you'll take your steps away with hesitance
Title: you'll take your steps away with hesitance
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1,975
Summary: Sam doesn't talk about Ava; this is so far from normal Sam behavior, Dean wonders if he should circle back to the Blue Rose Motel and check under the beds for pods.
A/N: Written for summer_sam_love. Title from "Cautioners" by Jimmy Eat World.
Sam spins his glass slowly, staring down at the pockmarks in the wood, at the ring left along the surface of the bar when he finally takes a sip. He runs his fingers through the condensation, rubs the tips of those fingers together.
Dean takes in his brother's stiff posture, expression carefully blank as he taps his fingers silently against the bar.
He doesn't respond, though, instead tosses enough money on the bar to cover both of their drinks and a tip for the bartender, slaps Sam's shoulder, gestures his head towards the door, and says, "Come on, let's hit the road."
Sam doesn't say a word; he tips back the rest of his beer then Dean's in two easy gulps that make Dean frown. Sam drinking too much always leads to one of two things: a hysterical night of little brother antics as he trips over his own shoelaces giggling, or a night of emo confessions and posturing. Dean is banking on the latter tonight.
Sam is silent in the car, staring out the window in quiet contemplation, fingers clenching and unclenching along his knees in slow, subconscious movements. Peoria is a hundred miles in the rear-view, but beyond what little information they were able to gather from Brady’s funeral, Sam has remained shockingly tight-lipped regarding Ava.
Dean's eyes flicker back and forth between Sam - closed off, uncharacteristically unresponsive - and the dark, open road, and clears his throat. Dean could make him talk, drag the words out of him, but something about the bone-weary exhaustion that seems to seep into every crack of his little brother gives Dean pause.
"You all right over there, kiddo?"
Sam's sluggish voice comes slowly, as if he's answering after waking from a deep sleep. "'M fine," he says quietly, tipping his head back against the seat.
"Head hurtin' at all?"
"Just a little sore. I'll sleep it off."
"You're not dizzy or nauseous or-"
"Dean," Sam cranes his head around to narrow his eyes, impatient and annoyed; Dean bites back the triumphant smirk pushing against his lips, glad to finally hear something from his brother a grade above monotone. "I said I'm fine."
Dean shrugs, holding his hands up, half off of the wheel in a gesture of surrender. "Fine, don't get your panties in a twist."
Sam huffs loudly, exasperated, and turns his face back towards the passenger-side window. He doesn't say another word for the rest of the ride to the motel. Dean doesn't push, though he's sorely tempted.
Sam collapses onto his bed as soon as they arrive, barely taking the time to toe off his shoes and strip down to his boxers and a t-shirt before crawling under the covers. He burrows into his pillows, head turned towards the wall so Dean can't see his face.
"No, it's okay, I'll get the bags," Dean mutters, tossing his bag and the weapons duffel onto his bed from the doorway.
Sam grunts, already mostly asleep. Dean rolls his eyes but closes the door quietly, smiling slightly. Sam's chest rises and falls evenly; Sam is here - Sam is safe.
Things will be better in the morning.
--
Dean wakes to something smacking him in the side of the head.
He groans, slapping the offending object away so it falls to the floor. He doesn't open his eyes when he grumbles, "Sammy, you are a dead man walking."
Sam chuckles. Dean's eyes shoot open at the sound, just in time to witness Sam sitting down on the edge of his bed and sliding out of his jacket.
He grins as he picks up a steaming Styrofoam cup from the nightstand, gesturing to it's twin with a finger. "Got you one too. Hope you know you just tossed away your breakfast."
"Bitch," Dean mutters eloquently, nowhere near functional before his morning dose of caffeine. Sam laughs into his cup, shaking his head as Dean leans over the bed, grabbing the now crushed bag off of the floor.
The silence that passes between them is no longer heavy or tortured but peaceful, easy. And nowhere near normal.
When Sam disappears into the bathroom, Dean scours the Internet for a hunt - something to get them back on track, get them back to some semblance of normalcy.
