17They're alright, I know that. They mean well – John trusts – trusted – them, and that had to mean something. But watching her smile at Dean I couldn't help but clench my fists hard, feel my smile tighten as Sam asked me a question. Mumbled an indistinguishable reply, still eyeing Jo. I was pretty sure I radiated 'getthefuckawayfromhimnowyoubitch' – but she wasn't picking up on the vibes so great.
Sam gave me his look – the fed up one – and left, made his way through the scattered chairs and tables to make nice with Ellen, who was conversing with Sharika and wiping glasses. I tapped my fingers restlessly against the wood for a second, seeing the infinitesimal slump in Dean's shoulders, the look under his hazel eyes, the healing nasty on his forehead, caring and worrying – then I rolled my eyes, and stalked over to the jukebox.
There had to be something other than REO Speedwagon on there, anything. And then I could change it so it wasn't her hint playing to Dean's ears anymore, it was mine.
God, I hated that cheerful, blonde little –
Huh. Perfect.
I pressed in some numbers, and listened as it started to clunk and whirr. The song spilled out of the speakers seconds later, and I sat back next to my beer, now making sure not to look at him or her at all. I knew he was smiling the first real smile he had in more than a week.
"Baby, you owe me one."
000
Back at Bobby's watching him under the Impala. All I can see is his body from the chest down, which isn't a completely horrible thing. It means I can pretend not to know what's running through the top half; it means I can't see his haunted eyes.
They're empty, a shell – broken, like his car. And me and Sam, Sharika – we're not the greatest of mechanics. We can't help him, and he won't let us.
I watch from the hood of another car, sprawled in a dusty, denim and leather and cotton clad mess; far enough away not to be intrusive, close enough he knows I'm there. I'm here if he wants me.
The shine is dulled, and the purity dirtied; her sides no longer gleam with pride and confidence, she is crumpled and I try not to think of symbolism, or that night, or the consequences. Try not to see him on a hospital bed, surrounded by white with a tube down his throat, because he couldn't so much as breathe by himself. Tried not to think of the sacrifices and what they meant.
Instead I thought about music, because that was neutral and easy, and simple and I could forget – I could – I was singing softly, thinking nothing, trying not to, staring down at the useless information in my hands. "When the summer's over and the dark clouds hide the sun; neither you nor I'm to blame when all is said and done…" Realised what I was singing and stopped. Didn't think about the songs that weren't – couldn't be played in the Impala, or why, and stopped singing – like we all had.
000
Brother can you tell me what is right and what is wrong?
He said, keep on rocking baby, 'til the night is gone
On and on and on; keep on rocking baby 'til the night is gone
000
He sleeps on his stomach, one leg drawn up a little, arms under the pillow, one touching the hilt of his fucking-ginormous-paranoia-revealing-knife. He sleeps, and the lines fade from around his mouth, and eyes and forehead. He sleeps and he looks like he might be at peace, even though I know he isn't.
Fallen angel eyes can't see me when they're closed to everything.
I lay with one arm slung over his waist, knees tucked into the backs of his, face pressed into the back of his neck. I clutch him like he's disappearing, and maybe he is. He still acts almost like himself, and the essentials stay the same – the way he looks, smells, tastes, feels, sounds. But he shouldn't have to.
The chunky black alarm on the bedside table started it's wake up call, too much static and not enough batteries slurring and slowing and softly purring the music into the air, and not waking him up. But I'm awake, and I hear, and I curse all the gods of irony and coincidences and fuck-all-sensitivity, and bite his t-shirt.
"Wanna be, wanna be in my baby's arms… gonna be, gonna be nice and gentle if you want me to; just as long as I'm in love with you –"
And I yank the plug out of the socket.
000
Screaming and yelling at him, because it's all too much for both of us and he's not dealing and he won't let me help him and I hate that he won't let me in and I love him but he doesn't want me to, can't stand that I do anymore and that hurts and I'm telling him, telling him to stop it and we don't mean it and he keeps pushing and pushing me away and I am breaking and he's broken and it's wrong.
"You don't understand what I'm going through," he says in the heated-not-yet-yelling voice that means he's angry and scared. I've played that card, Sam's card that he's passed onto me because the last time he used it they both got hurt in more ways than one – and I can't help but glare him down, because if he's not going to let me in, I'm going to let myself.
"Well, let me," I growl, grab his arm when he tries to walk out.
He slams me up against the wall next to the door, and I grip his hair and he grips my hips and I'm not sure if the salt is tears or sweat or protection anymore, and I'm not sure if we're saying anything anymore, and I'm not sure if we can do this anymore, and I'm not sure if he loves me anymore, because he's lost.
We're one and we're millions of pieces and too far apart and falling. The tapes in the duffel mock me with their memories and I cling to him hard, because if there's nothing else anymore, at least we have this, and he has me.
000
Like an image passing by, my love, my life
In the mirror of your eyes, my love, my life
I can see it all so clearly
000
AN: Wow, this was an angsty one. But I really just – well, the plot bunnies BIT me. my excuse for everything Anyways, this definitely isn't the end. One more, I think – it would be cruel to leave it off like this. If you didn't get it it's set around Everybody Loves a Clown. Kind of. Tell me if I should continue or not? ABBA again, of course… hmm I love lyrics, don't you?