fic: We Killed Yamamoto (Supernatural; Sam/Dean; pg)
We Killed Yamamoto
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; spoilers through Lucifer Rising; pg; 1,775 words
"I got your message."
For luzdeestrellas, to whom I promised some post-finale snuggling. And also thank you to her for the on-the-spot beta. Written for the West Wing title project.
~*~
We Killed Yamamoto
Sam stumbles out into the darkness, still blinking away the afterimage of Lucifer's wings, imprinted on the insides of his eyelids. His hands are tight on Dean's shoulder as Dean leads the way.
Dean had tried to get him to run, and when he hadn't, Dean had shouted, Close your eyes! Don't look! but Sam couldn't tear his gaze away. He had to see what he'd done.
He squints at Ruby's car and remembers shoving Cindy McClellan into the trunk--he can still hear her screams for help, still taste her copper-warm blood on his tongue. His gut clenches and he goes to his knees. Dean stumbles under the weight, edge of panic clear in his voice when he says, "Sam?"
Sam can't answer--he's too busy puking his guts out, blood black as Ruby's eyes spilling over the cracked pavement of the overgrown convent parking lot. He can feel the weight of Dean's hand on his back, and he waits for it, the shove down into the puddle of his own vomit, the angry I told you so, but all Dean says is, "Sammy? You okay?"
Sam thinks about saying yes as he chokes out another glob of saliva and shakes his head, wiping his streaming eyes with the back of his hand. "No."
Dean gives a small huff of laughter. "Lemme rephrase that. You think you can make it to a motel room?"
Sam heaves himself to his feet, brushing the gravel and dirt off his jeans. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I think so."
"Okay." Dean walks him to the car and Sam forces himself not to flinch away from it, to fold himself into the passenger seat and wait. Dean digs around in the trunk, heads back towards the convent, gas can in hand, and comes back a few minutes later. "Don't want to make it too easy for the Feds," he mutters, slipping into the driver's seat and reaching beneath the dash to hotwire the car.
Sam rolls down the window and stares up at the sky. The clouds are shredding and a hazy, pale sliver of moon is visible.
Dean glances over at him, opens his mouth like he wants to say something and then closes it again. Sam feels the tension in his shoulders ease slightly at this reprieve, but he knows it won't last. He lets the wind whip against his skin, sting his eyes, so he has an excuse for the tears he's blinking away.
*
They dump Ruby's car in the parking lot at BWI and Sam wonders if this is it, if Dean's going to leave him here like they've just left the car, but Dean keeps walking, following the signs as if he's looking for something, occasionally checking over his shoulder to make sure Sam's still there. Sam's grateful to trail along behind him, to let Dean make the decisions. He breathes in the humid, exhaust-filled air and tries not to think about the end of the world.
Dean flashes him an awkward half-grin as they get on a line full of people loaded down with luggage and hop on a shuttle to the airport Ramada. Sam sinks into the carpeted seat of the shuttle and thinks about taking a shower, sleeping in a bed; if Dean's going to allow him that, he'll take it.
The hotel lobby is quiet, carpeted in shades of gold and red, a thousand times nicer than the places they usually stay, and Sam wonders if this is Dean's version of giving him a last supper. He leans against a pillar and listens to Dean charm the reservations clerk with a story about missing their connecting flight home.
"Family emergency in South Dakota," he says. "All our luggage is on the plane but we're stuck here until tomorrow."
"Toiletries are available in the gift shop," the woman says with a bright smile as she hands Dean back his credit card and a couple of plastic room keys.
Dean nods. "Thanks." He puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, turns him towards the elevator. "Come on, Sammy. Let's get you cleaned up."
There's one bed in the room, a huge king that dominates the space, covered with a red and gold striped comforter and pillows of all different shapes and sizes. Sam sinks down into one of the chairs flanking the coffee table and thinks he could sleep right there.
Dean kneels in front of Sam, unlaces his boots, then pulls off his socks, wrinkling his nose. "Dude, we definitely need to do some laundry."
Sam digs his bare toes into the carpet, unable to meet Dean's gaze. "Yeah." He yawns then, too tired to stretch.
"Hey, hey, Sammy, you gotta shower before you sleep." Dean's tone and words are so familiar, and Sam doesn't have the energy to fight anymore. He lets himself be stripped and herded into the tub, which is an unremarkable beige and contains no cracks or rust stains. It's surprisingly deep. He stumbles over the lip, almost falls, Dean's hand on his arm keeping him upright, his own hand hitting the textured tile with a slap. He regains his balance and lets Dean turn the water on and pull the curtain closed between them.
