SPN fic
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Title: Leave The Door Unlocked [I Won't Be Coming Back]
Rating: R
Word Count: 2, 054
Spoilers: Heart
Summary: The aftermath... and beyond.
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I’m asking you to save me.
___
That shot.
It’s a gunshot; sounds like one, smells like one when it hits Sam’s nostrils, but he only registers the powder in the air for a second before she crumples. Against him. He should’ve been prepared for that, should’ve stood back so he wouldn’t get blood everywhere and he-
He kneels down and lets her head rest in his lap, lets her blood soak into his jeans as the pool spreads in an almost perfect circle on the polished mahogany floors. Her hair still smells like her shampoo. He fleetingly thinks that she shouldn’t smell the same now that she’s gone. She shouldn’t still be beautiful.
This isn’t how this was supposed to end. He hadn’t wanted it to end at all.
Later, Sam will realize that right there, somewhere between the sex and the waking up alone, in that foggy place where he wasn’t quite asleep and the damn smell of her hair… that was where he’d gone all wrong.
___
That shot.
It’s a gunshot; whenever Dean hears one, and it hasn’t come from his gun - aside from this one right the hell now - he misses the kick, the snap that makes his hand jump just that small bit that means he’s a good shot, good enough to know not to lock his wrist.
It’s bad, though. Bad enough to make his eyes water more than he usually allows. Worse than he expected, worse than talking her into it and regretting it before he was even done. He regrets a lot of things.
For example, ever coming to this damn town, or starting this hunt in the first place. Leaving Sam in this apartment without him, getting him laid. Fucking retarded. Like that was really what Sam needed. He’d meant well, he really had, and he still thought Sam needed to loosen up, but Jesus.
He would’ve done it in a second; he would’ve taken that gun out of Sam’s hand and pulled the trigger himself. He’d do anything, it didn’t matter to him what it meant afterwards, just as long as Sam didn’t have to watch on more person he cared about bleed. As long as Dean didn’t have to hear that crack in Sam’s voice ever again. Once was too many, dammit.
But he was right, according to Sam. Sam actually thought he was right, and he couldn’t believe how he felt about it. He’d never wanted to be wrong this bad in his whole life, he’d never…
He’d never been this sorry.
___
Dean’s standing in the hall, just like Sam had left him, just like he had asked. Waiting. It seems like forever, and he thinks he hears Sam sniffing a couple times, but mostly, it’s quiet. He eventually moves to the couch, and when he can’t bring himself to sit down, he leans on the arm. He passes a couple minutes actively avoiding why he doesn’t feel right lounging in this girl’s apartment; why he doesn’t feel like he deserves the rest.
A glass on the coffee table catches his attention, a purplish lipstick smudge on the rim. He sighs, looks around the room for a second to take in all the knick knacks, all the things left behind. There’s a sound from down the hall, and his bandana is hastily ripped from his pocket. He doesn’t want to get caught by Sam acting all Lifetime, and he really doesn’t want to have to deal with the cops today. Or ever.
He’s suddenly in a rush to wipe everything down, to get everything clean, effectively erasing them from this place where they never should have come. There’s no way that a single gunshot went unheard, and Dean suddenly feels that timer in his head start, the one he’s had built in since he was eight. It says get the hell out nowish.
Besides that, there’s no doubt that someone will report Madison missing if they haven’t already. When they finally get around to it, Dean knows he’ll have Sam across the state line. There will be nothing to show that Sam was ever here. They have never been in San Francisco, as far as Dean is concerned. There’s no one left to say any different.
It hits him that this clean break, this lack of witnesses, will be because of Madison. He moves faster.
Dean’s wiping down the bathroom sink when he hears the click of the front door closing. He thinks Sam’s left, but right when he moves to check he realizes that Sam is coming back. He hadn’t even heard Sam leave. He thought he’d been listening carefully enough.
