original by hansbekhart
Remix Title: The Last Day (Make It Last Remix)
Remix Author: dea_liberty
Original Story: The Last Day
Original Author: hansbekhart
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: One year ago, Dean Winchester made a deal with the devil. It was a good deal and it's been a good year.
4:43am
The edges of sunlight start to filter gently through the gap in the curtains of their room, already looking to be bright and warm despite the time. Dean already knows it's going to be beautiful, the sky blue and cloudless.
Perfect, he thinks. It's going to be the perfect day.
He looks down at Sam, curled up against his side, arm thrown over his waist like he'll disappear if Sam doesn't hold on. He looks young (he looks his own age) in sleep, face relaxed, free of those stress lines that have come way too fast. Awake, Sam never looks anything but worried or determined, desperate or angry these days - and that's only when he looks alive.
He's torn between going outside to watch the sunrise and staying where he is, watching Sam. Not like it's every day he gets to do that.
Then he remembers that this isn't just any day.
When Sam wakes up, it won't be with the slow stretch and warm smile, sleepy-soft and comfortable, that he loves to see. He'll wake up tense, with something approaching blind panic in his eyes, with desperation and need and fear written in every movement.
Dean's not sure he really wants to see that.
He waits, watches, for a while longer before he gets up and shuts out the sunlight, keeping it from waking Sam too. He goes outside to see if the tomatoes have decided to pity him and grown overnight or something just as miraculous.
You never know; it could happen.
7:02pm
Sam looks so lonely, so hopeless, almost slumped over the table in the kitchen. He's trying not to meet Dean's eyes but he keeps darting small glances when he thinks he isn't looking.
Dean hands him another beer and starts talking.
It's not much. It's not really anything at all. It's just a long stream of babbling, the kind of thing Sam used to do as a geeky little kid, just spitting out whatever comes to mind, filling in the silence. Dean's a good talker when he wants to be; he's a good talker when they're not talking about anything too deep.
This time, it's a little different.
"Dad had two sisters," he starts, opening another beer. He's starting to feel like he supposes people must feel when they have to cram before an exam. He talks about their family, something Dad hadn't thought Sam needed to know. Now Sam needs to. He needs to know he isn't going to be alone. Dean keeps talking even though Sam looks like he's trying his hardest to seem like he doesn't want to know, doesn't care.
Dean just needs to know Sam'll be okay.
Then he's just babbling about everything and anything he can think of that Sam doesn't remember. He wants Sam to have all of it, wants Sam to understand, wants him to keep those memories of them alive. He doesn't want to leave Sam with just bitterness and pain.
"I deserved to know," Sam says. It's not related to the whole conversation - just some part of it, but it hits Dean hard anyway.
"Yeah. I know you did. But you know why, right? You know why he didn't want to tell you?" And if it sounds like he's apologizing, making excuses, it's probably because he kind of is.
"Yeah. Yeah, I know." Dean lets out a slow breath, slides his hand from Sam's wrist and threads their fingers together.
Sam still looks like he's about to cry.
3:56pm
He grips Sam's arm almost tightly enough to bruise, drags him out to the Impala despite Sam's protests.
"I know she's been waxed flawlessly, Dean," Sam's saying. "We were only out here hours ago." Sam's reminding him as if the burn in his ass isn't enough of a reminder. He says it as if he thinks Dean could really forget Sam's eyes looking up at him as his mouth wrapped around Dean's dick, or Sam's teeth sunk so deep into his shoulder that he's pretty sure the mark will last forever as he fucked Dean, hard and deep and desperate.
As if he could ever forget anything about Sam.
He keeps pulling Sam with him, just pulls him closer and closer, and then slides around to wrap his arms around Sam's waist, bends him down even closer to the hood of the car.
He leaves a lingering kiss on Sam's neck before he looks over Sam's shoulder, presses against him until Sam can see both their faces reflected on the surface.
8:51am
Dean comes back in to find a steaming cup of coffee, with cream and sugar, waiting for him on the table. Sam's phone sits innocently next to it, screen dark, and beside it, the laptop's screensaver blinks at him.
He knows where Sam is even before he hears the floorboards on the other side of the house squeaking. Sam's been carrying a lot more weight on his shoulders lately.
Dean would do anything to change that - anything except go back on the deal.
It'll be okay, he tells himself, glancing at the contents of his hand.
He grabs his cup of coffee and goes to find Sam.
"Think these'll taste good fried?" He asks, holding up the jalapenos. He's expecting Sam to hit him again. He's not expecting Sam to swallow hard and look like he's about to shatter into little pieces.
