it's been six months since i've written gen.
despite your weight over my shoulder
560 words
PG. Gen.
(Set right after 6.06)
For hateable. This is very, very, very late but I hope it'll do. I love you!
Thanks to britomart_is for the beta and consultation.
When Sam was little - before the surliness and the temper and the dad's a friggin' jerk, when Sam would hurl his soft, squishy body at John instead of his sharp-tongued retorts - all he wanted to do was take a ride in the car. John would take them away, long roads and hours for stupid road trip games and mindless chatter between the boys.
They’d make it through half a day, sometimes, before little Sammy surrendered to lethargy and slumber. He’d be small enough to fit in the front seat with his father and brother, squished in between with his head in Dean’s lap and his socked feet against John’s thigh.
Dean would look at his little brother and know that it was the only place Sam should be, safe here with his big brother watching over him, engine rumbling like a friendly beast underneath them. John would ruffle Dean’s hair and just like that, father and brother in his thoughts, Dean would nod right off.
.
Dean’s been thinking about this since the summer Sam shot up and suddenly became the tallest of the three of them. In an emergency, how the fuck could he haul Sam’s giant ass from wherever they were into the safety of the Impala? Yet, when it comes to doing it - after a bad hunt, after a long night drinking - Dean does it, doesn’t think about anything but getting Sam to safety, getting Sam home.
Sam’s a dead weight against his shoulder now, blood drip-drip-dripping onto his boots as Dean drags him out of Veritas’ lair. Sam’s eyes flutter but don’t open and Dean knows despite the ever present knowledge in his head that he should fix Sammy when they get to the motel, just like countless times before, he’s not going to. Not this time.
Quietly he wonders if Sam would even let Dean touch him anymore.
.
Dean didn’t learn how to patch up a wound from John, or from a first-aid class or from school. Pastor Jim taught him, when he was barely nine, when the sight of trickling blood and oozing scrapes still made him squeamish. Sam had scraped his knees against the gravel in Jim’s driveway trying to run after his big brother.
Sam barely flinched as Dean worked silently, one front tooth - the other missing - against his bottom lip. Does it hurt?
No, Dean. I’m brave!
Dean put on the band-aid delicately, eyes cast downward, but he knew Sam was flashing him that silly, big ol’ dimpled grin. I’m sorry, Sammy.
It’s a vow, Dean realizes later. A promise that never again will Sam bleed for what Dean’s done.
.
Sam’s awake, breath wet and noisy against Dean’s ear in the dark. There are a dozen or so steps before they’ll reach the car, plenty of room to start talking.
Dean doesn’t say I’m sorry and Sam doesn’t say it’s okay, Dean! You didn’t mean it.
Because neither of them will be the truth.
.
Dean watches Sam in the rearview mirror, stretched out sleeping. His brother no longer fit in the front seat, no longer in Dean’s lap, no longer safe under Dean’s protection, no longer the brother who would squeal in delight when Dean would carry him on his back. No longer that brother. No longer.
Dean steps on the accelerator and tries not to think about it.
560 words
PG. Gen.
(Set right after 6.06)
For hateable. This is very, very, very late but I hope it'll do. I love you!
Thanks to britomart_is for the beta and consultation.
When Sam was little - before the surliness and the temper and the dad's a friggin' jerk, when Sam would hurl his soft, squishy body at John instead of his sharp-tongued retorts - all he wanted to do was take a ride in the car. John would take them away, long roads and hours for stupid road trip games and mindless chatter between the boys.
They’d make it through half a day, sometimes, before little Sammy surrendered to lethargy and slumber. He’d be small enough to fit in the front seat with his father and brother, squished in between with his head in Dean’s lap and his socked feet against John’s thigh.
Dean would look at his little brother and know that it was the only place Sam should be, safe here with his big brother watching over him, engine rumbling like a friendly beast underneath them. John would ruffle Dean’s hair and just like that, father and brother in his thoughts, Dean would nod right off.
.
Dean’s been thinking about this since the summer Sam shot up and suddenly became the tallest of the three of them. In an emergency, how the fuck could he haul Sam’s giant ass from wherever they were into the safety of the Impala? Yet, when it comes to doing it - after a bad hunt, after a long night drinking - Dean does it, doesn’t think about anything but getting Sam to safety, getting Sam home.
Sam’s a dead weight against his shoulder now, blood drip-drip-dripping onto his boots as Dean drags him out of Veritas’ lair. Sam’s eyes flutter but don’t open and Dean knows despite the ever present knowledge in his head that he should fix Sammy when they get to the motel, just like countless times before, he’s not going to. Not this time.
Quietly he wonders if Sam would even let Dean touch him anymore.
.
Dean didn’t learn how to patch up a wound from John, or from a first-aid class or from school. Pastor Jim taught him, when he was barely nine, when the sight of trickling blood and oozing scrapes still made him squeamish. Sam had scraped his knees against the gravel in Jim’s driveway trying to run after his big brother.
Sam barely flinched as Dean worked silently, one front tooth - the other missing - against his bottom lip. Does it hurt?
No, Dean. I’m brave!
Dean put on the band-aid delicately, eyes cast downward, but he knew Sam was flashing him that silly, big ol’ dimpled grin. I’m sorry, Sammy.
It’s a vow, Dean realizes later. A promise that never again will Sam bleed for what Dean’s done.
.
Sam’s awake, breath wet and noisy against Dean’s ear in the dark. There are a dozen or so steps before they’ll reach the car, plenty of room to start talking.
Dean doesn’t say I’m sorry and Sam doesn’t say it’s okay, Dean! You didn’t mean it.
Because neither of them will be the truth.
.
Dean watches Sam in the rearview mirror, stretched out sleeping. His brother no longer fit in the front seat, no longer in Dean’s lap, no longer safe under Dean’s protection, no longer the brother who would squeal in delight when Dean would carry him on his back. No longer that brother. No longer.
Dean steps on the accelerator and tries not to think about it.