Fic: Bona Fide Polliceor
Author: therellbepeace
Rating: PG
Word Count: 950
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean
Summary: Thirteen year-old Dean made his brother a promise.
Warnings: Angst, canon character death.
Notes: Inspired by Airborne Toxic Event's song "Graveyard Near the House."
When Sam was 9 years old, not long after he learned the truth about the family business and his whole world had been turned upside down on him, John was on a tricky hunt involving witches. It required a lot of research, which translated into a lot of time, and so John rented out a little house for them on the outskirts of the town.
It was summer, and Sam and Dean were out of school. Every day, John would leave the house in the early morning, leaving the two with nothing to do in the small house that had no cable or air conditioning, and barely enough water pressure for a cool shower. On the third day on the hunt, Sam started getting irritable, snapping at Dean’s attempts at jokes, his face permanently flushed pink. Dean was getting frustrated, had tried everything he could think of to keep Sam entertained and distracted, and after Sam grumbled at him one too many times, he decided that they should go out and explore, even though Dad had told them to stay in the house.
Sam was thrilled at the chance to get out and do something active, running up a few feet ahead of Dean even though Dean kept telling him to stay close. They ran through the open field that served as their backyard and splashed across a small, shallow stream. After wandering around for a few minutes, Sam came across a narrow dirt path that had patches of grass growing on it. Sam tugged on Dean’s arm and Dean followed him, shaking his head at the 180 Sam’s mood had taken.
That’s how they found the graveyard. It was small, and obviously forgotten. Weeds and wildflowers had overtaken any semblance of paths that may have once been there, and weather and time had chipped away the edges of tombstones and worn through wooden crosses. Sam paused at the entrance but then pushed through, picking his feet up high so he wouldn’t trip in the tangles of plants. He stopped at each tombstone, reading the inscription before moving on to the next.
Dean followed behind, keeping his eyes open for any sign of ghosts and regretting his decision to bring Sam out, because if they got killed by a ghost, Dad would probably bring him back just to kill him again. He didn’t notice that Sam had stopped, sitting down cross-legged on the ground, until he almost tripped over him. Sam didn’t even look up, eyes fixed on the tombstone in front of him, no trace of the smile that he’d had since they left the house.
Dean sat down next to him, nudged him with his elbow. “Hey, Sammy, what’s up?”
Sam stayed quiet for a minute, and then turned to look at Dean with sad, young eyes that didn’t hold as much innocence as Dean wanted to see anymore. “Dean, are we gonna die?”
Dean froze, panicked for a minute, before he decided to play off the question with a joke. “Well, duh, Sammy, everyone dies. And here I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”
Sam didn’t even give him a cursory laugh. “No, I mean. Are we gonna die soon? From the monsters? Are we gonna die?”
Sam watched Dean, his gaze scared and trusting and waiting, and Dean didn’t know what to say. He’d stayed up more than one night worrying the same thing for Dad, that one day he wouldn’t come home, that the monster would be a little too fast or a little too smart, or Dad would have been a little too tired going in. Those thoughts always knocked the wind out of Dean, were almost too big for him to grasp, but the thought of Sam dying? The thought of Sam clawed apart by some monster, or lying out still and cold and not breathing like this body Dean saw one time before John ordered him away, was absolutely crushing, unbearable. And in that moment, Dean knew that he would do whatever he could to never have to see that, be the shield between Sam and monsters, between Sam and the rest of the world.
“No, Sam,” he said. “No. You’re not gonna die. Not from monsters, anyways. I won’t let them get you, okay? I’m not gonna let you die.”
***
And that’s all Dean could think about as he sat in the mud with his huge baby brother limp in his arms, his hand covered with Sam’s blood-warm and wet, and too much of it to get sticky. He remembered the trust and acceptance that Sam had that day, when he believed Dean was enough to protect him. He remembered thinking that it should work the same way for siblings as it did for parents: a big brother should never have to bury his baby brother. It wasn’t right. It was goddamned unfair.
He smelled the sweet scent of the wildflowers and the bitter smell of the weeds when he laid out Sam’s body in the back seat of the Impala, clumsily folding up his legs so that he would fit. He felt the scratching thorns that had poked through his jeans when he got behind the wheel, ignoring Bobby’s concerned offer to drive.
And when he sits by Sam’s bedside, watching over his baby brother’s dead body through a drunken haze, he replays his vow over and over again in his head, feels the betrayal cut deep and quick each and every time.
