Dean would like to say he never forgot they were that, but it would be a lie; he remembers, of course he does, it's what he got by on for years both topside and below. But it's tarnished and faded and he's not really sure he remembers what it feels like, and the only thing he knows for certain is that he wants it back and isn't sure they can have it. Isn't sure that they should. It hasn't done them any favors so far, right?
Wrong. He knows that. Just sometimes...
Sam's attempt to keep his face blank plus his response is not exactly reassuring to Dean, who pulls to a stop directly in front of him, glancing both directions down the hall for what the problem might be before focusing on Sam. He doesn't see any blood, but he knows enough to know that sometimes that doesn't mean anything, and he thinks almost nothing of reaching to touch his brother, fingers seeking a wrist to move Sam's arm so he might get a better look, but mostly just the distant instinct to reassure them both with the contact
( ... )
"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam says easily, right on cue, because it wouldn't work if he admitted to knowing that he does it. Right? Right.
Tucking his hands into his pockets because he doesn't really know what else to do with them, Sam is fine with following, and picking a way through the crowd.
[...so I might be able to get this one to talk if I get him a little bit drunk. Possibly. We could timeskip or play it through or what's your inclination?]
[Dean and I are up for whatever you two think would help! Let's timeskip, though, if that's alright with you? Tag below to this end, which I am happy to change if you'd rather do something different or if I get it wrong.]Dean hadn't really expected Sam to be on board with the whole getting toasted on New Year's thing; in retrospect, he's not sure why. Sam is an adult and, more than that, a Winchester; it's not like he's exactly a prude so much as just judgmental about this particular flaw in first his father, now his brother. Still. Dean takes it easy for himself but makes sure to keep a drink in Sam's hand for as long as the taller hunter will take one, not having much care with what it is so long as Dean himself recognizes it. He sticks close to his brother, still not sure about what happened earlier, about what Sam might need from him; his eyes on the crowd are cool and wary as they always are when he's not paying attention, but he's careful to keep his banter light and shallow
( ... )
[No, looks good to me! ONWARD AND...MAYBE UPWARD.]
Sam protests that it is not judgmental he would just like you to take better care of yourself but that is irrelevant and we are ignoring him right now. Moving right along Sam really appreciates, actually, Dean's assistance, because this isn't something he's done in a while (not since the other addiction took over from this kind of self-medicating) but right now he just wants to...
Something or other.
His shoulders ease down from their tense line over time, gradually, and he starts to look a little more relaxed. Also, unfortunately, a little sadder. Though not so bad.
"Dean," he says, abruptly, looking down at what's probably an empty glass between his hands. His mouth does a funny little twitch.
Dean is watching, closely, and trying to judge that fine line between "more relaxed" and "too sad;" it's a difficult one to define for the brothers, for the pile of crap they carry around, but Dean trusts only himself to potentially get it right. He's still willing to let Sam go a little longer before trying to intervene - and he is dead certain that is going to go like gangbusters with a pair of brass knuckles, but - and is, in fact, probably returning with another bottle of beer to stagger the harder stuff Sam is sucking down when he hears his name
( ... )
Sam chews on his lower lip, a ridiculous gesture that's probably a holdover from younger years and likely hasn't turned up in a while. "Not what I mean," he says, after a second of carefully (not carefully enough) considering things, mulling it over. "That's not - and you know it. It's just."
He lets out a long breath and examines the bottle like it might tell him the secrets of life if he looks at it hard enough. I remember how it used to be, Sam thinks. I just want to know if...
"It's like..." Sam trails off, searching for words and not seeming to find them. "I don't expect things to...just be okay. I know that's - not how it works, and not how it should because-" He makes a sound kind of like a cough that's probably supposed to be a laugh. "I fucked up. And I know that. And it's not like you're doing anything wrong, because you're not-"
Dean has missed that gesture, and seeing it makes both eyebrows notch up just a little bit higher. It's not hope. It's not. It's the alcohol, it has to be. He stays where he is, handing the empty glass back and forth between his fingers, eyes on his brother.
Dammit. He knew that's what this was. He did. Equal parts of him leap with dread and with hope, and he crushes them both back down, because... because. But he's still watching, though he comes out with a mildly warning, "Sam
( ... )
Sam cuts off the moment Dean first speaks up, and his glance in his brother's direction has a little touch of panic in it because he can see it coming, or expects it to come, some way of shutting this down and stopping it from going anywhere, and maybe that would be smarter but at the same time it's like this has been there for a long time and swallowing it again now would...he doesn't know if he could get it out again.
