Title: What He Does
Author: kbk
Rating: PG-13 - couple of cusses
Summary: They've taken out the demon. What next? Gen, gen, gen as hell.
Notes: Stream-of-consciousness thing, bashed it out in a few hours and a few beers, thinking about themes in my writing and possible future for the show and that sort of thing. The fact that this flowed more easily than anything else I've been trying to write over the past few days is probably a good indication that I've identified what fascinates me. Or I'm just obsessed with Dean. Either works. Spoilers for Devil's Trap, natch.

After they finally kill the son-of-a-bitch, all Dean wants to do is crawl under a bed with a bottle of bourbon and cry until he dies of dehydration. It would only take a couple of days, probably; if he paid out the week and put Sam on a bus to New York and Sarah, nobody would even notice. But a bus is not what Sammy needs, and not even what he wants (or so he says, anyway. Not that Dean trusts a word the little bastard says, especially since, "Good as new, I swear, but you gotta do PT if you want to drive." Good as new, Dean's grabbable ass - a banjaxed frame, a drift to the right and a whine in every gear but second did not count as good. Still, the Impala got them where they needed to go.)

What Sam needs, now that he has his revenge, is normality. But not the kind of normal that comes with a white picket fence and a 401k; no, the kind of normal that turns an exorcism to a lullaby and the smell of gun oil to the sweet scent of home. The kind of normal that maybe only a Winchester could appreciate. And maybe, probably, hopefully, Sam won't need it for long, will remember why he ran away in the first place (though, without Dad (and oh crap that still hurts) all of Sam's frustration will land on Dean and he doesn't know if he can take it, but he breathes and remembers that he can damn well take anything anyone (even Sammy) has to throw at him because he is Dean Winchester and he is made of better steel than even his car) and will do it again, will announce his departure for some law school or another (he had his pick of schools, Sam said, and Dean was so damn proud and so damn sorry that all he could do was shrug and offer him the pick of take-out for dinner) and then Dean will be able to let go. And once he can let go of Sam, nothing else should be difficult to get shot of, not even his life.

Sam needs their kind of normal for now, though. He needs to be able to turn his head and find Dean still there despite Ol' Yeller-Eye's best efforts. A little more scarred but no less handsome, a little slower but with a harder right hook (titanium is a wonderful thing, holding half of him together, but adamantium would be cooler (and he had to tell Sam that yes, he did know it didn't exist, as if Dean hadn't been the one to explain the difference between the stories other people told and the stories Dad didn't want to tell them but had to, way back when)) and a lot more likely to shoot first.

It took most of a week, last time, for Sam to stop apologising after every bitchy comment (because it was "the last time I spoke to him, Dean! and we were fighting!") and a few months were spent looking guilty every time he laughed. Dean figures this time will be easier, because it's not like anybody died - nobody new, anyway - and this time Sam's injuries are worse than his (should satisfy the guilt complex (though, ow, since when does Dean think about his little brother as a collection of neuroses to be appeased?)) and still not bad enough for hospital, by their messed-up standards anyway. Dean makes a bet with himself that he can get Sam bitching within twenty-four hours of the final take-down. He loses the first eleven to clean-up, wound-care and a deep sleep that he can only attribute to relief (because he slipped the last sleeping pills into Sam's dinner a week ago) but after that, he sets to with a will.

It's good for Dean, too. He pulls his persona on like his unfortunately-demised leather jacket (he'll pick up a new one in the next big town, for definite) and he doesn't have time to brood, doesn't have time to hurt, too busy singing along with his tapes and driving just recklessly enough to put Sam's teeth on edge without actually endangering the three of them (Dean, Sam, and his car, of course, because she may be damaged but so is he.)

Surprisingly enough, the thing that sets Sam off is the cigarette Dean unthinkingly accepts from the girl outside the diner ("Why did you bother running from him if you're just gonna kill yourself slowly?" Sam yells, and Dean shouldn't grin his cockiest grin and take a deeper drag, but he does, because that's more like himself than Sam's been since they spotted the electrical activity rising around Providence, Minnesota and started hauling ass to get there) and it takes Dean a good ten minutes - by which time they're inside, sat down and waiting to order - to remember that he only ever smoked on solo hunts, for something to do with his mouth when he didn't have an excuse for running it all the time.

