the walls came tumbling down
Title: the walls came tumbling down
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Sam, Dean/Sampala
Warnings: incest, but only barely; spoilers up through 6.11
Word Count: 1325
Summary: This is my Christmas present to ace_of_spades6. She asked me for Dean/Sampala, and then my brain kind of ran away with me.
A/N: I hope this is what you wanted, bb. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out, but it was a bit of an odd way to fill your prompt.
Eventually, the wall starts to crumble.
They all knew it wasn’t going to last forever, but Dean had hoped that it would last at least until Sam was old and grey and on death’s doorstep already. But the Winchesters never have that much luck.
There is some warning, fortunately. Rather than coming down, all at once, the wall merely springs leaks. It starts with nightmares. No, more like night terrors. The kind that make Sam shake and sweat and scream in his sleep until Dean shakes him violently awake and then pulls him close, murmuring platitudes and promises of safety into his hair.
When the nightmares start happening while he is awake, they know it is time to do something. And so they go to Bobby.
-------
It only takes Bobby two days to find a decent soul transfer spell, but Sam deteriorates a lot in those two days. Dean does not like the plan one bit, but what choice does he have when Sam can barely keep food down anymore and keeps getting lost inside his scary, messed-up head?
By the time everything is set up, Sam is feverish and barely coherent. They lay him out on the couch and Dean unbuttons a few buttons of his shirt so Bobby can smear some concoction on his chest.
“Ready, boy?” Bobby asks, barely concealing the concern in his voice.
Dean stares down at his brother - his pale, sick-looking, but still beautiful brother - and then reaches out to grab his hand, squeezing it tight. “Ready,” he half-whispers, almost unable to speak around the lump in his throat.
Bobby starts to chant and the room is filled with blinding light.
--------
The thing about souls is that they are profoundly human things. The soul of a person in a non-human vessel is changed on a fundamental level. There have been cases where irreparably damaged souls were able to be saved by transferring them into inanimate objects, Bobby had explained to Dean. Something like a family heirloom. An urn. A pocket watch. A car, perhaps?
“A car?” Dean had questioned, raising an eyebrow skeptically.
“People spend a lot of time in cars,” Bobby said pointedly. Dean had only nodded dumbly.
-------
When Dean slides behind the wheel of the Impala, it roars to life before he even touches the ignition. He jumps and then glances up at the front porch where Bobby nods almost imperceptibly.
“Sammy?” Dean asks the empty car, a small tremor in his voice.
“Hey, Dean.” The voice comes from the radio, but it is Sam’s voice. A bit staticky and far-off sounding, but it is definitely Sam’s voice. And he sounds good. Healed. All traces of fear and weariness are gone.
Dean glances up at the front porch again, and Bobby nods again before raising a hand to wave at him. At them. The Impala - Sam - revs its engine.
“Ready to go, Dean?” Sam asks, as if this is just another hunting trip they are going on and everything is normal.
“Yeah, Sam,” he says slowly, putting his hands on the wheel even though he is pretty sure he won’t have to steer this time. “I’m ready.”
------
He doesn’t check in to motels anymore. He can’t bear to leave Sam out in the cold parking lot alone. So, he stocks up on blankets and learns to get comfortable stretched out in the back seat. The money he saves goes to giving Sam the best oil money can buy and to brand new tires and to frequent tune-ups. The Impala has never been in better shape, which is saying something considering the good care Dean has always taken of it.
At first, Dean tries to keep them from travelling too far in one day, but Sam is restless. When Dean tries to pull over, he resists and ratchets the speed up even more. Sometimes they drive through the night, Dean nodding off in the driver’s seat since he can’t exactly lie down in the back. The cops might get suspicious at the sight of a driverless car. Sam is restless, and he seems to love the open road more than ever.
Sometimes Dean plays cassettes. But more often than not he just lets Sam talk. And Sam talks about anything and everything - his favorite books, the last thing he remembers watching on television, the best way to grill a burger, what it feels like to be a car. A lot of the time, Dean just lets him talk, grunting in agreement every now and then. If he concentrates hard enough on the sound of Sam’s voice, it’s almost like he is sitting right there in the passenger seat again. Almost.
-------
Hunting is the hard part. Dean is not used to working without Sam at his back, if the increased frequency of injuries is any indication. He gets scratched up pretty bad by a werewolf in South Dakota, and Sam drives 120 all the way to Bobby’s house and pulls into the lot, horn blaring, tires screeching. Bobby has to come out and stitch Dean’s shoulder in the backseat, because when Dean tries to get out, Sam won’t let him. He locks the doors like he is afraid if he lets Dean out, he won’t come back. So Bobby brings out the first aid kit out and takes care of the gash while Sam cusses Dean, Bobby, the werewolf, and the whole damn world.
