Softly
TITLE: Softly
GENRE: Gen, hurt!comfort, angst
WARNINGS: 2nd person
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: A Very Supernatural Christmas
DISCLAIMER: I'm not making off of Supernatural-inspired fic. All characters belong to Kripke.
SERIES A bit of a companion piece to Tipping Point.
SUMMARY:
It doesn’t take long for you to set up the Christmas decorations. There aren’t many - a garland. A sign that reads “Merry Christmas.” The tree and the lights take the longest. You panic a little, stringing lights over the Impala. It won’t take Dean long to buy the beer and you don’t want to be caught in the act. This is a surprise for Dean. An act of kindness he won’t expect. You make this kind of gesture so much less than Dean deserves. You don’t want his inevitable questions about “Why?” and “What made you change your mind?”
You begin to breath again once the lights are up and you move on to the eggnog. There’s a sizeable bottle of whiskey sitting on the table next to you. You rushed out to buy it when Dean was still getting the car checked out, and you try not to think about what it means that both of you are stopping by the same liquor store tonight.
But there’s no way the eggnog’s not going to be spiked.
You have to keep up the façade. Pretend it’s all okay. For Dean. You’ll do it, for your brother. He’s going to hell for you, after all. A merry little Christmas is the very least you should be able to do in return. But there’s no way - there’s just no way - you’re going to get through tonight sober. Dean is the master at this kind of denial. He’s always been better at compartmentalizing than you are. You wish you had that kind of mastery over your own emotions, but that’s one way in which you’ll never measure up to your older brother. You’ve never been as good at building walls as Dean, and it’s going to kill you when he’s gone.
Your hands shake as you reach for the bottle. Dean and Dad always used whiskey this way - to dull feelings, and mask what’s going on inside of them. You’ve spent your whole life trying to become your brother. The need to emulate Dean, to become Dean has grown inside you with each passing day as the two of you crawl closer to the inevitable deadline. The urge to imitate your older brother hasn’t been this strong since you were twelve, and still idolized Dean with all the hero-worship of a small child. You don’t know any other ways to cope than what Dean's taught you. So, the whiskey.
You swirl the amber liquid in the bottle, watch it sparkle and shimmer. You take a hesitant, experimental sip. You’re twenty-three years old, not exactly a virgin when it comes to alcohol, but somehow, this feels like your first drink. You sip it slowly, feeling the slow burn of it down your throat.
This is how it will be when Dean is gone. Alcohol will become the crutch that gets you through the day, through each new second without Dean. You wonder for the thousandth time how Dean thought you’d ever be able to live without him. When it comes to hunting, or raising kids, or dealing with people, no one is smarter or savvier than your big brother. But when it comes to other people’s love for him, Dean can be remarkably, tragically stupid.
You try another swallow. It feels good. You’ll get used to this.
You pour some of the liquor into the eggnog. You taste it. It’s not nearly strong enough, so you lower the bottle and pour again, counting off seconds in your head until you hit thirty. You set the bottle back on the table with a clink of glass-on-wood. You taste the eggnog again, and wince. It’ll do.
You sit on the couch, and work on the liquor until Dean walks in. By the time Dean gets back, you don’t even grimace when you swallow. You hear the door creak open as Dean walk in. The liquor hasn’t hit you yet, but you know you’ll be feeling it soon.
You stand, and throw a smile on your face.
“Hey, you get the beer?”
Dean starts to answer, but his words get lost as he sees what you’ve done to the room.
“What’s all this?” There’s a note in Dean’s voice you’ve never heard before: soft, and uncertain, and full of something else, too, that you can’t quite place. For a second, you have the sudden, wild thought that Dean is either going to hug you or cry.
“What do you think it is? It’s Christmas!” Your voice is loud, and overly cheerful to hide it’s shaking.
Dean drinks in the scene. The expression on his face mirrors the newness of the tone of his voice. He looks touched, and happy: overwhelmed. He just stares for a long, fragile moment. You see a faint blush creep along his cheeks, and wonder if it’s a trick of the light.
