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There's a point to all this dreaming
The metal clangs under his feet--he realizes after a few seconds of it that the floor isn't solid, it's grated, and under it there are hundreds of massive, turning gears.
They're standing over a giant meat grinder.
The little things with their long knives are swarming at them. He's firing, firing, emptying rounds into the room, but they keep coming, cutting at his legs, knocking him down. He hears a scream, high and wordless and terrified, and he sees Neil's twisted face in the dimness, sees them take him and lift him up, blood running over the metal grating as they carry him away. He's trying to crawl, dragging himself across the floor as beneath him that massive infernal machine grinds and grinds, and he sees another quick, moon-like flash of Neil's face as the knives go to work and Neil is screaming--
He's screaming. Sitting up in bed, the sheets soaked with sweat. Alone.
Quiet.
The window by the bed is open and breeze moves across his bare skin. For a few moments he just sits there in darkness mottled by city lights, trying to breathe normally again. And all he can think, with what little coherence he has at some ungodly hour of the fucking night, is that on a long enough timeframe all dreams might come true.
It takes him another five minutes to come to a decision.
He drags himself out of bed and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, splashes some water on his face and spares himself a look in the bathroom mirror. He looks pale, hollow-eyed. He looks like what he is, which is a man who hasn't been sleeping well the last two nights. And that, coupled with the city's change before, means that he hasn't gotten decent sleep in about a week.
Fuck this.
He could just go, he thinks. Just head out the door. But that feels a little too much like a month ago, a little too much like something dark and crashing, so instead he heads back into the bedroom, sinks down onto the bed, picks up the cell phone and dials Neil's number.
They're standing over a giant meat grinder.
The little things with their long knives are swarming at them. He's firing, firing, emptying rounds into the room, but they keep coming, cutting at his legs, knocking him down. He hears a scream, high and wordless and terrified, and he sees Neil's twisted face in the dimness, sees them take him and lift him up, blood running over the metal grating as they carry him away. He's trying to crawl, dragging himself across the floor as beneath him that massive infernal machine grinds and grinds, and he sees another quick, moon-like flash of Neil's face as the knives go to work and Neil is screaming--
He's screaming. Sitting up in bed, the sheets soaked with sweat. Alone.
Quiet.
The window by the bed is open and breeze moves across his bare skin. For a few moments he just sits there in darkness mottled by city lights, trying to breathe normally again. And all he can think, with what little coherence he has at some ungodly hour of the fucking night, is that on a long enough timeframe all dreams might come true.
It takes him another five minutes to come to a decision.
He drags himself out of bed and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, splashes some water on his face and spares himself a look in the bathroom mirror. He looks pale, hollow-eyed. He looks like what he is, which is a man who hasn't been sleeping well the last two nights. And that, coupled with the city's change before, means that he hasn't gotten decent sleep in about a week.
Fuck this.
He could just go, he thinks. Just head out the door. But that feels a little too much like a month ago, a little too much like something dark and crashing, so instead he heads back into the bedroom, sinks down onto the bed, picks up the cell phone and dials Neil's number.
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But in the Realm, he had wanted Tom Hobbes but it hadn't torn him apart inside. He had been haunted by ghosts but he had moved too fast for them to ever get very close. The easy things had been harder. The hard things... had been so much easier.
"Except the stabbing. That part, I coulda done without."
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I nudge the chair next to me out from under the table with my foot, my head still pillowed on my folded arms.
"Forget the tea, man. Just sit with me for a minute."
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He closes the distance between himself and the table and stands for a minute, looking down at Neil--tired, half naked, hair rumpled with sleep, and how many times has he seen this?
Never before now. And more times than he can count.
He sinks down into the chair, hesitates again, and reaches out and closes his hand over Neil's. "Thought I might lose you," he murmurs. "And I don't really even fucking have you, so where's that start making sense?"
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"You've got me. You've always fucking got me," I admit quietly, lifting my head and pushing my hair out of my face with my free hand. Around my neck, fully visible without my shirt, hangs the wooden protection charm Sam gave me over a year ago, a notch carefully cut along the edge of it, that can't really be seen but can be felt. And on the same chain is Mike's wedding band.
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Before he sees the ring, and his breath catches.
Slowly he reaches out, touches it with the tip of one finger.
He might tell himself that it's nothing to do with him, that it's worn in honor of a man he isn't and couldn't ever be. He might do that.
But he's not as good at lying to himself as he used to be.
