fic: holding on to what i haven't got
title: holding on to what I haven’t got
rating: R
characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby.
warnings: Character Death. Angst. Second-person pov. Also, Sam and Dean share a bed but not in a sexual way.
summary: Sometimes things happen for a reason. Something bad to force something good.
notes: ~2700 words. In its simplest form, an AU of the first two seasons. Written for spn_cinema and based on the movie Life as a House. (Oh god this is the saddest thing I’ve ever written is it pathetic to cry at your own fic? Because I did.) Title from a Linkin Park song, of all things, that popped into my head at an unfortunate time and shockingly actually fit this thing pretty well. So there’s that. Many thanks to prairiedays for looking over this and leaving wonderful critique and comments. <3
You show up on his doorstep in the middle of the night expecting him to drop everything and join you. Life doesn't work that way.
Life never works the way you plan it, you're learning, and damn if you shouldn't have learned it the moment you were born. Your entire life seems like a series of unfortunate events tumbling one after the other after the other. No mom and no home. A dad who drinks too much and thinks he's a drill sergeant. A brother you'd do anything for but who no longer seems to feel the same. And now there’s this disease thrumming through your veins screaming 'time's about up, make your peace with the world.'
So you start with Sam, but it doesn't go as planned.
***
Stage one: Denial
You don't tell him at first.
He catches you popping pills about six weeks after you both settle into a routine, after you’ve finally developed a rapport again, and begun feeling like you've got your little brother back. He asks you if everything's okay and grills you about the pills. He cares, you know he cares by the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes, and you want to open up and say, "clock's run out Sammy, this is the farewell tour", but he's looking at you with his heart on his sleeve and you can't break it again just yet. So you lie.
"For my back," you say, and the words taste bitter on your tongue. "Fell down a well - don't you laugh - but yeah, fell down a well running from something nasty awhile back. Still bugs me now and again.”
Sam stares at you for a second and you can practically see all the wheels turning in that big head of his; questions, doubt, uncertainty. He finally settles on, "That sucks."
A laugh escapes you because, boy, if that ain't the understatement of the year. "No shit."
He regards you for another moment, his eyes still wary. "I guess there's a lot about each other we don't know. Lot to relearn," he says.
"No shit," you say again. So much to do, so little time.
Stage two: Anger
It's harder to hide when Dad shows up again. Now you’ve got two sets of naturally suspicious eyes tracking your every move. You’d like to think that it's great knowing there's two people in the world who would literally die for you; sometimes you think it's too bad they won't get the chance (most times you’re grateful they won’t).
Then Dad trades his life for yours (you know he did), and you scream and shout and curse at the heavens, curse everything, but mostly yourself for not telling him, for not saving him.
You spend the rest of your hospital stay worrying (hoping) Sam'll find out, that one of the nurses will slip or that he'll look at your chart and see the scribbles for medicine that has nothing to do with broken ribs or head contusions. He doesn't.
It takes your body a long time to recover from the accident, for you to even be able to keep up with Sam on a hunt. You thought he watched you before but that was mostly paranoia; now you know he does, like a hawk. He looks for every wince, twinge, sign that you're in pain, that you're pushing yourself too hard. You can't tell him that the doctors said getting out of bed would be pushing too hard, at this point.
Sam asks a lot of questions. In return you do a lot of yelling.
"You up for this case?" he says.
"Fucking peachy, princess." It's about as polite as you can muster.
"You all right?" he asks.
"I'm fine goddamnit, give me the fucking shovel so we can dig this hole and get out of here." The shovel weighs a thousand pounds in your hands and your whole body feels like it's on fire by the time you're done.
"You okay on your meds?" he nags.
"I'm not a child, I can fucking take care of myself." You take a lot of medication now, more than just the Vicodin and the antibiotics he knows about.
You swear more, you eat less. Sam notices. You try to share more stories with him: things from childhood he wouldn't remember, hunts Dad took you on without Sam, that awkward first time behind the bleachers in eighth grade, Mom. You can't really remember what she looked like anymore though. You can only recall a halo of blonde hair and a comforting face, but you do remember her voice when she'd tell you angels watched over you. You wonder what the fuck they're up to now.
