Supernatural Fic: and for a moment, we spin like martyrs
and for a moment, we spin like martyrs
sam/dean- pg
1660 words
general spoilers; pre-series
For the last time, Sam spots his brother on the edge of his bed.
I spoke too soon.
Radiohead| SAIL TO THE MOON
-
For the last time, Sam spots his brother on the edge of his bed.
Dean’s shoulders are slumped, dust matted across the thighs of his jeans as the laces of his boots crack across the carpet. There’s still blood on his hands, a mix of his and Dad’s stilled around the creases in his palms.
It’s been a long day. A long two days, the peaking of his relationship with Dad tapering out in the middle of a hunt. Whatever happened, people are dead and moving on shifts to the end of the week.
Always the end of the week.
At least for them, he thinks. The weighted silence in the room is almost too much, too unusual considering the circumstances, but this is the first time, Sam thinks, that he’s seen Dean just tired. His face drops into his hands.
“Have to get him later,” he mutters.
Sam nods, his fingers wrapping around his empty bags- he’s tossed the spare revolvers and crucifixes on the kitchen table. He shifts off the frame of the door and drops them to the bed. The wood creaks and he sighs again, his hands digging into his pockets. In one, his fingers curl around a small envelope screaming congratulations, this is your ticket out of here!, one way to California like a moaning country song. Paper rustles against the fabric and Sam’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.
“I hid the bottles,” he offers, scuffling into the room. The door shuts. “Jack’s by the trashcan at the end of the driveway.”
Dean nods.
If there’s anything to understand, understand this: Sam is still very much the awkward teenager with legs that are too long, a flush of anger and embarrassment tattooed across his cheeks as a series of permanent reminders. He understands more than he thinks, he’s good with books, pages, and rationalizations that stray to empathy. Dean’s been at this longer because of history. Because Dad didn’t know how to take care of them anymore. But Sam’s restlessness steams from craving life, night after night watching dead that rises, the secrets in the corners, and living with the notion that there are realities to his nightmares.
It’s done.
Inevitably, Sam coats it with theories of needing his own place. But that can only last so long.
“Need-” Dean’s voice spills into his thoughts, but stops as the bed moans under his weight. Sam looks up and watches as he shifts back, a lazy arm covering his eyes as he finds a spot. “Need any help?”
“No.” And then, as an added afterthought: “Thanks.”
It’s a new city, he remembers, and tomorrow, tomorrow will be another one. At some point, even as a kid, they blur into the same place. Sometimes it’s a motel. Sometimes it’s a house with windows. The point is, whether pictures are hidden or not, they’re still strangers, family in name, in spurts of moments, and Sam can’t do this anymore.
All he wants is to stay still.
“What time are you leaving tomorrow?”
Sam looks up, his hands curling around a makeshift pile of laundry and tossing it onto his bed. The tickets are off to the side, now tucked into a general Latin guide- Sam’s good, but careful and despite everything, there’s no need to go out of practice. He seems to keep telling himself this.
“Nine-thirty,” he answers, turning. “Got a shuttle.”
Dean says nothing.
-
He’s still up when Dean and Dad come back.
He moves to the door, to watch the routine, dropping a bag by his feet. He doesn’t have much to bring with, other than quiet scams and the necessities. Sam’s a survivor at heart, he’ll be fine.
His lips purse as Dean grunts, kicking the door open wider. Dad’s arm is slung across his shoulders, his head rolling off to the side. It’s an awkward hold, Dad’s weight unbalanced as they manage to get in.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Dean breathes.
There’s a moan and Sam barely keeps any memories of John Winchester than this, dirt streaked across his cheeks and Mary his series of drinking songs. There’s the man in the pictures, of course, and the man that used to show up to PTA meetings and teacher conferences with a wide smile. Of course, there are the pictures that they hide in drawers, pull out for company and old friends that really don’t need them but they do it anyway. These pictures focus glances and nothing more.
“Need-” Sam pauses, swallowing. It doesn’t feel right, even after the fight this morning, the decision’s already made. It’s sticking. But he’s dad. “Need help?”
Dean’s eyes are dark. “Nah. I got it.”
His voice is too calm and Sam’s hands dip into his pockets, his fingers curling as Dean settles Dad. Sam can’t help himself, stepping forward and turning on the television. ESPN reruns, the same thing for years, the Celtics and the Knicks, and old school rivalries. Dad’s a football guy anyway, but it’s really about the normalcy of noise, the little things.