4:36pm
He's always hated seeing Sam cry. Ever since they were children, even when they were still fighting and arguing every three minutes; everything was game until Sam started crying. Twenty years later and nothing about that's changed.
He doesn't know half the things Sam's done to the house. He doesn't know most of the sigils and symbols Sam's put on the floor here, just in the cellar (has only seen a few in passing during research). He knows there are hundreds, thousands maybe, more all over the rest of the property.
He doesn't think any of them will work. He doesn't think they'll make a difference.
Sam can't save him.
He wants to believe - fuck does he want to - but he can't let himself otherwise he'll break down, he'll crumble and he can't do that. He's got to hold it together, got to believe (or, at least, act like he believes) that it'll be okay, whatever happens.
He has to - for Sam's sake. He can't put anymore on Sam than he already has.
He can't tell Sam he's not actually sure he's okay with dying. (He doesn't want to die.)
Something inside him squeezes, twists itself up, forms a lump he doesn't think will ever go away, as he watches his brother. Sam shakes and sobs as he scratches and scratches, writes and rewrites.
And Dean tells himself that maybe it won't be so bad; Hell can't possibly be worse than watching Sam fall apart and knowing there's nothing he can do to make it better.
11:50pm
He cards his fingers through Sam's hair, lets his nails scratch just a little, trying to still those tiny shakes going through Sam's body. He meets each of Sam's kisses with soft, calm, open ones of his own, lets his lips linger.
"It was worth it," he says, breathing the words into Sam's open mouth. "I'm not scared. It'll be okay."
"It's not okay." Sam's answer is soft, shaky. He sounds like he did when he was five and still scared of the dark. "It won't be okay, it won't be enough." It hurts that, this time, he can't chase away those demons for his baby brother.
"I'm not scared, Sammy."
It was worth it, he adds silently. It was a good year.
After that, he just watches, concentrates on Sam's breathing and Sam's heartbeat, and isn't even aware of the digits silently changing on the clock on the table.
For the first time all year, he doesn't hear that ticking clock in his own mind. His world narrows just to Sam.
It was more than worth it. He feels the wetness of Sam's tears against his skin, the soft hitches in Sam's breathing, and he closes his eyes, pulls Sam closer, keeps his hand moving, slow and reassuring, like they still have forever.
"I'm not scared."
12:01am
Remix Author: dea_liberty
Original Story: The Last Day
Original Author: hansbekhart
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: One year ago, Dean Winchester made a deal with the devil. It was a good deal and it's been a good year.
4:43am
The edges of sunlight start to filter gently through the gap in the curtains of their room, already looking to be bright and warm despite the time. Dean already knows it's going to be beautiful, the sky blue and cloudless.
Perfect, he thinks. It's going to be the perfect day.
He looks down at Sam, curled up against his side, arm thrown over his waist like he'll disappear if Sam doesn't hold on. He looks young (he looks his own age) in sleep, face relaxed, free of those stress lines that have come way too fast. Awake, Sam never looks anything but worried or determined, desperate or angry these days - and that's only when he looks alive.
He's torn between going outside to watch the sunrise and staying where he is, watching Sam. Not like it's every day he gets to do that.
Then he remembers that this isn't just any day.
When Sam wakes up, it won't be with the slow stretch and warm smile, sleepy-soft and comfortable, that he loves to see. He'll wake up tense, with something approaching blind panic in his eyes, with desperation and need and fear written in every movement.
Dean's not sure he really wants to see that.
He waits, watches, for a while longer before he gets up and shuts out the sunlight, keeping it from waking Sam too. He goes outside to see if the tomatoes have decided to pity him and grown overnight or something just as miraculous.
You never know; it could happen.
7:02pm
Sam looks so lonely, so hopeless, almost slumped over the table in the kitchen. He's trying not to meet Dean's eyes but he keeps darting small glances when he thinks he isn't looking.
Dean hands him another beer and starts talking.
It's not much. It's not really anything at all. It's just a long stream of babbling, the kind of thing Sam used to do as a geeky little kid, just spitting out whatever comes to mind, filling in the silence. Dean's a good talker when he wants to be; he's a good talker when they're not talking about anything too deep.
This time, it's a little different.
"Dad had two sisters," he starts, opening another beer. He's starting to feel like he supposes people must feel when they have to cram before an exam. He talks about their family, something Dad hadn't thought Sam needed to know. Now Sam needs to. He needs to know he isn't going to be alone. Dean keeps talking even though Sam looks like he's trying his hardest to seem like he doesn't want to know, doesn't care.
