SPN FIC: Running Up That Hill 1/1 PG-13 GEN
Story Title: Running Up That Hill
Character/Relationships: Dean, Sam
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 1000
Spoilers: through S5
Disclaimer: Not mine :-) Just playing with Kripke, CW, et al's creation
A/N: Written for spn_las, the prompt was "Fix-It (this fic should "fix" something from the show you didn't like and wish would have been different)". I, of course, used this as an excuse to fix something that just helped break Dean that much more, lolol. Title from the song by Placebo.
RUNNING UP THAT HILL
“Find Sammy, Bones,” Dean urged the excited dog. Bones snuffled along the ground, and then took off across the open field away from the motel. He zigged left at a utility pole and then back right before beelining towards the single large tree, an oak along the chain link fence bordering the frontage road for I-84. Dean grinned.
Bones cast along the bushes around the tree and then worked his way into the culvert and to the edge of the pipe that ran under the highway. He bayed, clear and deep. Dean ran across the field, but could already hear Sammy praising Bones, laughing, before he rolled clear of the grate and jumped up. Bones leaped around him as Sam ruffled his fur and slapped his shoulders with an open hand. He looked so happy. A sharp pang ripped up Dean's chest and closed his throat.
“Good boy, Bones,” Dean added as he joined them.
“I still can't believe Dad let me keep him,” Sam said, still focused on Bones.
“Me, either,” Dean muttered. It'd been six weeks, but Dean's stomach still soured every time he remembered how it had been in Kansas City, how he couldn't find Sammy, and didn't know if he'd left on his own or been dragged away screaming.
Sam glanced up at him, but then stilled, and held Dean's gaze. “I'm sorry, Dean. I know Dad was mad at you, too. I told him it wasn't your fault.”
Dean grabbed Bones's collar. “Go. This time make it hard, double back through the parking lot twice and then go to the Coke machine on the second floor. You got...” he checked his watch. “Six minutes.”
Sam took off, running down the fence line. Bones whined, watching him go, until Dean hunkered down next to him. He dug his fingers into Bones's thick ruff and scratched. Bones raised his head and closed his eyes, moaning. “Stupid dog,” Dean whispered. Dad had said Sammy needed someone to be responsible for the way Dean was responsible for Sammy, but Dean really didn't think a dog was the same as a brother.
***
Sitting back on his haunches in the tall grass beside Bones, John sighed. “I'm sorry, son,” he said to Sammy's bent head. He wiped blood from his hands, leaving dark streaks across the thighs of his jeans that matched the whole right side of his grey tee shirt and then stood, his left knee popping loud.
Standing a few feet away, Dean let his eyes drift from Bonesy's labored breathing and the white gleam of bone poking through the jumbled, bloody flesh that used to be his shoulder to the jagged slash across John's bicep and tried to remember if they had one last suture kit or if he'd have to use dental floss to stitch it. Dental floss could be a bitch and Dad already had scar tissue to contend with there.
“Put him down, Sam. And don't waste a bullet doing it.”
The graveled command hit Dean like cold water. “Dad,” he said, stepping forward.
“Stay if you want, but it's his responsibility, Dean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sam?”
“Yes, sir,” Sam croaked, tears already wetting his cheeks.
“I'm gonna burn what's left of that altar and meet you at the car,” John said, voice soft, but firm. He turned and brushed past Dean.
After John rounded the corner of the dilapidated shack where they'd located the mummified remains of a bull, Dean stripped his knife from his belt and handed it to Sam as he knelt down beside Bones. The dog hadn't stood a chance against the spirit horns of a fully ensorcelled Apis. Dean stroked his head. Bones broke off his heavy, tongue-lolling pant to whine. His legs scrabbled against the blood soaked grass.
“It's okay, it's okay, Bones,” Dean reassured him. Almost two years, almost two years the stupid dog had made it through with them. Stupidest damn idea Dad had ever had. He was relieved when Bones gave up trying to move again. His harsh breaths filled Dean's ears, filled the silent void where Sam sat soundless and unmoving, the knife quivering in his shaking hand.
After a few moments, Dean took the knife back. “Don't go telling Dad, “ he said.
They never talked about it again.
***
“Sammy, I got this one. I'll do it,” Dean said, checking the clip on the gun.
Sam shook his head. “She asked me to.”
“You don't have to.”
“Yes, I do. Please.” Tears were streaming down his face, but Dean knew he'd follow through, could see it on his face. Loving Jess had taught him well. “Just...wait here.”
Madison was nothing like Bones, and neither is his brother, but Dean couldn't help thinking of that stupid dog for weeks afterward. Even though it had been years and years, he could still feel the gush of hot, life blood over his hand, the stickiness of their palms as he held Sammy's hand all the way back to the car.
***
Now there's demon blood on Sam's cheeks and in his mouth and down his throat. Dean thinks he would puke, if he could find his stomach, but he feels like nothing, like the buzz of a florescent light, like air. And all he think is, I don't got this, Dad, I don't. I can't.
Later, after burning the innocents left behind when Sam's smoked out the demons, after trying to in some way comfort the innocents Castiel's left behind by claiming Jimmy forever, Dean walks out into the dark. It's the darkest night he's ever walked into, he's certain of that. He thumbs the speed dial on his phone, but can hardly speak when Bobby answers.
And the next day, wishing the whiskey that's made his throat raw could somehow shield him from Sam's hoarse withdrawal screams, Dean recalls his Sammy's face, the real Sammy, his brother. Dad, he says inside. Dad, brothers really, really, aren't like dogs, Dad. I can't. I can't kill him.
