[Fic] The Open Ocean
Title: The Open Ocean
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean, RoboSam; Sam/Dean
Warnings/Spoilers: non-graphic mentions of sex; alcohol use
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,200
Summary: Sam’s soul is an anchor, and without it Dean is lost. Set mid-S6.
Notes: So I’ve been re-watching S6, and somehow I’m finding myself a whole lot more enamoured with RoboSam than I was the first time around. Dean’s not sure if he shares this sentiment, but that’s okay ;)
They’re in a bar in the middle of Nebraska, and Sam’s stool keeps wobbling.
Every time it shakes, he frowns meanly at it, eyes narrow and razor-sharp. It would be funny, except that nothing’s very funny anymore.
“Dean,” Sam says, not a question, not really an acknowledgement either. Just a word.
Dean must have been staring too long. He does that sometimes, has stopped caring if this Sam notices. He stares at Sam’s skin, at his hair, especially at the way it curls down around his ears, weirded out sometimes by the sameness of it all, when what’s inside is so different.
“Dean?” Sam says again, and this time it’s just barely a question.
Not what’s wrong, not dude, what’s your problem. Just his name. Base level curiosity, that’s all this is. This Sam takes note of Dean’s moods, not because he cares, but, Dean suspects, because it’s inconvenient when Dean is too much of anything - too angry, too anxious, too drunk. Tonight, Dean may be too drunk.
But this Sam surprises him sometimes, just like Old Sam used to.
“You should tell me what you’re thinking,” Sam says, voice commanding and measured, as his eyes slide away to catch a glimpse of the bartender’s cleavage.
Dean sighs. It’s been a long night, and he really has had a lot to drink. He blames that for what comes out next.
“You know, I always used to wonder what you were thinking. Old You. I mean, you’d sort of tell me if I asked, but… I always wondered what you were really thinking.”
Dean takes a deep breath that feels shaky in his lungs, and remembers dark, empty nights on the road with Sam staring out the window of the Impala, remembers Stanford, Ruby.
“I’m pretty sure you were thinking about leaving,” he says. “Packing it up, getting the hell out. A normal life, all that crap. I wanted it for you, sometimes.”
Sam narrows his eyes, and Dean downs his fifth/sixth/whatever whiskey, and taps his glass to get another. It’s hard to drink with this Sam, because he doesn’t really get drunk. Basically, this Sam drinks him under the table without even trying. It's annoying, but Dean's always up for a challenge. What can he say, it’s a gift.
“I was definitely thinking that a lot of the time,” Sam says carefully. “But I don’t think I ever would have left. Not for good anyway.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” Dean says, and doesn’t smile. The fresh drink in front of him is probably going to make him sick, beer before liquor and all of that, but he tips the glass back anyway. It burns his throat on the way down, numbing and familiar and almost pleasant.
“Why aren’t you drunk?” Dean asks after a moment, staring into those cold eyes, trying to find something of Old Sam there, anything. It doesn’t take him long before he gives up - he’s been down this road many, many times before, after all.
Sometimes Dean thinks Sam's soul must have been his anchor to reality, because without it, staring into this Sam’s eyes and finding nothing but emptiness there, Dean is well on his way toward lost, floating out into the open ocean.
He blinks, and Sam’s face swims a little in front of him. It’s vast out here, nothing but dark water and empty sky for miles and miles.
“We’ve been over this before,” Sam says, raising his voice over the din of the bar chatter. “I have no idea. Just a side effect, I guess.”
“Right,” Dean says, that was one way to put it. He slumps forward, elbows on the bar, resigned.
He downs the rest of his drink, waits a second, and yeah, there goes the room, spinning a little. Sam’s face ripples and then blurs in front of him. When he looks at him like this, he can almost imagine that the next thing that comes out of Sam’s mouth is going to be something like, come on, I think you’ve had enough, right before he picks Dean up and carries him back to the motel like a good little brother, all arms and legs and too-long hair flopping all over the place.
