Hands and feet chapter 1
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Title taken from the quote, "brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet." This will probably end up being three parts. I've finished the second already, and plan on starting the third tomorrow. It could end up being four, though, you know how muses are. Untamable little suckers lol. I was having trouble finding inspiration for a hurt Sam fic, but then I was like, "Jenna, just write what you like. There's nothing wrong with that, other people like the same things, so just write what you like." So, you know what, I took my own advice haha. And voila, this bunny was born. Set in early season two (oh the angst) from Sam's first person POV (which is new for me, but quite refreshing). This is a pre thank you to all readers, and the loyal reviewers whom I adore happy reading! P.S. I love both boys, but as this is from Sam's point of view, Dean may come across as insensitive, but they are both hurting and are both dealing with John's death. He will redeem himself, though, I promise!
-punkin
Part 1:
It's not that I begrudge him for finding an outlet for all that emotion he keeps built up inside like it's his damn job. I swear it's not that at all.
It's the fact that watching him sleep off a hangover is pretty much par for the course ever since dad…well, you know.
What really gets me is that Dean can be so content with getting himself shit faced and throwing himself into an unwarranted bar fight without even a cursory glance in my direction, while I silently freak out and lose my mind over every little thing he does now a days. He says he's fine, though, like I should take every word that comes out of his mouth at face value and follow it like the god damn bible. 'Winchester gospel', like that would ever happen…
In fact, he says he's fine so often I don't even ask anymore. "That's what you're head stone is going to say," I want to tell him, "Why are you staring? Can't you see that I'm fine?" Sometimes I don't even look at him and suddenly he's riding my ass telling me to stop riding his. Which I'm not, by the way. Not any more than is necessary to keep him from throwing himself over the edge.
Don't get me wrong, I get it, I really do. You've no idea, actually, how much I get that I'm not wanted right now. AT ALL. I get that maybe I'm hurting Dean as much as I'm helping him, perhaps even more than I'm helping because a fat lot of good I've done so far.
All I've accomplished since Dad…well, you know….anyway, all I've done is manage to prove myself so transparent that Dean called me on it (because who am I kidding? I'm a terrible son, always have been, and just because dad is…well, I just can't change that fact and I can't make things right now that he's gone. Too little, too late), and then, I go and dump more of my stupid issues on my brother and drive him into beating the living daylights out of the Impala. Next time, I'm sure it's going to be my face that gets caught in the cross fires…not that I don't deserve it. At this point I'll take anything from Dean that illustrates he still has emotions towards me, even if they're all on the rather negative side.
All of this is just more things to add to my never ending list of failures, right? 'Sammy's book of screw ups', that's what they'll call my memoir. Couldn't save Jess, couldn't save Max, couldn't save that poor possessed girl, Meg, couldn't save countless others in between and couldn't even save…Dad. Each and every one of their deaths, I know they're my fault.
Dean's made it all too clear that he knows Dad's death is my fault as well. But I can't leave; I can't run from this mess I've created. I owe it to my brother to help him through this, whether he wants me to or not. He's all I've got left, and I'm afraid, more than anything am I afraid, that when it all comes down to it, I won't be able to save him either.
I've seen Dean angry in the past; I've seen Dean angry at me before too, but this rage he's emanating of late? This desperate, forever present wrath simmering just below the surface, coiled to strike? It's brand spanking new, and downright terrifying. It's bred from a wild and reckless part of my older brother, a part of him that does not heed to morals, to family, or to personal well being. It's like a parasite that's latched on and Dean is just handing over the reins.
I wonder if he realizes how late he's sleeping. I've been sitting here for hours now, had been sitting all night, waiting for Dean to return from his bar of choice. He'd stumbled in around three A.M., at which point I'd helped him over to his bed, even after he swatted away my assisting hands. Couldn't really blame him, though, he was considerably intoxicated and if the bruises on his knuckles were anything to go by, he'd dealt with some sore losers at the pool table. Much to my chagrin, and blatant disapproval, Dean had been making his hustling a good deal more obvious than customary lately, so I barely bat an eye lash when I have to deal with angry bar patrons demanding their money back. Somehow, I always take care of it before it gets ugly, unbeknownst to Dean. He'd just try and pick another fight, of course. I see no reason to pander to his sudden need to be bloody and scary all of the time.
God, what I'd do for a smile…a genuine one, the one he used to give me after affectionately insulting me. Does that sound weird? Selfish? As per usual…I've always been the selfish one.
