[backdated]: closed to dean
The whole night is a blur. A messy, painful, bloody blur. Or not even the whole night; Sam remembers clearly enough going running, the first wolf coming at him and gutting it with the knife. It's a good knife, he still has it
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Not all of it, anyway. Not the whole kanoodle. But he used to know how to throw lifelines across minor disagreements, used to know how to fix minor hurts and cracks; it's easy to leave the argument that got them here out of his voice and thoughts. He wants to. If they were back home, he wouldn't think they could afford to; they'd have to patch the hole somehow, even if the plug would cause more damage in the end, because as vicious as they can be with each other, their enemies are many and always looking for an in and they can't afford to allow it, to let time heal it. But they're not home, and Dean wants to ignore it for now - not for good, but for now, let them both breathe - and it's the easiest thing in the world to give in to that.
"Yeah." He can feel Sam's wariness sparking around him even through the alcohol-induced calm haze; it hurts, but it's a hurt he can ignore, and it doesn't tint his voice as he goes ahead and willingly picks up the slack. "Met her first or second day - she's nice. Genuinely nice, ya know? Talked to her a couple times - she doesn't push. Just listens. And she thinks my jokes about turnip trucks are funny. And I had this bogus-ass charm in my pocket when I got here? I don't remember what started it, but I gave it to her, and I could see her eyerolling about it but she took it anyway."
He pauses, lets out a slow breath. Keeps his voice light and easy and steady when he repeats, "Real sweetheart of a gal."
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There's a big, big part of Sam that wants to respond and engage and pretend nothing happened, but the rest is just feeling deeply battered and bruised and he knows that isn't fair, it's not like Dean did anything wrong because he didn't. It's just - and he can't even rationalize it to himself, not really. He simultaneously wants to curl up in the bed and just sink back for a while and also reach out desperately and grab onto anything he can, whatever that is.
After a silence of a few seconds, he makes an effort, really. "First day," he says, "Some lady actually made me a sandwich. I don't even - I haven't seen her since."
Guinevere is apparently too important or too fragile a thing or something for Sam to bring up, at least right now.
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"Dude," comes the mock-indignant protest. "I didn't get a chick making me food. I call a do over." He doesn't know who this woman is or why Sam hasn't seen her, but he is obscurely, instantly grateful; that someone was nice to his brother when he was out of Dean's reach. Instead, because Sam does sound tired and this was Dean's brilliant idea anyway and he's always been best at rambling nonsensically, he takes the new direction without expecting Sam to say any more. "All I got was this kid with wings - Iggy - who's like, I don't even know, this grilled cheese making machine or something. He turns those things out like a damn assembly line, but then, butter, bread, and cheese. Woohoo. Also, wings are cool, but women are nicer. Bet she made a nicer sandwich, too. Lucky bitch." By this last, he means Sam.
It's alright, Sam. Dean doesn't - or wouldn't, if he knew - begrudge you Guinevere. Important and fragile isn't his point, here, though he wouldn't sneeze at it. They're both too tired and hurt to make a good go of it anyway just now.
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"Dean," Sam says, managing a more normal tone this time, slightly less subdued. "She was, like, forty." It was a pretty good sandwich, though at the time Sam was a little too lonely and miserable to appreciate it all that much. The talking helped a little more. "--if it helps," he adds, "I met Iggy too, and he didn't make me a grilled anything. So there you have it."
Sam doesn't even know where he stands with Guinevere, so there's that, too. Or if he should be standing anywhere with her, to which he suspects the answer is no but really doesn't want it to be.
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He's encouraged by the change in the tone - problem is, Sam's initial, unspoken assessment was accurate, and Dean kind of feels like he's done enough talking for the next month by virtue of his current energy levels, but he's gaining, here, he feels like. He wishes he dared take a drink, but he doesn't need it, it's just a habit he picked up to comfort himself, and he reminds himself of that sufficiently to leave the whiskey curled loosely in his hand where it is. Instead, still oh so careful to sound even and steady and casual, he takes one more swing at talking about nothing, at ignoring the nagging feeling in his own brain and chest that he should be doing something about the bigger issues in which they're both caught hip deep. Because he feels it too - like he should be finding a way out of here, thinking about the Apocalypse and how to stop it, or at the very least what to do about the wolf attacks. But he can't do any of that flat on his back and scraping the bottom of his endurance; this, though. Maybe this.
Maybe pulling out the big guns will help Sam understand... something. That's not why he reaches for what he does, though. "Mom used to like peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Dunno why - I never really got it, but she was nuts about 'em, so I tried really hard to like 'em that much too. You know, like kids do. It wasn't a lie or anything, I was like, three or someshit, but it made her stupid happy and that made me happy, so I ate every single one she put in front of me. And really, peanut butter makes everything better, so there was that."
Hopefully that won't make Sam worse; if it helps, Dean doesn't sound sad at all, just a bit wistful, and tentatively eager to share that memory.
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He stills, when Dean says what he does. And for a moment is just quiet, absorbing this rare - thing, offering, whatever it is. Trying for a moment work out what it means, but he doesn't- doesn't know whether to feel a twang of sadness or jealousy or what.
What he does say is, "You made me one of those once." He's not even sure why that is what comes out. It just is, and of course afterward it's gone and he can't take it back.
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"Yeah?" comes the slightly confused reply on a relieved exhale; he tries to remember that, too, but it's so long ago, and the relief is shortlived. It's the other side of Hell and that's another chasm Dean doesn't know how to get back across, but Sam says it happened, so the elder Winchester scrapes and sifts and searches for some hint of the same memory. The frown is probably audible in his voice when he ventures, "You must not've liked it or I'da made you more than one."
He's trying, but he doesn't remember it, Sam; he doesn't know how to ask to be reminded, because he wants to remember it. He wants to remember more good and less bad.
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He pauses, though, and adds, in a lower voice, "Thank you for telling me."
It helps. It really does. He's still feeling ridiculously fragile and scared and like any minute now everything's going to fall down again and this time he'll really be on his own - but it helps.
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"You too," is what he says instead of you're welcome. Dropping his hand down onto his stomach, he stifles the urge to hold his breath, because he's been circling 'round to this, and it might undo everything that was just done. He really, really hopes not.
"Thank you for telling me," is what he says instead of I'm sorry. It's ambiguous enough that Sam could take it to mean the tiny, ancient bit about the sandwich if he wants; that's not what Dean means, though.
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But he hopes not. And sneaks a glance over at Dean with his peripheral vision.
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"Good night, Sammy," he says quietly several minutes later, instead.
Sam can keep talking if he wants; if he's not done, this isn't necessarily a FTB. Or if you want to end this thread, we can jump somewhere else with them, or let them rest, or... I don't even. fhdjsapouh
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Best to just let Dean sleep, he decides, and maybe find a few hours of his own.
I want to keep them in a thread but I don't know where to go from here alkdjfl Sam is being unhelpfully non-verbal at me.
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...These two are exhausting. I adore them. Let us know!
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All these unhappy people in my head, balls.
I adore them too! Thank you for humoring me, always. What are your thoughts?
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We're sorry about the unhappy people! Dean is unhappy making! D8
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Dean is the best attentionwhore! Also Jaenelle wants him to know that if he gets himself killed she will cry. And then want to kill people, but shh. XD
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