You Toss 'em Back and Be a Man
Title: You Toss 'em Back and Be a Man
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1000
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Coda to 1x15 - The Benders: The boys got away from the crazy family of serial killers, but Sam's legs are still cramping and Dean's subconscious is still torturing him.
This is like the fifth attempt to fill that goddamnmotherfucking delightful 'Serial Killers' prompt on my angst_bingo card that's been mocking me for months! I'm not exactly a fan, but it has drinking and daddy issues. You know...for a change. Comment, don't comment, I really don't care today, because bingo, bitches!
It's the cramping in his legs that wakes him. Sharp spasms shooting into his swollen joints until he's sitting upright, hands digging into his twitching thigh muscles.
He curses the crazy family of hillbilly whackjobs under his breath.Fuck them for making Sam sit in a tiny cage for days. And fuck Dean's sheriff friend too, for making them walk all the way back into town when Sam could barely take two steps without falling down.
He shakily draws quick, hard gulps of air to breathe through the pain, his fingers digging into the moth-eaten mattress in time with the waves of pain.
Slowly, the pain fades and Sam falls back onto his rough pillow, wiping cold sweat out of his tired eyes.
Just when he's about to let the darkness pull him back under, Dean starts talking.
"Huh?" Sam asks into the dark room. He pulls one arm over his throbbing eyes, why does Dean need to have his deep sleepover talk now?
Dean mumbles some more. Something about sorry and Sammy and dead and Sam rubs his hands up and down his face. "Serioulsy, dude," he huffs. "I'm tired. 'n I told you - "
He gets cut off by a scared, bitten-of whimper that's half Sammy half desperate cry. With stiff movements Sam manages to get himself upright again, his fingers already fumbling for the switch on the bedside lamp.
Dean is curled into a tiny ball over on the other bed. On his side, turned away from the door, the sheets tangled up around him, his face pale and twitching under the dim orange light.
Sam pushes himself to his feet. Even after four years of being out of the life he has to fight back against the panicked part of his mind that keeps screaming possession every time he sees a nightmare.
Dean shivers, his fingers curling tightly around his sweat-soaked blanket.
Sam curses again under his breath when his knees all but buckle the moment his feet touch the motel room carpet.An empty beer bottle rolls off Dean's bed when Sam collapses on its side.
The hinges scream under the added weight and Dean makes a small, scared sound in the back of his throat when he rolls into Sam's hip.
Sam puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, tries to shake him awake and Dean screams. His eyes snap open, big, glassy and unfocused, urgently scanning the room behind Sam.
"Dean?"
Dean shrinks back, one hand cradling his left arm. "'msorry."
Sam crinches. It's that tone. Small and soft and rough, like Dean's voice has been trapped under a pile of smoking ashes for too long. There is only one person in the world who can make his brother sound like that.
"Dean," he says again, his voice forced low and hard and Dean's glassy eyes zero in on Sam's face.
"'m...I lost him," Dean whispers, his lips trembling desperately. "I...I didn't...they could'a killed 'im."
A cold band tightens around Sam's chest. This is what he ran away from every single time. This crazy, jacked, tangled-up thing Dad pushed them into.
"'m sorry. I should...I should'a..."
What? Sam wants to snap. What does it take for Dean to live up to their father's imaginary standards?
"It's okay," he says instead. His throat is already hurting from the gravelly drawl that makes him sound just like Dad. "Sam can take care of himself."
The light flickers over Dean's face. Cold sweat runs into his eyes, black swimming in a pool of green.
"Like hell you can." Dean's voice is still soft, thick and rough from screaming inside his own head. "I could tie you to a spring gun and lock you up in Alcatraz and you'd still get yourself abducted by homicidal maniacs."
Dean's eyes bore into Sam's, like he's begging him to explain why he is so terribly bad at looking after his little brother, pretty please with a cherry on top.
Sam kicks the beer bottle on the floor and has to bite down on a yelp when sharp pain shoots through his bare toes. "Jerk," he mutters, a slight blush creeping up his face because Dean just keeps staring. "What'd you do to your shoulder anyway?"