Dean freezes and immediately feels ridiculous for it, imagining getting caught red handed trying to save their collective asses from jail time. But he still catches himself waiting to finish up until Sam comes into the room and sees what he’s doing. Hurting Sam is the last thing he wants to do right now, and if he has to use the kiddy gloves for a while, he can deal with that. He can adjust for Sammy. He doesn’t really know how not to.
The room looks a bit like a model home now, fully furnished for the new tenant’s convenience, and Dean realizes he likes it here. The realization takes him by surprise, and he hates surprises, so he focuses on Sam. In that moment, he has this odd need in the very center of him that he hates. He kind of hopes that his younger brother’ll break. He wants to hear Sam say how he feels, yell or something dramatic like that, the way that younger brothers are friggin’ supposed to, like they do on TV every other week. Where the hell that thought came from is a mystery to Dean, and he beats it away by telling himself that he’s glad to see Sam’s clenched jaw, straight back and calculated stare. Everything he sees in Sam at that moment speaks of control, discipline, duty, John Winchester.
The white undershirt and fresh jeans Sammy’s sporting speak of bloodstained clothes stuffed in a duffel and then stuffed in a trunk, and Dean suppresses a rush of pride at the way his brother’s handling this, consciously mixes it up with a strange sense of déjà vu that he can’t seem to control anymore than he can any of his thoughts right now. He’s seen that blank stare before, in a mirror, in his father. But the more Dean thinks of his father, especially Sam becoming his father, the more he hates this whole planet, so he moves the hell on.
Sam finally meets Dean’s eyes, his disconnected scan of the room seemingly complete, and nods a little. He pulls his own rag out of a back pocket and walks back toward the bedroom.
Dean thinks he might throw up.
___
”You ready?”
“Uh. Yeah. You?”
Sam nods, runs a hand through his hair.
Dean lets Sam walk ahead of him for a minute so he can speed past the open bedroom door.
___
They’re driving South down Highway 1 through Monterey when they finally stop for gas. Two hours have stubbornly trickled by, left behind with the unobstructed ocean sunset that neither of them has bothered to admire. Coffee changes hands, and chins are jutted back and forth, but it doesn’t seem like either of them can bring themselves to speak.
Dean’s not good at that, The Talking. Everyone who’s ever met him for more than… Anyone who’s ever met him can see it. He wears it on his sleeve, next to his bottomless appetite and hatred for demons and love for Sam - in the place other people wear their hearts. The right thing to say is always out of reach for him. Luckily, with Sam, a stupid joke can take the place of a heartfelt conversation because Sam gets it.
But still, Dean says nothing. He doesn’t want Sam to have to get it right now. He wants the words, dammit, and he’s never given a shit before, but he wishes to God that he had the way with words that his brother must’ve gotten from their mom… just this once.
Sam always wants to talk. It’s as much a part of his personality as Dean’s stoic silence is of his own. Sam pushes because he knows his brother can take it. He also knows he can take the punch Dean will probably throw without too much of a fuss, so he hasn’t really changed his tactics since they were kids. He doesn’t like to be pushed back, though. However hypocritical it is, Sam would much rather stew for a while, take extra long showers and go for thoughtful walks while the sun rises. But Sam never fails to broach the sore subject on his own, when he’s finally ready. Dean doesn’t like hovering as it is, so he figures it all kind of evens out.
Sam’s not ready. Dean knows that, and Sam knows Dean knows. So they head further south as it gets dark and the moon sparkling off the water is just as neglected as the sun.
___
They’re taking their time, both of them aware that they’re wandering a bit more than is normal. They pull over at rest stops to sit on the hood of the car, stop at random motels every night, and just generally put off anything important for a week and some change. Finally, they catch wind of something weird in L.A. Sam’s seems to be in no rush to get back to the hunt, which is out of character and worries Dean a bit. Soon after, he realizes that he feels the same way, and reminds himself to chill the hell out.
They’re both tired. The job’s been increasingly batshit crazy since the creepy ghost town that was River Grove, Oregon, and maybe this isn’t what Dean meant when he asked for a break, but he’ll take what he can get.
