his mouth to tell Sam, when Sam beats him to it.
“Dean,” he says, voice too controlled. His hand is wrapped around Dean’s wrist, holding tight. “You’re—” He drags his finger over Dean’s itching skin, which doesn’t feel like skin. “You got scales.”
He does his best to cover his terror, but Dean hears it, maybe because he’s terrified himself.
It explains everything, of course. The need for water, the new organs sprouting on his neck, the fucking rash.
It explains everything, and leaves Dean no escape.
“Dean.” Sam’s control starts breaking down, and there’s nothing Dean can do for him, not about this. “Who the fuck is Mira?”
They both know the answer, but it doesn’t help either of them.
“A girl from the bar,” Dean whispers, words scratching at his throat.
He pries his eyes open to see Sam’s chin bounce up and down as he nods at the air in disbelief.
“You kissed her,” Sam says, and it’s not a question. “Tell me, Dean.” He turns to look straight at Dean, scared and hurt and furious. “Were you so fucking horny that you missed her gills? Or—or her scales?”
“She was wearing a scarf,” Dean says, which is a slim excuse. “And gloves.”
Sam stares at him.
“In March?!”
“Lace gloves!” Dean yells back. He’s angry, too, and though it’s not aimed at Sam, there’s no one else in the room. “I thought it was hot!”
“You thought—” Sam looks at the ceiling, as if it can crack open and let some godlike power take them away from this. “You kissed her,” he mutters to no one in particular.
“Sam—” There isn’t much that Dean can say, but he needs to soothe his brother somehow, even though he probably can’t.
“You fucking kissed her,” Sam says, with a grim amazement, like this is the worst thing about this situation, not Dean turning into a monster. He turns back to glare at Dean. “Was it good?” he asks, full of acid now. “Was it worth it?”
“You know it wasn’t,” Dean snaps, as he lifts himself on his elbows and looks down.
His arms and legs are, indeed, growing green scales, and he can feel extra air come through the slits in his neck. He doesn’t feel like eating people, probably not yet, but his human existence is done.
Of all the ways he could go out, this isn’t on his list of the good ones.
Sam stands up, his back to Dean. He takes a few steps away from Dean’s bed, paces back, rakes his fingers through his hair.
“Fuck,” he says, a fitting conclusion. “Fuck!”
Dean can’t see his face, which seems like mercy. He wouldn’t handle the look of disgust Sam’s most surely wearing now, the fully justified hatred in his brother’s eyes.
His time is running out, and selfish as it is, he doesn’t want to spend his last hours watching Sam disown him.
This is worse than Hell.
He can’t do anything, just stare as his skin turns foreign, tremble as his humanity leaches away.
“I’ll—” Sam starts, stops to take a long, strained breath. “I’ll be back. Don’t you dare run.”
Dean’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to if he wanted, his legs still feeling like Dark Side play-doh.
He doesn’t say anything, has no idea what to say.
Sam grabs Dean’s jacket, gets the keys out of it, and strides out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
Dean closes his eyes, but it only makes him feel his transformation more acutely, so he opens them again, focusing on the blank white ceiling.
“What am I supposed to do?” he whispers, but the ceiling doesn’t answer.
He should put a bullet in his own skull, except he doesn’t know if it’d even work, how far from human he already is.
Maybe he should try anyway, but he doesn’t want Sam to come back and find his body. No matter how much he abhors Dean now, this isn’t a sight Dean’d wish on his little brother.
They aren’t good at goodbyes, but Dean owes it to Sam to at least try.
He throws his arm over his eyes, which only makes him more painfully aware of the scales replacing his skin.
It takes all his effort, but he sits up, ignoring the roar of blood in his head. He staggers toward the bathroom, supporting himself on the walls, and grabs his discarded clothes, tugging them on.
The skin under the scales still itches, but at least he can’t see them anymore. He gets back to his bed, exhausted from this little trip, and drops onto the mattress, thoughts floating, listless, in his mind.
There’s something he needs to do before Sam comes back and does what has to be done.
He grabs his phone, scrolls to the name he needs, and taps the call button.
The call connects instantly.
“Dean?” It’s frantic and hopeful and pierces Dean right through.
“Mom,” he says, lips trembling.
“Are you okay?” she asks, because of course she can feel it, she knows, she’s his Mom.
“Dandy,” he says, and he probably isn’t fooling her, but he can’t tell her the truth. She’ll know soon enough anyway. “How—how’s it going?”
It’s a stupid question, but he just needs to hear her voice.
“I, um.” She sounds uncertain, like they’re walking over an earthquake, and her every step could take her away from Dean. “I tried to visit, but you weren’t there, and I—I threw away the burger,” she says, a peace offering.
