[Fic] Supernatural - Water, Water - 7.05 Coda
Title: Water, Water
Author: Stolen Childe
Disclaimer: Not my boys, if they were, they’d be a lot more gay.
Warnings: cursing, alcohol abuse, angst, spoilers
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Dean+Cas friendship (slash if you use your trusty goggles), Sam
Spoilers: Up to an including 7.05
Summary: Following the recent hunt, Dean thinks, drinks and dreams.
Author’s Notes: This is my 7.05 coda, cuz I just had to. That first scene of Dean’s is just too good not to write about. This is not a happy fic… Please enjoy!
********************
Water, Water
Dean waits until Sammy in snoring like a baby on the ratty motel bed. They’ve stopped for the night, the still unconscious Leviathan shoved into the bathroom, a chair wedged in front of the handle. Dean was so damn tired and though they were on their way to meet Bobby driving in the state both of them were in was not recommended. So they stop, pull up and Sam passes out within minutes. Dean waits, just a few more after that then stumbles to the car and roots around in the trunk. There’s a fifth of Jack nestled nice and cozy with a two-six of Canadian whisky and he gropes around in the trunk until he feels the cool glass of the bottle against his sweaty palm.
Those witches were badass, even if the manwitch was a munchkin. He hadn’t seen a short stack that small since Gabriel-the-trickster. A pang of guilt shoots like a knife through Dean’s stomach and he feels like her witchy-ness the missus had her disembodied ghost-hand shoved in his gut again. At the thought of the fallen archangel, another casualty among far too many, another certain angel inevitably follows. Dean spins around and gropes in the trunk again, pulling out a crumbled ball of tan then slams the heavy metal down. Dean wrenches the cap off of whatever it is he managed to grab and downs a good mouthful before he even makes it back into the motel room. He hardly feels the burn anymore as it slides down his throat and he stopped coughing at it when he was sixteen. He should probably be concerned but he spends so much time being concerned about every other damn thing he’s ever done that a little bit of alcoholism isn’t gonna bother him now after so many years. Dean’s pretty sure his guilt complex is something he really should talk about, but he lacks the distinct feminine parts to be discussing his feelings anytime soon. Been there, done that. Now the confessor is dead.
Dean squeezes his eyes, tight shut, wondering why everything always comes back to a certain angel when he’s in these states. Wondering why he can’t get the fucking haunting look of a steely blue gaze out of his fucking mind. Wondering why it’s slowly driving him insane, melting whatever self-control he ever possessed and making him just want to drown himself in booze and never open his eyes again.
By the time he crashes on the bed, head and body hitting the lumps and lose springs that he hardly feels, two thirds of the bottle are gone and a pleasant fog is slowly settling over his mind. He sits up enough to tip the rest back thinking he could probably get the world record in alcohol consumption by now, and shuts his eyes.
His plan fails however, Dean dreams…
-*-
Dean looks down and around, he knows this is a dream instantly and he wants to wake up just as suddenly. Bottle of whisky is gone, but the tan bundle still remains curled in his tight clenched fists. The world is brilliant and green, taunting him with the remnants of the summer sun. The water before him sits still and deceptively calm, gold light dancing on the deep blue. He knows where he is and hates it. He knows where he is and wants to run. He knows where he is and wants to dive headlong into the clear depths and stay there.
His stomach does that clench and twist again, leaping to his heart and making it pound in increased anxiety. Normally he’d be reaching for a bottle right now, but apparently his head had always been a dry zone for whatever fucking messed up reason.
Because you’re safe here, a voice calm and assured says to his side and Dean doesn’t spin or start. He just draws the tan bundle to his chest and shuts his eyes tight. He knows what comes next. He’s had this dream too many times not to.
“I’m not safe anywhere,” Dean whispers, though it’s going off script. He can’t see it, or hear it but he senses the surprise from the party to the back and the right of him. Always to the right. His right hand, his closest confidant.
You were safe with me.
“You’re gone.”
Perhaps.
Dean lets that sink in for a moment. Let’s his heart feel it, test the truth in it. Let his dulled instincts lead the way. He gets nothing in response. No uncertainty and no certainty. It’s just blank and open and ready to be filled. Dean doesn’t know how to fill it.
