brother, how we must atone (before we turn to stone) [spn][one-shot]
Title: brother, how we must atone (before we turn to stone)
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1800
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “Dude was talking ‘bout his brother. Some druggie.” And yeah, there’s that wonderful twisting feeling in Sam’s stomach.
Notes: Title from here. Set a few weeks post 5x10.
The roads are almost empty, this time of night.
The neon-green light of the LCD clock glows in the dark, reads 2:30. Sam eyes a pair of headlights in the rearview mirror, watches as they turn and disappear from view. The Impala’s the only car around, as far as Sam can see, which isn’t very far at all, truth be told. He’s driving through quiet neighborhoods, using back roads instead of the main streets, because he’s got the keys and it’s his foot on the pedal and the roads this night are his to use. They pass small houses, patchy paint and fly-strips waving like flags in the breeze, cracked tarmac under the car’s wheels, trees rubbing elbows with the moon.
The radio’s on low, some random station counting down the top twenty indie rock songs, deep soothing voice in between music. Car engine’s rumbling calmly, a hum that rises though Sam’s feet, runs right through to his chest. Sam can smell alcohol on the air, a result of Dean being drunk off his ass. He’s melted into the passenger seat, loose and relaxed like he rarely is these days. His face is pressed to the glass, his eyes up, mouth open a little bit. Every breath he lets out fogs up the glass. Sam thinks he’s looking for stars. Stars entrance Dean when’s he’s halfway to passed out or further. Sam has no idea why, hasn’t bothered asking in case it stops Dean looking for them. It probably would.
It’s quiet, feels like someone’s stuffed cotton into his ears. Everything’s warm and muffled. It doesn’t feel like anything could touch them at the moment. Like Sam could keep driving like this and that would be enough to keep them safe, forever. To maybe heal this thing between them that feels like it’ll never get better.
Sam changes gears and this seems to break Dean out of his trance. His face turns, skin still pasted to the glass, squeaking as his eyes fall on the stick shift. Sam’s hand is still sitting there. Dean raises his own hand, which has been sitting between his spread legs until now, slowly brings it over to plop down on top of Sam’s. It’s warm and rough and heavy with safety; it’s also a surprise. Sam gives Dean a look, but Dean’s not looking at him, lost in his own world, in his own thoughts. He raises his hand, lets it fall again, patting Sam’s hand a couple of times before moving away.
Sam’s having trouble keeping his eyes on the road. He shakes his head. Tells himself that Dean’s drunk, the end.
“Sammy?” Dean whispers then, and Sam’s stomach turns to lead, just like that. Whatever this is, whatever’s coming next, Sam’s not gonna like it.
“Go to sleep, Dean,” he says, trying to preempt this - whatever this is. Moves his hands higher up the steering wheel, cool plastic under burning palms.
But Dean’s shifting on his seat, turning his whole body towards Sam and there’s an intensity to him now, all languidness lost or stowed away for later. It’s so hard to not listen to Dean when he does this, when he lays his whole world on your shoulders. It’s so hard not to crumble under that pressure. Sam’s chest feels tight. You’re drunk, he wants to say, shout maybe. You’re drunk okay, you don’t want to do this, you won’t mean anything you say, and you’ll regret every word in the morning, so just, for Christ’s sake, just stop. Stop. But Sam never says anything like that outside his own head.
“Back at the bar…” Dean begins and Sam sighs.
“Yeah? Back at the bar?”
“That dude, sitting behind us…” Dean trails off again and no, okay? Just no. Sam knows that whichever way this conversation goes, he’s going to come out of it feeling like… well, like shit, and fine, he deserves it and whatever and he brought it on himself, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to participate in it, and if Dean wants to have his little verbal vomit session, he’s going to push it along himself.
The silence doesn’t seem to bother Dean at all. “Dude was talking ‘bout his brother. Some druggie.” And yeah, there’s that wonderful twisting feeling in Sam’s stomach.
“He was goin’ on about him,” Dean continues. “About how he’s fucking his life up. Not - not his own, but his brother’s and stuff. How he got himself into that mess and should get himself out. Crap like that. Think he was wasted.”
Dean looks at Sam; Sam can see it out of his periphery. He keeps his eyes on the road, swallows hard.
“All I could think,” says Dean, huffing a little laugh, and it’s fucking ridiculous how sober Dean can sound when he’s drunk out of his mind. “Man, all I could think was, that guy shoulda been helping his brother, not sitting there bitching about him. I mean, what’re brothers for?”
A long silence. Sam does nothing to break it. Doesn’t know what he’d even say. Dean pokes at a seam in his seat and then says, quietly, “But you know… I didn’t help you.”
Sam scrubs a hand over his face. He wants to close his eyes and pretend he’s not here. “I fucked up, Dean,” he says instead, steeling himself. “Okay? I fucked up. That’s all on my head. Not yours.”
