fic: the taste of saints
Alright, so here's the MoD ficlet I've been talking about. Dean's POV is just so much easier to handle, when writing in this 'verse. I guess for all the angst, his is still the least intense perspective (ahahaha, maybe I should try my hand at a John-POV :\ ). Anyway, I'm posting to my journal now, but'll wait to post to...ohsam?...later today ;D Once again, read through done by taylor_serenil, despite RL being a beast on her end.
In lame news: I've been experiencing a rash of awkward and weirdly traumatizing freak accidents. The latest? I sliced open my left ring finger on a container of greek yogurt while making apple slaw, today. The foil closing the container was like freakin' razors, idek, but it is so very painful. THIS IS MY LIFE :C. Now for the moment everyone's been waiting for (...*snerk*...):
OMGWTF: DEALS WITH EATING DISORDERS (okay, indirectly and pretty vaguely, mostly, for this ficlet, but still); Dean-POV; gen; angst out the whazoo; preseries; apparently, more dick!John (seriously, it was rather unintentional, I'll be honest. I was just trying to present what I thought John could react like, given this situation).
required reading: Mouths of Decadence and the fruit of the melancholy tree. (this fic takes place well after forget the ills but it's not really necessary to read that in order to understand this)
the taste of saints
He doesn't even have to really look at the package in his hands. Dean can tell from just the shape of it what it'll be. The "Stanford University" emblazoned all over the fuckin' thing would clear anything up, though, if he was in the least confused.
"Christ," he mutters, and can't really name why he glares at Sam's carefully made bed like it's his little brother.
**
The envelope's like a fuckin timebomb, now. He doesn't say anything about it and Sam doesn't, either. But they both know. Sam had left it half tucked under Dean's pillow.
They know.
Dean's stomach twists on itself, chronic acid lurking at the back of his throat, and it's about all he can do to force down the food he cooks. He gets to glare Sam into eating, and that's maybe the one upside to it all.
I can wait, bitch, he thinks when he catches Sam's eye-blink glance in his direction. He won't crack first. This is Sam's shit, and Sam can damn well grow a pair and at least act like.
Like he's leaving.
**
The first time Dean leaves Sam to go on a hunt with John, he's a wreck. Sam is a wreck - already thinner, already sick after just a few days being alone, and Dean's left trying to pick up the pieces. Failing, maybe, but he tries.
It's two years before he tries it again. Sam's sixteen now; more on his feet, more stable, and there's a pack of yeth hounds scaring the shit out of a town in Minnesota. Not dangerous, really, just tedious, especially in a pack of this size.
Dean goes, helps clear the pack out, helps make midnight strolls through the town's hiking trail safe again. Stupid, maybe, but safe from any supernatural shit.
Ten minutes from their most current rental and Dean's afraid his heart's gonna wear itself out with adrenaline charged beats. He can hear it pounding in his ears, can feel it echo in his finger tips where they're wrapped around the steering wheel.
Sam's fine.
Sam is...clear eyed, clean, smirking gently like he knows just how bad Dean was freaking out. Dean's little brother did it. Quick check of the garbage can, and the trashed bits were tossed carelessly. Perfect amount - not too much, not too little; nothing to let Dean know that Sam had debated what to add, how to toss it.
Fuck, but Dean's life really did take a turn for the bizarre.
But Sam managed, and Sam's happy and easygoing. He doesn't need Dean, and that's when Dean gets it. Really gets it, and realizes that Sam could have his normal. He could have the life he's wanted, but thought he couldn't have. The one that makes his face shut down and his eyes go dark every time they pass the 'burbs on their way out of town.
In bed, later, his body aches from running and jumping. His head throbs from driving and too much research, and he hears Sam's half-snores, counts each noise, each toss and turn.
Sam's healthy, or close enough, and Dean's left wishing for scared Sam, for something, anything, that could make his brother stay.
**
He wants to bash his head into the tree trunk he's leaning against when Sam finally says something. The conversation actually took longer to have than Dean'd thought it would. Honestly? He'd imagined Sam eaten up with the need to blurt everything out, imagined brushing it all aside just as soon as his brother opened his mouth.
