2.
Knock knock? Who's there? Cornflakes. Cornflakes who? I'll tell you next week, it's a...
where the sunsets are all breathtaking (2/?)
PG-13, eventual wincest, AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
two
“How much do you remember?” Sam asks. He’s having to squint a little to look at Dean, face bright in the same sunshine Dean can feel warming the back of his neck. It’s a late afternoon, summer glow; it’s beautiful, sure, and the goddamn birds are singing, but Dean’s pretty fucking sure it was not far off of midnight a moment ago. And he was at Bobby’s. And he was arguing with- the image flickers, sharpens- he was arguing with Sam.
“Last thing I know,” Dean says, slowly, “I was yellin’ at you.”
Sam laughs at that, with the sun in his face and his head thrown back. It’s not quite the deranged, little-boy-laugh he gets when he’s supergluing things to Dean’s hands or some shit, but it’s not far off; he has to hold onto the ground to keep from overbalancing at the sheer hilarity of it all.
“Yeah,” he agrees once he can talk again, still smiling. “You were.”
Dean can’t remember what he was so goddamn angry about, however many minutes or hours ago; but he can feel it, the memory of it, like a punch in the gut, like blood in his mouth, muscles winding tight with unknown fury. And with it comes a slow, creeping trickle of dread.
Once upon a time, the sound of his brother’s laughter just made Dean happy.
“Sam,” he says. “What did you do?”
And Sam smiles beatifically, the picture of absolute fucking contentment. He leans forward, rocking up onto his knees to rest a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and he says, “I got us out, Dean. I got us out.”
“What do you mean?” is Dean’s automatic response, but before he’s even shut his mouth he can feel his memories begin sliding back into him, as if the weight of Sam’s hand on his shoulder was the signal his mind had been waiting for, roll the tape. They’d been at Bobby’s, yeah, because neither of them had really felt like hitting the road again, and the defeat over Lilith still wasn’t feeling like much of a victory, nearly three weeks since they’d walked out of the cloud of ash...
We need to stop doing this, Sam had said, We need to get out of this life.
There are parallel universes, he’d said, and then I’ve found this ritual, and then--
And now there’s Sam’s stupid fucking deliriously happy face, smiling across at Dean in the middle of some bumfuck field in- South Dakota, Dean realises now, exactly where Bobby’s house should be- as the words spill out of his mouth. “So I know you weren’t exactly on board with the plan, but we were running out of time. I had to just do it before it was too late. I had to. You’re probably still pissed, yeah? But I had to, Dean. This is what we need--”
Dean doesn’t even realise his fist is flying until it’s connecting with Sam’s face in a heavy crunch of bone-against-bone. Sam’s head snaps back at the force of it, and he lets out a choked, wet noise, hand falling off of Dean’s shoulder as he grabs at his own bloody nose instead.
“Fuck you,” Dean spits out. He staggers upright, cradling his aching fist to his chest, and Sam stares up at him with wide eyes. There’s blood dripping down his chin and he looks- the fucking moron has the audacity to look- surprised. Like he really didn’t believe Dean could react to it this way.
“Fuck you,” Dean says again, louder.
“Dean--”
“No, don’t you fucking ‘Dean’ me,” he snaps. His fist is throbbing, a dull ache in time with the race of his heart, and he has to grip his other hand around it to keep from swinging a second time. “I don’t even get a say in this? I say ‘no’ and you just fucking do it anyway?”
“It was a narrow timeslot!” Sam exclaims. He’s on his feet now too, towering and bloody, with his arms thrown wide. “You weren’t cooperating with me!”
And of all the stupid goddamn things his little brother has ever said, that one might just win the gold. Dean’s stepped up to meet him in two short steps, crowding up into his space and then just pulling him closer with a fistful of Sam’s shirt.
“I didn’t want to go, Sam,” he grinds out, nice and slow. “That’s not the kind of decision you can just make for me.”
Sam stares down at him. There’s a muscle working in his jaw, and blood still oozing from his nose. “You brought me back from the dead,” he says, eventually. “You brought me back and then you died, and I had to-- Now it’s my turn to make the decisions.”
“I bring you back to life, and you rip me into a fucking parallel universe?”