Shit - Dean thinks, as his stomach churns and the bile rises in his throat. This is such a stupid, stupid reason to get drunk, and Dean knows it, but he keeps doing it anyway, like fucking clockwork.
He’s not really sure how he makes it to the bathroom --excellent reflexes, maybe-- but he does, and then he’s hunched over the toilet, watching lunch, and dinner, and everything else come up before squeezing his eyes shut tight, gripping the bowl and just letting it all go.
Everything hurts. Not just because his stomach feels like it’s trying to eat him alive, but his head is pounding too, blood rushing in his ears. His chest feels tight, his face warm, and suddenly he’s overcome by it, by missing Sam, missing his brother, the real one, the one who probably spent half of his time resenting their entire family, and the other half tied together with Dean in this huge mess that they used to call their lives. It doesn’t matter, Dean thinks. He just wants it back. He’s sure Sam would want it back too, if he were capable of wanting that sort of thing. And it only makes it worse having Sam’s giant body next to him, walking and talking and…
He hears the bathroom door open, and before Sam says a word, Dean knows it’s him, can tell by the sound of his feet against the tiled floor. He’s Sam in so many ways it’s terrifying.
“In here,” Dean croaks. “I’ll be out in a-“ But it turns out his stomach isn’t quite done rebelling against him yet.
He’s just finished puking up whatever else is left in his stomach when Sam’s arms come up around his shoulders. It’s almost convenient, considering his knees had just been about to give out. He feels shaky now, as he tries to orient himself.
“I’ve got you,” Sam says, soothing and a little creepy. Dean’s stomach churns violently.
Everything calms down after a second though, with Sam’s hands on his clammy forehead, and Sam’s warm breath against his neck, just holding him there while time stops around them. He’s not sure if Old Sam would have done this, would have gone this far. He’d have been stopped by Dean’s pride, maybe. Concerned, sure, but he wouldn’t have swung that stall door open, wouldn’t have sat back on his knees like this and wrapped his hands around Dean's shoulders, at least not without asking first.
He has no idea what it means that he’s almost relieved that it’s this Sam here, now. Is a little ashamed at how good these hands feel against his skin, how good it feels to lean back and feel the solid warmth of Sam’s body, right there.
He pushes him off eventually though, and stands up. A little unsteady, but okay, better. Nothing’s spinning, and Sam’s face is clear in front of him. His body feels hollow inside, and a little raw, but he’ll survive. He pushes past Sam so that he can get over to the sink to wash his hands, swish some water around his mouth to kill the taste, and when he’s done, Sam is staring at him like he’s a specimen in a zoo or something.
“What?” Dean asks. “Never seen a guy puke before, come on. Well, you probably haven’t, but still. Get over it.”
Sam looks confused for a second. “I have all of his memories. I’ve seen you puke before. More than once.”
Dean shakes his head, but Sam just stares and stares, narrowing his eyes until finally, Dean’s about ready to crawl out of his skin.
“Jesus, Sam, what the hell?”
“What do you want, Dean?” Sam asks matter-of-factly. The words have weight, like he’s thought about this for at least ten seconds before saying it.
Dean rolls his eyes. “What do you think I want? To get the hell out of this damn bathroom, for one thing. A shower would be nice.”
“No, I mean from me. The way you were staring at me before, it got me thinking,” Sam says, sounding genuinely curious. “I didn’t want to mention it before, because… Well, because I thought it might complicate things, but if there’s something you want from me - something physical - all you have to do is ask.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dean says, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly protective of Old Sam. What they’d had, fucked up as it was, it’d been between the two of them and it had been theirs, and there’s something about the look in this Sam’s eyes right now that feels off, wrong.
"I have all of his memories, Dean."
"Yes, I know," Dean says, steeling himself against the anger he can feel bubbling up under his skin at the slightly amused look on this Sam’s face. "I get it. But the answer is no."
