Five Districts, Five Drugs: The Epilogue
5D5D -- The Epilogue | PG | Sam/Dean | 1000 words
It starts with a conversation and, because this is the twenty-first century, it’s a conversation held via cell phone, no faces, no visuals, no wires, nothing but voice and that which can be transmitted through the human vocal range.
The irony of this does not escape Dean.
“Dean?” John says, sounding tired, worn-out, like he’s been going crazy with worry on the down-slope of a vicious caffeine binge.
Dean says, “Dad. Hi,” and wants to close his eyes because he’s here, with his brother, who is also his lover, and if his father’s not omniscient, he’s come close to it before.
“It’s been two months. Were you planning on calling me anytime soon?” John asks, but before Dean answers, John says, “Let me talk to your brother. You are with him, right?”
Dean wants to say something about if only his father knew how much, but he doesn’t, keeps his mouth shut and moves the phone away from his ear.
Sam shifts as Dean hands the phone over, looking at it with eyes that hold traces of fear, anger, worry, bitterness.
“Don’t do this, Sam, come on,” Dean pleads.
Sam takes the phone, holds it to his ear, and says, “Hi, Dad,” like he hasn’t gone three and a half years without talking to the man.
--
Sam sounded tired on the phone, but when you see him, standing there next to Dean, you think maybe tired was an understatement, either that or the glitter in Sam’s eyes is focus, not fatigue, and why that should send a shiver down your spine, you don’t know.
Dean comes to you first, always has, lets you wrap your arms around him and hold him close for a minute. He breathes in the smell of you, rubs his cheek against your whiskers, habit from his childhood, one he’s never outgrown.
When Dean steps back, you look him over, take in the worn edges, the dust on his shoes, the way his shoulders angle toward Sam, unconsciously, the way they used to before Sam left. But there’s something different now, too, something that lurks in the set of Dean’s shoulders, the tilt of Dean’s jaw, as he watches you.
“Dean,” you say, and your eldest, your first-born, nods and steps back without saying a word.
Dean’s fingers brush against Sam’s wrist, a casual, quick movement you almost miss, but Sam relaxes at the touch, relaxes and tenses in a different way. They look at each other, your sons, share one moment of silent communication, and Sam steps forward.
You haven’t seen Sam in over three years, plenty of words unspoken between the two of you, but he looks at you like a skittish animal, as if he’s going to run unless the right words come out of your mouth.
Your eyes flick to Dean, who must be catching the same vibes, because he moves to stand between Sam and the door, murmurs, “Sam, c’mon,” though he’s looking at you. What Sam hears, you don’t know, but you ignore the pleading tone underneath the words, and you know that Dean will never admit to it.
Sam takes one step towards you, tension and grace in every line of muscle, in every movement, edges of his long shirt-sleeves brushing against his jeans.
“Dad,” he says, and lets you fold your arms around his shoulders, pull him close. He doesn’t lean in, doesn’t relax, doesn’t touch you, but it doesn’t matter.
Your boys are together, they’re here, and whatever happened, whatever happened to Sam, whatever world the two of them have been living in for the past couple of months, it’s over now.
It’s over.
“Why’d you call?” Sam asks, brash as always. You aren’t surprised by it but Dean seems to be, surprised and angry, or maybe that’s shame lurking in the circles under his eyes, and why Dean would be ashamed, you don't know. It makes you start to wonder if there’s something else going on here.
“Sam,” Dean starts to say.
You cut him off, shake your head and hold up one hand until Dean stops talking. “There’s a new demon out there, playing the game,” you say. Dean’s face pales but Sam’s hardens, something swimming in the back of his eyes. Your own eyes narrow, seeing it, but then it’s gone and it’s just your son, standing there and looking at you. “I wanted you to hear it from me,” you add. “There’s bound to be talk. A few of the other hunters, they’ve asked us to go after it.”
“You volunteer us?” Sam asks. Dean doesn’t say anything to stop his brother, not this time.
It’s no more and no less than what you expected.
“No,” you say, and tell yourself that the surprise on Dean’s face doesn’t hurt. “If you’re done, you’re done.”
An eternity passes as you watch your sons look at each other, hold a long, silent conversation with each other. The feeling that there’s more to this than you’re seeing, it’s getting stronger with every quiet second, so you’re wracking your brain trying to think of what it could be, trying to remember what Dean said to you back in Eldon, but then Dean's talking and you have to ask him to repeat himself, eyes catching the way the tips of Dean’s fingers brush the tips of Sam’s, how Sam’s leaning towards Dean just as much as Dean’s leaning towards Sam, seeing that they’re both conscious of each other in a way they never were before.
“We’ll help,” Dean says.
You look at Sam, who doesn’t say anything, just nods.
Dean says it again, “We’ll help,” and no matter what’s been going on the past couple of months, the past few years, it’s over, and your boys are back together, with you, where they belong.