I know it's not healthy to be foregoing sleep like this, especially just to keep an eye on my dead to the world, hangover plagued sibling. The truth is sleep hasn't been very amenable to me ever since the crash. Moreover, my dreams haven't either. If it's not Dad I watch burning on the ceiling, its Jess. If it's not Jess, it's Dean. I know this is my guilty conscious working over time. Dean always said I couldn't do anything half assed. They tell me the same things over and over again…things I already know and remind myself of every second of every damn day. I bring death and misery with me everywhere I go and to everyone I meet. That's what's going to be on my head stone, "Don't get too close, you might die." Maybe I'll make a T-shirt.
I've cleaned the weapons twice now, straightened the room three times, and researched countless possible hunts (not that I'm about to put them on Dean's radar, considering where his head is). When I was hanging the towels up in the bathroom, I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror, an act I'm usually pretty good at avoiding. Let's just say I look about as good as I feel. My stomach aches at the thought that normally, Dean would be strapping me down to a bed and practically chewing my food for me if I looked this worn out. I guess it's time to at last throw my last definition of 'normal' out the window, huh? Shouldn't be this hard…
The only thing left I can think of doing is the laundry, because I've just got to do something. Watching the puddle of drool form on Dean's pillow is less than entertaining and more than a little saddening. Even though I'm certain he won't be awaking any time soon, I leave a note anyway, a part of me hoping that if he were to stir and find me gone, he'd still be concerned. I leave a bottle of pain killers and a glass of water beside his head on the side table, in easy reach in case they're needed in my absence. There are donuts, too, but I doubt Dean will be up for much eating. Nonetheless, sometimes the sentiment cheers him up. Or maybe it just reminds him of my unwanted presence…
I leave like a fire's lit under my ass, arms full with our duffel bags of dirty clothes. I should have been paying closer attention to who might have been waiting for one of us in the parking lot, I should have grabbed my gun from my bed, I should have been more prepared. But once again, another famous Sammy screw up, because honestly, I can't even do the laundry without landing myself in trouble. And that is exactly why I manage to get everyone killed. I don't have much time to contemplate all of my prominent short comings (because trust me, you do need time) before something hard slams into the back of my skull.
White splashes across my vision, Dean's duffle falling from my numb, unfeeling fingers. My knees buckle but before I can fall, strong, unyielding hands keep me from toppling and instead ruthlessly pin me back against the adjacent wall. Dean is so going to kill me…assuming my attacker doesn't do him the favor first.
TBC… chapter two here: http://jpunkin.livejournal.com/1661.html
I really enjoyed doing this from Sam's POV, it was more like I was talking to the reader rather than telling a story, so it was a fun change
Title taken from the quote, "brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet." This will probably end up being three parts. I've finished the second already, and plan on starting the third tomorrow. It could end up being four, though, you know how muses are. Untamable little suckers lol. I was having trouble finding inspiration for a hurt Sam fic, but then I was like, "Jenna, just write what you like. There's nothing wrong with that, other people like the same things, so just write what you like." So, you know what, I took my own advice haha. And voila, this bunny was born. Set in early season two (oh the angst) from Sam's first person POV (which is new for me, but quite refreshing). This is a pre thank you to all readers, and the loyal reviewers whom I adore happy reading! P.S. I love both boys, but as this is from Sam's point of view, Dean may come across as insensitive, but they are both hurting and are both dealing with John's death. He will redeem himself, though, I promise!
-punkin
Part 1:
It's not that I begrudge him for finding an outlet for all that emotion he keeps built up inside like it's his damn job. I swear it's not that at all.
It's the fact that watching him sleep off a hangover is pretty much par for the course ever since dad…well, you know.
What really gets me is that Dean can be so content with getting himself shit faced and throwing himself into an unwarranted bar fight without even a cursory glance in my direction, while I silently freak out and lose my mind over every little thing he does now a days. He says he's fine, though, like I should take every word that comes out of his mouth at face value and follow it like the god damn bible. 'Winchester gospel', like that would ever happen…
In fact, he says he's fine so often I don't even ask anymore. "That's what you're head stone is going to say," I want to tell him, "Why are you staring? Can't you see that I'm fine?" Sometimes I don't even look at him and suddenly he's riding my ass telling me to stop riding his. Which I'm not, by the way. Not any more than is necessary to keep him from throwing himself over the edge.
Don't get me wrong, I get it, I really do. You've no idea, actually, how much I get that I'm not wanted right now. AT ALL. I get that maybe I'm hurting Dean as much as I'm helping him, perhaps even more than I'm helping because a fat lot of good I've done so far.
All I've accomplished since Dad…well, you know….anyway, all I've done is manage to prove myself so transparent that Dean called me on it (because who am I kidding? I'm a terrible son, always have been, and just because dad is…well, I just can't change that fact and I can't make things right now that he's gone. Too little, too late), and then, I go and dump more of my stupid issues on my brother and drive him into beating the living daylights out of the Impala. Next time, I'm sure it's going to be my face that gets caught in the cross fires…not that I don't deserve it. At this point I'll take anything from Dean that illustrates he still has emotions towards me, even if they're all on the rather negative side.