Dean forgives Sam for leaving but can’t forget the anger, the mind-numbing terror that came with waking up to an empty bed and no idea where Sam had disappeared, if he was okay. A part of him couldn’t blame Sam, wished he’d never spoken their father’s words aloud, but a tiny, traitorous piece of him is glad to finally have the weight lifted off of his shoulders.
Sam walks out of the bathroom rubbing a towel through his hair, and Dean still wonders if this is the day his brother is going to leave for good.
"Got a possible succubus in Chicago," he manages to crack a grin as Sam shakes his hair out of his eyes, "Haven't seen one of them in a while. You remember when Pastor Jim-"
Sam shuffles his feet, purses his lips and cuts him off. "Uh - you find anything else?"
Dean's brow furrows, mouth falling open in an exasperated protest, but the uncomfortable tick of Sam's jaw and the hitch of his shoulders makes him turn back to the laptop, checking one of several other open tabs.
"There's a haunting in Buffalo." Easy. Boring. As far away from Peoria as possible.
Dean isn't surprised when Sam nods, face relaxing into relief.
--
Dean gladly lays the miles beneath the Impala's tires, the engine a steady, familiar, comforting rumble. Sam bitches about the music, obnoxiously sings off-key just to get Dean to change the tape. He closes his eyes - "Resting," he claims - and Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye, furrowed brow, fingers fidgeting even in sleep.
Sam doesn't talk about Ava; this is so far from normal Sam behavior, Dean wonders if he should circle back to the Blue Rose Motel and check under the beds for pods.
"Hey," Sam shoulders Dean lightly, voice groggy, "You okay?"
Dean almost laughs at the irony.
He keeps his eyes on the road, shaking his head as he answers, "Yeah, Sammy. I'm fine."
--
Dean rolls over, scrubbing his hand over his mouth. The darkness suggests something pulled him out of sleep, but the room is silent.
He glances at the clock on the table between the beds, numbers glowing green. 4:35AM.
He grumbles, "Too fuckin' early," then freezes when he sees Sam, who he can just make out sitting up against the wall next to his bed.
Dean levers himself up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sammy? You okay?"
Sam shakes his head but otherwise doesn't answer. Dean heaves himself out of bed and sits on the edge of Sam's. "Nightmare?"
One short shake of the head.
"Vision?"
"No."
Sam continues to stare out into the room, eyes not really focused on anything in particular. Dean sighs, "Sammy-"
"I told her to go home."
Sam shifts slightly, rolling his head against the wall towards Dean. "Ava," Sam clarifies, as if Dean needs the explanation. He swallows thickly, licks his lips. "She wanted to stay behind, with me. But I told her it was too dangerous. So I sent her home." He exhales, breath shuddering out. "I told her she would be safe there, Dean."
Dean should have known the past two days were all about Sam's massive guilt complex, his inability to let anything go. Dean swears Sam could give even the most dedicated martyr a run for their money.
He shakes his head, scooting back on the bed and leaning his back against the wall beside Sam. "This isn't your fault, Sammy. It was that yellow-eyed son of a bitch-"
"Who we knew was after us, Dean!" Sam pushes himself to his feet and begins pacing back and forth at the foot of the beds. "After psychics like me, and I still sent Ava home alone and unprotected. She could be dead for all we know, or worse, she could have turned-"
"Shut up, Sam," Dean says lowly, slightly unsteady on his feet as he stands.
"Why?" Sam laughs. "That's what's going to happen to all of us, isn't it? What's going to happen to me?"
"Jesus - fuck," Dean growls, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. Sam sounds so sure, so convinced, Dean barely resists the urge to punch the wall.
Sam drops back down heavily on to the bed, springs creaking beneath him. He stares down at his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Dean takes a deep breath, counts silently to ten, then crouches down in front of Sam with his hands on Sam’s knees, the same way he used to when Sam was six-years-old and needed a pep-talk after being bullied in school.
"Look at me, Sam."
Now, just like then, Sam drags sad eyes to Dean’s and just like then, Dean wishes he could make the expression magically disappear.