“Don’t,” Dean whimpers as he senses movement. He refuses to let this afterimage touch him, offer comfort that would be meaningless. Comfort that would only be a shadow of what it once was: shy nervous smiles and a dry, bitter sense of humour. Power that consumed even from feet away and a gaze that burned no matter what the circumstances of the unrelenting stare.
Dean.
“Don’t!” Dean screams. Not his name, not his name in that tone. Never again. Please let me be wrong…
Dean. Tried again, more insistent but quieter this time. Dean lost whatever strength he had the first go around and remains mute in response to that. He hears imaginary ticks and looks up, he knows what happens now. Wonders why he has to see it over and over again. The flash of that all too familiar face across his mind’s eye then all-too-real figure before him, stumbling step by step arms up and spread as a tan enclosed back and messy black hair slowly disappears, sinking into the water. The matching bundle of tan he holds, close and bunched against his chest is now dripping water, splashing his boots with the ominous but gentle plunk, plink, plunk.
Dean sinks to his knees, unmindful of the water, and curls around the trench coat he holds, sobbing in the dream as he never allows himself to sob in the waking world…
-*-
Sam waits until he hears the soft sobs start up before he opens his eyes and pads gently across the short distance to his brother’s bed. He takes the mostly empty bottle out of his brother’s slack grip and sets it aside, pulling the trench coat from his hands and patting it gently before folding it neatly once more. Sam takes the bottle and the coat and picks up the keys of the battered desk of their motel room. As he leaves he dumps the rest of the booze and tosses the bottle in the big blue bin around the corner. Then he walks back to the Impala, opens the trunk and reverently sets the coat down over a small white box that Sam himself put there nearly two years ago. He pulls out the bottle of whisky where it remains in the corner and walks softly to the front desk where the drowsy night clerk waits.
“For the room,” Sam says, placing it on the desk. The young man looks up with a grin and a ‘thumbs-up’ gesture. Sam can only give him a half-hearted smile in return.
Sam returns to the room but doesn’t sleep again. He merely sits on the bed and keeps vigil over his brother. Maybe one day Dean will tell him, but Sam knows with certainty it won’t be anytime soon.
End
Author: Stolen Childe
Disclaimer: Not my boys, if they were, they’d be a lot more gay.
Warnings: cursing, alcohol abuse, angst, spoilers
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Dean+Cas friendship (slash if you use your trusty goggles), Sam
Spoilers: Up to an including 7.05
Summary: Following the recent hunt, Dean thinks, drinks and dreams.
Author’s Notes: This is my 7.05 coda, cuz I just had to. That first scene of Dean’s is just too good not to write about. This is not a happy fic… Please enjoy!
********************
Water, Water
Dean waits until Sammy in snoring like a baby on the ratty motel bed. They’ve stopped for the night, the still unconscious Leviathan shoved into the bathroom, a chair wedged in front of the handle. Dean was so damn tired and though they were on their way to meet Bobby driving in the state both of them were in was not recommended. So they stop, pull up and Sam passes out within minutes. Dean waits, just a few more after that then stumbles to the car and roots around in the trunk. There’s a fifth of Jack nestled nice and cozy with a two-six of Canadian whisky and he gropes around in the trunk until he feels the cool glass of the bottle against his sweaty palm.
Those witches were badass, even if the manwitch was a munchkin. He hadn’t seen a short stack that small since Gabriel-the-trickster. A pang of guilt shoots like a knife through Dean’s stomach and he feels like her witchy-ness the missus had her disembodied ghost-hand shoved in his gut again. At the thought of the fallen archangel, another casualty among far too many, another certain angel inevitably follows. Dean spins around and gropes in the trunk again, pulling out a crumbled ball of tan then slams the heavy metal down. Dean wrenches the cap off of whatever it is he managed to grab and downs a good mouthful before he even makes it back into the motel room. He hardly feels the burn anymore as it slides down his throat and he stopped coughing at it when he was sixteen. He should probably be concerned but he spends so much time being concerned about every other damn thing he’s ever done that a little bit of alcoholism isn’t gonna bother him now after so many years. Dean’s pretty sure his guilt complex is something he really should talk about, but he lacks the distinct feminine parts to be discussing his feelings anytime soon. Been there, done that. Now the confessor is dead.
