Tired. So tired of all of this - but they're not done here. They're not done anywhere, they can't be, and Dean won't leave Sam to hold it all by himself. He frowns, because Sam in pain has always caused Dean pain, and he doesn't know how to fix it, dammit, doesn't know how to fix himself, doesn't know...
Stop sniveling, Dean, he orders himself, but the voice doesn't sound like his own. It doesn't have the immediate effect it once might have, that it still does when the chips are down and blood is being spilled, but it's enough. The elder Winchester raises one hand then pauses like he doesn't know what to do with it; he doesn't. They don't have a history of being tactile, they only hug when one of them's been dead or injured. Still.
Still.
He settles for clapping Sam on the shoulder, squeezing a little more than necessary, in an attempt to get his attention back up. To reassure him that they are, in fact, both still here.
"Hey. We're okay. We're gonna be okay." He sounds like he believes it. "You're still you, and I'm still me, and that means we're gonna be okay."
Does it? Sam wants to ask, and how sure are we about that first one, anyway, didn't you say- he breathes out, though, a short, half unhappy sound, even as his shoulders ease down slightly for the squeeze.
"Yeah," he says, kind of failing at sounding convinced, but doing his best anyway, because he does know that this isn't...what either of them needs, that there's a reason he hasn't brought this up, they both have enough to deal with, Dean has enough to deal with and Sam doesn't want to make it worse, not more than he already has. "Yeah, okay. I know."
Dean leaves his hand where it is - he felt Sam relax and somehow, inexplicably, Dean feels somehow steadier with the physical connection, so he's not going to take it away immediately, not until Sam looks like he wants him to or says something. The lack of conviction in Sam's voice makes his brother frown, Dean's eyebrows pulling together and his head dipping slightly like maybe he can catch hold of Sam's eyes with his own.
"Hey," he says, a demand and a plea for attention, trying to pull the younger Winchester out of his internal tailspin; what he wouldn't give for a problem he can wrap his hands around, shoot in the head, put down definitively with quick reflexes and good aim. But that's not the battlefield he has here, so he's going to have to make do, and he's gonna give it his best shot.
"You know what the worst thing was about that future Zachariah showed me? Besides the white loafers, anyway," Dean begins, struggling to find his stride between severe and humor. He used to be good at it - he thinks he's going to have to be again, and he knows he needs to start right here, right now. Sam needs him. He doesn't wait for a reply, but plunges on. "We both actually believed me when I said I thought we were stronger apart. Ain't that some shit? Like it's even possible to play the World Series with your two MVPs on opposite teams, let alone win it."
Sam isn't exactly avoiding eye contact but he isn't really seeking it out, either. He does give Dean a sidelong look when he starts talking, though. Cautiously. Almost warily, really, and there's a slight twitch of his shoulders, almost dubious but not quite.
His mouth kind of twitches up at the corner, briefly, though not really in a smiling way. In a reaction kind of way. "Seems to me like there were a lot of shitty things about that future," he says.
He takes a deep breath, then, and makes an effort to pull himself together. Stop it, Sam. You don't...stop it. "--baseball metaphors? Really?"
Dean once lived and breathed for eye contact; okay, not really, but it is notably one of his strongest and most successful tactics. The boy has eyes on him earnest enough to dupe the devil, if he can bring them to bear. Something to do with conviction, which he normally has in spades.
Dean sees the not-quite smiles, the tentative willingness. He wants desperately to be someone, anyone other than the person he is, the person who has to say it's going to be alright - but it's who he is. He can't drop the ball now, and he won't, not while he still has strength to hold it.
He grins, quick and loose, and claps Sam's shoulder where his hand is before dropping it away again. "Sure - what else would I go for? Golf?"
The typist is sorry for Sam's emo-fit, really she is.
"Maybe not that far," Sam says, making his own voice, or trying to, light enough to pass. "But next thing you know you're going to get all 'if you build it' on me. And if you start quoting that movie, I swear-"
It's pretty much Sam's baseline - Dean will, once he's over himself, be reassured by it if anything. At least Sam still cares. He'll let his brother in on what this was all about someday, and if he doesn't, well...
They've gotten through worse than a teary New Years.
