FIC: Come On In My Kitchen
Title: Come On In My Kitchen
Author: neros_violin
Genre: Sam, Dean - Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Word Count: 1350
Warnings: Spoilers for episode 6.16
Summary: Sam, Dean, and Jim Beam have a conversation.
Author's Notes: Written for the first round of silverbullets, inspired by fleshflutter's prompt one day it will be us. It kind of turned out to be a coda for 6.16. I hope I did it some justice, hon! Title from Robert Johnson's "Come On In My Kitchen." Many, many thanks to scintilla10 for her fantastic beta work.
When Sam comes downstairs for a glass of water (he always wakes up thirsty these days, beyond thirsty, really, parched, like his dreams take place somewhere hot), he finds Dean at the small table in Bobby’s kitchen. Their guns and knives are spread in front of him on an oilcloth, tarot cards of steel and iron that always foretell the same fate. Sam doesn’t ask what Dean is doing up at three in the morning; the bottle of Jim Beam, three-quarters gone, is answer enough. Dean’s hands are steady, disassembling the Colt by rote, the slowness of his movements the only indication of how completely and utterly drunk he is.
Sam fills a Mason jar with cold tap water, gulps it down, tops it off, and joins his brother, pulling the chair out and around, straddling it so he can cross his arms over the back. Dean looks up at the noise, his eyes cloudy and wet, unfocused, even as his hands do their work. “Sam,” he says, slowly. “What’re you doing up?”
“Nightmare,” Sam says. “Worms,” he lies, to keep Dean from reminding him about walls and itch scratching and flayed souls; Sam doesn’t actually remember the content of his dream, but he knows it wasn’t a good one. The smell of fear-sweat still clings to his body, drying sticky and tight.
Dean grunts, laying the pieces of the gun down carefully, precisely, adjusting their alignment to some ideal formation that only he knows. “Fucking worms,” Dean says.
In the dim light, the circles under Dean’s eyes are as dark as bruises, and his skin is pallid, almost blue. He looks like he’s dying. No, Sam’s mind whispers unhelpfully, he looks like he’s already dead, and he could have been today, could have been dead again, could have had to bury him again.
“Gimme that,” Sam demands, motioning for the whiskey. Dean chuckles low, and takes a final few swallows before wiping his mouth and passing the bottle over. Sam puts it on the floor.
“Hey,” Dean protests. “If you’re not gonna drink it, give it back.”
“I’m gonna drink it,” Sam says.
“Liar,” Dean says.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. The not-silence closes around them, the house sounds of settling wood and the furnace starting up, and Sam wants to say something so bad it hurts, but he isn’t the kid he used to be, the one who had to know every single thing right now, on his time, on his terms. Dean doesn’t work like that, and Sam understands, finally. Dean is as careful with his thoughts and his words as he is careless with his body.
They sit there for so long that Sam startles at Dean’s voice, gravely and a little slurred. “Yesterday. Yesterday, before it all went to hell, I was watching Rufus and Bobby together, bitching and bickering like they’re fucking married. And I thought.”
Sam waits, but it seems Dean is done without prodding, so he asks, “What did you think, Dean?”
Dean licks his bottom lip, a nervous tick he’s had since they were kids. “Gimme that bottle back.”
“No.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Dean sighs. “Yeah, okay. Okay. I thought, one day that will be us. One day we’re going to be old and crotchety and hunting some damn thing and getting on each others’ nerves and having each others’ backs.”
Sam smiles, remembering the Bobby and Rufus show, remembering that he thought something similar, that Rufus and Bobby were like brothers. The tightness in his throat is just as much affection for Rufus as it is grief for his loss. “Sounds good to me,” Sam says.
“No, no,” Dean says, his face crumpling. “No, because look what happens, what always happens. Twelve hours later I’m standing over his dead body thinking one day that will be us.” Dean reaches for something, and the moonlight flashes silver on the flask as Dean raises it to his mouth. Of course he had a backup. Dean always has a backup. His lips are red and wet when he says, “So you tell me, Sam. Which outcome you think is more likely for our one day? Bickering old guys or soon-to-be dead guys?”
When Sam was thirteen, they stayed on a ranch in Oklahoma, room and board in exchange for Dad’s services hunting whatever was killing cattle. Sam and Dean both loved spending time with horses, saved too-ripe apples and carrots to feed to them, their velvet noses soft and warm on the palms of their hands. But he and Dean didn’t know jack shit about horses, other than they liked sweet things to eat, and certainly neither of them knew that if you walk behind a horse, you put your hand on their flank so they know you’re there, and if you don’t, you get kicked in the chest. Sam remembers seeing Dean’s face from above, after, frantic but trying not to show it. Two cracked ribs, and two weeks of restricted breathing, of being so careful not to expand his lungs further than his bruised body could take, so much pain that he wanted to stop breathing, because breathing hurt.