Dean squeezes his eyes, tight shut, wondering why everything always comes back to a certain angel when he’s in these states. Wondering why he can’t get the fucking haunting look of a steely blue gaze out of his fucking mind. Wondering why it’s slowly driving him insane, melting whatever self-control he ever possessed and making him just want to drown himself in booze and never open his eyes again.
By the time he crashes on the bed, head and body hitting the lumps and lose springs that he hardly feels, two thirds of the bottle are gone and a pleasant fog is slowly settling over his mind. He sits up enough to tip the rest back thinking he could probably get the world record in alcohol consumption by now, and shuts his eyes.
His plan fails however, Dean dreams…
-*-
Dean looks down and around, he knows this is a dream instantly and he wants to wake up just as suddenly. Bottle of whisky is gone, but the tan bundle still remains curled in his tight clenched fists. The world is brilliant and green, taunting him with the remnants of the summer sun. The water before him sits still and deceptively calm, gold light dancing on the deep blue. He knows where he is and hates it. He knows where he is and wants to run. He knows where he is and wants to dive headlong into the clear depths and stay there.
His stomach does that clench and twist again, leaping to his heart and making it pound in increased anxiety. Normally he’d be reaching for a bottle right now, but apparently his head had always been a dry zone for whatever fucking messed up reason.
Because you’re safe here, a voice calm and assured says to his side and Dean doesn’t spin or start. He just draws the tan bundle to his chest and shuts his eyes tight. He knows what comes next. He’s had this dream too many times not to.
“I’m not safe anywhere,” Dean whispers, though it’s going off script. He can’t see it, or hear it but he senses the surprise from the party to the back and the right of him. Always to the right. His right hand, his closest confidant.
You were safe with me.
“You’re gone.”
Perhaps.
Dean lets that sink in for a moment. Let’s his heart feel it, test the truth in it. Let his dulled instincts lead the way. He gets nothing in response. No uncertainty and no certainty. It’s just blank and open and ready to be filled. Dean doesn’t know how to fill it.
“Don’t,” Dean whimpers as he senses movement. He refuses to let this afterimage touch him, offer comfort that would be meaningless. Comfort that would only be a shadow of what it once was: shy nervous smiles and a dry, bitter sense of humour. Power that consumed even from feet away and a gaze that burned no matter what the circumstances of the unrelenting stare.
Dean.
“Don’t!” Dean screams. Not his name, not his name in that tone. Never again. Please let me be wrong…
Dean. Tried again, more insistent but quieter this time. Dean lost whatever strength he had the first go around and remains mute in response to that. He hears imaginary ticks and looks up, he knows what happens now. Wonders why he has to see it over and over again. The flash of that all too familiar face across his mind’s eye then all-too-real figure before him, stumbling step by step arms up and spread as a tan enclosed back and messy black hair slowly disappears, sinking into the water. The matching bundle of tan he holds, close and bunched against his chest is now dripping water, splashing his boots with the ominous but gentle plunk, plink, plunk.
Dean sinks to his knees, unmindful of the water, and curls around the trench coat he holds, sobbing in the dream as he never allows himself to sob in the waking world…
-*-
Sam waits until he hears the soft sobs start up before he opens his eyes and pads gently across the short distance to his brother’s bed. He takes the mostly empty bottle out of his brother’s slack grip and sets it aside, pulling the trench coat from his hands and patting it gently before folding it neatly once more. Sam takes the bottle and the coat and picks up the keys of the battered desk of their motel room. As he leaves he dumps the rest of the booze and tosses the bottle in the big blue bin around the corner. Then he walks back to the Impala, opens the trunk and reverently sets the coat down over a small white box that Sam himself put there nearly two years ago. He pulls out the bottle of whisky where it remains in the corner and walks softly to the front desk where the drowsy night clerk waits.
“For the room,” Sam says, placing it on the desk. The young man looks up with a grin and a ‘thumbs-up’ gesture. Sam can only give him a half-hearted smile in return.
Sam returns to the room but doesn’t sleep again. He merely sits on the bed and keeps vigil over his brother. Maybe one day Dean will tell him, but Sam knows with certainty it won’t be anytime soon.
End