SPN Fic: Here, Today (Gen)
Title: Here, Today
Author: Hana
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Related Episode: 1X12 Faith (Somewhat Spoiler-ish)
Genre: Interlude
Word Count: 2,052
Summary: Missing scene on the way to Nebraska.
Disclaimer: Not Mine. Eric Kripke and CW owns them. Blah blah blah. Fishcake.
Author Notes: Many thanks to Em (emeraldgreensea), my beta, for her everlasting patience and for spoiling me rotten. Many thanks also to K (soraismus). The two of them have rescued this from my blatant abuse of the English language. I’ve worked on this scene on and off for the last couple of months, which also happens to answer a request from the SPN Glee Week Request Fest thread. Questions, critique and comments are most welcome.
The lovely deadspeaker has also written a fic to the same request, here. It's Sam's POV throughout the episode, and she’s done a lovely job. Please go read it!
Sam’s startled into wakefulness for no particular reason.
It isn’t his dreams - there’s no headache and his heart isn’t racing. The room is dark but for the slivers of streetlight seeping through cheap curtains. The laptop’s on the table. Their duffel bags are by the wall. The TV’s off, and it’s almost quiet, if he ignores the muffled sounds of traffic outside and the leaky showerhead in the bathroom. There’s not a thing out of place.
Except Dean.
Sam looks over to his brother’s bed, empty, as it was hours ago when they first checked in.
"Dean?"
He gets out of bed in a scramble of limbs and sheets, almost tumbling headfirst onto the dusty-red carpet. He looks in the bathroom and the closets and in-between the beds. No sick brother lying passed out on the floor. Check. All of Dean’s stuff is still here, so he can’t be far.
Unless Dean doesn’t think he’ll be needing them anymore.
Sam’s almost out the door when he realizes he’s wearing only t-shirt and boxers, barefoot, no jacket. He stops.
Dean wouldn’t do that to him. His brother wouldn’t just take off in the Impala, leaving Sam stranded in some motel halfway to Nebraska. He’s overreacting and he needs to chill. Dean wouldn't just take off with a trunk full of weapons, chase down the biggest monster he can find and try to go out in a blaze of glory. Sam takes a deep breath and runs shaky hands through his hair. His brother would not do that to him. Dean wouldn’t.
He grabs his jeans and shirt off of the chair and quickly pulls them on. Dean promised. He'd made Dean promise that he’d give this guy in Nebraska a chance. Dean wouldn’t just take off.
He’s probably just gone to the vending machines; he hadn’t eaten much at dinner. Sam looks around the room, but doesn’t see his sneakers. He should’ve gotten Dean something to eat before he went to bed; of course Dean would be hungry, all he had all day was a bottle of ginger ale. Sam should know better. Dean shouldn’t be going out on his own - it’d be just their luck if Dean got dizzy and broke his neck falling down a flight of stairs when they’re half a day’s drive from the faith healer who can help him. He looks under the bed and beside the chair and next to the door, still not seeing his sneakers. Screw that, shoes are for the weak.
Opening the door, he takes one look outside and his stomach sinks.
The Impala is gone.
His brother's gone, along with the car, and Sam's standing there shoeless at the door.
He will not freak out.
Sam takes a deep breath, and releases the death grip he has on the doorknob. He will find Dean. It’s only been a few hours. His brother can’t have gone that far. The doctor said he should be on strict bed-rest. He’ll find Dean. He needs to start making phone calls.
Sam crosses the room in two steps, to where his jacket hangs on the back of a chair, and digs out his cell phone. His hands are shaking. He presses the speed-dial for Dean. Halfway through dialing Dean’s number, he hears it.
The unmistakable purr, rumbling and smooth, of the Impala.
Terminating the call, he goes back to the still open door just as the car turns into the parking lot. His brother behind the wheel. There’s a softness on Dean’s face that can almost be content; Sam feels like he’s intruding on something private, something Dean doesn’t mean for him to see.
He just stands there, and watches Dean park the Impala, feeling giddy from the adrenaline and a ridiculous amount of relief.
“Sam?”
Dean opens the car door, wincing and halting like even that simple movement hurts. He watches as his brother turns to sit sideways with his feet on the pavement, shoulders slumping forward, a hand resting on the steering wheel, his breaths shallow and quick from the effort, each puff mists in the damp air.
It's a bad idea, Sam knows, but then he sees the pallor on Dean’s face and the dark smudges underneath his eyes and the words just come out, a lot sharper than he intends. “Where the hell were you?”