“Go to bed, Sam.”
Dean drops to the coffee table, sitting over scattered incantations and old bibles. His hands brush against his jeans, once, then twice. Dean has a series of habits that Sam knows more than by heart now, the motions of his hands a clear indication of his mood. It’s how he talks, the constant movement so obviously-
Can he do this?
The second-guessing curls in his throat and all he can think about saying is i’m sorry because there’s nothing else he can think of.
He’s leaving.
“Go to bed, Sam,” Dean repeats.
Dad’s snores filter lightly between the two of them. He’s a heavy sleeper for a couple hours, but after a certain time, he breaks the haze. Night is a moment of mistrust for all of them, it’s years of being on edge.
He shakes his head. “Come to bed.”
Silence creeps between them, but Dean doesn’t stand. His gaze drops to Dad, as Sam watches, a sigh functioning from both their ends.
“I’ll be right in.”
“Fine.”
Sam turns, momentarily satisfied, and disappears into the bedroom. He said something, right? An effort, a push- he doesn’t understand why now, here, even after the culmination of fights with Dad, questioning motivations. He wasn’t the good solider, he didn’t know how to be. His yes, sir always dabbled in hesitation and he wonders why Dad was so keening on pushing him.
But it doesn’t matter now, words are behind them, and Sam’s starting to embrace the idea that there are going to be other things, smaller things, to grapple with.
For once, the change will stand still.
- but he’d be a liar, if he didn’t admit it made him uneasy and the details, always the details, are starting to scare him.
-
It’s after four when Dean comes into their room.
The hum of the television fades in the opening and closing of the door, a scuffle, and a curse. There’s a shuffle too and Sam’s barely awake for all of this, refusing to question why he even still tries.
“He okay?”
There’s a soft snort. “Yeah.”
Sam bites back a sigh, shifting to turn on his side. His legs curl and his hand brushes over the sheets. He’s been struggling, there are letters of goodbyes waiting in his bag for handing out. But they’re blank, blank, and no matter how angry he is-
It shouldn’t be like this. But he’s made the decision.
“I’m pissed.”
Sam stills. “What?”
There’s a rustle and then the bed dips low as Dean drops onto his bed, adjusting to the size so that it can hold the two of them. Sam’s eyes brush open and he waits, his gaze stopping at the floor.
“I’m pissed,” Dean says slowly. “But I’ll get over it. So stop worryin’ about it, Sammy. Shit happens. Move on.”
It’s terse and loaded, things that aren’t meant to be touched but there. Sam feels the weight of acknowledgment, but doesn’t take it.
He doesn’t know how.
His mouth drops instead and he turns, his knee brushing Dean’s thigh. Dean’s on his back, his head turned up, but he doesn’t move as Sam stills next to him. He tries searching for the words, but doesn’t find them.
“I just-”
There’s a sigh. Dean’s hand slides against his arm. “He’s proud of you,” he murmurs almost awkwardly. These reassurances are nothing new and yet, same as before, they feel hollow even from Dean. “But you gotta accept that it’s gonna be awhile- We’ll be alright, okay? Just stop thinking about it.”
Sam’s throat is dry. The color of Dean’s voice is too thick for him to grasp each word in context, but his mind stretches anyway. Sure, the fight was bad- he and Dad fight and fight hard, it’s the way they’ve always been. But this is leaving.
This is really leaving. And maybe, maybe he hasn’t really grasped the context as well as he thought before.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. It could mean a number of things, apologies then and now, but the words stumble as his head drops against Dean’s shoulder.
Dean inhales and Sam’s eyes close tightly when his hand drops into his hair. It doesn’t move, the weight staying as nothing passes between them. His fingers then move back and forth slowly, the meaning disappearing to Sam. He wants to ask the question, the question, but that right’s been long gone.
“I’ll be fine, Sam,” he says lightly.
Sam snorts, looking up. He doesn’t push forward, but manages as nod of concede. There’s nothing to say, as always, things shelved for another misadventure in opportunity. He doesn’t believe Dean, but the reminder is there.
He’s stepped away from this.
“Okay.” He tries. “Okay.”
The springs groan under their weight and Dean’s mouth brushes against his forehead. He sighs and settles.
He knows.