He listens to Dean on the phone with Bobby, his voice muffled by the spray of the shower, and lets the hot water wash him clean. The dirt and blood are gone from his skin and under his nails, but he knows those stains can't ever be washed off. He hears the TV come on, flicker of voices as Dean searches for something to watch, but Dean's not in the room when he finally gets out of the shower.
Sam forces himself not to panic. The door swings open and it's Dean, white plastic bag swinging from one hand. He tosses it at Sam, who catches it automatically.
"They charged me six dollars for a tube of toothpaste. Do you believe that shit?" Dean says, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto a chair. "Don't just stand there staring at me, Sam. Go brush your teeth. Your breath still smells like puke."
Again, Sam does as he's told. He wonders if he's freaking Dean out as much as Dean is freaking him out right now. He almost asks when Dean, stripped down to his boxer-briefs, steps into the bathroom and shoulders him aside so he can brush his own teeth. They jostle for a few seconds, familiar as breathing, and Sam can see how pale and tired Dean looks, as tired as Sam feels, dark circles under his eyes and freckles standing out like smudges on his skin.
The question is on the tip of his tongue, but he can't bring himself to ask it. He knows one small I'm sorry can't make up for everything he's done, not even with Dean, who's never been able to stay mad at him.
"There's nothing on the news yet," Dean says, snapping off the television as they crawl into bed, "but that fire is going to be a story in the morning." He curls up on his side, one hand under his pillow, no doubt clutching the hilt of Ruby's knife, and faces Sam. "Bobby thinks we should fly out." His face twists in irritation. "I think he's right."
"Stop," Sam says, and he hates how needy he sounds. "Just--stop, Dean."
"Can't stop, Sammy. Got an apocalypse to take care of."
"An apocalypse I started."
"We."
"What?"
"An apocalypse we started." Dean shifts closer; Sam can feel the heat he radiates and is helpless not to turn towards it. It's been a while since they've shared a bed, and Sam has missed it, even though Dean is annoying with all his shifting and moving and pillow-punching. "If I hadn't broken the first seal, you couldn't have broken the last."
"I--You--"
"Just go to sleep now, Sam."
"You'll most likely kill me in the morning?" It pops out, bitter and wry, before Sam can stop it. At least he still has his sense of humor.
"What?"
"I got your message."
Dean goes completely still and for a few seconds the only sound in the room is the rasp of their breathing. "I know I promised you a beatdown, but I'll take a raincheck. I'm too tired right now. Take care of it after we send Lucifer back to the pit."
"A beatdown? You said," Sam has to stop and swallow hard to keep his voice from cracking like he's thirteen again, the memory of Dean's message replaying in his head like the chorus of some horrible song, "you said you were done trying to save me."
Dean stares at him for a long minute, eyes wide and shocked in the dark. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and angry. "That smug, manipulative bastard."
"What?"
"Zachariah. He said you had your part to play, and he'd make sure you played it." Dean shoves himself out of the bed, sweeps the brochures and the remote off the bedside table with a vicious swing of his hand. "I'm gonna kill that motherfucker, and I'm gonna enjoy it." He bends down to pick up the remote and then turns to look at Sam. "This whole time, you thought I was planning to kill you? Jesus, Sam, that's fucked up."
Sam looks down at his hands, dark against the white sheets. "What part of this isn't fucked up?"
Dean snorts. "Fair enough." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "We both said a lot of shit we shouldn't have, shit we didn't really mean?" He sounds hopeful and unsure and sad all at once, and Sam can hear the apology in his voice, even if he isn't saying the words.
"Yeah." His own voice is rough.
Dean opens his mouth, but whatever he says is drowned out in the roar of an airplane flying low overhead, and Sam isn't sure he wants to hear it anyway. Dean shakes his head and climbs back under the covers. They shove and elbow a little for position, though for once the bed is actually big enough for both of them, and when Sam rolls onto his side, he feels Dean press in behind him, one arm resting over his hip, the warm exhale of Dean's even breath promising his steady, solid presence at Sam's back.
"So, flying, huh?" he asks sleepily.
"Shut up."
"We'll have to pick you up some Dramamine."
"Go to sleep, Sam."
Sam huffs a small laugh around the ache in his chest, and lets the soft rhythm of Dean's breathing lull him into sleep.
end
*
Note: cut-tag text is attributed to Admiral Yamamoto in the movie Tora Tora Tora.