After that, it's just one reminder after another of the time they spent apart. Dean suggests going to get rid of Chastity's water-horse, because they're in the area and she makes damn good "herbal" brownies, but Sam's never heard of her and probably wouldn't approve anyway. Sam mentions a campsite that can't be far away, one he heard about from a friend, but Dean's never heard of the site or the friend and these days his hip can't take sleeping on the ground. Then Sam asks about a knife that Dean lost down the gullet of some ravening hell-beast three years ago, and then Dean insults a song that was apparently Jess's favourite, and by the time they stop for the night Sam's pissy as hell and Dean isn't finding it reassuring any more. In fact, he's seriously thinking about the bus option again, but then Sam lays a circle of salt and draws sigils over each bed without being prompted, and Dean pulls out the guns for another cleaning (because he can't sleep yet, because Sam will probably wake screaming after forty-five minutes) and the bottle of bourbon is a distant dream.

His actual dreams are less benign, a mish-mash of running and fighting and seeking for a thing which is lost which he can never find again (fuck the metaphor, though, it's just about that knife) and then the nasty one where the metal inside him starts to burn.

The next day, Dean hauls Sam out of bed and makes tracks for Chastity's house. She's decided to keep the damn kelpie-reject, but she's pleased to see him anyway, and to meet Sam, and under the influence of her rather excellent weed (and in the knowledge that Sam is happily dozing inside) Dean lets himself break down, just a little, lets himself sob a few times against her angular shoulder while she enumerates his father's many faults ("not to speak ill of the dead, but") and cling to her for a minute or two when she tells him to take care of himself because he's a good man (but he's not, he's not, she doesn't know, he never has been, he's failed his brother so many times, he's never had the kind of dedication that his father expected, he's responsible for every death the demon caused after Dean's weakness stopped his family from killing it (and it didn't even do any good, because Dad died anyway, slower and more painfully, and Dean knows because he was there and he heard) and he can never atone for all the blood that is on his hands and all the crimes he has committed, and he has to believe in Heaven and Hell and he has high hopes for his parents and his brother (may it be a long time in the future, please) but none for himself) and she kisses his hair and guides him inside to lie next to his brother, his Sammy, his world.

Later, Dean wakes up alone, with a headache, a backache and a general all-over ache. He can't see Sam. He doesn't panic. Taking out a gun is perfectly reasonable, and if his throat blocks up when he sees Sam out in the garden, he's just been smoking too much.

"Hey, Dean," Sam says, "have a nice nap?"

"You went down first, bro." Dean tucks away the gun and lowers himself to sit by his brother. He can't cross his legs properly any more, which is kind of a bitch.

"I found reports of unusual animal attacks in Iowa, near Aberdeen; we can be there by tomorrow night if we start soon." The tentative grin Sam gives him is paired with thoughtful eyebrows, and for a moment Dean wonders if his brother is working just as hard as he is to push them back to the routine. There's no reason for it that Dean can see, so he dismisses the thought.

"Sure. You ask Chastity for supplies?"

She walks out behind them, almost-silent tread of bare feet on grass. "He did not," she tells Dean, "he's a polite kid."

Dean grins up at her, all practiced devilry. "Don't know where he got that from," he says.

Sam yelps with indignation, but Chastity bends down and presses a kiss to the top of Dean's head, puts down a grocery bag beside him. He starts investigating the contents immediately, trying to hide his expression.

"You take care of him," she says. Dean nods - of course he will, he always does, tries his best at least.

"Thanks," says Sam, and when Dean glances up his little brother is gazing solemnly at the woman standing over them.

"Yeah, looks good. We'll drop by next time we're in-state." Dean levers himself to his feet - ow, dammit, demon left bruises and crap all over, and sitting in a car for hours won't help, but it's what they do. He bobs his head at Chastity, then jerks it towards the car with a look at Sam.

Sam claims the first leg of driving, and Dean only argues a little, and apologises to the car when Sam grinds the gears. Then they pass through town, and he leers at the pretty girls, and a little later he complains about Sam's music, and a little bit after that he starts to repeat embarrassing stories from their childhood, until Sam takes a hand off the wheel to smack him (which was Dad's move, when they were younger.) He talks and smiles and doesn't think.

Because that's what Dean does.