[30 in 09/10] This is probably the last time (1/1)
i don't know what it is with me and sam 5x22 codas, but here is YET ANOTHER ONE. gettin' them all in before my imagination is shot to hell by the s6 premiere, i reckon.
This is probably the last time
gen; sam, dean, bobby, castiel
pg13 for language
800 words
sam wakes up in a familiar place, and gets about as much as he could ask for on his return from hell
The room is bright, east-facing, dumping a white-palette sky directly onto Sam's lap. He blinks awake, sheathed comfortably in bedclothes; gives a spine-twisting stretch and a sigh that brings a deep, satisfying ache to his chest.
He feels in his bones he's well-rested. A solid eight hours; no lingering paranoia, no chalky residue of anger, no swimming slop of nausea. Just stripes of sunshine that mottle with the tremble of tree branches on the wind. Just a jersey-soft pillow under his ear, and a mattress pad thick enough to curl toes into.
A halting thought is just finding its legs - hold on, what? - when he hears the slow click of a hammer being pulled back.
“I'd get up real nice and slow if I were you.”
There's a barrel aimed at Sam's right temple, polite enough not to shove at him as he slowly slides from under the top sheet, hands held loose and open in front of him.
“Easy, Bobby,” Sam murmurs.
No trucker hat. Red-faced, beard over-grown, eyes sunk down in defeat, heavy with booze. Bobby wouldn't know what to do with that gun if it went off on its own.
“I can't take this anymore,” he says, voice trembling. “I swear to God, you boys.”
“It's me,” Sam says, heart pounding.
“I know,” Bobby says, and drops the gun.
In one of the upstairs rooms, the bottom of the closet is littered with Sam's belongings: army green duffel packed with dirty clothes and draped with three pairs of Levis, pair of busted Nikes, a shoe box with his folded up diplomas and a stack of old photos, lock-picking kit, a few torn manila folders, and half a case of Poland Spring.
“Bobby!” Sam calls out. “Wheres the rest of my stuff? Like, where's my freakin' wallet? My keys, my phone. My glock, man, my laptop. The shit I need.”
“Where do you think, you idiot?”
Sam sighs; pulls his bag to him in an eerily familiar movement and digs through to find something to wear. Asks, “You call him?”
“One better. Hurry your ass up, coffee's ready.”
Dean's in the kitchen when Sam finally tumbles down the stairs in his favorite pair of jeans and an old greyhound tee-shirt.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean says, immediately shoving his face into one palm and closing his eyes.
Sam's mouth is round with a question for the breath of a moment it takes to process that Castiel is standing at Dean's shoulder - same trench coat, same dopey haircut, sniffing mildly at a box of donuts.
“Me and Castiel got a line open,” Bobby says, handing Sam a cup of black coffee.
“He wanted to drive,” Castiel says.
Sam laughs. “Should've let him. He probably needed the time to cool off.”
“He did appear - ornery.”
“I'm right here, you jackasses.”
Hiding behind the rim of a steaming mug, Sam's skirting, dancing along nervously under his skin, waiting to see what Dean does. There's something funny about Sam's idea that they've done this so many times before it's almost commonplace. He's embarrassed at how relieved he is to be here, with his brother, and at how easily he could over-do it.
Because in truth his nerves are already raw with gratitude. Never a better sight for sore eyes. Bobby, Castiel, and his brother; this is as good a home-coming as he could ask for. It burns at the back of his throat, wants to hitch out on the end of a laugh.
But Dean's eyes are firm, fixed on the floor. Sam wants to step back, watching as he's wiping his mouth in that thoughtful way, preparing himself, brushing palms together to bring the words to the surface.
His voice is barely contained when he says: “Don't you ever do that to me again. You hear me? I don't care what it is. Heaven, Hell, eternal damnation, the promised land, freakin' purgatory, whatever. Don't you ever make me promise that again. I fight with you, I die with you. You do not go anywhere without me. You got that?”
“Yeah Dean, I get it.”
“And don't even start apologizing. I'm sick of hearing it. You have nothing to be sorry for. Just, do this one thing for me, okay. I only know one thing, and it's taking care of your box-headed ass. I gotta follow you, Sam. Okay? I just do.”
“Okay you're like. Kind of making me uncomfortable.”
“Also, I'm real happy to see you, Sammy.”
Sam can't help it, it's a physical compulsion: feel that truth, put down the coffee, cross the room and hug his brother. Their blood beats between them, and Sam can't imagine having gone through what he has without being able to fall right back to this cradle. As close to the wish as he ever could've gotten, Sam is home.