Sam can see the rising of an eyebrow and the pursing of lips even before his finishes.
“Out,” Dean snaps back, more than a little breathless, but the annoyance is hard to miss. “I thought you were sleeping.”
"You could at least leave a note. I thought -" He wipes a hand across his face and exhales, stopping himself. He’s still bone-tired - a few hours of napping does little to make up for days' worth of sleeplessness. “You shouldn't be driving.”
“Sam -”
“You could've gotten dizzy and hit a tree.”
“See any trees around, Sammy?”
“And hitting a truck or an SUV is better?” He clenches his jaws to keep himself from chewing his lips, but something must’ve given him away, because Dean looks at him for a moment, sighs, and his face softens.
“Whatever. It's just down the block, all right?” Dean mumbles - Sam figures that's as close to an apology as he's going to get - and runs a hand over the steering wheel, the corner of his lips lifts into almost a smile. “My girl won’t let me down. So stop the freaking out already.”
“I’m not freaking out.”
“You aren’t wearing shoes.”
“Can’t find my sneakers.”
“In the bathroom.”
“The bathroom?” Then Sam remembers - he showered before going to bed. “Oh.”
“What’re you going to do without me, huh, Sammy?” His brother gives him a half-hearted smirk, a pale imitation of his usual one, like a photo left out too long in the sun.
He can’t quite help the flinch, even though he knows Dean can see it. He glances away. It’s ironic, really, that Dean is ruthless only when he’s not trying to be.
Dean sighs. His brother takes something from the passenger seat, and throws it at him.
“What the hell?” Sam catches it instinctively, clutching the package between his free hand and his chest. He slips the cell phone into a pocket.
"Happy birthday, bitch."
“It’s not my birthday for another week,” he replies, looking over the present - a somewhat rectangular shape haphazardly swathed in Radio Shack gift-wrap - and adds, more out of habit than anything, “Jerk."
“Yeah, well,” Dean answers with a half-shrug. He glances around, seems to be trying to look anywhere but at Sam’s face, and finally settles on rubbing at some imaginary dirt spot on the upholstery.
We’ve done all we can... I give him a couple of weeks, at most, maybe a month... we can’t work miracles...
The realization hits Sam like a sucker punch. His chest aches and his breath catches. He opens his mouth, but no words come.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks. He stands there, while Dean slumps slowly sideways against the back of the driver’s seat. The package crackles as Sam tightens his grip, transparent plastic packaging peeks through a tear in the gift-wrap.
He needs to do something. Anything. He can’t just stand here looking at Dean, so pale and tired and fading away.
“Aren’t you going to unwrap your present?”
He looks down at the package in his hands, and looks up to Dean’s face. He starts unwrapping it. Not that it takes much - a couple pieces of tape and good intention holds the thing together. He lets the paper fall to the ground.
Dean brought him one of those CD-player adaptors for cassette decks in cars.
“It’ll work with all the sissy iPod shit that you’d probably buy.”
“Dean -”
“Be good to my car, Sam. She IS family.” The finality in his brother’s voice makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. They are so not having this conversation. “Wash and detail her at least once every -”
“Damn it, Dean.” They can’t be having this conversation. Sam refuses to do it. “You just - you cannot - you just can’t. I can’t.”
“Dude. I know you go to Stanford.” Dean’s trying to laugh it off. Sam doesn’t believe him - his jerk of a brother is trying to laugh off his own fucking impending death. “But even Ivy League geeks aren't above washing THIS car, man. I mean, look at her. Chicks dig-”
“That’s not funny.”
“I don’t at least get points for trying?”
“This guy in Nebraska will help you.” Sam fights the urge to grab his brother and shake some sense into him. “We’ll be there tomorrow. He’ll heal - he will help you and you will be fine.”
“Sam -”
“Don’t.”
“Maybe it is -”
“No.” He doesn’t care how desperate or like a three-year-old he sounds. “No, no, no. NO.”
“It’ll be fine, Sam. Go back to school if that’s what you want. Go after the Demon if that’s what you want. Or kill the bastard then go back to school. You can do whatever you want.” Dean’s voice breaks, and he tries to cover it up with a cough. “Just, you know, take care of yourself, and go easy on Dad. He’s not -”
“Stop talking like that. Like. Like you’re...”
Dean just shrugs again.
"You can't do this to me, Dean."
"You'll be fine." The way Dean says it, Sam isn’t the only one Dean wants to convince.
"No, I won't."
"Sam-"
“I can’t. I can’t do this again.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Not on my own.”