Stage three: Bargaining
In the end, you don't get a chance to tell him at all. Meg comes along and ruins everything (shock and surprise there). She rattles around in his head like a tiger in a cage, absorbing all the clues he's stored and waiting for the right time to pounce. Bobby's standing right next to you when she finally does. He's seven words into the exorcism when she starts laughing. "You're dying, aren't you?" she says, and the world drops out from underneath you. You flinch at the finality of the statement, the way it sounds in Sam's voice.
Bobby stops speaking. Then says, "Dean?" like you're a fragile object that's going to break at any moment.
"Demons lie," you shrug, but your heart isn't in the lie and in that moment you're no better than a demon. You rub a hand over your face and sigh, trying to scrub the year's worth of pain and loss away. It doesn't work. "Fuck."
You've never seen Bobby look shocked in your life. "Well there's gotta be something we can do, something your doctors - you've been to doctors, haven't you, son?"
"Can we just get this over with?" You change the subject instead. "I'd like to have my brother back so we can swap campfire stories before I die."
"Dean," Bobby says, in a tone that's equal parts frustrated and horrified and eerily fatherly for a man who's never had children.
Yes, okay, I'm dying. Yes, I've been to doctors; two dozen of them spread throughout the country. Yes, I take medication. More pills than you've ever seen in your life, get 'em in the post every two weeks (got mailboxes in almost every state now it's ridiculous). No, Sam hasn't figured it out yet that I know of. No, there's nothing left to try. Doctors said it was too advanced. Yes, I would give anything, I would do anything, I'd be anything to be able to live for another two months but unless you see some guardian angel floating around, it ain't gonna happen (please let it happen). "Do the fucking exorcism," you say.
Stage four: Depression
Sam remembers on a Thursday.
When Meg had vacated his body, you held your breath, waiting for the inevitable accusations. The "why didn't you tell me"s and the "I should've known"s but neither comes. At first. Sam can only remember bits and pieces of the things Meg did with his body, cruel and devious things she knew would only fuck him up in the long run. You didn't think it was possible to hate anything more than the disease inside you, but you hate Meg with every fiber of your being.
Sam chooses to try forgetting his time as a meatsuit as quickly as possible. He drinks more, fucks more, fights more. On the one hand you're guiltily grateful he's not dwelling, hopes he never remembers the shit she put him through, but on the other you hate seeing him worrying away like he is, and you wish there was something you could do to make it better.
He wakes you up at four am, literally shakes you awake. At first you think he's having a nightmare. His hand is gripping your arm tight enough to leave bruises, especially with your immune system in the state it's in, but when you groan and roll over to shake him out of it, he's staring at you wide-eyed and scared. "What’s wrong with your back?" he whispers. “Those pills you’re taking are for a lot of pain, and you seem to be going through them pretty quick.” His fingers dig in harder. You think you'll look like a domestic abuse victim by the time he's done, and something about that makes you laugh uncontrollably. Dean Winchester, abuse victim. It's not funny but you laugh and laugh until you start to cry, and then you can't stop.
"I'm having a problem with cancer," you say to Sam, finally, not even bothering to freak out about the blubbering mess you've turned into. You’re too relieved to finally get it all in the open. "I'm fucking dying, Sam, and there's not a damn thing you, me, or the witch doctor around the corner can do to fix it."
"Dean," he chokes out, fingers so tight now you're afraid he might break bones in your fragile state. He was crying before you started talking but between the two of you, you think there's probably a river forming somewhere nearby.
"I'm here, Sammy, I'm here," you whisper back, pulling him close and clinging on for dear life (what little there is left of it).
Stage five: Acceptance
There are more questions.
"What is it?" he says.
"Pain in my fucking ass." Pain in your fucking everywhere, if you're being honest.
"How long'd you get?" he asks.
"Let's just say I'm past due." You've lived three weeks, two days, and seven hours longer than you (and any doctor) thought you would.
"How long have you known?" he demands.
This is the hardest question you'll ever answer. "Three days before I came to get you at Stanford."
“So you knew you were dying from the start.” Done with the questions, then.
“We’re all dying, I just got moved to the head of the line.”
“It’s not funny.” He’s furious with you, just like you expected him to be. Good. At least one of you can still feel something.
“I’m not laughing.” It hurts to laugh.