“What made you change your mind?”
You can’t speak - couldn’t, even if you wanted to. You stare at Dean, at your heroic, doomed, perfect older brother until the silence gets uncomfortable.
“Here, try the eggnog,” you say, reaching for it, because there’s nothing else to do.
That look of overwhelmed surprise crosses Dean’s face again, and all you can think about is how wrong it is that Dean is so moved by a gesture this small.
“Let me know if it needs some more kick,” You say, and almost hope that Dean will say “Too weak.” But Dean almost winces at the taste, his eyes bulging in surprise, and says
“Nah, we’re good.”
“Yeah?” you say, hoping Dean will get the hint. You need more booze.
You’re already buzzing on your shot or too. You were careful. You didn’t drink enough for Dean to notice. Dean’s always teased you about your weak stomach, but there are still some things your brother doesn’t know about you. Like how you’ve been practicing for a couple of weeks now. There’s a supply of liquor in your duffel bag that you didn’t touch tonight. It helps sometimes. When you’re on the edge of breaking down, and Dean’s being the most unrepentant, self-sacrificing ass he can be, sometimes - sometimes a swig from the liquor bottle works just fine.
“Yeah. Have a seat. Let’s do - Christmas stuff. Or whatever.”
It sounds impossibly lame to you, but Dean keeps giving you this look: this sideways, slip-slide of his eyes, that says so much. Like he can’t believe you’re doing this. When Dean’s this happy, he seems impossibly vulnerable: young. Suddenly, you’re taking care of him.
“First things, first,” Dean says, and just like that, he slides back in control of the moment, like he never left. It’s more of a relief than it should be.
Dean smiles, and sits you down on the couch. You make do with a couple of gas-station gifts, and only the wrapping paper on yours betrays how much this means to Dean. How much you mean to him. The skin mags are exquisitely wrapped. The plain, brown paper has department-store corners, and you can’t help wondering how many times Dean wrapped and re-wrapped them to get it that way.
You didn’t put that much time into Dean. You know what Dean likes, and you grabbed his presents off the shelf without thinking, counted out a pathetically small amount of bills at the cash register. You spent more time thinking about your liquor store purchases than Dean’s present.
Dean’s eyes light up when he rips through your shoddy wrapping job. He’s so genuinely grateful for the presents you spent two minutes buying that it makes your head hurt.
“Thank you, Sammy,” Dean says. “These are awesome.”
You feel a sick twist in your stomach. You’re beginning to think you might not find a way out of Dean’s deal. You might not be able to save him. Dean should be kicking and screaming and raging right now, but instead he’s grateful. He’s always been too grateful for whatever scraps of love you decide to show him.
“Hey, Dean - ” you say. You’re definitely buzzing by now. The mixture of liquor and eggnog combine with the shots you had, before Dean walked in. You feel that light, too-happy feeling that contrasts oddly with the tears threatening to form in your eyes. You swallow your emotions down because you will not cry on Dean’s last Christmas.
Dean turns to you. His head is canted sideways, his eyes bright, and expectant. He looks at you like you’re everything. Like you’re the world and he doesn’t regret, for a moment, selling his soul to have another year’s worth of moments with you. You should be dead and cold in the ground right now. Dean should be living at Bobby’s, free from the burden of raising you, protecting you. Instead you’re here, a little too drunk on the last Christmas Dean will ever have.
Dean’s still waiting for you to speak, so you say
“You feel like watching the game?” You ask, and swallow the I love you that was building in your throat.
Dean nods, and settles back on the couch. You sit through the first quarter without even seeing what’s on TV. You’re not sure love even encompasses everything that you feel for your brother. The room’s too warm and starting to tilt and sway at the edges, like a couple of ballroom dancers.
Dean has his arm flung out and settled around your shoulder. Suddenly, the closeness is too much. You can feel Dean’s body heat, different from the temperature of the room, and all you can think about is how empty and cold that place beside you will be in a few short months. You rub at your eyes, and mutter
“Want some more?”
