Fic: Unwrapped | Gen | PG-13
Title: Unwrapped
Author: sowell
Characters/Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13, mostly for language
Wordcount: ~1600
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Very vague S8 spoilers
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing!
Summary: Dean discovers his old amulet in Sam's bag. Sort-of Christmas fic.
A/N: 1) Written for the following insmallpackages wish: Wincest ficlet that brings back the "samulet." Not really Wincest, except in my brain - sorry! I tried to make them go to bed, but they weren't cooperating. Hope you enjoy it anyway! 2) I'm a sucker for the Samulet and for Christmas fic. So. 3) Miserably unbeta'd - forgive my typos.
He keeps it in the inner pocket of his duffel, carefully coiled in a circle. Dean finds it by accident when he’s looking for a pair of socks Sam stole three states ago. He pulls it out and stares blankly at it, unsure whether he’s hallucinating. It’s been gone for years; he saw it go. He threw it away with the last of his idealism, and he can’t quite figure out how it’s here, now, in one piece and staring at him.
The metal feels cold in his palm, the cord rough and fraying. He fingers it for a moment, playing with the idea of putting it back around his neck.
It’s heavy. He’d forgotten how heavy. He puts it back in the duffel and zips it up.
*
He can’t quite figure out the logistics of it. He’d boxed up all of Sam’s things after Sam threw himself into the pit. He’s certain he would have seen it then, if Sam had kept it.
It’s possible Sam’s been wearing it all this time, but Dean doesn’t think so. Dean’s peeled the bloody shirt off of Sam’s back a dozen times since then, and he’s never seen the amulet hanging there.
Besides, Sam’s body went into the pit along with his soul. Lucifer would have destroyed it - destroyed everything. You don’t get to hold on to keepsakes in Hell, especially not keepsakes drenched in memories of loyalty and brotherhood and Christmases past.
So how the fuck did it end up in Sam’s duffel?
*
He hedges his way around it in conversation. Sam is touchy these days. Amelia and Benny have left them both on edge, and Dean’s never sure what will set off the next round of explosions or which one of them will light the match.
“So I talked to Garth,” Dean starts.
“And?” Sam replies without looking up from his computer.
“And he was asking about the amulet. You know - the amulet?”
The tensing of Sam’s shoulders is so subtle that most people wouldn’t have noticed. Dean’s not most people, though. He could write an Idiot’s Guide to Sam-language, and Sam’s shoulders are radiating discomfort.
“Yeah,” Sam says flatly. “I know.”
“Apparently it has some protective mojo no one knew about. Garth saw something about it in Bobby’s journal and he wants to know if we still have it. For research or…whatever.” It’s weak, but it’s not the worst lie he’s ever come up with.
Sam still hasn’t looked up from his computer, but Dean can see his fingers fisted on the keyboard. “And what did you tell him?”
“I told him I’d check with you.” Dean clears his throat a little. “You didn’t, uh, pick it out of the trash, by any chance, did you?”
“No.” Sam doesn’t even hesitate.
“Because if you did - “
“I didn’t,” Sam snaps, and that’s the end of that.
*
Dean buys another amulet at a tourist’s shop on the border between San Diego and TJ. It’s not nearly as awesome as his last one, but Sam’s still being bitchy and close-mouthed, and beggars can’t be choosers. Knowing his necklace is lying just feet away in Sam’s bag makes Dean feel all naked and vulnerable the way he used to right after he gave the thing to Cas.
The charm is a flat lead coin with a horned chick on the front and a supposed Aztec incantation inscribed on the back. It’s a cheap piece of crap, but he sort of likes the tawdriness of it. Besides, it drives Sam crazy.
“Where the hell did you get that?” Sam asks, staring.
“The voodoo chick from Tijuana last week,” Dean lies. “Like it?”
Sam narrows his eyes. “I don’t remember her giving you anything.”
“Well, she didn’t want you to be jealous, Sammy. You know they always like me better.”
“What’s it for?”
“Protection.”
Sam holds out his hand, face sour, and Dean drops the charm into it. Sam studies it for thirty seconds, then tosses it back.
“You’re full of shit,” he says. “The writing on back is a bread recipe. You’re wearing a baking cookbook around your neck.”
Fucking Sam and his AP Spanish classes. Dean figures he should be embarrassed, except that Sam’s really worked himself into a snit. He’s glaring fiercely at the coin, and Dean shrugs and puts it back around his neck. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m sure the next hot chick will give you the bread recipe.”
Sam stalks out of the room, and Dean smiles.