Dean just needs to know Sam'll be okay.
Then he's just babbling about everything and anything he can think of that Sam doesn't remember. He wants Sam to have all of it, wants Sam to understand, wants him to keep those memories of them alive. He doesn't want to leave Sam with just bitterness and pain.
"I deserved to know," Sam says. It's not related to the whole conversation - just some part of it, but it hits Dean hard anyway.
"Yeah. I know you did. But you know why, right? You know why he didn't want to tell you?" And if it sounds like he's apologizing, making excuses, it's probably because he kind of is.
"Yeah. Yeah, I know." Dean lets out a slow breath, slides his hand from Sam's wrist and threads their fingers together.
Sam still looks like he's about to cry.
3:56pm
He grips Sam's arm almost tightly enough to bruise, drags him out to the Impala despite Sam's protests.
"I know she's been waxed flawlessly, Dean," Sam's saying. "We were only out here hours ago." Sam's reminding him as if the burn in his ass isn't enough of a reminder. He says it as if he thinks Dean could really forget Sam's eyes looking up at him as his mouth wrapped around Dean's dick, or Sam's teeth sunk so deep into his shoulder that he's pretty sure the mark will last forever as he fucked Dean, hard and deep and desperate.
As if he could ever forget anything about Sam.
He keeps pulling Sam with him, just pulls him closer and closer, and then slides around to wrap his arms around Sam's waist, bends him down even closer to the hood of the car.
He leaves a lingering kiss on Sam's neck before he looks over Sam's shoulder, presses against him until Sam can see both their faces reflected on the surface.
8:51am
Dean comes back in to find a steaming cup of coffee, with cream and sugar, waiting for him on the table. Sam's phone sits innocently next to it, screen dark, and beside it, the laptop's screensaver blinks at him.
He knows where Sam is even before he hears the floorboards on the other side of the house squeaking. Sam's been carrying a lot more weight on his shoulders lately.
Dean would do anything to change that - anything except go back on the deal.
It'll be okay, he tells himself, glancing at the contents of his hand.
He grabs his cup of coffee and goes to find Sam.
"Think these'll taste good fried?" He asks, holding up the jalapenos. He's expecting Sam to hit him again. He's not expecting Sam to swallow hard and look like he's about to shatter into little pieces.
4:36pm
He's always hated seeing Sam cry. Ever since they were children, even when they were still fighting and arguing every three minutes; everything was game until Sam started crying. Twenty years later and nothing about that's changed.
He doesn't know half the things Sam's done to the house. He doesn't know most of the sigils and symbols Sam's put on the floor here, just in the cellar (has only seen a few in passing during research). He knows there are hundreds, thousands maybe, more all over the rest of the property.
He doesn't think any of them will work. He doesn't think they'll make a difference.
Sam can't save him.
He wants to believe - fuck does he want to - but he can't let himself otherwise he'll break down, he'll crumble and he can't do that. He's got to hold it together, got to believe (or, at least, act like he believes) that it'll be okay, whatever happens.
He has to - for Sam's sake. He can't put anymore on Sam than he already has.
He can't tell Sam he's not actually sure he's okay with dying. (He doesn't want to die.)
Something inside him squeezes, twists itself up, forms a lump he doesn't think will ever go away, as he watches his brother. Sam shakes and sobs as he scratches and scratches, writes and rewrites.
And Dean tells himself that maybe it won't be so bad; Hell can't possibly be worse than watching Sam fall apart and knowing there's nothing he can do to make it better.
11:50pm
He cards his fingers through Sam's hair, lets his nails scratch just a little, trying to still those tiny shakes going through Sam's body. He meets each of Sam's kisses with soft, calm, open ones of his own, lets his lips linger.
"It was worth it," he says, breathing the words into Sam's open mouth. "I'm not scared. It'll be okay."
"It's not okay." Sam's answer is soft, shaky. He sounds like he did when he was five and still scared of the dark. "It won't be okay, it won't be enough." It hurts that, this time, he can't chase away those demons for his baby brother.
"I'm not scared, Sammy."
It was worth it, he adds silently. It was a good year.
After that, he just watches, concentrates on Sam's breathing and Sam's heartbeat, and isn't even aware of the digits silently changing on the clock on the table.
For the first time all year, he doesn't hear that ticking clock in his own mind. His world narrows just to Sam.
It was more than worth it. He feels the wetness of Sam's tears against his skin, the soft hitches in Sam's breathing, and he closes his eyes, pulls Sam closer, keeps his hand moving, slow and reassuring, like they still have forever.
"I'm not scared."
12:01am