And a large part of him wants to, really does.
So that's why the panic, and the worried expression, not really very guarded at all, at least right now. His shoulders slump a little when Dean looks at him, not sure if...maybe.
(But it's still there, in his head, driving side by side in the Impala and how that felt and how it was to feel it again, even in echoes
( ... )
Sam isn't sure he is even drunk enough for this, but it's entirely possible that he never would be if he isn't now, and-
Looking down at his hands, mostly, Sam sneaks a glance sideways when Dean says his name, not sure what he's expecting to see (almost scared to look) and not still at all, for his part, fidgeting and uncertain but not rethinking it, no, he means every word.
Sam hesitates for a second, because he wants to just...let it be at that, because it does sound like he means it (but it sounded like he meant other things before, too, if I didn't know you) and-
"I'd understand," Sam says, quietly. "If you...needed to. Have some more time."
Someone should really bring up that phone message; Dean still isn't aware he left it, or sounded like he did, and it might fix some things to find out that fucking demons and angels were trying to come between them, again, and succeeding, again
( ... )
Someone really, really should, and typist will try to get Sam to eventually, somehow, because she does want it and just doesn't know how to...get Sam to talk about it. Sam breathes out, short and sharp, at Dean's response.
"You weren't wrong," he says, after a second. "I mean, I - like I said. I don't even trust me right now, so it'd just be stupid to expect you to." His hands twist, almost violently. "You shouldn't stick around just because - you feel like you have to or something. You didn't do anything wrong, I mean-"
That 'too sad' line we were talking about earlier might be edging closer a little fast.
"Stop it," Dean grates back at him, thoughtlessly; a quick lick of his lips and he tries again, wiping his free hand down the thigh of his jeans in agitation. "Just... hold on, Sam. We can't... This blame game. It's gotta stop."
There's no way in heaven or hell that didn't come out sounding more accusatory than he meant it to, and this is why Dean hates talking, why he prefers action; it's very difficult to mistake what saving someone's life means. But he'll try. He'll always try, for Sam.
"I mean - I did things wrong. You did things wrong. We also both did things right..." That's a hard one for him to swallow, and he almost can't; he doesn't believe it. He has a hard time believing anything could be right after doing what he did, but his faith in Sam has never extinguished. Not even... He clears his throat and repeats it again, more forcefully; he's never needed to believe something to make someone else believe it. "We both did things right, dammit. And we were both doing the best we could."
Sam flinches, straight off, and falls silent just as fast, eyes flickering down and away, and tries to cover it by actually...taking a quick drink. Which he hadn't, for a while. Too busy talking, apparently. You didn't do anything wrong, Sam wants to object, instinctively, but doesn't think that would...
...Dean doesn't believe it, he knows that, there'll have to be a way to prove that to him another time. Because it is true and dammit he was stupid because it always was.
You know what the road to Hell is paved with, Sam thinks, but doesn't say. Doesn't say. Just looks down for several long moments. Feeling a little (stupidly) like he's about to cry or something.
Sam's head jerks slightly, in what's probably intended to be a nod.
Tired. So tired of all of this - but they're not done here. They're not done anywhere, they can't be, and Dean won't leave Sam to hold it all by himself. He frowns, because Sam in pain has always caused Dean pain, and he doesn't know how to fix it, dammit, doesn't know how to fix himself, doesn't know...
Stop sniveling, Dean, he orders himself, but the voice doesn't sound like his own. It doesn't have the immediate effect it once might have, that it still does when the chips are down and blood is being spilled, but it's enough. The elder Winchester raises one hand then pauses like he doesn't know what to do with it; he doesn't. They don't have a history of being tactile, they only hug when one of them's been dead or injured. Still
( ... )
Wrong. He knows that. Just sometimes...
