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New Verse, Same as the First
SPN || PG-13 (language) || Sam, Dean || 600 words || S6
“So, you’re saying demons have been fucking with us the whole time. Like, not just the blood.”




“Monkhood again?” Dean asks as they’re driving I-10 through New Mexico chasing a dust-devil. Or a chupacabra. Or maybe just a chance to pretend that nothing’s changed in the last five years except how Sam wore his hair.

“What?” Sam asks warily. He’s got a hand outside the window, fingers flattened together so the wind rushes over it, as Boston’s “Peace of Mind” plays low on the radio.

“That blonde was looking at you like a five-star meal and you went back to the motel to watch a documentary on Abe Lincoln.”

Another bar, another hustled pool game, another bar-fly with half the cosmetics aisle on her face and tacky fake-gold earrings. Nothing’s changed in the last five years.

“I like not having genital herpes.” He cants a sly, pointed look at Dean and knows that he’s gonna have to watch his back now when they stop for the night. Or he would’ve, if they still did that sort of brotherly thing. Then again, he’d rather pretend-worry about Nair in his shampoo than Purgatory or – well. He’s not so good a person that he won’t take Dean’s recent get-out-of-jail-free card, his universal pardon for past sins, and run to the moon with it.

“You’re avoiding the point, dude,” says Dean, avoiding Sam’s implication.

Sam’s quiet for a while. The asphalt of the highway so straight it cuts the landscape neatly in half shimmers under the Southwest sky, the radiating heat forming weird shapes and leering faces. “I figure I got enough when I didn’t have a soul.”

The silence coming from Dean’s side of the car is thick and tense, and for the millionth time Sam wonders what he really did, how bad it was, what he could’ve done that Samuel would be disturbed and no one would talk about it. When he’d said ‘yes’ to Lucifer Sam hadn’t expected the angel to slide so easily inside of him, fill up those dark spaces that Sam had pretended weren’t there since he was a kid. Fourteen years old, he’d put a knife through the eye of a misplaced crocotta, and when he realized that underneath the horror at what he’d done was a small kernel of pleasure he’d decided then and there that he was gonna get the fuck out of this life.

Maybe not the most successful plan in the world. Nothing’s really changed. He says quietly, “It was my prom date.”

Dean’s brow furrows as he glances over. “Seriously? I can’t believe you actually recognized her.”

“Not her. Rachel Nave, back in high school. She was possessed.”

The Impala momentarily jerks to the side before Dean corrects. “What?”

“Brady wasn’t the only one. Rachel Nave. One of my elementary school teachers. A few others.” Sam’s hand is now on the inside door handle, knuckles turning white as he holds himself still. Doesn’t know why he’s talking about this shit now, except that the blonde bar-fly eyeing him like a five-star meal had had the same hairstyle, same body type, and it’d completely blindsided him.

“So, you’re saying demons have been fucking with us the whole time. Like, not just the blood.”

“Guess so,” Sam mutters, shifting away from Dean a little as the afternoon sun reflects blindingly off the car hood. The cassette clicks to a stop, but neither of them moves to change it, and all that’s left is the endless sound of wheels on hot pavement.

“Well,” Dean finally says, in a tone that once upon a time would’ve been challenging but is now just tired, “the more things change.”

“At least I don’t have herpes,” Sam replies, but neither of them laugh.
 

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Jukebox Hound

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