*
It makes Sam spitting mad, but it’s still not enough. Because Dean doesn’t really want a bread recipe hanging around his neck. He doesn’t want a protection charm and he doesn’t want a flimsy coin and he doesn’t want to look in the mirror anymore and see empty space where the amulet should be. He wants his fucking necklace, and he’s getting sick of waiting for Sam to get over himself.
He digs through Sam’s duffel while Sam is out on solo research, except he can’t find it. The little bitch moved it, and frustration rips through Dean. He dumps the whole bag on the floor and roots through the contents. He pulls apart every balled-up pair of socks, rolled t-shirt, and folded pair of boxers he can find. He shakes every mystery container, empties every pocket, and even turns the pillow cases inside out. Then he does it again.
Sam walks in to find him in the middle of the floor, rumpled laundry and disassembled weaponry scattered around him.
“What the fuck?” Sam says, frozen halfway through shucking his suit jacket.
Dean scrambles to his feet, jaw clenched. “I want it back,” he says.
Sam doesn’t even pretend to misunderstand. His mouth thins into a line. “No.”
“What do you mean no? You fucking gave it to me. It was a goddamn gift, now give it back.”
“You threw it out,” Sam says tightly. “You tossed it in the trash. It’s not yours anymore.”
“Sammy,” Dean says, attempting to level the fury in his voice. “You’ve obviously got some pissy hang-up about this. I get it, I do. But quit being a stubborn dickwad and give me my amulet.”
“No,” Sam says. “You don’t get it, so shut up about it.” Sam looks every bit as mad as Dean. His voice is taut, but his eyes are wounded and not-quite-dry and fuck. Dean’s been a fucking goner for that look since the third grade.
Dean sinks down on the bed and makes himself breathe. “Okay,” he says calmly. “Why?”
“Because.” Sam’s mouth screws up in a stubborn little scowl, and it makes him look twelve instead of thirty. “Just…because.”
“Not good enough, dude. You picked it out of the trash. You held on to it this whole friggin’ time - god knows how - and now…what? I’m not good enough anymore?”
Sam must hear the hurt in his voice, because he drops himself down on the other bed and puts his head in his hands.
“Because it’s not fair,” he says in a low voice. “You still haven’t forgiven me for Ruby. Let’s be honest - you’re never gonna. And it goes both ways.” He raises his eyes, and they’re definitely wet now. “You want to hold on to your anger - fine. But I get to hold on to this.”
Dean aches like someone punched him right in the gut. “Jesus,” he breathes. “You never said anything.”
Sam shrugs miserably. “I was dead, or you were. And even when you’re alive, you’re not exactly easy to talk to.”
“That’s because talking sucks,” Dean mutters. He stares hard at an over-bleached stain on the carpet. It seems like a relatively safe place to direct his anger. Sam is off limits, because the open pain on his face is like the stab of a knife.
“How?” Dean asks. “You went into the pit.”
“Bobby,” Sam says. “He kept it for me. But then after…I took it back when we cleared out his stuff.”
“I still want it back.”
“You can’t have it.”
Sam lifts the cord and pulls the amulet out from under his shirt. It settles there against his chest, gleaming dully.
“At least you’re wearing it,” Dean says sourly. “Better than hiding it in your bag like a teenage girl.”
Sam laughs rawly. “Jesus, shut up,” he says, wiping at his eyes.
“You’re gonna give it back to me eventually,” Dean tells him.
Sam smiles a little and looks away. He shakes his head wordlessly.
“Yes, you will. You’ll probably cry.”
Sam’s really chuckling now, head turned away. Dean punches him in the shoulder lightly. Sam’s dress shirt is warm and smooth under his knuckles, solid and comforting. Dean stands.
“And I’ll, uh - I’ll work on that forgiveness thing,” he offers. It’s a little bumbling - not quite an apology. But it feels good.
“Wow,” Sam deadpans. “Don’t force yourself or anything.”
“Shaddup,” Dean says. “Also - it’s Christmas Eve. I want eggnog.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Of course you do.”
“It’s only six. I bet that gas station down the road is still open.”
Sam drops the amulet back under his shirt, and Dean watches it disappear. His stomach clenches a little, but it’s manageable. “Fine,” Sam says. “But not until you pick up the mess you made.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
“Hey,” Sam says, and Dean looks. Sam’s mouth is ticked up in a funny little smile, a mishmash of dimples and slouched shoulders and tip-tilted eyes. Dean’s mind takes a snapshot, a picture to hold on to for the next time he needs it. This is Sam; this is my brother; this is my world.