“Yes,” Sam says. He smiles down at Dean, in a tight little twist of his bloody lips. “You’re welcome.”
where the sunsets are all breathtaking (2/?)
PG-13, eventual wincest, AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
two
“How much do you remember?” Sam asks. He’s having to squint a little to look at Dean, face bright in the same sunshine Dean can feel warming the back of his neck. It’s a late afternoon, summer glow; it’s beautiful, sure, and the goddamn birds are singing, but Dean’s pretty fucking sure it was not far off of midnight a moment ago. And he was at Bobby’s. And he was arguing with- the image flickers, sharpens- he was arguing with Sam.
“Last thing I know,” Dean says, slowly, “I was yellin’ at you.”
Sam laughs at that, with the sun in his face and his head thrown back. It’s not quite the deranged, little-boy-laugh he gets when he’s supergluing things to Dean’s hands or some shit, but it’s not far off; he has to hold onto the ground to keep from overbalancing at the sheer hilarity of it all.
“Yeah,” he agrees once he can talk again, still smiling. “You were.”
Dean can’t remember what he was so goddamn angry about, however many minutes or hours ago; but he can feel it, the memory of it, like a punch in the gut, like blood in his mouth, muscles winding tight with unknown fury. And with it comes a slow, creeping trickle of dread.
Once upon a time, the sound of his brother’s laughter just made Dean happy.
“Sam,” he says. “What did you do?”
And Sam smiles beatifically, the picture of absolute fucking contentment. He leans forward, rocking up onto his knees to rest a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and he says, “I got us out, Dean. I got us out.”
“What do you mean?” is Dean’s automatic response, but before he’s even shut his mouth he can feel his memories begin sliding back into him, as if the weight of Sam’s hand on his shoulder was the signal his mind had been waiting for, roll the tape. They’d been at Bobby’s, yeah, because neither of them had really felt like hitting the road again, and the defeat over Lilith still wasn’t feeling like much of a victory, nearly three weeks since they’d walked out of the cloud of ash...
We need to stop doing this, Sam had said, We need to get out of this life.
There are parallel universes, he’d said, and then I’ve found this ritual, and then--
And now there’s Sam’s stupid fucking deliriously happy face, smiling across at Dean in the middle of some bumfuck field in- South Dakota, Dean realises now, exactly where Bobby’s house should be- as the words spill out of his mouth. “So I know you weren’t exactly on board with the plan, but we were running out of time. I had to just do it before it was too late. I had to. You’re probably still pissed, yeah? But I had to, Dean. This is what we need--”
Dean doesn’t even realise his fist is flying until it’s connecting with Sam’s face in a heavy crunch of bone-against-bone. Sam’s head snaps back at the force of it, and he lets out a choked, wet noise, hand falling off of Dean’s shoulder as he grabs at his own bloody nose instead.
“Fuck you,” Dean spits out. He staggers upright, cradling his aching fist to his chest, and Sam stares up at him with wide eyes. There’s blood dripping down his chin and he looks- the fucking moron has the audacity to look- surprised. Like he really didn’t believe Dean could react to it this way.
“Fuck you,” Dean says again, louder.
“Dean--”
“No, don’t you fucking ‘Dean’ me,” he snaps. His fist is throbbing, a dull ache in time with the race of his heart, and he has to grip his other hand around it to keep from swinging a second time. “I don’t even get a say in this? I say ‘no’ and you just fucking do it anyway?”
“It was a narrow timeslot!” Sam exclaims. He’s on his feet now too, towering and bloody, with his arms thrown wide. “You weren’t cooperating with me!”
And of all the stupid goddamn things his little brother has ever said, that one might just win the gold. Dean’s stepped up to meet him in two short steps, crowding up into his space and then just pulling him closer with a fistful of Sam’s shirt.
“I didn’t want to go, Sam,” he grinds out, nice and slow. “That’s not the kind of decision you can just make for me.”
Sam stares down at him. There’s a muscle working in his jaw, and blood still oozing from his nose. “You brought me back from the dead,” he says, eventually. “You brought me back and then you died, and I had to-- Now it’s my turn to make the decisions.”
“I bring you back to life, and you rip me into a fucking parallel universe?”
“Yes,” Sam says. He smiles down at Dean, in a tight little twist of his bloody lips. “You’re welcome.”