SPN FIC: For Keeps
Title: For Keeps
Spoilers: season 6
Genre: AU
Summary: Dean felt some sense of duty to keep the things that Sam once deemed worthy of being kept, back when Sam could still keep things like that.
Warnings: Spoilers and speculation for Season 6, broken!sam
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Author’s Note: This is a companion piece to Drive All Night, for dragonfly_sg1 ’s Whumped!Sam/ Awesome Big Brother!Dean challenge. It’s not essential that you read Drive All Night before reading this though…I don’t think.
The brassy little face glistened in Dean’s palm. It had been wrapped in newspaper and nestled in the bottom of an old Whitman’s chocolate box, the lid labeled in blocky, childish print: “Properdy of Sammy Winchester.”
The box was one of those things that got lost in the shuffle of the Not-pocalypse. Dean stumbled upon it once while cleaning out the Impala, about a month into his tenure at Lisa’s and pretty much went out of his way to ignore it. Then Sam was back and it wasn’t his problem anymore. Now, Sam was somewhere between here and gone (and mostly gone) and Dean felt some sense of duty to keep the things that Sam once deemed worthy of being kept, back when Sam could still keep things like that.
It was the middle of July and hot as balls, but Sam got antsy when he was cooped up inside for too long, so Dean grabbed himself a beer and sat a frosty glass of iced tea next to Sam’s spot on the stoop. Sam glanced up, briefly, at him, then went back to studying the waves of heat rising off of Bobby’s dusty yard.
A lot of the stuff in Sammy Winchester’s little box made Dean grin crookedly and roll his eyes, like the blue-raspberry condom Dean flung at him from the window of the Impala as Sam escorted Andrea McSomething to his first dance. He was thirteen and appropriately horrified, of course. Dean half expected the damn thing to be pitched into the nearest garbage can.
There was a strip of black and white snapshots taken in a photobooth on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, New Jersey when Sam was nine, a slinky that Dean vaguely remembered winning at a dart game at a county fair in Georgia, and other things that held no significance whatsoever for Dean, things that he realized were probably associated with Jess. There was a blue flower-shaped post-it note that said “Study session?” with a winking smiley and a phone number scrawled in glittery purple gel-ink, the card-key to a Best Western in Santa Monica, a singed photograph of the two of them-Jessica’s hair sun-bleached and salt-streaked, white tan lines on her lobster red shoulders. Sam was grass-stained and sweaty, grinning like an idiot and bracing a soccer ball against his hip. He had his other arm around Jess, but, Dean noted, was careful to avoid actually touching her sunburned shoulders because he was a considerate bastard like that. Sam’s loopy handwriting had inked out on the back, “Quad, April ‘03” and Dean had to grab himself another beer.
He considered going back for the Jim Beam when he saw the little paper packet because dammit, what else could it be?
“Aw, Sammy.”
Dean took a swig from his Miller and slid down to sit beside Sam. Sam hadn’t touched his tea, the glass was wet with condensation pooling on the wooden steps. Dean sighed and picked it up. Sam was getting better at doing these things himself, but only just.
“You’re gonna dehydrate, you big geek.” Dean pressed the glass against Sam’s lips. He sipped tentatively and Dean carefully wrapped his hands around the glass with a “Got it?” before letting go.
Dean held the old candy box in his lap, “Hey Sammy, I was just going through some of your stuff. You know, see if you had any Mickey Mantle baseball cards stashed away or something.”
Sam didn’t respond, his grip of the glass of iced tea so tight that his knuckles were white.
“Thought you might want to help.” Dean fished in the box and held the photo of Sam and Jess up, “Remember her?”
Sam’s eyes slid sideways, eyebrows raised. His hands trembled slightly and Dean wondered if Bobby was particularly fond of that glass. He began to wonder if maybe this wasn’t a really bad idea and pulled the photograph back with a shrug, “You look like you were happy.”
Dean took a deep, shuddering breath and held the amulet out, “Sammy?”
The air left Sam in a whoosh and he dropped the glass of tea, curling in on himself like he was sucker punched. Dean felt like a dick and wrapped his hand around the charm, muttering a quick apology as he hid it from Sam’s line of sight.
