fic: the thinnest frailties
So, this is for lavinialavender, because I told her that for her 22nd birthday pressie from me, she could give me a prompt and I would do my best to write it. Last night, she gave me this: "Teenchesters! ... Sam and John get into another fight, but afterward Sam's pissed at Dean because he didn't help Sam out ... But Dean manages to convey an apology without actually saying the words, and the boys bond again over something stupid and heartwarming, and maybe talk about a future where it'll just be the two of them."
And this is what my brain came up with, so HAPPY BIRTHDAY, lavinialavender - THIS IS JUST FOR YOU! I really hope you like it, hon.
OMGWTF: 1,285 words; unbeta'd; gen; Dean-POV; pre-series; a little angst (it does a fangirl good!); kind-of-an-ass!John.
the thinnest frailties
Sam doesn't say anything, after the screams fade, the scuff of feet on linoleum and the slam of the backdoor telling Dean John's heading out.
Sam doesn't say anything. Dean doesn't say anything, hadn't said anything. Even with Sam turning to him, begging him: please, please, Dean, just.
Fair's fair, Dean thinks, and he can still see Sam's own patented heartbroken expression, desperation and resignation in the stiff line of scrawny shoulders, the sloping downtown of his little brother's mouth.
He wants to say I'm sorry, kid. Wants to say I can't - can't choose, can't fight, can't take sides.
Wants to say I can't let you walk away. But he does. Watches Sam's face shutter and fall, watches him turn, watches him slowly head out of the dingy, small living room.
Hey, hey hey. Everything stays choked in his throat, tension and guilt and anger of his own. It's always him, always choosing one or the other, and really. Really, ever since Sammy was still small and sweet and wanted to be called Sammy Dean's always chosen him. Has to. Wants to.
He breathes and he can almost taste the electric pop of left over fury in the air. He breathes and breathes and the house stays silent. Still.
**
The fight is about what all John and Sam fights are about now: moving.
Yes.
No.
Yes.
No. I hate you.
I don't care, we're going.
I'll leave, I swear, I'm not doing this.
Yes, you are. You'll do what I say, or -
Or what?
Or what. Dean almost smiles. That one line of Sam's gets John every time, and John always backs into it. It's been a long time since either of them got a belt to the ass, the occasional back of the head slap. Way back when it actually worked; before Sam got stubborn and prideful and made John so angry all Dean could see was the lack of control, the danger, in John's hands. John had to back off, and Dean told him so: stop. Stop, you can't. He never said you don't have the right; you never had the right. Didn't say it, but it was there in the way Dean stood in front of John, told Sam to leave, go to his friend's house for the night. You can't, Dad. (I won't let you.)
Whatever. The or threat hasn't worked in years, and all it does is backfire and make John go stomping off for a few hours, coming back with his own white-hot righteousness (and Dean wants to smear Sam's face in it, all that hypocritcal bullshit, because where does the kid think he got that particular trait from? It's Dad filtered through angst and distilled into teenage form) and his orders. No room to move, let alone breathe, and Dean thinks that's his dad's own revenge.
Sam walks into it every single time.
**
Sam's in the bathroom, leaning over the vanity, hands on either side of the chipped sink, face close to the mirror.
Dean doesn't know what Sam's trying to see. A sign, an answer, a future. But Dean can tell it's important, white knuckles pushing against the tan skin of Sam's hands, muscles bunched and delineated in his arms. Tension. Frustration.
Dean crosses his arms over his chest, rests his shoulder against the door jam, hearing the wood creak and shift under half his weight. Sam's eyes won't meet his in the mirror, just slide down, to the right.
Everything's so fuckin quiet, they'd hear a pin drop a mile away, it seems like. Dean can wait, though, not much choice otherwise.
Finally, finally Sam's eyes travel up, fix on his face, and Dean works up a one-sided smile, eyebrow cocked, okay?, and Sam sighs, huffs, before looking away. Yeah, we're okay, and he pushes off the counter, waits 'til Dean turns sideways before passing by, slow enough that Dean grabs Sam high, right under his armpit, reels him in with one arm around his shoulders.
And fine, whatever, Dean's changed diapers, sang lullabies and cleaned up puke at two in the morning. So when he bends down, presses dry lips to the side of Sam's head, above his temple, hair tickling face and mouth, he tells himself he's allowed. He's built up credit.
But Sam reaches back, holds on to him, lets the moment hang there, and Dean realizes that it doesn't really matter, Sam's not holding it against him or using it against him.
They stay like that, internal clock counting down the seconds, and Dean closes his eyes, blocks everything but Sam out.