This is probably the last time
gen; sam, dean, bobby, castiel
pg13 for language
800 words
sam wakes up in a familiar place, and gets about as much as he could ask for on his return from hell
The room is bright, east-facing, dumping a white-palette sky directly onto Sam's lap. He blinks awake, sheathed comfortably in bedclothes; gives a spine-twisting stretch and a sigh that brings a deep, satisfying ache to his chest.
He feels in his bones he's well-rested. A solid eight hours; no lingering paranoia, no chalky residue of anger, no swimming slop of nausea. Just stripes of sunshine that mottle with the tremble of tree branches on the wind. Just a jersey-soft pillow under his ear, and a mattress pad thick enough to curl toes into.
A halting thought is just finding its legs - hold on, what? - when he hears the slow click of a hammer being pulled back.
“I'd get up real nice and slow if I were you.”
There's a barrel aimed at Sam's right temple, polite enough not to shove at him as he slowly slides from under the top sheet, hands held loose and open in front of him.
“Easy, Bobby,” Sam murmurs.
No trucker hat. Red-faced, beard over-grown, eyes sunk down in defeat, heavy with booze. Bobby wouldn't know what to do with that gun if it went off on its own.
“I can't take this anymore,” he says, voice trembling. “I swear to God, you boys.”
“It's me,” Sam says, heart pounding.
“I know,” Bobby says, and drops the gun.
In one of the upstairs rooms, the bottom of the closet is littered with Sam's belongings: army green duffel packed with dirty clothes and draped with three pairs of Levis, pair of busted Nikes, a shoe box with his folded up diplomas and a stack of old photos, lock-picking kit, a few torn manila folders, and half a case of Poland Spring.
“Bobby!” Sam calls out. “Wheres the rest of my stuff? Like, where's my freakin' wallet? My keys, my phone. My glock, man, my laptop. The shit I need.”
“Where do you think, you idiot?”
Sam sighs; pulls his bag to him in an eerily familiar movement and digs through to find something to wear. Asks, “You call him?”
“One better. Hurry your ass up, coffee's ready.”
Dean's in the kitchen when Sam finally tumbles down the stairs in his favorite pair of jeans and an old greyhound tee-shirt.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean says, immediately shoving his face into one palm and closing his eyes.
Sam's mouth is round with a question for the breath of a moment it takes to process that Castiel is standing at Dean's shoulder - same trench coat, same dopey haircut, sniffing mildly at a box of donuts.
“Me and Castiel got a line open,” Bobby says, handing Sam a cup of black coffee.
“He wanted to drive,” Castiel says.
Sam laughs. “Should've let him. He probably needed the time to cool off.”
“He did appear - ornery.”
“I'm right here, you jackasses.”
Hiding behind the rim of a steaming mug, Sam's skirting, dancing along nervously under his skin, waiting to see what Dean does. There's something funny about Sam's idea that they've done this so many times before it's almost commonplace. He's embarrassed at how relieved he is to be here, with his brother, and at how easily he could over-do it.
Because in truth his nerves are already raw with gratitude. Never a better sight for sore eyes. Bobby, Castiel, and his brother; this is as good a home-coming as he could ask for. It burns at the back of his throat, wants to hitch out on the end of a laugh.
But Dean's eyes are firm, fixed on the floor. Sam wants to step back, watching as he's wiping his mouth in that thoughtful way, preparing himself, brushing palms together to bring the words to the surface.
His voice is barely contained when he says: “Don't you ever do that to me again. You hear me? I don't care what it is. Heaven, Hell, eternal damnation, the promised land, freakin' purgatory, whatever. Don't you ever make me promise that again. I fight with you, I die with you. You do not go anywhere without me. You got that?”
“Yeah Dean, I get it.”
“And don't even start apologizing. I'm sick of hearing it. You have nothing to be sorry for. Just, do this one thing for me, okay. I only know one thing, and it's taking care of your box-headed ass. I gotta follow you, Sam. Okay? I just do.”
“Okay you're like. Kind of making me uncomfortable.”
“Also, I'm real happy to see you, Sammy.”
Sam can't help it, it's a physical compulsion: feel that truth, put down the coffee, cross the room and hug his brother. Their blood beats between them, and Sam can't imagine having gone through what he has without being able to fall right back to this cradle. As close to the wish as he ever could've gotten, Sam is home.