Dean’s smile is slow and sad. “Yeah, man. But. I mean, you did stuff - doesn’t mean I didn’t too, y’know?”
Sam shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. “I’m never letting you get drunk again, Jesus.”
“Lucifer,” says Dean then.
“What?” He meets his own eyes in the rearview mirror and thinks, Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You are a stupid fuck-up. Stop being so stupid. Stupid’s not a big enough word though, for someone who ended the world and doesn’t have enough brains to stop a conversation before it becomes painful. He’s a masochist, that’s it.
“Lucifer. A few weeks ago, in that town. I heard him.”
“What does that have to do with - you were out of it, Dean.”
Dean shrugs a little. “Not the whole time. Heard him say that stuff. About Detroit.”
Sam doesn’t say a word.
“Sammy. I was - last year - I didn’t help you. I mean, I didn’t have faith in you. Or whatever.”
“Christ, Dean,” Sam mutters. Pulls the car over to a curb, because really. He can’t watch the road and stare at Dean with utter exasperation at the same time. “Last year we were both too wrapped up in ourselves, all right? That’s what happened. We couldn’t see past whatever problems we’d made up in our own heads. It’s over now. Stop beating yourself up over nothing. You were right to not…” Sam shrugs, waves a hand around, can’t finish the sentence.
“It doesn’t matter if - it’s not nothing,” Dean says, loudly. Loud enough that he grabs his own head, cringes. “You’re not gonna say yes, you hear me? Say that you believe that.” He’s glaring, all I’ll kick your ass if you don’t believe it, all bravado and strength and Jesus. Jesus H. Christ. Sometimes Sam loves his annoying, overbearing, overprotective, asshole of a big brother, sometimes Sam can’t breathe for it.
“Say that you believe it, Sam,” says Dean. “Say that you believe I believe it. Because I do. Okay? I do. You won’t say yes, you just won’t. Doesn’t matter what happened in the end, with - with Lilith, because even then - I should have. I just should have and I didn’t and - I made the deal, you know, and whatever, maybe that’s just - I don’t regret - but still, you know. You wonder and - what I took from you, and - anyway. Anyway, I didn’t and I should have. Believed in you, I mean. And I’m gonna now. Okay, Sammy? I’m gonna. I do.”
Sam’s staring at Dean, pretty much lost. He narrows his eyes a little when Dean’s done, asks, “That made almost no sense at all, but, long speech for a drunk man. You are drunk, right?” Sam isn’t entirely sure Dean would fake drunkenness just so he could talk without feeling embarrassed. But it’s a possibility.
Dean scrunches his eyes closed, nose crinkling right up, and says, “Yeah, I think. A lot.” His forehead pinches together. “Yeah, you know, I’m gonna puke.”
“Okay,” says Sam, jumping forward to push Dean’s door open before he hurls. He listens to the sounds of Dean retching, stomach aching with pity. Hands Dean a water bottle and a tissue when he sits back up.
“Thanks,” Dean says, closes his door.
“Okay to go?” Sam asks. Dean nods and Sam eases the car away from the curb. They’re only a block from the motel now.
He’s already dragged Dean into their room by the time Dean realizes they haven’t finished their conversation.
Sam’s pulling Dean’s socks off, watching Dean toes curl a little and saying, “Man, you’re gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow. It’s gonna be awesome.”
He moves up to shimmy Dean’s jeans off and then pushes his brother down onto the mattress. Dean’s looking at him, wide-eyed and earnest, not a sign of the weight he’s been carrying around since he came back from Hell. For some reason, looking at him makes Sam feel faded and worn-through. “You believe it, right Sam?” Dean asks.
Sam flops down on the edge of the other bed. There’s Lucifer’s voice in his head, brimming with confidence, and Dean’s story of the three days he spent in the future and a sick curling fear in his heart that says, Second verse, same as the first. There’s, no, never, I won’t, and then the tendrils of doubt that say, but maybe, maybe I will. There’s a lot of hope and not enough faith. But he sighs and says, “Yeah, I do,” and twists the bed sheet between his fingers, and tries, in that moment really, truly tries.
Dean seems satisfied.
“Good,” he mumbles. “’Cause it’s good. When it’s you and me, Sammy. It’s all good. You wait and see.” He’s asleep before the words are all out.
Sam sits there and watches him for a while, then gets up and throws a blanket over him before heading towards the bathroom to get ready for bed. He can’t meet his reflection’s eyes. But if he could, he’d like to ask it why it was so stupid. How it could have made such decisions. What it was thinking. He’d like to grab it and shake it and say, Do you see who you hurt? Don’t do that again. Don’t be stupid. For God’s sake. But he can’t. And he doesn’t.
