[FIC] Father's Gun (84/?)
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
When they’re back in the car, frat boy shuffled off and Bobby and Ellen updated and a meet up just outside of Tuscaloosa arranged, silence steals over the Impala again, hot and heavy.
“We got any bullets left after Yellow Eyes and need to blow off some steam,” Dean starts, sending a look at Sam across the front seat of the Impala, “I say we dial that crossroads fucker up, use him for target practice.”
“Dean...”
“What? He’s annoying.” Dean shrugs. “Plus, I couldn’t figure out if he was gonna make a try for my soul or give me lapdance for a second there.”
“Can we not talk about that?”
“Fair enough, but I’m still putting that whole convo under ‘reasons why calling up demons is a terrible idea.’ Seriously, Sam, how did that guy not hit you as fifteen different kinds of creepy? And I’m talkin about the first time here, before he starting jonesin’ for your evil resume by way of a blood donation which, buuh.” Dean shudders just thinking about it.
“It’s not like we had much of a choice, Dean.” Sam shifts, scrubbing a hand across the fresh bandage on his index finger. “We needed to know what they know, and he had the inside track.”
“Okay, but there’s a difference between having the inside track and wanting to get in your inside track.”
Sam tilts his chin up. “I’m gonna pretend you’re talking about my circulatory system.”
“Heeey.” Dean grins. “Nice one, Sammy.”
Sam bites his lip, peeling at the edges of his bandage and smoothing them back again. “Dean, I don’t think you should-”
Dean cuts him of with a snort. “C’mon. Just ‘cause we’re not talking about my big gay crush on you doesn’t mean I can’t talk about other people and their big gay crushes on you.”
Twin spots of color appear high is Sam’s cheeks. “He doesn’t have a crush on me. He thinks I’m the next big thing in evil and wants in on the ground floor, and you…” He cuts himself off, shakes his head.
“Go ahead, Sammy,” Dean pushes. “Say it.”
“If you saw that back there,” Sam starts, “any part of that, and you want to take back everything you said earlier today, want to just, just brush everything under the rug and- and never say anything about it ever again, you can, you know. We can.”
“What?” Dean gapes. “Seriously, Sam, what? You think just because I see you get intel outta some no-name crossroads demon, then backhand the son of a bitch when he gets out of line, I’m gonna take back the whole, long, drawn out agonized confession of my big, embarrassing gay crush on you? Seriously? Seriously, dude. What the fuck are you even thinking?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Dean.” Sam laughs, half-hysterically. “I’m thinking that after facing the very real fact that I have creepy and insistent demon cronies crawling after my fucking blood of all goddamn things, it might put just what I am in perspective for you!”
“And what’s that, Sammy?”
“I’m a freak, Dean,” Sam forces out, the words practically torn from his chest, “and whatever the hell I am, it bled into you. I forced it on you. And I’m sorry.” His voice cracks on the last word. “I’m so, so-”
“Sam, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Dean dismisses. Sam snaps his mouth closed with a pinched look. “I told you back at Jim’s, dude. If your stunt with the machete was gonna do anything outside of keeping me the fuck alive, we’d have seen it by now. And if it was gonna give me some weird zombie bitch boy boner for you, I’m pretty sure I’d have jumped you by now. Because let’s be completely honest, here: My self control? Not that great.”
“Fine,” Sam bites out. “How long?”
“What?”
“How long have you felt like this? Since Bobby’s, right?” Sam confirms, shaking his head tightly. “That thing in the shower, the morning wake up call we’re not supposed to ever speak of or acknowledge again?”
Dean doesn’t have to nod and doesn’t know for a second why he’s surprised at the kid knowing the second Dean realized, that he keyed on the second Dean did.
“Pretty much,” Dean confirms.
“So, right around the time I took a level in apocalypse, right? Churches exploding, burning things left and right? Doesn’t that seem like a little too much of a coincidence for you, Dean?” Sam presses.
“Are you nuts?” Dean demands after a second of stunned, shocked silence. “Are you completely insane? I tell you I want shove you to the bed and pound you through the mattress, and you find some way to make it so your fucked up demon powers are to blame? Seriously? I thought we’d been over this already, Sammy. I might be deeply screwed up, but I’m not your goddamn demon bitch!”
The flush has spread over Sam’s cheeks, crawling its way down his neck.
“It doesn’t make sense, Dean,” he tries again.