“Dean.” His voice cracks as he says it. Tell me everything, Dean, no matter how much it hurts I need to know why you kept this from me, you son of a bitch, are you sure there’s nothing to do I don’t care what it takes please just don’t go.
You clear your throat (it hurts). “Can you go pay for this room for another night? I don’t think I can get out of bed today.” It’s not everything, but it’s a start.
The next day Bobby calls with a lead about the demon and Sam drives you there. You spend most of the trip lying on the backseat, listening to Sam ramble on about his time at Stanford (about your time apart). You’ve shared yours, so he shares his. He’s talking about Jess. Every story is about Jess, and there’s still a hint of sadness in his tone when he speaks of her. You wish you could get a better view of his face, see if it matches how animated he sounds. He’s telling you about some protest for student rights, his hands waving in the air, and you want to yell at him to pay attention to the road, grip the fucking wheel for christsakes, but instead you listen.
“So she’s furious as I’d ever seen her, punching the guy in the face and the five-oh show up and there goes the peaceful protest as planned. And there I am, no idea what to do, pretty much every instinct telling me to run when the cop closest to us says, ‘Jessie Moore, is that you? I remember you when you had pigtails!’”
You want to laugh at his ridiculous impression of the officer, let him know you really are listening, but laughing still hurts (movement hurts now). He doesn’t seem to mind though, keeps right on talking. “I never got where they knew each other from, but it’d obviously been forever ago. Got us out of the whole thing, no questions asked.” He’s silent for a minute and you try to come up with something to say but your brain just doesn’t want to make the effort. “Jess always said ‘everything happens for a reason.’ I always told her she was full of shit.” It’s quiet in the car after that.
You fall asleep at some point, and wake up only when the Impala hits the cattle guard at Singer Salvage, jarring your body like a wooden rollercoaster. Everything hurts and you don’t bother to get out the car, not even when you hear Bobby greet Sam and the two of them discussing you in hushed tones. You wonder if Bobby tells Sam how he knows or if Sam just figures he’s Bobby so of course he knows everything.
They help you into the house and you swan dive onto the broken couch in the living area with plans to never move again. All your dignity’s gone and you don’t really care that it is. Sam gets you a pillow and a blanket while Bobby gets you a glass of water, over which you glare at him and blatantly eye the liquor cabinet. He continues to hold out the water and you take it reluctantly. “Son, if there’s anything you need…”
You shake your head and manage an appreciate smile before Sam returns, mouth already half-open to ask the same question. You cut him off. “What I need is for you two fools to stop coddling me and for you to tell us what you’ve got on that son of bitch, Bobby.”
He’s got plenty. Later that night Sam tiptoes by you, probably on his way for a midnight snack or something, or maybe he had a nightmare and couldn’t sleep. Sam always did have weird sleeping habits, you think. He bumps into the foot of the sofa and curses, and you manage a chuckle. “Shit, sorry Dean, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” you say. “What’s up? Nightmare?”
He picks your legs up gently and sits down on the couch, carefully lays them back down over his lap. “Actually no. Well, not really. Or… sort of. I dreamt you shot the demon, that we got him. But then once it was over, we didn’t know what to do next and it got really confusing.” He frowns, absent-mindedly patting your leg as he talks through his frustration.
His use of ‘we’ doesn’t escape you, and as much as you’d love to be the one shooting the son of a bitch in the face, you’ve finally come to terms with the fact that that won’t be happening.
"Finish it, Sam," you whisper. “You finish it and then you keep going.”
***
The demon’s host body is still smoking, bullet hole square between the eyes. The Colt hangs heavily in your hand. For a moment you’re not sure what to say, but then it strikes you like a ton of bricks; it’s finally over. It’s finished. Suddenly you know there’s only one thing you can say, something you heard in a dream. You bend down and hover over the body, a little too close for comfort, ignoring the crack of your knees. Bobby’s concerned voice fades into the background, and the world’s going blurry from when your head smacked that gravestone. “That was for our mom, you son of a bitch.”
It makes you sad that Dean's not here to see it but you know he'd be ridiculously proud. You can even see his face in your mind if you think about it. He'd probably be speechless, too caught up in the moment, mission accomplished fucking finally. Once that had finally sunk in he'd pull out a 100-watt smile so rare and so bright it'd light up even the darkest of nights.
