[Supernatural]: Out of Discord
Title: Out of Discord
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: Dean POV mirror-fic of Everything Flows, Nothing Remains. Rumors of his death have been greatly exaggerated.
Notes: I went back and forth on whether to just leave this one alone or give into impulse and add more. And...gave into impulse, obviously. The original is still better here, but this was kind of fun to do. And an interesting experience, to try to work out how to write this without making it the same fic twice. You know? Or something. ...yeah. (If anyone cares, the title is from Heraclitus: the full quote is "Out of discord comes the fairest harmony." Yep.
It was a stupid hunt.
That was what Dean remembered about it afterward, that it was a stupid hunt that didn’t even turn out to be a hunt, just a guy taking off for a couple days in an area that happened to have a pretty high crime rate. They were both bored, they were both a mess, and both of them had jumped at something that looked like it might be any kind of interesting.
So they split up to do the research, Dean went out to canvass the area and Sam to interview witnesses, and came up empty by late afternoon. If by ‘empty’ you meant ‘turned up the guy who’d mysteriously vanished drunk off his ass in a sketchy motel.’ They were going to leave the next morning.
Dean went out to get dinner.
On the way there, his wallet and phone went missing. He didn’t even notice until he got to the diner (fucker was good) and by the time he walked back to the motel (empty handed) the worst he expected was that Sam would make fun of him.
Sam was already gone.
The room was a mess. There was a broken glass on the table by the window. The TV screen was broken. The entire place was, in short, trashed. And Sam’s phone was sitting on the table, the only undamaged thing in the room.
Panic building anything but gradually, Dean checked the call log. The last incoming was from a number he didn’t recognize. He called it, ready to snarl down the line what did you do, what-
It was the police station.
Dean suddenly felt his whole body go cold.
**
Sam wasn’t at the police station.
Sam had been, however. Sam had been brought in, he learned, through careful questioning, to identify a body. Oh shit, Dean was already thinking, oh shit, even before he asked, “Whose body?”
It was his current alias.
Dean’s brain kicked into overdrive. Sam was probably just trying to work out where he was. Sam had freaked out and come down here in a rush, seen that the body wasn’t him, and taken off to go find out where Dean was. He would probably be back at the motel by now. Probably everything was fine. Probably there was nothing to worry about. Sam was fine. Sam was doing great.
“Is something wrong?” One of the policemen asked, eyeing him narrowly, and Dean forced a smile.
“No,” he said. “Nothing’s wrong.”
It wasn’t, dammit. It wasn’t.
**
Sam wasn’t back at the motel. His gear was still there, but the duffel was unzipped. Dean couldn’t tell if anything had been taken out. Had Sam’s gun been on top where there was now an empty space? Something else?
Sam’s fine he knows it wasn’t me he’s fine he wouldn’t he wouldn’t he wouldn’t-
His eyes were drawn by the glass on the table. There was blood on it. A trail of drips leading from the trail to the door. Dean felt like he was going to be sick. His brain was going too fast. He couldn’t think clearly.
He had to find Sam.
Sam please be okay oh god please be okay if you’re gone if you’re gone-
This town wasn’t so big. Sam couldn’t be far. He couldn’t be… (already gone, the picture too clear too easy because they both knew now how well they lived without each other and Sam had lasted before but-)
Dean headed out the door. If it wasn’t full tilt it was a near thing.
Sam was out there somewhere. Somehow, Sam thought he was dead. (Sam wasn’t fine.)
(He wasn’t fine.)
**
He found Sam striding tall and dark and silent down a dark alley like some kind of fucked up vigilante, a gun in his hand clearly visible. “Sam!” he called, and it was like Sam hadn’t heard him, because he just kept walking, right up until Dean grabbed his arm to stop him and said, “Sam, Jesus, listen to me,” and then Sam looked at him.
Looked at him and Dean had to try not to let go and was suddenly really, really glad he hadn’t been around to see this before (any of the times before) because God, Sam, and Sam was trying to pull away and saying no, it’s not you, no, stop, I have to- and Dean was pretty sure he’d heard ‘identify the body’ somewhere in there and fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Sam, it’s me,” Dean said, desperate, and Sam hesitated, paused. Something flickered, just for a moment, in his (desolate) eyes. Sam’s left hand lifted and Dean felt blood and small shards of glass rub against his cheek, just for a moment, before Sam drew his fingers away. He fought not to flinch.
“Oh,” said Sam, and his whole body seemed to sag. “…oh.”
Then he was shaking, a little at first and then more violently until his teeth were clattering together and Dean pulled off his coat and wrapped it around Sam’s shoulder’s, eased the gun out his hand. “Let’s go,” he said, quietly. “Come on, Sam.”
**
Sam’s hand was a mess. Sam had fallen apart without him. Sam still looked vague and kind of shell-shocked. Dean’s chest hurt, and his eyes hurt, and he kind of wanted to just wrap Sam up in a blanket and never take him anywhere again, but that would probably not work too well for either of them.