Dean growls. “Yeah, no shit. It’s perverted and fucked up and about fifteen different kinds of twisted, at least four of those covering the fact that I changed your diapers as a kid, and the rest of them covering the ins and out of us being goddamn brothers and probably too close for comfort before you add in the fact that listening to you come gets me hard enough to pound goddamn nails, but there is no way in hell or high water it has anything to do with the fact that you see demon plans in your fucking cornflakes and’ve got the least reliable blowing-shit-up switch of all time, okay?!”
“No,” Sam presses again. “Dean, you don’t understand.”
“The hell I don’t!” Dean explodes. “Just- the hell I don’t. The hell I don’t understand what I want, what you mean to me. And maybe I don’t know the second things started to change or why, but hell if I don’t know that if one of us has managed to screw this up, it’s me. If what’s between us has gone sick and wrong and fucked up, it’s on me.”
Sam shakes his head. “No, you-”
Dean holds up a hand. “Just shut up and listen, okay? You, God- You’re- You’re all I got, Sammy. Always have been, always will be. My one good thing. The one thing I got that keeps me getting out of bed in the morning and fighting through the day and crawling between the sheets at night, and I don’t question that. Never have. And it’s never been nothing but what’s always been between us, ever since you were a squirmy little ball of blankets, burping and drooling, gumming everything you could get your hands on. Not when we were little. Not when we were growing up or grown or when you were away at Stanford. But Sammy- it changed. I’m- I’m sorry, but it did. And I never… I never wanted to…” He swallows thickly. “I’ll go, if you want. Help you take out Yellow Eyes, then leave, but- but you need to know that this isn’t you. It’s me. No part of this is your fault.”
Sam is silent for a long time. His eyes have gone all big and dewy, and Dean has to turn away to glare at the asphalt, feeling his own cheeks heat up under Sam’s scrutiny.
“But Dean…” Sam says finally, his voice quiet.
“What, Sam?”
“It’s just… It’s a pretty big goddamn coincidence,” Sam says haltingly. “What are the odds that you like guys and I like guys, and somehow we both… both…”
“Both?” Dean interrupts, his head whipping around. His heart pound in his chest. “I’m sorry, both? Both-both?”
“Both-both.” Sam echoes. His eyes are fixed on his knotted fingers, his face a hot, miserable crimson.
Dean can hear his pulse in his ears. The world seems to dip under him, and he digs his fingers into the steering wheel for support.
“Holy crap,” he manages finally.
“No shit,” Sam says wryly.
“We should get a motel room.”
Sam jerks in his seat. If he gets any redder, Dean’s afraid his head’s gonna pop like a balloon. “No, we shouldn’t, Dean! We should haul ass to Tuscaloosa and kill Yellow Eyes as fast as possible and hope to god that fixes all of this because-”
Dean laughs, too dizzy with relief to catch hold of his earlier indignation. “Because what? We couldn’t possibly be anything other than in the grips of your demon blood-fueled psychic lust? Do you know how nuts that sounds, Sam?”
Sam crosses his arms stubbornly. “More or less nuts than pulling over for a quickie with your brother?”
“It wouldn’t be that quick.” It slips out before Dean can stop himself, and his eyes dart to Sam for one long, hot moment, before they jerk back to the road with awkward cough. “Besides, we just passed through Kentucky, so you know, it’s probably not unheard of in these parts.”
Sam groans, pressing his palm against his forehead. “Dean.”
“Why won’t you believe me, Sam? Why won’t you believe that our lives are just fucked up enough to end up with us both wanting each other like this? We spend enough time together, mean enough to one another. Why’s it gotta be Yellow Eyes and demon blood when it could just be- just be who we are?”
“Because then who we are would be profoundly and irreversibly fucked up, Dean,” Sam says tiredly.
Dean shrugs. What else can he do? He’s pretty sure that ship sailed a long damn time ago.
“Hey, listen,” he says. “If this is a one way street, just tell me. I’m a big boy. I can take it, I promise. Things’ll go back to normal, just like that.”
“Yeah, right.” Sam snorts. “And monsters are just in movies and stories dumb kids like me believe, right?”
“Sam...”
“Secrets out, Dean. Don’t have to start lying to me again to try and fix it.”
“Thought I’d try,” Dean says with a tight smile.
“Don’t bother. And- And don’t be stupid. Of course, I… I mean, it’s not like I wasn’t obvious.”
“Yeah, maybe to you. Then there’s me in the fucking dark.” Dean shakes his head. “Talk about ducks on a goddamn pond.”
Sam shakes his head wryly. “Bobby’s got us pegged.”
“Dude, can we not talk about pegging right now? Or Bobby?”
Sam grimaces. “Ew, Dean.”