Sam, however strong he is, wasn’t ready for San Francisco. It was too damn close to Palo Alto already. Watching another girl die, meeting one more person he couldn’t save… Dean was gonna give him as much time as Sam damn well wanted to take. He saw his brother talk his way around it, play Madison’s white knight up until the second she handed him that gun. Dean figured folding that hard on such short notice had to feel like dying. So he lets it go, and tries to relax.
Coffee’s already waiting on the night stand when Dean wakes up the morning they plan to head out, and he shakes his head before sitting up. Another long walk to the coffee shop a mile down the road, no doubt.
Sam’s not actually in the room, which Dean thinks is odd. It makes sense when he gets up to pee and sees that the bathroom door is closed. He waits, and ruffles Sam’s hair as he walks out because it looks like he just combed it. He gets punched in the spine for his efforts, but decides it was worth it while he brushes his teeth.
___
“Dude, L.A. sucks. We’re going, like, two miles an hour.”
“Seven. You missing the lonely back roads already?”
“Actually, yeah. I mean, at least -- Holy crap. That guy is shaving. While driving.”
“Huh. I’m not sure whether I’m jealous or impressed.”
“Dean.”
“What? That’s friggin’ cool. Saves-“
“Dean.”
“What? Oh.”
“You know I’m okay, right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Seriously?”
“… I dunno, that whole thing just… it was bad, Sam. Real bad.”
“Yeah.”
“Pick a tape for me, will ya?”
“… Kansas?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“You sure?”
“Dude, yes, just put it in already.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Sam.”
“Alright, alright.”
“Alright.”
“So, you gonna follow through with the Linday Lohan plan while we’re out here?”
“Damn straight.”
“Nice, Dean.”
“So. You’re cool?”
“Yup.”
“Awesome.”
___
Dean’s killing himself to make Sam laugh, but he catches him smiling a couple times when they finally walk on set. He goes back to being glad he’s right most of the time, and holds his gun a little tighter when he picks it up again.
For the first time in years, he has to remind himself not to lock his wrist.
___
___
Title: Leave The Door Unlocked [I Won't Be Coming Back]
Rating: R
Word Count: 2, 054
Spoilers: Heart
Summary: The aftermath... and beyond.
___
I’m asking you to save me.
___
That shot.
It’s a gunshot; sounds like one, smells like one when it hits Sam’s nostrils, but he only registers the powder in the air for a second before she crumples. Against him. He should’ve been prepared for that, should’ve stood back so he wouldn’t get blood everywhere and he-
He kneels down and lets her head rest in his lap, lets her blood soak into his jeans as the pool spreads in an almost perfect circle on the polished mahogany floors. Her hair still smells like her shampoo. He fleetingly thinks that she shouldn’t smell the same now that she’s gone. She shouldn’t still be beautiful.
This isn’t how this was supposed to end. He hadn’t wanted it to end at all.
Later, Sam will realize that right there, somewhere between the sex and the waking up alone, in that foggy place where he wasn’t quite asleep and the damn smell of her hair… that was where he’d gone all wrong.
___
That shot.
It’s a gunshot; whenever Dean hears one, and it hasn’t come from his gun - aside from this one right the hell now - he misses the kick, the snap that makes his hand jump just that small bit that means he’s a good shot, good enough to know not to lock his wrist.
It’s bad, though. Bad enough to make his eyes water more than he usually allows. Worse than he expected, worse than talking her into it and regretting it before he was even done. He regrets a lot of things.
For example, ever coming to this damn town, or starting this hunt in the first place. Leaving Sam in this apartment without him, getting him laid. Fucking retarded. Like that was really what Sam needed. He’d meant well, he really had, and he still thought Sam needed to loosen up, but Jesus.
He would’ve done it in a second; he would’ve taken that gun out of Sam’s hand and pulled the trigger himself. He’d do anything, it didn’t matter to him what it meant afterwards, just as long as Sam didn’t have to watch on more person he cared about bleed. As long as Dean didn’t have to hear that crack in Sam’s voice ever again. Once was too many, dammit.