Sam grabbed his wrist, lips working frantically, silently.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t-“
Sam pried at Dean’s fingers until Dean opened his palm. He held the amulet out to his brother, one arm slipping stealthily around Sam’s narrow waist. His hand brushed the knots of Sam’s spine, straining against the skin. Dean ran his hand up the sharp ridge of bone, kneaded the muscles at the back of Sammy’s neck.
Sam sagged in Dean’s arms. Dean asked, tentatively, “You remember this?”
Sam said nothing, but his gaze never wavered. Dean swallowed nervously, “You remember what I did with it?”
Sam’s fingers curled around the little metal face. He blinked as though there was a speck of dust in his eye, and Dean frowned at the tears that rolled down his cheeks.
It was a little bit freaky, the way Sam sobbed without making a sound. It reminded Dean of those angel statues, or the Virgin Mary, or whatever; that wept in times of great turmoil. Sam watched a documentary about them once, back when he still cared what was on the television in their tacky hotel room of the week. His shoulders didn’t even move. Dean wiped at Sam’s face with his thumb and grinned, “I’m sorry I didn’t take care of it right, Sammy. Thanks for keepin’ it for me.”
He thought about tossing it around his neck again in some heroic gesture of newfound brotherhood, then took in the strength of Sam’s grip on the tiny charm, the way he snapped back into something resembling attention at the sight of their heirloom, and hesitated. After a moment, Dean looped the leather chord over Sam’s head, smoothed the necklace against his chest, and used his other hand to tilt Sam’s gaze until it met his own, “I think you should look after it for me a little longer, okay?”
Sam’s hand snaked up his chest to clasp the amulet tightly, his gaze drifting again, away from Dean, towards the acres of weeds and tires and neglected cars that made up the bulk of the salvage yard. He didn’t protest when Dean gently guided his head down to rest on his older brother’s shoulder. Dean grinned when he felt Sam burrow into the crook of his neck and swallowed, trying to steady his voice, “You keep that and I’ll keep everything else and when you’re ready, we’ll put it all back together again okay?”
Sam said nothing, but Dean wasn’t really expecting him to. He rested his head against Sam’s and watched the heat radiate off of Bobby’s dusty yard.
Spoilers: season 6
Genre: AU
Summary: Dean felt some sense of duty to keep the things that Sam once deemed worthy of being kept, back when Sam could still keep things like that.
Warnings: Spoilers and speculation for Season 6, broken!sam
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Author’s Note: This is a companion piece to Drive All Night, for dragonfly_sg1 ’s Whumped!Sam/ Awesome Big Brother!Dean challenge. It’s not essential that you read Drive All Night before reading this though…I don’t think.
The brassy little face glistened in Dean’s palm. It had been wrapped in newspaper and nestled in the bottom of an old Whitman’s chocolate box, the lid labeled in blocky, childish print: “Properdy of Sammy Winchester.”
The box was one of those things that got lost in the shuffle of the Not-pocalypse. Dean stumbled upon it once while cleaning out the Impala, about a month into his tenure at Lisa’s and pretty much went out of his way to ignore it. Then Sam was back and it wasn’t his problem anymore. Now, Sam was somewhere between here and gone (and mostly gone) and Dean felt some sense of duty to keep the things that Sam once deemed worthy of being kept, back when Sam could still keep things like that.
It was the middle of July and hot as balls, but Sam got antsy when he was cooped up inside for too long, so Dean grabbed himself a beer and sat a frosty glass of iced tea next to Sam’s spot on the stoop. Sam glanced up, briefly, at him, then went back to studying the waves of heat rising off of Bobby’s dusty yard.
A lot of the stuff in Sammy Winchester’s little box made Dean grin crookedly and roll his eyes, like the blue-raspberry condom Dean flung at him from the window of the Impala as Sam escorted Andrea McSomething to his first dance. He was thirteen and appropriately horrified, of course. Dean half expected the damn thing to be pitched into the nearest garbage can.
