milliways_bar | (no subject)

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There's a Watcher in the bar.

Specifically, there's an Andrew Wells in the bar, seated in a booth not far from the fireplace. He's ostensibly making a list in his notepad, but right now he's staring into the fire without really seeing the flames or the serenely circling fish, pen resting forgotten on the page.

He's got stuff on his mind.

Any moment now he's going to notice that the tip of the pen's making a large blot and the list will have to be redone.

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Sam's jaw sets, and the look he gives him is flat and level.

"I remember everything, okay? Look, Andrew, just in case you've forgotten, I happen to know exactly what it's like to be the one at fault for someone else's death!"

"No."

His voice is even smaller than before, and sounds somehow younger ... but there's no yielding in it. None at all.

"No, you don't. Not like this. Not unless there's something you haven't told me. Not unless you put the knife in someone yourself."

What flashes before his mind's eye in that instant isn't the memory of Dean after the hellhounds' attack; it isn't Jessica, burning in front of him; it isn't Madison, eyes closed and trusting him to kill her without pain.

It's body after body lying broken after he's ripped the demons from them; it's the ones he and Ruby have killed with the knife, it's the face of the woman that Verity was wearing when he pulled the Colt's trigger.

He presses both hands flat against the table so hard that the knuckles go white.

It's either that or do something he knows he'll regret.

"We're done here."

Sudden misgiving cracks through the steady resolve. "Sam --"

"I mean it," he interrupts.

"Never mind what I've done or haven't done. If you seriously expect me to stand by and approve of you going off to martyr yourself -- "

"That's not what this is, Sam, listen --"

"Oh yeah? Then what is it?"

The challenge sets him back for a beat, and his throat thickens when the answer comes.

"I owe him." Unsteady. "That's all."

Beat.

"I'm sorry."

"So. Like I said."

Sam's voice is as level as his gaze.

"Watch your back. Because like you told me once, there's always a price."

Edited 2013-07-02 04:54 (UTC)

You're not listening, that's exactly what I'm saying, that's what I owe --

"Whatever happens," he says, as levelly as he can, "it's not gonna be my back."

"And it goddamn well better not be your front, either," he snaps.

"Or your side, or any part of you. Are you hearing me?"

Andrew's gaze goes to the tabletop.

Low: "I hear you."

"But you're not going to listen," Sam finishes.

"Are you."

"It might not even be part of it," he protests wanly, to the table. "This could all just be me getting scared over nothing."

"It better not be."

His tone is hard and flat.

"And since you're not going to let anyone help, I'm telling you now -- when this is over, Andrew, you better leave me a note saying so and that it all turned out okay. Or else."

Or else what? is the obvious question, with an even more obvious answer: or else nothing.

"I will." He makes himself look up, tightens his voice to steadiness. "The second I get back. I promise."

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