In the morning, they’ll be gone before him.
end.
sam/dean- pg
1660 words
general spoilers; pre-series
For the last time, Sam spots his brother on the edge of his bed.
I spoke too soon.
Radiohead| SAIL TO THE MOON
-
For the last time, Sam spots his brother on the edge of his bed.
Dean’s shoulders are slumped, dust matted across the thighs of his jeans as the laces of his boots crack across the carpet. There’s still blood on his hands, a mix of his and Dad’s stilled around the creases in his palms.
It’s been a long day. A long two days, the peaking of his relationship with Dad tapering out in the middle of a hunt. Whatever happened, people are dead and moving on shifts to the end of the week.
Always the end of the week.
At least for them, he thinks. The weighted silence in the room is almost too much, too unusual considering the circumstances, but this is the first time, Sam thinks, that he’s seen Dean just tired. His face drops into his hands.
“Have to get him later,” he mutters.
Sam nods, his fingers wrapping around his empty bags- he’s tossed the spare revolvers and crucifixes on the kitchen table. He shifts off the frame of the door and drops them to the bed. The wood creaks and he sighs again, his hands digging into his pockets. In one, his fingers curl around a small envelope screaming congratulations, this is your ticket out of here!, one way to California like a moaning country song. Paper rustles against the fabric and Sam’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth.
“I hid the bottles,” he offers, scuffling into the room. The door shuts. “Jack’s by the trashcan at the end of the driveway.”
Dean nods.
If there’s anything to understand, understand this: Sam is still very much the awkward teenager with legs that are too long, a flush of anger and embarrassment tattooed across his cheeks as a series of permanent reminders. He understands more than he thinks, he’s good with books, pages, and rationalizations that stray to empathy. Dean’s been at this longer because of history. Because Dad didn’t know how to take care of them anymore. But Sam’s restlessness steams from craving life, night after night watching dead that rises, the secrets in the corners, and living with the notion that there are realities to his nightmares.
It’s done.
Inevitably, Sam coats it with theories of needing his own place. But that can only last so long.
“Need-” Dean’s voice spills into his thoughts, but stops as the bed moans under his weight. Sam looks up and watches as he shifts back, a lazy arm covering his eyes as he finds a spot. “Need any help?”
“No.” And then, as an added afterthought: “Thanks.”
It’s a new city, he remembers, and tomorrow, tomorrow will be another one. At some point, even as a kid, they blur into the same place. Sometimes it’s a motel. Sometimes it’s a house with windows. The point is, whether pictures are hidden or not, they’re still strangers, family in name, in spurts of moments, and Sam can’t do this anymore.
All he wants is to stay still.
“What time are you leaving tomorrow?”
Sam looks up, his hands curling around a makeshift pile of laundry and tossing it onto his bed. The tickets are off to the side, now tucked into a general Latin guide- Sam’s good, but careful and despite everything, there’s no need to go out of practice. He seems to keep telling himself this.
“Nine-thirty,” he answers, turning. “Got a shuttle.”
Dean says nothing.
-
He’s still up when Dean and Dad come back.
He moves to the door, to watch the routine, dropping a bag by his feet. He doesn’t have much to bring with, other than quiet scams and the necessities. Sam’s a survivor at heart, he’ll be fine.
His lips purse as Dean grunts, kicking the door open wider. Dad’s arm is slung across his shoulders, his head rolling off to the side. It’s an awkward hold, Dad’s weight unbalanced as they manage to get in.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Dean breathes.
There’s a moan and Sam barely keeps any memories of John Winchester than this, dirt streaked across his cheeks and Mary his series of drinking songs. There’s the man in the pictures, of course, and the man that used to show up to PTA meetings and teacher conferences with a wide smile. Of course, there are the pictures that they hide in drawers, pull out for company and old friends that really don’t need them but they do it anyway. These pictures focus glances and nothing more.
“Need-” Sam pauses, swallowing. It doesn’t feel right, even after the fight this morning, the decision’s already made. It’s sticking. But he’s dad. “Need help?”
Dean’s eyes are dark. “Nah. I got it.”
His voice is too calm and Sam’s hands dip into his pockets, his fingers curling as Dean settles Dad. Sam can’t help himself, stepping forward and turning on the television. ESPN reruns, the same thing for years, the Celtics and the Knicks, and old school rivalries. Dad’s a football guy anyway, but it’s really about the normalcy of noise, the little things.