Dean is more careful after that.
--------
It sinks in one day, out of the blue, that Sam - the real, living, breathing Sam - is not coming back. When Dean yanks the wheel around, Sam lets him go, and when he throws the door open, Sam lets him do that too. But Dean does not make it all the way out of the car. Instead, he leans forward and rests his forehead on the steering wheel, trying to swallow away the lump in his throat.
“Dean?” Sam says tentatively. Then, when Dean doesn’t respond, he says louder, “Dean, what is it?”
Dean inhales deeply, and for a moment he fools himself into thinking that he can smell Sam - aftershave, laundry detergent, leather, and old books.
“This was a bad idea.”
Sam doesn’t have anything to say to that, it would seem. Dean reaches out and pulls the door shut again, and Sam cuts the engine. They sit there in silence for long moments. They are really no words for this situation - missing your brother when he’s right there. Well, sort of.
“Dean, I…I miss you too,” Sam says quietly, as if he was reading Dean’s mind. “I miss everything. I miss walking. I miss food. I miss…I miss crappy motel beds and digging up graves and ganking demons.” He is gathering steam now, and his voice sounds thick, like he could cry if he would. But cars can’t cry. “But most of all, I miss you, Dean.”
The words hang in the air for a while, and Dean lets them sink in, all the way down to his bones. It is oddly comforting, knowing that Sam misses him too. The revelation warms him, perhaps more than it should.
“You know what, though?” Sam continues. “This is better than nothing.”
And it is. It really, really is. Dean thinks back to Sam’s pale body lying on the couch at Bobby’s, his forehead shining with sweat, his lips moving in silent pleas for deliverance. Sam could be dead right now. Or worse. If this is the alternative, Dean can live with it. Sam is here - maybe not in flesh in blood, but in every way that counts.
“Love you, Sammy,” Dean says before he can talk himself out of it, ducking his head to hide the redness in his cheeks. As if Sam can see him anyway.
“Love you too, Dean,” Sam replies. And, though Dean can’t see the smile, he can hear it in Sam’s voice, and that is more than enough.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Sam, Dean/Sampala
Warnings: incest, but only barely; spoilers up through 6.11
Word Count: 1325
Summary: This is my Christmas present to ace_of_spades6. She asked me for Dean/Sampala, and then my brain kind of ran away with me.
A/N: I hope this is what you wanted, bb. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out, but it was a bit of an odd way to fill your prompt.
Eventually, the wall starts to crumble.
They all knew it wasn’t going to last forever, but Dean had hoped that it would last at least until Sam was old and grey and on death’s doorstep already. But the Winchesters never have that much luck.
There is some warning, fortunately. Rather than coming down, all at once, the wall merely springs leaks. It starts with nightmares. No, more like night terrors. The kind that make Sam shake and sweat and scream in his sleep until Dean shakes him violently awake and then pulls him close, murmuring platitudes and promises of safety into his hair.
When the nightmares start happening while he is awake, they know it is time to do something. And so they go to Bobby.
-------
It only takes Bobby two days to find a decent soul transfer spell, but Sam deteriorates a lot in those two days. Dean does not like the plan one bit, but what choice does he have when Sam can barely keep food down anymore and keeps getting lost inside his scary, messed-up head?
By the time everything is set up, Sam is feverish and barely coherent. They lay him out on the couch and Dean unbuttons a few buttons of his shirt so Bobby can smear some concoction on his chest.
“Ready, boy?” Bobby asks, barely concealing the concern in his voice.
Dean stares down at his brother - his pale, sick-looking, but still beautiful brother - and then reaches out to grab his hand, squeezing it tight. “Ready,” he half-whispers, almost unable to speak around the lump in his throat.
Bobby starts to chant and the room is filled with blinding light.
--------
The thing about souls is that they are profoundly human things. The soul of a person in a non-human vessel is changed on a fundamental level. There have been cases where irreparably damaged souls were able to be saved by transferring them into inanimate objects, Bobby had explained to Dean. Something like a family heirloom. An urn. A pocket watch. A car, perhaps?
“A car?” Dean had questioned, raising an eyebrow skeptically.
“People spend a lot of time in cars,” Bobby said pointedly. Dean had only nodded dumbly.