"Ava could still be alive, okay? I’m not going to lie and say the odds are stacked in her favor, but there is still a chance. Whatever happened to her wasn’t your fault." Sam opens his mouth to protest but Dean squeezes his knee and cuts him off. "No, Sam. You sent her home because you wanted her to be safe. You couldn’t have predicted the demon would be there." Dean arches an eyebrow. "Do you really think she would have been safer with you? With Gordon?"
"No," Sam whispers, dropping his eyes again.
"Exactly. And for Christ’s sake, Sam, you’re not evil. Stop thinkin’ about what Dad said."
Sam’s lips quirk into the barest hint of a smile. "There’s something I never thought I would hear you say."
Dean rolls his eyes, pushing off of Sam’s knees as he stands. Sam grunts, scowling at Dean from under his stupidly long bangs.
"Go to sleep, Sam. You’ll feel better in the morning."
Dean knows Sam’s feeling at least slightly better when he retorts, "It is morning," as he crawls back under the covers. Dean smirks, sliding back into his own bed.
"Dean?" Sam’s voice is a sudden, quiet mumble across the silent room.
"What?"
"Thanks," Sam whispers.
Dean could easily accept Sam’s sincerity, mutter a quick reply, but that isn’t their way. Instead, Dean tosses one of his pillows at him, nailing Sam in the cheek. "You’re welcome, Samantha."
Sam huffs a quiet laugh and pulls the pillow under his head.
--
"So I was thinking - maybe we should check out that succubus."
Dean slowly lowers his coffee from his lips. Sam is more himself this morning - brooding and sullen, still a bit too quiet, but willing to answer any questions Dean puts forth.
He isn’t surprised by this statement and tries not to let any telling emotion show on his face; Dean drums his fingers along the steering wheel to the beat of the music and asks, "What changed your mind?"
Sam attempts for a nonchalant shrug but doesn’t succeed. Dean reads him like an open book. "Hauntings are boring, you know?" Dean snorts. Sam raises his eyebrow, catching Dean’s eye in what could almost qualify as a dare. "I’m in the mood for a challenge."
Sam’s fingers move listlessly against his knee as Dean holds his gaze steady for a moment, silent except for the radio playing softly in the background.
Dean smiles, turns the music up louder, and steers them towards Chicago.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1,975
Summary: Sam doesn't talk about Ava; this is so far from normal Sam behavior, Dean wonders if he should circle back to the Blue Rose Motel and check under the beds for pods.
A/N: Written for summer_sam_love. Title from "Cautioners" by Jimmy Eat World.
Sam spins his glass slowly, staring down at the pockmarks in the wood, at the ring left along the surface of the bar when he finally takes a sip. He runs his fingers through the condensation, rubs the tips of those fingers together.
Dean takes in his brother's stiff posture, expression carefully blank as he taps his fingers silently against the bar.
He doesn't respond, though, instead tosses enough money on the bar to cover both of their drinks and a tip for the bartender, slaps Sam's shoulder, gestures his head towards the door, and says, "Come on, let's hit the road."
Sam doesn't say a word; he tips back the rest of his beer then Dean's in two easy gulps that make Dean frown. Sam drinking too much always leads to one of two things: a hysterical night of little brother antics as he trips over his own shoelaces giggling, or a night of emo confessions and posturing. Dean is banking on the latter tonight.
Sam is silent in the car, staring out the window in quiet contemplation, fingers clenching and unclenching along his knees in slow, subconscious movements. Peoria is a hundred miles in the rear-view, but beyond what little information they were able to gather from Brady’s funeral, Sam has remained shockingly tight-lipped regarding Ava.
Dean's eyes flicker back and forth between Sam - closed off, uncharacteristically unresponsive - and the dark, open road, and clears his throat. Dean could make him talk, drag the words out of him, but something about the bone-weary exhaustion that seems to seep into every crack of his little brother gives Dean pause.
"You all right over there, kiddo?"
Sam's sluggish voice comes slowly, as if he's answering after waking from a deep sleep. "'M fine," he says quietly, tipping his head back against the seat.
"Head hurtin' at all?"
"Just a little sore. I'll sleep it off."
"You're not dizzy or nauseous or-"
"Dean," Sam cranes his head around to narrow his eyes, impatient and annoyed; Dean bites back the triumphant smirk pushing against his lips, glad to finally hear something from his brother a grade above monotone. "I said I'm fine."