**
It's a little past six, twilight dark and a fine mist of mosquitoes buzzing around them where they're sprawled out in the little lot of grass behind their rental. Dean can imagine the little fuckers drawn to their breath, hot and moist (the carbon dioxide, Dean. That's what they're coming to), but he doesn't move and Sam doesn't move, pressed close enough that his head's almost tucked onto the arm bent under Dean's neck.
"Are..."
Dean jumps at Sam's voice, hears the increase of crickets chirping out in the grass before they settle back down. "What, Sam?" It comes out calm, easy, when all he can hear in his head is frantic, needy, tell me tell me tell me. Anything. Something. Because Sam always talks, almost always, and when he doesn't.
Sam's run away. Hitchhiked. Gotten into fights and gotten suspended. Tried hunting by himself, secretive and angry and panicked.
"Nothing. Nevermind." Sam half-laughs, rueful and quiet, and it's got Dean propping himself up, dislodging Sam, who squawks and flails at the shift. He's leaning over his brother in the dark, seeing nothing but thin strips of skin highlighted by the last of the light. Eyes and mouth blacked out, empty, and Dean reassures himself with a flick of a fingernail along Sam's cheek. Real, this is real, and he almost laughs too.
"You can tell me, Sammy," no annoyed snort or punch, just a small, wet sound that's nearly a sob, but isn't quite. Yeah, that's his baby brother, alright, and under different circumstances Dean'd be calling him Samantha, ribbing him endlessly about this. He can't, though, because there's something heavy in his own stomach, some twisting mess that makes his heart pound hard and off beat when Sam doesn't say anything; doesn't take the opening Dean's giving him. "Maybe. Maybe in the summer we could, you know, road trip for a week or two?" He stays up on his elbow until it starts shaking, little tremors from too much weight and too much hard ground. "If you wanted."
He can hear Sam's rough inhale, a hiss of air before he tenses up, expectation and something else, maybe, that Dean can't really name at first. "Just you and me?"
Hope, Dean thinks. That's what it is, a little thrill under Sam's words, curling around them and putting Dean on edge, alert and on point. Almost expecting some nasty to pop up, or maybe it's just his own anticipation.
It's stupid, so small and unimportant, and it's the end all be all for Sam. Dean shrugs; the grass and dirt are wet feeling against his shirt, and sweat sticking on the inside. He angles an arm up, so he can ruffle Sam's hair. Long, thick strands against his fingers, the rough scrape of scalp and nails. Sam's own hands come up, and Dean thinks his brother's going to knock him away; growl and snap about not being a baby, Dean, christ, but he feels fingers circle his wrist, warm and a little calloused, resting against his pulse. Staying there.
"Yeah, Sam," he says, "just you and me."
And this is what my brain came up with, so HAPPY BIRTHDAY, lavinialavender - THIS IS JUST FOR YOU! I really hope you like it, hon.
OMGWTF: 1,285 words; unbeta'd; gen; Dean-POV; pre-series; a little angst (it does a fangirl good!); kind-of-an-ass!John.
the thinnest frailties
Sam doesn't say anything, after the screams fade, the scuff of feet on linoleum and the slam of the backdoor telling Dean John's heading out.
Sam doesn't say anything. Dean doesn't say anything, hadn't said anything. Even with Sam turning to him, begging him: please, please, Dean, just.
Fair's fair, Dean thinks, and he can still see Sam's own patented heartbroken expression, desperation and resignation in the stiff line of scrawny shoulders, the sloping downtown of his little brother's mouth.
He wants to say I'm sorry, kid. Wants to say I can't - can't choose, can't fight, can't take sides.
Wants to say I can't let you walk away. But he does. Watches Sam's face shutter and fall, watches him turn, watches him slowly head out of the dingy, small living room.
Hey, hey hey. Everything stays choked in his throat, tension and guilt and anger of his own. It's always him, always choosing one or the other, and really. Really, ever since Sammy was still small and sweet and wanted to be called Sammy Dean's always chosen him. Has to. Wants to.
He breathes and he can almost taste the electric pop of left over fury in the air. He breathes and breathes and the house stays silent. Still.
**
The fight is about what all John and Sam fights are about now: moving.
Yes.
No.
Yes.
No. I hate you.
I don't care, we're going.
I'll leave, I swear, I'm not doing this.
Yes, you are. You'll do what I say, or -
Or what?
Or what. Dean almost smiles. That one line of Sam's gets John every time, and John always backs into it. It's been a long time since either of them got a belt to the ass, the occasional back of the head slap. Way back when it actually worked; before Sam got stubborn and prideful and made John so angry all Dean could see was the lack of control, the danger, in John's hands. John had to back off, and Dean told him so: stop. Stop, you can't. He never said you don't have the right; you never had the right. Didn't say it, but it was there in the way Dean stood in front of John, told Sam to leave, go to his friend's house for the night. You can't, Dad. (I won't let you.)