But he was right, according to Sam. Sam actually thought he was right, and he couldn’t believe how he felt about it. He’d never wanted to be wrong this bad in his whole life, he’d never…
He’d never been this sorry.
___
Dean’s standing in the hall, just like Sam had left him, just like he had asked. Waiting. It seems like forever, and he thinks he hears Sam sniffing a couple times, but mostly, it’s quiet. He eventually moves to the couch, and when he can’t bring himself to sit down, he leans on the arm. He passes a couple minutes actively avoiding why he doesn’t feel right lounging in this girl’s apartment; why he doesn’t feel like he deserves the rest.
A glass on the coffee table catches his attention, a purplish lipstick smudge on the rim. He sighs, looks around the room for a second to take in all the knick knacks, all the things left behind. There’s a sound from down the hall, and his bandana is hastily ripped from his pocket. He doesn’t want to get caught by Sam acting all Lifetime, and he really doesn’t want to have to deal with the cops today. Or ever.
He’s suddenly in a rush to wipe everything down, to get everything clean, effectively erasing them from this place where they never should have come. There’s no way that a single gunshot went unheard, and Dean suddenly feels that timer in his head start, the one he’s had built in since he was eight. It says get the hell out nowish.
Besides that, there’s no doubt that someone will report Madison missing if they haven’t already. When they finally get around to it, Dean knows he’ll have Sam across the state line. There will be nothing to show that Sam was ever here. They have never been in San Francisco, as far as Dean is concerned. There’s no one left to say any different.
It hits him that this clean break, this lack of witnesses, will be because of Madison. He moves faster.
Dean’s wiping down the bathroom sink when he hears the click of the front door closing. He thinks Sam’s left, but right when he moves to check he realizes that Sam is coming back. He hadn’t even heard Sam leave. He thought he’d been listening carefully enough.
Dean freezes and immediately feels ridiculous for it, imagining getting caught red handed trying to save their collective asses from jail time. But he still catches himself waiting to finish up until Sam comes into the room and sees what he’s doing. Hurting Sam is the last thing he wants to do right now, and if he has to use the kiddy gloves for a while, he can deal with that. He can adjust for Sammy. He doesn’t really know how not to.
The room looks a bit like a model home now, fully furnished for the new tenant’s convenience, and Dean realizes he likes it here. The realization takes him by surprise, and he hates surprises, so he focuses on Sam. In that moment, he has this odd need in the very center of him that he hates. He kind of hopes that his younger brother’ll break. He wants to hear Sam say how he feels, yell or something dramatic like that, the way that younger brothers are friggin’ supposed to, like they do on TV every other week. Where the hell that thought came from is a mystery to Dean, and he beats it away by telling himself that he’s glad to see Sam’s clenched jaw, straight back and calculated stare. Everything he sees in Sam at that moment speaks of control, discipline, duty, John Winchester.
The white undershirt and fresh jeans Sammy’s sporting speak of bloodstained clothes stuffed in a duffel and then stuffed in a trunk, and Dean suppresses a rush of pride at the way his brother’s handling this, consciously mixes it up with a strange sense of déjà vu that he can’t seem to control anymore than he can any of his thoughts right now. He’s seen that blank stare before, in a mirror, in his father. But the more Dean thinks of his father, especially Sam becoming his father, the more he hates this whole planet, so he moves the hell on.
Sam finally meets Dean’s eyes, his disconnected scan of the room seemingly complete, and nods a little. He pulls his own rag out of a back pocket and walks back toward the bedroom.
Dean thinks he might throw up.
___
”You ready?”
“Uh. Yeah. You?”
Sam nods, runs a hand through his hair.
Dean lets Sam walk ahead of him for a minute so he can speed past the open bedroom door.
___
They’re driving South down Highway 1 through Monterey when they finally stop for gas. Two hours have stubbornly trickled by, left behind with the unobstructed ocean sunset that neither of them has bothered to admire. Coffee changes hands, and chins are jutted back and forth, but it doesn’t seem like either of them can bring themselves to speak.