Dean grins to himself. There’s another long lull in the conversation. Sam’s picking at his Band-Aid again. That little, worried line is back between his eyebrows.
“So, are we good?” Dean ventures.
Sam shakes his head. “I can’t just forget about it,” he says. “There has to be some way to know-”
“That what’s in here is me and not you? Sam, c’mon. It’s me. Because if it was just you wanting me hard enough, you think I’d want you hard back? That you’d go all- all genie of the lamp and brainbend me into wanting what you want?”
“We don’t know-”
“That you can even do that shit. If you could, don’t you think we’d have had a lot more luck with the Campbells? Dad? Jim? Wouldn’t you have been able to talk those rednecks outta keeping you kenneled in the basement back in Iowa or any of the civvies we’ve worked with ever into be anything go other than annoying pain in the asses?”
Sam shakes his head. “It wouldn’t work that way.”
“How do you even know that? How do you know if you’ve never done it?”
“Because it’d be you!” Sam exclaims. “Each time, each and every time I’ve done something new and horrifying, it’s been over you. It’s been for you. All that stuff you just listed? I didn’t want any of it half as much as I wanted you to stay with me in Louisiana. It was nothing compared to stopping Max, stopping dad, stopping that fucking roof. It’s you, Dean. If I was ever going to want something hard enough to force it to want me back, it would be you. Could only be you.”
Dean turns to catch his eyes. “This doesn’t feel forced, Sam,” he says, low and careful.
“Then what’s it feel like?” Sam asks in a hushed voice, his eyes glistening wetly, looking just this side of hopeful.
What does it feel like? It feels like slept-in morning and tousled, tangled brown hair, silk-sift and gold-spiked in the dusty, six am sunlight. It feels like stupid, too big hands nudging him to pull over when he’s too worn out to drive. It feels like a hunt going south and knowing, just knowing, Sam’ll pull through for him, one way or another.
It feels like lying tangled beneath an ugly green comforter in Indiana. Dad gone, and his ticker going. Feels like closing his eyes, knowing Sam would be okay, and he would be okay and going quiet, going safe, going with Sam holding tight, like he could keep his heart going by sheer force of will, was more than he could hope for. Was the best possible way his story could end.
It feels like wanting to see it end, just so he can watch it begin all over again.
“It feels real.”
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
When they’re back in the car, frat boy shuffled off and Bobby and Ellen updated and a meet up just outside of Tuscaloosa arranged, silence steals over the Impala again, hot and heavy.
“We got any bullets left after Yellow Eyes and need to blow off some steam,” Dean starts, sending a look at Sam across the front seat of the Impala, “I say we dial that crossroads fucker up, use him for target practice.”
“Dean...”
“What? He’s annoying.” Dean shrugs. “Plus, I couldn’t figure out if he was gonna make a try for my soul or give me lapdance for a second there.”
“Can we not talk about that?”
“Fair enough, but I’m still putting that whole convo under ‘reasons why calling up demons is a terrible idea.’ Seriously, Sam, how did that guy not hit you as fifteen different kinds of creepy? And I’m talkin about the first time here, before he starting jonesin’ for your evil resume by way of a blood donation which, buuh.” Dean shudders just thinking about it.
“It’s not like we had much of a choice, Dean.” Sam shifts, scrubbing a hand across the fresh bandage on his index finger. “We needed to know what they know, and he had the inside track.”
“Okay, but there’s a difference between having the inside track and wanting to get in your inside track.”
Sam tilts his chin up. “I’m gonna pretend you’re talking about my circulatory system.”
“Heeey.” Dean grins. “Nice one, Sammy.”
Sam bites his lip, peeling at the edges of his bandage and smoothing them back again. “Dean, I don’t think you should-”
Dean cuts him of with a snort. “C’mon. Just ‘cause we’re not talking about my big gay crush on you doesn’t mean I can’t talk about other people and their big gay crushes on you.”
Twin spots of color appear high is Sam’s cheeks. “He doesn’t have a crush on me. He thinks I’m the next big thing in evil and wants in on the ground floor, and you…” He cuts himself off, shakes his head.
“Go ahead, Sammy,” Dean pushes. “Say it.”
“If you saw that back there,” Sam starts, “any part of that, and you want to take back everything you said earlier today, want to just, just brush everything under the rug and- and never say anything about it ever again, you can, you know. We can.”
