fic: Don't try to fight our Chicago luck
So yesterday was buffyaddict13's birthday and I wanted to write something for her but my writing-fu was broken and this morning it is still broken but I managed to cobble together some thoughts and scenes into what I hope is a story. I'm not quite sure it worked. Mostly this is self-indulgent something or other because I have thoughts about this season that will not leave my brain!
Beb. Uh, hope you like?
Don't try to fight our Chicago luck | post 4×07 | spn gen
Two days later and Sam is still pissed about the thing with the astronaut and Dean thinks that’s a little too fucking rich.
“Consider the fact that you were flaunting your demon crap in front of an angel with an itchy trigger finger or that another seal bites the dust and then tell me you’re still mad about the kid thing.” Dean is so aggravated that he can’t even stand listening to the radio, turns the volume down until the music is nothing but an indistinct murmur.
“He was just a little kid, Dean, and you called him fat.” Sam is giving Dean ‘The Look’, an expression that Dean is convinced was responsible for their father’s blood pressure issues. One part raised eyebrows, one part narrowed eyes and three parts sneer with a dash of moral high ground for flavour.
“Did I say that? No, I believe I said that he didn’t need any more candy. Which is pretty freaking accurate, don’t you think?”
“Maybe he has a thyroid problem, did you ever think of that?”
“Do you even hear yourself when you talk?” Dean is completely boggled by Sam’s refusal to shut the fuck up.
“Anyway, you’re one to talk about diet.” Sam mutters, sliding his bony ass further down the bench seat. Dean lets the comment bounce around between his ears for a few minutes before he admits that Sam actually said those words.
“What did you say?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing,” Sam has the audacity to smile and it takes every bit of self-restraint Dean possesses to keep from smacking the smarmy grin off of Sam’s face.
“Watch it,” Dean points a finger and spends the remaining three hours of the drive alternating between cursing Sam in his head and tightening his ab muscles.
o0o
Dean comes awake slowly, blinking in the darkness of the motel room for ten even heartbeats before he sees the shadow looming over Sam. His ankles twist in the bedsheets as he jackknifes into a sitting position, scrambling for the knife under his pillow as he pants around his tongue, suddenly too big and awkward in his mouth.
“Shh,” Castiel says. “You’ll wake him.”
Dean’s fingers clutch the handle of the knife, convulsing around the familiar curves of the wood.
Castiel is sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, knees turned in and almost touching Sam’s elbow where it rests on the mattress. Sam is on his back, face turned to the far wall and hips tilted awkwardly, angling his body towards the angel in the beige overcoat.
“Doesn’t,” Dean stops when he hears the tremor in his voice and clears his throat, tries again. “Doesn’t that poor schmuck have any other clothes?”
Castiel shrugs, a deliberate shifting of bone and muscle that doesn’t sit naturally.
“The garments are inconsequential,” he says and Dean watches as blunt fingertips stroke Sam’s hair off his brow.
“Don’t touch him,” Dean says, a shudder running through his body as Castiel continues to thread his fingertips through Sam’s hair. “Please,” he wets his lips. “Don’t hurt him.”
“I didn’t know,” Castiel murmurs.
“Didn’t know what?” Dean can feel hysteria bubbling up underneath his skin, wants to laugh or make a stupid joke, the kind that makes Sam scowl.
“The measure of your brother.” Castiel says. “Uriel believes we should kill him.”
“Yeah? Well you and your feathered fucking flock can go and-“
“I do not agree.” Castiel turns his head and looks at Dean. His eyes are shadowed but Dean can clearly see the way his palm is resting on Sam’s chest.
“You don’t,” Dean says finally. “What made you change your tune?”
“My eyes were opened and I saw.” Castiel says.
“Saw what?” Dean asks, voice hushed and leaning forward. “What did you see?”
“His soul,” Castiel stands suddenly, a rustle of clothes and soft footfalls and Dean closes his eyes, feels the weight of a palm on his head.
“And,” he chokes a little then, fists clenching in his lap and the cool metal of the knife resting on his knee. “It’s okay? It’s not all fucked up, or anything?”
“Sam has faith,” Castiel says.
“What does that even mean?” Dean opens his eyes, furious and frustrated and he knows before he blinks the moisture away that Castiel is gone, withholding fucker that he is.
Sam goes on sleeping, breaths quiet and soft, until Dean wakes him at eight o’clock by dumping the contents of his duffle bag on top of his head.
