Short!fic - Between Sleep and Sleeplessness
Title: Between Sleep and Sleeplessness
Author: Ry (curseangel / dreamsforlease)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for 2x17 "Heart".
Characters/Pairings: Sam and Dean Winchester.
Summary: Inspired by the Barenaked Ladies song "Half a Heart", in particular the lines: "In the space between sleep and sleeplessness / we redress all our wounds / if we replace all this hopeless hopelessness / then we could rest." Dean, the night after.
He leaves once he's sure Sam's asleep, curled up around natty motel blankets like a kid who's afraid of the dark. He can't sleep and he can't sit up and watch his brother's restless sleep, bracing himself for the inevitable morning and all that its return would mean. It had taken him what felt like ages just to get Sam to sleep, to convince him that everything would look better in the morning - better was subjective, but at least then the direct impact would be over; in the morning, there could begin mourning, and wasn't it funny how the words went together like that?
It's not Madison he's upset over; if it wasn't for the effect her death had on Sam, he wouldn't give half as much of a damn about her or what happened to her. Would have killed her himself, except that Sam thought he was responsible, that it was his burden when Dean gladly would have taken it for him. It was so stupid - god, he could have killed her for making Sam do the deed, tearing wounds open to gaping, and Dean was no surgeon, he didn't know how to fix this. It had been a funny kind of optimism he'd felt when he thought Madison was okay, and she and Sam would have... something. Whatever it was, whatever it turned out to be. He'd just thought Sam looked happy for a few minutes there, and it had been a hell of a long time since he'd seen that.
So of course, it had all come to a crashing finish, the finale of the tragedy with all its attendant bass chords and percussion fit to deafen. They'd pulled the curtains closed, but left a crack open for the private despair to continue, for Sam's sadness and the great metaphor Dean had been trying to disprove for months now.
He stayed just outside the motel room door for a little while, judging the time by Modesto's fluorescent and neon signs blinking slowly out of life like a message in morse code that he couldn't decipher. He didn't want to - he knew what messages he would get these days, short angry missives about stupidity, abandonment, duty. Hope and the lack thereof that was eating him alive on these long sleepless nights, trying to find something to hold on to, a way to swing from day to day without losing it completely. Finding the hand holds was getting harder, and he gave his over to his brother, let himself fall. He didn't care if it was a ten-storey drop.
By the time he left the motel, it was going on one thirty, and the bar he wound up in was open 'til three. He didn't try to talk to anyone but the bartender, strong shots of whiskey easily making up for the bitter long chill that he hadn't been able to escape since they left Madison's apartment, thawing some of the tension that had gripped him since well before that. It burned on the way down, and at this point it was appreciated. He didn't drink enough to forget - he knew better, knew what the morning would bring if he had enough to make it seem like his problems or Sam's were any less than they actually were - but he drank enough to blur the edges of the worry and pain, make them a little less painful, as if there was ever any real hope for that.
He got into a fight just before close, and it felt good to just beat the shit out of a couple of guys, get his ass kicked out of the bar grinning like he'd accomplished more than just giving a couple of alcoholics headaches. The adrenaline rush did almost as much for him as the alcohol, and the bruises he collected edged off some of the less physical pain, replacing it in his mind. It was an okay feeling, and it gave him enough... what? Courage? Maybe something like that. Whatever it was, it got him back to the motel, slipping back in the door just after four, casting a nervous glance at his brother's bed and relieved to find it still occupied; Sam had hardly moved since he left.
This was what it came down to, in the end. To bare motel rooms opening onto the street, responsibilities, a car that felt more like home than any house they'd ever lived in. Sweat and blood, beer and old movies and a constant pervasive fear threading just below the baseline. To losing everything but each other and having to pick up the pieces again, even if they weren't quite sure how to make the jagged edges fit together again, had to get out the Scotch tape. The only permanent things were the car, the road, and each other. It wouldn't have been so tragic if Dean didn't know how much Sam wanted more.
So Dean stood in the doorway, the shadows long in the dark twilight hour just before dawn, helpless and impotent against this new catastrophe, just drunk enough and just tired enough to stay where he was. Failing even now, but it didn't mean he wouldn't try. Even if there was no way for him to help his brother, even if he was a prick who'd dodged his responsibilities and run when he couldn't handle how dark the night got...
He had promised. He had told Sam that if it was the last thing he ever did, he was going to save him, and he wasn't about to go back on that. It wasn't just protection against evil. God, it could never be that simple. It would never be as easy as making sure Sam didn't hurt anybody, that he stayed exactly as good as he was now.
He wasn't even sure it was possible, but he wished he could... he wanted to save his brother from him. From this life. From losing every single person he got attached to. And it hurt like hell to even think about it, about letting his brother go and divorcing him from hunting, from the life they led. But sooner or later, he would have to.
