[I don't know if this is even close to what you're looking for... Probably not, lol XD; Gave it a shot, tho! ... Also, icon is appropriate heh.]
"I'm sorry, Sammy."
Sam looks up to see Dean chase his apology with the rest of his fifth beer. Dean's words are slightly slurred, his eyes overly bright. Sam would point out that getting piss-drunk isn't exactly the best way to deal with the oncoming Apocalypse, but considering he's on his sixth bottle and just as bleary-eyed, he figures he's not really in a position to judge.
"I'm sorry," Dean repeats, and this time he looks up to meet Sam's eyes.
"None of this is your fault," Sam says. He downs the rest of his beer, sets down the empty bottle next to Dean's.
"I should've been there for you. Should've stayed with you in that panic room the whole time, no matter what."
"You and Bobby wouldn't have had to put me in that room in the first place if I'd just listened to you in the first place," Sam says bitterly. "You were right about Ruby all along. I just couldn't bring myself to face it."
Dean shakes his head, then stops, because it's hurting his head. "I know you were tryin' to do good, Sam," he murmurs. "She woulda fooled me, too. I should've been there for you. I'm supposed to look out for you, but--"
"You went to Hell because of me," Sam says, his chest tightening at the memory of it. Dean being torn apart, Dean's insides being liquefied in front of his very eyes and Sam was helpless, helpless to stop it. "If you'd have just let me die--"
Dean lurches forwards, grabs Sam by the scruff of his shirt and pulls him across the couch towards him.
"Don't you fucking say that," Dean hisses. "Don't you fucking dare."
"You know it's true," Sam presses on, ignoring his brother. "None of this would've happened if I'd just stayed dead like I was supposed to. Dad knew I'd be a monster--"
"Dad didn't know shit," Dean snarls, tugging Sam even closer.
Sam chokes back a sob as his eyes fill with hot tears. "He was right," Sam whispers, voice trembling. "I'm not me anymore, Dean. I can feel it in me. I've changed for good."
"Shut up, Sam."
"And if you want to save the world," Sam goes on, heedless of Dean's warnings. "If you want to save me, you'll do it. What you told me you'd do."
"The fuck are you on about?" Dean demands, grip loosening on Sam's shirt.
"I listened to your message, Dean. And you're right. I am a freak. I'm not me anymore. You should do it, you should k-kill me." Sam is crying now. It's pathetic but he can't stop, his body trembling with the effort of holding back his sobs. He feels like a child again, small and weak and scared.
"I didn't... I never said... Sam, I left you a message to say that I'm sorry," Dean says, sounding at once furious and terrified. Sam blinks at him and Dean's hands move up to grip Sam's arms, shaking him slightly, his fingers digging in almost painfully in his desperation. "No. No, Sammy, listen to me. I never said that to you. That wasn't me."
Sam feels something like relief wash over him -- not Dean, that wasn't Dean, those hateful words weren't his -- but he shakes his head slowly. "You gotta do it, though. Look at what I've done. What I'm capable of doing." Sam looks up into Dean's eyes and sees horror reflected in them. He smiles weakly and lays a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Just think of it as correcting a past mistake. Do it, Dean. While I'm still me enough to let you."
There's a moment of still, shocked silence. Dean stares at Sam for what feels like forever, unblinking and unmoving.
And then he slaps Sam across the face.
Sam is too shocked to even say ow, his hand clutching at his burning cheek as he looks up at his brother, who looks more livid than Sam's ever seen him. Sam steels himself for the next blow -- a punch this time, probably, Dean must be really drunk to slap him like some spurned girl. Dean grabs him by his shirt again and Sam closes his eyes, bracing himself.
But Sam feels, not knuckles, but lips. Soft and pliant and pressed firmly against his own. His eyes fly open in shock because Dean is kissing him, and that's what this is, there's really no other way of describing what Dean is doing to him. He's kissing Sam, and kissing him hard, his hand sliding around to grip the back of Sam's neck, pulling him close, devouring Sam's mouth with almost bruising force.
When Dean finally releases him, it takes Sam a few seconds to recover.
"What--" he starts, breathless.
"If you ever ask me to kill you again, I'm gonna kick your ass," Dean says flatly. His face is flushed bright red, lips kiss-swollen and slick with what Sam realizes with a jolt is his spit -- how did that even get there? -- but even so, Dean manages to pull off the threat. He glares at Sam and growls, "Do you understand me? Do I make myself fucking clear to you?"
Sam nods, manages to murmur a soft, "Yeah."