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; spoilers through Lucifer Rising; pg; 1,775 words
"I got your message."
For luzdeestrellas, to whom I promised some post-finale snuggling. And also thank you to her for the on-the-spot beta. Written for the West Wing title project.
~*~
We Killed Yamamoto
Sam stumbles out into the darkness, still blinking away the afterimage of Lucifer's wings, imprinted on the insides of his eyelids. His hands are tight on Dean's shoulder as Dean leads the way.
Dean had tried to get him to run, and when he hadn't, Dean had shouted, Close your eyes! Don't look! but Sam couldn't tear his gaze away. He had to see what he'd done.
He squints at Ruby's car and remembers shoving Cindy McClellan into the trunk--he can still hear her screams for help, still taste her copper-warm blood on his tongue. His gut clenches and he goes to his knees. Dean stumbles under the weight, edge of panic clear in his voice when he says, "Sam?"
Sam can't answer--he's too busy puking his guts out, blood black as Ruby's eyes spilling over the cracked pavement of the overgrown convent parking lot. He can feel the weight of Dean's hand on his back, and he waits for it, the shove down into the puddle of his own vomit, the angry I told you so, but all Dean says is, "Sammy? You okay?"
Sam thinks about saying yes as he chokes out another glob of saliva and shakes his head, wiping his streaming eyes with the back of his hand. "No."
Dean gives a small huff of laughter. "Lemme rephrase that. You think you can make it to a motel room?"
Sam heaves himself to his feet, brushing the gravel and dirt off his jeans. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I think so."
"Okay." Dean walks him to the car and Sam forces himself not to flinch away from it, to fold himself into the passenger seat and wait. Dean digs around in the trunk, heads back towards the convent, gas can in hand, and comes back a few minutes later. "Don't want to make it too easy for the Feds," he mutters, slipping into the driver's seat and reaching beneath the dash to hotwire the car.
Sam rolls down the window and stares up at the sky. The clouds are shredding and a hazy, pale sliver of moon is visible.
Dean glances over at him, opens his mouth like he wants to say something and then closes it again. Sam feels the tension in his shoulders ease slightly at this reprieve, but he knows it won't last. He lets the wind whip against his skin, sting his eyes, so he has an excuse for the tears he's blinking away.
*
They dump Ruby's car in the parking lot at BWI and Sam wonders if this is it, if Dean's going to leave him here like they've just left the car, but Dean keeps walking, following the signs as if he's looking for something, occasionally checking over his shoulder to make sure Sam's still there. Sam's grateful to trail along behind him, to let Dean make the decisions. He breathes in the humid, exhaust-filled air and tries not to think about the end of the world.
Dean flashes him an awkward half-grin as they get on a line full of people loaded down with luggage and hop on a shuttle to the airport Ramada. Sam sinks into the carpeted seat of the shuttle and thinks about taking a shower, sleeping in a bed; if Dean's going to allow him that, he'll take it.
The hotel lobby is quiet, carpeted in shades of gold and red, a thousand times nicer than the places they usually stay, and Sam wonders if this is Dean's version of giving him a last supper. He leans against a pillar and listens to Dean charm the reservations clerk with a story about missing their connecting flight home.
"Family emergency in South Dakota," he says. "All our luggage is on the plane but we're stuck here until tomorrow."
"Toiletries are available in the gift shop," the woman says with a bright smile as she hands Dean back his credit card and a couple of plastic room keys.
Dean nods. "Thanks." He puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, turns him towards the elevator. "Come on, Sammy. Let's get you cleaned up."
There's one bed in the room, a huge king that dominates the space, covered with a red and gold striped comforter and pillows of all different shapes and sizes. Sam sinks down into one of the chairs flanking the coffee table and thinks he could sleep right there.
Dean kneels in front of Sam, unlaces his boots, then pulls off his socks, wrinkling his nose. "Dude, we definitely need to do some laundry."
Sam digs his bare toes into the carpet, unable to meet Dean's gaze. "Yeah." He yawns then, too tired to stretch.
"Hey, hey, Sammy, you gotta shower before you sleep." Dean's tone and words are so familiar, and Sam doesn't have the energy to fight anymore. He lets himself be stripped and herded into the tub, which is an unremarkable beige and contains no cracks or rust stains. It's surprisingly deep. He stumbles over the lip, almost falls, Dean's hand on his arm keeping him upright, his own hand hitting the textured tile with a slap. He regains his balance and lets Dean turn the water on and pull the curtain closed between them.
