SPN FIC: Interlude
Title: Interlude
Author: Radium Girl
Spoilers: 6.06, 6.07
Genre: Episode tag, h/c, drama
Summary: It was an insult to Sam’s memory and Dean wasn't going to stand for it.
Warnings: Spoilers and speculation for Season 6, torture, bro-on-bro violence
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, just visiting.
Author’s Note: This is probably going to get Jossed on Friday, in the meantime, it’s my personal head!canon. I’m sorry, boys.
Sam woke up immobile, bound tightly to a hard, straight-back chair. He flexed his hands and winced at the way the rope dug into his forearms. Dried blood crusted over his eyelashes and he blinked it away before slowly raising his head and focusing on the sight before him.
Dean knelt on the cement floor looking every bit the terrifying hunter Sam knew he could be. He looked up from the whetstone he ran over the silver blade of his knife, green eyes cold and hard as they took Sam in. When Dean spoke, his words came out in a low growl, “What are you?”
Sam shook his head. A fist shot out, tearing into Sam’s cheek as Dean backhanded him.
“What are you?”
“Sam.” He breathed, “I’m Sam.”
He licked at the trickle of blood running down his lip and tugged at his bindings again. “Dean-“
Another blow, “Don’t ‘Dean’ me. This ends tonight. So let’s try this again. What. Are. You.”
Sam found the silver blade hovering precariously close to his throat. Dean’s hands didn’t tremble, so sure he was that the thing he had tied up was a monster in a mask. Sam swallowed, caught Dean’s sharp gaze, and wondered if maybe Dean was on to something here.
“I’m Sam-“
Stars exploded behind Sam’s eyes as the heavy hilt of the knife slammed into his temple. A thin stream of warmth ran down the side of his face and soaked the collar of his shirt. When Sam opened his eyes, there were two Deans. Four hands gripped his chin, forced his head up, “What are you?”
“Sam-“
“Stop. Lying.” The Deans forced through clenched teeth. “Veritas said you aren’t human. I like to think she’s an expert on not being human, don’t you?”
Sam blinked his swollen eyes and leaned forward into Dean’s grip. He ignored the fact that it was too tight and too rough to be anything even remotely brotherly and concentrated on the lingering scent of gun oil and the feel of the calluses on the pads of Dean’s fingers, the raised ridge of skin on his left palm where he ripped his hand open breaking into a Rite Aid to get Sam penicillin for his strep throat when he was nine. Sam allowed himself to drift. It was a rare allowance. It had gotten him through a century in the Cage, but Sam found little point in hiding in his own head now that he was…whatever he was now.
Dean growled and shook Sam back to the present. “Wake up. We aren’t even close to done.”
He let go and Sam’s head dropped to his chest. Sam forced himself to look up, tried to catch Dean’s eyes again, tried to communicate everything he should have said from the beginning. “I don’t know what I am, Dean. I’m all fucked up. I don’t know…if I’m human. But I’m Sam. I’m Sam Winchester. I’m your brother.”
Sam tensed, waiting for another hit. He slumped as much as the rope would let him when it didn’t come. Then hands in his hair yanked back and the blade was back at his throat. Dean’s voice was gravelly and low in his ear, his breath hot against Sam’s clammy skin, “You are not Sam Winchester. You don’t even have the right to say his name. My brother was a hero. You’re an insult to his memory.” Dean’s voice trailed off. Sam looked sideways out of the corner of his eyes. Dean’s face was wet and flushed, his eyes glassy and red.
Sam thought that maybe he should be crying here too and he tried, but nothing came. Nothing had come in months. That’s probably part of the problem, Sam reflected, detached, even with Dean’s knife to his throat. He wondered, briefly, why he was even bothering trying to convince Dean of his identity. The silver blade knicked the skin beneath his Adam’s apple and Sam didn’t care if it found its way to his carotid artery. Sure, he flinched with every hit because it hurt…but Sam had known far greater hurts and if Dean killed him, well, Sam also knew that there were worse things in life than death.
But Sam didn’t want Dean to kill him. Sam wanted Dean to believe him. Sam wanted to be the Sam that Dean wanted, and maybe, maybe if he could get Dean to believe him and untie him, and maybe even love him; maybe he could try a little harder to find the pieces of that person who jumped into Hell with a smile on his face.
Maybe Sam wasn’t human…but maybe he could be close enough.
The grip on his hair tightened and roped him back to reality, “I should just kill you. Maybe it doesn’t even matter what you are-“
“Maybe it doesn't-“
“Shut up.”
“Dean-“
“I said shut up!” Dean wiped at the wetness on his face with the back of his other hand, the grip on Sam’s hair never faltering. “I’m gonna ask one more time. And you’re gonna answer me. What are you?”
The silence dragged as Sam wracked his brain before giving Dean the only answer he had, “I don’t know.”
“Not good enough.”
Dean let go of Sam’s hair with a shove and the knife clanged to the ground. He didn’t move from his position behind Sam, but Sam heard the click of a Dean popping the clip out of, then back into, his Taurus and he wasn’t surprised when the muzzle brushed against the back of his skull. He sighed and closed his eyes.
A breeze blew through the room accompanied by the flutter of wings. Sam cracked an eye open and saw Castiel step towards him, babbling at Dean like in the old days, “I have asked around and I have several ideas about Sam that we can investigate…” his voice trailed off and he cocked his head to the side, taking in the sight of Dean’s gun pressed to Sam’s head, Sam’s face a bloody mess, and Sam himself a calm eye in the middle of this storm, “What do you think you are doing, Dean?”