Sam jingles the car keys. “Merry Christmas.”
Author: sowell
Characters/Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13, mostly for language
Wordcount: ~1600
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Very vague S8 spoilers
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing!
Summary: Dean discovers his old amulet in Sam's bag. Sort-of Christmas fic.
A/N: 1) Written for the following insmallpackages wish: Wincest ficlet that brings back the "samulet." Not really Wincest, except in my brain - sorry! I tried to make them go to bed, but they weren't cooperating. Hope you enjoy it anyway! 2) I'm a sucker for the Samulet and for Christmas fic. So. 3) Miserably unbeta'd - forgive my typos.
He keeps it in the inner pocket of his duffel, carefully coiled in a circle. Dean finds it by accident when he’s looking for a pair of socks Sam stole three states ago. He pulls it out and stares blankly at it, unsure whether he’s hallucinating. It’s been gone for years; he saw it go. He threw it away with the last of his idealism, and he can’t quite figure out how it’s here, now, in one piece and staring at him.
The metal feels cold in his palm, the cord rough and fraying. He fingers it for a moment, playing with the idea of putting it back around his neck.
It’s heavy. He’d forgotten how heavy. He puts it back in the duffel and zips it up.
*
He can’t quite figure out the logistics of it. He’d boxed up all of Sam’s things after Sam threw himself into the pit. He’s certain he would have seen it then, if Sam had kept it.
It’s possible Sam’s been wearing it all this time, but Dean doesn’t think so. Dean’s peeled the bloody shirt off of Sam’s back a dozen times since then, and he’s never seen the amulet hanging there.
Besides, Sam’s body went into the pit along with his soul. Lucifer would have destroyed it - destroyed everything. You don’t get to hold on to keepsakes in Hell, especially not keepsakes drenched in memories of loyalty and brotherhood and Christmases past.
So how the fuck did it end up in Sam’s duffel?
*
He hedges his way around it in conversation. Sam is touchy these days. Amelia and Benny have left them both on edge, and Dean’s never sure what will set off the next round of explosions or which one of them will light the match.
“So I talked to Garth,” Dean starts.
“And?” Sam replies without looking up from his computer.
“And he was asking about the amulet. You know - the amulet?”
The tensing of Sam’s shoulders is so subtle that most people wouldn’t have noticed. Dean’s not most people, though. He could write an Idiot’s Guide to Sam-language, and Sam’s shoulders are radiating discomfort.
“Yeah,” Sam says flatly. “I know.”
“Apparently it has some protective mojo no one knew about. Garth saw something about it in Bobby’s journal and he wants to know if we still have it. For research or…whatever.” It’s weak, but it’s not the worst lie he’s ever come up with.
Sam still hasn’t looked up from his computer, but Dean can see his fingers fisted on the keyboard. “And what did you tell him?”
“I told him I’d check with you.” Dean clears his throat a little. “You didn’t, uh, pick it out of the trash, by any chance, did you?”
“No.” Sam doesn’t even hesitate.
“Because if you did - “
“I didn’t,” Sam snaps, and that’s the end of that.
*
Dean buys another amulet at a tourist’s shop on the border between San Diego and TJ. It’s not nearly as awesome as his last one, but Sam’s still being bitchy and close-mouthed, and beggars can’t be choosers. Knowing his necklace is lying just feet away in Sam’s bag makes Dean feel all naked and vulnerable the way he used to right after he gave the thing to Cas.
The charm is a flat lead coin with a horned chick on the front and a supposed Aztec incantation inscribed on the back. It’s a cheap piece of crap, but he sort of likes the tawdriness of it. Besides, it drives Sam crazy.
“Where the hell did you get that?” Sam asks, staring.
“The voodoo chick from Tijuana last week,” Dean lies. “Like it?”
Sam narrows his eyes. “I don’t remember her giving you anything.”
“Well, she didn’t want you to be jealous, Sammy. You know they always like me better.”
“What’s it for?”
“Protection.”
Sam holds out his hand, face sour, and Dean drops the charm into it. Sam studies it for thirty seconds, then tosses it back.
“You’re full of shit,” he says. “The writing on back is a bread recipe. You’re wearing a baking cookbook around your neck.”
Fucking Sam and his AP Spanish classes. Dean figures he should be embarrassed, except that Sam’s really worked himself into a snit. He’s glaring fiercely at the coin, and Dean shrugs and puts it back around his neck. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m sure the next hot chick will give you the bread recipe.”
Sam stalks out of the room, and Dean smiles.