Dean shrugs, holding his hands up, half off of the wheel in a gesture of surrender. "Fine, don't get your panties in a twist."
Sam huffs loudly, exasperated, and turns his face back towards the passenger-side window. He doesn't say another word for the rest of the ride to the motel. Dean doesn't push, though he's sorely tempted.
Sam collapses onto his bed as soon as they arrive, barely taking the time to toe off his shoes and strip down to his boxers and a t-shirt before crawling under the covers. He burrows into his pillows, head turned towards the wall so Dean can't see his face.
"No, it's okay, I'll get the bags," Dean mutters, tossing his bag and the weapons duffel onto his bed from the doorway.
Sam grunts, already mostly asleep. Dean rolls his eyes but closes the door quietly, smiling slightly. Sam's chest rises and falls evenly; Sam is here - Sam is safe.
Things will be better in the morning.
--
Dean wakes to something smacking him in the side of the head.
He groans, slapping the offending object away so it falls to the floor. He doesn't open his eyes when he grumbles, "Sammy, you are a dead man walking."
Sam chuckles. Dean's eyes shoot open at the sound, just in time to witness Sam sitting down on the edge of his bed and sliding out of his jacket.
He grins as he picks up a steaming Styrofoam cup from the nightstand, gesturing to it's twin with a finger. "Got you one too. Hope you know you just tossed away your breakfast."
"Bitch," Dean mutters eloquently, nowhere near functional before his morning dose of caffeine. Sam laughs into his cup, shaking his head as Dean leans over the bed, grabbing the now crushed bag off of the floor.
The silence that passes between them is no longer heavy or tortured but peaceful, easy. And nowhere near normal.
When Sam disappears into the bathroom, Dean scours the Internet for a hunt - something to get them back on track, get them back to some semblance of normalcy.
Dean forgives Sam for leaving but can’t forget the anger, the mind-numbing terror that came with waking up to an empty bed and no idea where Sam had disappeared, if he was okay. A part of him couldn’t blame Sam, wished he’d never spoken their father’s words aloud, but a tiny, traitorous piece of him is glad to finally have the weight lifted off of his shoulders.
Sam walks out of the bathroom rubbing a towel through his hair, and Dean still wonders if this is the day his brother is going to leave for good.
"Got a possible succubus in Chicago," he manages to crack a grin as Sam shakes his hair out of his eyes, "Haven't seen one of them in a while. You remember when Pastor Jim-"
Sam shuffles his feet, purses his lips and cuts him off. "Uh - you find anything else?"
Dean's brow furrows, mouth falling open in an exasperated protest, but the uncomfortable tick of Sam's jaw and the hitch of his shoulders makes him turn back to the laptop, checking one of several other open tabs.
"There's a haunting in Buffalo." Easy. Boring. As far away from Peoria as possible.
Dean isn't surprised when Sam nods, face relaxing into relief.
--
Dean gladly lays the miles beneath the Impala's tires, the engine a steady, familiar, comforting rumble. Sam bitches about the music, obnoxiously sings off-key just to get Dean to change the tape. He closes his eyes - "Resting," he claims - and Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye, furrowed brow, fingers fidgeting even in sleep.
Sam doesn't talk about Ava; this is so far from normal Sam behavior, Dean wonders if he should circle back to the Blue Rose Motel and check under the beds for pods.
"Hey," Sam shoulders Dean lightly, voice groggy, "You okay?"
Dean almost laughs at the irony.
He keeps his eyes on the road, shaking his head as he answers, "Yeah, Sammy. I'm fine."
--
Dean rolls over, scrubbing his hand over his mouth. The darkness suggests something pulled him out of sleep, but the room is silent.
He glances at the clock on the table between the beds, numbers glowing green. 4:35AM.
He grumbles, "Too fuckin' early," then freezes when he sees Sam, who he can just make out sitting up against the wall next to his bed.
Dean levers himself up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sammy? You okay?"
Sam shakes his head but otherwise doesn't answer. Dean heaves himself out of bed and sits on the edge of Sam's. "Nightmare?"