Dean’s glass is empty on the table, next to yours. Dean looks away from the game, and is brows nit when he looks at you, an expression that’s not-quite worry.
“Yeah, Sammy,” he says, and his voice is softer than it should be. “I’d love it.”
You feel a hot spike of shame spike through you. It’s Dean’s last Christmas, and you should be able to make it through that, without giving Dean an excuse to worry about you. Dean’s still looking at you with that mixture of concern, and something else. His fingers try to tangle in your hair, but you collect the glasses and shrug out of his touch. You stand in a smooth motion, and Dean’s arm fall limply to the couch.
“Sammy?”
“Watch the game, Dean.”
You wait until Dean finally turns away from you, turns his focus back to the Jets and the Patriots. You pour the cool eggnog-and-whiskey mix into Dean’s glass until it threatens to slosh over the rim. You leave your own half full. You glance back at Dean. When you’re sure that your brother is completely absorbed in the last play, you pull a shot glass from the pocket of you jeans. It’s new, a fresh purchase from the gas station. You bought it tonight. Your hands shake. The light plays on the soft faux-glass, briefly dazzling your eyes.
You glance once more at Dean. His back is turned, and you pour from the liquor bottle until the shot glass is as full as Dean’s glass of eggnog. It’s an effort to keep your hands steady as you slip the shot into your drink. You nearly set the liquor bottle back on the table where it belongs, but it’s Christmas, and your brother is dying, and you’re not nearly drunk enough to face that reality. You slip a second shot into your drink, and swallow another half straight from your shot glass before Dean shouts
“What’s keeping you, Sammy?”
From the couch, and you carry the eggnog back to the couch, shot glass tucked safely back in your pocket where it belongs.
“Taking your time over there, Samantha?” Dean asks as he accepts his eggnog and sips it gingerly, so it doesn’t spill. His eyes never leave your face, and after he drains his glass until the eggnog isn’t threatening to slosh over the sides, he sets it down on the coffee table, picks up the remote, and punches the volume down to a whisper.
“Sam?”
“Merry Christmas, Dean,” you say. Your throat closes around the words. You can’t bear to say anything else, so you focus on your drink, and drain the eggnog empty. The tilt-a-whirl of the room spins around you. Dean’s staring at you like he knows something’s wrong, but can’t put it into words; doesn’t know whether to confront you or not. You wonder how bad an actor you are, if it’s obvious that you’re drunker than you should be on two glasses of spiked eggnog.
“Sammy,” Dean murmurs, gently stroking your face with the rough, calloused fingers that you know so well. “Sammy, Sammy, shhhh.”
You don’t know what he means, at first, and then you realize that you’re crying. Tears are dripping down your cheeks, leaving fat, wet trails across your skin, and you’re not even bothering to hide them.
Dean pulls you close, muttering a soft litany of
“Shhh, Sammy. Stop crying. It’ll be okay, I promise.”
You want to scream, to hit him. You want to shake him until it hurts. You want to ask how it can possibly be okay when your big brother’s dying. What could ever be okay about that?
You pull Dean close, and mutter something into his shoulder, that sounds like
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
“Sam, shut up,” Dean says.
“Your last Christmas,” You gasp into the soft cotton of Dean’s t-shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re an idiot,” Dean says, roughly. “This is just what I wanted. C’mon.”
Dean puts you to bed. As he tucks the covers underneath your chin, you can smell the thick, inviting scent of him: leather, and shaving cream, and gasoline. You feel him lie down beside you, and wrap his arms around you in a gesture that you haven’t felt since you were four. He holds you longer than he has to. You lie still, pretending to sleep. You drink in the feel of his touch, and don’t want him to pull away. A long minute passes, and then Dean starts to talk to you: soft, so you won’t wake. It takes him four tries to say it, but you distinctly hear the words
“I love you, Sammy,” just before you drift off to sleep for real.