Dean’s not good at that, The Talking. Everyone who’s ever met him for more than… Anyone who’s ever met him can see it. He wears it on his sleeve, next to his bottomless appetite and hatred for demons and love for Sam - in the place other people wear their hearts. The right thing to say is always out of reach for him. Luckily, with Sam, a stupid joke can take the place of a heartfelt conversation because Sam gets it.
But still, Dean says nothing. He doesn’t want Sam to have to get it right now. He wants the words, dammit, and he’s never given a shit before, but he wishes to God that he had the way with words that his brother must’ve gotten from their mom… just this once.
Sam always wants to talk. It’s as much a part of his personality as Dean’s stoic silence is of his own. Sam pushes because he knows his brother can take it. He also knows he can take the punch Dean will probably throw without too much of a fuss, so he hasn’t really changed his tactics since they were kids. He doesn’t like to be pushed back, though. However hypocritical it is, Sam would much rather stew for a while, take extra long showers and go for thoughtful walks while the sun rises. But Sam never fails to broach the sore subject on his own, when he’s finally ready. Dean doesn’t like hovering as it is, so he figures it all kind of evens out.
Sam’s not ready. Dean knows that, and Sam knows Dean knows. So they head further south as it gets dark and the moon sparkling off the water is just as neglected as the sun.
___
They’re taking their time, both of them aware that they’re wandering a bit more than is normal. They pull over at rest stops to sit on the hood of the car, stop at random motels every night, and just generally put off anything important for a week and some change. Finally, they catch wind of something weird in L.A. Sam’s seems to be in no rush to get back to the hunt, which is out of character and worries Dean a bit. Soon after, he realizes that he feels the same way, and reminds himself to chill the hell out.
They’re both tired. The job’s been increasingly batshit crazy since the creepy ghost town that was River Grove, Oregon, and maybe this isn’t what Dean meant when he asked for a break, but he’ll take what he can get.
Sam, however strong he is, wasn’t ready for San Francisco. It was too damn close to Palo Alto already. Watching another girl die, meeting one more person he couldn’t save… Dean was gonna give him as much time as Sam damn well wanted to take. He saw his brother talk his way around it, play Madison’s white knight up until the second she handed him that gun. Dean figured folding that hard on such short notice had to feel like dying. So he lets it go, and tries to relax.
Coffee’s already waiting on the night stand when Dean wakes up the morning they plan to head out, and he shakes his head before sitting up. Another long walk to the coffee shop a mile down the road, no doubt.
Sam’s not actually in the room, which Dean thinks is odd. It makes sense when he gets up to pee and sees that the bathroom door is closed. He waits, and ruffles Sam’s hair as he walks out because it looks like he just combed it. He gets punched in the spine for his efforts, but decides it was worth it while he brushes his teeth.
___
“Dude, L.A. sucks. We’re going, like, two miles an hour.”
“Seven. You missing the lonely back roads already?”
“Actually, yeah. I mean, at least -- Holy crap. That guy is shaving. While driving.”
“Huh. I’m not sure whether I’m jealous or impressed.”
“Dean.”
“What? That’s friggin’ cool. Saves-“
“Dean.”
“What? Oh.”
“You know I’m okay, right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Seriously?”
“… I dunno, that whole thing just… it was bad, Sam. Real bad.”
“Yeah.”
“Pick a tape for me, will ya?”
“… Kansas?”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“You sure?”
“Dude, yes, just put it in already.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Sam.”
“Alright, alright.”
“Alright.”
“So, you gonna follow through with the Linday Lohan plan while we’re out here?”
“Damn straight.”
“Nice, Dean.”
“So. You’re cool?”
“Yup.”
“Awesome.”
___
Dean’s killing himself to make Sam laugh, but he catches him smiling a couple times when they finally walk on set. He goes back to being glad he’s right most of the time, and holds his gun a little tighter when he picks it up again.
For the first time in years, he has to remind himself not to lock his wrist.
___
___