There was a strip of black and white snapshots taken in a photobooth on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, New Jersey when Sam was nine, a slinky that Dean vaguely remembered winning at a dart game at a county fair in Georgia, and other things that held no significance whatsoever for Dean, things that he realized were probably associated with Jess. There was a blue flower-shaped post-it note that said “Study session?” with a winking smiley and a phone number scrawled in glittery purple gel-ink, the card-key to a Best Western in Santa Monica, a singed photograph of the two of them-Jessica’s hair sun-bleached and salt-streaked, white tan lines on her lobster red shoulders. Sam was grass-stained and sweaty, grinning like an idiot and bracing a soccer ball against his hip. He had his other arm around Jess, but, Dean noted, was careful to avoid actually touching her sunburned shoulders because he was a considerate bastard like that. Sam’s loopy handwriting had inked out on the back, “Quad, April ‘03” and Dean had to grab himself another beer.
He considered going back for the Jim Beam when he saw the little paper packet because dammit, what else could it be?
“Aw, Sammy.”
Dean took a swig from his Miller and slid down to sit beside Sam. Sam hadn’t touched his tea, the glass was wet with condensation pooling on the wooden steps. Dean sighed and picked it up. Sam was getting better at doing these things himself, but only just.
“You’re gonna dehydrate, you big geek.” Dean pressed the glass against Sam’s lips. He sipped tentatively and Dean carefully wrapped his hands around the glass with a “Got it?” before letting go.
Dean held the old candy box in his lap, “Hey Sammy, I was just going through some of your stuff. You know, see if you had any Mickey Mantle baseball cards stashed away or something.”
Sam didn’t respond, his grip of the glass of iced tea so tight that his knuckles were white.
“Thought you might want to help.” Dean fished in the box and held the photo of Sam and Jess up, “Remember her?”
Sam’s eyes slid sideways, eyebrows raised. His hands trembled slightly and Dean wondered if Bobby was particularly fond of that glass. He began to wonder if maybe this wasn’t a really bad idea and pulled the photograph back with a shrug, “You look like you were happy.”
Dean took a deep, shuddering breath and held the amulet out, “Sammy?”
The air left Sam in a whoosh and he dropped the glass of tea, curling in on himself like he was sucker punched. Dean felt like a dick and wrapped his hand around the charm, muttering a quick apology as he hid it from Sam’s line of sight.
Sam grabbed his wrist, lips working frantically, silently.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t-“
Sam pried at Dean’s fingers until Dean opened his palm. He held the amulet out to his brother, one arm slipping stealthily around Sam’s narrow waist. His hand brushed the knots of Sam’s spine, straining against the skin. Dean ran his hand up the sharp ridge of bone, kneaded the muscles at the back of Sammy’s neck.
Sam sagged in Dean’s arms. Dean asked, tentatively, “You remember this?”
Sam said nothing, but his gaze never wavered. Dean swallowed nervously, “You remember what I did with it?”
Sam’s fingers curled around the little metal face. He blinked as though there was a speck of dust in his eye, and Dean frowned at the tears that rolled down his cheeks.
It was a little bit freaky, the way Sam sobbed without making a sound. It reminded Dean of those angel statues, or the Virgin Mary, or whatever; that wept in times of great turmoil. Sam watched a documentary about them once, back when he still cared what was on the television in their tacky hotel room of the week. His shoulders didn’t even move. Dean wiped at Sam’s face with his thumb and grinned, “I’m sorry I didn’t take care of it right, Sammy. Thanks for keepin’ it for me.”
He thought about tossing it around his neck again in some heroic gesture of newfound brotherhood, then took in the strength of Sam’s grip on the tiny charm, the way he snapped back into something resembling attention at the sight of their heirloom, and hesitated. After a moment, Dean looped the leather chord over Sam’s head, smoothed the necklace against his chest, and used his other hand to tilt Sam’s gaze until it met his own, “I think you should look after it for me a little longer, okay?”
Sam’s hand snaked up his chest to clasp the amulet tightly, his gaze drifting again, away from Dean, towards the acres of weeds and tires and neglected cars that made up the bulk of the salvage yard. He didn’t protest when Dean gently guided his head down to rest on his older brother’s shoulder. Dean grinned when he felt Sam burrow into the crook of his neck and swallowed, trying to steady his voice, “You keep that and I’ll keep everything else and when you’re ready, we’ll put it all back together again okay?”
Sam said nothing, but Dean wasn’t really expecting him to. He rested his head against Sam’s and watched the heat radiate off of Bobby’s dusty yard.