Untitled coda for 10.03, “Soul Survivor”
What, now? Yes, now. A single sentence fic inspired by this Tumblr post…
Dean fixes the wall, of course he does, not the very first night but as soon as he has a chance to go out and get supplies, he fills the hole and repaints and when the new paint doesn’t exactly match the existing color he repaints the whole wall just to make sure there’s no patch of darker grey, no telltale spot, working late at night after Sam’s finally able to get to sleep, or at least to fake it pretty well, and it’s not that Sam doesn’t appreciate his attempt to make it go away, it’s not that he didn’t want to wake up and have it gone, but there’s only so much Dean can do, and even if the texture wasn’t different - because plaster is so hard to patch, it will never match completely - even if the texture wasn’t different, Sam would still remember, would still stand at that corner and feel his heart pounding rabbit-fast again, feel the hammer brush the ends of his hair as it slices through the air just above his head, would still find himself standing at that dim corner of a dim hallway, unable to go forward but also unable to turn and look behind him, and it’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the way Dean starts whistling or humming as he walks through the halls after that one time when he comes around a different corner and startles Sam so hard that he has to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, it’s not that Sam doesn’t appreciate the effort, because he truly does, but the thing is, the thing is that in the long run, it’s easier to just avoid that corner at all, even when it’s the shortest distance between two points, and if Dean notices what Sam’s doing, notices how often Sam takes the long way, he never mentions it, and maybe that’s enough, maybe that’s all Sam needs, maybe someday Sam will be able to round that corner and not notice the slightly rougher bit of plaster, maybe, someday, if he tries hard enough, not have it remind him how his brother took on the mark of fratricide and tried to murder him.
Dean fixes the wall, of course he does, not the very first night but as soon as he has a chance to go out and get supplies, he fills the hole and repaints and when the new paint doesn’t exactly match the existing color he repaints the whole wall just to make sure there’s no patch of darker grey, no telltale spot, working late at night after Sam’s finally able to get to sleep, or at least to fake it pretty well, and it’s not that Sam doesn’t appreciate his attempt to make it go away, it’s not that he didn’t want to wake up and have it gone, but there’s only so much Dean can do, and even if the texture wasn’t different - because plaster is so hard to patch, it will never match completely - even if the texture wasn’t different, Sam would still remember, would still stand at that corner and feel his heart pounding rabbit-fast again, feel the hammer brush the ends of his hair as it slices through the air just above his head, would still find himself standing at that dim corner of a dim hallway, unable to go forward but also unable to turn and look behind him, and it’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the way Dean starts whistling or humming as he walks through the halls after that one time when he comes around a different corner and startles Sam so hard that he has to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, it’s not that Sam doesn’t appreciate the effort, because he truly does, but the thing is, the thing is that in the long run, it’s easier to just avoid that corner at all, even when it’s the shortest distance between two points, and if Dean notices what Sam’s doing, notices how often Sam takes the long way, he never mentions it, and maybe that’s enough, maybe that’s all Sam needs, maybe someday Sam will be able to round that corner and not notice the slightly rougher bit of plaster, maybe, someday, if he tries hard enough, not have it remind him how his brother took on the mark of fratricide and tried to murder him.