Dean shifts uncomfortably, draws his left arm closer to his body and Sam swears he's going to kill his brother if the idiot manages to die of blood poisoning or something.
"They could'a killed you, Sammy," Dean mumbles into his pillow with his eyes downcast, his lips pressed together in a tight line. Like he's confessing to a shameful, terrible secret. A deadly sin under the gospel according to John Winchester. "They could'a done all kinds of things to you and I didn't do a thing to stop them."
"Uh..." Sam doesn't even know what to say to that. It feels ridiculous on too many levels to count.
There was a time when Sam would wake up to find Dean sobbing into the pillow next to his. He'd snuggle up to his brother, hold him and whisper it's gonna be alright into his ear, like Dean did when Sammy dreamed of clowns or when John came back with the exact wrong amount of tequila coursing though his blood.
Dean would only push him away in the morning, when he was cried out and could go back to pretending he didn't need a soul in the world. "You wanna talk about that dream?" Sam asks.
Dean shakes his head. He shifts again, like he wants to turn away from Sam but can't because it would put pressure on whatever is wrong with his arm.
"They didn't kill me, okay?"
Dean snorts something that sounds like "I shouldn't have let 'em get that close to you in the first place." Sam decides to ignore it.
Dean glares when Sam's hand hovers dangerously close to his warm forehead.
"I promise I won't tell Dad you let me walk out of a bar alone." Sam tries for teasing, but feels bad when actual relief crawls over Dean's face. "Jesus...you have a fever."
Dean shrugs. "Took some Tylenol," he mumbles and Sam has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from pointing out the empty beer on the floor.
"And you arm..."
"My arm's fine."
It sounds hard and dangerous and Sam knows he needs to back off for now.
"Scoot over," he sighs, wincing when he has to drag his long legs onto the bed. "That way I can punch you before your muttering wakes me again."
And Dean is just out of it enough to do as he's told and not make a single comment about gay sasquashes.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1000
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Coda to 1x15 - The Benders: The boys got away from the crazy family of serial killers, but Sam's legs are still cramping and Dean's subconscious is still torturing him.
This is like the fifth attempt to fill that goddamnmotherfucking delightful 'Serial Killers' prompt on my angst_bingo card that's been mocking me for months! I'm not exactly a fan, but it has drinking and daddy issues. You know...for a change. Comment, don't comment, I really don't care today, because bingo, bitches!
It's the cramping in his legs that wakes him. Sharp spasms shooting into his swollen joints until he's sitting upright, hands digging into his twitching thigh muscles.
He curses the crazy family of hillbilly whackjobs under his breath.Fuck them for making Sam sit in a tiny cage for days. And fuck Dean's sheriff friend too, for making them walk all the way back into town when Sam could barely take two steps without falling down.
He shakily draws quick, hard gulps of air to breathe through the pain, his fingers digging into the moth-eaten mattress in time with the waves of pain.
Slowly, the pain fades and Sam falls back onto his rough pillow, wiping cold sweat out of his tired eyes.
Just when he's about to let the darkness pull him back under, Dean starts talking.
"Huh?" Sam asks into the dark room. He pulls one arm over his throbbing eyes, why does Dean need to have his deep sleepover talk now?
Dean mumbles some more. Something about sorry and Sammy and dead and Sam rubs his hands up and down his face. "Serioulsy, dude," he huffs. "I'm tired. 'n I told you - "
He gets cut off by a scared, bitten-of whimper that's half Sammy half desperate cry. With stiff movements Sam manages to get himself upright again, his fingers already fumbling for the switch on the bedside lamp.
Dean is curled into a tiny ball over on the other bed. On his side, turned away from the door, the sheets tangled up around him, his face pale and twitching under the dim orange light.
Sam pushes himself to his feet. Even after four years of being out of the life he has to fight back against the panicked part of his mind that keeps screaming possession every time he sees a nightmare.