All of this is just more things to add to my never ending list of failures, right? 'Sammy's book of screw ups', that's what they'll call my memoir. Couldn't save Jess, couldn't save Max, couldn't save that poor possessed girl, Meg, couldn't save countless others in between and couldn't even save…Dad. Each and every one of their deaths, I know they're my fault.
Dean's made it all too clear that he knows Dad's death is my fault as well. But I can't leave; I can't run from this mess I've created. I owe it to my brother to help him through this, whether he wants me to or not. He's all I've got left, and I'm afraid, more than anything am I afraid, that when it all comes down to it, I won't be able to save him either.
I've seen Dean angry in the past; I've seen Dean angry at me before too, but this rage he's emanating of late? This desperate, forever present wrath simmering just below the surface, coiled to strike? It's brand spanking new, and downright terrifying. It's bred from a wild and reckless part of my older brother, a part of him that does not heed to morals, to family, or to personal well being. It's like a parasite that's latched on and Dean is just handing over the reins.
I wonder if he realizes how late he's sleeping. I've been sitting here for hours now, had been sitting all night, waiting for Dean to return from his bar of choice. He'd stumbled in around three A.M., at which point I'd helped him over to his bed, even after he swatted away my assisting hands. Couldn't really blame him, though, he was considerably intoxicated and if the bruises on his knuckles were anything to go by, he'd dealt with some sore losers at the pool table. Much to my chagrin, and blatant disapproval, Dean had been making his hustling a good deal more obvious than customary lately, so I barely bat an eye lash when I have to deal with angry bar patrons demanding their money back. Somehow, I always take care of it before it gets ugly, unbeknownst to Dean. He'd just try and pick another fight, of course. I see no reason to pander to his sudden need to be bloody and scary all of the time.
God, what I'd do for a smile…a genuine one, the one he used to give me after affectionately insulting me. Does that sound weird? Selfish? As per usual…I've always been the selfish one.
I know it's not healthy to be foregoing sleep like this, especially just to keep an eye on my dead to the world, hangover plagued sibling. The truth is sleep hasn't been very amenable to me ever since the crash. Moreover, my dreams haven't either. If it's not Dad I watch burning on the ceiling, its Jess. If it's not Jess, it's Dean. I know this is my guilty conscious working over time. Dean always said I couldn't do anything half assed. They tell me the same things over and over again…things I already know and remind myself of every second of every damn day. I bring death and misery with me everywhere I go and to everyone I meet. That's what's going to be on my head stone, "Don't get too close, you might die." Maybe I'll make a T-shirt.
I've cleaned the weapons twice now, straightened the room three times, and researched countless possible hunts (not that I'm about to put them on Dean's radar, considering where his head is). When I was hanging the towels up in the bathroom, I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror, an act I'm usually pretty good at avoiding. Let's just say I look about as good as I feel. My stomach aches at the thought that normally, Dean would be strapping me down to a bed and practically chewing my food for me if I looked this worn out. I guess it's time to at last throw my last definition of 'normal' out the window, huh? Shouldn't be this hard…
The only thing left I can think of doing is the laundry, because I've just got to do something. Watching the puddle of drool form on Dean's pillow is less than entertaining and more than a little saddening. Even though I'm certain he won't be awaking any time soon, I leave a note anyway, a part of me hoping that if he were to stir and find me gone, he'd still be concerned. I leave a bottle of pain killers and a glass of water beside his head on the side table, in easy reach in case they're needed in my absence. There are donuts, too, but I doubt Dean will be up for much eating. Nonetheless, sometimes the sentiment cheers him up. Or maybe it just reminds him of my unwanted presence…
I leave like a fire's lit under my ass, arms full with our duffel bags of dirty clothes. I should have been paying closer attention to who might have been waiting for one of us in the parking lot, I should have grabbed my gun from my bed, I should have been more prepared. But once again, another famous Sammy screw up, because honestly, I can't even do the laundry without landing myself in trouble. And that is exactly why I manage to get everyone killed. I don't have much time to contemplate all of my prominent short comings (because trust me, you do need time) before something hard slams into the back of my skull.
White splashes across my vision, Dean's duffle falling from my numb, unfeeling fingers. My knees buckle but before I can fall, strong, unyielding hands keep me from toppling and instead ruthlessly pin me back against the adjacent wall. Dean is so going to kill me…assuming my attacker doesn't do him the favor first.
TBC… chapter two here: http://jpunkin.livejournal.com/1661.html
I really enjoyed doing this from Sam's POV, it was more like I was talking to the reader rather than telling a story, so it was a fun change