Whatever. The or threat hasn't worked in years, and all it does is backfire and make John go stomping off for a few hours, coming back with his own white-hot righteousness (and Dean wants to smear Sam's face in it, all that hypocritcal bullshit, because where does the kid think he got that particular trait from? It's Dad filtered through angst and distilled into teenage form) and his orders. No room to move, let alone breathe, and Dean thinks that's his dad's own revenge.
Sam walks into it every single time.
**
Sam's in the bathroom, leaning over the vanity, hands on either side of the chipped sink, face close to the mirror.
Dean doesn't know what Sam's trying to see. A sign, an answer, a future. But Dean can tell it's important, white knuckles pushing against the tan skin of Sam's hands, muscles bunched and delineated in his arms. Tension. Frustration.
Dean crosses his arms over his chest, rests his shoulder against the door jam, hearing the wood creak and shift under half his weight. Sam's eyes won't meet his in the mirror, just slide down, to the right.
Everything's so fuckin quiet, they'd hear a pin drop a mile away, it seems like. Dean can wait, though, not much choice otherwise.
Finally, finally Sam's eyes travel up, fix on his face, and Dean works up a one-sided smile, eyebrow cocked, okay?, and Sam sighs, huffs, before looking away. Yeah, we're okay, and he pushes off the counter, waits 'til Dean turns sideways before passing by, slow enough that Dean grabs Sam high, right under his armpit, reels him in with one arm around his shoulders.
And fine, whatever, Dean's changed diapers, sang lullabies and cleaned up puke at two in the morning. So when he bends down, presses dry lips to the side of Sam's head, above his temple, hair tickling face and mouth, he tells himself he's allowed. He's built up credit.
But Sam reaches back, holds on to him, lets the moment hang there, and Dean realizes that it doesn't really matter, Sam's not holding it against him or using it against him.
They stay like that, internal clock counting down the seconds, and Dean closes his eyes, blocks everything but Sam out.
**
It's a little past six, twilight dark and a fine mist of mosquitoes buzzing around them where they're sprawled out in the little lot of grass behind their rental. Dean can imagine the little fuckers drawn to their breath, hot and moist (the carbon dioxide, Dean. That's what they're coming to), but he doesn't move and Sam doesn't move, pressed close enough that his head's almost tucked onto the arm bent under Dean's neck.
"Are..."
Dean jumps at Sam's voice, hears the increase of crickets chirping out in the grass before they settle back down. "What, Sam?" It comes out calm, easy, when all he can hear in his head is frantic, needy, tell me tell me tell me. Anything. Something. Because Sam always talks, almost always, and when he doesn't.
Sam's run away. Hitchhiked. Gotten into fights and gotten suspended. Tried hunting by himself, secretive and angry and panicked.
"Nothing. Nevermind." Sam half-laughs, rueful and quiet, and it's got Dean propping himself up, dislodging Sam, who squawks and flails at the shift. He's leaning over his brother in the dark, seeing nothing but thin strips of skin highlighted by the last of the light. Eyes and mouth blacked out, empty, and Dean reassures himself with a flick of a fingernail along Sam's cheek. Real, this is real, and he almost laughs too.
"You can tell me, Sammy," no annoyed snort or punch, just a small, wet sound that's nearly a sob, but isn't quite. Yeah, that's his baby brother, alright, and under different circumstances Dean'd be calling him Samantha, ribbing him endlessly about this. He can't, though, because there's something heavy in his own stomach, some twisting mess that makes his heart pound hard and off beat when Sam doesn't say anything; doesn't take the opening Dean's giving him. "Maybe. Maybe in the summer we could, you know, road trip for a week or two?" He stays up on his elbow until it starts shaking, little tremors from too much weight and too much hard ground. "If you wanted."
He can hear Sam's rough inhale, a hiss of air before he tenses up, expectation and something else, maybe, that Dean can't really name at first. "Just you and me?"
Hope, Dean thinks. That's what it is, a little thrill under Sam's words, curling around them and putting Dean on edge, alert and on point. Almost expecting some nasty to pop up, or maybe it's just his own anticipation.
It's stupid, so small and unimportant, and it's the end all be all for Sam. Dean shrugs; the grass and dirt are wet feeling against his shirt, and sweat sticking on the inside. He angles an arm up, so he can ruffle Sam's hair. Long, thick strands against his fingers, the rough scrape of scalp and nails. Sam's own hands come up, and Dean thinks his brother's going to knock him away; growl and snap about not being a baby, Dean, christ, but he feels fingers circle his wrist, warm and a little calloused, resting against his pulse. Staying there.
"Yeah, Sam," he says, "just you and me."