Supernatural fic: Is it me, for a moment? 1/1 [PG-13] Sam, Dean - 6.13 coda
Title: Is it me, for a moment?
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.13
Sam wakes up and can't remember what happened.
This takes place in the space between what we know and what we don't. It is not intended to be accurate, just to be one possible take. Also likely to be Kripked or Gambled at the first available opportunity.
The title is a line from a song on the Quadrophenia album, The Real Me, by the Who, lyrics by Pete Townshend.
02/16/11 09:24:23 AM
Is it me, for a moment?
Sam woke up in the back seat of the Impala.
The sound of highway under wide wheels and thick rubber was comforting, and that was probably wrong but Sam really didn't care about that just then, maybe wouldn't ever care about it again. He lay on his side, head pillowed on a wadded up jacket, and listened, trying to remember when he had climbed into the back seat and why.
Also, why he was wrapped in a hotel blanket kind of... tightly, like an oversized mummy.
"...Dean?"
The car jerked and almost swerved. Sam hadn't been sure Dean would even hear the confused inquiry at first, it came out as a hoarse croak. His throat was dry and raw. Maybe he'd gotten sick, had some kind of fever, and that was why he couldn't immediately remember much?
"Sammy? Sam!" Dean's voice over his shoulder was rough too, urgent and worried. That might be a mark in favor of the fever thing. The car pulled off the road and stopped so Dean could twist to look over the seat back.
Sam swallowed and tried to wave, managed to move his hand under the muffling blanket. "Hey..." The sudden jerk and stop had made his stomach heave and he focused on trying to keep down bile. It burned his already scratchy throat. "Uh... water?"
The driver's side door was opened and the door above Sam's head swung back with a familiar metal creak. Then Dean was there, reaching to feel of Sam's forehead and cup the side of his face.
The requested water had to wait a few minutes while Dean tried to satisfy himself that Sam was back in the land of the arguably coherent.
It wasn't so much that Sam minded the gentle manhandling, but he really wanted water. He worked his arms under the blanket and managed to loosen it a bit, by which time Dean stopped pawing Sam and helped.
"Sammy, you alright?"
"...thirsty..." the quirk of mouth was wry but by this point Sam was starting to feel alarmed, based both on his own blank recent memory and Dean's obvious concern and worry. When he could do so, he sat up, groaning involuntarily. It wasn't worth arguing that he didn't need Dean to help him do that, steady and support him. Dean wouldn't have paid any attention and Sam found he kind of did need the assist.
Once Sam was sitting, leaning against the seat's backrest, his brother backed out and rummaged for a bottle of water, which according to the label came from "crystal artesian spring wells". At that point Sam would have drank just about anything to wash down the residual burning of swallowed bile.
The back seat of the Impala was a football field compared to modern cars, even to an SUV, but Sam twisted around to swing his legs out the open door, Dean leaning on the car's flank to watch and study. The relief in his eyes and blurring his features was huge enough to try and start Sam's slightly fogged thought processes.
After more than half the water bottle was emptied, Sam paused to wipe his mouth and look at his brother.
"You okay, Dean?"
For a minute Sam almost thought he'd have to try and dodge a blow, but Dean just turned away for a moment to collect himself before turning back.
"Am I? ...I'm fine, Sam. Fine. Ten fingers, ten toes." Relief had melted back into a scowl. The next question wasn't unexpected but the careful, almost gingerly way Dean asked it was. "You... how do you... feel?"
Sam took another drink before answering. "Not that bad. My throat feels like I've been yelling at a football game or something." Such a normal analogy, plucked from a normal life neither of them had ever lived. Dean would have said Ozzie concert.
Truthfully, Sam felt kind of awful. His stomach was torn up, his joints hurt, his muscles all felt bruised and pulled, like he'd been thrown around in a fight with something big and nasty. But he'd learned to write those kind of hurts off almost without thinking about it. "What happened? Was I sick? Or got cursed by something..."
Dean's face closed up like Fort Knox during a terrorist alert.
"Yeah, something like that."
In spite of a very real, very strong reluctance to argue about anything, Sam steeled himself with the rest of the water and then tried to meet it head on.