“You were fine on your own.” Dean puts his head down in his hands, rubbing across his eyes, elbows resting on knees. “You’ll be fine on your own.”
“But I don’t want to be. We - You promised me. You promised me you'd give this guy a chance." The words rush out, like a held breath that is finally released. “You promised. You and me, Dean. We will find Dad, and we will find the Demon who killed Mom and Jess. Together. You can’t just - ”
He won’t let Dean give up, even if that’s what his brother wants.
“You can’t.”
Dean doesn’t look up. He stays hunched over, his eyes closed, and Sam can see him swallowing hard. He moves to his brother’s side with two quick steps.
“Dean?” His eyes focus on the pulse beating hard on the side of Dean’s neck. Sam crouches down and puts a hand on Dean’s arm. “Hey, you okay?”
Dean’s head dips lower, halfway to a nod when he winces and stops. After a few seconds, he whispers, “Dizzy.”
“It’s okay. It’s all right.” He read about this. Some common symptoms for patients of heart failure include dizziness, fatigue, dyspnea, nausea, and lack of appetite. He has read about this for hours. He knows what to do. He can deal with this. He can help Dean. “Let’s go inside and lie down, okay?”
“Yeah.”
He reaches out, a hand on Dean’s elbow, an arm around his waist. As they get up, Dean sways against him. He sinks down, bracing, and takes the bulk of his brother’s weight.
“Dean?”
He can feel his brother blinking, the slow flutter of eyelashes against his shoulder. He senses the words rather than hearing them when Dean says, “Give me a minute.”
Sam nods, his cheek brushes against Dean’s ear.
He doesn’t remember the last time Dean and him were this close since he was a kid. He doesn’t remember ever feeling this much bigger than his brother, even though he’s been the taller one since Grade Ten.
They are shaking, but he isn’t sure if it’s Dean or himself or both of them. Sam tightens his arms around his brother.
“We’ll see the specialist tomorrow. He will help you. Dean, just trust me on this, okay?”
His brother remains silent for a long moment.
“I trust you, Sam,” Dean finally said, and after a pause he adds, “Dude. Are you hugging me?”
“Maybe.” He shifts his grip on Dean, and starts moving them towards the door. “Come on, let’s get inside.”
He wants Dean with him, and it doesn't matter what it takes. Duty. Guilt. Faith.
Whatever it takes.
Author: Hana
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Related Episode: 1X12 Faith (Somewhat Spoiler-ish)
Genre: Interlude
Word Count: 2,052
Summary: Missing scene on the way to Nebraska.
Disclaimer: Not Mine. Eric Kripke and CW owns them. Blah blah blah. Fishcake.
Author Notes: Many thanks to Em (emeraldgreensea), my beta, for her everlasting patience and for spoiling me rotten. Many thanks also to K (soraismus). The two of them have rescued this from my blatant abuse of the English language. I’ve worked on this scene on and off for the last couple of months, which also happens to answer a request from the SPN Glee Week Request Fest thread. Questions, critique and comments are most welcome.
The lovely deadspeaker has also written a fic to the same request, here. It's Sam's POV throughout the episode, and she’s done a lovely job. Please go read it!
Sam’s startled into wakefulness for no particular reason.
It isn’t his dreams - there’s no headache and his heart isn’t racing. The room is dark but for the slivers of streetlight seeping through cheap curtains. The laptop’s on the table. Their duffel bags are by the wall. The TV’s off, and it’s almost quiet, if he ignores the muffled sounds of traffic outside and the leaky showerhead in the bathroom. There’s not a thing out of place.
Except Dean.
Sam looks over to his brother’s bed, empty, as it was hours ago when they first checked in.
"Dean?"
He gets out of bed in a scramble of limbs and sheets, almost tumbling headfirst onto the dusty-red carpet. He looks in the bathroom and the closets and in-between the beds. No sick brother lying passed out on the floor. Check. All of Dean’s stuff is still here, so he can’t be far.
Unless Dean doesn’t think he’ll be needing them anymore.
Sam’s almost out the door when he realizes he’s wearing only t-shirt and boxers, barefoot, no jacket. He stops.
Dean wouldn’t do that to him. His brother wouldn’t just take off in the Impala, leaving Sam stranded in some motel halfway to Nebraska. He’s overreacting and he needs to chill. Dean wouldn't just take off with a trunk full of weapons, chase down the biggest monster he can find and try to go out in a blaze of glory. Sam takes a deep breath and runs shaky hands through his hair. His brother would not do that to him. Dean wouldn’t.