This is when the tear that’s been clinging to Dean’s eyelashes slides down his cheek.
“You threw away the fucking burger?” he asks, choking on the futile love that fills him.
“Yes, Dean,” she says, and he can hear her smile. “I threw away the fucking burger.”
Dean wants to be four, his biggest worry a scraped knee, and he wants to fall into his Mom’s arms, and he wants her to hold him and tell him she’ll never let anything bad happen to him, and he wants to believe her, he wants to believe so much.
It doesn’t matter that it’d be a lie, doesn’t matter that it wouldn’t save him or Sammy or anyone in their family.
Yes, it was Mom who brought all this on their heads, whose deal killed the girl that Sam loved, threw Sam into Lucifer’s claws, sent Sam to Hell, caused him to lose his soul.
No, it doesn’t mean that Dean loves her any less.
“Mom,” he says, fighting to keep his voice from quivering. “Listen. I—”
“It’s okay, Dean,” she interrupts him, forgiving him before he asks for it. “I know you—”
“No,” he interrupts her, too, because he isn’t four, he can’t let her shoulder them both on her own. “I was wrong.”
He doesn’t say these words often, but when he does, he means them, and he means them now.
“Dean—”
“You make your own choices,” he says, needs to say this for both their sakes, “and I might not like them, hell, I might hate them, but they’re yours. And I understand.” He takes a breath, his chest aching like it’s being scraped hollow. “I’m not your baby anymore. You don’t owe me anything.”
He listens to her silence and wonders, and fears, and doesn’t know what to do next, needs his Mom to tell him, guide him, hug him even if it’s one last time.
“You’ll always be my baby,” she says, and Dean’s chest cracks open, his face wet with tears that he can’t stop.
Maybe if he tells her, if he tells her everything, she will save him, will do the impossible, shield him from everything nasty in the world.
She can’t, no one can, and he knows it, his brain knows it, his body knows it, his fading soul knows it.
His little thumping heart refuses to know it, and he pushes it down, locks it up.
He doesn’t want their last conversation to be about the end.
“I love you, Mom,” he says, which is the only important thing.
“I love you too,” she says at once, kind and soft and dear. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Dean makes a strained, watery sound that’s half a laugh.
“Yeah,” he says, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “I’m awesome.”
She hesitates, and Dean hopes, wildly, that she’ll make him tell her.
“Is Sam with you?” she asks instead.
Dean closes his eyes. Sam’s face swims up in his mind, contorted with fury, sick of him.
“Yeah, sure,” he says into the phone, keeps it light, “he’s out, but he’s—we’re on a case.”
“Tell him I love him,” she says, and Dean’s fingers tighten around the phone. This is probably the last thing Sam wants to hear from him, Dean tainting their Mom’s words with his monstrous mouth. “And Dean?”
She sounds hopeful, wild in her own way, and Dean already knows he won’t be able to give her what she wants from him, and he hates himself for it.
“Yeah?” he says, ready to at least make a promise he won’t keep.
“We should—grab a coffee sometime?”
He covers the mic, so she doesn’t hear him sob.
“Totally,” he says when he can talk again.
“Okay.” She sounds happier. “Text me?”
“Will do.” He searches frantically for something more to say, something to make this conversation last, but he knows there’s nothing else. “Take care, Mom.”
“You too,” she says, and he hangs up, throws his phone away, hides his face behind his scale-covered hands.
When the door to the room opens an hour or so later and Sam walks in, Dean’s curled in on himself on the bed, clutching at his spasming stomach.
Hunger’s growing in him, scratching at him from the inside, and as much as he tries to fight it, he’s going to lose.
Sam drops a paper bag on Dean’s bed. It smells like food.
Dean’s mouth waters, and he reaches for the bag with shaking hands, unable to care about anything else but the promise of sustenance.
He registers that Sam sits down on his own bed, that another paper bag rustles in the room, but it’s shoved into the back of his mind.
Right now, nothing matters but feeding, and the part of Dean that’s horrified by it is rapidly diminishing.
He tears through the paper and takes a large bite, not stopping to check what he’s eating.
The taste is strange, vaguely familiar, but not something he has on the regular.
“What’s this?” he asks, as he chews through the flaky substance.
“A fish burger,” Sam says morosely.
Dean looks up at him to find him nibbling on some kind of wrap, eyes fixed on the floor.
Fish is just a poor substitute for meat, in Dean’s opinion, and he knows Sam knows it.
“Why?” he asks, while he takes another bite. It’s actually good, which must mean his taste buds have already mutated.