There’ll be time enough later to tease out the edges of what you missed.
It starts with a conversation and, because this is the twenty-first century, it’s a conversation held via cell phone, no faces, no visuals, no wires, nothing but voice and that which can be transmitted through the human vocal range.
The irony of this does not escape Dean.
“Dean?” John says, sounding tired, worn-out, like he’s been going crazy with worry on the down-slope of a vicious caffeine binge.
Dean says, “Dad. Hi,” and wants to close his eyes because he’s here, with his brother, who is also his lover, and if his father’s not omniscient, he’s come close to it before.
“It’s been two months. Were you planning on calling me anytime soon?” John asks, but before Dean answers, John says, “Let me talk to your brother. You are with him, right?”
Dean wants to say something about if only his father knew how much, but he doesn’t, keeps his mouth shut and moves the phone away from his ear.
Sam shifts as Dean hands the phone over, looking at it with eyes that hold traces of fear, anger, worry, bitterness.
“Don’t do this, Sam, come on,” Dean pleads.
Sam takes the phone, holds it to his ear, and says, “Hi, Dad,” like he hasn’t gone three and a half years without talking to the man.
--
Sam sounded tired on the phone, but when you see him, standing there next to Dean, you think maybe tired was an understatement, either that or the glitter in Sam’s eyes is focus, not fatigue, and why that should send a shiver down your spine, you don’t know.
Dean comes to you first, always has, lets you wrap your arms around him and hold him close for a minute. He breathes in the smell of you, rubs his cheek against your whiskers, habit from his childhood, one he’s never outgrown.
When Dean steps back, you look him over, take in the worn edges, the dust on his shoes, the way his shoulders angle toward Sam, unconsciously, the way they used to before Sam left. But there’s something different now, too, something that lurks in the set of Dean’s shoulders, the tilt of Dean’s jaw, as he watches you.
“Dean,” you say, and your eldest, your first-born, nods and steps back without saying a word.
Dean’s fingers brush against Sam’s wrist, a casual, quick movement you almost miss, but Sam relaxes at the touch, relaxes and tenses in a different way. They look at each other, your sons, share one moment of silent communication, and Sam steps forward.
You haven’t seen Sam in over three years, plenty of words unspoken between the two of you, but he looks at you like a skittish animal, as if he’s going to run unless the right words come out of your mouth.
Your eyes flick to Dean, who must be catching the same vibes, because he moves to stand between Sam and the door, murmurs, “Sam, c’mon,” though he’s looking at you. What Sam hears, you don’t know, but you ignore the pleading tone underneath the words, and you know that Dean will never admit to it.
Sam takes one step towards you, tension and grace in every line of muscle, in every movement, edges of his long shirt-sleeves brushing against his jeans.
“Dad,” he says, and lets you fold your arms around his shoulders, pull him close. He doesn’t lean in, doesn’t relax, doesn’t touch you, but it doesn’t matter.
Your boys are together, they’re here, and whatever happened, whatever happened to Sam, whatever world the two of them have been living in for the past couple of months, it’s over now.
It’s over.
“Why’d you call?” Sam asks, brash as always. You aren’t surprised by it but Dean seems to be, surprised and angry, or maybe that’s shame lurking in the circles under his eyes, and why Dean would be ashamed, you don't know. It makes you start to wonder if there’s something else going on here.
“Sam,” Dean starts to say.
You cut him off, shake your head and hold up one hand until Dean stops talking. “There’s a new demon out there, playing the game,” you say. Dean’s face pales but Sam’s hardens, something swimming in the back of his eyes. Your own eyes narrow, seeing it, but then it’s gone and it’s just your son, standing there and looking at you. “I wanted you to hear it from me,” you add. “There’s bound to be talk. A few of the other hunters, they’ve asked us to go after it.”
“You volunteer us?” Sam asks. Dean doesn’t say anything to stop his brother, not this time.
It’s no more and no less than what you expected.
“No,” you say, and tell yourself that the surprise on Dean’s face doesn’t hurt. “If you’re done, you’re done.”
An eternity passes as you watch your sons look at each other, hold a long, silent conversation with each other. The feeling that there’s more to this than you’re seeing, it’s getting stronger with every quiet second, so you’re wracking your brain trying to think of what it could be, trying to remember what Dean said to you back in Eldon, but then Dean's talking and you have to ask him to repeat himself, eyes catching the way the tips of Dean’s fingers brush the tips of Sam’s, how Sam’s leaning towards Dean just as much as Dean’s leaning towards Sam, seeing that they’re both conscious of each other in a way they never were before.
“We’ll help,” Dean says.
You look at Sam, who doesn’t say anything, just nods.
Dean says it again, “We’ll help,” and no matter what’s been going on the past couple of months, the past few years, it’s over, and your boys are back together, with you, where they belong.
There’ll be time enough later to tease out the edges of what you missed.