SAM/DEAN - I GREW UP FOR YOU (IF ONLY YOU KNEW) AKA FUCK YOU, DEAN
Title: I Grew Up For You (If Only You Knew) AKA Fuck You, Dean
Fandom/Pairing: SUPERNATURAL; Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Notes: Written for diskoandlace. ♥
Summary: Guess who just became a badass motherfucker?
Sam doesn’t usually do things like this. He’s a thinker. He thinks it through, works it out. He sorts things out. It’s how he got into law school in the first place: Stanford. Thick and through.
Dean could handle this. He would be doing this. He would do all the action. All the general badassery, and Sam would stay at the sidelines; where he was more than happy to. Helping in whenever he was needed. Too bad Dean isn’t around to do it for Sam. It just means Sam has to do all of the work without him. Of which he really doesn’t want to. Of which he’s spent a year doing already.
Are you watching Dean? Because, fuck, if Sam knew how you kept at it for so many years by yourself.
Sam isn’t sure if his heart is just beating out of sheer adrenaline, or it’s just slamming, singing in tune, with the Impala’s ear-blasting rendition of Stairway to Heaven. Either way. This demon’s in for a beating of a different magnitude altogether. One that deserves its own poetry reading.
Oh. The humour. He laughs. The irony in his mouth like a bad cough. Sam has a clip in his gun; three outside, a magazine in. He’s been chasing this one demon up and down the Mississippi river. And now. He’s just tired of it.
He cocks the loaded barrel. Foot down hard on the hell raiser’s face. It croaks. Like a frog. Sam doesn’t have it in him to laugh. Dean might laugh. Or maybe Dean might even go What the fuck? Sammy, get this. It just croaked.
Motherfucker Dean. You son of a bitch. Dean just had to go die. Leaving poor Sammy boy alone.
Fuck, Dean. Just fuck.
Cries of Don’tpleasestopdon’t - break into the stagnant air. Useless words. Pointless breaths. Senseless vowels. Constant pleads. They all on deaf ears.
Sam levels the gun, unloads the clip without an ounce of pity. Determination, yes, that is what it is, set dead on his face. Shoot. Bam. Boom. Die motherfucker. A body riddled with bullets.
The sound of needless, careless, begging falls on dead ears now. Sam looks unhappy at the sight at the sight of blood and fragments caught on his shoes.
It’s dirty. He hates having to get it out. It costs him a couple dollars extra down by the dry cleaners. They hate him enough as it is.
Pearl Jam screams in mundane, ordinary, tandem as Sam Winchester picks up his feet. Heavy. Like he’s carrying the world on his shoulders, like he has some tragic story to share. Maybe he does. He walks back to the car door like nothing remotely unordinary has just occurred.
It’s not very satisfying in itself usually. The whole routine: Hunt this, find this, kill that. But for the briefest moment? After Sam had pressed a finger to trigger? It felt like, finally, hallelujah, it was.
Being a badass motherfucker for Dean? Exterminating demons like it’s nobody’s business? Maybe, just maybe, Dean would be proud.
Sam starts the engine in the early morn. He revs it up and drives.
Fandom/Pairing: SUPERNATURAL; Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester
Notes: Written for diskoandlace. ♥
Summary: Guess who just became a badass motherfucker?
Sam doesn’t usually do things like this. He’s a thinker. He thinks it through, works it out. He sorts things out. It’s how he got into law school in the first place: Stanford. Thick and through.
Dean could handle this. He would be doing this. He would do all the action. All the general badassery, and Sam would stay at the sidelines; where he was more than happy to. Helping in whenever he was needed. Too bad Dean isn’t around to do it for Sam. It just means Sam has to do all of the work without him. Of which he really doesn’t want to. Of which he’s spent a year doing already.
Are you watching Dean? Because, fuck, if Sam knew how you kept at it for so many years by yourself.
Sam isn’t sure if his heart is just beating out of sheer adrenaline, or it’s just slamming, singing in tune, with the Impala’s ear-blasting rendition of Stairway to Heaven. Either way. This demon’s in for a beating of a different magnitude altogether. One that deserves its own poetry reading.
Oh. The humour. He laughs. The irony in his mouth like a bad cough. Sam has a clip in his gun; three outside, a magazine in. He’s been chasing this one demon up and down the Mississippi river. And now. He’s just tired of it.
He cocks the loaded barrel. Foot down hard on the hell raiser’s face. It croaks. Like a frog. Sam doesn’t have it in him to laugh. Dean might laugh. Or maybe Dean might even go What the fuck? Sammy, get this. It just croaked.
Motherfucker Dean. You son of a bitch. Dean just had to go die. Leaving poor Sammy boy alone.
Fuck, Dean. Just fuck.
Cries of Don’tpleasestopdon’t - break into the stagnant air. Useless words. Pointless breaths. Senseless vowels. Constant pleads. They all on deaf ears.
Sam levels the gun, unloads the clip without an ounce of pity. Determination, yes, that is what it is, set dead on his face. Shoot. Bam. Boom. Die motherfucker. A body riddled with bullets.
The sound of needless, careless, begging falls on dead ears now. Sam looks unhappy at the sight at the sight of blood and fragments caught on his shoes.
It’s dirty. He hates having to get it out. It costs him a couple dollars extra down by the dry cleaners. They hate him enough as it is.
Pearl Jam screams in mundane, ordinary, tandem as Sam Winchester picks up his feet. Heavy. Like he’s carrying the world on his shoulders, like he has some tragic story to share. Maybe he does. He walks back to the car door like nothing remotely unordinary has just occurred.
It’s not very satisfying in itself usually. The whole routine: Hunt this, find this, kill that. But for the briefest moment? After Sam had pressed a finger to trigger? It felt like, finally, hallelujah, it was.
Being a badass motherfucker for Dean? Exterminating demons like it’s nobody’s business? Maybe, just maybe, Dean would be proud.
Sam starts the engine in the early morn. He revs it up and drives.