“What?” Dean gapes. “Seriously, Sam, what? You think just because I see you get intel outta some no-name crossroads demon, then backhand the son of a bitch when he gets out of line, I’m gonna take back the whole, long, drawn out agonized confession of my big, embarrassing gay crush on you? Seriously? Seriously, dude. What the fuck are you even thinking?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Dean.” Sam laughs, half-hysterically. “I’m thinking that after facing the very real fact that I have creepy and insistent demon cronies crawling after my fucking blood of all goddamn things, it might put just what I am in perspective for you!”
“And what’s that, Sammy?”
“I’m a freak, Dean,” Sam forces out, the words practically torn from his chest, “and whatever the hell I am, it bled into you. I forced it on you. And I’m sorry.” His voice cracks on the last word. “I’m so, so-”
“Sam, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Dean dismisses. Sam snaps his mouth closed with a pinched look. “I told you back at Jim’s, dude. If your stunt with the machete was gonna do anything outside of keeping me the fuck alive, we’d have seen it by now. And if it was gonna give me some weird zombie bitch boy boner for you, I’m pretty sure I’d have jumped you by now. Because let’s be completely honest, here: My self control? Not that great.”
“Fine,” Sam bites out. “How long?”
“What?”
“How long have you felt like this? Since Bobby’s, right?” Sam confirms, shaking his head tightly. “That thing in the shower, the morning wake up call we’re not supposed to ever speak of or acknowledge again?”
Dean doesn’t have to nod and doesn’t know for a second why he’s surprised at the kid knowing the second Dean realized, that he keyed on the second Dean did.
“Pretty much,” Dean confirms.
“So, right around the time I took a level in apocalypse, right? Churches exploding, burning things left and right? Doesn’t that seem like a little too much of a coincidence for you, Dean?” Sam presses.
“Are you nuts?” Dean demands after a second of stunned, shocked silence. “Are you completely insane? I tell you I want shove you to the bed and pound you through the mattress, and you find some way to make it so your fucked up demon powers are to blame? Seriously? I thought we’d been over this already, Sammy. I might be deeply screwed up, but I’m not your goddamn demon bitch!”
The flush has spread over Sam’s cheeks, crawling its way down his neck.
“It doesn’t make sense, Dean,” he tries again.
Dean growls. “Yeah, no shit. It’s perverted and fucked up and about fifteen different kinds of twisted, at least four of those covering the fact that I changed your diapers as a kid, and the rest of them covering the ins and out of us being goddamn brothers and probably too close for comfort before you add in the fact that listening to you come gets me hard enough to pound goddamn nails, but there is no way in hell or high water it has anything to do with the fact that you see demon plans in your fucking cornflakes and’ve got the least reliable blowing-shit-up switch of all time, okay?!”
“No,” Sam presses again. “Dean, you don’t understand.”
“The hell I don’t!” Dean explodes. “Just- the hell I don’t. The hell I don’t understand what I want, what you mean to me. And maybe I don’t know the second things started to change or why, but hell if I don’t know that if one of us has managed to screw this up, it’s me. If what’s between us has gone sick and wrong and fucked up, it’s on me.”
Sam shakes his head. “No, you-”
Dean holds up a hand. “Just shut up and listen, okay? You, God- You’re- You’re all I got, Sammy. Always have been, always will be. My one good thing. The one thing I got that keeps me getting out of bed in the morning and fighting through the day and crawling between the sheets at night, and I don’t question that. Never have. And it’s never been nothing but what’s always been between us, ever since you were a squirmy little ball of blankets, burping and drooling, gumming everything you could get your hands on. Not when we were little. Not when we were growing up or grown or when you were away at Stanford. But Sammy- it changed. I’m- I’m sorry, but it did. And I never… I never wanted to…” He swallows thickly. “I’ll go, if you want. Help you take out Yellow Eyes, then leave, but- but you need to know that this isn’t you. It’s me. No part of this is your fault.”
Sam is silent for a long time. His eyes have gone all big and dewy, and Dean has to turn away to glare at the asphalt, feeling his own cheeks heat up under Sam’s scrutiny.
“But Dean…” Sam says finally, his voice quiet.
“What, Sam?”
“It’s just… It’s a pretty big goddamn coincidence,” Sam says haltingly. “What are the odds that you like guys and I like guys, and somehow we both… both…”
“Both?” Dean interrupts, his head whipping around. His heart pound in his chest. “I’m sorry, both? Both-both?”
“Both-both.” Sam echoes. His eyes are fixed on his knotted fingers, his face a hot, miserable crimson.
Dean can hear his pulse in his ears. The world seems to dip under him, and he digs his fingers into the steering wheel for support.
“Holy crap,” he manages finally.