He wouldn't let Sam live and die like he would.
Author: Ry (curseangel / dreamsforlease)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for 2x17 "Heart".
Characters/Pairings: Sam and Dean Winchester.
Summary: Inspired by the Barenaked Ladies song "Half a Heart", in particular the lines: "In the space between sleep and sleeplessness / we redress all our wounds / if we replace all this hopeless hopelessness / then we could rest." Dean, the night after.
He leaves once he's sure Sam's asleep, curled up around natty motel blankets like a kid who's afraid of the dark. He can't sleep and he can't sit up and watch his brother's restless sleep, bracing himself for the inevitable morning and all that its return would mean. It had taken him what felt like ages just to get Sam to sleep, to convince him that everything would look better in the morning - better was subjective, but at least then the direct impact would be over; in the morning, there could begin mourning, and wasn't it funny how the words went together like that?
It's not Madison he's upset over; if it wasn't for the effect her death had on Sam, he wouldn't give half as much of a damn about her or what happened to her. Would have killed her himself, except that Sam thought he was responsible, that it was his burden when Dean gladly would have taken it for him. It was so stupid - god, he could have killed her for making Sam do the deed, tearing wounds open to gaping, and Dean was no surgeon, he didn't know how to fix this. It had been a funny kind of optimism he'd felt when he thought Madison was okay, and she and Sam would have... something. Whatever it was, whatever it turned out to be. He'd just thought Sam looked happy for a few minutes there, and it had been a hell of a long time since he'd seen that.
So of course, it had all come to a crashing finish, the finale of the tragedy with all its attendant bass chords and percussion fit to deafen. They'd pulled the curtains closed, but left a crack open for the private despair to continue, for Sam's sadness and the great metaphor Dean had been trying to disprove for months now.
He stayed just outside the motel room door for a little while, judging the time by Modesto's fluorescent and neon signs blinking slowly out of life like a message in morse code that he couldn't decipher. He didn't want to - he knew what messages he would get these days, short angry missives about stupidity, abandonment, duty. Hope and the lack thereof that was eating him alive on these long sleepless nights, trying to find something to hold on to, a way to swing from day to day without losing it completely. Finding the hand holds was getting harder, and he gave his over to his brother, let himself fall. He didn't care if it was a ten-storey drop.
By the time he left the motel, it was going on one thirty, and the bar he wound up in was open 'til three. He didn't try to talk to anyone but the bartender, strong shots of whiskey easily making up for the bitter long chill that he hadn't been able to escape since they left Madison's apartment, thawing some of the tension that had gripped him since well before that. It burned on the way down, and at this point it was appreciated. He didn't drink enough to forget - he knew better, knew what the morning would bring if he had enough to make it seem like his problems or Sam's were any less than they actually were - but he drank enough to blur the edges of the worry and pain, make them a little less painful, as if there was ever any real hope for that.
He got into a fight just before close, and it felt good to just beat the shit out of a couple of guys, get his ass kicked out of the bar grinning like he'd accomplished more than just giving a couple of alcoholics headaches. The adrenaline rush did almost as much for him as the alcohol, and the bruises he collected edged off some of the less physical pain, replacing it in his mind. It was an okay feeling, and it gave him enough... what? Courage? Maybe something like that. Whatever it was, it got him back to the motel, slipping back in the door just after four, casting a nervous glance at his brother's bed and relieved to find it still occupied; Sam had hardly moved since he left.
This was what it came down to, in the end. To bare motel rooms opening onto the street, responsibilities, a car that felt more like home than any house they'd ever lived in. Sweat and blood, beer and old movies and a constant pervasive fear threading just below the baseline. To losing everything but each other and having to pick up the pieces again, even if they weren't quite sure how to make the jagged edges fit together again, had to get out the Scotch tape. The only permanent things were the car, the road, and each other. It wouldn't have been so tragic if Dean didn't know how much Sam wanted more.
So Dean stood in the doorway, the shadows long in the dark twilight hour just before dawn, helpless and impotent against this new catastrophe, just drunk enough and just tired enough to stay where he was. Failing even now, but it didn't mean he wouldn't try. Even if there was no way for him to help his brother, even if he was a prick who'd dodged his responsibilities and run when he couldn't handle how dark the night got...
He had promised. He had told Sam that if it was the last thing he ever did, he was going to save him, and he wasn't about to go back on that. It wasn't just protection against evil. God, it could never be that simple. It would never be as easy as making sure Sam didn't hurt anybody, that he stayed exactly as good as he was now.
He wasn't even sure it was possible, but he wished he could... he wanted to save his brother from him. From this life. From losing every single person he got attached to. And it hurt like hell to even think about it, about letting his brother go and divorcing him from hunting, from the life they led. But sooner or later, he would have to.
He wouldn't let Sam live and die like he would.