SPN: Spooks: Apology
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He’d apologized, to Castiel, to Dean, to Bobby… begged again and again for forgiveness for the things his body had done while he wasn’t fully at home. And the reactions had ranged, from Bobby still being wary of him, stand-offish in a way he never had been before, not even after he’d died and come back, to Dean’s constant and insistent refusal to accept that Sam had done anything to warrant forgiveness.
“Wasn’t you, Sam.” He repeated again and again, in every variation under the sun, until Sam just stopped trying. Gave up and gave in, like he’d done so many other times.
He still had one last apology to make, and he waited until Dean had slid into sleep, Jim and Jack easing the way. He wasn’t drinking nearly as much as the last few days of hell on earth, but the liquor was still a lullaby of sorts. He feigned sleep until Dean’s breaths had steadied out and deepened, and then counted down from a thousand to ensure it before he slipped out of the warm sheets and stuffed his feet into the shoes peeking out from under the bed. He paused as he eased open the door, eyes intent on Dean, making sure his brother wasn’t going to wake up, and eased out the door to make the one apology he was dreading.
After all, it wasn’t like they were going to forgive him. But he still needed to clear the air, offer up an olive branch of sorts to try to appease the guilt gnawing on him. He sank into the dusty dirt, tucking his feet under his knees as he kept his gaze anywhere but on her. God, Dean would bust a gut laughing if he ever knew about this.
“You always were happiest with him. It’s why I refused the keys.” He sighed, tipping his head back to watch the few stars that made their way through the pollution of the city. “You always loved him more, and it wouldn’t have been fair to take you away from him. Even if he wasn’t hunting anymore. Even missing my soul, I knew that.” The black paint gleamed coldly, and maybe it was the sheer lack of sleep that was making him trippy, but he got the feeling there was a lack of forgiveness. He edged closer, rested his forehead on the elegant sweep of metal just over her wheel well. “You know, Samuel talked me into the Charger. They sell more, so it was more inconspicuous. I wanted the Impala.” He shrugged, tipping his head to rest his cheek on the cool metal. “Keep at least a little piece of you close by. But I couldn’t take you away from Dean. It wouldn’t be right to any of us, you know?” The air changed, just a little, and he crept into the back seat, curling up small and burying his nose in the leather, sighing quietly. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he slid into sleep.
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He’d apologized, to Castiel, to Dean, to Bobby… begged again and again for forgiveness for the things his body had done while he wasn’t fully at home. And the reactions had ranged, from Bobby still being wary of him, stand-offish in a way he never had been before, not even after he’d died and come back, to Dean’s constant and insistent refusal to accept that Sam had done anything to warrant forgiveness.
“Wasn’t you, Sam.” He repeated again and again, in every variation under the sun, until Sam just stopped trying. Gave up and gave in, like he’d done so many other times.
He still had one last apology to make, and he waited until Dean had slid into sleep, Jim and Jack easing the way. He wasn’t drinking nearly as much as the last few days of hell on earth, but the liquor was still a lullaby of sorts. He feigned sleep until Dean’s breaths had steadied out and deepened, and then counted down from a thousand to ensure it before he slipped out of the warm sheets and stuffed his feet into the shoes peeking out from under the bed. He paused as he eased open the door, eyes intent on Dean, making sure his brother wasn’t going to wake up, and eased out the door to make the one apology he was dreading.
After all, it wasn’t like they were going to forgive him. But he still needed to clear the air, offer up an olive branch of sorts to try to appease the guilt gnawing on him. He sank into the dusty dirt, tucking his feet under his knees as he kept his gaze anywhere but on her. God, Dean would bust a gut laughing if he ever knew about this.
“You always were happiest with him. It’s why I refused the keys.” He sighed, tipping his head back to watch the few stars that made their way through the pollution of the city. “You always loved him more, and it wouldn’t have been fair to take you away from him. Even if he wasn’t hunting anymore. Even missing my soul, I knew that.” The black paint gleamed coldly, and maybe it was the sheer lack of sleep that was making him trippy, but he got the feeling there was a lack of forgiveness. He edged closer, rested his forehead on the elegant sweep of metal just over her wheel well. “You know, Samuel talked me into the Charger. They sell more, so it was more inconspicuous. I wanted the Impala.” He shrugged, tipping his head to rest his cheek on the cool metal. “Keep at least a little piece of you close by. But I couldn’t take you away from Dean. It wouldn’t be right to any of us, you know?” The air changed, just a little, and he crept into the back seat, curling up small and burying his nose in the leather, sighing quietly. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he slid into sleep.
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