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britomart_is bribed me into writing a coda, because she is a terrible human being whom I hate. This is a little rough around the edges because I'm off to watch scary movies with friends so I reserve the right to edit minorly later, but you know what? I felt like the world needed some brother times.
This is a coda for last night's episode, 6x06, and contains spoilers through then.
Firestorm, past Sam/Dean, PG-13, 1300 words.
Dean's never been good at controlling himself, never bothered to rein it in. His blood's always run just the wrong side of too warm, and that's just how it goes. He's a little too quick to throw a punch, too fast out the door to follow a woman home, and it's never seemed like the worst thing. But sitting on the concrete floor, waiting for Sam to come around in the wreckage, Dean doesn't know if he's starting to regret it after all.
Dean used to know when to head for the hospital, the exact divide between stitching up with fishing line out of the Impala's trunk and spending four hours in the ER, but it's been a year. These days, he knows soccer accidents and middle of the night fevers, not the blunt force disconnect of his fist against Sam's face. Indecision has never been a good fit for him, and he'd go, but the forged insurance cards are Sam's purview now. He'd stay, but Sam's been out cold for three minutes.
Sam sucking in a breath breaks the silence, followed by a cough that feels carved out in guilt. Dean wants to close the three feet between them on the floor, wants to make sure Sam's okay, but they don't touch these days, and what's wrong with Sam is bigger than he can break or put back together again with his hands alone.
"ER or the motel room?" Dean says, flatly, the same question he's been asking and answering since he was twelve, and Sam coughs again, sitting up. Dean doesn't get an arm behind his shoulders.
Dean remembers being nineteen, twenty, when everything between them could be fixed by shouting matches and shoving each other into door frames, when the extent of betrayal was forgetting to pick Sam up at the library. They were perfect, then, running down ghosts and poltergeists on rock salt and adrenaline. Sam had been growing into this person, his partner, full of passion and whip-crack humor that Dean had never expected out of his kid brother, and there had been something taking shape between them, pressing around the corner, the kind of thing that made Dean's heart race a little too fast every time Sam stepped in close. Dean had thought the whole world was perfect, that things were fair and good and that he'd gotten his goddamn reward for laying himself on the line at every available opportunity.
The honest truth is that he's never wanted just any family, because Dean's had one in mind all along. His definition of the word and all the people he's ever going to want involved were forged in a nursery fire when Sam was six months old.
He loves Ben and Lisa, but Sam's blood and time, thirty years of Dean's life. Dean's been saving him for as long as he's known how, from high school bullies and werewolves and his own godawful decisions. Even if Dean failed, even if hunting caught up to them and just kept going right through, Sam's still the only thing that's honestly been his, the only thing Dean's ever really wanted to fight for.
They're so far from it that Dean can't see a way back, but he can remember a time when giving up on Sam seemed impossible instead of inevitable, when tearing his own heart out of his chest might have been easier, so he holds out a hand.
Sam looks at it for a long minute, but he takes it, letting Dean haul him to his feet.
"Motel room," Sam says, finally, quietly. "I've had worse."
Dean has enough time to think about it on the way back, with Sam quiet in the passenger seat. They stop at a 7-11 for a couple of ice packs and a bottle of excedrin, and in the flickering gas station light, looking at the way Sam's face is starting to swell, Dean wishes that six or seven punches in a row had made things easier between them, because there's every indication that it's going to be a harder road.
When they get back to the motel room, Dean breaks an ice pack for Sam and pours the bottle of whiskey on the bedside table down the bathroom sink. There's another in his bag and a handle of vodka under one of the gun cases, and Dean pulls a couple of flasks out of the trunk of the Impala. It's a damning row of bottles, lined up on the bathroom counter, and Dean turns on the tiny plastic coffee maker and rinses everything but a couple of shots of whiskey down the drain.
He takes Sam a plastic cup that's a little more alcohol than coffee, and Sam downs it, wincing, until they're left with only the soft sound of cars rushing by on the highway to fill up the space between them.
"I think I should be really scared, Dean," Sam says, finally, and Dean wants to take it seriously, but the truth is that he's known Bobby was right all along.
"You honestly think you're missing something?" Dean says, flat.
