One Saved Message
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1500
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean (preslash)
Summary: Dean figures if he isn't sleeping, he might as well do something productive with his time.
Warnings: Some angst, and a disgusting schmoopy ending. It is fix-it fic, after all. Also, written in a fit of pique in the middle of the night, so no beta.
Notes: Whoops, my season 8 feels got the best of me. Big chunks of this are probably going to get Jossed (Kripke'd? Carver'd?) next week, but you work with what you've got. It's set in the middle of the episode and, by necessity, would probably alter the end.
Sam goes to bed not long after his brother manages to give him some vague description of Purgatory, but Dean isn't so lucky. He's not particularly surprised, accustomed after twelve long months to looking over his shoulder every three seconds, especially after dark. Sleep hasn't come easily since Hell, so it's not really a sacrifice at this point.
Dean figures if he isn't sleeping, he might as well do something productive with his time. If he sits here much longer and thinks about the look on Sam's face, about how his brother didn't even look for him when he was gone...
Suffice it to say, he needs to be occupied.
He drags the box of phones out again, and selects the top one, popping a pair of earbuds into the headphone jack. He doubts anyone other than Kevin ever tried to contact Sam, but it's something to do.
Even if it is a stark reminder of how alone they really are.
The only voicemails on the first phone are Kevin's, and he almost decides to forgo the whole idea after listening to them again. But then Sam turns over in his sleep, mumbling about buying dog food, and Dean flinches at the reminder of what Sam's been doing while he was fighting for his life. He picks up the second phone.
"Hey, Sam, it's Bobby. I've got that spell you wanted. Gimme a call sometime boy, it'd be nice to know you idjits aren't dead in a ditch somewhere."
The message is ages old, but the when the cool automated voice tells him it's been played 7 times, he presses the appropriate key to save it, and ducks his head to breathe for a moment before playing the next message.
"Dude, I swear to God, if you come back here with one of those fuckin' sissy drinks, I'll end you." Dean hears himself say cheerfully and something tightens in his chest. He remembers it vaguely, probably only from last year, but he doesn't even remember being that Dean Winchester anymore.
The message has been played 19 times. He saves it and moves on.
"Sammy, I know you're at the library, 'cos otherwise you'd answer your goddamn phone like a good brother. There's a Bond marathon on tonight, dude, and we have no place to be. Bring back Chinese; it's gonna be a good night!"
32 plays and the constriction in Dean's chest grows.
"I know you're pissed at me Sammy, but that's no reason to run off without saying where you're going. You better fuckin' be in the motel room when I get back."
11 plays.
"Sam Sam. Sammy. I am. Waaaaaasted. Come pick me up, little brother."
The phone beeps, signifying the end of the messages, but not before informing him that this message has been played 57 times. Dean sets the phone down, feeling a little sick, and glances unwillingly over at his brother. With his blankets kicked down around his knees and his arm flung across half the bed, Sam looks all of fifteen years old and Dean feels a pang of loss for that mostly-innocent kid.
So Sam didn't look for him, but maybe there's an explanation. If anything, these messages prove he was maybe more broken up about it than he let on. Dean feels a little guilty for wanting his brother to be broken up over him, but it's been long years since he's done anything but accept the fact that when it comes to Sam, he's pretty fucked up.
He pushes the thought away and goes back to digging through the box of phones. The likelihood that there's anything important on any of them seems slim, but he's curious now. Dean's hand skitters across one of the phones further down in the box and he stops, pulling it out to study suspiciously.
It's easily the oldest phone in the box, and the screen is cracked right across the middle, but the battery's still charged. The weirdest thing, though, is that Dean is pretty positive that this particular phone was in his brother's pocket when Sam jumped into the Pit. How had he managed to hold on to it, and more importantly: why?
Dean dials the voicemail with a weird sense of trepidation. You have one saved message. To play your message, press one now.
It's Dean again, but he hardly recognizes himself, and not because of how he's changed since.
"Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak, Dad always said I'd either have to save you, or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning: I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam, a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back."
Dean stares at the phone incredulously, but he's still got the earbud in his ear, that automated voice calmly informing him this message has been played 200 times. To save, press the pound key.
There's bile rising in his throat and Dean's on his feet and crossing the room before he even realizes it.
"Sammy?" He grabs his brother's ankle and shakes. "Sam, dude, wake up."
"Mmm? Wassamatter?" Sam mumbles, from somewhere under that ungodly mop of hair. "Issit time to get up?"
"Sammy." Dean repeats, and something in his tone must register with his brother, because Sam turns towards him and opens his eyes. It takes only a second for him to register Dean standing at the foot of his bed and then his eyes dart down to the phone in his brother's hand and Sam's face drains of color.
"What the fuck is this, Sam?" Dean demands, waving the phone at the younger Winchester. "What is this?"
Sam sits up and reaches for the phone, but Dean pulls back and he sighs. "I just saved it, okay? I know you don't feel that way now." He adds, but his expression is uncertain.
"No, but what is it?" Dean insists. "Where did it come from?"
Sam's face crumples. "It's--it's the voicemail you left me...right before I broke the last Seal. You don't remember?"
"Of course I fucking remember, Sam!" Dean snarls and his brother flinches. "But I never said any of that shit!"
"...what?" Sam manages, completely bewildered. "But..."
"I said we were brothers! I said nothing would ever be more important than that, what the fuck?" Dean's vaguely aware that he's raving now, but he really can't get a handle on it. Sam's looking at him, eyes wide with disbelief and that's just fuel on the fire. "Sam, I never said this."
"You..." Sam cuts himself off and takes a steadying breath. "You didn't think that I was...a monster?"
Abruptly all of Dean's anger vanishes and he collapses on to the bed next to his brother, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. "Fuck, Sammy, no. I was just pissed as hell. But that voicemail...that ain't me. Fuckin' angels must've fucked with it."
Sam looks at him, glassy-eyed, like he's about to cry or something, and Dean starts to get to his feet because he'll be damned if this moment gets any more chick-flicky than it already is. But then Sam blurts "I looked for you every day for the last twelve months," and Dean drops back down to the bed.
"You said earlier that you didn't." He says cautiously. Sam's studying the bedspread like the pattern is particularly fascinating.
"I didn't think you'd approve of my methods."
"Sammy..."
"The girl I mentioned earlier," Sam cuts him off before he can ask, "Her name is Amelia. She's a vampire. Her mate was in Purgatory, and she wanted him back. Said he could only make it through if there was a human soul to attach to."
"Her mate's name is Benny." Dean confesses. "He helped me get out." Sam lifts his hazel eyes to meet Dean's, expression confused. "Sammy, we gotta be straight with each other. This--" he gestures with the phone, "this is what happens when we aren't."
"So, honesty." Sam says quietly. His eyes are suspiciously red again. "No more hiding shit?"
"Scout's honor." Dean quips, because he wouldn't be Dean if he didn't try to lighten the moment.
Sam's lips quirk into a grin. "Well, as my first act of honesty, I'd like to tell you that you look kind of like death warmed over and you need sleep." When Dean scowls at him, he just grabs his brother's wrist and flops back, tugging until Dean is laying next to him. "Just stay here with me, okay?" Sam whispers. He sounds so little-brother lost that Dean really can't argue, so he kicks off his boots and scoots in a little closer.
"Just one more thing, Sammy." He murmurs, holding up the phone and watching a flash of pain cross his brother's face. "You don't get to punish yourself with this ever again." He presses a couple of keys and the automated voice announces this message has been deleted. End of messages.
Finally, a couple tears do escape Sam's eyes and he looks at Dean with something close to wonder. "Jerk."
Dean presses a kiss to his forehead, like he's five years old all over again. "Yeah, yeah, I love you too, bitch."