Then he'd turn to you and say, "We've got work to do."
rating: R
characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby.
warnings: Character Death. Angst. Second-person pov. Also, Sam and Dean share a bed but not in a sexual way.
summary: Sometimes things happen for a reason. Something bad to force something good.
notes: ~2700 words. In its simplest form, an AU of the first two seasons. Written for spn_cinema and based on the movie Life as a House. (Oh god this is the saddest thing I’ve ever written is it pathetic to cry at your own fic? Because I did.) Title from a Linkin Park song, of all things, that popped into my head at an unfortunate time and shockingly actually fit this thing pretty well. So there’s that. Many thanks to prairiedays for looking over this and leaving wonderful critique and comments. <3
You show up on his doorstep in the middle of the night expecting him to drop everything and join you. Life doesn't work that way.
Life never works the way you plan it, you're learning, and damn if you shouldn't have learned it the moment you were born. Your entire life seems like a series of unfortunate events tumbling one after the other after the other. No mom and no home. A dad who drinks too much and thinks he's a drill sergeant. A brother you'd do anything for but who no longer seems to feel the same. And now there’s this disease thrumming through your veins screaming 'time's about up, make your peace with the world.'
So you start with Sam, but it doesn't go as planned.
***
Stage one: Denial
You don't tell him at first.
He catches you popping pills about six weeks after you both settle into a routine, after you’ve finally developed a rapport again, and begun feeling like you've got your little brother back. He asks you if everything's okay and grills you about the pills. He cares, you know he cares by the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes, and you want to open up and say, "clock's run out Sammy, this is the farewell tour", but he's looking at you with his heart on his sleeve and you can't break it again just yet. So you lie.
"For my back," you say, and the words taste bitter on your tongue. "Fell down a well - don't you laugh - but yeah, fell down a well running from something nasty awhile back. Still bugs me now and again.”
Sam stares at you for a second and you can practically see all the wheels turning in that big head of his; questions, doubt, uncertainty. He finally settles on, "That sucks."
A laugh escapes you because, boy, if that ain't the understatement of the year. "No shit."
He regards you for another moment, his eyes still wary. "I guess there's a lot about each other we don't know. Lot to relearn," he says.
"No shit," you say again. So much to do, so little time.
Stage two: Anger
It's harder to hide when Dad shows up again. Now you’ve got two sets of naturally suspicious eyes tracking your every move. You’d like to think that it's great knowing there's two people in the world who would literally die for you; sometimes you think it's too bad they won't get the chance (most times you’re grateful they won’t).
Then Dad trades his life for yours (you know he did), and you scream and shout and curse at the heavens, curse everything, but mostly yourself for not telling him, for not saving him.
You spend the rest of your hospital stay worrying (hoping) Sam'll find out, that one of the nurses will slip or that he'll look at your chart and see the scribbles for medicine that has nothing to do with broken ribs or head contusions. He doesn't.
It takes your body a long time to recover from the accident, for you to even be able to keep up with Sam on a hunt. You thought he watched you before but that was mostly paranoia; now you know he does, like a hawk. He looks for every wince, twinge, sign that you're in pain, that you're pushing yourself too hard. You can't tell him that the doctors said getting out of bed would be pushing too hard, at this point.
Sam asks a lot of questions. In return you do a lot of yelling.
"You up for this case?" he says.
"Fucking peachy, princess." It's about as polite as you can muster.
"You all right?" he asks.
"I'm fine goddamnit, give me the fucking shovel so we can dig this hole and get out of here." The shovel weighs a thousand pounds in your hands and your whole body feels like it's on fire by the time you're done.
"You okay on your meds?" he nags.
"I'm not a child, I can fucking take care of myself." You take a lot of medication now, more than just the Vicodin and the antibiotics he knows about.
You swear more, you eat less. Sam notices. You try to share more stories with him: things from childhood he wouldn't remember, hunts Dad took you on without Sam, that awkward first time behind the bleachers in eighth grade, Mom. You can't really remember what she looked like anymore though. You can only recall a halo of blonde hair and a comforting face, but you do remember her voice when she'd tell you angels watched over you. You wonder what the fuck they're up to now.