He grabs his jeans and shirt off of the chair and quickly pulls them on. Dean promised. He'd made Dean promise that he’d give this guy in Nebraska a chance. Dean wouldn’t just take off.
He’s probably just gone to the vending machines; he hadn’t eaten much at dinner. Sam looks around the room, but doesn’t see his sneakers. He should’ve gotten Dean something to eat before he went to bed; of course Dean would be hungry, all he had all day was a bottle of ginger ale. Sam should know better. Dean shouldn’t be going out on his own - it’d be just their luck if Dean got dizzy and broke his neck falling down a flight of stairs when they’re half a day’s drive from the faith healer who can help him. He looks under the bed and beside the chair and next to the door, still not seeing his sneakers. Screw that, shoes are for the weak.
Opening the door, he takes one look outside and his stomach sinks.
The Impala is gone.
His brother's gone, along with the car, and Sam's standing there shoeless at the door.
He will not freak out.
Sam takes a deep breath, and releases the death grip he has on the doorknob. He will find Dean. It’s only been a few hours. His brother can’t have gone that far. The doctor said he should be on strict bed-rest. He’ll find Dean. He needs to start making phone calls.
Sam crosses the room in two steps, to where his jacket hangs on the back of a chair, and digs out his cell phone. His hands are shaking. He presses the speed-dial for Dean. Halfway through dialing Dean’s number, he hears it.
The unmistakable purr, rumbling and smooth, of the Impala.
Terminating the call, he goes back to the still open door just as the car turns into the parking lot. His brother behind the wheel. There’s a softness on Dean’s face that can almost be content; Sam feels like he’s intruding on something private, something Dean doesn’t mean for him to see.
He just stands there, and watches Dean park the Impala, feeling giddy from the adrenaline and a ridiculous amount of relief.
“Sam?”
Dean opens the car door, wincing and halting like even that simple movement hurts. He watches as his brother turns to sit sideways with his feet on the pavement, shoulders slumping forward, a hand resting on the steering wheel, his breaths shallow and quick from the effort, each puff mists in the damp air.
It's a bad idea, Sam knows, but then he sees the pallor on Dean’s face and the dark smudges underneath his eyes and the words just come out, a lot sharper than he intends. “Where the hell were you?”
Sam can see the rising of an eyebrow and the pursing of lips even before his finishes.
“Out,” Dean snaps back, more than a little breathless, but the annoyance is hard to miss. “I thought you were sleeping.”
"You could at least leave a note. I thought -" He wipes a hand across his face and exhales, stopping himself. He’s still bone-tired - a few hours of napping does little to make up for days' worth of sleeplessness. “You shouldn't be driving.”
“Sam -”
“You could've gotten dizzy and hit a tree.”
“See any trees around, Sammy?”
“And hitting a truck or an SUV is better?” He clenches his jaws to keep himself from chewing his lips, but something must’ve given him away, because Dean looks at him for a moment, sighs, and his face softens.
“Whatever. It's just down the block, all right?” Dean mumbles - Sam figures that's as close to an apology as he's going to get - and runs a hand over the steering wheel, the corner of his lips lifts into almost a smile. “My girl won’t let me down. So stop the freaking out already.”
“I’m not freaking out.”
“You aren’t wearing shoes.”
“Can’t find my sneakers.”
“In the bathroom.”
“The bathroom?” Then Sam remembers - he showered before going to bed. “Oh.”
“What’re you going to do without me, huh, Sammy?” His brother gives him a half-hearted smirk, a pale imitation of his usual one, like a photo left out too long in the sun.
He can’t quite help the flinch, even though he knows Dean can see it. He glances away. It’s ironic, really, that Dean is ruthless only when he’s not trying to be.
Dean sighs. His brother takes something from the passenger seat, and throws it at him.
“What the hell?” Sam catches it instinctively, clutching the package between his free hand and his chest. He slips the cell phone into a pocket.
"Happy birthday, bitch."
“It’s not my birthday for another week,” he replies, looking over the present - a somewhat rectangular shape haphazardly swathed in Radio Shack gift-wrap - and adds, more out of habit than anything, “Jerk."
“Yeah, well,” Dean answers with a half-shrug. He glances around, seems to be trying to look anywhere but at Sam’s face, and finally settles on rubbing at some imaginary dirt spot on the upholstery.
We’ve done all we can... I give him a couple of weeks, at most, maybe a month... we can’t work miracles...
The realization hits Sam like a sucker punch. His chest aches and his breath catches. He opens his mouth, but no words come.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks. He stands there, while Dean slumps slowly sideways against the back of the driver’s seat. The package crackles as Sam tightens his grip, transparent plastic packaging peeks through a tear in the gift-wrap.