-------
When Dean slides behind the wheel of the Impala, it roars to life before he even touches the ignition. He jumps and then glances up at the front porch where Bobby nods almost imperceptibly.
“Sammy?” Dean asks the empty car, a small tremor in his voice.
“Hey, Dean.” The voice comes from the radio, but it is Sam’s voice. A bit staticky and far-off sounding, but it is definitely Sam’s voice. And he sounds good. Healed. All traces of fear and weariness are gone.
Dean glances up at the front porch again, and Bobby nods again before raising a hand to wave at him. At them. The Impala - Sam - revs its engine.
“Ready to go, Dean?” Sam asks, as if this is just another hunting trip they are going on and everything is normal.
“Yeah, Sam,” he says slowly, putting his hands on the wheel even though he is pretty sure he won’t have to steer this time. “I’m ready.”
------
He doesn’t check in to motels anymore. He can’t bear to leave Sam out in the cold parking lot alone. So, he stocks up on blankets and learns to get comfortable stretched out in the back seat. The money he saves goes to giving Sam the best oil money can buy and to brand new tires and to frequent tune-ups. The Impala has never been in better shape, which is saying something considering the good care Dean has always taken of it.
At first, Dean tries to keep them from travelling too far in one day, but Sam is restless. When Dean tries to pull over, he resists and ratchets the speed up even more. Sometimes they drive through the night, Dean nodding off in the driver’s seat since he can’t exactly lie down in the back. The cops might get suspicious at the sight of a driverless car. Sam is restless, and he seems to love the open road more than ever.
Sometimes Dean plays cassettes. But more often than not he just lets Sam talk. And Sam talks about anything and everything - his favorite books, the last thing he remembers watching on television, the best way to grill a burger, what it feels like to be a car. A lot of the time, Dean just lets him talk, grunting in agreement every now and then. If he concentrates hard enough on the sound of Sam’s voice, it’s almost like he is sitting right there in the passenger seat again. Almost.
-------
Hunting is the hard part. Dean is not used to working without Sam at his back, if the increased frequency of injuries is any indication. He gets scratched up pretty bad by a werewolf in South Dakota, and Sam drives 120 all the way to Bobby’s house and pulls into the lot, horn blaring, tires screeching. Bobby has to come out and stitch Dean’s shoulder in the backseat, because when Dean tries to get out, Sam won’t let him. He locks the doors like he is afraid if he lets Dean out, he won’t come back. So Bobby brings out the first aid kit out and takes care of the gash while Sam cusses Dean, Bobby, the werewolf, and the whole damn world.
Dean is more careful after that.
--------
It sinks in one day, out of the blue, that Sam - the real, living, breathing Sam - is not coming back. When Dean yanks the wheel around, Sam lets him go, and when he throws the door open, Sam lets him do that too. But Dean does not make it all the way out of the car. Instead, he leans forward and rests his forehead on the steering wheel, trying to swallow away the lump in his throat.
“Dean?” Sam says tentatively. Then, when Dean doesn’t respond, he says louder, “Dean, what is it?”
Dean inhales deeply, and for a moment he fools himself into thinking that he can smell Sam - aftershave, laundry detergent, leather, and old books.
“This was a bad idea.”
Sam doesn’t have anything to say to that, it would seem. Dean reaches out and pulls the door shut again, and Sam cuts the engine. They sit there in silence for long moments. They are really no words for this situation - missing your brother when he’s right there. Well, sort of.
“Dean, I…I miss you too,” Sam says quietly, as if he was reading Dean’s mind. “I miss everything. I miss walking. I miss food. I miss…I miss crappy motel beds and digging up graves and ganking demons.” He is gathering steam now, and his voice sounds thick, like he could cry if he would. But cars can’t cry. “But most of all, I miss you, Dean.”
The words hang in the air for a while, and Dean lets them sink in, all the way down to his bones. It is oddly comforting, knowing that Sam misses him too. The revelation warms him, perhaps more than it should.
“You know what, though?” Sam continues. “This is better than nothing.”
And it is. It really, really is. Dean thinks back to Sam’s pale body lying on the couch at Bobby’s, his forehead shining with sweat, his lips moving in silent pleas for deliverance. Sam could be dead right now. Or worse. If this is the alternative, Dean can live with it. Sam is here - maybe not in flesh in blood, but in every way that counts.
“Love you, Sammy,” Dean says before he can talk himself out of it, ducking his head to hide the redness in his cheeks. As if Sam can see him anyway.
“Love you too, Dean,” Sam replies. And, though Dean can’t see the smile, he can hear it in Sam’s voice, and that is more than enough.