[FIC] Father's Gun (51/?)
Title: Father's Gun
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Dean's down the church drive and storming along the shoulder of the dusty highway before the stinging in his knuckles registers.
He stomps through at least another mile of dust and gravel before he realizes he has no idea where he's going. He doesn't know if he's walking it off or running away or just getting out until the noise in his head dies down. It takes another mile for him to answer that, a second for him to turn around, and the entire walk back to stomach the thought of what comes next. The next logical step.
Researching Mom.
Prying apart her life just like they've picked apart the lives of a hundred civilians, dragging everything out into the painful, unforgiving light of day and cutting it to the bone, slicing and dicing until they find the lie, until they see smoke and smell sulfur and destroy forever all that Dean has left of a life before fear and fire. Salting and burning soft smiles and the smell of pie baking, dousing a voice humming 'Yesterday' in lighter fluid and watching warm arms and soft curls go up in smoke. Putting a bullet to his past to save Sammy's future.
Talk about deals with the devil.
The church is deserted when Dean gets back. The only light inside comes from the dim, distorted glow of the floodlights outside the chapel, sneaking into the sanctuary in slices and shades of sleeping stained glass as Dean paces down the long, lonely aisle to the steps of the panic room.
His hand is on the knob before it occurs to him that Sam might have locked him out.
Might not be in there at all.
It's a free country. He had the keys to the Impala and a long while to decide Dean wasn't worth the trouble of waiting out. He might be in the next state for all Dean knows, after Dad or Mom or the devil himself.
Dean turns the knob, shoulders open the door before he can decide which of those would be worse. The pit of his stomach drops as he sees the dark room, pitch black save for the narrow slice of dim, hazy light filtering over Dean's shoulder. There’s no Sammy waiting to bitch him out for leaving, to deck him one for sucker punching him in the middle of a fight. No brother waiting to argue his case or call Dean an emotionally constipated moron.
No one.
Nothing.
And then there's a soft, sleepy shifting from the floor, and Dean's heart starts beating again. His heart beats and his breathing resumes, and he looks down through the dark and sees Sam tangled in blankets and hogging the better pillow but safe and alive and here on the air mattress in the corner.
And that's... that's enough for Dean, at least for tonight.
He's tired. Tired and sore, and his knuckles are stinging. Sam's got his back to him, tight and tense in sleep like he almost never is, and Dean sharply, suddenly wants to be unconscious, dead to the world and wrapped up in warm and safe and brother like no one's business, and if Sam wakes up in the middle of the night? Breaks Dean's nose in the name of payback while he's drooling on his pillow?
Well, it's not like the kid hasn't more than earned a free shot.
Maybe more than one.
On the strength of that, Dean shucks off his jacket and boots, dropping onto the least Sam-occupied slice of the air mattress. It's awkward as hell, and more of him is on cold concrete than barely-room-temperature polystyrene, but before the chill can really start to seep in and take Dean's night from 'uncomfortable' to 'miserable,' Sam shifts, scooting over to give Dean more room.
Which means he's awake.
And Dean is fucked.
He's fucked because he doesn't have it in him right now. He doesn't. He's tired of fighting and arguing, and Sam doesn't back down from this shit, not when he has a point, not when he knows he's right, and Dean?
He's already had to give up Mom tonight.
He just doesn't have anything else in him to give.
Not now. Not yet.
The silence stretches out, heavy and pregnant with everything they're not saying as they lie in the dark, broken only by their breathing, echoing loud and uncomfortable in the air of the panic room. Every now and then, a shift lines up with an inhale, weights and measures sending shoulder against neck, back against back, heel against calf, a lick of heat crossing the half-inch between them that might as well be a mile before the breath leaves, the shift corrects, the gulf of cold air and squashy mattress between them swallowing it all into space and silence, thick and uncomfortable as it sinks in, weighs down.
Dean can feel Sam wanting to shatter it, can feel the urge to speak rise up and get swallowed down again and again as they lie awake, alone and together all at the same time.
His eyes go to the door, and he wonders if leaving, running before Sam can say whatever's so bad that he can't even get it out when they're alone in the dark behind a foot of salted iron and steel, would make things better or worse.
But Sam, always the better of the two of them, finds his spine first, breaks their silence in a quiet, careful voice.
“Good people do bad things for reasons,” he starts, not turning, not moving, not naming names or pointing fingers or starting another fight. “Doesn't mean they aren't good people. Just means that there's something in their lives so important, they're willing to ignore that for a while.”
Sam's giving him this. Is giving him this when Dean doesn't have anything left in himself to give.
