Same Time Next Year [Gen, PG-13]
For fleshflutter on the occasion of her birthday, which I swear it still is in my timezone! You are lovely and talented and I had the hardest time deciding what to write for you! *g* In the end, I decided to take inspiration from your diversity and stretch my limits a little. Hope you like, and Happy Birthday!
Same Time Next Year [Gen, PG-13]
Pilot AU. Some things never change. When Dad goes missing, Dean comes for Sam.
Huge thanks to therealw for the beta!
Same Time Next Year
Dean flicks his knife closed and tucks it uselessly back into the little pocket inside his jacket. The goddamn window's not even latched. No salt, either, and he doesn't even waste his time checking for the sigils that should be carved above and below the glass.
Ignorance, he thinks, the civilian weapon of choice.
Sam's no civilian, though. He can play Joe College all he wants, but he knows what's out there in the dark, what he could be letting in, and leaving the windows unprotected like this is just asking for trouble. Just plain stupid is what Dad would say, and he'd be right.
That's pretty much the whole problem, though. Sam Winchester is nothing if not a stubborn son of a bitch, and this is just his way of pretending that no part of his former life exists, up to and including Dean and Dad.
"Well tough luck, Kiddo," Dean whispers into the night, "'cause here I am." The window frame’s old, a lifetime’s worth of paint flaking off and warped a little at the bottom, but when he wrenches it open, it slides up so easily that the sash bangs against the top of the frame. He doesn't bother to close it after he squeezes his body through the opening and into the hallway. If he makes it out of this in one piece, if he gets Dad back, then he’ll worry about getting on Sam’s case about staying safe.
Sam's punches aren't as precise as Dean remembers; his hands are slower, easier to predict. When Dean leaves him a clear shot, hesitation creeps visibly into his shoulders and the blow never comes, but he moves with an easy confidence, and there's a little more weight behind him now, and another inch, at least.
It's not good enough for life or death, but hopefully it won't come to that with both of them on the job.
He holds his own all right through the sparring, anyway, and surprisingly, Dean actually feels better knowing that his little brother's not gonna die at the hands of the first unarmed robber who busts down the front door.
He knocks one of Sam's huge paws away with his forearm.
It's strange, after all this time, to feel his hands landing in places he used to know so well, places he's shoved and bandaged and bathed and watched over for most of his life. He relearns Sam's contours as he teases the fight out, gets his hands everywhere he can, on Sam's chest, on his back, his neck, before he finally takes the kid down.
"Whoa, easy there, Tiger," he says. He's finally close enough to see Sam's face, older, but still the same.
"Dean," Sam says, between hard, hitching breaths.
Dean laughs-serves the kid right for letting himself go-and says, "You're out of practice."
"Sam?"
The lights flick on, and Sam says, "Jess. Hey." His eyes struggle to break away from Dean and focus on the girl in the doorway.
She's tall, in a Sam sort of way, and the kind of pretty that remembers being gorgeous, once upon a time. Now, she just seems tired, red-eyed and puffy like she just woke up in the middle of the night after a shitty life. She's locked in a staring contest with Sam, rubbing her fingers over an empty spot on her left hand and Dean feels like an intruder, feels bad without knowing why.
Sam interrupts their silent conversation to say, "Dean, this is my-girlfriend, Jessica."
She doesn't react, and Dean finds himself saying, "Hey, uh. Sorry, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business," even though it comes too close to acknowledging that Sam's loyalties might lie slightly askew of where they should.
He doesn't comment on the tiny scrap of a shirt she's wearing, grey and worn thin with a faded Obama across her chest, whatever that means, and she doesn't make a move to go change.
Instead, silence settles around them, and it feels dangerous, like an emptiness that needs to be filled. "Okay, uh," he says. "Dad hasn’t been home in a few days."