"You're lying." It wasn't an accusation. Just a statement, and a kind of appeal. "Dean, what happened?"
The flat refusal was clear in Dean's eyes but he kept it off his lips, at least for another moment or two. "I don't think it's a good idea to talk about that just now."
It kind of left an uneasy sensation sliding down Sam's back. "I really, really don't like the sound of that."
Dean made a soft, frustrated, wordless sound, half grunt and half growl.
"Dammit, Sam." Dean figured they were screwed either way. Either he told, and Sam immediately had another fit, or he didn't, and Sam started trying to remember on his own, and had another fit.
"You don't remember collapsing." Dean made it a statement, in an attempt to cheat the outcome. His tone was a warning.
Sam shook his head, mystified and not liking it. "So I collapsed."
Dean's finger came up sharply, another warning. "Don't, Sam, just... don't."
"Don't what?"
"Just don't!" Leaning back, Dean wiped a hand over his face, looked around at the verge of the road and the trees a few yards away, not seeing any of it.
His eyes came back to Sam who sat, long legs played out of the backseat door, waiting with uncharacteristic quiet.
The obedience seemed to give Dean a space to gather himself.
After a moment he said, again with a kind of care like there were indescribably delicate eggshells to be walked upon, "Do you remember... the wall?"
Dean almost winced the moment the words left his lips.
Sam blinked in momentary incomprehension and then a dawning of understanding. "The... wall. Death..."
Dean interrupted as if he could round up Sam's thoughts like a herding dog and wrangle them where he wanted them to go - and not go.
"The wall that Death put up. And said not to scratch. Yeah. So just... leave it, okay? For now, just leave it."
Sam sat up straighter. "I scratched... and then what? Had some kind of fit or something?"
The expression on Dean's face went from warning to a deep scowl. "Yes. So stop. Stop thinking about it, stop wondering about it...." But the impossibility of that was as apparent to Dean as it was to Sam. Nevertheless...
"How do I..." Sam stopped at the look. He felt more sadness than fear as he watched his brother. If one thing was apparent, it was that he had become a liability somehow. This wasn't what he'd wanted, for Dean. It wasn't fair.
Sam dropped his gaze and contemplated his hands, resting in his lap, one holding an empty water bottle.
He twisted the cap off and on once.
Then he looked up, and nodded.
Something about that look, that nod, broke Dean Winchester's heart.
"Look, it's not your fault," Dean said quickly. "Seriously, it's not. None of it is. And I know... you can't help it. But just... take it carefully, will ya? Take it slow."
Sam nodded again. He dropped the empty bottle on the backseat floorboards and found a brief, kind of apologetic smile somewhere. Vaguely, he remembered arguing that he had to set things right, but ending up some kind of catatonic headcase... it didn't matter so much, except for what it would mean to Dean. He didn't want to do that to the one person who had always been there, always helped, always shared the clean up of the messes.
Standing, on legs that hurt, he slowly stretched, the smile turning into a momentary grimace. "So... where we heading?"
Dean watched the whole performance, a little tight twist in his chest for the effort Sam was making. However long he had... however long they had... Dean was renewably determined to get the most out of it.
He had been heading for Bobby's, with no idea what else to do. Getting out of Bristol had been an urgent requirement.
"Nowhere in particular."
Sam quirked a quizzical look and tilted his head. "Oookay."
"Anywhere you want to go?" The Grand Canyon? Atlantic City? Epcot Center?
Sam shook his head, not in negation so much as in comment. "Get a shower? I feel... sticky and gritty at the same time."
"Motel it is," Dean said, as Sam closed the back door and walked around to the front passenger side. "Hey, you hungry?"
"Starving."
"Motel and food. Maybe we can find one that has some decent Pay-per-View."
"Dean, no Casa Erotica...."
"Get your mind out of the gutter, Sammy, I meant movies..."
"Yeah, sure you did."
"I did! I'm in the mood for Gone in Sixty Seconds, or the Fast and the Furious Trilogy..."
"Dean, that's not a trilogy, it's a franchise, and a lot of it sucks..."
"Bite your tongue! Fast cars, great music... well, okay the music isn't that great, but..."