Sam sat perfectly still like too much movement might make him (both of them, either of them) disappear while Dean put his hand back together (again). Put his brother back together (again). Little less of the second one, though. Dean wasn’t sure anyone could do the second one now. (For some reason, he missed Bobby then, more than ever.)
“I thought you were dead,” Sam said in a small voice.
“I figured that out,” Dean said, and tried to keep his voice from turning dry. Sam twitched, just a little. “Someone took my stuff.” Sam’s head bobbed up and then down in a jerky nod. He was still trembling, minutely. “I’m fine,” Dean said, and tried to sound convincing. “Sam, look at me. I’m fine.”
“It’s happened before,” Sam said, voice kind of shattered. “A hundred times. More than…it’s happened before. Dean. What if…”
If Dean ever ran across the Trickster - Gabriel, whatever - again, if he somehow came back from the dead, he swore he was going to come up with something suitably creative and excruciating to inflict on the bastard, archangel or no archangel. Sam glanced up at him, eyes damp and wide and so goddamn young it hurt, because Sam wasn’t young anymore, wasn’t innocent, hadn’t been for a long time, and sometimes Dean still wanted him to be.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, like he’d done something wrong, “I’m okay,” like Dean was going to believe that, and Dean cursed under his breath, narrowing his gaze to the tweezers and Sam’s mess of a hand, shards of glass embedded in skin, pulling the last few out and then reaching for the gauze and wrapping it around Sam’s hand.
“Yeah,” he said, hoping he sounded reassuring. “You’re okay.”
Sam, who had been looking down at his hands, looked up very slightly. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he said, voice trembling just slightly.
“Yeah, me too,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice light, like he was joking. “Me too, Sammy.” He hesitated for a second, and then reached out and patted Sam’s knee, awkwardly, and started to stand up.
Sam didn’t let him get that far, practically lunged at him, actually, and wrapped his arms around Dean like some kind of giant octopus, latched onto him like Dean had actually died because that was the only time they hugged anymore. He could hear Sam’s heart beating away just a little too fast against his chest.
Dean laid his hands flat against Sam’s back and tried to feel as alive as possible. Sam’s eyes were squeezed closed and it hurt to look at him. Wrap Sam up in a blanket. Seriously.
He wasn’t letting go. “Sam, it’s okay,” Dean said, and Sam shook his head, minutely. “Sam,” Dean said, trying to sound more strident. Sam’s left hand clenched in his shirt, blood spotting through the gauze, and he didn’t answer.
Dean gave up, and let his head drop down so his chin rested in Sam’s hair. “You’re okay,” he said again. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
They weren’t.
But at least they were both still alive. Right now, it seemed like that was about all they could ask.
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: Dean POV mirror-fic of Everything Flows, Nothing Remains. Rumors of his death have been greatly exaggerated.
Notes: I went back and forth on whether to just leave this one alone or give into impulse and add more. And...gave into impulse, obviously. The original is still better here, but this was kind of fun to do. And an interesting experience, to try to work out how to write this without making it the same fic twice. You know? Or something. ...yeah. (If anyone cares, the title is from Heraclitus: the full quote is "Out of discord comes the fairest harmony." Yep.
It was a stupid hunt.
That was what Dean remembered about it afterward, that it was a stupid hunt that didn’t even turn out to be a hunt, just a guy taking off for a couple days in an area that happened to have a pretty high crime rate. They were both bored, they were both a mess, and both of them had jumped at something that looked like it might be any kind of interesting.
So they split up to do the research, Dean went out to canvass the area and Sam to interview witnesses, and came up empty by late afternoon. If by ‘empty’ you meant ‘turned up the guy who’d mysteriously vanished drunk off his ass in a sketchy motel.’ They were going to leave the next morning.
Dean went out to get dinner.
On the way there, his wallet and phone went missing. He didn’t even notice until he got to the diner (fucker was good) and by the time he walked back to the motel (empty handed) the worst he expected was that Sam would make fun of him.
Sam was already gone.
The room was a mess. There was a broken glass on the table by the window. The TV screen was broken. The entire place was, in short, trashed. And Sam’s phone was sitting on the table, the only undamaged thing in the room.
Panic building anything but gradually, Dean checked the call log. The last incoming was from a number he didn’t recognize. He called it, ready to snarl down the line what did you do, what-
It was the police station.
Dean suddenly felt his whole body go cold.
**
Sam wasn’t at the police station.
Sam had been, however. Sam had been brought in, he learned, through careful questioning, to identify a body. Oh shit, Dean was already thinking, oh shit, even before he asked, “Whose body?”
It was his current alias.
Dean’s brain kicked into overdrive. Sam was probably just trying to work out where he was. Sam had freaked out and come down here in a rush, seen that the body wasn’t him, and taken off to go find out where Dean was. He would probably be back at the motel by now. Probably everything was fine. Probably there was nothing to worry about. Sam was fine. Sam was doing great.
“Is something wrong?” One of the policemen asked, eyeing him narrowly, and Dean forced a smile.
“No,” he said. “Nothing’s wrong.”
It wasn’t, dammit. It wasn’t.