Sam lifts his head and glares at Dean.
“What, were you expecting human meat?”
Dean flinches.
Worst of all, it’s a valid question.
He stuffs the rest of the burger into his mouth and balls up the paper bag, dropping it on the nightstand.
“Thanks,” he says, as his stomach settles, at least for the time being.
Sam nods and goes back to staring at the floor.
Dean expected a blank face, or a bitch face, or maybe an angry face, but Sam looks so deeply unhappy, he doesn’t know what to do with this.
It’s already dark outside, and Dean’s suffocating with the need for water, his skin feeling like it’s shrinking over his muscles.
He watches Sam work through his own dinner, his jaws moving slowly, as if each bite takes all his strength, and it’s terrible, and it’s all Dean’s fault.
“Mom said to tell you she loves you,” he blurts out, unable to think of anything better.
Sam doesn’t lift his eyes.
“You talked to Mom?” It’s devoid of any inflection, like Sam’s lost the ability to feel anything.
“Yeah.” Dean rubs at his arms through his shirt. The itch is becoming excruciating. “She—she’s good.”
“Good,” Sam echoes, wiping his mouth with his hand.
They sit opposite each other, neither saying anything, neither daring to look at the other.
If they don’t move, maybe everything will stop, and they’ll just freeze in this moment, when Dean’s still Dean, at least for the most part.
He looks at the back of his hands in his lap, green scales reflecting the light, and really, who’s he trying to fool?
“Sam—” he starts, no idea what he intends to say.
“Shower’s yours,” Sam says over him, glumly considerate.
He can still read what Dean needs, even with the growing chasm between who they are.
It makes Dean’s chest hurt all over again.
“Sammy—” he tries one more time, grasping for the words that will give his brother closure.
Judging by the look in Sam’s eyes when he jerks his head up, closure is the last thing he seeks.
“No,” he says, sharp and bitter. “Don’t.”
It’s as Dean knew, they suck at goodbyes.
“Okay,” he says with a small, lost nod. “Okay.”
He stands up and hides in the bathroom, his legs a bit steadier under him.
The cold water helps soothe his skin, doing nothing for the storm raging in his head. Part of him is gnashing its teeth, demanding food, and he doesn’t want to look closely at what it means by that. Another part of him, the part that he identifies as himself, is drowning, which is ironic, though he’s not in the mood for laughter.
He latches onto the things that still mean something to him—his brother, his Mom, the case.
There’s nothing he can do to make this easier for Sam, he’s never seeing Mom again, and he has no idea where to look for the fucking mermaid that turned him.
He leans his forehead against the tiles, lets water rush down his face.
It’s not perfect, but it’s enough to tide him over for another few hours.
He doesn’t intend to live for more than another few hours, so that’s fine.
When he steps out of the bathroom, he finds Sam face-down on his bed, apparently asleep. The kid’s had a terrible day, worse than the one Dean had. At least, Dean spent his mostly unconscious, while Sam had to deal with watching his brother morph into the very monster they hunt.
In a way, this is good. Dean has no words that will fix this for Sam anyway.
He shrugs on his jacket, pulls on his boots, gives his little brother a long parting look, and tiptoes out of the room, closing the door behind himself without any sound.
Outside, the night is chilly and dark, the moon half-covered with long, gray clouds. Dean strides across the parking lot toward the Impala. He’s got no plan except for getting as far away from Sam as he can, though he isn’t sure if he’s doing it for himself or for Sam.
It doesn’t matter what he tells himself. Monsters lie.
He stops by the car and starts patting his pockets, when someone clears his throat behind him.
“Going somewhere?” Sam asks.
Dean turns around to find Sam with the keys dangling from his raised hand. He looks at Dean like Dean’s a teenager breaking his curfew, even though they never had one.
They’re going to fight, and their last conversation will be all pain and poison, and there’s nothing Dean can do about it.
“Sam.” He tries to make it neutral, but he can’t quite suppress the turmoil twisting his voice. “Give me the keys.”
Of course, Sam doesn’t. He drops them into his pocket and proceeds to stare at Dean, nostrils flaring.
“Don’t you dare,” Sam says, tight, “don’t you fucking dare, Dean.”
He opens his mouth to say more, but Dean doesn’t let him.
“There’s no cure!” Sam’s briefing on mermaids made it very clear. “You know that. You told me that.”
Sam’s face closes off. He’s one word away from exploding.
Dean needs to say that word.
“You gotta kill me, Sammy. Before I do something bad.”
Sam glances away, as if the night can help him deal with his monster brother. His chin jerks up and down a few times before he turns back to Dean.
“Forget about it,” he says, his conviction striking Dean like darts.