Character/Relationships: Dean, Sam
Rating: PG-13
Word Count 1000
Spoilers: through S5
Disclaimer: Not mine :-) Just playing with Kripke, CW, et al's creation
A/N: Written for spn_las, the prompt was "Fix-It (this fic should "fix" something from the show you didn't like and wish would have been different)". I, of course, used this as an excuse to fix something that just helped break Dean that much more, lolol. Title from the song by Placebo.
RUNNING UP THAT HILL
“Find Sammy, Bones,” Dean urged the excited dog. Bones snuffled along the ground, and then took off across the open field away from the motel. He zigged left at a utility pole and then back right before beelining towards the single large tree, an oak along the chain link fence bordering the frontage road for I-84. Dean grinned.
Bones cast along the bushes around the tree and then worked his way into the culvert and to the edge of the pipe that ran under the highway. He bayed, clear and deep. Dean ran across the field, but could already hear Sammy praising Bones, laughing, before he rolled clear of the grate and jumped up. Bones leaped around him as Sam ruffled his fur and slapped his shoulders with an open hand. He looked so happy. A sharp pang ripped up Dean's chest and closed his throat.
“Good boy, Bones,” Dean added as he joined them.
“I still can't believe Dad let me keep him,” Sam said, still focused on Bones.
“Me, either,” Dean muttered. It'd been six weeks, but Dean's stomach still soured every time he remembered how it had been in Kansas City, how he couldn't find Sammy, and didn't know if he'd left on his own or been dragged away screaming.
Sam glanced up at him, but then stilled, and held Dean's gaze. “I'm sorry, Dean. I know Dad was mad at you, too. I told him it wasn't your fault.”
Dean grabbed Bones's collar. “Go. This time make it hard, double back through the parking lot twice and then go to the Coke machine on the second floor. You got...” he checked his watch. “Six minutes.”
Sam took off, running down the fence line. Bones whined, watching him go, until Dean hunkered down next to him. He dug his fingers into Bones's thick ruff and scratched. Bones raised his head and closed his eyes, moaning. “Stupid dog,” Dean whispered. Dad had said Sammy needed someone to be responsible for the way Dean was responsible for Sammy, but Dean really didn't think a dog was the same as a brother.
***
Sitting back on his haunches in the tall grass beside Bones, John sighed. “I'm sorry, son,” he said to Sammy's bent head. He wiped blood from his hands, leaving dark streaks across the thighs of his jeans that matched the whole right side of his grey tee shirt and then stood, his left knee popping loud.
Standing a few feet away, Dean let his eyes drift from Bonesy's labored breathing and the white gleam of bone poking through the jumbled, bloody flesh that used to be his shoulder to the jagged slash across John's bicep and tried to remember if they had one last suture kit or if he'd have to use dental floss to stitch it. Dental floss could be a bitch and Dad already had scar tissue to contend with there.
“Put him down, Sam. And don't waste a bullet doing it.”
The graveled command hit Dean like cold water. “Dad,” he said, stepping forward.
“Stay if you want, but it's his responsibility, Dean.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sam?”
“Yes, sir,” Sam croaked, tears already wetting his cheeks.
“I'm gonna burn what's left of that altar and meet you at the car,” John said, voice soft, but firm. He turned and brushed past Dean.
After John rounded the corner of the dilapidated shack where they'd located the mummified remains of a bull, Dean stripped his knife from his belt and handed it to Sam as he knelt down beside Bones. The dog hadn't stood a chance against the spirit horns of a fully ensorcelled Apis. Dean stroked his head. Bones broke off his heavy, tongue-lolling pant to whine. His legs scrabbled against the blood soaked grass.
“It's okay, it's okay, Bones,” Dean reassured him. Almost two years, almost two years the stupid dog had made it through with them. Stupidest damn idea Dad had ever had. He was relieved when Bones gave up trying to move again. His harsh breaths filled Dean's ears, filled the silent void where Sam sat soundless and unmoving, the knife quivering in his shaking hand.
After a few moments, Dean took the knife back. “Don't go telling Dad, “ he said.
They never talked about it again.
***
“Sammy, I got this one. I'll do it,” Dean said, checking the clip on the gun.
Sam shook his head. “She asked me to.”
“You don't have to.”
“Yes, I do. Please.” Tears were streaming down his face, but Dean knew he'd follow through, could see it on his face. Loving Jess had taught him well. “Just...wait here.”
Madison was nothing like Bones, and neither is his brother, but Dean couldn't help thinking of that stupid dog for weeks afterward. Even though it had been years and years, he could still feel the gush of hot, life blood over his hand, the stickiness of their palms as he held Sammy's hand all the way back to the car.
***
Now there's demon blood on Sam's cheeks and in his mouth and down his throat. Dean thinks he would puke, if he could find his stomach, but he feels like nothing, like the buzz of a florescent light, like air. And all he think is, I don't got this, Dad, I don't. I can't.
Later, after burning the innocents left behind when Sam's smoked out the demons, after trying to in some way comfort the innocents Castiel's left behind by claiming Jimmy forever, Dean walks out into the dark. It's the darkest night he's ever walked into, he's certain of that. He thumbs the speed dial on his phone, but can hardly speak when Bobby answers.
And the next day, wishing the whiskey that's made his throat raw could somehow shield him from Sam's hoarse withdrawal screams, Dean recalls his Sammy's face, the real Sammy, his brother. Dad, he says inside. Dad, brothers really, really, aren't like dogs, Dad. I can't. I can't kill him.