"Sam," Jessica says again, like Dean hasn't spoken, and her voice wavers. "You can't just put your whole life on hold because of-this." She looks at Dean, and then back at Sam, her face set in a strange mix of weariness and something else that he can't quite decipher. Love, maybe, and it hurts to see it there. Jess won't last, not because she obviously can't handle the middle of the night disturbances, but because no one can last, not when there's hunting involved. Love isn't enough, not even close. Blood's the only thing that matters, even if Sam doesn't understand that yet, even if Jess never will. She sighs and says, "Sam, please. You have to-"
"Jess, excuse us," Sam says. "We have to go outside."
"Okay," Sam says.
The stairwell is shadowed and the artificial light streaming through the gate paints patterns on Sam's face, and Dean feels stupidly grateful that he doesn't have to convince Sam, that he doesn't have to spill his guts and tell Sam that he can't do it alone.
That he doesn't want to, either, but that’s a whole different issue.
It's not like he hasn't taken on plenty of shit on his own. He has, he knows what the fuck he's doing, but this is different somehow. Dad's in real trouble, if he's not dead already, Dean can feel it, and it's fucking terrifying.
He blows out a quick breath, tries not to let Sam hear how shaky it is, but he knows that Sam's heard everything he hasn't said, that it's really bad this time, that going in alone means he might not make it out. It’s not the first time he’s been nervous about a job, but it’s the first time he’s been desperate enough to ask Sam to come with him, and he knows that Sam hears that, too.
"First thing tomorrow, okay?" Sam says, and Dean wants to push, wants to say no, now, but he's sleepy with relief and he can't bring himself to refuse the chance to sit down and talk with Sam over a beer.
Sam still picks at the paper label on his bottle the same way he did when he was seventeen. And he still slouches down and spreads out a few minutes after he opens his second beer and reads every word on the bottle the same way he always did, but when he lifts his head, he looks at Dean differently, and Dean can't figure out why.
"Dude, I know I'm nice to look at, but. What?" he says. "What, did I like, grow a second head or something? 'Cause you're looking at me like... I don't even know."
Jessica's chair scrapes harshly over the kitchen floor when she sits up and says, "Sam." She's barely taken a sip of her beer, but her hands are wet from clenching the bottle as it warms to room temperature. "Please, just-"
"Jess," Sam says, "whatever you wanna say, you can say it tomorrow."
"No," she says, and she tilts her chin up just slightly. Dean looks for defiance in her expression, but all he sees is certainty. The light hits her differently when she stands, and it looks like determination. "No more tomorrows."
Sam nods, slowly, like he's making a choice.
She doesn't look back as she leaves the room, but she pauses in the doorway and says, "Tell him. It's been six years, Sam. Please." The front door clicks softly behind her when she leaves, still dressed for bed, with nothing more than a wallet and a set of car keys.
Sam hasn't looked at Dean since Jessica left. He's reassembling his shredded label piece by piece, sealing it down with condensation and sheer force of will, until the brown glass doesn't show through anymore.
"Tell me what?" Dean says.
Sam doesn't look up from his bottle; the tightening of his shoulders is his only answer.
"You know you can tell me, right?" he says. "Whatever it is, Sammy... chances are I've seen worse."
Sam looks up at the nickname, but he doesn't remind Dean that Sammy is a chubby twelve year old, that he's an adult, that's he's Sam. There were so many times he wanted to strangle Sam for saying it, but for once, Dean kind of wishes he would, wishes for anything other than this silence filled with words that Sam won't say.
When he puts his bottle down, the pieces of the label peel back and drop onto the table.
"Dean, six years ago, you-we-"
"We what, Sam?"
Six years ago was Oklahoma-no, Nebraska, and then Illinois, and then three months on the road before Sammy started school again. It was before Sam started keeping secrets about SATs and applications, before he and Dad stopped at least pretending to understand each other, before everything went to hell, and Dean can't think of anything Sam could possibly have kept to himself since then.
"We, uh," Sam says, and then he runs a hand over his face and laughs. His voice sounds brittle and unsure, too big for the room. "Nothing, I guess, I just. We had a fight, and I didn’t do something you asked, and I just-wish things’d happened differently. Wish I’d done things differently. I guess I just miss you, is all.” He clears his throat. “And, uh. I'm sorry."