It hurts, and it’s going to hurt more.
“Sam, I’m a fucking monster.” Dean puts his hands over his chest, the scales glinting under the moonlight. “I’m gonna kill. We both know I will.”
“I don’t,” Sam says, sharp and loyal, so fucking loyal.
Dean drops his hands, curling them into fists, as anger fights agony inside him.
He’s furious, at himself, at Sam, at this whole situation that doesn’t have a satisfactory way out of it. One stupid mistake, and he’s cursed them both.
There are no alternatives for him—he’s got to die. The only variation is who kills him, and he wants, feverishly, for his brother’s face to be the last thing he sees in life.
“It’s okay,” he says, trying for soothing now. “I don’t mind.” He pulls up a lopsided smile. “Purgatory’s not that bad this time of year.”
Sam’s eyes narrow, and he steps closer to Dean. His entire posture radiates deep, burning ire.
“Dean,” he starts, all menace, “I’ll set up a fucking aquarium in the bunker, if I have to, but I’m not letting you go. Ever.”
He means it, Dean knows it.
That’s why he doesn’t have a choice.
“I’m sorry, Sammy,” he says, and swings.
His fist connects with Sam’s jaw before Sam can say anything that would break Dean’s resolve.
Sam crumples onto the asphalt, his giant body looking smaller like this, vulnerable. He’ll come to soon enough, and Dean needs to hurry, but he can’t look away from his little brother’s slack face.
It’s a face he knows by heart, all its dips and bumps, all its marks and expressions, and he studies it anew, as if seeing it for the first time, because he’s seeing it for the last time.
He crouches by Sam, digging through his jacket until he finds the keys. His hand lingers on Sam’s chest, feeling it rise and fall, and he can’t help it. He reaches out to brush Sam’s hair away from his face, feels it softness between his fingers.
“If you don’t kill me,” he says, fingers gliding down Sam’s cheek, “I will.”
It’s not what he wants, but he’s used to that.
He leans down to press a kiss to Sam’s temple, lingers for longer than a brother should, doesn’t care about it.
“Goodbye, Sam,” he murmurs, and stands up, striding toward the car.
He gets into the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and peels off without looking back once.
For a while, all he can think of is try to get further away from his brother, no actual plan ready. Maybe he should find a pool and dive, Brian Jones style.
Death doesn’t scare him, never did. Leaving his brother does.
Sam’s strong, he reminds himself. Stronger than Dean ever was.
He’ll pull through. Live a long, good life, maybe remember his idiot brother from time to time.
They’ve already done that: Dean roaming Purgatory, Sam building a family.
Dean just wishes they had more time.
The road brings him to the beach where the mermaid’s been dropping her leftovers, an attempt on the part of his subconscious to work the case, do one last good thing.
He detects movement, two silhouettes walking on the sand, and he parks the car, pushing the tragedy of his condition to the back of his mind. The silhouettes stop, while he climbs out, gun drawn, creeping toward them on soft feet.
The clouds drift, uncovering the moon, and Dean recognizes Mira, her arms woven around the neck of some unsuspecting dude. She’s too focused on her upcoming meal to notice Dean, and the dude, it seems, only has eyes for her. Dean comes within shooting range, just as Mira opens her mouth wide, her teeth growing into fangs and sharpening.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Dean says, cocking his gun and pointing it at Mira’s head. “Dinner’s off the table.”
She snaps her head toward him with a displeased snarl. The dude blinks at her, then at Dean, and Dean gets a feeling he’s too wasted to process that his date has fangs and that they’re aimed at him.
“Ah,” Mira says, recognizing Dean. Her snarl melts into a grin, as she swiftly grabs the dude into a headlock, shielding herself. “Tell me, hunter, what’s it like to become the hunted?”
Pretty fucking awful, but Dean’s not telling her that.
“Mermaid-killing bullets,” he bluffs, nodding at the gun. “And I don’t miss.”
Mira narrows her eyes, while her catch of the night finally gets enough presence of mind to start struggling.
“There’s no such thing,” Mira says, but she doesn’t sound too sure.
Dean gives her a malicious grin.
“Wanna bet?”
She stares at the gun, eyebrows knitting together. Her hold must slacken, as she deliberates, and the dude manages to headbutt her with the back of his head, causing her to yelp and stagger back, releasing him.
“Run,” Dean yells at him, when he just stands there, looking dazed.
The dude stirs into motion at that and staggers along the beach, making good progress despite stumbling every couple of steps. Mira watches him get away with a sour look, before turning back to Dean.
“Well,” she says, nothing velvety about her voice, “this was singularly frustrating.”