That’s how it feels when Dean asks the question, bald, open, honest in the way he can only be in the dark or in the bottle. He’s looking at Sam like he expects an answer, and there’s just as much hope on his face as doubt, encouragement under the guise of a goad. Come on, Sammy. I dare you. Tell me I’m wrong. Please tell me I’m wrong.
“I think both,” Sam says, enunciating carefully, like he’s the one who’s drunk. He doesn’t want to see Dean’s reaction, doesn’t want to see doubt or Dean’s lack of faith, doesn’t want to go back to two years ago, with Ruby and hell and everything else, so he stares at the water stain above the wall clock. “I know how it’s gonna end, Dean. We both do. But I also know we’re not going out for a long time, and when we do, we’re going out together.”
One long heartbeat, two, three, four, and Dean says, “Jesus, Sam.” He laughs, and it turns into a hiccup. “Can I braid your hair?”
Of course. Of course. But the relief is as automatic as Sam’s response, because he honestly has no idea what he’d do if Dean couldn’t pull himself back together, put his armor back on. “Fuck you,” Sam says, which just makes Dean laugh harder and tilt alarmingly in the chair, the booze and fatigue finally catching up, dulling his reflexes. Sam’s up in an instant, catching his brother under the arms and pulling him against his body, warm and whiskey-scented. “Alright, I’m putting you on the couch,” Sam says, grunting with effort. Dean doesn’t look heavy, but he is, solid with muscle and the bulk of too many layers.
“Seriously, Sam, seriously,” Dean says as they shuffle toward the den. His breath is hot against Sam’s cheek. “Seriously. Can I sleep with your teddy bear? Can I borrow your My Chemical Romance CD?”
“No one has CDs anymore, Dean,” Sam says, trying for the kind of patronizing bitchy Dean expects. He plants Dean on the couch, kneeling down to unlace his boots. There’s a hole in the toe of Dean’s left sock, and the pair doesn’t match. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. He doesn’t say thank you, you drive me crazy, I love you.
Dean’s hand lands clumsily on Sam’s head, and his fingers ruffle Sam’s hair. “So’re you, my very own little emo boy.”
Sam snatches a ratty blanket from the back of the lounger, and drops it on Dean’s face. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” Dean says, muffled under the blanket. Sam sighs, and rearranges it so that it drapes along Dean’s body, covering him from chin to the tips of his toes. Sam puts the Mason jar of water on the floor next to Dean’s hand where he can reach it without moving much, in case he wakes up thirsty. “Sam?”
“What, Dean?”
“Thanks,” he says, his eyes closed and his face turned away into the couch cushion.
“Any time,” Sam says, but Dean’s already asleep.
Author: neros_violin
Genre: Sam, Dean - Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Word Count: 1350
Warnings: Spoilers for episode 6.16
Summary: Sam, Dean, and Jim Beam have a conversation.
Author's Notes: Written for the first round of silverbullets, inspired by fleshflutter's prompt one day it will be us. It kind of turned out to be a coda for 6.16. I hope I did it some justice, hon! Title from Robert Johnson's "Come On In My Kitchen." Many, many thanks to scintilla10 for her fantastic beta work.
When Sam comes downstairs for a glass of water (he always wakes up thirsty these days, beyond thirsty, really, parched, like his dreams take place somewhere hot), he finds Dean at the small table in Bobby’s kitchen. Their guns and knives are spread in front of him on an oilcloth, tarot cards of steel and iron that always foretell the same fate. Sam doesn’t ask what Dean is doing up at three in the morning; the bottle of Jim Beam, three-quarters gone, is answer enough. Dean’s hands are steady, disassembling the Colt by rote, the slowness of his movements the only indication of how completely and utterly drunk he is.
Sam fills a Mason jar with cold tap water, gulps it down, tops it off, and joins his brother, pulling the chair out and around, straddling it so he can cross his arms over the back. Dean looks up at the noise, his eyes cloudy and wet, unfocused, even as his hands do their work. “Sam,” he says, slowly. “What’re you doing up?”
“Nightmare,” Sam says. “Worms,” he lies, to keep Dean from reminding him about walls and itch scratching and flayed souls; Sam doesn’t actually remember the content of his dream, but he knows it wasn’t a good one. The smell of fear-sweat still clings to his body, drying sticky and tight.
Dean grunts, laying the pieces of the gun down carefully, precisely, adjusting their alignment to some ideal formation that only he knows. “Fucking worms,” Dean says.
In the dim light, the circles under Dean’s eyes are as dark as bruises, and his skin is pallid, almost blue. He looks like he’s dying. No, Sam’s mind whispers unhelpfully, he looks like he’s already dead, and he could have been today, could have been dead again, could have had to bury him again.
“Gimme that,” Sam demands, motioning for the whiskey. Dean chuckles low, and takes a final few swallows before wiping his mouth and passing the bottle over. Sam puts it on the floor.
“Hey,” Dean protests. “If you’re not gonna drink it, give it back.”
“I’m gonna drink it,” Sam says.