"Whatever, Dean. Whatever."
10:44:03 AM
♠ season 6 codas
~
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.13
Sam wakes up and can't remember what happened.
This takes place in the space between what we know and what we don't. It is not intended to be accurate, just to be one possible take. Also likely to be Kripked or Gambled at the first available opportunity.
The title is a line from a song on the Quadrophenia album, The Real Me, by the Who, lyrics by Pete Townshend.
02/16/11 09:24:23 AM
Is it me, for a moment?
Sam woke up in the back seat of the Impala.
The sound of highway under wide wheels and thick rubber was comforting, and that was probably wrong but Sam really didn't care about that just then, maybe wouldn't ever care about it again. He lay on his side, head pillowed on a wadded up jacket, and listened, trying to remember when he had climbed into the back seat and why.
Also, why he was wrapped in a hotel blanket kind of... tightly, like an oversized mummy.
"...Dean?"
The car jerked and almost swerved. Sam hadn't been sure Dean would even hear the confused inquiry at first, it came out as a hoarse croak. His throat was dry and raw. Maybe he'd gotten sick, had some kind of fever, and that was why he couldn't immediately remember much?
"Sammy? Sam!" Dean's voice over his shoulder was rough too, urgent and worried. That might be a mark in favor of the fever thing. The car pulled off the road and stopped so Dean could twist to look over the seat back.
Sam swallowed and tried to wave, managed to move his hand under the muffling blanket. "Hey..." The sudden jerk and stop had made his stomach heave and he focused on trying to keep down bile. It burned his already scratchy throat. "Uh... water?"
The driver's side door was opened and the door above Sam's head swung back with a familiar metal creak. Then Dean was there, reaching to feel of Sam's forehead and cup the side of his face.
The requested water had to wait a few minutes while Dean tried to satisfy himself that Sam was back in the land of the arguably coherent.
It wasn't so much that Sam minded the gentle manhandling, but he really wanted water. He worked his arms under the blanket and managed to loosen it a bit, by which time Dean stopped pawing Sam and helped.
"Sammy, you alright?"
"...thirsty..." the quirk of mouth was wry but by this point Sam was starting to feel alarmed, based both on his own blank recent memory and Dean's obvious concern and worry. When he could do so, he sat up, groaning involuntarily. It wasn't worth arguing that he didn't need Dean to help him do that, steady and support him. Dean wouldn't have paid any attention and Sam found he kind of did need the assist.
Once Sam was sitting, leaning against the seat's backrest, his brother backed out and rummaged for a bottle of water, which according to the label came from "crystal artesian spring wells". At that point Sam would have drank just about anything to wash down the residual burning of swallowed bile.
The back seat of the Impala was a football field compared to modern cars, even to an SUV, but Sam twisted around to swing his legs out the open door, Dean leaning on the car's flank to watch and study. The relief in his eyes and blurring his features was huge enough to try and start Sam's slightly fogged thought processes.
After more than half the water bottle was emptied, Sam paused to wipe his mouth and look at his brother.
"You okay, Dean?"
For a minute Sam almost thought he'd have to try and dodge a blow, but Dean just turned away for a moment to collect himself before turning back.
"Am I? ...I'm fine, Sam. Fine. Ten fingers, ten toes." Relief had melted back into a scowl. The next question wasn't unexpected but the careful, almost gingerly way Dean asked it was. "You... how do you... feel?"
Sam took another drink before answering. "Not that bad. My throat feels like I've been yelling at a football game or something." Such a normal analogy, plucked from a normal life neither of them had ever lived. Dean would have said Ozzie concert.
Truthfully, Sam felt kind of awful. His stomach was torn up, his joints hurt, his muscles all felt bruised and pulled, like he'd been thrown around in a fight with something big and nasty. But he'd learned to write those kind of hurts off almost without thinking about it. "What happened? Was I sick? Or got cursed by something..."
Dean's face closed up like Fort Knox during a terrorist alert.
"Yeah, something like that."
In spite of a very real, very strong reluctance to argue about anything, Sam steeled himself with the rest of the water and then tried to meet it head on.
"You're lying." It wasn't an accusation. Just a statement, and a kind of appeal. "Dean, what happened?"