GENRE: Gen, hurt!comfort, angst
WARNINGS: 2nd person
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: A Very Supernatural Christmas
DISCLAIMER: I'm not making off of Supernatural-inspired fic. All characters belong to Kripke.
SERIES A bit of a companion piece to Tipping Point.
SUMMARY:
It doesn’t take long for you to set up the Christmas decorations. There aren’t many - a garland. A sign that reads “Merry Christmas.” The tree and the lights take the longest. You panic a little, stringing lights over the Impala. It won’t take Dean long to buy the beer and you don’t want to be caught in the act. This is a surprise for Dean. An act of kindness he won’t expect. You make this kind of gesture so much less than Dean deserves. You don’t want his inevitable questions about “Why?” and “What made you change your mind?”
You begin to breath again once the lights are up and you move on to the eggnog. There’s a sizeable bottle of whiskey sitting on the table next to you. You rushed out to buy it when Dean was still getting the car checked out, and you try not to think about what it means that both of you are stopping by the same liquor store tonight.
But there’s no way the eggnog’s not going to be spiked.
You have to keep up the façade. Pretend it’s all okay. For Dean. You’ll do it, for your brother. He’s going to hell for you, after all. A merry little Christmas is the very least you should be able to do in return. But there’s no way - there’s just no way - you’re going to get through tonight sober. Dean is the master at this kind of denial. He’s always been better at compartmentalizing than you are. You wish you had that kind of mastery over your own emotions, but that’s one way in which you’ll never measure up to your older brother. You’ve never been as good at building walls as Dean, and it’s going to kill you when he’s gone.
Your hands shake as you reach for the bottle. Dean and Dad always used whiskey this way - to dull feelings, and mask what’s going on inside of them. You’ve spent your whole life trying to become your brother. The need to emulate Dean, to become Dean has grown inside you with each passing day as the two of you crawl closer to the inevitable deadline. The urge to imitate your older brother hasn’t been this strong since you were twelve, and still idolized Dean with all the hero-worship of a small child. You don’t know any other ways to cope than what Dean's taught you. So, the whiskey.
You swirl the amber liquid in the bottle, watch it sparkle and shimmer. You take a hesitant, experimental sip. You’re twenty-three years old, not exactly a virgin when it comes to alcohol, but somehow, this feels like your first drink. You sip it slowly, feeling the slow burn of it down your throat.
This is how it will be when Dean is gone. Alcohol will become the crutch that gets you through the day, through each new second without Dean. You wonder for the thousandth time how Dean thought you’d ever be able to live without him. When it comes to hunting, or raising kids, or dealing with people, no one is smarter or savvier than your big brother. But when it comes to other people’s love for him, Dean can be remarkably, tragically stupid.
You try another swallow. It feels good. You’ll get used to this.
You pour some of the liquor into the eggnog. You taste it. It’s not nearly strong enough, so you lower the bottle and pour again, counting off seconds in your head until you hit thirty. You set the bottle back on the table with a clink of glass-on-wood. You taste the eggnog again, and wince. It’ll do.
You sit on the couch, and work on the liquor until Dean walks in. By the time Dean gets back, you don’t even grimace when you swallow. You hear the door creak open as Dean walk in. The liquor hasn’t hit you yet, but you know you’ll be feeling it soon.
You stand, and throw a smile on your face.
“Hey, you get the beer?”
Dean starts to answer, but his words get lost as he sees what you’ve done to the room.
“What’s all this?” There’s a note in Dean’s voice you’ve never heard before: soft, and uncertain, and full of something else, too, that you can’t quite place. For a second, you have the sudden, wild thought that Dean is either going to hug you or cry.
“What do you think it is? It’s Christmas!” Your voice is loud, and overly cheerful to hide it’s shaking.
Dean drinks in the scene. The expression on his face mirrors the newness of the tone of his voice. He looks touched, and happy: overwhelmed. He just stares for a long, fragile moment. You see a faint blush creep along his cheeks, and wonder if it’s a trick of the light.