He turns the water on in the sink and brushes his teeth, instead.
-
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 1800
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “Dude was talking ‘bout his brother. Some druggie.” And yeah, there’s that wonderful twisting feeling in Sam’s stomach.
Notes: Title from here. Set a few weeks post 5x10.
The roads are almost empty, this time of night.
The neon-green light of the LCD clock glows in the dark, reads 2:30. Sam eyes a pair of headlights in the rearview mirror, watches as they turn and disappear from view. The Impala’s the only car around, as far as Sam can see, which isn’t very far at all, truth be told. He’s driving through quiet neighborhoods, using back roads instead of the main streets, because he’s got the keys and it’s his foot on the pedal and the roads this night are his to use. They pass small houses, patchy paint and fly-strips waving like flags in the breeze, cracked tarmac under the car’s wheels, trees rubbing elbows with the moon.
The radio’s on low, some random station counting down the top twenty indie rock songs, deep soothing voice in between music. Car engine’s rumbling calmly, a hum that rises though Sam’s feet, runs right through to his chest. Sam can smell alcohol on the air, a result of Dean being drunk off his ass. He’s melted into the passenger seat, loose and relaxed like he rarely is these days. His face is pressed to the glass, his eyes up, mouth open a little bit. Every breath he lets out fogs up the glass. Sam thinks he’s looking for stars. Stars entrance Dean when’s he’s halfway to passed out or further. Sam has no idea why, hasn’t bothered asking in case it stops Dean looking for them. It probably would.
It’s quiet, feels like someone’s stuffed cotton into his ears. Everything’s warm and muffled. It doesn’t feel like anything could touch them at the moment. Like Sam could keep driving like this and that would be enough to keep them safe, forever. To maybe heal this thing between them that feels like it’ll never get better.
Sam changes gears and this seems to break Dean out of his trance. His face turns, skin still pasted to the glass, squeaking as his eyes fall on the stick shift. Sam’s hand is still sitting there. Dean raises his own hand, which has been sitting between his spread legs until now, slowly brings it over to plop down on top of Sam’s. It’s warm and rough and heavy with safety; it’s also a surprise. Sam gives Dean a look, but Dean’s not looking at him, lost in his own world, in his own thoughts. He raises his hand, lets it fall again, patting Sam’s hand a couple of times before moving away.
Sam’s having trouble keeping his eyes on the road. He shakes his head. Tells himself that Dean’s drunk, the end.
“Sammy?” Dean whispers then, and Sam’s stomach turns to lead, just like that. Whatever this is, whatever’s coming next, Sam’s not gonna like it.
“Go to sleep, Dean,” he says, trying to preempt this - whatever this is. Moves his hands higher up the steering wheel, cool plastic under burning palms.
But Dean’s shifting on his seat, turning his whole body towards Sam and there’s an intensity to him now, all languidness lost or stowed away for later. It’s so hard to not listen to Dean when he does this, when he lays his whole world on your shoulders. It’s so hard not to crumble under that pressure. Sam’s chest feels tight. You’re drunk, he wants to say, shout maybe. You’re drunk okay, you don’t want to do this, you won’t mean anything you say, and you’ll regret every word in the morning, so just, for Christ’s sake, just stop. Stop. But Sam never says anything like that outside his own head.
“Back at the bar…” Dean begins and Sam sighs.
“Yeah? Back at the bar?”
“That dude, sitting behind us…” Dean trails off again and no, okay? Just no. Sam knows that whichever way this conversation goes, he’s going to come out of it feeling like… well, like shit, and fine, he deserves it and whatever and he brought it on himself, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to participate in it, and if Dean wants to have his little verbal vomit session, he’s going to push it along himself.
The silence doesn’t seem to bother Dean at all. “Dude was talking ‘bout his brother. Some druggie.” And yeah, there’s that wonderful twisting feeling in Sam’s stomach.
“He was goin’ on about him,” Dean continues. “About how he’s fucking his life up. Not - not his own, but his brother’s and stuff. How he got himself into that mess and should get himself out. Crap like that. Think he was wasted.”
Dean looks at Sam; Sam can see it out of his periphery. He keeps his eyes on the road, swallows hard.
“All I could think,” says Dean, huffing a little laugh, and it’s fucking ridiculous how sober Dean can sound when he’s drunk out of his mind. “Man, all I could think was, that guy shoulda been helping his brother, not sitting there bitching about him. I mean, what’re brothers for?”
A long silence. Sam does nothing to break it. Doesn’t know what he’d even say. Dean pokes at a seam in his seat and then says, quietly, “But you know… I didn’t help you.”
Sam scrubs a hand over his face. He wants to close his eyes and pretend he’s not here. “I fucked up, Dean,” he says instead, steeling himself. “Okay? I fucked up. That’s all on my head. Not yours.”
