Fic: Coda
Coda
Length: About 1250 words
Rating: R
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Spoilers: through season 8; takes place during the Trials
Synopsis: Dean tries to cook something Sam can eat. There are issues. Not a curtain fic.
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Dean looks across the table at Sam's meal - his so-called meal - and frowns. Tomato soup and toast. Not even a grilled cheese sandwich this time, just plain freaking dry toast. "You should eat more than that, Sam," he mutters. Actually, he'd be pretty damn happy if Sam would just eat what's in front of him, let alone more than that. If he'd even look at what's in front of him. "Sam!" he says sharply.
Sam looks up from his laptop, startled. "Huh?"
"Food, Sam. Eat it."
Sam obediently picks up the toast and nibbles at it, but soon he's just holding it, ignored, in mid-air as he stares at the computer screen.
"Sam. Eat. Get off the computer and eat."
Sam's mouth twists into a slight grin, a faded copy of what his grin used to look like, and he takes another small bite of toast. "Sorry, man. I'm a little distracted."
"Yeah, well, it's rude," Dean huffs. "I went to all the trouble of making supper for you, and you're sitting here ignoring it."
Dean's mock pouting produces more of a grin - it's closer to a real one now. "You're right, Dean," Sam says solemnly. "I'm sorry. After you used the toaster and everything."
"Hey, it's not my fault you didn't want a steak. I did offer." Dean eyes his own plate. The steak is perfectly cooked - charred on the outside, bloody on the inside - and this is what Sam should be eating. He's not going to complete (survive) the trials on tomato soup and toast. Sam's always eaten more for function than fun, but the giant rabbit has been known to eat some red meat once in a while. Dean slices off a chunk of his steak and puts it on the now-empty toast plate. "Eat this. You need protein."
Sam eyes the steak for a split second, then pushes the plate toward Dean. "No thanks. Seriously, thank you for the soup. And the toast. I appreciate it."
"Toast. You appreciate toast." Dean rolls his eyes. "Sam, you need to eat this. And I don't mean, oh it's so good, you gotta try it. I mean, you need to eat some protein or you are not going to - " (Survive, but we're not going to say that out loud, are we?) Dean sighs. "Please, Sammy. Just eat something other than toast. You even told me you need to eat a steak sometimes."
"Did I? I don't remember saying that."
"Of course you don't. You can't remember shit, because." Because you're fading. Because you're failing. (Because you're dying, Dean's brain helpfully supplies.) Dean settles for waving his hand in Sam's direction to indicate his general state of disrepair. "Because you're not one hundred percent. C'mon, man."
Sam swallows hard, looks away. "I'm sorry. I just. I can't."
"Okay," says Dean, retrieving his steak. "If not this, then what? You need some real food."
"I don't know," Sam says quietly, still not looking at Dean or his steak. "Maybe chicken?"
"Good. Good. Tomorrow we're having chicken."
///
Not just any old chicken. Sam loved fried chicken when he was little, and Dean spends the rest of the evening googling recipes. The next morning he hits the farmer's market for a whole free-range chicken and organic vegetables.
When he takes the chicken out of its packaging, he's a little surprised at just how whole a whole chicken is. It flops lifelessly onto the cutting board in a way that's unpleasantly reminiscent of a limp, unconscious body. Suddenly whiskey sounds like a good idea. Dean pours a glass and goes back to the laptop to google instructions for cutting up a whole chicken. He finds a promising video with a chirpy young blonde and clicks "play."
"First, always use a sharp knife. Using a dull knife makes you more likely to cut yourself."
Something tightens uncomfortably in Dean's chest. (Yes, of course, sharp knives are best. But dull knives can be fun too, can't they? It just depends on what you're trying to accomplish.)
It's just a chicken. Just a goddamn chicken. Dean tips back his whiskey glass, relishing the distracting burn as it goes down, and fills it back up again.
"Pull the leg away from the body," the blonde continues cheerfully. "You want to be able to see where the leg and hip bones connect. Now cut through the skin."
(Yes, right here. Cut through the skin and peel it back a little bit, just with the edge of your blade. There you go. Now you can see the joint better. But why go straight for the joint? Why not have a little fun and glide your blade along that nerve, yes, just like that.)
"Use the carving knife to cut through the hip joint to remove the entire leg."
(But her carving knife is so big. A smaller knife would be better for this, wouldn't it? More precise. And the way she's chopping that leg off is so crude, completely lacking in finesse. You know how to do it the right way, don't you, Dean? Don't hack right through the joint, like a teenager who's about to cream his jeans. Take your time. Enjoy yourself. Take the tip of your narrow blade and poke it in there, just so, until you feel the pop of the joint letting go. Oh, God, yes, just like that - )
And all he sees is a red and black haze and there's a sharp ringing in his ears (but it's not ringing, it's screaming, you know the difference, you know it better than anyone) and Dean slams the laptop shut and lurches to the sink because he thinks he's going to lose his lunch. He stands there, panting and gripping the cool stainless steel and feeling his heart hammer in his chest, until he feels like he can breathe again, until he thinks that if he opens his eyes he'll probably only see the bunker kitchen and not... not anyplace else.
There. Okay. Dean splashes water on his face, and looks at the chicken just long enough to throw it into a pot and cover it with water. Then he slams a lid on it (it's just a chicken, just a goddamn chicken, but it's such a relief to not have to look at it), puts it on the stove, and tries to get his breathing back under control as he turns on the fire and the flames begin to lick the bottom of the pot.
And then he remembers the last time he saw Sam eat a steak. It was before he got his soul back. He hasn't actually seen Sam eat a steak since Cas broke his wall and he regained his memories of Hell.
Charred on the outside, bloody on the inside.
Oh, Jesus fuck.
And Dean's bent over the sink again, and the whiskey burns coming up as much as it did going down.
///
It turns out Kevin is pretty good pulling the meat off a cooked chicken, and doesn't even question why Dean asks him to get the carcass (carcass, such an ugly word) out of the kitchen as soon as he's done.
Sam (who will eventually notice that Dean never eats a steak in his presence again) almost finishes an entire serving of chicken and dumplings. It's a small victory, as victories go, but Dean really needs something to put in the win column right now, and he'll take it.
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A companion piece from Sam's POV, Refrain, can be read here.