He doesn't leave room for Dean to respond, just pushes away from the table and stands up. "Come on. The couch is a rock, you should just share the bed," he says.
They haven't actually slept in the same bed since Dean was about ten years old, but it's comfortable and familiar, even if the two feet between them is covered in cotton sheets instead of carpet.
Exhaustion sets in when he lies down; he feels like he could sleep for a year, and he knows that Sam’s hiding something, but he also knows they’ve got hours of highway time ahead of them tomorrow, and he doesn’t have to push right now.
He turns on his side because staring at the ceiling makes him feel strangely out of place, like as much as he belongs with Sam, he doesn't belong in Sam’s world. It's an uncomfortable weight on his chest, and he feels guilty that it has nothing to do with the way the pillow smells like girl. "Hey, uh. What about Jessica?" he asks.
"Jess isn't coming back," Sam says into the darkness. "Not this time."
Dean doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't have sympathetic words or reassurances because this is a part of who they are, of the life they've been called to.
Sam will understand that someday, or maybe he does already.
Dean listens to Sam's breathing as it evens out, watches Sam twist in his sleep. Something about the way Sam won't turn away from him hits deep and hard in his chest, and he struggles to keep his eyes open, feels like he wants to memorize every movement Sam makes, like he might never have this chance again.
"You ever feel like something bad is gonna happen?" he whispers into the pillow as Sam sleeps.
Sam's hand on his arm startles him, but Sam’s always been a light sleeper, and he’s always faked sleep well. Dean’s not sure which one’s the case here, but he’s grateful for the solid weight of Sam’s palm over his bicep.
"It’s gonna be okay, Dean," Sam says. He sits up and stares out the window, or maybe at it, and Dean watches as the lines of his reflection twist in what might be sadness, or guilt. After a few minutes, he stands.
“Where’re you going?” Dean says.
“Can’t sleep,” Sam answers. “But you should rest.”
Dean struggles to keep his eyes open, but it’s a losing battle. “See you in the morning,” he says, as he gives in and lets his eyelids rest.
Sam’s breath trembles as it ghosts over his words. “See you, Dean. Same time next year.”
###
Same Time Next Year [Gen, PG-13]
Pilot AU. Some things never change. When Dad goes missing, Dean comes for Sam.
Huge thanks to therealw for the beta!
Same Time Next Year
Dean flicks his knife closed and tucks it uselessly back into the little pocket inside his jacket. The goddamn window's not even latched. No salt, either, and he doesn't even waste his time checking for the sigils that should be carved above and below the glass.
Ignorance, he thinks, the civilian weapon of choice.
Sam's no civilian, though. He can play Joe College all he wants, but he knows what's out there in the dark, what he could be letting in, and leaving the windows unprotected like this is just asking for trouble. Just plain stupid is what Dad would say, and he'd be right.
That's pretty much the whole problem, though. Sam Winchester is nothing if not a stubborn son of a bitch, and this is just his way of pretending that no part of his former life exists, up to and including Dean and Dad.
"Well tough luck, Kiddo," Dean whispers into the night, "'cause here I am." The window frame’s old, a lifetime’s worth of paint flaking off and warped a little at the bottom, but when he wrenches it open, it slides up so easily that the sash bangs against the top of the frame. He doesn't bother to close it after he squeezes his body through the opening and into the hallway. If he makes it out of this in one piece, if he gets Dad back, then he’ll worry about getting on Sam’s case about staying safe.
Sam's punches aren't as precise as Dean remembers; his hands are slower, easier to predict. When Dean leaves him a clear shot, hesitation creeps visibly into his shoulders and the blow never comes, but he moves with an easy confidence, and there's a little more weight behind him now, and another inch, at least.
It's not good enough for life or death, but hopefully it won't come to that with both of them on the job.
He holds his own all right through the sparring, anyway, and surprisingly, Dean actually feels better knowing that his little brother's not gonna die at the hands of the first unarmed robber who busts down the front door.
He knocks one of Sam's huge paws away with his forearm.
