Fic: Sunrise, sunset (11.11 episode coda)
Loved the last episode. It made me think about the stages of life, about what gives a life meaning and how that can change.
The resulting story is for Frozen_Delight, whose episode tags I always enjoy and with whom I share head-canon about Dean's status as a card carrying clean-freak.
Title: Sunrise, sunset
Author: zara_zee
Beta: Not beta’d
Genre(s): Episode coda.
Rating: PG-13, Gen
Spoilers: Episode 11.11
Word Count: ~995
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing in the sand box.
Summary: Dean can’t sleep. He finds other things to do.
--
Sam wakes slowly, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms above his head. It’s early, pre-dawn, but he feels better rested than he has in…years.
He turns onto his side and tucks his blanket up under his chin. He looks at his phone, on charge beside the lamp. Sometime today he’ll text Eileen and ask her if she has Skype. He’s happy to just text with her, of course, but he’d love to practice his ASL. And it’s always nice to see a friendly face.
Sam still thinks about it sometimes; trying to make it work with another hunter. Someone who understands. Someone he wouldn’t have to lie to.
He sits up and yawns, running a hand through his hair, which has managed to turn itself into its usual morning bird nest. His laptop is on the floor, plugged into the wall and he scoops it up with one hand, unplugs it and carries it back to bed. He spends some time looking at online ASL tutorials and then decides that he needs coffee.
Sam wanders out to the kitchen. He’s reaching for a new filter when the swooshing-scratching noise finally attracts his attention.
He cocks his head. What the heck? He rounds the counter and comes to an abrupt stop.
Dean. On his knees. With a bucket of soapy water and a scrubbing brush.
“Dean?”
His brother looks up. His jaw is tight, his eyes are glassy and his hands are red raw.
“Sammy!” He grins. It’s the most unsettling thing Sam’s seen in a while and you know, there was that whole Lucifer thing, so, yeah.
“What are you doing?” Sam aims for casual.
Dean looks at the bucket. Looks at Sam. “I’m cleaning, College Boy.”
“I see that,” Sam nods. “Why?”
Dean shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. I finished re-filing all that stuff that Cas tossed around and then I made a snack and then I figured, you know, while I was up I may as well clean the kitchen.”
Sam tries to twist his lips into something that might resemble a grin. If the uncertain way that Dean is peering up at him is any indication he didn’t quite get it right.
“Well, good job,” he says. “The kitchen is certainly clean.”
And it is. Now that Sam looks around he can see that it’s all sparkling shiny chrome; with pots hung from smallest to largest and evenly stacked pristine white plates, bowls and cups. Sam hasn’t looked in the pantry yet, but he’s willing to bet that the spice rack has been alphabetized again.
Not long after Dean got cured of his black eyes, Sam put the garlic next to the oregano and Dean nearly had a meltdown. He hopes they’re not going there again.
Dean rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah? There’s this dark patch on the floor that won’t come out. I’ve been trying…” Dean looks at his wrinkled pink fingers. “I, uh, probably overdid it, huh?”
“Maybe a little,” Sam takes the bucket and empties it, puts it away. Dean hands over the scrubbing brush reluctantly.
“So,” Sam leans back against the counter and folds his arms. “Any particular reason you went all ‘out damned spot’ on the floor?”
Dean stares at him. “Right,” he says finally. “That movie you made me watch. With Michael Fassbender. And that chick who couldn’t wash the blood off her hands,” he shakes his head and laughs shortly. “Well I guess that shoe fits, don’t it?”
Dean turns away before Sam can attempt to offer some kind of solace. In truth he’s not quite sure what he would’ve said anyway. Dean does have a lot of blood on his hands. They both do.
“Is there coffee?” Dean asks.
There isn’t. Sam hadn’t got that far before he’d been waylaid by the sound of Dean’s frantic cleaning.
They make it together and then Dean drags him outside to watch the sun rise.
“I think I like this one better,” Dean says.
Sam quirks an eyebrow.
“Sunrise,” Dean explains. “Sunset is awesome too, but once it’s done, you’re left with the darkness.”
Sam nods and sips on his coffee. His brother is tense beside him and Sam waits to see if he’s going to say anything more.
Dean takes a deep breath. “Sammy,” he says. And then stops.
Sam turns to look at him, but doesn’t say anything.
“I--,” Dean stops again. “I, uh, got the feeling you really liked Eileen.”
“Yeah,” Sam doesn’t elaborate, simply bumps shoulders gently with his brother and says, “And you are totally in with Mildred.”
Dean laughs. “She’s a cool lady.”
Sam thinks about saying something to his brother, something like; the darkness isn’t inevitable, or; the mark’s gone now, you don’t have a dark spot on your soul anymore; but he doesn’t think Dean will hear him right now.
“I kept the brochure, you know,” he says instead.
Dean looks at him, one eyebrow raised.
“The Oak Park brochure.”
“Why?”
Sam is a long while answering. “Hope,” he says finally. “Not hope that one day we’ll end up there, specifically; hope that one day we’ll get to rest. I always used to think that we’d only get peace when we were dead. But maybe we can just be done. Done with hunting. Done with saving the world. Maybe our peace can be retirement. Because, God knows, we’ll have earned it.”
Dean smacks his lips and inclines his head. “Amen to that,” he swirls his coffee around in his cup. “I used to think it’d be awesome to go out in a blaze of glory, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid. But the older I get, the more stupid that seems. So yeah,” Dean clinks his coffee mug against Sam’s. “Here’s to retirement. And getting to watch the sunrise together every day.”
