SPN Angst, One-shot, Dean/Sam, PG-13 (but just for language)
Title: SPN Angst
Fandom: SPN
Characters: Sasquatch/Badass
Rating: PG-13 -- possibly the first time I've ever written non-slash fanfiction!
Word Count: 1,449
Summary: Just a big ole ball of brother-loving angst.
Spoilers: Just to be on the safe side, I'm going to say up through season 5.
This emerged fully formed in my head the morning after the last new episode.
They leave Bobby’s in the middle of the night. The second Sam stops screaming and the black has faded from his eyes, after all the color has drained from his face and left him as pale and lifeless as any giant porcelain doll, the second they’re sure the hunger is gone and Sam’s as weak and trembling as any junkie in Trainspotting, Dean ushers Sam to the Impala and hauls ass down the road. He doesn’t want to sit around and watch Bobby watch him or worse, try and talk to him. He just wants to get in his car, focus on the road, and forget about life - or whatever the hell this is - for just a little while.
They don’t talk. It’s hours later - night having turned to early morning to dawn to high noon to dusk to night all over again before they stop at some Bates’ knock-off somewhere in the black heart of America. They’ve exchanged words about gas, about bathroom breaks and soda machines and lonely grease joints, but they’re not talking. It’s filler, words muffled by mouthfuls of cotton stuffing as they pretend everything’s just dandy and not falling apart anymore than usual.
Sam sleeps for the first half of the trip. His hair greasy and lank from dried sweat, body loose and shivering like a deflated balloon inside clothes that suddenly seem too big for him, head rocking against the doorframe every few seconds
Dean pretends he’s in the car by himself.
They grab their gear from the backseat, and head into a motel room whose number’s been worn down to nothing more than a grease stain. Sam drops his duffel on the bed farthest from the door, Dean on the one nearest to it. Dean pulls a 6-pack out of his duffel and lies back on the bed with the remote in his hand. Sam takes up court at the desk in the corner and clicks away on his laptop.
It’s not even tension that’s engulfing the room so much as despair. As Dean’s gulping down his fifth beer, he sees Sam turn off his computer and step into the bathroom. The shower starts, and Dean closes his eyes. Bathes in solitude for a few rare minutes. Then the bathroom door opens and Sam steps out in a curtain of steam, hair wet and dripping onto his T-shirt and sweatpants. He starts moving toward his bed and stops, turns and stands in the space between their two beds. Looks at Dean.
“Dean,” he says, the name so full and heavy, “Can we -“
“I’m gonna go take a shower,” Dean says cutting him off, standing with his half-finished beer in his hand and moving toward the bathroom door.
“Dean, please,” Sam says, grabbing Dean’s arm, pulling him back. “Please listen to me.” And Dean stares him down, finishes his beer off and places the empty bottle on the nightstand. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Rubs his jaw tiredly. He closes his eyes and wishes he could make this room go away - make Sam go away, make this moment go away, make it all go away. When Dean opens his eyes, Sam’s still standing there.
“What,” Dean says distinctly, calmly, irreverently, “could you possibly have to say? ‘I’m sorry?’ It means nothing, Sam. It doesn’t make anything okay. It doesn’t make us okay. So let’s drop this. Let’s not pretend that either one of us is okay. And let’s not pretend like we can do anything about it.”
“Dean -“
“Just, don’t.” Dean says, holding up his hand, warding Sam off, trying to tell him to stop in the name of whatever shattered and fissured fragment of love they have left. Sam looks broken - eyes red and shining, eyebrows furrowed and lips scrunched - and Dean searches in his gut for the tenderness he used to feel. For the unyielding love he had for his brother - for the fervent desire he had from before he can remember to keep Sam from harm and sorrow at all costs. Dean searches for it - reaches in his gut and churns his insides out, wants so desperately to feel it, but it’s not there. There’s just nothing. A big black hole of nothing.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Dean repeats and starts to move away again. But Sam grabs his shirt this time, two-fisted. Digs his fingers into Dean’s T-shirt and yanks him close. Sam’s tears have spilled over now. They’re streaming down his face in rivulets, and his voice quivers when he talks.
“Dean, Dean, please. . . don’t just . . . I . . .” Sam doesn’t finish a sentence, seems incapable of it as he wrings his hands in Dean’s shirt, ginormous hands clenching and unclenching like an overgrown infant’s. The tears are coming faster, and Sam keeps spluttering, gasping, until finally he’s choking - and it’s then Dean realizes he’s sobbing. The only word Sam can get out is “Dean” over and over again.
To say Dean’s startled is to say the Impala is just a car.
Sam was always the sensitive one - well, used to be anyway. Dean’s seen his brother cry more times than any actor in a Nicholas Sparks movie. But not in a long time. And never like this. Never with this amount of desperation - not even after Jess.
