Righteous Man Part 1enkeliorMay 28 2012, 17:08:47 UTC
A/N: First time I'm posting on LJ, so apologies in advance. Also, not quite sure whether this is finished.
They walk back to the cabin in silence.
Sam’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be feeling something right now. Elation, maybe. Vestiges of being scared shitless. Some kind of worry for what Bobby’s planning to do now that he's free.
Something.
But he doesn’t.
…Funny, really. With as many times as the world has been on the brink of collapse, you’d think it’d get old at some point. Easier, at least.
Although, maybe it’s a good thing for everyone that it doesn’t.
“So let’s recap,” says his brother, making a beeline for the fridge. “Shall we.”
Sam fumbles the beer bottle flung at him. At least Dean’s not a stingy alcoholic, a wry part of him thinks distantly. The rest of him's just glad for the beer.
“Go ahead,” he says, and takes out his bottle-opener-slash-flashlight keychain (three ninety-five, Mattoon, Illinois). The bottle opens with a hiss and he curses, jumping as the beer foams over in his lap. “Goddamn it.”
Dean’s chuckle, rare as it always is these days, can really go fuck itself. “Stop peeing yourself, Sammy,” he says as he tosses Sam a towel.
“Shut up.” Beer's a bitch to get out.
“You shut up. Anyway,” he says, and Sam can hear the not-quite-there smile fall from his face. “Like I was saying.”
After a moment, Sam looks up. “Dean?”
The older Winchester shakes his head, snapping out of whatever reverie he was in. “Right. So. We’ve got blood from the alpha, blood from an angel, and kind-of-not-really blood from the asshole king of demons. Three ingredients down. With me so far?”
His jeans are wet, sticky and a lost cause for the moment. Sam wipes his hands. “Yeah.”
“So basically we have everything we need for the only weapon that can kill Dick - except, oh, the weapon itself. We have dip but no nachos, Sam. Not only are we running out on time here, but we have no idea where to even start looking for the bone of someone righteous.”
Sam gingerly sips at his beer. It spills unto his fingers. “Please don’t compare someone’s righteous bone to food.”
Dean’s lips quirk. “Right, sorry.”
A sigh. “You sure there isn’t anything in -”
“I’m sure, I’m sure, ‘course I’m sure.” He brings the bottle to his lips and seems to forget about it as he makes a face and says, “You’d think that slab would translate to more than a frigging sentence, right? And what the hell is righteous, anyhow? What definition are we using? Is it one guy, or are we supposed to go to some saintly graveyard and start shopping?” He drinks, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Pauses. “…Maybe it’s a metaphor.”
“I’m pretty sure bone means bone in this case, Dean.”
Dean frowns thoughtfully.
“No,” Sam cuts him off. “It’s not an ancient God penis joke.”
His brother’s mouth abruptly closes.
“It could have been,” he mutters, and pours himself across the sofa. Head craned back close to Sam’s, he frowns at the ceiling, wrinkles around his eyes.
“It really couldn’t have,” Sam says. He takes another swallow. “I just wish we had a way of knowing whether we’re on the right track.”
Dean glances over. “Oh,” he says wryly, with that hopeless smirk of his Sam hates, “you mean, you wish we had, like, some kind of authority on God? Like say, some kind of loopy, unreliable angel?”
Sam has a bad feeling about this. “Uh I guess - ” Sam begins, when Dean starts to bellow “HEY! HEY CAS! CASTIEL! GET OVER HERE, YOU ASSHOLE!”
When did Dean manage to slip another drink past him? “C’mon Dean, he’s not going to -”
Flutter.
Sam resists the urge to smack his forehead. Or Dean’s forehead.
“Oh hey Dean, Hey Sam,” Cas says, eyes all too wide and all too bright. His smile's cheerful, unburdened, like it usually is these days.
Sam would envy him, except he knows it’s just a symptom of how wrong it all is.
“Hi Cas,” Sam says, standing awkwardly and trying not to squirm under the angel’s open gaze. He’s yet to get used to this Cas, the Cas who’s not all there and who doesn’t really want to be. The Cas he became when he took on Sam’s pain. Sam’s hell.
…It’s stupid. Sam doesn’t owe him anything. Sam never asked for anything.
