A Quiet Retirement
Title: A Quiet Retirement
Summary: Written for the Sneezy Sammy comment fic meme. Dean decides Sam's been through enough, and it's time to hang up their salt and holy water. It's a short one.
Warnings/Spoilers: R for language, Spoilers through S5
Author's Note: Aftermath-verse.
Giving up hunting is easier than Dean ever imagined.
God knows he's tried to walk away from this life. He's tried to build something else for himself. Eventually, he always gets sucked back in.
But Sam's back from hell and Dean's little brother is finally breaking.
Dean only has to look into his eyes once to know he's done.
***
They're squatting in someone's summer home for the moment (there was no exit strategy, how could there be, they've always expected to die on the job and fucking stay down) and Sam's late to breakfast. Dean finds him upstairs, sitting on the edge of his bed and taking those short, sharp breaths that mean he's in trouble.
There isn't anything Dean can do for Sam during his hallucinations. Trying to talk to him just confuses Sam, because he's fighting to maintain a perception of what's real and anything Dean says or does feels contrived to him.
So, while Sam gasps and shivers and fists his hands in the sheets, Dean takes down all the books from the shelves and builds with them, giant book towers and two lane book roads and a book church, a whole neighborhood laid out over Sam's floor.
Sam will come back and know he was here, and Dean needs to fill this house with his presence to make it safe enough for his brother.
***
Sam resurfaces at lunch time - Dean’s making grilled cheese - and says, “you know, the scale on that is all wrong. Your towers are ridiculously short based on the width of your roads.”
“Yeah, well, everything probably looks ridiculously short from way up there.” Dean flips a sandwich onto a plate and sets it before his brother.
“You do,” Sam says agreeably. Bitch.
***
They’re watching TV and he drifts off a little, his gaze shifting to the corner, his eyes unfocused, and Dean snaps his fingers and goes, “dude.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, a stock response, not really answering, not really focusing.
So Dean grabs a handful of Cheetos and mashes them against his brother’s shirt, rubs the powdery cheese in like it’s finger paint, and Sam’s back and yelling at him to fuck off and stop being such a dick.
“Never,” Dean says.
***
Sometimes it’s still bad.
In the middle of dinner, Sam drops his fork with a clatter and his eyes roll back a little, and he grips the table and groans and Dean knows it’s hurting him, whatever he’s seeing, and that’s just not ever going to be okay.
He scoops his brother up in his arms, all seven gigantic feet of him (Dean has been training in the field all his life so he’s nothing if not strong, he can do this for Sammy now) and takes him to the couch. “Hey,” he whispers, holding Sam’s hand, resting his forehead on Sam’s shoulder, “that other idiot can’t follow us in here, remember? Angel-proof.”
Sam blinks, comes back a little. “Angel-proof.”
“Remember?”
“We painted sigils?”
“Yeah, all over the room. It’s our cave. No angels of any kind in here, kid.” Not even the half-imaginary devil on your shoulder.
Sam cries and says, “Can we do the whole house?”
This is why they don’t hunt anymore.
***
“Are you even watching this?” Dean demands. “Hey.” He flicks water at Sam.
Sam blinks. “What?”
“You’re the one who wanted to watch the stupid weather channel. If you’re not even going to watch, I’m changing it.”
Sam grins. “Jerk. I’m here.”
“Good. Well, stay here.”
He does.
Summary: Written for the Sneezy Sammy comment fic meme. Dean decides Sam's been through enough, and it's time to hang up their salt and holy water. It's a short one.
Warnings/Spoilers: R for language, Spoilers through S5
Author's Note: Aftermath-verse.
Giving up hunting is easier than Dean ever imagined.
God knows he's tried to walk away from this life. He's tried to build something else for himself. Eventually, he always gets sucked back in.
But Sam's back from hell and Dean's little brother is finally breaking.
Dean only has to look into his eyes once to know he's done.
***
They're squatting in someone's summer home for the moment (there was no exit strategy, how could there be, they've always expected to die on the job and fucking stay down) and Sam's late to breakfast. Dean finds him upstairs, sitting on the edge of his bed and taking those short, sharp breaths that mean he's in trouble.
There isn't anything Dean can do for Sam during his hallucinations. Trying to talk to him just confuses Sam, because he's fighting to maintain a perception of what's real and anything Dean says or does feels contrived to him.
So, while Sam gasps and shivers and fists his hands in the sheets, Dean takes down all the books from the shelves and builds with them, giant book towers and two lane book roads and a book church, a whole neighborhood laid out over Sam's floor.
Sam will come back and know he was here, and Dean needs to fill this house with his presence to make it safe enough for his brother.
***
Sam resurfaces at lunch time - Dean’s making grilled cheese - and says, “you know, the scale on that is all wrong. Your towers are ridiculously short based on the width of your roads.”
“Yeah, well, everything probably looks ridiculously short from way up there.” Dean flips a sandwich onto a plate and sets it before his brother.
“You do,” Sam says agreeably. Bitch.
***
They’re watching TV and he drifts off a little, his gaze shifting to the corner, his eyes unfocused, and Dean snaps his fingers and goes, “dude.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, a stock response, not really answering, not really focusing.
So Dean grabs a handful of Cheetos and mashes them against his brother’s shirt, rubs the powdery cheese in like it’s finger paint, and Sam’s back and yelling at him to fuck off and stop being such a dick.
“Never,” Dean says.
***
Sometimes it’s still bad.
In the middle of dinner, Sam drops his fork with a clatter and his eyes roll back a little, and he grips the table and groans and Dean knows it’s hurting him, whatever he’s seeing, and that’s just not ever going to be okay.
He scoops his brother up in his arms, all seven gigantic feet of him (Dean has been training in the field all his life so he’s nothing if not strong, he can do this for Sammy now) and takes him to the couch. “Hey,” he whispers, holding Sam’s hand, resting his forehead on Sam’s shoulder, “that other idiot can’t follow us in here, remember? Angel-proof.”
Sam blinks, comes back a little. “Angel-proof.”
“Remember?”
“We painted sigils?”
“Yeah, all over the room. It’s our cave. No angels of any kind in here, kid.” Not even the half-imaginary devil on your shoulder.
Sam cries and says, “Can we do the whole house?”
This is why they don’t hunt anymore.
***
“Are you even watching this?” Dean demands. “Hey.” He flicks water at Sam.
Sam blinks. “What?”
“You’re the one who wanted to watch the stupid weather channel. If you’re not even going to watch, I’m changing it.”
Sam grins. “Jerk. I’m here.”
“Good. Well, stay here.”
He does.