Stage three: Bargaining
In the end, you don't get a chance to tell him at all. Meg comes along and ruins everything (shock and surprise there). She rattles around in his head like a tiger in a cage, absorbing all the clues he's stored and waiting for the right time to pounce. Bobby's standing right next to you when she finally does. He's seven words into the exorcism when she starts laughing. "You're dying, aren't you?" she says, and the world drops out from underneath you. You flinch at the finality of the statement, the way it sounds in Sam's voice.
Bobby stops speaking. Then says, "Dean?" like you're a fragile object that's going to break at any moment.
"Demons lie," you shrug, but your heart isn't in the lie and in that moment you're no better than a demon. You rub a hand over your face and sigh, trying to scrub the year's worth of pain and loss away. It doesn't work. "Fuck."
You've never seen Bobby look shocked in your life. "Well there's gotta be something we can do, something your doctors - you've been to doctors, haven't you, son?"
"Can we just get this over with?" You change the subject instead. "I'd like to have my brother back so we can swap campfire stories before I die."
"Dean," Bobby says, in a tone that's equal parts frustrated and horrified and eerily fatherly for a man who's never had children.
Yes, okay, I'm dying. Yes, I've been to doctors; two dozen of them spread throughout the country. Yes, I take medication. More pills than you've ever seen in your life, get 'em in the post every two weeks (got mailboxes in almost every state now it's ridiculous). No, Sam hasn't figured it out yet that I know of. No, there's nothing left to try. Doctors said it was too advanced. Yes, I would give anything, I would do anything, I'd be anything to be able to live for another two months but unless you see some guardian angel floating around, it ain't gonna happen (please let it happen). "Do the fucking exorcism," you say.
Stage four: Depression
Sam remembers on a Thursday.
When Meg had vacated his body, you held your breath, waiting for the inevitable accusations. The "why didn't you tell me"s and the "I should've known"s but neither comes. At first. Sam can only remember bits and pieces of the things Meg did with his body, cruel and devious things she knew would only fuck him up in the long run. You didn't think it was possible to hate anything more than the disease inside you, but you hate Meg with every fiber of your being.
Sam chooses to try forgetting his time as a meatsuit as quickly as possible. He drinks more, fucks more, fights more. On the one hand you're guiltily grateful he's not dwelling, hopes he never remembers the shit she put him through, but on the other you hate seeing him worrying away like he is, and you wish there was something you could do to make it better.
He wakes you up at four am, literally shakes you awake. At first you think he's having a nightmare. His hand is gripping your arm tight enough to leave bruises, especially with your immune system in the state it's in, but when you groan and roll over to shake him out of it, he's staring at you wide-eyed and scared. "What’s wrong with your back?" he whispers. “Those pills you’re taking are for a lot of pain, and you seem to be going through them pretty quick.” His fingers dig in harder. You think you'll look like a domestic abuse victim by the time he's done, and something about that makes you laugh uncontrollably. Dean Winchester, abuse victim. It's not funny but you laugh and laugh until you start to cry, and then you can't stop.
"I'm having a problem with cancer," you say to Sam, finally, not even bothering to freak out about the blubbering mess you've turned into. You’re too relieved to finally get it all in the open. "I'm fucking dying, Sam, and there's not a damn thing you, me, or the witch doctor around the corner can do to fix it."
"Dean," he chokes out, fingers so tight now you're afraid he might break bones in your fragile state. He was crying before you started talking but between the two of you, you think there's probably a river forming somewhere nearby.
"I'm here, Sammy, I'm here," you whisper back, pulling him close and clinging on for dear life (what little there is left of it).
Stage five: Acceptance
There are more questions.
"What is it?" he says.
"Pain in my fucking ass." Pain in your fucking everywhere, if you're being honest.
"How long'd you get?" he asks.
"Let's just say I'm past due." You've lived three weeks, two days, and seven hours longer than you (and any doctor) thought you would.
"How long have you known?" he demands.
This is the hardest question you'll ever answer. "Three days before I came to get you at Stanford."
“So you knew you were dying from the start.” Done with the questions, then.
“We’re all dying, I just got moved to the head of the line.”
“It’s not funny.” He’s furious with you, just like you expected him to be. Good. At least one of you can still feel something.
“I’m not laughing.” It hurts to laugh.