He didn't imagine the anger bubbling up, didn't imagine being the one to practically scream, why? like a scorned girlfriend. Didn't imagine Sam's forced silence and his brother's own anger in the tense jaw and clenched fists.
Probably he should have.
Sam says, "I have to do this. I want to do this."
It'd be easy, too fuckin easy, to say, and me? Think I wanted to spend my life counting meals? Counting every fuckin bite you took? Telling you when to eat and when you could stop like you were a fuckin baby? Never asked what I wanted, did you?
And he can almost hear Sam's response: I never asked you to do any of that, either. It was you; it was always you.
"You would've died." It's a reply to the conversation in his head, but he sees Sam flinch. Anger and shame, Dean thinks, and then welcome to it.
But Dean's known. He's always known that it would come down to this.
**
He doesn't keep track of the envelope after Sam leaves it for him to find. When he next goes into their room, it's gone. Sam must have swooped in and taken it back. Dean hadn't really given it a lot of thought.
Apparently, Sam sent it John's way.
Dean knows that if Sam's serious, John has to know. There's no way in the world they'd ever be able to pull it off under his nose. John's not home more, but when he is he's sharp. Watching. And even he'd know if one of his kids just up and disappeared one day.
But Dean could wish that Sam had told him when he was gonna tell John. He's pretty sure there's a better way than plopping the probably by now tattered envelope onto their dad's lap and saying, "here." Which Dean can totally see Sam doing, and by the sheer volume of John's yells, is what Sam probably did do.
Maybe he's a coward, maybe he's just too tired to deal with all this, but he waits. He waits until the screams quiet down, the sound of harsh footsteps stop.
Just - waits. Wanting the day to be over, but he's not stupid enough to think tomorrow's going to be any better. It'll maybe be different, though, which would be plenty enough for Dean.
He hears, "if you leave, don't bother coming back." He knows John's serious. The man loves making those sweeping, dramatic statements. He loves torturing himself when he has to live up to them.
The door slams. Dean starts packing clothes and money, riffling through Sam's things to find the paperwork for Stanford, everything Dean thinks is important. The rest'll go into storage, so Dean can get to it, but it's better - quicker - if he doesn't miss anything.
He stays upstairs for a long time. Wonders if Sam has a place to stay, if he'll get something to eat, if he'll actually eat it. I'm not his mom, Dean thinks, when he catches himself pacing, fingers tangling and pulling at his hair. He's eighteen, for chrissakes.
He takes the hurriedly packed bags and heads for the steps.
**
"Let him go." Dean turns, and John's standing in the doorway, like some fuckin creepy ass serial killer - half blacked out with shadow, other half barely visible because of his dark shirt and dark pants. "It's not our job to keep lookin after him."
Dean's not angry, looking at his dad, but he can see the stranger that Sam's grown up with. He wants to say, if not us, then who? We're his family. He thinks, I am. I am, at least. But he knows John's never been comfortable dealing with Sam's issues. It's not a guy-thing. It's not a hunter-thing, or anything else John could maybe relate to.
What Sam's going through is something all those rich kids do to fit in; it's something weak. And his dad can't even handle the fuckin thought. Can't handle the fact that Sam failed him and his stupid goals. Or maybe what John can't handle is that he never really cared to notice when Sam could barely get up to go running, or do target practice. The same man Dean remembers swinging Sam and his teddy up in the air just to get a smile from a hissy fit, and now he couldn't even see when his son was close to dying.
Dean wants to say, it's because of you. He has a feeling John already knows.
John's words echo in his head. Let him go. Let him go. Lethimgolethimgolethimgo. Maybe, Dean concedes. He can call up Sam's face, tired and hurting with things Dean barely understands. Not wounds, never anything from hunting, because Dean would know, would be right there putting a stop to it. No, something else, that only comes when John's around, when there's screaming and yelling, or deadly silence. When there's no escaping the hesitation and tension over every meal.
Christ, Dean thinks. It's not hunting that's driving Sam away - miles and miles and a whole lifetime away - it's them. Them. John and Dean and everything they are that's like a scabbed over mess, cracking open and making Sam sick.
The bags drop by the archway; he stumbles a step, two, back. Closer to John's quiet presence, away from the door and the car and everything he'll have to do to make sure Sam can leave.