“Rise and shine,” Dean says.
He doesn’t stop thinking about it for days. Sam has faith. What the fuck does that mean?
o0o
Dean is losing patience with the hairpin turns and steep grades that come from driving in the Catskills. Tapping his fingertips against the steering wheel doesn’t really calm him down any, but it annoys Sam so it does make him feel a little better. The VW Jetta they’ve been stuck behind since goddamn Pennsylvania brakes every time the road turns downhill and Dean swears he can smell smoke coming from the brake pads. Dean tries to share the aggravation by launching into his usual speech about why only dumbasses ride the brakes, but Sam just keeps staring out the window, mooning at the leaves and “panoramic vistas.”
“Hey, I have an idea. Next time I’ll read the map and drive since you’re obviously unable to do the one thing you’ve been responsible for since you started reading without crossing your eyes.” Dean snaps when he sees the red lights on the Jetta’s tail blinking at him again.
“You said you didn’t want to go through New Jersey. You said you would kill someone, maybe me, if we went through the tolls on the Jersey turnpike again. You said you would break my arms if I ever directed you onto the Bronx Expressway again. You said-“
“If you ever navigate us through the Catskills again and we get stuck behind a fucking idiot in a German abomination again I will fucking throw you out the door while the car is in motion.” Dean supplies cheerfully.
“Thank you for proving my point,” Sam mumbles.
“Oh, I’m sorry, you had a point?” Dean says, taking great pains to widen his eyes innocently and blink excitedly in Sam’s direction.
“Are you having a seizure?” Sam curls his lip a little.
“Are we having a face off?” Dean asks.
“What?”
“You know, see who can make the most threatening face? Convey the most annoyance with facial tics?”
“Dean, stop,” Sam says.
“Aw, don’t be such a-“
“No, stop,”
Dean glances ahead and sees the rear bumper of the Jetta is getting alarmingly close.
“Fuck,” he plants both hands on the steering wheel and pushes down on the brake pedal. Hard. The wheels lock up, as he expects, and the whine of rubber against pavement builds as the car lurches, forward and back, and Sam hits the dashboard with enough force to make Dean wince.
“Hey, I have an idea,” Sam says snidely when Dean lets off the brake. “Next time I’ll drive so we don’t end up in a fucking accident.”
o0o
In Wal-Mart Sam is lingering in front of the cheap paperbooks; crime novels, spy novels, romance novels - they’re all cheesy and lame and Dean feels a little bit guilty that they don’t have time to hit a real bookstore. Since Dean, well, came back Sam hasn’t asked for much, mostly content to follow Dean’s lead as long as Dean remains in eyesight.
“Does anyone really still care about Russian spies?” Dean asks as he glances at the short description on an especially orange back cover. Sam shrugs, thumbing through the first ten pages of the latest John Sandford novel before tossing it in the blue shopping cart.
“I want yogurt,” Sam says. Dean rolls his eyes but heads in the direction of the dairy case anyway. He stares blankly at the packages of processed cheese while Sam examines the plastic containers for signs of loyalty to the Kaiser or aspartame or whatever it was that big-headed geeks looked for in their yogurt. Its a little bit zen, evidently too zen because Dean is just as surprised as Sam when he says “Do you think I’m an asshole?”
“What?” Sam is staring at Dean now, yogurt forgotten and Dean can feel the heat in his face as he tries to look casual.
“You know,” Dean shrugs. “Sometimes I think I might,” he stops then. Castiel’s words have been pinging around inside his head for weeks and every time Dean looks into Sam’s eyes he feels like a class A dick. Ever since he was a kid Sam was a bleeding heart do-gooder who rescued kittens and signed up as a tutor to legitimately help the cheerleader pass algebra and Sam has been struggling with the dangers of his psychic powers for years and Dean was gone and Sam was alone and now Dean can’t stop getting in Sam’s face, can’t stop doubting him and he knows how much that hurts Sam but he just can’t stop.
“Sometimes you think what?” Sam asks gently.
“That I might be an asshole,” Dean rubs the back of his neck and laughs. “You know, that ghost sickness thing really made me think,”
“That was weeks ago,” Sam says. “Have you been obsessing over that all this time?”
“What? No,” Dean taps the handle of the shopping cart. “Focus, Sammy. Pick your damned yogurt so we can get back to the room. There’s a Magnum P.I. marathon on tonight and if I miss one second of that glorious moustache I’ll kick your ass.”