The flat refusal was clear in Dean's eyes but he kept it off his lips, at least for another moment or two. "I don't think it's a good idea to talk about that just now."
It kind of left an uneasy sensation sliding down Sam's back. "I really, really don't like the sound of that."
Dean made a soft, frustrated, wordless sound, half grunt and half growl.
"Dammit, Sam." Dean figured they were screwed either way. Either he told, and Sam immediately had another fit, or he didn't, and Sam started trying to remember on his own, and had another fit.
"You don't remember collapsing." Dean made it a statement, in an attempt to cheat the outcome. His tone was a warning.
Sam shook his head, mystified and not liking it. "So I collapsed."
Dean's finger came up sharply, another warning. "Don't, Sam, just... don't."
"Don't what?"
"Just don't!" Leaning back, Dean wiped a hand over his face, looked around at the verge of the road and the trees a few yards away, not seeing any of it.
His eyes came back to Sam who sat, long legs played out of the backseat door, waiting with uncharacteristic quiet.
The obedience seemed to give Dean a space to gather himself.
After a moment he said, again with a kind of care like there were indescribably delicate eggshells to be walked upon, "Do you remember... the wall?"
Dean almost winced the moment the words left his lips.
Sam blinked in momentary incomprehension and then a dawning of understanding. "The... wall. Death..."
Dean interrupted as if he could round up Sam's thoughts like a herding dog and wrangle them where he wanted them to go - and not go.
"The wall that Death put up. And said not to scratch. Yeah. So just... leave it, okay? For now, just leave it."
Sam sat up straighter. "I scratched... and then what? Had some kind of fit or something?"
The expression on Dean's face went from warning to a deep scowl. "Yes. So stop. Stop thinking about it, stop wondering about it...." But the impossibility of that was as apparent to Dean as it was to Sam. Nevertheless...
"How do I..." Sam stopped at the look. He felt more sadness than fear as he watched his brother. If one thing was apparent, it was that he had become a liability somehow. This wasn't what he'd wanted, for Dean. It wasn't fair.
Sam dropped his gaze and contemplated his hands, resting in his lap, one holding an empty water bottle.
He twisted the cap off and on once.
Then he looked up, and nodded.
Something about that look, that nod, broke Dean Winchester's heart.
"Look, it's not your fault," Dean said quickly. "Seriously, it's not. None of it is. And I know... you can't help it. But just... take it carefully, will ya? Take it slow."
Sam nodded again. He dropped the empty bottle on the backseat floorboards and found a brief, kind of apologetic smile somewhere. Vaguely, he remembered arguing that he had to set things right, but ending up some kind of catatonic headcase... it didn't matter so much, except for what it would mean to Dean. He didn't want to do that to the one person who had always been there, always helped, always shared the clean up of the messes.
Standing, on legs that hurt, he slowly stretched, the smile turning into a momentary grimace. "So... where we heading?"
Dean watched the whole performance, a little tight twist in his chest for the effort Sam was making. However long he had... however long they had... Dean was renewably determined to get the most out of it.
He had been heading for Bobby's, with no idea what else to do. Getting out of Bristol had been an urgent requirement.
"Nowhere in particular."
Sam quirked a quizzical look and tilted his head. "Oookay."
"Anywhere you want to go?" The Grand Canyon? Atlantic City? Epcot Center?
Sam shook his head, not in negation so much as in comment. "Get a shower? I feel... sticky and gritty at the same time."
"Motel it is," Dean said, as Sam closed the back door and walked around to the front passenger side. "Hey, you hungry?"
"Starving."
"Motel and food. Maybe we can find one that has some decent Pay-per-View."
"Dean, no Casa Erotica...."
"Get your mind out of the gutter, Sammy, I meant movies..."
"Yeah, sure you did."
"I did! I'm in the mood for Gone in Sixty Seconds, or the Fast and the Furious Trilogy..."
"Dean, that's not a trilogy, it's a franchise, and a lot of it sucks..."
"Bite your tongue! Fast cars, great music... well, okay the music isn't that great, but..."
"Whatever, Dean. Whatever."
10:44:03 AM
♠ season 6 codas
~