Fic: Punch Fourteen
So I've been writing and posting a lot of fic lately. Especially compared to the nothing I posted for almost a year! Mostly because I quit my job and wasn't working for a month. Well, my time is up. I started my new job yesterday. Which is good, right? That's a good thing... So I don't know if I'll have much time to write. But I'll try! Anyway, here's one last little micro-fic. It's all my brain (and gut) has been able to come up with in the way of a response to 6.06.
TITLE: Punch Fourteen
CHAR/PAIR: Dean, Gen
SPOILERS:6.06
WORDS: 600ish
RATING:PG13
A/N: This one is for everyone out there who got satisfaction out of watching Dean pummel his brother. Who believe he deserved it, like big time, and are maybe still fuming. I don’t intend to bash Sam here, only to capture what I think was going through Dean’s head at the end of 6.06. Still, if you’re feeling sorry for Sam right now, you might not want to read this. Oh, and yes, I counted.
SUMMARY: Dean lays every punch for a reason.
punch fourteen
One. For not expecting it. For the stupid sad look on Sam’s face, like he thinks after everything you’ll believe he’s sorry; you’ll eat more of his bullshit like it’s the only thing keeping you alive and he knows it. It’s not.
Two. For everything he’s ever hidden. For College applications and Honor Roll awards and busted ribs and porn and fucking psychic nightmares and Ruby and secret plans to save your life that never worked and blood and blood and blood and being alive and being a monster and still being your brother.
Three. For everything he’s still hiding and you don’t know what.
Four. For the night you cried so hard you started hyperventilating and freaked Lisa out so bad she started crying too. For being alive, smugly sharpening knives somewhere when it happened.
Five. For wanting you to have a family and a good life and be safe and normal. For making you try. For letting you taste it, letting you remember how good it feels. How warm.
Six. For ripping it all away. For showing up at your door. For not staying gone.
Seven. For making you hate yourself for wishing he’d stayed gone.
Eight. For being stronger and faster and better than you. For being the different one, the special one. The boy with the demon blood. For secretly loving it (you’ve suspected it for a long time). For thinking different means better.
Nine. For letting you feel needed. For humoring your insecurities. For watering them, and watching them grow. For being your reason to live. For being your reason to die. For liking it that way.
Ten. For the feeling of blood dripping down your throat in that back alley. For the searing pain in your head like ice-picks had been pierced through your eyes and eardrums and your blood had turned to hot lava. For not even feigning concern.
Eleven. For Christmas in Chicago at Lisa’s sister’s place and 8 inches of snow and the Shedd Aquarium and the Field Museum and even the damn Art Institute. For when you felt almost high sitting with Ben in the basement in Oak Park, watching A Christmas Story, eating Chex Mix, crumbs falling into the cracks of the old velour couch. For when you were an idiot and not thinking, called him Sammy.
Twelve. For the lies. So many lies that you don’t know up from down, and if you could think about it rationally, you’d know to never believe anything he says ever again. You’d help yourself, not him, and get the fuck away from him. But you won’t. And so the lies are yours now too.
Thirteen. For assuming you have nothing better to do than live this tragedy out over and over again, like Hamlet playing on a an endless run, the same show every night. For asking you for help. Again. For still not having figured out how to get it for himself. For proving Lisa right. For proving you wrong. For making you hate yourself. For making you sick with disgust from looking at your own brother.
Fourteen. For bringing out all the hatred and violence inside of you that means you can never have the things you want. For making you be like him. For making you do this.
TITLE: Punch Fourteen
CHAR/PAIR: Dean, Gen
SPOILERS:6.06
WORDS: 600ish
RATING:PG13
A/N: This one is for everyone out there who got satisfaction out of watching Dean pummel his brother. Who believe he deserved it, like big time, and are maybe still fuming. I don’t intend to bash Sam here, only to capture what I think was going through Dean’s head at the end of 6.06. Still, if you’re feeling sorry for Sam right now, you might not want to read this. Oh, and yes, I counted.
SUMMARY: Dean lays every punch for a reason.
punch fourteen
One. For not expecting it. For the stupid sad look on Sam’s face, like he thinks after everything you’ll believe he’s sorry; you’ll eat more of his bullshit like it’s the only thing keeping you alive and he knows it. It’s not.
Two. For everything he’s ever hidden. For College applications and Honor Roll awards and busted ribs and porn and fucking psychic nightmares and Ruby and secret plans to save your life that never worked and blood and blood and blood and being alive and being a monster and still being your brother.
Three. For everything he’s still hiding and you don’t know what.
Four. For the night you cried so hard you started hyperventilating and freaked Lisa out so bad she started crying too. For being alive, smugly sharpening knives somewhere when it happened.
Five. For wanting you to have a family and a good life and be safe and normal. For making you try. For letting you taste it, letting you remember how good it feels. How warm.
Six. For ripping it all away. For showing up at your door. For not staying gone.
Seven. For making you hate yourself for wishing he’d stayed gone.
Eight. For being stronger and faster and better than you. For being the different one, the special one. The boy with the demon blood. For secretly loving it (you’ve suspected it for a long time). For thinking different means better.
Nine. For letting you feel needed. For humoring your insecurities. For watering them, and watching them grow. For being your reason to live. For being your reason to die. For liking it that way.
Ten. For the feeling of blood dripping down your throat in that back alley. For the searing pain in your head like ice-picks had been pierced through your eyes and eardrums and your blood had turned to hot lava. For not even feigning concern.
Eleven. For Christmas in Chicago at Lisa’s sister’s place and 8 inches of snow and the Shedd Aquarium and the Field Museum and even the damn Art Institute. For when you felt almost high sitting with Ben in the basement in Oak Park, watching A Christmas Story, eating Chex Mix, crumbs falling into the cracks of the old velour couch. For when you were an idiot and not thinking, called him Sammy.
Twelve. For the lies. So many lies that you don’t know up from down, and if you could think about it rationally, you’d know to never believe anything he says ever again. You’d help yourself, not him, and get the fuck away from him. But you won’t. And so the lies are yours now too.
Thirteen. For assuming you have nothing better to do than live this tragedy out over and over again, like Hamlet playing on a an endless run, the same show every night. For asking you for help. Again. For still not having figured out how to get it for himself. For proving Lisa right. For proving you wrong. For making you hate yourself. For making you sick with disgust from looking at your own brother.
Fourteen. For bringing out all the hatred and violence inside of you that means you can never have the things you want. For making you be like him. For making you do this.