"Dude, I am way cooler than Costner," Dean replies, wrinkling his nose in distaste before he pauses to consider his brother critically. A moment later he announces, "And you are way cooler than Ray Liotta. Although I could go a different way, if it'd make you more comfortable. There's no crying in baseball!"
He would like not to be a Burden though! You have so much to worry about already, Dean, and so on. (And yeah. Maybe he will. Another day. Not tonight.)
They can totally do this. (It helps. It really does. If he doesn't think too hard, it could be...)
"Thanks," Sam says, with judicious sarcasm, "I'm real flattered right now."
But but but, and so on. We will move on pass it. And Sam's shoulders ease down a little - just a little, but it's something. More than something. At this point, it's kind of a lot. "Yeah, sure," he says, "Can't have them catching on."
Okay. That's...okay. (He'll feel so stupid about this tomorrow. But probably...a little better.)
Stop sniveling, Dean, he orders himself, but the voice doesn't sound like his own. It doesn't have the immediate effect it once might have, that it still does when the chips are down and blood is being spilled, but it's enough. The elder Winchester raises one hand then pauses like he doesn't know what to do with it; he doesn't. They don't have a history of being tactile, they only hug when one of them's been dead or injured. Still.
Still.
He settles for clapping Sam on the shoulder, squeezing a little more than necessary, in an attempt to get his attention back up. To reassure him that they are, in fact, both still here.
"Hey. We're okay. We're gonna be okay." He sounds like he believes it. "You're still you, and I'm still me, and that means we're gonna be okay."
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"Yeah," he says, kind of failing at sounding convinced, but doing his best anyway, because he does know that this isn't...what either of them needs, that there's a reason he hasn't brought this up, they both have enough to deal with, Dean has enough to deal with and Sam doesn't want to make it worse, not more than he already has. "Yeah, okay. I know."
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"Hey," he says, a demand and a plea for attention, trying to pull the younger Winchester out of his internal tailspin; what he wouldn't give for a problem he can wrap his hands around, shoot in the head, put down definitively with quick reflexes and good aim. But that's not the battlefield he has here, so he's going to have to make do, and he's gonna give it his best shot.
"You know what the worst thing was about that future Zachariah showed me? Besides the white loafers, anyway," Dean begins, struggling to find his stride between severe and humor. He used to be good at it - he thinks he's going to have to be again, and he knows he needs to start right here, right now. Sam needs him. He doesn't wait for a reply, but plunges on. "We both actually believed me when I said I thought we were stronger apart. Ain't that some shit? Like it's even possible to play the World Series with your two MVPs on opposite teams, let alone win it."
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His mouth kind of twitches up at the corner, briefly, though not really in a smiling way. In a reaction kind of way. "Seems to me like there were a lot of shitty things about that future," he says.
He takes a deep breath, then, and makes an effort to pull himself together. Stop it, Sam. You don't...stop it. "--baseball metaphors? Really?"
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Dean sees the not-quite smiles, the tentative willingness. He wants desperately to be someone, anyone other than the person he is, the person who has to say it's going to be alright - but it's who he is. He can't drop the ball now, and he won't, not while he still has strength to hold it.
He grins, quick and loose, and claps Sam's shoulder where his hand is before dropping it away again. "Sure - what else would I go for? Golf?"
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"Maybe not that far," Sam says, making his own voice, or trying to, light enough to pass. "But next thing you know you're going to get all 'if you build it' on me. And if you start quoting that movie, I swear-"
They can do this. They can still do this.
He has to believe that.
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They've gotten through worse than a teary New Years.
"Dude, I am way cooler than Costner," Dean replies, wrinkling his nose in distaste before he pauses to consider his brother critically. A moment later he announces, "And you are way cooler than Ray Liotta. Although I could go a different way, if it'd make you more comfortable. There's no crying in baseball!"
They can do this.
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They can totally do this. (It helps. It really does. If he doesn't think too hard, it could be...)
"Thanks," Sam says, with judicious sarcasm, "I'm real flattered right now."
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Dean smirks at the sarcasm, and manages to actually get the smugness level right this time, for the most part.
"You should be," he replies, then notches his chin at Sam's empty glass. "How about a refill before they're onto us and ban us from the wetbar?"
Translation: Subject closed - enough chickflick.
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Okay. That's...okay. (He'll feel so stupid about this tomorrow. But probably...a little better.)
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