Monsters We Have Been
Title: Monsters We Have Been
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: PTSD, alcoholism, substance abuse
Summary: Sam thinks most hunters end up like this, if they survive. Future-fic, not very happy.
Dean never quits drinking.
That's the touchstone in the whole thing. That's the pivot-point that Sam keeps in his mind, the compass-spike of their whole, long, fucked-up existence. Dean never quits drinking, and that's such a sad, normal thing that it's impossible to forget. Functional alcoholism. Even with the brand new lease on life he got from Castiel, it's going to get him an early grave, probably.
He'd mention something to that effect if he thought Dean would care.
Everything else, Sam tends to forget about. It's just a thing. Just one of those things, hazard of the job. Not many hunters live this long, and Sam's pretty sure that most of the ones that do end up like him and Dean. Like Bobby. Rufus. Dad. Samuel Campbell was the closest to sane, and even he was a few cards short of a full deck.
It just happens sometimes. When they're tired, when they're sick, when a hunt went bad. A certain smell, the salt-iron taste of blood in Sam's mouth, a coroner who talks with the same Brando-knockoff cadence as Alistair. And then there's Sam locked in the bathroom for two days straight while Dean sleeps against the door, gun in hand, Sammy, dude, you're being ridiculous, at least open the door and let me give you some freaking food--
Or Dean pacing pacing pacing until he's so exhausted that he's walking into walls and hitting his hands and his knees and his feet on the furniture and Sam has to watch to make sure he doesn't take his lighter out and hold the flame against his own skin, absently, like the pain is a comfort.
They've never both freaked out at the same time. There's that. There's always someone on the outside, talking down whichever one is locked in his own private nightmare at the moment.
They take care of each other. It's what they do. It's all either of them really knows how to do. Sam does research, when he has the time, PTSD and triggers and trauma therapy, but this is them. Normal doesn't really apply.
Dean laughs at him. We're not trauma survivors, dude. We're fuck-ups.
Like they're not the same thing. Like one has nothing at all to do with the other.
You watch too many after-school specials, Sam.
And: Sammy, Sammy, come on, just breathe, okay? There's nothing here. You didn't hurt me. You didn't hurt anyone. You're okay. Breathe.
And this: the familiar late-night sound of a body jerking suddenly awake, the twist of a cap and the smell of cheap liquor, two long gulps and a sigh and the bedside lamp never even comes on. Whiskey and a knife, right next to Dean's pillow where he can reach them without thinking.
They have to skip town fast when Dean gets into a barfight and beats the other guy to a pulp and then some. Two counties out, after they finally shake the cops, Sam's wrapping his knuckles where they're split and bloody and all Dean will say is douchebag, fucking douchebag, over and over again like it's a prayer.
He still screams in his sleep, when the nightmares are bad and he runs out of whiskey. Most of the time, it's variations on the theme of please, God, stop, I'll do anything. Sometimes, though, it's apologies, and those are worse.
Sam spends an entire night's poker winnings on a bump of the latest and greatest designer cocktail and he's flying high when Dean finds him, just flying. Dean locks him in a cheap motel room and gentles him through the shakes. Doesn't bother with an ER. Sam's come down off of worse, and at least this doesn't have him hallucinating demon-possessed relatives.
He doesn't ask why Sam did something so dumbfuck stupid, so Sam doesn't have to tell him about the waitress who looked just like a woman he put down in the year he wasn't entirely Sam. A pretty brunette with green eyes and freckles. A civilian, stepped into the wrong place at the wrong time and he didn't even hesitate. He didn't hesitate at all.
She wasn't the only one.
And this: Sam never really gets over Jess. Years and miles and a river of blood on his hands, and he's not the same person she loved when they were twenty and the world seemed so new, but he still can't imagine sleeping next to anyone else. This is what he means when he tells Dean that he isn't going to settle down, that he doesn't really know how to anymore.
Dean accepts it even though he doesn't really understand. Dad would have understood, Sam thinks, but it's just one more in a long list of things they never got around to talking about.
The closest Dean ever got to settling down was Lisa, and much as he cared about her--and he did care about her--it was never a life he knew how to live.
It's just them. Sam and Dean, the Winchester brothers against the world and the world against them, most of the time. It's what they know.