“Go to bed, Sam.”
Dean drops to the coffee table, sitting over scattered incantations and old bibles. His hands brush against his jeans, once, then twice. Dean has a series of habits that Sam knows more than by heart now, the motions of his hands a clear indication of his mood. It’s how he talks, the constant movement so obviously-
Can he do this?
The second-guessing curls in his throat and all he can think about saying is i’m sorry because there’s nothing else he can think of.
He’s leaving.
“Go to bed, Sam,” Dean repeats.
Dad’s snores filter lightly between the two of them. He’s a heavy sleeper for a couple hours, but after a certain time, he breaks the haze. Night is a moment of mistrust for all of them, it’s years of being on edge.
He shakes his head. “Come to bed.”
Silence creeps between them, but Dean doesn’t stand. His gaze drops to Dad, as Sam watches, a sigh functioning from both their ends.
“I’ll be right in.”
“Fine.”
Sam turns, momentarily satisfied, and disappears into the bedroom. He said something, right? An effort, a push- he doesn’t understand why now, here, even after the culmination of fights with Dad, questioning motivations. He wasn’t the good solider, he didn’t know how to be. His yes, sir always dabbled in hesitation and he wonders why Dad was so keening on pushing him.
But it doesn’t matter now, words are behind them, and Sam’s starting to embrace the idea that there are going to be other things, smaller things, to grapple with.
For once, the change will stand still.
- but he’d be a liar, if he didn’t admit it made him uneasy and the details, always the details, are starting to scare him.
-
It’s after four when Dean comes into their room.
The hum of the television fades in the opening and closing of the door, a scuffle, and a curse. There’s a shuffle too and Sam’s barely awake for all of this, refusing to question why he even still tries.
“He okay?”
There’s a soft snort. “Yeah.”
Sam bites back a sigh, shifting to turn on his side. His legs curl and his hand brushes over the sheets. He’s been struggling, there are letters of goodbyes waiting in his bag for handing out. But they’re blank, blank, and no matter how angry he is-
It shouldn’t be like this. But he’s made the decision.
“I’m pissed.”
Sam stills. “What?”
There’s a rustle and then the bed dips low as Dean drops onto his bed, adjusting to the size so that it can hold the two of them. Sam’s eyes brush open and he waits, his gaze stopping at the floor.
“I’m pissed,” Dean says slowly. “But I’ll get over it. So stop worryin’ about it, Sammy. Shit happens. Move on.”
It’s terse and loaded, things that aren’t meant to be touched but there. Sam feels the weight of acknowledgment, but doesn’t take it.
He doesn’t know how.
His mouth drops instead and he turns, his knee brushing Dean’s thigh. Dean’s on his back, his head turned up, but he doesn’t move as Sam stills next to him. He tries searching for the words, but doesn’t find them.
“I just-”
There’s a sigh. Dean’s hand slides against his arm. “He’s proud of you,” he murmurs almost awkwardly. These reassurances are nothing new and yet, same as before, they feel hollow even from Dean. “But you gotta accept that it’s gonna be awhile- We’ll be alright, okay? Just stop thinking about it.”
Sam’s throat is dry. The color of Dean’s voice is too thick for him to grasp each word in context, but his mind stretches anyway. Sure, the fight was bad- he and Dad fight and fight hard, it’s the way they’ve always been. But this is leaving.
This is really leaving. And maybe, maybe he hasn’t really grasped the context as well as he thought before.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. It could mean a number of things, apologies then and now, but the words stumble as his head drops against Dean’s shoulder.
Dean inhales and Sam’s eyes close tightly when his hand drops into his hair. It doesn’t move, the weight staying as nothing passes between them. His fingers then move back and forth slowly, the meaning disappearing to Sam. He wants to ask the question, the question, but that right’s been long gone.
“I’ll be fine, Sam,” he says lightly.
Sam snorts, looking up. He doesn’t push forward, but manages as nod of concede. There’s nothing to say, as always, things shelved for another misadventure in opportunity. He doesn’t believe Dean, but the reminder is there.
He’s stepped away from this.
“Okay.” He tries. “Okay.”
The springs groan under their weight and Dean’s mouth brushes against his forehead. He sighs and settles.
He knows.
In the morning, they’ll be gone before him.
end.