“Liar,” Dean says.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees. The not-silence closes around them, the house sounds of settling wood and the furnace starting up, and Sam wants to say something so bad it hurts, but he isn’t the kid he used to be, the one who had to know every single thing right now, on his time, on his terms. Dean doesn’t work like that, and Sam understands, finally. Dean is as careful with his thoughts and his words as he is careless with his body.
They sit there for so long that Sam startles at Dean’s voice, gravely and a little slurred. “Yesterday. Yesterday, before it all went to hell, I was watching Rufus and Bobby together, bitching and bickering like they’re fucking married. And I thought.”
Sam waits, but it seems Dean is done without prodding, so he asks, “What did you think, Dean?”
Dean licks his bottom lip, a nervous tick he’s had since they were kids. “Gimme that bottle back.”
“No.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Dean sighs. “Yeah, okay. Okay. I thought, one day that will be us. One day we’re going to be old and crotchety and hunting some damn thing and getting on each others’ nerves and having each others’ backs.”
Sam smiles, remembering the Bobby and Rufus show, remembering that he thought something similar, that Rufus and Bobby were like brothers. The tightness in his throat is just as much affection for Rufus as it is grief for his loss. “Sounds good to me,” Sam says.
“No, no,” Dean says, his face crumpling. “No, because look what happens, what always happens. Twelve hours later I’m standing over his dead body thinking one day that will be us.” Dean reaches for something, and the moonlight flashes silver on the flask as Dean raises it to his mouth. Of course he had a backup. Dean always has a backup. His lips are red and wet when he says, “So you tell me, Sam. Which outcome you think is more likely for our one day? Bickering old guys or soon-to-be dead guys?”
When Sam was thirteen, they stayed on a ranch in Oklahoma, room and board in exchange for Dad’s services hunting whatever was killing cattle. Sam and Dean both loved spending time with horses, saved too-ripe apples and carrots to feed to them, their velvet noses soft and warm on the palms of their hands. But he and Dean didn’t know jack shit about horses, other than they liked sweet things to eat, and certainly neither of them knew that if you walk behind a horse, you put your hand on their flank so they know you’re there, and if you don’t, you get kicked in the chest. Sam remembers seeing Dean’s face from above, after, frantic but trying not to show it. Two cracked ribs, and two weeks of restricted breathing, of being so careful not to expand his lungs further than his bruised body could take, so much pain that he wanted to stop breathing, because breathing hurt.
That’s how it feels when Dean asks the question, bald, open, honest in the way he can only be in the dark or in the bottle. He’s looking at Sam like he expects an answer, and there’s just as much hope on his face as doubt, encouragement under the guise of a goad. Come on, Sammy. I dare you. Tell me I’m wrong. Please tell me I’m wrong.
“I think both,” Sam says, enunciating carefully, like he’s the one who’s drunk. He doesn’t want to see Dean’s reaction, doesn’t want to see doubt or Dean’s lack of faith, doesn’t want to go back to two years ago, with Ruby and hell and everything else, so he stares at the water stain above the wall clock. “I know how it’s gonna end, Dean. We both do. But I also know we’re not going out for a long time, and when we do, we’re going out together.”
One long heartbeat, two, three, four, and Dean says, “Jesus, Sam.” He laughs, and it turns into a hiccup. “Can I braid your hair?”
Of course. Of course. But the relief is as automatic as Sam’s response, because he honestly has no idea what he’d do if Dean couldn’t pull himself back together, put his armor back on. “Fuck you,” Sam says, which just makes Dean laugh harder and tilt alarmingly in the chair, the booze and fatigue finally catching up, dulling his reflexes. Sam’s up in an instant, catching his brother under the arms and pulling him against his body, warm and whiskey-scented. “Alright, I’m putting you on the couch,” Sam says, grunting with effort. Dean doesn’t look heavy, but he is, solid with muscle and the bulk of too many layers.
“Seriously, Sam, seriously,” Dean says as they shuffle toward the den. His breath is hot against Sam’s cheek. “Seriously. Can I sleep with your teddy bear? Can I borrow your My Chemical Romance CD?”
“No one has CDs anymore, Dean,” Sam says, trying for the kind of patronizing bitchy Dean expects. He plants Dean on the couch, kneeling down to unlace his boots. There’s a hole in the toe of Dean’s left sock, and the pair doesn’t match. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. He doesn’t say thank you, you drive me crazy, I love you.
Dean’s hand lands clumsily on Sam’s head, and his fingers ruffle Sam’s hair. “So’re you, my very own little emo boy.”
Sam snatches a ratty blanket from the back of the lounger, and drops it on Dean’s face. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” Dean says, muffled under the blanket. Sam sighs, and rearranges it so that it drapes along Dean’s body, covering him from chin to the tips of his toes. Sam puts the Mason jar of water on the floor next to Dean’s hand where he can reach it without moving much, in case he wakes up thirsty. “Sam?”
“What, Dean?”
“Thanks,” he says, his eyes closed and his face turned away into the couch cushion.
“Any time,” Sam says, but Dean’s already asleep.