Further than a Ship, Faster Than a Bomb [uh...R?] Sam/Dean, maaaaaaybe Dean/Dean? *headdesk*
Title: Further than a Ship, Faster Than a Bomb
Author: queenklu
Beta: invisible people
Pairing: Sam/Dean, maaaaaaaaaaybe Dean/Dean if you squint
SPOILERS: 5x04
Rating: R for BAD LANGAGE. THAT'S RIGHT. LANGAGE.
A/N: Okay, i'm not posting this anywhere else. It's a drabble for
shri_amato, who is gorgeous and fabbity and making me super sekrit art for j2_remix. Title from Apocalypse Lullaby by the Wailing Jennys.
"So…" Dean (the real Dean, and he really hates that his life is fucked up enough for him to need that label) drawls, letting the word drag a little in the dead cabin air.
Himself-okay, the other Dean-gives him a look, half under his lashes, and for a second he’s damn sure they can tell what the subject matter is just by the tone of their voice. Or maybe it’s just because this particular subject matter is almost constantly on their mind.
"You left him.”
"Oh come on," the other Dean snaps, slugging back bourbon or jack or whatever gut rot he’s got in that bottle. "I’m you, dipshit. We both left him.”
Dean keeps his mouth shut, ‘cause it’s true but not… Five fucking years. He never thought five fucking years. He thought five fucking months, maybe, and then the rest of their fucking lives…growing old together or some shit. But together.
"Besides," this battered shattered version of Dean growls, turning back to his bottle, "it’s not like he’s never left us."
"Yeah, well. This feels different, doesn’t it?" Dean plants his back on the cabin wall, arms hooked across his chest. "We’ve never turned him away when he wanted to come back.”
"Just stood there getting sliced to pieces with open arms. Because we were soft."
"Because it’s Sam," Dean spits, suddenly sick to death of this whole graveyard scene repeat. "Because maybe if we’d stood there a little longer he wouldn’t have said Yes. Maybe he needed us, did you ever think of that?"
"Did you?" this granite caricature of himself growls in that shout that just about throws him at Dad’s memory. "What the hell are you chewing me out for? You’re the one who gets to go back, you’re the one who gets to have Sam!”
And that’s hitting bellow the belt harder than any punch he’d throw in his year, his time. It’s also something his jaw locks on answering-what’s he gonna say? You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about? Because Dean’s pretty sure he does.
"We aren’t ever gonna have Sam," he grounds out finally, warning even though for all intents and purposes, this Dean’s Sam is dead and gone. "No amount of apocalypsing is going to change the fact-"
"That what? He doesn’t want us?" The laugh that comes out of his throat isn’t one Dean’s ever heard before, chills him so quick he’s almost sick with it. "Fuck. I really wish that was true."
"What the hell are you talking about? Sammy wouldn’t-"
"Oh come on, man." The whiskey hits the table just a little too hard, and this Dean won’t meet his gaze for more than a second. "He said yes," he grates out after a full tortured minute, "because we said no. Okay? We said no, because we knew better. I knew better. I knew it was only a matter of time before Sam took off again and left me bleeding. And w-I didn’t think I’d be able to survive that."
There’s tear tracks running down this Dean’s face, and Dean feels it like he’s the one bleeding out. Especially when he hears the laugh he’ll make in five years again.
"Not going to survive this, either. C’est le fucking vie, right?"
And this other Dean is on his feet and in their face, and, fuck, it is the weirdest feeling, like a mirror that doesn’t match up. "If you don’t say yes to Michael…" Whiskey heavy on his breath, warm across Dean’s face. "Please." His eyes close, head falling forward to knock with his past self’s just like they used to do with Sam when he was small. "Please, say yes to Sam."