It's not winning or losing. It's not either of them admitting anything. It only barely qualifies as meeting in the middle. But it's enough.
“We'll start looking into Mom in the morning,” Dean answers with a heavy sigh, falling back to the heat of his brother behind him.
“Dean,” Sam begins, and he can feel his brother move against him, practically see Sam craning his neck over his shoulder, aiming that puppy dog look at Dean through the dark.
“Not tonight, Sammy,” he mumbles against his pillow, eyes shut and hands clenched tight in the thin, pilling blankets.
“I can look on my own, if you want,” Sam offers quietly, head going back to his own pillow. “All this crap...”
Dean feels the shudder, the uncomfortable shift of Sammy's shoulders against his own.
“I- I don't really want to be in the same room with me, either,” he murmurs into the dark.
“Sam,” Dean sighs, digging his head into the pillow hard to keep from rolling over.
“It's okay. I get it.”
“No, you don't.” Dean says, sharper than he meant to. “The Mom thing and the you thing- they're not the same.”
“How-”
“You keep askin' me how, Sammy,” he cuts him off. “How and why, how and why. How can I be okay that you're psychic? Why doesn't the demon blood thing bother me? How can I know you won't wipe out the world? Why am I not loading up on mojo in case you go all Evil Dead on the next cemetery you come across?”
He breathes in to the dark, empty room in front of him, against the warm, solid wall of Sam behind him.
“My answer... Sammy, it's the same for all of it. It's the same, ‘cause you're the same.”
And he is. Demon blood or no, psychic mojo or no, world-ending hell-destiny or no, pissed as all get out or loose and easy, laughing at the dumbest of Dean's dumb jokes, Sam is still Sam. Still the same snot-nosed brat Dean's been looking after his whole life, his one job, since before he can remember, since Sammy was just a bump beneath blonde curls and warm arms, a promise, a bedtime story, a brand new brother, his to look out for and protect.
His.
“Listen, I told you before,” he repeats. “None of this crap matters. You're my brother, nothing changes that. Nothing.”
“There's gotta be a line, Dean,” Sam insists from behind him, voice wavering and more than a little afraid as he breathes out into his own slice of darkness.
“Maybe there should be. Don't mean there is,” Dean murmurs, not turning, not rolling over, but not going anywhere.
Not now. Not ever.
Chapter 52
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Dean's down the church drive and storming along the shoulder of the dusty highway before the stinging in his knuckles registers.
He stomps through at least another mile of dust and gravel before he realizes he has no idea where he's going. He doesn't know if he's walking it off or running away or just getting out until the noise in his head dies down. It takes another mile for him to answer that, a second for him to turn around, and the entire walk back to stomach the thought of what comes next. The next logical step.
Researching Mom.
Prying apart her life just like they've picked apart the lives of a hundred civilians, dragging everything out into the painful, unforgiving light of day and cutting it to the bone, slicing and dicing until they find the lie, until they see smoke and smell sulfur and destroy forever all that Dean has left of a life before fear and fire. Salting and burning soft smiles and the smell of pie baking, dousing a voice humming 'Yesterday' in lighter fluid and watching warm arms and soft curls go up in smoke. Putting a bullet to his past to save Sammy's future.
Talk about deals with the devil.
The church is deserted when Dean gets back. The only light inside comes from the dim, distorted glow of the floodlights outside the chapel, sneaking into the sanctuary in slices and shades of sleeping stained glass as Dean paces down the long, lonely aisle to the steps of the panic room.
His hand is on the knob before it occurs to him that Sam might have locked him out.
Might not be in there at all.
It's a free country. He had the keys to the Impala and a long while to decide Dean wasn't worth the trouble of waiting out. He might be in the next state for all Dean knows, after Dad or Mom or the devil himself.
Dean turns the knob, shoulders open the door before he can decide which of those would be worse. The pit of his stomach drops as he sees the dark room, pitch black save for the narrow slice of dim, hazy light filtering over Dean's shoulder. There’s no Sammy waiting to bitch him out for leaving, to deck him one for sucker punching him in the middle of a fight. No brother waiting to argue his case or call Dean an emotionally constipated moron.
No one.
Nothing.
And then there's a soft, sleepy shifting from the floor, and Dean's heart starts beating again. His heart beats and his breathing resumes, and he looks down through the dark and sees Sam tangled in blankets and hogging the better pillow but safe and alive and here on the air mattress in the corner.
And that's... that's enough for Dean, at least for tonight.