It’s disconcerting and terrifying seeing someone fall apart before your eyes. To actually see someone crumble and shrink like burnt wood collapsing into ash. Fear and shock seize Dean and he tries to pry Sam’s hands from his shirt. “Sam,” he says as he grips Sam’s fists and pulls. He gets Sam’s hands to unclench, but to his absolute astonishment, Sam’s suddenly dropped to his knees - his arms clutched so tight around Dean’s middle Dean thinks he might snap in half. He can feel Sam’s sobs shuddering through his body, Sam’s prominent jaw digging into his belt and his brother’s forehead pressed into his stomach.
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Sam says through his sobs, the words pressed into Dean’s gut. Sam swallows once, twice, gulping in air. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. I want to take it all back. I wish I could go back - I wish I could have killed Jake when I had the chance . . . and then, then you’d never have had to go to hell for me and Ruby never would have come back and . . . and I would kill that bitch six ways from Sunday. I’d kill her over and over again if I could fix it. I want to take it all away so badly, Dean. I love you so much, Dean. I love you more than anything - I fucked up so bad. So bad Dean . . . Dean, I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . . I . . .” Sam’s sobs overcome him again and he clutches at Dean harder, his sobs muffled now by Dean’s shirt as Sam tries to press even closer - like he’s trying to crawl inside.
Dean’s own eyes are wet as he stands there, emotion beginning to melt off the frozen edges of his numbness. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, winds up resting them on Sam’s shoulders. He wonders if it’s possible. If wanting something bad enough can make it true. He wants to forgive Sam -wants to care about something violently again. He wants to remember what it’s like to love - to really truly love. To wake up because there’s something he has to do. There’s someone worth protecting. To feel humanity is worth saving again - because to feel loved and to love back makes you remember that it’s possible. That beauty and goodness are possible. And Dean wants to fiercely - with everything that’s still alive inside of him. Is this what it takes? Is this really what it takes? Does wanting to be able to believe Sam - to let Sam back into his heart - make it true? Could it make him whole again?
He doesn’t know. And neither does God or Lucifer or anyone in between. Maybe there is no common thread, no chain linking each event together. Maybe the past is nothing more than scattered fragments left behind like the rusted parts of a motor. And all there is is this moment, the next moment, separate. New. So Dean does the only thing he can, he hugs his brother back like life itself depends on it. He hugs his brother until Sam’s sobs finally quiet and still, until Sam’s no longer trembling and whimpering against him. But still Sam holds onto Dean, and still Dean holds him back.
Fandom: SPN
Characters: Sasquatch/Badass
Rating: PG-13 -- possibly the first time I've ever written non-slash fanfiction!
Word Count: 1,449
Summary: Just a big ole ball of brother-loving angst.
Spoilers: Just to be on the safe side, I'm going to say up through season 5.
This emerged fully formed in my head the morning after the last new episode.
They leave Bobby’s in the middle of the night. The second Sam stops screaming and the black has faded from his eyes, after all the color has drained from his face and left him as pale and lifeless as any giant porcelain doll, the second they’re sure the hunger is gone and Sam’s as weak and trembling as any junkie in Trainspotting, Dean ushers Sam to the Impala and hauls ass down the road. He doesn’t want to sit around and watch Bobby watch him or worse, try and talk to him. He just wants to get in his car, focus on the road, and forget about life - or whatever the hell this is - for just a little while.
They don’t talk. It’s hours later - night having turned to early morning to dawn to high noon to dusk to night all over again before they stop at some Bates’ knock-off somewhere in the black heart of America. They’ve exchanged words about gas, about bathroom breaks and soda machines and lonely grease joints, but they’re not talking. It’s filler, words muffled by mouthfuls of cotton stuffing as they pretend everything’s just dandy and not falling apart anymore than usual.
Sam sleeps for the first half of the trip. His hair greasy and lank from dried sweat, body loose and shivering like a deflated balloon inside clothes that suddenly seem too big for him, head rocking against the doorframe every few seconds
Dean pretends he’s in the car by himself.
They grab their gear from the backseat, and head into a motel room whose number’s been worn down to nothing more than a grease stain. Sam drops his duffel on the bed farthest from the door, Dean on the one nearest to it. Dean pulls a 6-pack out of his duffel and lies back on the bed with the remote in his hand. Sam takes up court at the desk in the corner and clicks away on his laptop.
It’s not even tension that’s engulfing the room so much as despair. As Dean’s gulping down his fifth beer, he sees Sam turn off his computer and step into the bathroom. The shower starts, and Dean closes his eyes. Bathes in solitude for a few rare minutes. Then the bathroom door opens and Sam steps out in a curtain of steam, hair wet and dripping onto his T-shirt and sweatpants. He starts moving toward his bed and stops, turns and stands in the space between their two beds. Looks at Dean.
