[FIC] Father's Gun (52/?)
Title: Father's Gun
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Dean isn’t sure he sleeps at all that night, and if he does, it’s in short, fleeting bursts, dreamless lapses in time that only leave him more exhausted than before. He and Sam form an uneasy balance on the too-small air mattress. Every time his brother shifts, Dean is sent rocking back and forth, bouncing up and down with every toss and turn until he finally rolls over and tucks himself tight up against Sam’s back, throwing an arm over his chest to keep him still. It does fuck-all for Dean's sleep. Not even the long, comforting line of brother against him is able to drown out the thoughts shifting and screaming through his head, but Sammy calms down, settles into the smooth, gentle softness of sleep against him, which is what's really important.
By the time sun begins to filter in through the barred windows, the mattress is half deflated. Sam’s ice cold toes are tucked up under his calves, and Dean feels worse than he did the night before, feels exhausted, his nerves frayed thin. Awake too long and thinking too much and just needing to get out, get some air, some room to breathe.
He clamors over Sam, wincing as his bare feet touch the chilly cement floor, and starts tugging on his jeans. Sam doesn’t wake up, just rolls over into the depressed center of the mattress, his nose wrinkling slightly at the loss of his human heater. He tucks his legs into his body, draws the blanket tighter around himself, and then relaxes again. When Dean closes the door behind himself, Sam is snoring lightly, his face mushed into Dean's pillow and his hair going every which way.
Dean pads up the stairs and down the hallway. He opens the door to the parsonage as quietly as he can, not wanting to wake up the youngest Boeffel. He’s not exactly surprised to find Pastor Jim in the kitchen in spite of the early hour. The man always has risen with the goddamn sun. As a teenager, Dean had gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of the kitchen floorboards creaking and the smell of brewing coffee.
“Good morning.” Pastor Jim waves a spatula in greeting from his spot in front of the stove. “Do you want pancakes?”
Dean grins.
“You even need to ask?”
He sits down heavily in one of the chairs around the kitchen table, steeling his jaw against a yawn.
“You’re up early,” Pastor Jim comments without turning to look at him. Dean watches his elbows work from behind as he drops a pancake onto a plate on the counter and pours more batter into the pan. “Or should I say you’re up late?”
Dean chuckles wryly.
“Yeah, you got me,” he replies, “but in my defense, I did try.”
Pastor Jim flips the pancake he’s cooking, and it lands with a hearty sizzle.
“Yes, I’m afraid I haven’t been sleeping well, either.”
Dean grunts, rolling his shoulders.
“How about your brother?” Pastor Jim asks. “Is he up yet?”
“Nah, he’s still sawin’ logs downstairs,” Dean tells him. “At least one of us is getting some shut-eye, I guess.”
“No more dreams, then?” Pastor Jim asks, even though it’s obvious that what he really means is ‘No more visions?’
“Not so far.”
Pastor Jim spoons another thick glop of batter into the pan.
“That’s good.”
In a few minutes, he sets down a stack fresh, fluffy pancakes on the table, along with a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s that Dean immediately upends onto his plate, not stopping until his food is swimming in a half-inch of the stuff and the poor little lady is drained nearly dry.
“Want anything to drink with your syrup?” Pastor Jim asks dryly.
“How ‘bout a beer?” Dean jokes around a mouthful of delicious, sticky-sweet breakfast.
“No drinking before noon,” Pastor Jim admonishes, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
“Unless it’s wine, and even then, only the sacramental stuff.” Dean finishes. “Yeah, yeah. And what breakfast drink does the church approve of?”
“Well, I know that orange juice is completely forbidden,” Pastor Jim says seriously, “but I always have had a rebellious spirit, so I think maybe I can swing that.”
He plops a full glass next to Dean’s plate and sits down across from him, digging into his own food with a knife and fork.
“You two heading out this morning or are you going be sticking around for lunch?”