"I'm different," Sam says. "I don't feel all the things I should, Dean. I don't care. She said I wasn't human, and I think -"
"When was the last time you were happy?" Dean interrupts. "You know, apple pie, new Metallica album, blow job happy?"
Sam snorts. "Those are things you like."
"Everyone likes blow jobs," Dean says, because he's obligated, but Sam's dodging. "Come on, answer the question."
"I don't know," Sam says, finally, and Dean laughs, because what in the hell else is he supposed to do.
"No free pass for not having a soul, Sammy," he says. "You're just as fucked up as the rest of us."
"It didn't work on me," Sam says. "I could lie -"
"When was the last time some fucked up monster with fucked up mojo got the jump on you?" Dean says. "In case you haven't noticed, Sam, you were kind of a freak to begin with."
"Seriously, Dean?" Sam says. "You think I'm immune?"
"Fuck if I know," Dean says. "Maybe you've got a little too much golden retriever in you. But you weren't exactly dodging those djinn."
"I almost let you get killed," Sam says.
"Do you remember hell?" Dean says. "All the fucked up, twisted shit you just can't get out of your head?"
"No," Sam says, finally, like he doesn't want to admit it.
"When I came back," Dean says, "I thought I was happy. But all the things that made it worth it, all the things I'd spent forty fucking years thinking about, missing, I couldn't feel anything about any of them. The only station coming in was pissed off."
"I want to," Sam says. "I want to, and it's not there. If it's just gone -"
"It comes back," Dean says, finally, because they've been pushing in the opposite direction for too damn long.
"I'm dangerous," Sam says. "To you, to your family -"
He's not wrong, but Dean's heard this argument before, and if he's honest, it's never been a convincing one.
"So start acting like you have a fucking conscience," Dean says. "You know it's a bad decision, you don't make it. You think you shouldn't do it, you don't. You're fucking honest with me. You pretend like you care until you get out of this thing." He picks up Sam's coffee cup, going for a refill. "You're my fucking family, Sam. Start acting like it."
There's a long pause, one where Dean thinks it might not be enough, because he's still angry and it's been long time since they tried, but Sam finally reaches for the remote, flipping through the channels until he hits ESPN.
"I used to like baseball," Sam says, and even if it's not enough to fix everything between them, it's a start.
This is a coda for last night's episode, 6x06, and contains spoilers through then.
Firestorm, past Sam/Dean, PG-13, 1300 words.
Dean's never been good at controlling himself, never bothered to rein it in. His blood's always run just the wrong side of too warm, and that's just how it goes. He's a little too quick to throw a punch, too fast out the door to follow a woman home, and it's never seemed like the worst thing. But sitting on the concrete floor, waiting for Sam to come around in the wreckage, Dean doesn't know if he's starting to regret it after all.
Dean used to know when to head for the hospital, the exact divide between stitching up with fishing line out of the Impala's trunk and spending four hours in the ER, but it's been a year. These days, he knows soccer accidents and middle of the night fevers, not the blunt force disconnect of his fist against Sam's face. Indecision has never been a good fit for him, and he'd go, but the forged insurance cards are Sam's purview now. He'd stay, but Sam's been out cold for three minutes.
Sam sucking in a breath breaks the silence, followed by a cough that feels carved out in guilt. Dean wants to close the three feet between them on the floor, wants to make sure Sam's okay, but they don't touch these days, and what's wrong with Sam is bigger than he can break or put back together again with his hands alone.
"ER or the motel room?" Dean says, flatly, the same question he's been asking and answering since he was twelve, and Sam coughs again, sitting up. Dean doesn't get an arm behind his shoulders.
Dean remembers being nineteen, twenty, when everything between them could be fixed by shouting matches and shoving each other into door frames, when the extent of betrayal was forgetting to pick Sam up at the library. They were perfect, then, running down ghosts and poltergeists on rock salt and adrenaline. Sam had been growing into this person, his partner, full of passion and whip-crack humor that Dean had never expected out of his kid brother, and there had been something taking shape between them, pressing around the corner, the kind of thing that made Dean's heart race a little too fast every time Sam stepped in close. Dean had thought the whole world was perfect, that things were fair and good and that he'd gotten his goddamn reward for laying himself on the line at every available opportunity.