Sam looks up at the burning flare of orange that’s slowly brightening the inky sky. He thinks that sounds pretty much perfect.
--
The resulting story is for Frozen_Delight, whose episode tags I always enjoy and with whom I share head-canon about Dean's status as a card carrying clean-freak.
Title: Sunrise, sunset
Author: zara_zee
Beta: Not beta’d
Genre(s): Episode coda.
Rating: PG-13, Gen
Spoilers: Episode 11.11
Word Count: ~995
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing in the sand box.
Summary: Dean can’t sleep. He finds other things to do.
--
Sam wakes slowly, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms above his head. It’s early, pre-dawn, but he feels better rested than he has in…years.
He turns onto his side and tucks his blanket up under his chin. He looks at his phone, on charge beside the lamp. Sometime today he’ll text Eileen and ask her if she has Skype. He’s happy to just text with her, of course, but he’d love to practice his ASL. And it’s always nice to see a friendly face.
Sam still thinks about it sometimes; trying to make it work with another hunter. Someone who understands. Someone he wouldn’t have to lie to.
He sits up and yawns, running a hand through his hair, which has managed to turn itself into its usual morning bird nest. His laptop is on the floor, plugged into the wall and he scoops it up with one hand, unplugs it and carries it back to bed. He spends some time looking at online ASL tutorials and then decides that he needs coffee.
Sam wanders out to the kitchen. He’s reaching for a new filter when the swooshing-scratching noise finally attracts his attention.
He cocks his head. What the heck? He rounds the counter and comes to an abrupt stop.
Dean. On his knees. With a bucket of soapy water and a scrubbing brush.
“Dean?”
His brother looks up. His jaw is tight, his eyes are glassy and his hands are red raw.
“Sammy!” He grins. It’s the most unsettling thing Sam’s seen in a while and you know, there was that whole Lucifer thing, so, yeah.
“What are you doing?” Sam aims for casual.
Dean looks at the bucket. Looks at Sam. “I’m cleaning, College Boy.”
“I see that,” Sam nods. “Why?”
Dean shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. I finished re-filing all that stuff that Cas tossed around and then I made a snack and then I figured, you know, while I was up I may as well clean the kitchen.”
Sam tries to twist his lips into something that might resemble a grin. If the uncertain way that Dean is peering up at him is any indication he didn’t quite get it right.
“Well, good job,” he says. “The kitchen is certainly clean.”
And it is. Now that Sam looks around he can see that it’s all sparkling shiny chrome; with pots hung from smallest to largest and evenly stacked pristine white plates, bowls and cups. Sam hasn’t looked in the pantry yet, but he’s willing to bet that the spice rack has been alphabetized again.
Not long after Dean got cured of his black eyes, Sam put the garlic next to the oregano and Dean nearly had a meltdown. He hopes they’re not going there again.
Dean rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah? There’s this dark patch on the floor that won’t come out. I’ve been trying…” Dean looks at his wrinkled pink fingers. “I, uh, probably overdid it, huh?”
“Maybe a little,” Sam takes the bucket and empties it, puts it away. Dean hands over the scrubbing brush reluctantly.
“So,” Sam leans back against the counter and folds his arms. “Any particular reason you went all ‘out damned spot’ on the floor?”
Dean stares at him. “Right,” he says finally. “That movie you made me watch. With Michael Fassbender. And that chick who couldn’t wash the blood off her hands,” he shakes his head and laughs shortly. “Well I guess that shoe fits, don’t it?”
Dean turns away before Sam can attempt to offer some kind of solace. In truth he’s not quite sure what he would’ve said anyway. Dean does have a lot of blood on his hands. They both do.
“Is there coffee?” Dean asks.
There isn’t. Sam hadn’t got that far before he’d been waylaid by the sound of Dean’s frantic cleaning.
They make it together and then Dean drags him outside to watch the sun rise.
“I think I like this one better,” Dean says.
Sam quirks an eyebrow.
“Sunrise,” Dean explains. “Sunset is awesome too, but once it’s done, you’re left with the darkness.”
Sam nods and sips on his coffee. His brother is tense beside him and Sam waits to see if he’s going to say anything more.
Dean takes a deep breath. “Sammy,” he says. And then stops.
Sam turns to look at him, but doesn’t say anything.
“I--,” Dean stops again. “I, uh, got the feeling you really liked Eileen.”
“Yeah,” Sam doesn’t elaborate, simply bumps shoulders gently with his brother and says, “And you are totally in with Mildred.”
Dean laughs. “She’s a cool lady.”
Sam thinks about saying something to his brother, something like; the darkness isn’t inevitable, or; the mark’s gone now, you don’t have a dark spot on your soul anymore; but he doesn’t think Dean will hear him right now.
“I kept the brochure, you know,” he says instead.
Dean looks at him, one eyebrow raised.
“The Oak Park brochure.”
“Why?”
Sam is a long while answering. “Hope,” he says finally. “Not hope that one day we’ll end up there, specifically; hope that one day we’ll get to rest. I always used to think that we’d only get peace when we were dead. But maybe we can just be done. Done with hunting. Done with saving the world. Maybe our peace can be retirement. Because, God knows, we’ll have earned it.”
Dean smacks his lips and inclines his head. “Amen to that,” he swirls his coffee around in his cup. “I used to think it’d be awesome to go out in a blaze of glory, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid. But the older I get, the more stupid that seems. So yeah,” Dean clinks his coffee mug against Sam’s. “Here’s to retirement. And getting to watch the sunrise together every day.”
Sam looks up at the burning flare of orange that’s slowly brightening the inky sky. He thinks that sounds pretty much perfect.
--
