November, Again
Title: November, Again
Characters: Sam and Dean
Genre: Horror-angst
Word count: 513
Disclaimed: None of these characters are mine and no one pays me to play with them.
Notes: From the autumn-themed Dean-focused h/c meme; reposted here in hopes that someone decides to remix it for the Dean-focused h/c remix challenge
Written for kalliel, who wanted some other stuff but graciously accepted this.
It’s November again and inevitable as the seasons, illness confines Dean to his bed. Or it would, if he had a bed. He doesn’t. He has a borrowed bed - no, not even that, a rented bed. A rented bed in the cheapest motel you could find, one that’s hosted thousands of previous occupants and offered scant comfort to any.
You know the drill. Bring him tea, he swats it away. Bring him soup from the diner down the street, chicken soup with a skin of grease slicking the top, he turns up his nose. Fight about it, force the spoon into his mouth. Endure threats and curses. Buy a fresh box of tissues, the kind infused with aloe or somesuch, have it pushed back into your face and learn a few new descriptions of your relationship with your dead mother. Cover him with all the blankets you can find, including the old smelly one from the Impala, and press a kiss against his fevered brow.
And breathe a sigh of relief when he finally yields to restless sleep.
You have a few hours.
You can’t go far because when he wakes up he’ll want you, but the parking lot is good enough. Gather the materials; make several trips because you can’t think straight. Remember the lighter, siphon some gasoline. Make a pile of clothing, clippings, the photograph, dust and splash and click and WOOOSH -
For three minutes, the fire blazes hot and bright. Wait until it burns down to embers, all too fast, and take the knife. Hesitate before cutting your wrist - it’s cold and it hurts, being a hunter doesn’t make it hurt any less when steel bites into your flesh and opens the vein. Watch dark blood pool, drip, splatter and hiss. Halt the bleeding with your hand - damn, did you remember to wash up? Probably not. You can’t remember everything.
Sit and wait. It’s cold, and it hurts, but you’re a hunter and he’s your brother.
Return to the room chilled to the bone and trembling so badly it takes three attempts to get the door open (maiden, mother, and crone. She explained it all.)
He’s already awake, sitting and unsmiling. You done, he wants to know.
I am.
Who was it this time, he wants to know. He’s angry. He won’t look at you.
It doesn’t matter, you tell him, but he won’t accept that.
So: bring him his jacket, have it swatted away. Pack up his things for him, endure curses and don’t listen to the names. Hand him the car keys, flinch as his hand smacks them to the floor. Twist your arms around yourself and try to stop shivering, close your eyes because you can’t bear the anger in his eyes.
And: lean into his warmth as he wraps his arms around you, sigh into the silence as his head comes to rest against yours. He cries again, you don’t.
It’s not fair and it hurts, but he’s a hunter and you’re his brother.
He’ll forgive you (again and again and again)
and he’ll live.
(forever.)
Characters: Sam and Dean
Genre: Horror-angst
Word count: 513
Disclaimed: None of these characters are mine and no one pays me to play with them.
Notes: From the autumn-themed Dean-focused h/c meme; reposted here in hopes that someone decides to remix it for the Dean-focused h/c remix challenge
Written for kalliel, who wanted some other stuff but graciously accepted this.
It’s November again and inevitable as the seasons, illness confines Dean to his bed. Or it would, if he had a bed. He doesn’t. He has a borrowed bed - no, not even that, a rented bed. A rented bed in the cheapest motel you could find, one that’s hosted thousands of previous occupants and offered scant comfort to any.
You know the drill. Bring him tea, he swats it away. Bring him soup from the diner down the street, chicken soup with a skin of grease slicking the top, he turns up his nose. Fight about it, force the spoon into his mouth. Endure threats and curses. Buy a fresh box of tissues, the kind infused with aloe or somesuch, have it pushed back into your face and learn a few new descriptions of your relationship with your dead mother. Cover him with all the blankets you can find, including the old smelly one from the Impala, and press a kiss against his fevered brow.
And breathe a sigh of relief when he finally yields to restless sleep.
You have a few hours.
You can’t go far because when he wakes up he’ll want you, but the parking lot is good enough. Gather the materials; make several trips because you can’t think straight. Remember the lighter, siphon some gasoline. Make a pile of clothing, clippings, the photograph, dust and splash and click and WOOOSH -
For three minutes, the fire blazes hot and bright. Wait until it burns down to embers, all too fast, and take the knife. Hesitate before cutting your wrist - it’s cold and it hurts, being a hunter doesn’t make it hurt any less when steel bites into your flesh and opens the vein. Watch dark blood pool, drip, splatter and hiss. Halt the bleeding with your hand - damn, did you remember to wash up? Probably not. You can’t remember everything.
Sit and wait. It’s cold, and it hurts, but you’re a hunter and he’s your brother.
Return to the room chilled to the bone and trembling so badly it takes three attempts to get the door open (maiden, mother, and crone. She explained it all.)
He’s already awake, sitting and unsmiling. You done, he wants to know.
I am.
Who was it this time, he wants to know. He’s angry. He won’t look at you.
It doesn’t matter, you tell him, but he won’t accept that.
So: bring him his jacket, have it swatted away. Pack up his things for him, endure curses and don’t listen to the names. Hand him the car keys, flinch as his hand smacks them to the floor. Twist your arms around yourself and try to stop shivering, close your eyes because you can’t bear the anger in his eyes.
And: lean into his warmth as he wraps his arms around you, sigh into the silence as his head comes to rest against yours. He cries again, you don’t.
It’s not fair and it hurts, but he’s a hunter and you’re his brother.
He’ll forgive you (again and again and again)
and he’ll live.
(forever.)