Righteous Man Part 3enkeliorMay 28 2012, 17:14:44 UTC
There’s a moment where Dean doesn’t seem to breathe.
…It’s a long moment.
“But I,” Dean starts, stutters. “But I’m not -” he stops.
And then his face crumples.
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck.” He covers his mouth with a shaking hand. His green eyes shimmer in the lamplight when he tears them away from Sam’s. “Fuck.”
“Dean,” Sam says, pained, but he doesn’t know what else to say.
His brother falls slowly to the floor, back against the sofa, forehead to his knees, gripping his short hair with white-knuckled fists. “Fuck, Sammy,” he says through his jeans, voice breaking. His broad shoulders shudder.
Sam doesn’t know whether Dean is thinking that he can’t possibly be the righteous man after everything he’s done, or remembering hell and its tortures, or just wondering how the fuck you’re supposed to take a bone from someone who isn’t dead. He doesn’t know which would be more heartbreaking, which would be more infuriating.
It doesn’t matter. Sam sits next to his brother, allowing no space between their legs. He takes Dean by the curve of his shaking shoulder and brings his head in close. Dean at first resists, but Sam doesn’t let him win and he gives in, his hair brushing roughly against Sam’s nose.
He doesn’t know what to say.
His brother is shaking under his hand. Sam swallows hard.
“It’ll be okay, Dean,” he whispers, and hopes to God he isn’t lying.
----
His brother sleeps restlessly, kicking at the sheets with a grimace. Sam greatly prefers this to when Dean sleeps like a log (after Dean came back from hell Sam used to marvel at how selfish he was, wanting his brother to have nightmares just so Sam would know he’s alive) but Dean is enough pain when he’s awake; Sam presses a hand to Dean’s clammy forehead, and he stills.
He keeps it there, having perfected the skill of typing one-handed early on in his Stanford years. It’s the least he can do, the only thing he can do. Sam has to shoulder what burdens he can.
He knows Dean would appreciate it, if he could bring himself to.
It’s a nightmarish choice to make. Sam hates even the thought of incapacitating his brother. However messed up it is, Dean’s identity has always been wrapped up in being useful. Losing an arm, a leg… Sam’s sure Dean won’t argue against it, but he doesn’t know if Dean could handle the consequences. Sam can barely stand the thought himself.
It isn’t practical, in any case. Dean’s one of the only fighters they got; he has to be functional in order to fight Dick. There is no other way.
It’ll have to be a rib, he realizes early on. Limbs are out of the question, and it has to be a bone big enough to stick someone with. Probably won’t be enough to scratch Dick with a toe.
Something catches in his throat. He wipes at his eyes and hates himself.
…It’s a long moment.
“But I,” Dean starts, stutters. “But I’m not -” he stops.
And then his face crumples.
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck.” He covers his mouth with a shaking hand. His green eyes shimmer in the lamplight when he tears them away from Sam’s. “Fuck.”
“Dean,” Sam says, pained, but he doesn’t know what else to say.
His brother falls slowly to the floor, back against the sofa, forehead to his knees, gripping his short hair with white-knuckled fists. “Fuck, Sammy,” he says through his jeans, voice breaking. His broad shoulders shudder.
Sam doesn’t know whether Dean is thinking that he can’t possibly be the righteous man after everything he’s done, or remembering hell and its tortures, or just wondering how the fuck you’re supposed to take a bone from someone who isn’t dead. He doesn’t know which would be more heartbreaking, which would be more infuriating.
It doesn’t matter. Sam sits next to his brother, allowing no space between their legs. He takes Dean by the curve of his shaking shoulder and brings his head in close. Dean at first resists, but Sam doesn’t let him win and he gives in, his hair brushing roughly against Sam’s nose.
He doesn’t know what to say.
His brother is shaking under his hand. Sam swallows hard.
“It’ll be okay, Dean,” he whispers, and hopes to God he isn’t lying.
----
His brother sleeps restlessly, kicking at the sheets with a grimace. Sam greatly prefers this to when Dean sleeps like a log (after Dean came back from hell Sam used to marvel at how selfish he was, wanting his brother to have nightmares just so Sam would know he’s alive) but Dean is enough pain when he’s awake; Sam presses a hand to Dean’s clammy forehead, and he stills.
He keeps it there, having perfected the skill of typing one-handed early on in his Stanford years. It’s the least he can do, the only thing he can do. Sam has to shoulder what burdens he can.
He knows Dean would appreciate it, if he could bring himself to.
It’s a nightmarish choice to make. Sam hates even the thought of incapacitating his brother. However messed up it is, Dean’s identity has always been wrapped up in being useful. Losing an arm, a leg… Sam’s sure Dean won’t argue against it, but he doesn’t know if Dean could handle the consequences. Sam can barely stand the thought himself.
It isn’t practical, in any case. Dean’s one of the only fighters they got; he has to be functional in order to fight Dick. There is no other way.
It’ll have to be a rib, he realizes early on. Limbs are out of the question, and it has to be a bone big enough to stick someone with. Probably won’t be enough to scratch Dick with a toe.
Something catches in his throat. He wipes at his eyes and hates himself.
It’s not funny. None of this is.
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