**
Sam wasn’t back at the motel. His gear was still there, but the duffel was unzipped. Dean couldn’t tell if anything had been taken out. Had Sam’s gun been on top where there was now an empty space? Something else?
Sam’s fine he knows it wasn’t me he’s fine he wouldn’t he wouldn’t he wouldn’t-
His eyes were drawn by the glass on the table. There was blood on it. A trail of drips leading from the trail to the door. Dean felt like he was going to be sick. His brain was going too fast. He couldn’t think clearly.
He had to find Sam.
Sam please be okay oh god please be okay if you’re gone if you’re gone-
This town wasn’t so big. Sam couldn’t be far. He couldn’t be… (already gone, the picture too clear too easy because they both knew now how well they lived without each other and Sam had lasted before but-)
Dean headed out the door. If it wasn’t full tilt it was a near thing.
Sam was out there somewhere. Somehow, Sam thought he was dead. (Sam wasn’t fine.)
(He wasn’t fine.)
**
He found Sam striding tall and dark and silent down a dark alley like some kind of fucked up vigilante, a gun in his hand clearly visible. “Sam!” he called, and it was like Sam hadn’t heard him, because he just kept walking, right up until Dean grabbed his arm to stop him and said, “Sam, Jesus, listen to me,” and then Sam looked at him.
Looked at him and Dean had to try not to let go and was suddenly really, really glad he hadn’t been around to see this before (any of the times before) because God, Sam, and Sam was trying to pull away and saying no, it’s not you, no, stop, I have to- and Dean was pretty sure he’d heard ‘identify the body’ somewhere in there and fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Sam, it’s me,” Dean said, desperate, and Sam hesitated, paused. Something flickered, just for a moment, in his (desolate) eyes. Sam’s left hand lifted and Dean felt blood and small shards of glass rub against his cheek, just for a moment, before Sam drew his fingers away. He fought not to flinch.
“Oh,” said Sam, and his whole body seemed to sag. “…oh.”
Then he was shaking, a little at first and then more violently until his teeth were clattering together and Dean pulled off his coat and wrapped it around Sam’s shoulder’s, eased the gun out his hand. “Let’s go,” he said, quietly. “Come on, Sam.”
**
Sam’s hand was a mess. Sam had fallen apart without him. Sam still looked vague and kind of shell-shocked. Dean’s chest hurt, and his eyes hurt, and he kind of wanted to just wrap Sam up in a blanket and never take him anywhere again, but that would probably not work too well for either of them.
Sam sat perfectly still like too much movement might make him (both of them, either of them) disappear while Dean put his hand back together (again). Put his brother back together (again). Little less of the second one, though. Dean wasn’t sure anyone could do the second one now. (For some reason, he missed Bobby then, more than ever.)
“I thought you were dead,” Sam said in a small voice.
“I figured that out,” Dean said, and tried to keep his voice from turning dry. Sam twitched, just a little. “Someone took my stuff.” Sam’s head bobbed up and then down in a jerky nod. He was still trembling, minutely. “I’m fine,” Dean said, and tried to sound convincing. “Sam, look at me. I’m fine.”
“It’s happened before,” Sam said, voice kind of shattered. “A hundred times. More than…it’s happened before. Dean. What if…”
If Dean ever ran across the Trickster - Gabriel, whatever - again, if he somehow came back from the dead, he swore he was going to come up with something suitably creative and excruciating to inflict on the bastard, archangel or no archangel. Sam glanced up at him, eyes damp and wide and so goddamn young it hurt, because Sam wasn’t young anymore, wasn’t innocent, hadn’t been for a long time, and sometimes Dean still wanted him to be.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, like he’d done something wrong, “I’m okay,” like Dean was going to believe that, and Dean cursed under his breath, narrowing his gaze to the tweezers and Sam’s mess of a hand, shards of glass embedded in skin, pulling the last few out and then reaching for the gauze and wrapping it around Sam’s hand.
“Yeah,” he said, hoping he sounded reassuring. “You’re okay.”
Sam, who had been looking down at his hands, looked up very slightly. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he said, voice trembling just slightly.
“Yeah, me too,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice light, like he was joking. “Me too, Sammy.” He hesitated for a second, and then reached out and patted Sam’s knee, awkwardly, and started to stand up.
Sam didn’t let him get that far, practically lunged at him, actually, and wrapped his arms around Dean like some kind of giant octopus, latched onto him like Dean had actually died because that was the only time they hugged anymore. He could hear Sam’s heart beating away just a little too fast against his chest.
Dean laid his hands flat against Sam’s back and tried to feel as alive as possible. Sam’s eyes were squeezed closed and it hurt to look at him. Wrap Sam up in a blanket. Seriously.
He wasn’t letting go. “Sam, it’s okay,” Dean said, and Sam shook his head, minutely. “Sam,” Dean said, trying to sound more strident. Sam’s left hand clenched in his shirt, blood spotting through the gauze, and he didn’t answer.
Dean gave up, and let his head drop down so his chin rested in Sam’s hair. “You’re okay,” he said again. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
They weren’t.
But at least they were both still alive. Right now, it seemed like that was about all they could ask.