“What made you change your mind?”
You can’t speak - couldn’t, even if you wanted to. You stare at Dean, at your heroic, doomed, perfect older brother until the silence gets uncomfortable.
“Here, try the eggnog,” you say, reaching for it, because there’s nothing else to do.
That look of overwhelmed surprise crosses Dean’s face again, and all you can think about is how wrong it is that Dean is so moved by a gesture this small.
“Let me know if it needs some more kick,” You say, and almost hope that Dean will say “Too weak.” But Dean almost winces at the taste, his eyes bulging in surprise, and says
“Nah, we’re good.”
“Yeah?” you say, hoping Dean will get the hint. You need more booze.
You’re already buzzing on your shot or too. You were careful. You didn’t drink enough for Dean to notice. Dean’s always teased you about your weak stomach, but there are still some things your brother doesn’t know about you. Like how you’ve been practicing for a couple of weeks now. There’s a supply of liquor in your duffel bag that you didn’t touch tonight. It helps sometimes. When you’re on the edge of breaking down, and Dean’s being the most unrepentant, self-sacrificing ass he can be, sometimes - sometimes a swig from the liquor bottle works just fine.
“Yeah. Have a seat. Let’s do - Christmas stuff. Or whatever.”
It sounds impossibly lame to you, but Dean keeps giving you this look: this sideways, slip-slide of his eyes, that says so much. Like he can’t believe you’re doing this. When Dean’s this happy, he seems impossibly vulnerable: young. Suddenly, you’re taking care of him.
“First things, first,” Dean says, and just like that, he slides back in control of the moment, like he never left. It’s more of a relief than it should be.
Dean smiles, and sits you down on the couch. You make do with a couple of gas-station gifts, and only the wrapping paper on yours betrays how much this means to Dean. How much you mean to him. The skin mags are exquisitely wrapped. The plain, brown paper has department-store corners, and you can’t help wondering how many times Dean wrapped and re-wrapped them to get it that way.
You didn’t put that much time into Dean. You know what Dean likes, and you grabbed his presents off the shelf without thinking, counted out a pathetically small amount of bills at the cash register. You spent more time thinking about your liquor store purchases than Dean’s present.
Dean’s eyes light up when he rips through your shoddy wrapping job. He’s so genuinely grateful for the presents you spent two minutes buying that it makes your head hurt.
“Thank you, Sammy,” Dean says. “These are awesome.”
You feel a sick twist in your stomach. You’re beginning to think you might not find a way out of Dean’s deal. You might not be able to save him. Dean should be kicking and screaming and raging right now, but instead he’s grateful. He’s always been too grateful for whatever scraps of love you decide to show him.
“Hey, Dean - ” you say. You’re definitely buzzing by now. The mixture of liquor and eggnog combine with the shots you had, before Dean walked in. You feel that light, too-happy feeling that contrasts oddly with the tears threatening to form in your eyes. You swallow your emotions down because you will not cry on Dean’s last Christmas.
Dean turns to you. His head is canted sideways, his eyes bright, and expectant. He looks at you like you’re everything. Like you’re the world and he doesn’t regret, for a moment, selling his soul to have another year’s worth of moments with you. You should be dead and cold in the ground right now. Dean should be living at Bobby’s, free from the burden of raising you, protecting you. Instead you’re here, a little too drunk on the last Christmas Dean will ever have.
Dean’s still waiting for you to speak, so you say
“You feel like watching the game?” You ask, and swallow the I love you that was building in your throat.
Dean nods, and settles back on the couch. You sit through the first quarter without even seeing what’s on TV. You’re not sure love even encompasses everything that you feel for your brother. The room’s too warm and starting to tilt and sway at the edges, like a couple of ballroom dancers.
Dean has his arm flung out and settled around your shoulder. Suddenly, the closeness is too much. You can feel Dean’s body heat, different from the temperature of the room, and all you can think about is how empty and cold that place beside you will be in a few short months. You rub at your eyes, and mutter
“Want some more?”
