FIC: The Punch Drunk Suite
Title: The Punch Drunk Suite
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence
Pairings: none (gen) Dean and Sam
SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place some time around 3X09 (canon timeline speculative)
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
Summary: Sometimes the only light you can see is the neon glow in the window of a bar.
A/N1: This ficlet was written for the occasion of pdragon76’s birthday. I took some photos, see? And I shared them with Dragons. And she immediately demanded fic. Well, not so much DEMANDED, but whined. So I ficced, because I love her in impossible ways. Happy (belated) birthday, my dear. It ain’t art, but I hope you like it. Beta’d by the ever-lovely quellefromage, to whom I owe many, many thank yous in many, many ways.
I.
It’s stupid, but here he is; he’s lost it and he can’t hold back.
Sam’s in the restroom around the back of the gas station, and Dean’s sitting in the Impala, tears burning down his cheeks and chest tight with choked breath. He tugs on his ear like it’s some kind of control dial, like it will make the truth quieter, make time slow.
It’s stupid; the watch is a mid-priced Timex - lots of bells and whistles that he’s never bothered to figure out - but it’s served him for five or six years, now. It has a stop watch function and a bevel. It’s got an alarm that bleats like a robot sheep, reliable enough to wake him from one end of the country to the other and back again.
Dean wipes a shaking hand down his face, swipes his palm across his wet eyes. Drags a knuckle through the snot gathering above his top lip. “Stop it,” he chides himself in the darkness of the Chevy, “Fucking stop it.”
But the sudden assault of emotion isn’t deterred. It rushes over him like a cruel wave; strong and crushing and turning him on his head, grit of realization digging into his skin: time’s closing in, running out, broken down. The smashed watch in Dean’s hand brings it to his shore.
Docked between fingers and palm, the crushed crystal face and cracked case are a different wake-up alarm: two months, and his deal comes due. Doesn’t matter how many monsters they kill between now and then, he’s still going to Hell and no one can change it; not Sam, not him, not even Ruby.
“Goddamnit,” he whispers - curse and prayer in one - and his breath curls up, white like smoke from church incense, in the not-quite-Spring night.
Sam’s long shadow crosses the Impala’s hood, and Dean pushes hot tears off his cheeks, sniffs deep before his brother can fold himself into the passenger seat. Dean tucks the busted timepiece into his jacket pocket and reaches for the keys dangling from the ignition.
“You okay, man?” Sam asks when he’s situated.
Dean nods, gives Sam a quick glance to telegraph as much assurance of the fact as he can muster, but fails. His eyes are filling up again, throat tightening.
Sam’s brows draw together and he turns slightly in the seat, left knee pulling up. “You sure? I mean, that poltergeist really slammed you against that wall, Dean. If you’re hurt--”
“I’m not hurt, okay? I’m good, I just-- I could use a drink,” he says, and points in the direction of the bar adjacent to the gas station. The window of tears blurs the lights, refracts their brightness in lines and squiggles that trail as Dean tries once more to convince Sam he’s fine. His brother’s lips purse, and his head bobs a few times.
“Okay. Yeah. All right. I could go for a beer or two, I guess.”
II.
Dean’s not sure if it’s the wall behind him or Sam’s freaking giant hand pressed against his chest that’s helping most to keep him upright, but he’s thankful.
Mostly thankful.
A little pissed, too, because Sam’s holding him back from the smiling fuck three feet away who’s been asking for a goddamned red-knuckle sandwich all night.
“Dude, calm down,” Sam hisses at him through a clenched jaw.
The tips of his brother’s fingers sink deeper into his chest, and then Sam gives him a little shove. It’s the kind of thing Dean’d never let him get away with if he was sober.
“Aw, tha’s sweet,” the asshole glazes from the other end of the bar’s long wooden porch. He smiles, pie-eyed, all slur and fake sunshine. “You got yer girlfrien’ t’ protect ya.”
The guy lifts his beer bottle in mock salute and takes a long pull while Dean bucks against Sam’s hands.
“Get off me,” Dean growls, shoving at his brother’s restraints, eyes on the prize at the end of the porch.