Author: Radium Girl
Spoilers: 6.06, 6.07
Genre: Episode tag, h/c, drama
Summary: It was an insult to Sam’s memory and Dean wasn't going to stand for it.
Warnings: Spoilers and speculation for Season 6, torture, bro-on-bro violence
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, just visiting.
Author’s Note: This is probably going to get Jossed on Friday, in the meantime, it’s my personal head!canon. I’m sorry, boys.
Sam woke up immobile, bound tightly to a hard, straight-back chair. He flexed his hands and winced at the way the rope dug into his forearms. Dried blood crusted over his eyelashes and he blinked it away before slowly raising his head and focusing on the sight before him.
Dean knelt on the cement floor looking every bit the terrifying hunter Sam knew he could be. He looked up from the whetstone he ran over the silver blade of his knife, green eyes cold and hard as they took Sam in. When Dean spoke, his words came out in a low growl, “What are you?”
Sam shook his head. A fist shot out, tearing into Sam’s cheek as Dean backhanded him.
“What are you?”
“Sam.” He breathed, “I’m Sam.”
He licked at the trickle of blood running down his lip and tugged at his bindings again. “Dean-“
Another blow, “Don’t ‘Dean’ me. This ends tonight. So let’s try this again. What. Are. You.”
Sam found the silver blade hovering precariously close to his throat. Dean’s hands didn’t tremble, so sure he was that the thing he had tied up was a monster in a mask. Sam swallowed, caught Dean’s sharp gaze, and wondered if maybe Dean was on to something here.
“I’m Sam-“
Stars exploded behind Sam’s eyes as the heavy hilt of the knife slammed into his temple. A thin stream of warmth ran down the side of his face and soaked the collar of his shirt. When Sam opened his eyes, there were two Deans. Four hands gripped his chin, forced his head up, “What are you?”
“Sam-“
“Stop. Lying.” The Deans forced through clenched teeth. “Veritas said you aren’t human. I like to think she’s an expert on not being human, don’t you?”
Sam blinked his swollen eyes and leaned forward into Dean’s grip. He ignored the fact that it was too tight and too rough to be anything even remotely brotherly and concentrated on the lingering scent of gun oil and the feel of the calluses on the pads of Dean’s fingers, the raised ridge of skin on his left palm where he ripped his hand open breaking into a Rite Aid to get Sam penicillin for his strep throat when he was nine. Sam allowed himself to drift. It was a rare allowance. It had gotten him through a century in the Cage, but Sam found little point in hiding in his own head now that he was…whatever he was now.
Dean growled and shook Sam back to the present. “Wake up. We aren’t even close to done.”
He let go and Sam’s head dropped to his chest. Sam forced himself to look up, tried to catch Dean’s eyes again, tried to communicate everything he should have said from the beginning. “I don’t know what I am, Dean. I’m all fucked up. I don’t know…if I’m human. But I’m Sam. I’m Sam Winchester. I’m your brother.”
Sam tensed, waiting for another hit. He slumped as much as the rope would let him when it didn’t come. Then hands in his hair yanked back and the blade was back at his throat. Dean’s voice was gravelly and low in his ear, his breath hot against Sam’s clammy skin, “You are not Sam Winchester. You don’t even have the right to say his name. My brother was a hero. You’re an insult to his memory.” Dean’s voice trailed off. Sam looked sideways out of the corner of his eyes. Dean’s face was wet and flushed, his eyes glassy and red.
Sam thought that maybe he should be crying here too and he tried, but nothing came. Nothing had come in months. That’s probably part of the problem, Sam reflected, detached, even with Dean’s knife to his throat. He wondered, briefly, why he was even bothering trying to convince Dean of his identity. The silver blade knicked the skin beneath his Adam’s apple and Sam didn’t care if it found its way to his carotid artery. Sure, he flinched with every hit because it hurt…but Sam had known far greater hurts and if Dean killed him, well, Sam also knew that there were worse things in life than death.
But Sam didn’t want Dean to kill him. Sam wanted Dean to believe him. Sam wanted to be the Sam that Dean wanted, and maybe, maybe if he could get Dean to believe him and untie him, and maybe even love him; maybe he could try a little harder to find the pieces of that person who jumped into Hell with a smile on his face.
Maybe Sam wasn’t human…but maybe he could be close enough.
The grip on his hair tightened and roped him back to reality, “I should just kill you. Maybe it doesn’t even matter what you are-“
“Maybe it doesn't-“
“Shut up.”
“Dean-“
“I said shut up!” Dean wiped at the wetness on his face with the back of his other hand, the grip on Sam’s hair never faltering. “I’m gonna ask one more time. And you’re gonna answer me. What are you?”
The silence dragged as Sam wracked his brain before giving Dean the only answer he had, “I don’t know.”
“Not good enough.”
Dean let go of Sam’s hair with a shove and the knife clanged to the ground. He didn’t move from his position behind Sam, but Sam heard the click of a Dean popping the clip out of, then back into, his Taurus and he wasn’t surprised when the muzzle brushed against the back of his skull. He sighed and closed his eyes.
A breeze blew through the room accompanied by the flutter of wings. Sam cracked an eye open and saw Castiel step towards him, babbling at Dean like in the old days, “I have asked around and I have several ideas about Sam that we can investigate…” his voice trailed off and he cocked his head to the side, taking in the sight of Dean’s gun pressed to Sam’s head, Sam’s face a bloody mess, and Sam himself a calm eye in the middle of this storm, “What do you think you are doing, Dean?”