That’s enough conversation for tonight.
Dean fires, but she moves fast, dashing toward the water and disappearing under the surface.
“Fucking mermaids,” Dean mutters, dropping his gun and shucking off his boots, as he runs after her.
As soon as the water envelops him, a thrill runs through his body, all his cells singing with joy. He almost forgets about Mira, swept away by this sensation of pure bliss, of arriving home after a long time away.
It’s dark underwater, but he sees everything clearly—the sand at the bottom, the tangles of seaweed, the scuttling crabs. He spreads his fingers and drags them up and down in front of himself, feeling water flow between them. The cold current nudges at him, and he wants to give in, let it pull him wherever it wants.
He’s only ever felt this content with Sam, doing nothing, just the two of them, sharing time and space.
Sam.
Beautiful, righteous Sam.
He’d want Dean to finish the job, and maybe Dean will never see his brother again, but it doesn’t mean he can let him down.
His eyes catch a blur of motion on his right. He swims toward it, until he finds a sunken barge with a dark shape passing behind the holes in the hull. Dean dives lower, slipping between the ragged metal edges into the debris.
Mira’s drifting with her back to him a few feet deeper, and he pushes with his legs, propelling himself toward her. She whips around, as the water moves, but it’s too late. He grabs her by the arm, tugging her up and out of the barge, while she wriggles, trying to pull him further down.
She might be a monster, but Dean’s a monster, too, and their strengths are matched. They tangle in the barge, Mira thrashing in Dean’s grip, but Dean manages to get her up, breaking the surface. They both gasp, the air a vicious contrast to the soft water of the Sound.
“Let me go,” Mira hisses, as Dean wrestles her toward land. “We’re on the same side now.”
The very idea makes Dean shudder.
“We sure as hell are not,” he throws back at her. His feet find the bottom, and he stands, pinning Mira’s arms to her sides.
He drags her across the beach, aiming to get his gun and perforate her. It won’t kill her, but it should hurt her enough for him to figure out what to do next.
“We could make history together,” Mira says, pitching her voice into that seductive tone that worked on Dean at the bar. It doesn’t work now. “Make humans fear mermaids again.”
Dean reaches the gun.
“Not gonna happen.” He stops, arm tight around Mira, when she kicks him just under the knee and digs her elbow into his stomach, twisting out of his grip.
She doesn’t run into the water this time, stopping a couple yards away from Dean, fangs bared. Dean gets his gun up, while she takes her soaked scarf off, exposing her fluttering gills.
“Come with me, Dean” she says, sounding like Dean should be grateful for the offer. “We’ve been hiding so long. Subsisting on fish and trash.” Her face twists. “Humans hunted us into oblivion. It’s time we hunt them back.”
Dean puts a bullet right into her heart, and she staggers back, hands flying to the wound. When she doesn’t drop dead on the spot, the terror in her eyes dissipates, but Dean unloads the full clip into her, watching in satisfaction as blood drenches her clothes.
“Really?” She purses her lips. “I so hoped you’d do the smart thing.”
He lets his fangs drop. Maybe he can’t shoot her, but he can tear her to pieces, which should be debilitating enough.
They collide, both hissing and snarling, trying to bite a chunk out of each other, as they barrel across the beach. Dean lands a blow that knocks out a couple of Mira’s teeth, and she scratches long stinging cuts down his face with her nails. Their wet clothes make it harder to move, but they’re both burning with determination, hell-bent on making the other hurt.
Dean’s body is still adjusting to its new shape, and Mira manages to pin him to the jetty, her hand wrapped around his neck, covering his gills. It’s not enough to suffocate him, but it’s decidedly unpleasant.
“Last chance,” she says, the words distorted by the fangs.
“Fuck you,” Dean says, struggling against her hold.
“You made a mistake,” she says, as she drops her jaw and reaches for Dean’s throat.
Just as she’s about to close her teeth, a syringe is stuck into the side of her neck, someone pushing the plunger to inject her with some kind of clear liquid.
Her eyes widen, blood vessels popping in them, and she stumbles back, hands clutching at the spot where the needle went into her. Blisters appear on her skin, and she makes a short, wailing sound, before collapsing onto the sand, unmoving.
Dean stares at Sam, who throws the syringe away and steps forward, grabbing Dean by the shoulders. He looks like he’s got a lot to say, and Dean has a feeling he won’t like any of it, so he speaks first.
“Now put one in me.” He nods at the syringe. Sam must have spares, he must. “Do it, Sammy.”
Sam stares at him for a long, long moment.
“You’re such a fucking idiot,” he says at last, and lunges forward to press his lips to Dean’s.