Dean’s glass is empty on the table, next to yours. Dean looks away from the game, and is brows nit when he looks at you, an expression that’s not-quite worry.
“Yeah, Sammy,” he says, and his voice is softer than it should be. “I’d love it.”
You feel a hot spike of shame spike through you. It’s Dean’s last Christmas, and you should be able to make it through that, without giving Dean an excuse to worry about you. Dean’s still looking at you with that mixture of concern, and something else. His fingers try to tangle in your hair, but you collect the glasses and shrug out of his touch. You stand in a smooth motion, and Dean’s arm fall limply to the couch.
“Sammy?”
“Watch the game, Dean.”
You wait until Dean finally turns away from you, turns his focus back to the Jets and the Patriots. You pour the cool eggnog-and-whiskey mix into Dean’s glass until it threatens to slosh over the rim. You leave your own half full. You glance back at Dean. When you’re sure that your brother is completely absorbed in the last play, you pull a shot glass from the pocket of you jeans. It’s new, a fresh purchase from the gas station. You bought it tonight. Your hands shake. The light plays on the soft faux-glass, briefly dazzling your eyes.
You glance once more at Dean. His back is turned, and you pour from the liquor bottle until the shot glass is as full as Dean’s glass of eggnog. It’s an effort to keep your hands steady as you slip the shot into your drink. You nearly set the liquor bottle back on the table where it belongs, but it’s Christmas, and your brother is dying, and you’re not nearly drunk enough to face that reality. You slip a second shot into your drink, and swallow another half straight from your shot glass before Dean shouts
“What’s keeping you, Sammy?”
From the couch, and you carry the eggnog back to the couch, shot glass tucked safely back in your pocket where it belongs.
“Taking your time over there, Samantha?” Dean asks as he accepts his eggnog and sips it gingerly, so it doesn’t spill. His eyes never leave your face, and after he drains his glass until the eggnog isn’t threatening to slosh over the sides, he sets it down on the coffee table, picks up the remote, and punches the volume down to a whisper.
“Sam?”
“Merry Christmas, Dean,” you say. Your throat closes around the words. You can’t bear to say anything else, so you focus on your drink, and drain the eggnog empty. The tilt-a-whirl of the room spins around you. Dean’s staring at you like he knows something’s wrong, but can’t put it into words; doesn’t know whether to confront you or not. You wonder how bad an actor you are, if it’s obvious that you’re drunker than you should be on two glasses of spiked eggnog.
“Sammy,” Dean murmurs, gently stroking your face with the rough, calloused fingers that you know so well. “Sammy, Sammy, shhhh.”
You don’t know what he means, at first, and then you realize that you’re crying. Tears are dripping down your cheeks, leaving fat, wet trails across your skin, and you’re not even bothering to hide them.
Dean pulls you close, muttering a soft litany of
“Shhh, Sammy. Stop crying. It’ll be okay, I promise.”
You want to scream, to hit him. You want to shake him until it hurts. You want to ask how it can possibly be okay when your big brother’s dying. What could ever be okay about that?
You pull Dean close, and mutter something into his shoulder, that sounds like
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
“Sam, shut up,” Dean says.
“Your last Christmas,” You gasp into the soft cotton of Dean’s t-shirt. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re an idiot,” Dean says, roughly. “This is just what I wanted. C’mon.”
Dean puts you to bed. As he tucks the covers underneath your chin, you can smell the thick, inviting scent of him: leather, and shaving cream, and gasoline. You feel him lie down beside you, and wrap his arms around you in a gesture that you haven’t felt since you were four. He holds you longer than he has to. You lie still, pretending to sleep. You drink in the feel of his touch, and don’t want him to pull away. A long minute passes, and then Dean starts to talk to you: soft, so you won’t wake. It takes him four tries to say it, but you distinctly hear the words
“I love you, Sammy,” just before you drift off to sleep for real.