Many thanks for the birthday wishes, my lovelies! I am immensely grateful! Thanks to
layne67,
missyjack,
cormallen,
mickeym,
heidi8,
thehighwaywoman,
liv_512,
wendy,
rejeneration,
smilla02 and
katikat for the v-gifts! I showed my mum (and then had to spend ages explaining them to her.)
And thanks to
tigriswolf,
apreludetoanend,
thehighwaywoman and
pheebs1 for the fic (which you should all totally go check out for I was given much awesomeoness), to
ysbail for the paid time (which is really lovely of you and means I shall continue spamming people with icons ♥), and to
wanttobeatree for Vodianovaing Dean!
And thank you to all of you who sent me messages and comments and emails! It made me feel very loved and I am so so grateful for the love you lot always show me. I know I whinge a terrible amount sometimes and get all paranoid and crazy, but you lot are the sweetest, nicest people for putting up with me!
If I've missed anyone it's because I'm terribly disorganised, not because I didn't appreciate it! ♥
Someone must get hurt (and it won't be me)
A short interlude a day or so after after
This thing of ours. Written in the car on my birthday, along with some porn that needs a huge amount of tidying up before I let it loose. But organised-crime!Sam/Dean porn is kind of fun to write. *g*
It's a nowhere town. Pleasant and suburban, and the sun shines brilliant white. So bright it's like burning. Sam smells ash, even now, though they left the fire behind in Palo Alto.
He watches the world from within the Impala. Life happens under the glass. He's detached, distant, slipped away from it all and died.
It's forty minutes since Dean left him here. He doesn't know who the hell a guy like Dean can know in a place as picture-perfect as this, but it just goes to show how you can never tell where the cockroaches will be hiding out. Maybe he could have asked but he just doesn't care all that much. Besides, Dean's barely spoken to him this morning. Tried to make him eat but didn't push it when Sam refused. Then Dean just lapsed into glancing at him every now and then with a wary sort of concern.
There's a cold fury bubbling under Sam's skin that says Dean is right to be wary. He's angry and aching for the chance to hurt someone. Anyone. It hits him, blank and unwelcome, that this is probably how John felt after Mary was murdered.
And the ache pulses hotter and more poisonous through his body.
Dean steps out onto the street just a little ahead and Sam straightens slightly in his seat, watching him. Dean's fucking smiling, turning back to share a joke with some guy. Maybe the guy he went to see. Maybe some guy he just met.
Dean makes friends easy as breathing. Dean kills people even easier.
When Dean was nineteen, he started hanging around with this guy called Dan or Dave or something. He was a couple of years older, ran a tattoo parlour, and somehow got around to teaching Dean some kind of kick-boxing or something. John approved, right up until it turned out Dan or Dave or whoever was dealing drugs, without the common courtesy of offering a cut of the profits to John.
Looking back, Sam knows the night Dan or Dave or whatever the fuck his name was got a bullet between the eyes. He remembers Caleb coming round to the house, clapping Dean on the shoulder and saying, "Sorry, man." And Dean had just shrugged, and he'd said, "Not your fault he was a dick." And that was it. They'd played cards and laughed and drunk beer, and not another word was ever said about that guy. Whatever his name was.
Sam guesses it says something about Dean that he's always had friends, even though they've got to know that he'd turn on them in a second if John gave the word. He wonders if he'd love Dean less if he thought there was ever any chance of Dean turning on him.
He turns his face away when Dean climbs back into the car. Pretends to sleep, though not very convincingly.
:::
Considering they're supposed to be doing as John told them and getting to Black Water Ridge - and that the thought of letting his dad down turns Dean into the most pathetic, spineless creature to walk the earth - they sure are taking their time about it.
Dean's driving them out on the backroads, under sprawling cotton-blue sky, long grass waving in the fields they're passing by. The afternoon's fading away and Sam dreads the night, the empty hours of watching Jess's corpse sway and swirl from the light fitting.
Then, no word of explanation or nothing, Dean pulls in at the side of the road. He climbs out of the car and strides into the field, the grass up about his knees, and his face tilted up towards the sun. After a moment, he turns back to look at Sam, where he's still slouched in the Impala.
"Sam, c'mon over here."
Grudgingly, Sam climbs out of the car and follows him over. There's a floral fragrance on the air and Sam can't see where it's coming from. It's sweet and heady and it prickles his skin wrongly.
"What are we doing?" he says to Dean, with barely concealed impatience.
Green eyes fixed on Sam, his expression cool and still, Dean draws his gun. No. Not his gun. Something new. He hefts its weight in his hands, appraising it, then swings it round, offering it barrel first to Sam.
"Picked this up for you," Dean says. He jerks it towards Sam again when Sam just stares at it. "C'mon, take it."
Sam's handled guns before. Hell, growing up a Winchester, he has more experience with guns than he does stationery. But there's never been one that fitted right in his hands before. Guns and knives, and whatever else Dean picks up and decides to do damage with, settle in his hands. Tools of the trade and he's an expert craftsman.
Not so with Sam. And this gun is no exception. It's awkwardly heavy and his fingers won't curl around it right. He looks up at Dean, waiting. Expecting. He's expecting Dean's arms around him, his fingers twining with Sam's, sweet and tender skin on skin, as he shows him how to handle the gun.
Dean's just watching him.
"You keep telling me you want revenge but… I don't know if I can believe you," says Dean. His voice is full of quiet mockery. "Sayin' it's one thing, Sammy. Gotta be able to pull the trigger too."
And right then, Sam knows. And he kind of pities Dean, because this is the part where Dean's waiting for Sam to break down, lips wobbling and fat tears splashing his cheeks. This is where Sam reverts to soft, thoughtful little Sammy, who's not ugly inside like John is. Like Dean is.
Instead, Sam's hands tighten, a makeshift grip that's far from expert but will get the job fucking done. He brings the gun up, levels it directly at Dean's chest.
Dean is unarmed, caught by surprise, and his little brother - unstable and grieving and unfamiliar - is pointing a loaded gun at him. The naked play of emotion on Dean's face makes Sam dizzy, crazy.
"Just show me where to point," Sam says, his voice a thick rasp.
The gun in his hands gets a little more comfortable.
~end