It's strange, after all this time, to feel his hands landing in places he used to know so well, places he's shoved and bandaged and bathed and watched over for most of his life. He relearns Sam's contours as he teases the fight out, gets his hands everywhere he can, on Sam's chest, on his back, his neck, before he finally takes the kid down.
"Whoa, easy there, Tiger," he says. He's finally close enough to see Sam's face, older, but still the same.
"Dean," Sam says, between hard, hitching breaths.
Dean laughs-serves the kid right for letting himself go-and says, "You're out of practice."
"Sam?"
The lights flick on, and Sam says, "Jess. Hey." His eyes struggle to break away from Dean and focus on the girl in the doorway.
She's tall, in a Sam sort of way, and the kind of pretty that remembers being gorgeous, once upon a time. Now, she just seems tired, red-eyed and puffy like she just woke up in the middle of the night after a shitty life. She's locked in a staring contest with Sam, rubbing her fingers over an empty spot on her left hand and Dean feels like an intruder, feels bad without knowing why.
Sam interrupts their silent conversation to say, "Dean, this is my-girlfriend, Jessica."
She doesn't react, and Dean finds himself saying, "Hey, uh. Sorry, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business," even though it comes too close to acknowledging that Sam's loyalties might lie slightly askew of where they should.
He doesn't comment on the tiny scrap of a shirt she's wearing, grey and worn thin with a faded Obama across her chest, whatever that means, and she doesn't make a move to go change.
Instead, silence settles around them, and it feels dangerous, like an emptiness that needs to be filled. "Okay, uh," he says. "Dad hasn’t been home in a few days."
"Sam," Jessica says again, like Dean hasn't spoken, and her voice wavers. "You can't just put your whole life on hold because of-this." She looks at Dean, and then back at Sam, her face set in a strange mix of weariness and something else that he can't quite decipher. Love, maybe, and it hurts to see it there. Jess won't last, not because she obviously can't handle the middle of the night disturbances, but because no one can last, not when there's hunting involved. Love isn't enough, not even close. Blood's the only thing that matters, even if Sam doesn't understand that yet, even if Jess never will. She sighs and says, "Sam, please. You have to-"
"Jess, excuse us," Sam says. "We have to go outside."
"Okay," Sam says.
The stairwell is shadowed and the artificial light streaming through the gate paints patterns on Sam's face, and Dean feels stupidly grateful that he doesn't have to convince Sam, that he doesn't have to spill his guts and tell Sam that he can't do it alone.
That he doesn't want to, either, but that’s a whole different issue.
It's not like he hasn't taken on plenty of shit on his own. He has, he knows what the fuck he's doing, but this is different somehow. Dad's in real trouble, if he's not dead already, Dean can feel it, and it's fucking terrifying.
He blows out a quick breath, tries not to let Sam hear how shaky it is, but he knows that Sam's heard everything he hasn't said, that it's really bad this time, that going in alone means he might not make it out. It’s not the first time he’s been nervous about a job, but it’s the first time he’s been desperate enough to ask Sam to come with him, and he knows that Sam hears that, too.
"First thing tomorrow, okay?" Sam says, and Dean wants to push, wants to say no, now, but he's sleepy with relief and he can't bring himself to refuse the chance to sit down and talk with Sam over a beer.
Sam still picks at the paper label on his bottle the same way he did when he was seventeen. And he still slouches down and spreads out a few minutes after he opens his second beer and reads every word on the bottle the same way he always did, but when he lifts his head, he looks at Dean differently, and Dean can't figure out why.
"Dude, I know I'm nice to look at, but. What?" he says. "What, did I like, grow a second head or something? 'Cause you're looking at me like... I don't even know."
Jessica's chair scrapes harshly over the kitchen floor when she sits up and says, "Sam." She's barely taken a sip of her beer, but her hands are wet from clenching the bottle as it warms to room temperature. "Please, just-"
"Jess," Sam says, "whatever you wanna say, you can say it tomorrow."