He needs to do something. Anything. He can’t just stand here looking at Dean, so pale and tired and fading away.
“Aren’t you going to unwrap your present?”
He looks down at the package in his hands, and looks up to Dean’s face. He starts unwrapping it. Not that it takes much - a couple pieces of tape and good intention holds the thing together. He lets the paper fall to the ground.
Dean brought him one of those CD-player adaptors for cassette decks in cars.
“It’ll work with all the sissy iPod shit that you’d probably buy.”
“Dean -”
“Be good to my car, Sam. She IS family.” The finality in his brother’s voice makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. They are so not having this conversation. “Wash and detail her at least once every -”
“Damn it, Dean.” They can’t be having this conversation. Sam refuses to do it. “You just - you cannot - you just can’t. I can’t.”
“Dude. I know you go to Stanford.” Dean’s trying to laugh it off. Sam doesn’t believe him - his jerk of a brother is trying to laugh off his own fucking impending death. “But even Ivy League geeks aren't above washing THIS car, man. I mean, look at her. Chicks dig-”
“That’s not funny.”
“I don’t at least get points for trying?”
“This guy in Nebraska will help you.” Sam fights the urge to grab his brother and shake some sense into him. “We’ll be there tomorrow. He’ll heal - he will help you and you will be fine.”
“Sam -”
“Don’t.”
“Maybe it is -”
“No.” He doesn’t care how desperate or like a three-year-old he sounds. “No, no, no. NO.”
“It’ll be fine, Sam. Go back to school if that’s what you want. Go after the Demon if that’s what you want. Or kill the bastard then go back to school. You can do whatever you want.” Dean’s voice breaks, and he tries to cover it up with a cough. “Just, you know, take care of yourself, and go easy on Dad. He’s not -”
“Stop talking like that. Like. Like you’re...”
Dean just shrugs again.
"You can't do this to me, Dean."
"You'll be fine." The way Dean says it, Sam isn’t the only one Dean wants to convince.
"No, I won't."
"Sam-"
“I can’t. I can’t do this again.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Not on my own.”
“You were fine on your own.” Dean puts his head down in his hands, rubbing across his eyes, elbows resting on knees. “You’ll be fine on your own.”
“But I don’t want to be. We - You promised me. You promised me you'd give this guy a chance." The words rush out, like a held breath that is finally released. “You promised. You and me, Dean. We will find Dad, and we will find the Demon who killed Mom and Jess. Together. You can’t just - ”
He won’t let Dean give up, even if that’s what his brother wants.
“You can’t.”
Dean doesn’t look up. He stays hunched over, his eyes closed, and Sam can see him swallowing hard. He moves to his brother’s side with two quick steps.
“Dean?” His eyes focus on the pulse beating hard on the side of Dean’s neck. Sam crouches down and puts a hand on Dean’s arm. “Hey, you okay?”
Dean’s head dips lower, halfway to a nod when he winces and stops. After a few seconds, he whispers, “Dizzy.”
“It’s okay. It’s all right.” He read about this. Some common symptoms for patients of heart failure include dizziness, fatigue, dyspnea, nausea, and lack of appetite. He has read about this for hours. He knows what to do. He can deal with this. He can help Dean. “Let’s go inside and lie down, okay?”
“Yeah.”
He reaches out, a hand on Dean’s elbow, an arm around his waist. As they get up, Dean sways against him. He sinks down, bracing, and takes the bulk of his brother’s weight.
“Dean?”
He can feel his brother blinking, the slow flutter of eyelashes against his shoulder. He senses the words rather than hearing them when Dean says, “Give me a minute.”
Sam nods, his cheek brushes against Dean’s ear.
He doesn’t remember the last time Dean and him were this close since he was a kid. He doesn’t remember ever feeling this much bigger than his brother, even though he’s been the taller one since Grade Ten.
They are shaking, but he isn’t sure if it’s Dean or himself or both of them. Sam tightens his arms around his brother.
“We’ll see the specialist tomorrow. He will help you. Dean, just trust me on this, okay?”
His brother remains silent for a long moment.
“I trust you, Sam,” Dean finally said, and after a pause he adds, “Dude. Are you hugging me?”
“Maybe.” He shifts his grip on Dean, and starts moving them towards the door. “Come on, let’s get inside.”
He wants Dean with him, and it doesn't matter what it takes. Duty. Guilt. Faith.
Whatever it takes.