*
It makes Sam spitting mad, but it’s still not enough. Because Dean doesn’t really want a bread recipe hanging around his neck. He doesn’t want a protection charm and he doesn’t want a flimsy coin and he doesn’t want to look in the mirror anymore and see empty space where the amulet should be. He wants his fucking necklace, and he’s getting sick of waiting for Sam to get over himself.
He digs through Sam’s duffel while Sam is out on solo research, except he can’t find it. The little bitch moved it, and frustration rips through Dean. He dumps the whole bag on the floor and roots through the contents. He pulls apart every balled-up pair of socks, rolled t-shirt, and folded pair of boxers he can find. He shakes every mystery container, empties every pocket, and even turns the pillow cases inside out. Then he does it again.
Sam walks in to find him in the middle of the floor, rumpled laundry and disassembled weaponry scattered around him.
“What the fuck?” Sam says, frozen halfway through shucking his suit jacket.
Dean scrambles to his feet, jaw clenched. “I want it back,” he says.
Sam doesn’t even pretend to misunderstand. His mouth thins into a line. “No.”
“What do you mean no? You fucking gave it to me. It was a goddamn gift, now give it back.”
“You threw it out,” Sam says tightly. “You tossed it in the trash. It’s not yours anymore.”
“Sammy,” Dean says, attempting to level the fury in his voice. “You’ve obviously got some pissy hang-up about this. I get it, I do. But quit being a stubborn dickwad and give me my amulet.”
“No,” Sam says. “You don’t get it, so shut up about it.” Sam looks every bit as mad as Dean. His voice is taut, but his eyes are wounded and not-quite-dry and fuck. Dean’s been a fucking goner for that look since the third grade.
Dean sinks down on the bed and makes himself breathe. “Okay,” he says calmly. “Why?”
“Because.” Sam’s mouth screws up in a stubborn little scowl, and it makes him look twelve instead of thirty. “Just…because.”
“Not good enough, dude. You picked it out of the trash. You held on to it this whole friggin’ time - god knows how - and now…what? I’m not good enough anymore?”
Sam must hear the hurt in his voice, because he drops himself down on the other bed and puts his head in his hands.
“Because it’s not fair,” he says in a low voice. “You still haven’t forgiven me for Ruby. Let’s be honest - you’re never gonna. And it goes both ways.” He raises his eyes, and they’re definitely wet now. “You want to hold on to your anger - fine. But I get to hold on to this.”
Dean aches like someone punched him right in the gut. “Jesus,” he breathes. “You never said anything.”
Sam shrugs miserably. “I was dead, or you were. And even when you’re alive, you’re not exactly easy to talk to.”
“That’s because talking sucks,” Dean mutters. He stares hard at an over-bleached stain on the carpet. It seems like a relatively safe place to direct his anger. Sam is off limits, because the open pain on his face is like the stab of a knife.
“How?” Dean asks. “You went into the pit.”
“Bobby,” Sam says. “He kept it for me. But then after…I took it back when we cleared out his stuff.”
“I still want it back.”
“You can’t have it.”
Sam lifts the cord and pulls the amulet out from under his shirt. It settles there against his chest, gleaming dully.
“At least you’re wearing it,” Dean says sourly. “Better than hiding it in your bag like a teenage girl.”
Sam laughs rawly. “Jesus, shut up,” he says, wiping at his eyes.
“You’re gonna give it back to me eventually,” Dean tells him.
Sam smiles a little and looks away. He shakes his head wordlessly.
“Yes, you will. You’ll probably cry.”
Sam’s really chuckling now, head turned away. Dean punches him in the shoulder lightly. Sam’s dress shirt is warm and smooth under his knuckles, solid and comforting. Dean stands.
“And I’ll, uh - I’ll work on that forgiveness thing,” he offers. It’s a little bumbling - not quite an apology. But it feels good.
“Wow,” Sam deadpans. “Don’t force yourself or anything.”
“Shaddup,” Dean says. “Also - it’s Christmas Eve. I want eggnog.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Of course you do.”
“It’s only six. I bet that gas station down the road is still open.”
Sam drops the amulet back under his shirt, and Dean watches it disappear. His stomach clenches a little, but it’s manageable. “Fine,” Sam says. “But not until you pick up the mess you made.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
“Hey,” Sam says, and Dean looks. Sam’s mouth is ticked up in a funny little smile, a mishmash of dimples and slouched shoulders and tip-tilted eyes. Dean’s mind takes a snapshot, a picture to hold on to for the next time he needs it. This is Sam; this is my brother; this is my world.
Sam jingles the car keys. “Merry Christmas.”