“Well,” Dean starts, spewing traces of syrup and pancake before he swallows thickly, “Guess that depends on how long Sam’s out. Figure we’ll take off as soon as he’s up and ready.”
He doesn’t say it aloud, but he wants Sam to get as much sleep here as he can. It’s the first time his brother has had any real rest in more days than Dean cares to count. Maybe it’s because he’s just plain exhausted or maybe it’s because he’s had some time off from Dad. Maybe it’s just that he feels comfortable here. Dean doesn’t know, but he’ll take what he can get.
“Well, I’m going to the post office in a little while,” Pastor Jim says, taking a gulp of coffee. “Want to come with? I know the house isn’t exactly rife with entertainment.”
“Sure,” Dean answers with a shrug. “Why not?”
His mind flashes to Sam then, asleep in the room downstairs, and he momentarily regrets the easy agreement. But it’s only going to be for a half hour or so, and Sam was right when he said it last night: He’s as safe in this church, in that room, as he has been anywhere in their lives.
Plus, it’s not like Dean’s going off on some kind of random demon-summoning field trip. That would just be stupid.
“By the way, Dean, I haven’t gotten a chance to apologize yet for last night,” Pastor Jim tells him after they’ve dump their dishes in the sink and headed out across the church parking lot, as if he’s somehow picked up on Dean’s bitter train of thought.
“Well, I guess it wasn’t really your fault,” Dean dismisses grudgingly, swinging open the door of the preacher’s old grey Toyota and sliding into the passenger’s seat. “I know how Sammy is once he’s got his mind set on something. It’s like trying to reason with a goddamn mule.”
“Your brother’s not the only one to blame, though,” the other man says, turning the key in the ignition. “I was perfectly willing to go along with the idea.”
“Yeah, why is that, anyway?” Dean wonders, rubbing at his tired eyes. “No offense, but you usually work smarter than that, don’t you?”
Pastor Jim squints against the sunrise as he flicks the blinkers and turns the car onto the deserted highway.
“I’d like to think so,” he answers, “but the search for truth has been known to override my common sense now and again. And while I’m not convinced last night’s little adventure provided a lot of that, it did help to clarify some things for me.”
Dean hums in answer, smothering another yawn.
There’s more to talk about there, but they can do that later. Dean knows he should really apologize, too, for the way he treated Pastor Jim last night, and he will, but dammit, it’s early and the quiet motion of the car is only serving to remind him of how bone-deep tired he is. He watches the buildings slide by the window, dew still gleaming on the scattered patches of grass. Street signs go whizzing past, their faces obscured by the glare of the early morning sun.
It doesn’t matter. Dean knows their names, remembers this drive with a comforting familiarity born out of years of experience. He can feel his eyelids growing heavy, his head listing on his neck, and he dozes for what must be only seconds before he startles himself awake with the thump of his head knocking against the window pane.
“Ugh, should’ve gone for coffee,” he grunts.
He raises a numb, weighted hand to rub at his eyes again, attempting to shake off the creeping fatigue. He tries to sit up straight, but his head falls back against the car seat with a muffled thud.
Pastor Jim is watching him closely from the driver’s seat. Over his shoulder, Dean sees the post office come and go as they rocket on down the highway.
“Hey, the-” Dean slurs. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, his thoughts fuzzy and distant. “Did you-?”
Dean struggles against the undertow. He’s aware, distantly, of a kind of creeping horror. He knows this feeling. He knows what this is.
“D’d you drug me?”
Pastor Jim’s face is a blur, his expression lost in Dean’s swirling vision.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” he says in a muffled voice. “But everything’s going to be alright, okay? I promise.”
Dean tries to focus, tries to will himself to grab for his gun, fight it, do something, but his body just won’t move. His head lolls back, and the car ceiling swims in front of his eyes, blackness creeping in at the edges.
“No,” he croaks. “Wh-? Don’t- S-”
“I’m sorry,” Pastor Jim repeats from somewhere very far away.
It’s the last thing Dean remembers.