Eight hours later Dean is stretched out on his bed and pretty much asleep. Tom Selleck is a blur on the TV screen in an ugly Hawaiian shirt. He snuffles a little when he feels the mattress shift beside him; Sam’s been quietly reading since the pizza arrived and Dean had assumed he’d fallen asleep, too.
“I didn’t realize it bothered you so much,” Sam says and for a long moment Dean is confused. Sam isn’t really looking at him, gaze fixed on the space above Dean’s head. “You’re not an asshole, Dean. I’m sorry I, well,” Sam’s throat works as he swallows. “I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I just got you back and that quick… I guess I thought if I made a joke about you being a dick it wouldn’t feel as serious. But, that was really selfish of me and I’m sorry.”
“Jesus Sam,” Dean groans and rubs his hand across his face.
“I wasn’t thinking about how-“
“I swear if you say the word feelings I will drop your ass on the floor,” Dean warns. Sam smiles then, small and sad and Dean wonders how he ever could have forgotten about Sam’s massive guilt complex.
“This is hard,” Sam says.
“What is?” Dean sits up, Sam is obviously in the mood to chat and he can forget about sleep until it passes.
“Everything,” Sam shrugs.
“Sam,”
“Its stupid but I thought that if we ever got you back that everything would be okay,” Sam says in a rush. “I thought… I thought I would be okay and everything would be like how it was before.”
“You are okay,” Dean says quickly.
“You said,” Sam does the hitching breath thing that always means tears and Dean remembers how much he hates it when Sam repeats things he’s said. “You said if you didn’t know me you’d hunt me. That’s not okay.”
Dean looks away. He can’t watch as Sam tries so hard not to cry.
“I didn’t mean it. Sam, I didn’t.”
“Yes you did. Things changed when you were gone and I tried so hard but it wasn’t enough and I thought I was doing the right thing and I never wanted-“
“Stop it,” Dean grabs Sam by the scruff of the neck and shakes him.
“I don’t even know myself anymore,” Sam sobs and Dean pulls him in, arms going across trembling shoulders until he can feel Sam’s damp face against his neck.
“I know you,” Dean says and he knows that it isn’t enough to make things better, it isn’t enough to stop the machine they’re caught in, but Sam sniffles a little and nods and takes a deep breath and it’s enough for right now.
Beb. Uh, hope you like?
Don't try to fight our Chicago luck | post 4×07 | spn gen
Two days later and Sam is still pissed about the thing with the astronaut and Dean thinks that’s a little too fucking rich.
“Consider the fact that you were flaunting your demon crap in front of an angel with an itchy trigger finger or that another seal bites the dust and then tell me you’re still mad about the kid thing.” Dean is so aggravated that he can’t even stand listening to the radio, turns the volume down until the music is nothing but an indistinct murmur.
“He was just a little kid, Dean, and you called him fat.” Sam is giving Dean ‘The Look’, an expression that Dean is convinced was responsible for their father’s blood pressure issues. One part raised eyebrows, one part narrowed eyes and three parts sneer with a dash of moral high ground for flavour.
“Did I say that? No, I believe I said that he didn’t need any more candy. Which is pretty freaking accurate, don’t you think?”
“Maybe he has a thyroid problem, did you ever think of that?”
“Do you even hear yourself when you talk?” Dean is completely boggled by Sam’s refusal to shut the fuck up.
“Anyway, you’re one to talk about diet.” Sam mutters, sliding his bony ass further down the bench seat. Dean lets the comment bounce around between his ears for a few minutes before he admits that Sam actually said those words.
“What did you say?”
“Hm? Oh, nothing,” Sam has the audacity to smile and it takes every bit of self-restraint Dean possesses to keep from smacking the smarmy grin off of Sam’s face.
“Watch it,” Dean points a finger and spends the remaining three hours of the drive alternating between cursing Sam in his head and tightening his ab muscles.
o0o
Dean comes awake slowly, blinking in the darkness of the motel room for ten even heartbeats before he sees the shadow looming over Sam. His ankles twist in the bedsheets as he jackknifes into a sitting position, scrambling for the knife under his pillow as he pants around his tongue, suddenly too big and awkward in his mouth.
“Shh,” Castiel says. “You’ll wake him.”
Dean’s fingers clutch the handle of the knife, convulsing around the familiar curves of the wood.