- get him out, someone, anyone, please, please, just bring him back -
They walk back to the cabin in silence.
Sam’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be feeling something right now. Elation, maybe. Vestiges of being scared shitless. Some kind of worry for what Bobby’s planning to do now that he's free.
Something.
But he doesn’t.
…Funny, really. With as many times as the world has been on the brink of collapse, you’d think it’d get old at some point. Easier, at least.
Although, maybe it’s a good thing for everyone that it doesn’t.
“So let’s recap,” says his brother, making a beeline for the fridge. “Shall we.”
Sam fumbles the beer bottle flung at him. At least Dean’s not a stingy alcoholic, a wry part of him thinks distantly. The rest of him's just glad for the beer.
“Go ahead,” he says, and takes out his bottle-opener-slash-flashlight keychain (three ninety-five, Mattoon, Illinois). The bottle opens with a hiss and he curses, jumping as the beer foams over in his lap. “Goddamn it.”
Dean’s chuckle, rare as it always is these days, can really go fuck itself. “Stop peeing yourself, Sammy,” he says as he tosses Sam a towel.
“Shut up.” Beer's a bitch to get out.
“You shut up. Anyway,” he says, and Sam can hear the not-quite-there smile fall from his face. “Like I was saying.”
After a moment, Sam looks up. “Dean?”
The older Winchester shakes his head, snapping out of whatever reverie he was in. “Right. So. We’ve got blood from the alpha, blood from an angel, and kind-of-not-really blood from the asshole king of demons. Three ingredients down. With me so far?”
His jeans are wet, sticky and a lost cause for the moment. Sam wipes his hands. “Yeah.”
“So basically we have everything we need for the only weapon that can kill Dick - except, oh, the weapon itself. We have dip but no nachos, Sam. Not only are we running out on time here, but we have no idea where to even start looking for the bone of someone righteous.”
Sam gingerly sips at his beer. It spills unto his fingers. “Please don’t compare someone’s righteous bone to food.”
Dean’s lips quirk. “Right, sorry.”
A sigh. “You sure there isn’t anything in -”
“I’m sure, I’m sure, ‘course I’m sure.” He brings the bottle to his lips and seems to forget about it as he makes a face and says, “You’d think that slab would translate to more than a frigging sentence, right? And what the hell is righteous, anyhow? What definition are we using? Is it one guy, or are we supposed to go to some saintly graveyard and start shopping?” He drinks, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Pauses. “…Maybe it’s a metaphor.”
“I’m pretty sure bone means bone in this case, Dean.”
Dean frowns thoughtfully.
“No,” Sam cuts him off. “It’s not an ancient God penis joke.”
His brother’s mouth abruptly closes.
“It could have been,” he mutters, and pours himself across the sofa. Head craned back close to Sam’s, he frowns at the ceiling, wrinkles around his eyes.
“It really couldn’t have,” Sam says. He takes another swallow. “I just wish we had a way of knowing whether we’re on the right track.”
Dean glances over. “Oh,” he says wryly, with that hopeless smirk of his Sam hates, “you mean, you wish we had, like, some kind of authority on God? Like say, some kind of loopy, unreliable angel?”
Sam has a bad feeling about this. “Uh I guess - ” Sam begins, when Dean starts to bellow “HEY! HEY CAS! CASTIEL! GET OVER HERE, YOU ASSHOLE!”
When did Dean manage to slip another drink past him? “C’mon Dean, he’s not going to -”
Flutter.
Sam resists the urge to smack his forehead. Or Dean’s forehead.
“Oh hey Dean, Hey Sam,” Cas says, eyes all too wide and all too bright. His smile's cheerful, unburdened, like it usually is these days.
Sam would envy him, except he knows it’s just a symptom of how wrong it all is.
“Hi Cas,” Sam says, standing awkwardly and trying not to squirm under the angel’s open gaze. He’s yet to get used to this Cas, the Cas who’s not all there and who doesn’t really want to be. The Cas he became when he took on Sam’s pain. Sam’s hell.
…It’s stupid. Sam doesn’t owe him anything. Sam never asked for anything.
- get him out, someone, anyone, please, please, just bring him back -
Or, well. It’s been a long time, anyway.
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