Chapter 53
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Dean isn’t sure he sleeps at all that night, and if he does, it’s in short, fleeting bursts, dreamless lapses in time that only leave him more exhausted than before. He and Sam form an uneasy balance on the too-small air mattress. Every time his brother shifts, Dean is sent rocking back and forth, bouncing up and down with every toss and turn until he finally rolls over and tucks himself tight up against Sam’s back, throwing an arm over his chest to keep him still. It does fuck-all for Dean's sleep. Not even the long, comforting line of brother against him is able to drown out the thoughts shifting and screaming through his head, but Sammy calms down, settles into the smooth, gentle softness of sleep against him, which is what's really important.
By the time sun begins to filter in through the barred windows, the mattress is half deflated. Sam’s ice cold toes are tucked up under his calves, and Dean feels worse than he did the night before, feels exhausted, his nerves frayed thin. Awake too long and thinking too much and just needing to get out, get some air, some room to breathe.
He clamors over Sam, wincing as his bare feet touch the chilly cement floor, and starts tugging on his jeans. Sam doesn’t wake up, just rolls over into the depressed center of the mattress, his nose wrinkling slightly at the loss of his human heater. He tucks his legs into his body, draws the blanket tighter around himself, and then relaxes again. When Dean closes the door behind himself, Sam is snoring lightly, his face mushed into Dean's pillow and his hair going every which way.
Dean pads up the stairs and down the hallway. He opens the door to the parsonage as quietly as he can, not wanting to wake up the youngest Boeffel. He’s not exactly surprised to find Pastor Jim in the kitchen in spite of the early hour. The man always has risen with the goddamn sun. As a teenager, Dean had gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of the kitchen floorboards creaking and the smell of brewing coffee.
“Good morning.” Pastor Jim waves a spatula in greeting from his spot in front of the stove. “Do you want pancakes?”
Dean grins.
“You even need to ask?”
He sits down heavily in one of the chairs around the kitchen table, steeling his jaw against a yawn.
“You’re up early,” Pastor Jim comments without turning to look at him. Dean watches his elbows work from behind as he drops a pancake onto a plate on the counter and pours more batter into the pan. “Or should I say you’re up late?”
Dean chuckles wryly.
“Yeah, you got me,” he replies, “but in my defense, I did try.”
Pastor Jim flips the pancake he’s cooking, and it lands with a hearty sizzle.
“Yes, I’m afraid I haven’t been sleeping well, either.”
Dean grunts, rolling his shoulders.
“How about your brother?” Pastor Jim asks. “Is he up yet?”
“Nah, he’s still sawin’ logs downstairs,” Dean tells him. “At least one of us is getting some shut-eye, I guess.”
“No more dreams, then?” Pastor Jim asks, even though it’s obvious that what he really means is ‘No more visions?’
“Not so far.”
Pastor Jim spoons another thick glop of batter into the pan.
“That’s good.”
In a few minutes, he sets down a stack fresh, fluffy pancakes on the table, along with a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s that Dean immediately upends onto his plate, not stopping until his food is swimming in a half-inch of the stuff and the poor little lady is drained nearly dry.
“Want anything to drink with your syrup?” Pastor Jim asks dryly.
“How ‘bout a beer?” Dean jokes around a mouthful of delicious, sticky-sweet breakfast.
“No drinking before noon,” Pastor Jim admonishes, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
“Unless it’s wine, and even then, only the sacramental stuff.” Dean finishes. “Yeah, yeah. And what breakfast drink does the church approve of?”
“Well, I know that orange juice is completely forbidden,” Pastor Jim says seriously, “but I always have had a rebellious spirit, so I think maybe I can swing that.”
He plops a full glass next to Dean’s plate and sits down across from him, digging into his own food with a knife and fork.
“You two heading out this morning or are you going be sticking around for lunch?”
“Well,” Dean starts, spewing traces of syrup and pancake before he swallows thickly, “Guess that depends on how long Sam’s out. Figure we’ll take off as soon as he’s up and ready.”