So when Bobby goes out, he grabs the keys to the Impala, ignoring the panic he feels at having Sam out of his sight, and heads out to make good on his promise.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 950
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean
Summary: Thirteen year-old Dean made his brother a promise.
Warnings: Angst, canon character death.
Notes: Inspired by Airborne Toxic Event's song "Graveyard Near the House."
When Sam was 9 years old, not long after he learned the truth about the family business and his whole world had been turned upside down on him, John was on a tricky hunt involving witches. It required a lot of research, which translated into a lot of time, and so John rented out a little house for them on the outskirts of the town.
It was summer, and Sam and Dean were out of school. Every day, John would leave the house in the early morning, leaving the two with nothing to do in the small house that had no cable or air conditioning, and barely enough water pressure for a cool shower. On the third day on the hunt, Sam started getting irritable, snapping at Dean’s attempts at jokes, his face permanently flushed pink. Dean was getting frustrated, had tried everything he could think of to keep Sam entertained and distracted, and after Sam grumbled at him one too many times, he decided that they should go out and explore, even though Dad had told them to stay in the house.
Sam was thrilled at the chance to get out and do something active, running up a few feet ahead of Dean even though Dean kept telling him to stay close. They ran through the open field that served as their backyard and splashed across a small, shallow stream. After wandering around for a few minutes, Sam came across a narrow dirt path that had patches of grass growing on it. Sam tugged on Dean’s arm and Dean followed him, shaking his head at the 180 Sam’s mood had taken.
That’s how they found the graveyard. It was small, and obviously forgotten. Weeds and wildflowers had overtaken any semblance of paths that may have once been there, and weather and time had chipped away the edges of tombstones and worn through wooden crosses. Sam paused at the entrance but then pushed through, picking his feet up high so he wouldn’t trip in the tangles of plants. He stopped at each tombstone, reading the inscription before moving on to the next.
Dean followed behind, keeping his eyes open for any sign of ghosts and regretting his decision to bring Sam out, because if they got killed by a ghost, Dad would probably bring him back just to kill him again. He didn’t notice that Sam had stopped, sitting down cross-legged on the ground, until he almost tripped over him. Sam didn’t even look up, eyes fixed on the tombstone in front of him, no trace of the smile that he’d had since they left the house.
Dean sat down next to him, nudged him with his elbow. “Hey, Sammy, what’s up?”
Sam stayed quiet for a minute, and then turned to look at Dean with sad, young eyes that didn’t hold as much innocence as Dean wanted to see anymore. “Dean, are we gonna die?”
Dean froze, panicked for a minute, before he decided to play off the question with a joke. “Well, duh, Sammy, everyone dies. And here I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”
Sam didn’t even give him a cursory laugh. “No, I mean. Are we gonna die soon? From the monsters? Are we gonna die?”
Sam watched Dean, his gaze scared and trusting and waiting, and Dean didn’t know what to say. He’d stayed up more than one night worrying the same thing for Dad, that one day he wouldn’t come home, that the monster would be a little too fast or a little too smart, or Dad would have been a little too tired going in. Those thoughts always knocked the wind out of Dean, were almost too big for him to grasp, but the thought of Sam dying? The thought of Sam clawed apart by some monster, or lying out still and cold and not breathing like this body Dean saw one time before John ordered him away, was absolutely crushing, unbearable. And in that moment, Dean knew that he would do whatever he could to never have to see that, be the shield between Sam and monsters, between Sam and the rest of the world.
“No, Sam,” he said. “No. You’re not gonna die. Not from monsters, anyways. I won’t let them get you, okay? I’m not gonna let you die.”
***
And that’s all Dean could think about as he sat in the mud with his huge baby brother limp in his arms, his hand covered with Sam’s blood-warm and wet, and too much of it to get sticky. He remembered the trust and acceptance that Sam had that day, when he believed Dean was enough to protect him. He remembered thinking that it should work the same way for siblings as it did for parents: a big brother should never have to bury his baby brother. It wasn’t right. It was goddamned unfair.
He smelled the sweet scent of the wildflowers and the bitter smell of the weeds when he laid out Sam’s body in the back seat of the Impala, clumsily folding up his legs so that he would fit. He felt the scratching thorns that had poked through his jeans when he got behind the wheel, ignoring Bobby’s concerned offer to drive.
And when he sits by Sam’s bedside, watching over his baby brother’s dead body through a drunken haze, he replays his vow over and over again in his head, feels the betrayal cut deep and quick each and every time.
So when Bobby goes out, he grabs the keys to the Impala, ignoring the panic he feels at having Sam out of his sight, and heads out to make good on his promise.