He listens to Dean on the phone with Bobby, his voice muffled by the spray of the shower, and lets the hot water wash him clean. The dirt and blood are gone from his skin and under his nails, but he knows those stains can't ever be washed off. He hears the TV come on, flicker of voices as Dean searches for something to watch, but Dean's not in the room when he finally gets out of the shower.
Sam forces himself not to panic. The door swings open and it's Dean, white plastic bag swinging from one hand. He tosses it at Sam, who catches it automatically.
"They charged me six dollars for a tube of toothpaste. Do you believe that shit?" Dean says, pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto a chair. "Don't just stand there staring at me, Sam. Go brush your teeth. Your breath still smells like puke."
Again, Sam does as he's told. He wonders if he's freaking Dean out as much as Dean is freaking him out right now. He almost asks when Dean, stripped down to his boxer-briefs, steps into the bathroom and shoulders him aside so he can brush his own teeth. They jostle for a few seconds, familiar as breathing, and Sam can see how pale and tired Dean looks, as tired as Sam feels, dark circles under his eyes and freckles standing out like smudges on his skin.
The question is on the tip of his tongue, but he can't bring himself to ask it. He knows one small I'm sorry can't make up for everything he's done, not even with Dean, who's never been able to stay mad at him.
"There's nothing on the news yet," Dean says, snapping off the television as they crawl into bed, "but that fire is going to be a story in the morning." He curls up on his side, one hand under his pillow, no doubt clutching the hilt of Ruby's knife, and faces Sam. "Bobby thinks we should fly out." His face twists in irritation. "I think he's right."
"Stop," Sam says, and he hates how needy he sounds. "Just--stop, Dean."
"Can't stop, Sammy. Got an apocalypse to take care of."
"An apocalypse I started."
"We."
"What?"
"An apocalypse we started." Dean shifts closer; Sam can feel the heat he radiates and is helpless not to turn towards it. It's been a while since they've shared a bed, and Sam has missed it, even though Dean is annoying with all his shifting and moving and pillow-punching. "If I hadn't broken the first seal, you couldn't have broken the last."
"I--You--"
"Just go to sleep now, Sam."
"You'll most likely kill me in the morning?" It pops out, bitter and wry, before Sam can stop it. At least he still has his sense of humor.
"What?"
"I got your message."
Dean goes completely still and for a few seconds the only sound in the room is the rasp of their breathing. "I know I promised you a beatdown, but I'll take a raincheck. I'm too tired right now. Take care of it after we send Lucifer back to the pit."
"A beatdown? You said," Sam has to stop and swallow hard to keep his voice from cracking like he's thirteen again, the memory of Dean's message replaying in his head like the chorus of some horrible song, "you said you were done trying to save me."
Dean stares at him for a long minute, eyes wide and shocked in the dark. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and angry. "That smug, manipulative bastard."
"What?"
"Zachariah. He said you had your part to play, and he'd make sure you played it." Dean shoves himself out of the bed, sweeps the brochures and the remote off the bedside table with a vicious swing of his hand. "I'm gonna kill that motherfucker, and I'm gonna enjoy it." He bends down to pick up the remote and then turns to look at Sam. "This whole time, you thought I was planning to kill you? Jesus, Sam, that's fucked up."
Sam looks down at his hands, dark against the white sheets. "What part of this isn't fucked up?"
Dean snorts. "Fair enough." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "We both said a lot of shit we shouldn't have, shit we didn't really mean?" He sounds hopeful and unsure and sad all at once, and Sam can hear the apology in his voice, even if he isn't saying the words.
"Yeah." His own voice is rough.
Dean opens his mouth, but whatever he says is drowned out in the roar of an airplane flying low overhead, and Sam isn't sure he wants to hear it anyway. Dean shakes his head and climbs back under the covers. They shove and elbow a little for position, though for once the bed is actually big enough for both of them, and when Sam rolls onto his side, he feels Dean press in behind him, one arm resting over his hip, the warm exhale of Dean's even breath promising his steady, solid presence at Sam's back.
"So, flying, huh?" he asks sleepily.
"Shut up."
"We'll have to pick you up some Dramamine."
"Go to sleep, Sam."
Sam huffs a small laugh around the ache in his chest, and lets the soft rhythm of Dean's breathing lull him into sleep.
end
*
Note: cut-tag text is attributed to Admiral Yamamoto in the movie Tora Tora Tora.
~*~
Feedback is always welcome.
~*~