“No shit,” Sam says wryly.
“We should get a motel room.”
Sam jerks in his seat. If he gets any redder, Dean’s afraid his head’s gonna pop like a balloon. “No, we shouldn’t, Dean! We should haul ass to Tuscaloosa and kill Yellow Eyes as fast as possible and hope to god that fixes all of this because-”
Dean laughs, too dizzy with relief to catch hold of his earlier indignation. “Because what? We couldn’t possibly be anything other than in the grips of your demon blood-fueled psychic lust? Do you know how nuts that sounds, Sam?”
Sam crosses his arms stubbornly. “More or less nuts than pulling over for a quickie with your brother?”
“It wouldn’t be that quick.” It slips out before Dean can stop himself, and his eyes dart to Sam for one long, hot moment, before they jerk back to the road with awkward cough. “Besides, we just passed through Kentucky, so you know, it’s probably not unheard of in these parts.”
Sam groans, pressing his palm against his forehead. “Dean.”
“Why won’t you believe me, Sam? Why won’t you believe that our lives are just fucked up enough to end up with us both wanting each other like this? We spend enough time together, mean enough to one another. Why’s it gotta be Yellow Eyes and demon blood when it could just be- just be who we are?”
“Because then who we are would be profoundly and irreversibly fucked up, Dean,” Sam says tiredly.
Dean shrugs. What else can he do? He’s pretty sure that ship sailed a long damn time ago.
“Hey, listen,” he says. “If this is a one way street, just tell me. I’m a big boy. I can take it, I promise. Things’ll go back to normal, just like that.”
“Yeah, right.” Sam snorts. “And monsters are just in movies and stories dumb kids like me believe, right?”
“Sam...”
“Secrets out, Dean. Don’t have to start lying to me again to try and fix it.”
“Thought I’d try,” Dean says with a tight smile.
“Don’t bother. And- And don’t be stupid. Of course, I… I mean, it’s not like I wasn’t obvious.”
“Yeah, maybe to you. Then there’s me in the fucking dark.” Dean shakes his head. “Talk about ducks on a goddamn pond.”
Sam shakes his head wryly. “Bobby’s got us pegged.”
“Dude, can we not talk about pegging right now? Or Bobby?”
Sam grimaces. “Ew, Dean.”
Dean grins to himself. There’s another long lull in the conversation. Sam’s picking at his Band-Aid again. That little, worried line is back between his eyebrows.
“So, are we good?” Dean ventures.
Sam shakes his head. “I can’t just forget about it,” he says. “There has to be some way to know-”
“That what’s in here is me and not you? Sam, c’mon. It’s me. Because if it was just you wanting me hard enough, you think I’d want you hard back? That you’d go all- all genie of the lamp and brainbend me into wanting what you want?”
“We don’t know-”
“That you can even do that shit. If you could, don’t you think we’d have had a lot more luck with the Campbells? Dad? Jim? Wouldn’t you have been able to talk those rednecks outta keeping you kenneled in the basement back in Iowa or any of the civvies we’ve worked with ever into be anything go other than annoying pain in the asses?”
Sam shakes his head. “It wouldn’t work that way.”
“How do you even know that? How do you know if you’ve never done it?”
“Because it’d be you!” Sam exclaims. “Each time, each and every time I’ve done something new and horrifying, it’s been over you. It’s been for you. All that stuff you just listed? I didn’t want any of it half as much as I wanted you to stay with me in Louisiana. It was nothing compared to stopping Max, stopping dad, stopping that fucking roof. It’s you, Dean. If I was ever going to want something hard enough to force it to want me back, it would be you. Could only be you.”
Dean turns to catch his eyes. “This doesn’t feel forced, Sam,” he says, low and careful.
“Then what’s it feel like?” Sam asks in a hushed voice, his eyes glistening wetly, looking just this side of hopeful.
What does it feel like? It feels like slept-in morning and tousled, tangled brown hair, silk-sift and gold-spiked in the dusty, six am sunlight. It feels like stupid, too big hands nudging him to pull over when he’s too worn out to drive. It feels like a hunt going south and knowing, just knowing, Sam’ll pull through for him, one way or another.
It feels like lying tangled beneath an ugly green comforter in Indiana. Dad gone, and his ticker going. Feels like closing his eyes, knowing Sam would be okay, and he would be okay and going quiet, going safe, going with Sam holding tight, like he could keep his heart going by sheer force of will, was more than he could hope for. Was the best possible way his story could end.
It feels like wanting to see it end, just so he can watch it begin all over again.
“It feels real.”