SPN FIC: Drive All Night
Title: Drive All Night
Spoilers: season 6
Genre: h/c, AU
Summary: In the end, Sam left quietly.
Warnings: Spoilers and speculation for Season 6, broken!sam
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Author’s Note: Just a quick drabble for the Whumped!Sam/Awesome Big Brother!Dean celebration of awesome over at dragonfly_sg1 's journal. Might become a 'verse in the future (see: more than likely).
It took the better part of a year for the wall to come down.
It came down in pieces: a nightmare here, an odd question there; and then on a muggy night in some shitty hotel on some shitty highway outside of Shitville, Alabama, Dean woke up to Sam’s hulking shadow looming over his bed. He had the palms of his hands pressed into his eye sockets and whimpered softly as he slid down the wall next to Dean’s bed. Dean was next to him in an instant, pulling his hands away, smoothing sweat-soaked hair back and murmuring, “I gotcha, Sammy. Just calm down, huh? You’re okay. You’re fine. It’s not time yet. It’s not time…”
But it was time. And in the end, Dean later reflected, after months of waiting for the big finale, for Sam to finally snap, to set himself on fire or something…in the end, Sam left quietly.
So, they went back to Sioux Falls, where Bobby taught Dean how to run the salvage yard and Sam drew protective sigils all over the walls and sometimes himself and once, in green Sharpie, all over Dean’s exposed arms when he fell asleep in the library one afternoon. Bobby laughed about it, then pointed out that everything Sam doodled was positive and protective and good, so surely, he knew what he was doing, right?
Dean would’ve asked, but Sam didn’t talk anymore.
Dean tried writing notes, but Sam looked at them with the same vague disinterest he regarded most things with. Sometimes, Dean wondered if Sam even understood spoken words, or if he was just going through well-known motions. Dean leaned towards the latter. Oh, Sam responded to his name just fine, and Dean’s, perking up like a puppy whenever someone said it. But “Sam, eat your sandwich” was met with that painfully empty gaze, and Dean sat at the table in Bobby’s kitchen every afternoon, breaking the tuna on white or ham on rye into small pieces and pressing them against Sam’s mouth until he opened up.
And yeah, it killed Dean every single time, but he was tired and he knew that it could be so much worse.
And yeah, sure, some nights were worse than others. Like, say, this particular evening, when Sam jerked awake from a nightmare just after midnight. Dean left the poker game he and Bobby had going when he heard the change in Sam’s breathing come over the baby monitor and bounded up the steps. Sam was banging his head off the wall, literally, until Dean pushed him back down and pulled the blue coverlet around his shoulders. Two hours later, Sam was still leaking silent tears into the bedding and Dean was ready to turn in himself, except he knew from experience that if he left Sam to his own devices, he’d be up all night, possibly doing his very best to give himself a concussion. Again.
So, Dean pulled Sam up and swathed him in the comforter, slid fresh socks, then worn sneakers over his feet, and carefully guided him down the stairs. Bobby looked up from the giant tome in his lap when the duo shuffled past the library and nodded a tight, sad smile. Dean grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and the keys to the Impala.
Outside, Sam slid his hands along the Impala’s sleek surface while Dean unlocked the door and folded his long body in the passenger seat. By the time Dean made his way to the driver side, Sam was curled up with his face pressed against the leather bench seat, breathing deep and even. Dean pulled out of the salvage yard on two tires, then hit the highway, practically abandoned at this hour, where he could really let the engine sing. When he looked down at Sam, Sam looked back, really looked, and grinned. His eyes slid shut and his body relaxed against the seat and Dean reached over, gently guiding Sam down until his head rested against his thigh and Sam’s warm breath ghosted over his knee through the denim.
Dean carded his fingers through Sam’s hair, allowed himself to relax into the safest bed he had ever known, and murmured, “Bitch” as they drove into morning.
Spoilers: season 6
Genre: h/c, AU
Summary: In the end, Sam left quietly.
Warnings: Spoilers and speculation for Season 6, broken!sam
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Author’s Note: Just a quick drabble for the Whumped!Sam/Awesome Big Brother!Dean celebration of awesome over at dragonfly_sg1 's journal. Might become a 'verse in the future (see: more than likely).
It took the better part of a year for the wall to come down.
It came down in pieces: a nightmare here, an odd question there; and then on a muggy night in some shitty hotel on some shitty highway outside of Shitville, Alabama, Dean woke up to Sam’s hulking shadow looming over his bed. He had the palms of his hands pressed into his eye sockets and whimpered softly as he slid down the wall next to Dean’s bed. Dean was next to him in an instant, pulling his hands away, smoothing sweat-soaked hair back and murmuring, “I gotcha, Sammy. Just calm down, huh? You’re okay. You’re fine. It’s not time yet. It’s not time…”
But it was time. And in the end, Dean later reflected, after months of waiting for the big finale, for Sam to finally snap, to set himself on fire or something…in the end, Sam left quietly.
So, they went back to Sioux Falls, where Bobby taught Dean how to run the salvage yard and Sam drew protective sigils all over the walls and sometimes himself and once, in green Sharpie, all over Dean’s exposed arms when he fell asleep in the library one afternoon. Bobby laughed about it, then pointed out that everything Sam doodled was positive and protective and good, so surely, he knew what he was doing, right?
Dean would’ve asked, but Sam didn’t talk anymore.
Dean tried writing notes, but Sam looked at them with the same vague disinterest he regarded most things with. Sometimes, Dean wondered if Sam even understood spoken words, or if he was just going through well-known motions. Dean leaned towards the latter. Oh, Sam responded to his name just fine, and Dean’s, perking up like a puppy whenever someone said it. But “Sam, eat your sandwich” was met with that painfully empty gaze, and Dean sat at the table in Bobby’s kitchen every afternoon, breaking the tuna on white or ham on rye into small pieces and pressing them against Sam’s mouth until he opened up.
And yeah, it killed Dean every single time, but he was tired and he knew that it could be so much worse.
And yeah, sure, some nights were worse than others. Like, say, this particular evening, when Sam jerked awake from a nightmare just after midnight. Dean left the poker game he and Bobby had going when he heard the change in Sam’s breathing come over the baby monitor and bounded up the steps. Sam was banging his head off the wall, literally, until Dean pushed him back down and pulled the blue coverlet around his shoulders. Two hours later, Sam was still leaking silent tears into the bedding and Dean was ready to turn in himself, except he knew from experience that if he left Sam to his own devices, he’d be up all night, possibly doing his very best to give himself a concussion. Again.
So, Dean pulled Sam up and swathed him in the comforter, slid fresh socks, then worn sneakers over his feet, and carefully guided him down the stairs. Bobby looked up from the giant tome in his lap when the duo shuffled past the library and nodded a tight, sad smile. Dean grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and the keys to the Impala.
Outside, Sam slid his hands along the Impala’s sleek surface while Dean unlocked the door and folded his long body in the passenger seat. By the time Dean made his way to the driver side, Sam was curled up with his face pressed against the leather bench seat, breathing deep and even. Dean pulled out of the salvage yard on two tires, then hit the highway, practically abandoned at this hour, where he could really let the engine sing. When he looked down at Sam, Sam looked back, really looked, and grinned. His eyes slid shut and his body relaxed against the seat and Dean reached over, gently guiding Sam down until his head rested against his thigh and Sam’s warm breath ghosted over his knee through the denim.
Dean carded his fingers through Sam’s hair, allowed himself to relax into the safest bed he had ever known, and murmured, “Bitch” as they drove into morning.