Song Remains the Same

Chapter 114: In Plain Sight

"Grudges are for those who insist that they are owed something;
forgiveness, however, is for those who are substantial enough to move on."
- Criss Jami

It was late at night and the brothers were in a dim motel room. They sat on the ends of separate double beds and were mostly silent. Both had their own bottle of hunter's helper—it was cheaper than therapy, Sam thought wryly.

Cas was gone for now—the loony job they'd worked with the angel was wrapped up—and that was just about all the thought Sam could manage to give to the past day or two. Partially because he was tipsy, but mostly because his brain circuits were so overloaded and frazzled with more important things. The booze was taking the edge off and helping him feel more numb to the pain he had inside, but he was still too hyper vigilant to relax. That's why the job Cas had found them had been nice while it lasted (in a sort of morbid way, Sam guessed)—at the very least, it had distracted from all the thoughts clamoring so loudly in his head. But now with the hunt finished... it left two brothers and one very loudly empty space in the motel room. And as he felt the void her absence made, Sam took another sip from his bottle of whiskey to try and deal. But truthfully, he didn't want to forget or become numb or even accept it. And he was getting more and more unhappy with sitting here uselessly and mourning a sister he wasn't sure was dead at all...

Dean raised his bottle Sam's way, acknowledging him for the first time in about ten minutes. "To all the sons of bitches we've saved," he offered in jaded salute. He hesitated before drinking. "And all the ones we didn't." He put the bottle to his lips and tipped it way back, taking more than a swig—basically chugging. Two or three huge gulps at a time. Jesus, Dean. The oldest Winchester wasn't saying much and was putting up a tough guy front, but Sam could tell his brother was just as deep in grief as he was.

Sam eyed him sidelong hesitantly, noticing the way Dean swayed a little even while sitting. "Did you... start drinking before I did?" he asked skeptically and cautiously.

Suspicious, Dean's face darkened. "Why?"

Sam was careful not to set his brother off. "Because you seem sorta... drunk." And that didn't happen too often.

The hilariously grumpy old-man face that Dean pulled caused a sudden and ill-timed grin to split Sam's face. "Shut up, Princess, I can hold my liquor and we all know it," Dean muttered, and he suddenly got very annoyed when he saw his brother's face. "And stop smiling, dammit!" He looked away from Sam in foul temper. "Hate your face right now," he muttered, and by all appearances, he really did hate it.

Sam was only amused at Dean's comments—what brother didn't enjoy irritating their sibling on occasion? "Why?" he prompted, expecting a funny reply that they could joke about when Dean was sober again—some kind of dig on Sam's dimples or maybe how 'lame-o' he looked when he smiled.

But he got a very different, much darker reply than he expected. "'Cause you look like her when you do that."

Dean's flat answer took all the air out of the room and snatched the smile right off of Sam's face. He swallowed deeply, feeling sudden hollowness down to his veins and further past that, too. He had caught sight of himself in the mirror a couple times recently and stopped, noticing the things about his face that were so like his sister's. Same jaw—same nose—same lip shape—same exact eye color. And when they smiled wide—same dimples, same crinkly eyes. "Dean—" Sam began, his voice full of pain and hesitance.

He was met with a proverbial solid brick wall. "Don't even start with the bleeding heart crap, Sam." Dean said forcefully, then stood up and unevenly walked to where he had a couple extra bottles of booze waiting—his bottle appeared to be drained. "I don't wanna hear it. Just lemme drink my brains out."