One short shake of the head.
"Vision?"
"No."
Sam continues to stare out into the room, eyes not really focused on anything in particular. Dean sighs, "Sammy-"
"I told her to go home."
Sam shifts slightly, rolling his head against the wall towards Dean. "Ava," Sam clarifies, as if Dean needs the explanation. He swallows thickly, licks his lips. "She wanted to stay behind, with me. But I told her it was too dangerous. So I sent her home." He exhales, breath shuddering out. "I told her she would be safe there, Dean."
Dean should have known the past two days were all about Sam's massive guilt complex, his inability to let anything go. Dean swears Sam could give even the most dedicated martyr a run for their money.
He shakes his head, scooting back on the bed and leaning his back against the wall beside Sam. "This isn't your fault, Sammy. It was that yellow-eyed son of a bitch-"
"Who we knew was after us, Dean!" Sam pushes himself to his feet and begins pacing back and forth at the foot of the beds. "After psychics like me, and I still sent Ava home alone and unprotected. She could be dead for all we know, or worse, she could have turned-"
"Shut up, Sam," Dean says lowly, slightly unsteady on his feet as he stands.
"Why?" Sam laughs. "That's what's going to happen to all of us, isn't it? What's going to happen to me?"
"Jesus - fuck," Dean growls, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. Sam sounds so sure, so convinced, Dean barely resists the urge to punch the wall.
Sam drops back down heavily on to the bed, springs creaking beneath him. He stares down at his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Dean takes a deep breath, counts silently to ten, then crouches down in front of Sam with his hands on Sam’s knees, the same way he used to when Sam was six-years-old and needed a pep-talk after being bullied in school.
"Look at me, Sam."
Now, just like then, Sam drags sad eyes to Dean’s and just like then, Dean wishes he could make the expression magically disappear.
"Ava could still be alive, okay? I’m not going to lie and say the odds are stacked in her favor, but there is still a chance. Whatever happened to her wasn’t your fault." Sam opens his mouth to protest but Dean squeezes his knee and cuts him off. "No, Sam. You sent her home because you wanted her to be safe. You couldn’t have predicted the demon would be there." Dean arches an eyebrow. "Do you really think she would have been safer with you? With Gordon?"
"No," Sam whispers, dropping his eyes again.
"Exactly. And for Christ’s sake, Sam, you’re not evil. Stop thinkin’ about what Dad said."
Sam’s lips quirk into the barest hint of a smile. "There’s something I never thought I would hear you say."
Dean rolls his eyes, pushing off of Sam’s knees as he stands. Sam grunts, scowling at Dean from under his stupidly long bangs.
"Go to sleep, Sam. You’ll feel better in the morning."
Dean knows Sam’s feeling at least slightly better when he retorts, "It is morning," as he crawls back under the covers. Dean smirks, sliding back into his own bed.
"Dean?" Sam’s voice is a sudden, quiet mumble across the silent room.
"What?"
"Thanks," Sam whispers.
Dean could easily accept Sam’s sincerity, mutter a quick reply, but that isn’t their way. Instead, Dean tosses one of his pillows at him, nailing Sam in the cheek. "You’re welcome, Samantha."
Sam huffs a quiet laugh and pulls the pillow under his head.
--
"So I was thinking - maybe we should check out that succubus."
Dean slowly lowers his coffee from his lips. Sam is more himself this morning - brooding and sullen, still a bit too quiet, but willing to answer any questions Dean puts forth.
He isn’t surprised by this statement and tries not to let any telling emotion show on his face; Dean drums his fingers along the steering wheel to the beat of the music and asks, "What changed your mind?"
Sam attempts for a nonchalant shrug but doesn’t succeed. Dean reads him like an open book. "Hauntings are boring, you know?" Dean snorts. Sam raises his eyebrow, catching Dean’s eye in what could almost qualify as a dare. "I’m in the mood for a challenge."
Sam’s fingers move listlessly against his knee as Dean holds his gaze steady for a moment, silent except for the radio playing softly in the background.
Dean smiles, turns the music up louder, and steers them towards Chicago.