"Good," Dean snorts. "Now pass me another bottle, will ya?"
You punch someone when you want to hurt them. You slap someone to wake them up. When Sam looked at him like he was waiting for a punch, Dean realized that a slap wasn't going to do it, and he had to do something else. Dean would probably say that's the only reason he resorted to a kiss. Dean's had a tough season, so I'm not going to argue with him.
"I'm sorry, Sammy."
Sam looks up to see Dean chase his apology with the rest of his fifth beer. Dean's words are slightly slurred, his eyes overly bright. Sam would point out that getting piss-drunk isn't exactly the best way to deal with the oncoming Apocalypse, but considering he's on his sixth bottle and just as bleary-eyed, he figures he's not really in a position to judge.
"I'm sorry," Dean repeats, and this time he looks up to meet Sam's eyes.
"None of this is your fault," Sam says. He downs the rest of his beer, sets down the empty bottle next to Dean's.
"I should've been there for you. Should've stayed with you in that panic room the whole time, no matter what."
"You and Bobby wouldn't have had to put me in that room in the first place if I'd just listened to you in the first place," Sam says bitterly. "You were right about Ruby all along. I just couldn't bring myself to face it."
Dean shakes his head, then stops, because it's hurting his head. "I know you were tryin' to do good, Sam," he murmurs. "She woulda fooled me, too. I should've been there for you. I'm supposed to look out for you, but--"
"You went to Hell because of me," Sam says, his chest tightening at the memory of it. Dean being torn apart, Dean's insides being liquefied in front of his very eyes and Sam was helpless, helpless to stop it. "If you'd have just let me die--"
Dean lurches forwards, grabs Sam by the scruff of his shirt and pulls him across the couch towards him.
"Don't you fucking say that," Dean hisses. "Don't you fucking dare."
"You know it's true," Sam presses on, ignoring his brother. "None of this would've happened if I'd just stayed dead like I was supposed to. Dad knew I'd be a monster--"
"Dad didn't know shit," Dean snarls, tugging Sam even closer.
Sam chokes back a sob as his eyes fill with hot tears. "He was right," Sam whispers, voice trembling. "I'm not me anymore, Dean. I can feel it in me. I've changed for good."
"Shut up, Sam."
"And if you want to save the world," Sam goes on, heedless of Dean's warnings. "If you want to save me, you'll do it. What you told me you'd do."
"The fuck are you on about?" Dean demands, grip loosening on Sam's shirt.
"I listened to your message, Dean. And you're right. I am a freak. I'm not me anymore. You should do it, you should k-kill me." Sam is crying now. It's pathetic but he can't stop, his body trembling with the effort of holding back his sobs. He feels like a child again, small and weak and scared.
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Sam feels something like relief wash over him -- not Dean, that wasn't Dean, those hateful words weren't his -- but he shakes his head slowly. "You gotta do it, though. Look at what I've done. What I'm capable of doing." Sam looks up into Dean's eyes and sees horror reflected in them. He smiles weakly and lays a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Just think of it as correcting a past mistake. Do it, Dean. While I'm still me enough to let you."
There's a moment of still, shocked silence. Dean stares at Sam for what feels like forever, unblinking and unmoving.
And then he slaps Sam across the face.
Sam is too shocked to even say ow, his hand clutching at his burning cheek as he looks up at his brother, who looks more livid than Sam's ever seen him. Sam steels himself for the next blow -- a punch this time, probably, Dean must be really drunk to slap him like some spurned girl. Dean grabs him by his shirt again and Sam closes his eyes, bracing himself.
But Sam feels, not knuckles, but lips. Soft and pliant and pressed firmly against his own. His eyes fly open in shock because Dean is kissing him, and that's what this is, there's really no other way of describing what Dean is doing to him. He's kissing Sam, and kissing him hard, his hand sliding around to grip the back of Sam's neck, pulling him close, devouring Sam's mouth with almost bruising force.
When Dean finally releases him, it takes Sam a few seconds to recover.
"What--" he starts, breathless.
"If you ever ask me to kill you again, I'm gonna kick your ass," Dean says flatly. His face is flushed bright red, lips kiss-swollen and slick with what Sam realizes with a jolt is his spit -- how did that even get there? -- but even so, Dean manages to pull off the threat. He glares at Sam and growls, "Do you understand me? Do I make myself fucking clear to you?"
Sam nods, manages to murmur a soft, "Yeah."
"Good," Dean snorts. "Now pass me another bottle, will ya?"
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