Sam stumbles back a step, boots playing taps on the wood planking. His hands lift in surrender, and he gives Dean a sad, slight shake of his head. “Not worth it, dude…”
“Ooooh,” the asshole coos as Dean pushes around Sam, then takes a few stuttered steps from the wall and rights himself. “I guess th’ lady wants t’ dance.”
“Play ya some chin music,” Dean says with a snarl, then strides forward awkwardly and swings an allemande with his right fist. Misses by a country mile.
As Dean’s pushing himself up from his left knee, the asshole laughs and bends down into his personal space - “Take your time, sweetheart.” - and his words flip a switch inside Dean. Time, he doesn’t have.
Not enough, not anymore. And that’s made painfully clear when - simultaneously - he hears Sam yell his name and sees the blurred flash of a beer bottle swooping down from above like a missile.
III.
“Stop squirming,” Sam says, stern but soothing like a balm. He’s going to make things all right, going to fix the damage.
Dean keeps his eyes closed, left one still stinging from the bitterness of blood that flooded it. The wall lamp over the bed burns shapes of light into the darkness behind his lids, little worms of brightness each time Dean’s lashes flutter with the pinch and pull of Sam’s suturing.
“Guy was an asshole, Dean. Wasn’t worth your time,” Sam mutters, and Dean feels the thread draw the gape in his eyebrow closer to closed.
“I know,” he says. “I know that.”
“Not worth all this blood, either,” Sam rebukes, and Dean feels the thread knotted and clipped. Sam presses a gauze pad against his brow. “Hold this.”
Dean’s fingers fumble up to his face, stiff and lacking grace. He uses more than enough pressure while Sam tapes down the bandage, fingertips feeling the nub and gnarl of every stitch. The wound’s still numb from the ice Sam applied, but Dean can feel the strangeness of the foreign thread, like a patchwork reminder of how everything seems to be coming apart these days.
Sam’s weight leaves the bed, and the wall lamp’s light swivels away from Dean’s face.
“You’re done,” Sam says.
Dean’s eyelids crack open, take in the slumped sadness of his brother’s form.
Not yet, he thinks. I’m not done yet.
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence
Pairings: none (gen) Dean and Sam
SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place some time around 3X09 (canon timeline speculative)
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
Summary: Sometimes the only light you can see is the neon glow in the window of a bar.
A/N1: This ficlet was written for the occasion of pdragon76’s birthday. I took some photos, see? And I shared them with Dragons. And she immediately demanded fic. Well, not so much DEMANDED, but whined. So I ficced, because I love her in impossible ways. Happy (belated) birthday, my dear. It ain’t art, but I hope you like it. Beta’d by the ever-lovely quellefromage, to whom I owe many, many thank yous in many, many ways.
I.
It’s stupid, but here he is; he’s lost it and he can’t hold back.
Sam’s in the restroom around the back of the gas station, and Dean’s sitting in the Impala, tears burning down his cheeks and chest tight with choked breath. He tugs on his ear like it’s some kind of control dial, like it will make the truth quieter, make time slow.
It’s stupid; the watch is a mid-priced Timex - lots of bells and whistles that he’s never bothered to figure out - but it’s served him for five or six years, now. It has a stop watch function and a bevel. It’s got an alarm that bleats like a robot sheep, reliable enough to wake him from one end of the country to the other and back again.
Dean wipes a shaking hand down his face, swipes his palm across his wet eyes. Drags a knuckle through the snot gathering above his top lip. “Stop it,” he chides himself in the darkness of the Chevy, “Fucking stop it.”
But the sudden assault of emotion isn’t deterred. It rushes over him like a cruel wave; strong and crushing and turning him on his head, grit of realization digging into his skin: time’s closing in, running out, broken down. The smashed watch in Dean’s hand brings it to his shore.
Docked between fingers and palm, the crushed crystal face and cracked case are a different wake-up alarm: two months, and his deal comes due. Doesn’t matter how many monsters they kill between now and then, he’s still going to Hell and no one can change it; not Sam, not him, not even Ruby.
“Goddamnit,” he whispers - curse and prayer in one - and his breath curls up, white like smoke from church incense, in the not-quite-Spring night.