Castiel is sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, knees turned in and almost touching Sam’s elbow where it rests on the mattress. Sam is on his back, face turned to the far wall and hips tilted awkwardly, angling his body towards the angel in the beige overcoat.
“Doesn’t,” Dean stops when he hears the tremor in his voice and clears his throat, tries again. “Doesn’t that poor schmuck have any other clothes?”
Castiel shrugs, a deliberate shifting of bone and muscle that doesn’t sit naturally.
“The garments are inconsequential,” he says and Dean watches as blunt fingertips stroke Sam’s hair off his brow.
“Don’t touch him,” Dean says, a shudder running through his body as Castiel continues to thread his fingertips through Sam’s hair. “Please,” he wets his lips. “Don’t hurt him.”
“I didn’t know,” Castiel murmurs.
“Didn’t know what?” Dean can feel hysteria bubbling up underneath his skin, wants to laugh or make a stupid joke, the kind that makes Sam scowl.
“The measure of your brother.” Castiel says. “Uriel believes we should kill him.”
“Yeah? Well you and your feathered fucking flock can go and-“
“I do not agree.” Castiel turns his head and looks at Dean. His eyes are shadowed but Dean can clearly see the way his palm is resting on Sam’s chest.
“You don’t,” Dean says finally. “What made you change your tune?”
“My eyes were opened and I saw.” Castiel says.
“Saw what?” Dean asks, voice hushed and leaning forward. “What did you see?”
“His soul,” Castiel stands suddenly, a rustle of clothes and soft footfalls and Dean closes his eyes, feels the weight of a palm on his head.
“And,” he chokes a little then, fists clenching in his lap and the cool metal of the knife resting on his knee. “It’s okay? It’s not all fucked up, or anything?”
“Sam has faith,” Castiel says.
“What does that even mean?” Dean opens his eyes, furious and frustrated and he knows before he blinks the moisture away that Castiel is gone, withholding fucker that he is.
Sam goes on sleeping, breaths quiet and soft, until Dean wakes him at eight o’clock by dumping the contents of his duffle bag on top of his head.
“Rise and shine,” Dean says.
He doesn’t stop thinking about it for days. Sam has faith. What the fuck does that mean?
o0o
Dean is losing patience with the hairpin turns and steep grades that come from driving in the Catskills. Tapping his fingertips against the steering wheel doesn’t really calm him down any, but it annoys Sam so it does make him feel a little better. The VW Jetta they’ve been stuck behind since goddamn Pennsylvania brakes every time the road turns downhill and Dean swears he can smell smoke coming from the brake pads. Dean tries to share the aggravation by launching into his usual speech about why only dumbasses ride the brakes, but Sam just keeps staring out the window, mooning at the leaves and “panoramic vistas.”
“Hey, I have an idea. Next time I’ll read the map and drive since you’re obviously unable to do the one thing you’ve been responsible for since you started reading without crossing your eyes.” Dean snaps when he sees the red lights on the Jetta’s tail blinking at him again.
“You said you didn’t want to go through New Jersey. You said you would kill someone, maybe me, if we went through the tolls on the Jersey turnpike again. You said you would break my arms if I ever directed you onto the Bronx Expressway again. You said-“
“If you ever navigate us through the Catskills again and we get stuck behind a fucking idiot in a German abomination again I will fucking throw you out the door while the car is in motion.” Dean supplies cheerfully.
“Thank you for proving my point,” Sam mumbles.
“Oh, I’m sorry, you had a point?” Dean says, taking great pains to widen his eyes innocently and blink excitedly in Sam’s direction.
“Are you having a seizure?” Sam curls his lip a little.
“Are we having a face off?” Dean asks.
“What?”
“You know, see who can make the most threatening face? Convey the most annoyance with facial tics?”
“Dean, stop,” Sam says.
“Aw, don’t be such a-“
“No, stop,”
Dean glances ahead and sees the rear bumper of the Jetta is getting alarmingly close.
“Fuck,” he plants both hands on the steering wheel and pushes down on the brake pedal. Hard. The wheels lock up, as he expects, and the whine of rubber against pavement builds as the car lurches, forward and back, and Sam hits the dashboard with enough force to make Dean wince.