The honest truth is that he's never wanted just any family, because Dean's had one in mind all along. His definition of the word and all the people he's ever going to want involved were forged in a nursery fire when Sam was six months old.
He loves Ben and Lisa, but Sam's blood and time, thirty years of Dean's life. Dean's been saving him for as long as he's known how, from high school bullies and werewolves and his own godawful decisions. Even if Dean failed, even if hunting caught up to them and just kept going right through, Sam's still the only thing that's honestly been his, the only thing Dean's ever really wanted to fight for.
They're so far from it that Dean can't see a way back, but he can remember a time when giving up on Sam seemed impossible instead of inevitable, when tearing his own heart out of his chest might have been easier, so he holds out a hand.
Sam looks at it for a long minute, but he takes it, letting Dean haul him to his feet.
"Motel room," Sam says, finally, quietly. "I've had worse."
Dean has enough time to think about it on the way back, with Sam quiet in the passenger seat. They stop at a 7-11 for a couple of ice packs and a bottle of excedrin, and in the flickering gas station light, looking at the way Sam's face is starting to swell, Dean wishes that six or seven punches in a row had made things easier between them, because there's every indication that it's going to be a harder road.
When they get back to the motel room, Dean breaks an ice pack for Sam and pours the bottle of whiskey on the bedside table down the bathroom sink. There's another in his bag and a handle of vodka under one of the gun cases, and Dean pulls a couple of flasks out of the trunk of the Impala. It's a damning row of bottles, lined up on the bathroom counter, and Dean turns on the tiny plastic coffee maker and rinses everything but a couple of shots of whiskey down the drain.
He takes Sam a plastic cup that's a little more alcohol than coffee, and Sam downs it, wincing, until they're left with only the soft sound of cars rushing by on the highway to fill up the space between them.
"I think I should be really scared, Dean," Sam says, finally, and Dean wants to take it seriously, but the truth is that he's known Bobby was right all along.
"You honestly think you're missing something?" Dean says, flat.
"I'm different," Sam says. "I don't feel all the things I should, Dean. I don't care. She said I wasn't human, and I think -"
"When was the last time you were happy?" Dean interrupts. "You know, apple pie, new Metallica album, blow job happy?"
Sam snorts. "Those are things you like."
"Everyone likes blow jobs," Dean says, because he's obligated, but Sam's dodging. "Come on, answer the question."
"I don't know," Sam says, finally, and Dean laughs, because what in the hell else is he supposed to do.
"No free pass for not having a soul, Sammy," he says. "You're just as fucked up as the rest of us."
"It didn't work on me," Sam says. "I could lie -"
"When was the last time some fucked up monster with fucked up mojo got the jump on you?" Dean says. "In case you haven't noticed, Sam, you were kind of a freak to begin with."
"Seriously, Dean?" Sam says. "You think I'm immune?"
"Fuck if I know," Dean says. "Maybe you've got a little too much golden retriever in you. But you weren't exactly dodging those djinn."
"I almost let you get killed," Sam says.
"Do you remember hell?" Dean says. "All the fucked up, twisted shit you just can't get out of your head?"
"No," Sam says, finally, like he doesn't want to admit it.
"When I came back," Dean says, "I thought I was happy. But all the things that made it worth it, all the things I'd spent forty fucking years thinking about, missing, I couldn't feel anything about any of them. The only station coming in was pissed off."
"I want to," Sam says. "I want to, and it's not there. If it's just gone -"
"It comes back," Dean says, finally, because they've been pushing in the opposite direction for too damn long.
"I'm dangerous," Sam says. "To you, to your family -"
He's not wrong, but Dean's heard this argument before, and if he's honest, it's never been a convincing one.
"So start acting like you have a fucking conscience," Dean says. "You know it's a bad decision, you don't make it. You think you shouldn't do it, you don't. You're fucking honest with me. You pretend like you care until you get out of this thing." He picks up Sam's coffee cup, going for a refill. "You're my fucking family, Sam. Start acting like it."
There's a long pause, one where Dean thinks it might not be enough, because he's still angry and it's been long time since they tried, but Sam finally reaches for the remote, flipping through the channels until he hits ESPN.
"I used to like baseball," Sam says, and even if it's not enough to fix everything between them, it's a start.