Dean shivers, his fingers curling tightly around his sweat-soaked blanket.
Sam curses again under his breath when his knees all but buckle the moment his feet touch the motel room carpet.An empty beer bottle rolls off Dean's bed when Sam collapses on its side.
The hinges scream under the added weight and Dean makes a small, scared sound in the back of his throat when he rolls into Sam's hip.
Sam puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, tries to shake him awake and Dean screams. His eyes snap open, big, glassy and unfocused, urgently scanning the room behind Sam.
"Dean?"
Dean shrinks back, one hand cradling his left arm. "'msorry."
Sam crinches. It's that tone. Small and soft and rough, like Dean's voice has been trapped under a pile of smoking ashes for too long. There is only one person in the world who can make his brother sound like that.
"Dean," he says again, his voice forced low and hard and Dean's glassy eyes zero in on Sam's face.
"'m...I lost him," Dean whispers, his lips trembling desperately. "I...I didn't...they could'a killed 'im."
A cold band tightens around Sam's chest. This is what he ran away from every single time. This crazy, jacked, tangled-up thing Dad pushed them into.
"'m sorry. I should...I should'a..."
What? Sam wants to snap. What does it take for Dean to live up to their father's imaginary standards?
"It's okay," he says instead. His throat is already hurting from the gravelly drawl that makes him sound just like Dad. "Sam can take care of himself."
The light flickers over Dean's face. Cold sweat runs into his eyes, black swimming in a pool of green.
"Like hell you can." Dean's voice is still soft, thick and rough from screaming inside his own head. "I could tie you to a spring gun and lock you up in Alcatraz and you'd still get yourself abducted by homicidal maniacs."
Dean's eyes bore into Sam's, like he's begging him to explain why he is so terribly bad at looking after his little brother, pretty please with a cherry on top.
Sam kicks the beer bottle on the floor and has to bite down on a yelp when sharp pain shoots through his bare toes. "Jerk," he mutters, a slight blush creeping up his face because Dean just keeps staring. "What'd you do to your shoulder anyway?"
Dean shifts uncomfortably, draws his left arm closer to his body and Sam swears he's going to kill his brother if the idiot manages to die of blood poisoning or something.
"They could'a killed you, Sammy," Dean mumbles into his pillow with his eyes downcast, his lips pressed together in a tight line. Like he's confessing to a shameful, terrible secret. A deadly sin under the gospel according to John Winchester. "They could'a done all kinds of things to you and I didn't do a thing to stop them."
"Uh..." Sam doesn't even know what to say to that. It feels ridiculous on too many levels to count.
There was a time when Sam would wake up to find Dean sobbing into the pillow next to his. He'd snuggle up to his brother, hold him and whisper it's gonna be alright into his ear, like Dean did when Sammy dreamed of clowns or when John came back with the exact wrong amount of tequila coursing though his blood.
Dean would only push him away in the morning, when he was cried out and could go back to pretending he didn't need a soul in the world. "You wanna talk about that dream?" Sam asks.
Dean shakes his head. He shifts again, like he wants to turn away from Sam but can't because it would put pressure on whatever is wrong with his arm.
"They didn't kill me, okay?"
Dean snorts something that sounds like "I shouldn't have let 'em get that close to you in the first place." Sam decides to ignore it.
Dean glares when Sam's hand hovers dangerously close to his warm forehead.
"I promise I won't tell Dad you let me walk out of a bar alone." Sam tries for teasing, but feels bad when actual relief crawls over Dean's face. "Jesus...you have a fever."
Dean shrugs. "Took some Tylenol," he mumbles and Sam has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from pointing out the empty beer on the floor.
"And you arm..."
"My arm's fine."
It sounds hard and dangerous and Sam knows he needs to back off for now.
"Scoot over," he sighs, wincing when he has to drag his long legs onto the bed. "That way I can punch you before your muttering wakes me again."
And Dean is just out of it enough to do as he's told and not make a single comment about gay sasquashes.