The summary comes from a song called 'A Whisper And A Clamor' by Anberlin. And the title of this fic could also come from that song, but I modified it. LOL So... if anyone knows which song I mean, then you also know what I mean by... that. Well anyways... never mind! LOL But this story has nothing to do with the song. I was just playing with those lines and I came up with this. I dunno… I don't know what to think about this. Maybe I shouldn't have put it up. I don't know…
Oh and let's say… SPOILERS for all seasons, all episodes. Kind of. So... don't say I didn't warn you or anything. LOL
I own nothing. NOTHING!
Sorry for all the grammar/spelling mistakes.
She screamed and disappeared into a million tiny flickers of light. That was that.
Dean could still hear her scream even after four beers, three shots of Whiskey, something greenish looking and two burgers. With fries.
The machete was sharp. It cut through the vampire's neck like warm knife does through butter. That was that.
In silence, Dean could still see the shift in the vampire's eyes when it realized it wasn't gonna live forever. Moron.
Sam said it was a curse. Whatever. Waking up in the morning with no memory of your brother is fucked up, curse or no curse. The witch got what she deserved.
Dean could still see her body falling to the floor –dead big brown eyes - even after three days and rivers of beer.
The chick just wasn't dead enough. No matter, he still pinned her down into her own grave with a wooden stake. He hoped that this time, she would stay dead otherwise he would just have to come back and burn the bitch.
Looking at the dark, shiny road in front of him, he could still see her lying in the casket. Dressed all pretty, make up on her face, lips cherry red… dead eyes.
He felt kind of sorry for her. She was too young to die… twice.
It had black eyes, like the blackest of nights. It laughed at him. It mocked him. But it didn't know that all of that was just pissing him off even more then he already was.
He helped Sam recite the exorcism, liking the way the demon was squirming in the chair. Loving it even.
Trying to drown that feeling in the fourth bottle of beer… yeah… it had no effect.
There's no known cure for being a werewolf or lycanthropy as Sam, user of big words calls it. But whatever you call it, it all comes down to one thing in the end. A silver bullet to the heart.
The sound of the shot still reverberated through his head even after five hours and a lot of Metallica. And AC/DC.
Sam had been wisely quiet in the car.
His hands were covered with Sam's blood.
It didn't look any different. It was warm, red. Not different at all.
But it is.
But Sam is still his brother.
He has to believe that.
They said that they were Pagan gods, talked about shit he didn't quite understand being tied up and all. They told him that they will eat his intestines right out of his stomach. He gripped the edge of the table a little tighter and thought 'okay', because maybe then, he won't have to think about saying yes or no to Michael OR see his brother's eyes turn black when the light hits them just right.
Sam killed them.
In the silence, Dean didn't know if he felt relieved or not.
"You come here often?"
"My first time here," she took a drink of her wine, "yeah. My friends," she pointed to two girls dancing together on top of a table, and laughed "dragged me here. 's okay… for a bar."
The sex was great. It was more then great. She was afraid of him at first, made him think that she doesn't do this often, but he sucked that fear right out of her mouth and 'made' himself be gentle, just to see if he still can be.
But even the sweet taste of her couldn't help him get the taste of death out of his mouth or the images of dead eyes and mutilated bodies out of his mind.
"Is there something you wan…"
"… get me a burger, no fries, extra onion and some pie. Cherry. I read outside that it's a specialty here." He shrugged.
… na talk about?
That killed all conversation Sam wanted to have.
Dean was pleased with himself; he guessed that the screams in his head hadn't broken his ability to shut his little brother up.
But in the silence of Sam sleeping; he wanted to hear his little brother's voice. Craved for it even. And isn't that ironic?
The night was just way too silent for his liking. Even when being drunk out of his mind.
He laughed out loud.
Sam turned around, mumbled something and went back to sleep.
He couldn't breathe. His chest was too tight. Black spots were already dancing in front of his eyes. He was gonna die.
"Dean, get up. We got it."
He wanted to scream 'kinda busy dying here, Sam' but then he was being hauled up and would you look at that… he was able to breathe again.
But in the silence of a locked bathroom, he couldn't hear himself breathe at all.
He just wants to sleep. Just wants to be left alone. But the screams and the eyes and the motionless bodies keep coming back to him through the darkness of his closed eyelids.
"Sam, wake up."
"Get dressed; you can sleep in the car."
He needs to move. He needs to be in his baby, driving… away from the screams, the darkness. He needs to be in a place he can control.
"Come on, let's go."
"Do you have to be a bitch even when you're not fully awake yet?
"Do you have to be a jerk while I'm sleeping, too?"
He really needs to leave. Now.
Silence. Sleepy brown eyes burning his. Searching… searching… searching… finding: "Okay, okay… give me a minute."
Dean felt naked under Sam's eyes just then. It was like Sam was stripping him layer after layer after layer until he reached his very core, finding whatever he was looking for, because the words were spoken gently, soothingly as if he was a scared, hurt animal.
Maybe he was.
The rumble of the Impala and Sam's sleepy breaths could always and will always tune out the noises in the silence. The open road and seeing Sam's body twisted up like a pretzel in the passenger seat could always and will always erase the images of dead, headless bodies.
He laughed out loud. Maybe he is insane. Maybe he's not. Maybe he's just human. Or maybe… maybe he's not even that anymore.
Sam mumbled something incoherent and pressed his right cheek closer to the window.
The road… the road was open.