“Dean.” His voice cracks as he says it. Tell me everything, Dean, no matter how much it hurts I need to know why you kept this from me, you son of a bitch, are you sure there’s nothing to do I don’t care what it takes please just don’t go.
You clear your throat (it hurts). “Can you go pay for this room for another night? I don’t think I can get out of bed today.” It’s not everything, but it’s a start.
The next day Bobby calls with a lead about the demon and Sam drives you there. You spend most of the trip lying on the backseat, listening to Sam ramble on about his time at Stanford (about your time apart). You’ve shared yours, so he shares his. He’s talking about Jess. Every story is about Jess, and there’s still a hint of sadness in his tone when he speaks of her. You wish you could get a better view of his face, see if it matches how animated he sounds. He’s telling you about some protest for student rights, his hands waving in the air, and you want to yell at him to pay attention to the road, grip the fucking wheel for christsakes, but instead you listen.
“So she’s furious as I’d ever seen her, punching the guy in the face and the five-oh show up and there goes the peaceful protest as planned. And there I am, no idea what to do, pretty much every instinct telling me to run when the cop closest to us says, ‘Jessie Moore, is that you? I remember you when you had pigtails!’”
You want to laugh at his ridiculous impression of the officer, let him know you really are listening, but laughing still hurts (movement hurts now). He doesn’t seem to mind though, keeps right on talking. “I never got where they knew each other from, but it’d obviously been forever ago. Got us out of the whole thing, no questions asked.” He’s silent for a minute and you try to come up with something to say but your brain just doesn’t want to make the effort. “Jess always said ‘everything happens for a reason.’ I always told her she was full of shit.” It’s quiet in the car after that.
You fall asleep at some point, and wake up only when the Impala hits the cattle guard at Singer Salvage, jarring your body like a wooden rollercoaster. Everything hurts and you don’t bother to get out the car, not even when you hear Bobby greet Sam and the two of them discussing you in hushed tones. You wonder if Bobby tells Sam how he knows or if Sam just figures he’s Bobby so of course he knows everything.
They help you into the house and you swan dive onto the broken couch in the living area with plans to never move again. All your dignity’s gone and you don’t really care that it is. Sam gets you a pillow and a blanket while Bobby gets you a glass of water, over which you glare at him and blatantly eye the liquor cabinet. He continues to hold out the water and you take it reluctantly. “Son, if there’s anything you need…”
You shake your head and manage an appreciate smile before Sam returns, mouth already half-open to ask the same question. You cut him off. “What I need is for you two fools to stop coddling me and for you to tell us what you’ve got on that son of bitch, Bobby.”
He’s got plenty. Later that night Sam tiptoes by you, probably on his way for a midnight snack or something, or maybe he had a nightmare and couldn’t sleep. Sam always did have weird sleeping habits, you think. He bumps into the foot of the sofa and curses, and you manage a chuckle. “Shit, sorry Dean, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” you say. “What’s up? Nightmare?”
He picks your legs up gently and sits down on the couch, carefully lays them back down over his lap. “Actually no. Well, not really. Or… sort of. I dreamt you shot the demon, that we got him. But then once it was over, we didn’t know what to do next and it got really confusing.” He frowns, absent-mindedly patting your leg as he talks through his frustration.
His use of ‘we’ doesn’t escape you, and as much as you’d love to be the one shooting the son of a bitch in the face, you’ve finally come to terms with the fact that that won’t be happening.
"Finish it, Sam," you whisper. “You finish it and then you keep going.”
***
The demon’s host body is still smoking, bullet hole square between the eyes. The Colt hangs heavily in your hand. For a moment you’re not sure what to say, but then it strikes you like a ton of bricks; it’s finally over. It’s finished. Suddenly you know there’s only one thing you can say, something you heard in a dream. You bend down and hover over the body, a little too close for comfort, ignoring the crack of your knees. Bobby’s concerned voice fades into the background, and the world’s going blurry from when your head smacked that gravestone. “That was for our mom, you son of a bitch.”
It makes you sad that Dean's not here to see it but you know he'd be ridiculously proud. You can even see his face in your mind if you think about it. He'd probably be speechless, too caught up in the moment, mission accomplished fucking finally. Once that had finally sunk in he'd pull out a 100-watt smile so rare and so bright it'd light up even the darkest of nights.
Then he'd turn to you and say, "We've got work to do."