"Yeah," he says, and he nods with the words, trying to convince himself of the truth. Of what's happening. "We'll let him go."
Next in this 'verse: Sam/Jess Stanford era fic the hunger never ends.
In lame news: I've been experiencing a rash of awkward and weirdly traumatizing freak accidents. The latest? I sliced open my left ring finger on a container of greek yogurt while making apple slaw, today. The foil closing the container was like freakin' razors, idek, but it is so very painful. THIS IS MY LIFE :C. Now for the moment everyone's been waiting for (...*snerk*...):
OMGWTF: DEALS WITH EATING DISORDERS (okay, indirectly and pretty vaguely, mostly, for this ficlet, but still); Dean-POV; gen; angst out the whazoo; preseries; apparently, more dick!John (seriously, it was rather unintentional, I'll be honest. I was just trying to present what I thought John could react like, given this situation).
required reading: Mouths of Decadence and the fruit of the melancholy tree. (this fic takes place well after forget the ills but it's not really necessary to read that in order to understand this)
the taste of saints
He doesn't even have to really look at the package in his hands. Dean can tell from just the shape of it what it'll be. The "Stanford University" emblazoned all over the fuckin' thing would clear anything up, though, if he was in the least confused.
"Christ," he mutters, and can't really name why he glares at Sam's carefully made bed like it's his little brother.
**
The envelope's like a fuckin timebomb, now. He doesn't say anything about it and Sam doesn't, either. But they both know. Sam had left it half tucked under Dean's pillow.
They know.
Dean's stomach twists on itself, chronic acid lurking at the back of his throat, and it's about all he can do to force down the food he cooks. He gets to glare Sam into eating, and that's maybe the one upside to it all.
I can wait, bitch, he thinks when he catches Sam's eye-blink glance in his direction. He won't crack first. This is Sam's shit, and Sam can damn well grow a pair and at least act like.
Like he's leaving.
**
The first time Dean leaves Sam to go on a hunt with John, he's a wreck. Sam is a wreck - already thinner, already sick after just a few days being alone, and Dean's left trying to pick up the pieces. Failing, maybe, but he tries.
It's two years before he tries it again. Sam's sixteen now; more on his feet, more stable, and there's a pack of yeth hounds scaring the shit out of a town in Minnesota. Not dangerous, really, just tedious, especially in a pack of this size.
Dean goes, helps clear the pack out, helps make midnight strolls through the town's hiking trail safe again. Stupid, maybe, but safe from any supernatural shit.
Ten minutes from their most current rental and Dean's afraid his heart's gonna wear itself out with adrenaline charged beats. He can hear it pounding in his ears, can feel it echo in his finger tips where they're wrapped around the steering wheel.
Sam's fine.
Sam is...clear eyed, clean, smirking gently like he knows just how bad Dean was freaking out. Dean's little brother did it. Quick check of the garbage can, and the trashed bits were tossed carelessly. Perfect amount - not too much, not too little; nothing to let Dean know that Sam had debated what to add, how to toss it.
Fuck, but Dean's life really did take a turn for the bizarre.
But Sam managed, and Sam's happy and easygoing. He doesn't need Dean, and that's when Dean gets it. Really gets it, and realizes that Sam could have his normal. He could have the life he's wanted, but thought he couldn't have. The one that makes his face shut down and his eyes go dark every time they pass the 'burbs on their way out of town.
In bed, later, his body aches from running and jumping. His head throbs from driving and too much research, and he hears Sam's half-snores, counts each noise, each toss and turn.
Sam's healthy, or close enough, and Dean's left wishing for scared Sam, for something, anything, that could make his brother stay.
**
He wants to bash his head into the tree trunk he's leaning against when Sam finally says something. The conversation actually took longer to have than Dean'd thought it would. Honestly? He'd imagined Sam eaten up with the need to blurt everything out, imagined brushing it all aside just as soon as his brother opened his mouth.
He didn't imagine the anger bubbling up, didn't imagine being the one to practically scream, why? like a scorned girlfriend. Didn't imagine Sam's forced silence and his brother's own anger in the tense jaw and clenched fists.
Probably he should have.
Sam says, "I have to do this. I want to do this."