It's everything they've always known.
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: PTSD, alcoholism, substance abuse
Summary: Sam thinks most hunters end up like this, if they survive. Future-fic, not very happy.
Dean never quits drinking.
That's the touchstone in the whole thing. That's the pivot-point that Sam keeps in his mind, the compass-spike of their whole, long, fucked-up existence. Dean never quits drinking, and that's such a sad, normal thing that it's impossible to forget. Functional alcoholism. Even with the brand new lease on life he got from Castiel, it's going to get him an early grave, probably.
He'd mention something to that effect if he thought Dean would care.
Everything else, Sam tends to forget about. It's just a thing. Just one of those things, hazard of the job. Not many hunters live this long, and Sam's pretty sure that most of the ones that do end up like him and Dean. Like Bobby. Rufus. Dad. Samuel Campbell was the closest to sane, and even he was a few cards short of a full deck.
It just happens sometimes. When they're tired, when they're sick, when a hunt went bad. A certain smell, the salt-iron taste of blood in Sam's mouth, a coroner who talks with the same Brando-knockoff cadence as Alistair. And then there's Sam locked in the bathroom for two days straight while Dean sleeps against the door, gun in hand, Sammy, dude, you're being ridiculous, at least open the door and let me give you some freaking food--
Or Dean pacing pacing pacing until he's so exhausted that he's walking into walls and hitting his hands and his knees and his feet on the furniture and Sam has to watch to make sure he doesn't take his lighter out and hold the flame against his own skin, absently, like the pain is a comfort.
They've never both freaked out at the same time. There's that. There's always someone on the outside, talking down whichever one is locked in his own private nightmare at the moment.
They take care of each other. It's what they do. It's all either of them really knows how to do. Sam does research, when he has the time, PTSD and triggers and trauma therapy, but this is them. Normal doesn't really apply.
Dean laughs at him. We're not trauma survivors, dude. We're fuck-ups.
Like they're not the same thing. Like one has nothing at all to do with the other.
You watch too many after-school specials, Sam.
And: Sammy, Sammy, come on, just breathe, okay? There's nothing here. You didn't hurt me. You didn't hurt anyone. You're okay. Breathe.
And this: the familiar late-night sound of a body jerking suddenly awake, the twist of a cap and the smell of cheap liquor, two long gulps and a sigh and the bedside lamp never even comes on. Whiskey and a knife, right next to Dean's pillow where he can reach them without thinking.
They have to skip town fast when Dean gets into a barfight and beats the other guy to a pulp and then some. Two counties out, after they finally shake the cops, Sam's wrapping his knuckles where they're split and bloody and all Dean will say is douchebag, fucking douchebag, over and over again like it's a prayer.
He still screams in his sleep, when the nightmares are bad and he runs out of whiskey. Most of the time, it's variations on the theme of please, God, stop, I'll do anything. Sometimes, though, it's apologies, and those are worse.
Sam spends an entire night's poker winnings on a bump of the latest and greatest designer cocktail and he's flying high when Dean finds him, just flying. Dean locks him in a cheap motel room and gentles him through the shakes. Doesn't bother with an ER. Sam's come down off of worse, and at least this doesn't have him hallucinating demon-possessed relatives.
He doesn't ask why Sam did something so dumbfuck stupid, so Sam doesn't have to tell him about the waitress who looked just like a woman he put down in the year he wasn't entirely Sam. A pretty brunette with green eyes and freckles. A civilian, stepped into the wrong place at the wrong time and he didn't even hesitate. He didn't hesitate at all.
She wasn't the only one.
And this: Sam never really gets over Jess. Years and miles and a river of blood on his hands, and he's not the same person she loved when they were twenty and the world seemed so new, but he still can't imagine sleeping next to anyone else. This is what he means when he tells Dean that he isn't going to settle down, that he doesn't really know how to anymore.
Dean accepts it even though he doesn't really understand. Dad would have understood, Sam thinks, but it's just one more in a long list of things they never got around to talking about.
The closest Dean ever got to settling down was Lisa, and much as he cared about her--and he did care about her--it was never a life he knew how to live.
It's just them. Sam and Dean, the Winchester brothers against the world and the world against them, most of the time. It's what they know.
It's everything they've always known.