Dean’s smile is slow and sad. “Yeah, man. But. I mean, you did stuff - doesn’t mean I didn’t too, y’know?”
Sam shakes his head. Rolls his eyes. “I’m never letting you get drunk again, Jesus.”
“Lucifer,” says Dean then.
“What?” He meets his own eyes in the rearview mirror and thinks, Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You are a stupid fuck-up. Stop being so stupid. Stupid’s not a big enough word though, for someone who ended the world and doesn’t have enough brains to stop a conversation before it becomes painful. He’s a masochist, that’s it.
“Lucifer. A few weeks ago, in that town. I heard him.”
“What does that have to do with - you were out of it, Dean.”
Dean shrugs a little. “Not the whole time. Heard him say that stuff. About Detroit.”
Sam doesn’t say a word.
“Sammy. I was - last year - I didn’t help you. I mean, I didn’t have faith in you. Or whatever.”
“Christ, Dean,” Sam mutters. Pulls the car over to a curb, because really. He can’t watch the road and stare at Dean with utter exasperation at the same time. “Last year we were both too wrapped up in ourselves, all right? That’s what happened. We couldn’t see past whatever problems we’d made up in our own heads. It’s over now. Stop beating yourself up over nothing. You were right to not…” Sam shrugs, waves a hand around, can’t finish the sentence.
“It doesn’t matter if - it’s not nothing,” Dean says, loudly. Loud enough that he grabs his own head, cringes. “You’re not gonna say yes, you hear me? Say that you believe that.” He’s glaring, all I’ll kick your ass if you don’t believe it, all bravado and strength and Jesus. Jesus H. Christ. Sometimes Sam loves his annoying, overbearing, overprotective, asshole of a big brother, sometimes Sam can’t breathe for it.
“Say that you believe it, Sam,” says Dean. “Say that you believe I believe it. Because I do. Okay? I do. You won’t say yes, you just won’t. Doesn’t matter what happened in the end, with - with Lilith, because even then - I should have. I just should have and I didn’t and - I made the deal, you know, and whatever, maybe that’s just - I don’t regret - but still, you know. You wonder and - what I took from you, and - anyway. Anyway, I didn’t and I should have. Believed in you, I mean. And I’m gonna now. Okay, Sammy? I’m gonna. I do.”
Sam’s staring at Dean, pretty much lost. He narrows his eyes a little when Dean’s done, asks, “That made almost no sense at all, but, long speech for a drunk man. You are drunk, right?” Sam isn’t entirely sure Dean would fake drunkenness just so he could talk without feeling embarrassed. But it’s a possibility.
Dean scrunches his eyes closed, nose crinkling right up, and says, “Yeah, I think. A lot.” His forehead pinches together. “Yeah, you know, I’m gonna puke.”
“Okay,” says Sam, jumping forward to push Dean’s door open before he hurls. He listens to the sounds of Dean retching, stomach aching with pity. Hands Dean a water bottle and a tissue when he sits back up.
“Thanks,” Dean says, closes his door.
“Okay to go?” Sam asks. Dean nods and Sam eases the car away from the curb. They’re only a block from the motel now.
He’s already dragged Dean into their room by the time Dean realizes they haven’t finished their conversation.
Sam’s pulling Dean’s socks off, watching Dean toes curl a little and saying, “Man, you’re gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow. It’s gonna be awesome.”
He moves up to shimmy Dean’s jeans off and then pushes his brother down onto the mattress. Dean’s looking at him, wide-eyed and earnest, not a sign of the weight he’s been carrying around since he came back from Hell. For some reason, looking at him makes Sam feel faded and worn-through. “You believe it, right Sam?” Dean asks.
Sam flops down on the edge of the other bed. There’s Lucifer’s voice in his head, brimming with confidence, and Dean’s story of the three days he spent in the future and a sick curling fear in his heart that says, Second verse, same as the first. There’s, no, never, I won’t, and then the tendrils of doubt that say, but maybe, maybe I will. There’s a lot of hope and not enough faith. But he sighs and says, “Yeah, I do,” and twists the bed sheet between his fingers, and tries, in that moment really, truly tries.
Dean seems satisfied.
“Good,” he mumbles. “’Cause it’s good. When it’s you and me, Sammy. It’s all good. You wait and see.” He’s asleep before the words are all out.
Sam sits there and watches him for a while, then gets up and throws a blanket over him before heading towards the bathroom to get ready for bed. He can’t meet his reflection’s eyes. But if he could, he’d like to ask it why it was so stupid. How it could have made such decisions. What it was thinking. He’d like to grab it and shake it and say, Do you see who you hurt? Don’t do that again. Don’t be stupid. For God’s sake. But he can’t. And he doesn’t.
He turns the water on in the sink and brushes his teeth, instead.
-