Title: Not Really
Author:
scourgeofeurope Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Genres: Gen, Angst
Characters: Sam, Dean (mentions of Lisa and Ben)
Spoilers/Warnings: Up through S5. Disregards all of what we've seen of S6.
Summary: Post-Swan Song. Late nights in front of the television and a drink in his hand, that's when Dean's visitor comes.
Word Count: 1,094
A/N: I'm all angsty. And I miss what Show used to be. So I wrote this. In 30 minutes. *tries not to bash self*
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Sometimes Dean falls asleep in front of the television set. Or he doesn’t really. He doesn’t know what he does, he doesn’t know if he’s ever known, but he zones out in front of static just like his dad used to when Dean was a young thing still warm and sticky from his mother’s goodnight kisses.
Dean still misses his mother. When it comes to women and love, his mother is the only woman Dean is absolutely sure of.
And then there’s her. He tries to love her, tries to will up that epic something he’s seen time and time again on cracked TV screens in one-star motels, red roses and breakfast in bed and earth-shattering orgasms, the whole shebang. But he can’t.
He’s too busy with the sound of static and the drink in his hand and the horrible things in his head.
The kid’s upstairs snoozing the night away. Dean checks on him sometimes, cracks open the door and watches the hallway light skitter across his young face, which is whole and without scars. Dean sometimes imagines it ripped wide open, that face, until it’s not a kid anymore. It’s nothing but blood and bone and Dean’s fault.
“Dean?” He hears a kid’s voice now, lilting above the low volume of the TV. The room is dark aside from the glow of the screen.
“Go back to bed, Ben,” he says, without looking. The glass in his hand is heavy, but empty. “I’ll come up in a sec and check your windows.”
“Dean,” the voice insists. “Who’s Ben?”
Dean blinks slowly before he turns his head. His eyes start at the small hand on the armrest of the couch, and drift up to the mop of brown hair, and that’s when he knows that he’s asleep. Or not really.
Sam’s always coming back.
“Sammy,” he says, or tries to say. It doesn’t come out at first. It never comes out at first. He can’t get his mouth around something that’s not here.
“Dude, it’s Sam. How many times do I have to tell you?”
Sam is so small. Just like he used to be when he was alive and Dean’s. He puts a knee up on the armrest and hefts himself onto the couch, creeps along the back of it like a mischievous cat.
“Don’t fall, Sam,” Dean warns, and his skin goes cold and the hair on the back of his neck stands up. Sam’s behind him now, but he’s not touching him. Sam can’t touch him when they’re here and like this.
Sam huffs that indignant huff of his. “M’not gonna fall, Dean.”
“You’re a clumsy little bastard and you know it,” Dean says, forgetting, like he always does. He always forgets this isn’t real.
“Am not. When’s Dad getting home?”
“Never,” Dean says. He strokes the rim of his glass with an absent finger. “Dad’s dead.”
“You keep saying that, but I don’t believe you.”
“He’s dead,” Dean repeats.
“Did he fake it?” Sam asks.
“No. He’s dead. He’s nothin’ but fuckin’ dust, Sammy.”
“Sam,” Sam corrects.
“Sam.” Dean doesn’t turn around to look at him. He watches the salt and pepper pixels buzz on the screen even as Sam slides down on the other end. He didn’t fall. Sam never falls. Not here. Not anymore.
“Who’s Ben?” Sam asks.
“Some kid.”
“Do you like him more than me?”
“‘Course. I like everyone more than you.”
“But I matter more, right? I matter the most ‘cause I’m your brother.” Sam doesn’t even have to ask this question. He knows. He’s always known, but he asks anyway.
You do, Dean doesn’t say, but Sam smiles like he heard it.
Then he frowns. “Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“M’I dead?”
Dean hates his glass for being empty. Dean hates the world for being empty without Sam. “Yeah, kiddo. You’re dead.”
Sam scowls. “Don’t call me ‘kiddo.’ M’not a kid. Not anymore.”
“Sure, you’re not.”
“M’not.”
“Okay.”
Sam doesn’t talk for a while. Dean tries to ignore him. He plays that game he used to play when they were kids. If he doesn’t look at him, if he doesn’t speak to him, then Sam’s not here. Sam’s invisible.
Sam never stays invisible for long.
“So I’m dead, huh? How’d I die?”
Dean really fucking hates his glass for being empty. He hates his throat for being dry. “You fell.”
“Did not,” Sam’s quick to retort. “I’m not a clumsy little bastard, Dean. I’m smart. Smarter than you. Smarter than you and Dad and the whole fucking world.”
“Are you going to be president?” Dean asks.
“I’m going to be the fucking president.” Sam is smug. “I’m going to be the president and stupid older brothers everywhere will be arrested for crimes against humanity. And by humanity, I mean little brothers.”
“Hunters can’t be president,” Dean says.
“I’m not going to be a hunter,” Sam replies. “Not ever.”
Dean really wishes that was true. “I really wish that were true, Sammy.”
Sam thinks about that for a moment, swings his legs. His feet make a dull thump against the base of the couch.
“Why am I dead?” he finally asks.
Because there’s a god upstairs and a devil in the basement and Dean knows for a fact that they’re both fucking asshats.
“‘Cause you saved the world,” he tells his little brother. “You saved them all.”
Sam smiles, and it’s a beautiful smile, one of those smiles he actually means. He smiles like that when they’re here, in front of the TV. And it’s just them.
“Did I save you, Dean?” Sam has hope in his eyes. “Are you alive?”
No, Dean doesn’t say.
“Yes,” he says, but Sam doesn’t hear him.
Sam makes a sound that’s not quite amused. “‘Course you’re not. You can’t survive without me.”
Dean can’t.
“I can’t,” Dean says. “You’re absolutely right, Sam. I’m dead. I can’t survive without you and I’m fucking dead.”
Sam smiles and makes to pat Dean’s knee, but his hand stops before they actually touch. Dean turns his eyes back to the screen. “It’s okay, Dean. We can be dead together.”
Dean likes this plan. He doesn’t have any roses or earth-shattering orgasms left in him, no fatherly advice, no apple pie. Dean only has alcohol and this television set and his dead little brother.
“Can we?” he asks, but Sam doesn’t respond. “Sammy. Can we?”
He turns his head to look again, but Sam's not there. The TV spits sounds of static into the room. Dean's head feels heavy with empty, just like the glass in his hand. Sam is gone and Dean’s awake. Or he’s not really.