It'd be easy, too fuckin easy, to say, and me? Think I wanted to spend my life counting meals? Counting every fuckin bite you took? Telling you when to eat and when you could stop like you were a fuckin baby? Never asked what I wanted, did you?
And he can almost hear Sam's response: I never asked you to do any of that, either. It was you; it was always you.
"You would've died." It's a reply to the conversation in his head, but he sees Sam flinch. Anger and shame, Dean thinks, and then welcome to it.
But Dean's known. He's always known that it would come down to this.
**
He doesn't keep track of the envelope after Sam leaves it for him to find. When he next goes into their room, it's gone. Sam must have swooped in and taken it back. Dean hadn't really given it a lot of thought.
Apparently, Sam sent it John's way.
Dean knows that if Sam's serious, John has to know. There's no way in the world they'd ever be able to pull it off under his nose. John's not home more, but when he is he's sharp. Watching. And even he'd know if one of his kids just up and disappeared one day.
But Dean could wish that Sam had told him when he was gonna tell John. He's pretty sure there's a better way than plopping the probably by now tattered envelope onto their dad's lap and saying, "here." Which Dean can totally see Sam doing, and by the sheer volume of John's yells, is what Sam probably did do.
Maybe he's a coward, maybe he's just too tired to deal with all this, but he waits. He waits until the screams quiet down, the sound of harsh footsteps stop.
Just - waits. Wanting the day to be over, but he's not stupid enough to think tomorrow's going to be any better. It'll maybe be different, though, which would be plenty enough for Dean.
He hears, "if you leave, don't bother coming back." He knows John's serious. The man loves making those sweeping, dramatic statements. He loves torturing himself when he has to live up to them.
The door slams. Dean starts packing clothes and money, riffling through Sam's things to find the paperwork for Stanford, everything Dean thinks is important. The rest'll go into storage, so Dean can get to it, but it's better - quicker - if he doesn't miss anything.
He stays upstairs for a long time. Wonders if Sam has a place to stay, if he'll get something to eat, if he'll actually eat it. I'm not his mom, Dean thinks, when he catches himself pacing, fingers tangling and pulling at his hair. He's eighteen, for chrissakes.
He takes the hurriedly packed bags and heads for the steps.
**
"Let him go." Dean turns, and John's standing in the doorway, like some fuckin creepy ass serial killer - half blacked out with shadow, other half barely visible because of his dark shirt and dark pants. "It's not our job to keep lookin after him."
Dean's not angry, looking at his dad, but he can see the stranger that Sam's grown up with. He wants to say, if not us, then who? We're his family. He thinks, I am. I am, at least. But he knows John's never been comfortable dealing with Sam's issues. It's not a guy-thing. It's not a hunter-thing, or anything else John could maybe relate to.
What Sam's going through is something all those rich kids do to fit in; it's something weak. And his dad can't even handle the fuckin thought. Can't handle the fact that Sam failed him and his stupid goals. Or maybe what John can't handle is that he never really cared to notice when Sam could barely get up to go running, or do target practice. The same man Dean remembers swinging Sam and his teddy up in the air just to get a smile from a hissy fit, and now he couldn't even see when his son was close to dying.
Dean wants to say, it's because of you. He has a feeling John already knows.
John's words echo in his head. Let him go. Let him go. Lethimgolethimgolethimgo. Maybe, Dean concedes. He can call up Sam's face, tired and hurting with things Dean barely understands. Not wounds, never anything from hunting, because Dean would know, would be right there putting a stop to it. No, something else, that only comes when John's around, when there's screaming and yelling, or deadly silence. When there's no escaping the hesitation and tension over every meal.
Christ, Dean thinks. It's not hunting that's driving Sam away - miles and miles and a whole lifetime away - it's them. Them. John and Dean and everything they are that's like a scabbed over mess, cracking open and making Sam sick.
The bags drop by the archway; he stumbles a step, two, back. Closer to John's quiet presence, away from the door and the car and everything he'll have to do to make sure Sam can leave.
"Yeah," he says, and he nods with the words, trying to convince himself of the truth. Of what's happening. "We'll let him go."
Next in this 'verse: Sam/Jess Stanford era fic the hunger never ends.