Sam’s long shadow crosses the Impala’s hood, and Dean pushes hot tears off his cheeks, sniffs deep before his brother can fold himself into the passenger seat. Dean tucks the busted timepiece into his jacket pocket and reaches for the keys dangling from the ignition.
“You okay, man?” Sam asks when he’s situated.
Dean nods, gives Sam a quick glance to telegraph as much assurance of the fact as he can muster, but fails. His eyes are filling up again, throat tightening.
Sam’s brows draw together and he turns slightly in the seat, left knee pulling up. “You sure? I mean, that poltergeist really slammed you against that wall, Dean. If you’re hurt--”
“I’m not hurt, okay? I’m good, I just-- I could use a drink,” he says, and points in the direction of the bar adjacent to the gas station. The window of tears blurs the lights, refracts their brightness in lines and squiggles that trail as Dean tries once more to convince Sam he’s fine. His brother’s lips purse, and his head bobs a few times.
“Okay. Yeah. All right. I could go for a beer or two, I guess.”
II.
Dean’s not sure if it’s the wall behind him or Sam’s freaking giant hand pressed against his chest that’s helping most to keep him upright, but he’s thankful.
Mostly thankful.
A little pissed, too, because Sam’s holding him back from the smiling fuck three feet away who’s been asking for a goddamned red-knuckle sandwich all night.
“Dude, calm down,” Sam hisses at him through a clenched jaw.
The tips of his brother’s fingers sink deeper into his chest, and then Sam gives him a little shove. It’s the kind of thing Dean’d never let him get away with if he was sober.
“Aw, tha’s sweet,” the asshole glazes from the other end of the bar’s long wooden porch. He smiles, pie-eyed, all slur and fake sunshine. “You got yer girlfrien’ t’ protect ya.”
The guy lifts his beer bottle in mock salute and takes a long pull while Dean bucks against Sam’s hands.
“Get off me,” Dean growls, shoving at his brother’s restraints, eyes on the prize at the end of the porch.
Sam stumbles back a step, boots playing taps on the wood planking. His hands lift in surrender, and he gives Dean a sad, slight shake of his head. “Not worth it, dude…”
“Ooooh,” the asshole coos as Dean pushes around Sam, then takes a few stuttered steps from the wall and rights himself. “I guess th’ lady wants t’ dance.”
“Play ya some chin music,” Dean says with a snarl, then strides forward awkwardly and swings an allemande with his right fist. Misses by a country mile.
As Dean’s pushing himself up from his left knee, the asshole laughs and bends down into his personal space - “Take your time, sweetheart.” - and his words flip a switch inside Dean. Time, he doesn’t have.
Not enough, not anymore. And that’s made painfully clear when - simultaneously - he hears Sam yell his name and sees the blurred flash of a beer bottle swooping down from above like a missile.
III.
“Stop squirming,” Sam says, stern but soothing like a balm. He’s going to make things all right, going to fix the damage.
Dean keeps his eyes closed, left one still stinging from the bitterness of blood that flooded it. The wall lamp over the bed burns shapes of light into the darkness behind his lids, little worms of brightness each time Dean’s lashes flutter with the pinch and pull of Sam’s suturing.
“Guy was an asshole, Dean. Wasn’t worth your time,” Sam mutters, and Dean feels the thread draw the gape in his eyebrow closer to closed.
“I know,” he says. “I know that.”
“Not worth all this blood, either,” Sam rebukes, and Dean feels the thread knotted and clipped. Sam presses a gauze pad against his brow. “Hold this.”
Dean’s fingers fumble up to his face, stiff and lacking grace. He uses more than enough pressure while Sam tapes down the bandage, fingertips feeling the nub and gnarl of every stitch. The wound’s still numb from the ice Sam applied, but Dean can feel the strangeness of the foreign thread, like a patchwork reminder of how everything seems to be coming apart these days.
Sam’s weight leaves the bed, and the wall lamp’s light swivels away from Dean’s face.
“You’re done,” Sam says.
Dean’s eyelids crack open, take in the slumped sadness of his brother’s form.
Not yet, he thinks. I’m not done yet.