He's tired. Tired and sore, and his knuckles are stinging. Sam's got his back to him, tight and tense in sleep like he almost never is, and Dean sharply, suddenly wants to be unconscious, dead to the world and wrapped up in warm and safe and brother like no one's business, and if Sam wakes up in the middle of the night? Breaks Dean's nose in the name of payback while he's drooling on his pillow?
Well, it's not like the kid hasn't more than earned a free shot.
Maybe more than one.
On the strength of that, Dean shucks off his jacket and boots, dropping onto the least Sam-occupied slice of the air mattress. It's awkward as hell, and more of him is on cold concrete than barely-room-temperature polystyrene, but before the chill can really start to seep in and take Dean's night from 'uncomfortable' to 'miserable,' Sam shifts, scooting over to give Dean more room.
Which means he's awake.
And Dean is fucked.
He's fucked because he doesn't have it in him right now. He doesn't. He's tired of fighting and arguing, and Sam doesn't back down from this shit, not when he has a point, not when he knows he's right, and Dean?
He's already had to give up Mom tonight.
He just doesn't have anything else in him to give.
Not now. Not yet.
The silence stretches out, heavy and pregnant with everything they're not saying as they lie in the dark, broken only by their breathing, echoing loud and uncomfortable in the air of the panic room. Every now and then, a shift lines up with an inhale, weights and measures sending shoulder against neck, back against back, heel against calf, a lick of heat crossing the half-inch between them that might as well be a mile before the breath leaves, the shift corrects, the gulf of cold air and squashy mattress between them swallowing it all into space and silence, thick and uncomfortable as it sinks in, weighs down.
Dean can feel Sam wanting to shatter it, can feel the urge to speak rise up and get swallowed down again and again as they lie awake, alone and together all at the same time.
His eyes go to the door, and he wonders if leaving, running before Sam can say whatever's so bad that he can't even get it out when they're alone in the dark behind a foot of salted iron and steel, would make things better or worse.
But Sam, always the better of the two of them, finds his spine first, breaks their silence in a quiet, careful voice.
“Good people do bad things for reasons,” he starts, not turning, not moving, not naming names or pointing fingers or starting another fight. “Doesn't mean they aren't good people. Just means that there's something in their lives so important, they're willing to ignore that for a while.”
Sam's giving him this. Is giving him this when Dean doesn't have anything left in himself to give.
It's not winning or losing. It's not either of them admitting anything. It only barely qualifies as meeting in the middle. But it's enough.
“We'll start looking into Mom in the morning,” Dean answers with a heavy sigh, falling back to the heat of his brother behind him.
“Dean,” Sam begins, and he can feel his brother move against him, practically see Sam craning his neck over his shoulder, aiming that puppy dog look at Dean through the dark.
“Not tonight, Sammy,” he mumbles against his pillow, eyes shut and hands clenched tight in the thin, pilling blankets.
“I can look on my own, if you want,” Sam offers quietly, head going back to his own pillow. “All this crap...”
Dean feels the shudder, the uncomfortable shift of Sammy's shoulders against his own.
“I- I don't really want to be in the same room with me, either,” he murmurs into the dark.
“Sam,” Dean sighs, digging his head into the pillow hard to keep from rolling over.
“It's okay. I get it.”
“No, you don't.” Dean says, sharper than he meant to. “The Mom thing and the you thing- they're not the same.”
“How-”
“You keep askin' me how, Sammy,” he cuts him off. “How and why, how and why. How can I be okay that you're psychic? Why doesn't the demon blood thing bother me? How can I know you won't wipe out the world? Why am I not loading up on mojo in case you go all Evil Dead on the next cemetery you come across?”
He breathes in to the dark, empty room in front of him, against the warm, solid wall of Sam behind him.
“My answer... Sammy, it's the same for all of it. It's the same, ‘cause you're the same.”
And he is. Demon blood or no, psychic mojo or no, world-ending hell-destiny or no, pissed as all get out or loose and easy, laughing at the dumbest of Dean's dumb jokes, Sam is still Sam. Still the same snot-nosed brat Dean's been looking after his whole life, his one job, since before he can remember, since Sammy was just a bump beneath blonde curls and warm arms, a promise, a bedtime story, a brand new brother, his to look out for and protect.
His.
“Listen, I told you before,” he repeats. “None of this crap matters. You're my brother, nothing changes that. Nothing.”
“There's gotta be a line, Dean,” Sam insists from behind him, voice wavering and more than a little afraid as he breathes out into his own slice of darkness.
“Maybe there should be. Don't mean there is,” Dean murmurs, not turning, not rolling over, but not going anywhere.
Not now. Not ever.
Chapter 52