“Dean,” he says, the name so full and heavy, “Can we -“
“I’m gonna go take a shower,” Dean says cutting him off, standing with his half-finished beer in his hand and moving toward the bathroom door.
“Dean, please,” Sam says, grabbing Dean’s arm, pulling him back. “Please listen to me.” And Dean stares him down, finishes his beer off and places the empty bottle on the nightstand. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Rubs his jaw tiredly. He closes his eyes and wishes he could make this room go away - make Sam go away, make this moment go away, make it all go away. When Dean opens his eyes, Sam’s still standing there.
“What,” Dean says distinctly, calmly, irreverently, “could you possibly have to say? ‘I’m sorry?’ It means nothing, Sam. It doesn’t make anything okay. It doesn’t make us okay. So let’s drop this. Let’s not pretend that either one of us is okay. And let’s not pretend like we can do anything about it.”
“Dean -“
“Just, don’t.” Dean says, holding up his hand, warding Sam off, trying to tell him to stop in the name of whatever shattered and fissured fragment of love they have left. Sam looks broken - eyes red and shining, eyebrows furrowed and lips scrunched - and Dean searches in his gut for the tenderness he used to feel. For the unyielding love he had for his brother - for the fervent desire he had from before he can remember to keep Sam from harm and sorrow at all costs. Dean searches for it - reaches in his gut and churns his insides out, wants so desperately to feel it, but it’s not there. There’s just nothing. A big black hole of nothing.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Dean repeats and starts to move away again. But Sam grabs his shirt this time, two-fisted. Digs his fingers into Dean’s T-shirt and yanks him close. Sam’s tears have spilled over now. They’re streaming down his face in rivulets, and his voice quivers when he talks.
“Dean, Dean, please. . . don’t just . . . I . . .” Sam doesn’t finish a sentence, seems incapable of it as he wrings his hands in Dean’s shirt, ginormous hands clenching and unclenching like an overgrown infant’s. The tears are coming faster, and Sam keeps spluttering, gasping, until finally he’s choking - and it’s then Dean realizes he’s sobbing. The only word Sam can get out is “Dean” over and over again.
To say Dean’s startled is to say the Impala is just a car.
Sam was always the sensitive one - well, used to be anyway. Dean’s seen his brother cry more times than any actor in a Nicholas Sparks movie. But not in a long time. And never like this. Never with this amount of desperation - not even after Jess.
It’s disconcerting and terrifying seeing someone fall apart before your eyes. To actually see someone crumble and shrink like burnt wood collapsing into ash. Fear and shock seize Dean and he tries to pry Sam’s hands from his shirt. “Sam,” he says as he grips Sam’s fists and pulls. He gets Sam’s hands to unclench, but to his absolute astonishment, Sam’s suddenly dropped to his knees - his arms clutched so tight around Dean’s middle Dean thinks he might snap in half. He can feel Sam’s sobs shuddering through his body, Sam’s prominent jaw digging into his belt and his brother’s forehead pressed into his stomach.
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Sam says through his sobs, the words pressed into Dean’s gut. Sam swallows once, twice, gulping in air. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. I want to take it all back. I wish I could go back - I wish I could have killed Jake when I had the chance . . . and then, then you’d never have had to go to hell for me and Ruby never would have come back and . . . and I would kill that bitch six ways from Sunday. I’d kill her over and over again if I could fix it. I want to take it all away so badly, Dean. I love you so much, Dean. I love you more than anything - I fucked up so bad. So bad Dean . . . Dean, I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . . I . . .” Sam’s sobs overcome him again and he clutches at Dean harder, his sobs muffled now by Dean’s shirt as Sam tries to press even closer - like he’s trying to crawl inside.
Dean’s own eyes are wet as he stands there, emotion beginning to melt off the frozen edges of his numbness. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, winds up resting them on Sam’s shoulders. He wonders if it’s possible. If wanting something bad enough can make it true. He wants to forgive Sam -wants to care about something violently again. He wants to remember what it’s like to love - to really truly love. To wake up because there’s something he has to do. There’s someone worth protecting. To feel humanity is worth saving again - because to feel loved and to love back makes you remember that it’s possible. That beauty and goodness are possible. And Dean wants to fiercely - with everything that’s still alive inside of him. Is this what it takes? Is this really what it takes? Does wanting to be able to believe Sam - to let Sam back into his heart - make it true? Could it make him whole again?
He doesn’t know. And neither does God or Lucifer or anyone in between. Maybe there is no common thread, no chain linking each event together. Maybe the past is nothing more than scattered fragments left behind like the rusted parts of a motor. And all there is is this moment, the next moment, separate. New. So Dean does the only thing he can, he hugs his brother back like life itself depends on it. He hugs his brother until Sam’s sobs finally quiet and still, until Sam’s no longer trembling and whimpering against him. But still Sam holds onto Dean, and still Dean holds him back.