"I still don't fucking get that," he breathes, gaze flicking back up to Neil's face.
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"And anyway, I told you I'd hold onto it, didn't I?"
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He runs his fingers along the line of the scar at Neil's temple, up toward his hairline. Somehow--and of course it would be this way, because how could it be any different--that element of imperfection only makes the rest of the face around it more beautiful.
"How did this happen?"
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"Uh... The summer after you... After, this whole world appeared, under our feet. Access in the caves, you had to ride this weird submarine car down to get to it. There were supplies... a whole fuckin' city full of 'em. Shari and I went down to see what we could find. I brought Tom's Glock, I figured we'd be fine. But there were people down there. Not really zombies, but... close. We got cornered down in the winery. She ended up breakin' her arm and I got hit in the head pretty bad. We would've been fucked if Sam and Dean hadn't come to get us out."
I'm quiet for a moment, my eyes dropping down to our clasped hands.
"Tom was so pissed at me, and then... 'Bout a week later, he was gone. For a long time, I thought... I dunno, I thought maybe that was why." That I was being punished.
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He wants to lean forward, curl a hand around the back of Neil's neck and pull him in, trace that scar with his lips and his tongue and learn it. Factor it into the detailed map he already has of Neil's body. That map is out of date now.
There's still so much he doesn't know.
From behind him he hears a hissing making its way toward a high whistle, and he tugs his hands gently free. "I should... get that."
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Fuck.
I'm left awkwardly empty handed, staring dumbly at him for a moment before I clear my throat and say, "Yeah, sure."
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He pulls the kettle off the heat and fills the two mugs he's found. The tea bags themselves are cheap little things but as the water touches them they give off a comforting smell, somehow both dark and crisp.
The Island feels closer now.
He sinks back into the chair and sets the other mug down in front of Neil. "I know they're two different things," he says, eyes closed over the steam. "That's been my fucking brain for the last few weeks."
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"I know it's hard. For you. I mean, I know I'm like... I shouldn't be puttin' so much pressure on you to be him or whatever, but it's just... It's fuckin' killin' me, bein' near you and still havin' so much... distance."
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"That's what I liked about everything going to shit. It was like the fucking distance disappeared." He opens his eyes, meets Neil's gaze, and it hurts but he holds the line. "So let's try to fucking get rid of it."
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It's too fucking much. It's never fucking enough.
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That can also cross dimensions.
"Thing about that is there's always another fucking moment after that." He holds Neil's gaze for another few seconds and then drops it to his mug again, watching the steam curl through the air. Slow. Uncoiling itself. It's a process.
"You said you needed to get to know me. Sometimes I feel like I hardly fucking know you." His mouth twists. "I missed a whole year."
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"I don't really know where the fuck to start."
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It's like a knife in his mouth, cutting its way out of him, and that's why he says it, why he starts with it. And he says it--me, not him--and just for a moment the double helix becomes a single twisting spiral and it feels true.
My girls.
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"They still call me Neil. Anytime somebody calls me their dad by accident, they get all confused."
Or they did. Now... Now, I don't know. I don't know what the fuck's going on back there. If they're okay. If they even exist anymore, without us.
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He doesn't know how to say I'm glad they aren't here. But after the world going dark, he's twice as glad.
"Sometimes I miss them so much, I can't--" He trails off, shakes his head. There are no words for this.
"And then there are these other times... I have to work at it to even remember what they look like." His mouth twists harder. "They probably don't even fucking look like that anymore. They were growing up so goddamn fast."
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"We moved. Not away from the Tree, really, we just... built a new house nearby. We were runnin' outta room, and I just... I needed someplace fresh."
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The cruelty of it is almost unbearable.
He takes a breath and then another, pushes past it. But he doesn't raise his head. Moved. That... God, he can understand.
"Who's 'we'?" He lifts his head slightly, scrubbing a hand down over his face. "Were you... were you with someone?"
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And I miss her as much as I miss my girls. Living with someone for over a year, they become family. She and I were already close, we just managed to get closer.
"I wasn't with anybody. Not really."
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"Kara. I'm... I'm glad she stayed." She would have been good for Neil to have close. Especially after... After. "Did anyone else we know... y'know. Go?"
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"Joe's been gone a while. Logan and Jack had a fuckin' baby. They used a surrogate," I say with a cough of laughter, scrubbing a hand across my face.
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"A lot happens in a fucking year," he says, his voice slightly ragged.
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