Sam's attempt to keep his face blank plus his response is not exactly reassuring to Dean, who pulls to a stop directly in front of him, glancing both directions down the hall for what the problem might be before focusing on Sam. He doesn't see any blood, but he knows enough to know that sometimes that doesn't mean anything, and he thinks almost nothing of reaching to touch his brother, fingers seeking a wrist to move Sam's arm so he might get a better look, but mostly just the distant instinct to reassure them both with the contact ( ... )
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For now, he seems content to do exactly as Sam bids him, eager to lead the way away from that dangerous room and into
"Make with the puppy eyes, Sammy - we got some work to do."
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Tucking his hands into his pockets because he doesn't really know what else to do with them, Sam is fine with following, and picking a way through the crowd.
[...so I might be able to get this one to talk if I get him a little bit drunk. Possibly. We could timeskip or play it through or what's your inclination?]
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Sam protests that it is not judgmental he would just like you to take better care of yourself but that is irrelevant and we are ignoring him right now. Moving right along Sam really appreciates, actually, Dean's assistance, because this isn't something he's done in a while (not since the other addiction took over from this kind of self-medicating) but right now he just wants to...
Something or other.
His shoulders ease down from their tense line over time, gradually, and he starts to look a little more relaxed. Also, unfortunately, a little sadder. Though not so bad.
"Dean," he says, abruptly, looking down at what's probably an empty glass between his hands. His mouth does a funny little twitch.
What can it hurt? Honestly, what can it.
"...miss you."
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He lets out a long breath and examines the bottle like it might tell him the secrets of life if he looks at it hard enough. I remember how it used to be, Sam thinks. I just want to know if...
"It's like..." Sam trails off, searching for words and not seeming to find them. "I don't expect things to...just be okay. I know that's - not how it works, and not how it should because-" He makes a sound kind of like a cough that's probably supposed to be a laugh. "I fucked up. And I know that. And it's not like you're doing anything wrong, because you're not-"
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Dammit. He knew that's what this was. He did. Equal parts of him leap with dread and with hope, and he crushes them both back down, because... because. But he's still watching, though he comes out with a mildly warning, "Sam ( ... )
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And a large part of him wants to, really does.
So that's why the panic, and the worried expression, not really very guarded at all, at least right now. His shoulders slump a little when Dean looks at him, not sure if...maybe.
(But it's still there, in his head, driving side by side in the Impala and how that felt and how it was to feel it again, even in echoes ( ... )
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Looking down at his hands, mostly, Sam sneaks a glance sideways when Dean says his name, not sure what he's expecting to see (almost scared to look) and not still at all, for his part, fidgeting and uncertain but not rethinking it, no, he means every word.
Sam hesitates for a second, because he wants to just...let it be at that, because it does sound like he means it (but it sounded like he meant other things before, too, if I didn't know you) and-
"I'd understand," Sam says, quietly. "If you...needed to. Have some more time."
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"You weren't wrong," he says, after a second. "I mean, I - like I said. I don't even trust me right now, so it'd just be stupid to expect you to." His hands twist, almost violently. "You shouldn't stick around just because - you feel like you have to or something. You didn't do anything wrong, I mean-"
That 'too sad' line we were talking about earlier might be edging closer a little fast.
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There's no way in heaven or hell that didn't come out sounding more accusatory than he meant it to, and this is why Dean hates talking, why he prefers action; it's very difficult to mistake what saving someone's life means. But he'll try. He'll always try, for Sam.
"I mean - I did things wrong. You did things wrong. We also both did things right..." That's a hard one for him to swallow, and he almost can't; he doesn't believe it. He has a hard time believing anything could be right after doing what he did, but his faith in Sam has never extinguished. Not even... He clears his throat and repeats it again, more forcefully; he's never needed to believe something to make someone else believe it. "We both did things right, dammit. And we were both doing the best we could."
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...Dean doesn't believe it, he knows that, there'll have to be a way to prove that to him another time. Because it is true and dammit he was stupid because it always was.
You know what the road to Hell is paved with, Sam thinks, but doesn't say. Doesn't say. Just looks down for several long moments. Feeling a little (stupidly) like he's about to cry or something.
Sam's head jerks slightly, in what's probably intended to be a nod.
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Stop sniveling, Dean, he orders himself, but the voice doesn't sound like his own. It doesn't have the immediate effect it once might have, that it still does when the chips are down and blood is being spilled, but it's enough. The elder Winchester raises one hand then pauses like he doesn't know what to do with it; he doesn't. They don't have a history of being tactile, they only hug when one of them's been dead or injured. Still ( ... )
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