“Hey, I have an idea,” Sam says snidely when Dean lets off the brake. “Next time I’ll drive so we don’t end up in a fucking accident.”
o0o
In Wal-Mart Sam is lingering in front of the cheap paperbooks; crime novels, spy novels, romance novels - they’re all cheesy and lame and Dean feels a little bit guilty that they don’t have time to hit a real bookstore. Since Dean, well, came back Sam hasn’t asked for much, mostly content to follow Dean’s lead as long as Dean remains in eyesight.
“Does anyone really still care about Russian spies?” Dean asks as he glances at the short description on an especially orange back cover. Sam shrugs, thumbing through the first ten pages of the latest John Sandford novel before tossing it in the blue shopping cart.
“I want yogurt,” Sam says. Dean rolls his eyes but heads in the direction of the dairy case anyway. He stares blankly at the packages of processed cheese while Sam examines the plastic containers for signs of loyalty to the Kaiser or aspartame or whatever it was that big-headed geeks looked for in their yogurt. Its a little bit zen, evidently too zen because Dean is just as surprised as Sam when he says “Do you think I’m an asshole?”
“What?” Sam is staring at Dean now, yogurt forgotten and Dean can feel the heat in his face as he tries to look casual.
“You know,” Dean shrugs. “Sometimes I think I might,” he stops then. Castiel’s words have been pinging around inside his head for weeks and every time Dean looks into Sam’s eyes he feels like a class A dick. Ever since he was a kid Sam was a bleeding heart do-gooder who rescued kittens and signed up as a tutor to legitimately help the cheerleader pass algebra and Sam has been struggling with the dangers of his psychic powers for years and Dean was gone and Sam was alone and now Dean can’t stop getting in Sam’s face, can’t stop doubting him and he knows how much that hurts Sam but he just can’t stop.
“Sometimes you think what?” Sam asks gently.
“That I might be an asshole,” Dean rubs the back of his neck and laughs. “You know, that ghost sickness thing really made me think,”
“That was weeks ago,” Sam says. “Have you been obsessing over that all this time?”
“What? No,” Dean taps the handle of the shopping cart. “Focus, Sammy. Pick your damned yogurt so we can get back to the room. There’s a Magnum P.I. marathon on tonight and if I miss one second of that glorious moustache I’ll kick your ass.”
Eight hours later Dean is stretched out on his bed and pretty much asleep. Tom Selleck is a blur on the TV screen in an ugly Hawaiian shirt. He snuffles a little when he feels the mattress shift beside him; Sam’s been quietly reading since the pizza arrived and Dean had assumed he’d fallen asleep, too.
“I didn’t realize it bothered you so much,” Sam says and for a long moment Dean is confused. Sam isn’t really looking at him, gaze fixed on the space above Dean’s head. “You’re not an asshole, Dean. I’m sorry I, well,” Sam’s throat works as he swallows. “I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I just got you back and that quick… I guess I thought if I made a joke about you being a dick it wouldn’t feel as serious. But, that was really selfish of me and I’m sorry.”
“Jesus Sam,” Dean groans and rubs his hand across his face.
“I wasn’t thinking about how-“
“I swear if you say the word feelings I will drop your ass on the floor,” Dean warns. Sam smiles then, small and sad and Dean wonders how he ever could have forgotten about Sam’s massive guilt complex.
“This is hard,” Sam says.
“What is?” Dean sits up, Sam is obviously in the mood to chat and he can forget about sleep until it passes.
“Everything,” Sam shrugs.
“Sam,”
“Its stupid but I thought that if we ever got you back that everything would be okay,” Sam says in a rush. “I thought… I thought I would be okay and everything would be like how it was before.”
“You are okay,” Dean says quickly.
“You said,” Sam does the hitching breath thing that always means tears and Dean remembers how much he hates it when Sam repeats things he’s said. “You said if you didn’t know me you’d hunt me. That’s not okay.”
Dean looks away. He can’t watch as Sam tries so hard not to cry.
“I didn’t mean it. Sam, I didn’t.”
“Yes you did. Things changed when you were gone and I tried so hard but it wasn’t enough and I thought I was doing the right thing and I never wanted-“
“Stop it,” Dean grabs Sam by the scruff of the neck and shakes him.
“I don’t even know myself anymore,” Sam sobs and Dean pulls him in, arms going across trembling shoulders until he can feel Sam’s damp face against his neck.
“I know you,” Dean says and he knows that it isn’t enough to make things better, it isn’t enough to stop the machine they’re caught in, but Sam sniffles a little and nods and takes a deep breath and it’s enough for right now.