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1500
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean (preslash)
Summary: Dean figures if he isn't sleeping, he might as well do something productive with his time.
Warnings: Some angst, and a disgusting schmoopy ending. It is fix-it fic, after all. Also, written in a fit of pique in the middle of the night, so no beta.
Notes: Whoops, my season 8 feels got the best of me. Big chunks of this are probably going to get Jossed (Kripke'd? Carver'd?) next week, but you work with what you've got. It's set in the middle of the episode and, by necessity, would probably alter the end.
Sam goes to bed not long after his brother manages to give him some vague description of Purgatory, but Dean isn't so lucky. He's not particularly surprised, accustomed after twelve long months to looking over his shoulder every three seconds, especially after dark. Sleep hasn't come easily since Hell, so it's not really a sacrifice at this point.
Dean figures if he isn't sleeping, he might as well do something productive with his time. If he sits here much longer and thinks about the look on Sam's face, about how his brother didn't even look for him when he was gone...
Suffice it to say, he needs to be occupied.
He drags the box of phones out again, and selects the top one, popping a pair of earbuds into the headphone jack. He doubts anyone other than Kevin ever tried to contact Sam, but it's something to do.
Even if it is a stark reminder of how alone they really are.
The only voicemails on the first phone are Kevin's, and he almost decides to forgo the whole idea after listening to them again. But then Sam turns over in his sleep, mumbling about buying dog food, and Dean flinches at the reminder of what Sam's been doing while he was fighting for his life. He picks up the second phone.
"Hey, Sam, it's Bobby. I've got that spell you wanted. Gimme a call sometime boy, it'd be nice to know you idjits aren't dead in a ditch somewhere."
The message is ages old, but the when the cool automated voice tells him it's been played 7 times, he presses the appropriate key to save it, and ducks his head to breathe for a moment before playing the next message.
"Dude, I swear to God, if you come back here with one of those fuckin' sissy drinks, I'll end you." Dean hears himself say cheerfully and something tightens in his chest. He remembers it vaguely, probably only from last year, but he doesn't even remember being that Dean Winchester anymore.
The message has been played 19 times. He saves it and moves on.
"Sammy, I know you're at the library, 'cos otherwise you'd answer your goddamn phone like a good brother. There's a Bond marathon on tonight, dude, and we have no place to be. Bring back Chinese; it's gonna be a good night!"
32 plays and the constriction in Dean's chest grows.
"I know you're pissed at me Sammy, but that's no reason to run off without saying where you're going. You better fuckin' be in the motel room when I get back."
11 plays.
"Sam Sam. Sammy. I am. Waaaaaasted. Come pick me up, little brother."
The phone beeps, signifying the end of the messages, but not before informing him that this message has been played 57 times. Dean sets the phone down, feeling a little sick, and glances unwillingly over at his brother. With his blankets kicked down around his knees and his arm flung across half the bed, Sam looks all of fifteen years old and Dean feels a pang of loss for that mostly-innocent kid.
So Sam didn't look for him, but maybe there's an explanation. If anything, these messages prove he was maybe more broken up about it than he let on. Dean feels a little guilty for wanting his brother to be broken up over him, but it's been long years since he's done anything but accept the fact that when it comes to Sam, he's pretty fucked up.
He pushes the thought away and goes back to digging through the box of phones. The likelihood that there's anything important on any of them seems slim, but he's curious now. Dean's hand skitters across one of the phones further down in the box and he stops, pulling it out to study suspiciously.
It's easily the oldest phone in the box, and the screen is cracked right across the middle, but the battery's still charged. The weirdest thing, though, is that Dean is pretty positive that this particular phone was in his brother's pocket when Sam jumped into the Pit. How had he managed to hold on to it, and more importantly: why?
Dean dials the voicemail with a weird sense of trepidation. You have one saved message. To play your message, press one now.
It's Dean again, but he hardly recognizes himself, and not because of how he's changed since.
"Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak, Dad always said I'd either have to save you, or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning: I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam, a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back."
Dean stares at the phone incredulously, but he's still got the earbud in his ear, that automated voice calmly informing him this message has been played 200 times. To save, press the pound key.
There's bile rising in his throat and Dean's on his feet and crossing the room before he even realizes it.
"Sammy?" He grabs his brother's ankle and shakes. "Sam, dude, wake up."
"Mmm? Wassamatter?" Sam mumbles, from somewhere under that ungodly mop of hair. "Issit time to get up?"
"Sammy." Dean repeats, and something in his tone must register with his brother, because Sam turns towards him and opens his eyes. It takes only a second for him to register Dean standing at the foot of his bed and then his eyes dart down to the phone in his brother's hand and Sam's face drains of color.
"What the fuck is this, Sam?" Dean demands, waving the phone at the younger Winchester. "What is this?"
Sam sits up and reaches for the phone, but Dean pulls back and he sighs. "I just saved it, okay? I know you don't feel that way now." He adds, but his expression is uncertain.
"No, but what is it?" Dean insists. "Where did it come from?"
Sam's face crumples. "It's--it's the voicemail you left me...right before I broke the last Seal. You don't remember?"
"Of course I fucking remember, Sam!" Dean snarls and his brother flinches. "But I never said any of that shit!"
"...what?" Sam manages, completely bewildered. "But..."
"I said we were brothers! I said nothing would ever be more important than that, what the fuck?" Dean's vaguely aware that he's raving now, but he really can't get a handle on it. Sam's looking at him, eyes wide with disbelief and that's just fuel on the fire. "Sam, I never said this."
"You..." Sam cuts himself off and takes a steadying breath. "You didn't think that I was...a monster?"
Abruptly all of Dean's anger vanishes and he collapses on to the bed next to his brother, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. "Fuck, Sammy, no. I was just pissed as hell. But that voicemail...that ain't me. Fuckin' angels must've fucked with it."
Sam looks at him, glassy-eyed, like he's about to cry or something, and Dean starts to get to his feet because he'll be damned if this moment gets any more chick-flicky than it already is. But then Sam blurts "I looked for you every day for the last twelve months," and Dean drops back down to the bed.
"You said earlier that you didn't." He says cautiously. Sam's studying the bedspread like the pattern is particularly fascinating.
"I didn't think you'd approve of my methods."
"Sammy..."
"The girl I mentioned earlier," Sam cuts him off before he can ask, "Her name is Amelia. She's a vampire. Her mate was in Purgatory, and she wanted him back. Said he could only make it through if there was a human soul to attach to."
"Her mate's name is Benny." Dean confesses. "He helped me get out." Sam lifts his hazel eyes to meet Dean's, expression confused. "Sammy, we gotta be straight with each other. This--" he gestures with the phone, "this is what happens when we aren't."
"So, honesty." Sam says quietly. His eyes are suspiciously red again. "No more hiding shit?"
"Scout's honor." Dean quips, because he wouldn't be Dean if he didn't try to lighten the moment.
Sam's lips quirk into a grin. "Well, as my first act of honesty, I'd like to tell you that you look kind of like death warmed over and you need sleep." When Dean scowls at him, he just grabs his brother's wrist and flops back, tugging until Dean is laying next to him. "Just stay here with me, okay?" Sam whispers. He sounds so little-brother lost that Dean really can't argue, so he kicks off his boots and scoots in a little closer.
"Just one more thing, Sammy." He murmurs, holding up the phone and watching a flash of pain cross his brother's face. "You don't get to punish yourself with this ever again." He presses a couple of keys and the automated voice announces this message has been deleted. End of messages.
Finally, a couple tears do escape Sam's eyes and he looks at Dean with something close to wonder. "Jerk."
Dean presses a kiss to his forehead, like he's five years old all over again. "Yeah, yeah, I love you too, bitch."