He doesn’t say it aloud, but he wants Sam to get as much sleep here as he can. It’s the first time his brother has had any real rest in more days than Dean cares to count. Maybe it’s because he’s just plain exhausted or maybe it’s because he’s had some time off from Dad. Maybe it’s just that he feels comfortable here. Dean doesn’t know, but he’ll take what he can get.
“Well, I’m going to the post office in a little while,” Pastor Jim says, taking a gulp of coffee. “Want to come with? I know the house isn’t exactly rife with entertainment.”
“Sure,” Dean answers with a shrug. “Why not?”
His mind flashes to Sam then, asleep in the room downstairs, and he momentarily regrets the easy agreement. But it’s only going to be for a half hour or so, and Sam was right when he said it last night: He’s as safe in this church, in that room, as he has been anywhere in their lives.
Plus, it’s not like Dean’s going off on some kind of random demon-summoning field trip. That would just be stupid.
“By the way, Dean, I haven’t gotten a chance to apologize yet for last night,” Pastor Jim tells him after they’ve dump their dishes in the sink and headed out across the church parking lot, as if he’s somehow picked up on Dean’s bitter train of thought.
“Well, I guess it wasn’t really your fault,” Dean dismisses grudgingly, swinging open the door of the preacher’s old grey Toyota and sliding into the passenger’s seat. “I know how Sammy is once he’s got his mind set on something. It’s like trying to reason with a goddamn mule.”
“Your brother’s not the only one to blame, though,” the other man says, turning the key in the ignition. “I was perfectly willing to go along with the idea.”
“Yeah, why is that, anyway?” Dean wonders, rubbing at his tired eyes. “No offense, but you usually work smarter than that, don’t you?”
Pastor Jim squints against the sunrise as he flicks the blinkers and turns the car onto the deserted highway.
“I’d like to think so,” he answers, “but the search for truth has been known to override my common sense now and again. And while I’m not convinced last night’s little adventure provided a lot of that, it did help to clarify some things for me.”
Dean hums in answer, smothering another yawn.
There’s more to talk about there, but they can do that later. Dean knows he should really apologize, too, for the way he treated Pastor Jim last night, and he will, but dammit, it’s early and the quiet motion of the car is only serving to remind him of how bone-deep tired he is. He watches the buildings slide by the window, dew still gleaming on the scattered patches of grass. Street signs go whizzing past, their faces obscured by the glare of the early morning sun.
It doesn’t matter. Dean knows their names, remembers this drive with a comforting familiarity born out of years of experience. He can feel his eyelids growing heavy, his head listing on his neck, and he dozes for what must be only seconds before he startles himself awake with the thump of his head knocking against the window pane.
“Ugh, should’ve gone for coffee,” he grunts.
He raises a numb, weighted hand to rub at his eyes again, attempting to shake off the creeping fatigue. He tries to sit up straight, but his head falls back against the car seat with a muffled thud.
Pastor Jim is watching him closely from the driver’s seat. Over his shoulder, Dean sees the post office come and go as they rocket on down the highway.
“Hey, the-” Dean slurs. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, his thoughts fuzzy and distant. “Did you-?”
Dean struggles against the undertow. He’s aware, distantly, of a kind of creeping horror. He knows this feeling. He knows what this is.
“D’d you drug me?”
Pastor Jim’s face is a blur, his expression lost in Dean’s swirling vision.
“I’m sorry, Dean,” he says in a muffled voice. “But everything’s going to be alright, okay? I promise.”
Dean tries to focus, tries to will himself to grab for his gun, fight it, do something, but his body just won’t move. His head lolls back, and the car ceiling swims in front of his eyes, blackness creeping in at the edges.
“No,” he croaks. “Wh-? Don’t- S-”
“I’m sorry,” Pastor Jim repeats from somewhere very far away.
It’s the last thing Dean remembers.
Chapter 53