"No," she says, and she tilts her chin up just slightly. Dean looks for defiance in her expression, but all he sees is certainty. The light hits her differently when she stands, and it looks like determination. "No more tomorrows."
Sam nods, slowly, like he's making a choice.
She doesn't look back as she leaves the room, but she pauses in the doorway and says, "Tell him. It's been six years, Sam. Please." The front door clicks softly behind her when she leaves, still dressed for bed, with nothing more than a wallet and a set of car keys.
Sam hasn't looked at Dean since Jessica left. He's reassembling his shredded label piece by piece, sealing it down with condensation and sheer force of will, until the brown glass doesn't show through anymore.
"Tell me what?" Dean says.
Sam doesn't look up from his bottle; the tightening of his shoulders is his only answer.
"You know you can tell me, right?" he says. "Whatever it is, Sammy... chances are I've seen worse."
Sam looks up at the nickname, but he doesn't remind Dean that Sammy is a chubby twelve year old, that he's an adult, that's he's Sam. There were so many times he wanted to strangle Sam for saying it, but for once, Dean kind of wishes he would, wishes for anything other than this silence filled with words that Sam won't say.
When he puts his bottle down, the pieces of the label peel back and drop onto the table.
"Dean, six years ago, you-we-"
"We what, Sam?"
Six years ago was Oklahoma-no, Nebraska, and then Illinois, and then three months on the road before Sammy started school again. It was before Sam started keeping secrets about SATs and applications, before he and Dad stopped at least pretending to understand each other, before everything went to hell, and Dean can't think of anything Sam could possibly have kept to himself since then.
"We, uh," Sam says, and then he runs a hand over his face and laughs. His voice sounds brittle and unsure, too big for the room. "Nothing, I guess, I just. We had a fight, and I didn’t do something you asked, and I just-wish things’d happened differently. Wish I’d done things differently. I guess I just miss you, is all.” He clears his throat. “And, uh. I'm sorry."
He doesn't leave room for Dean to respond, just pushes away from the table and stands up. "Come on. The couch is a rock, you should just share the bed," he says.
They haven't actually slept in the same bed since Dean was about ten years old, but it's comfortable and familiar, even if the two feet between them is covered in cotton sheets instead of carpet.
Exhaustion sets in when he lies down; he feels like he could sleep for a year, and he knows that Sam’s hiding something, but he also knows they’ve got hours of highway time ahead of them tomorrow, and he doesn’t have to push right now.
He turns on his side because staring at the ceiling makes him feel strangely out of place, like as much as he belongs with Sam, he doesn't belong in Sam’s world. It's an uncomfortable weight on his chest, and he feels guilty that it has nothing to do with the way the pillow smells like girl. "Hey, uh. What about Jessica?" he asks.
"Jess isn't coming back," Sam says into the darkness. "Not this time."
Dean doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't have sympathetic words or reassurances because this is a part of who they are, of the life they've been called to.
Sam will understand that someday, or maybe he does already.
Dean listens to Sam's breathing as it evens out, watches Sam twist in his sleep. Something about the way Sam won't turn away from him hits deep and hard in his chest, and he struggles to keep his eyes open, feels like he wants to memorize every movement Sam makes, like he might never have this chance again.
"You ever feel like something bad is gonna happen?" he whispers into the pillow as Sam sleeps.
Sam's hand on his arm startles him, but Sam’s always been a light sleeper, and he’s always faked sleep well. Dean’s not sure which one’s the case here, but he’s grateful for the solid weight of Sam’s palm over his bicep.
"It’s gonna be okay, Dean," Sam says. He sits up and stares out the window, or maybe at it, and Dean watches as the lines of his reflection twist in what might be sadness, or guilt. After a few minutes, he stands.
“Where’re you going?” Dean says.
“Can’t sleep,” Sam answers. “But you should rest.”
Dean struggles to keep his eyes open, but it’s a losing battle. “See you in the morning,” he says, as he gives in and lets his eyelids rest.
Sam’s breath trembles as it ghosts over his words. “See you, Dean. Same time next year.”
###