“Fine,” Sam says, taking a step back, and spreading his hands wide, because of course, what is it to him anyway.
Dean has still had a lot to drink though, and his inhibitions are already down somewhere around the filthy bathroom floor. He's pretty sure that all he really has to do here is meet Sam’s eyes, and they’ll end up right back in the stall Dean had just puked his guts out in, and god - this was disgusting, he was disgusting, but he’s imagining Sam’s mouth, hot and tight and perfect around him, taking him deep, and then deeper, all the way back into his throat. Part of him wants nothing more than to just let him do it, already.
He’d been trying not to think about this, because after all, there were more important things to worry about, and it’s not like he’s a horny teenager with sex on his mind constantly, but god, he’d missed it. The feather-light curl of Sam’s breath hitching against his neck. The rhythm of it, full of purpose and need. The hot press of Sam’s mouth, his hips thrusting up against Dean’s, every inch of him taut, like a spring waiting to snap.
Dean leans back against the curve of the sink, knuckles tight against the smooth porcelain. He breathes deep, and then lets it go. He has to. Even half-drunk, even like this, the person staring at him with his brother’s eyes right now is not Sam. Not really. Not in the ways that matter. Dean doesn’t even need his eyes to tell him that, he can feel it in the air, in everything that’s missing in the space between them.
Sam’s eyes are dark, and he actually licks his lips before fixing Dean with a smile that looks only somewhat put on.
Then he smirks, a twist of his lips that Dean feels below his beltline. “I can tell what you’re thinking, Dean. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s really not.”
“It could make things easier,” Sam offers lightly, casting a line, as if he couldn’t care less if Dean takes the bait or not.
“I highly doubt that,” Dean says, mouth dry. “But I appreciate your concern.”
Then Dean pushes past Sam, and walks out of the bathroom. The door swings on its hinges behind him, squeaky, too loud.
**
“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” Sam says later, as he slides into the driver’s seat. “Maybe it was before, but…” He shrugs. “It shouldn’t be.”
Dean just stares at him for a second, at the calm, placating look in his eyes. He imagines that the look in this Sam's eyes would be much the same if he were trying to sell Dean a used car, or convince him not to order onions on his burger with lunch.
“I can’t say I disagree with you,” Dean says, and then, just to make sure they’re clear, “Still not happening though.”
Sam shrugs, revs the engine. “Your loss.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, not really agreeing, but not really disagreeing either.
Mostly, he’s just tired. And his head is pounding. He’s not sure it’ll ever let up, if he even wants it to. He figures he kind of deserves this. This and the monster hangover tomorrow.
Sam turns up the radio. He's tapping his fingers against the steering wheel (which, by the way, is not something Old Sam would ever do, at least not to Black Sabbath) and Dean just turns his head against the leather seat, and closes his eyes.
He wonders if Sam had ever felt this way. Sitting here in the passenger seat, body itching to rebel against the confines of this space, against the way the leather conformed to the curve of his thighs and the set of his shoulders, all the while knowing this was the only place he truly belonged. Knowing too that there was nowhere else to go, so he'd better buck up, kiddo, if he knew what was good for him.
Yeah, Dean thinks, squeezing his eyes shut against the headlights flashing past from across the median, he's pretty sure Sam's been here before. Pretty sure he'll be here again too, before it's all over, at least if Dean has anything to say about it.
Because if Sam's soul is his anchor, well… Dean's going to make damn sure he doesn't let go of the rope.
end
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Dean, RoboSam; Sam/Dean
Warnings/Spoilers: non-graphic mentions of sex; alcohol use
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,200
Summary: Sam’s soul is an anchor, and without it Dean is lost. Set mid-S6.
Notes: So I’ve been re-watching S6, and somehow I’m finding myself a whole lot more enamoured with RoboSam than I was the first time around. Dean’s not sure if he shares this sentiment, but that’s okay ;)
They’re in a bar in the middle of Nebraska, and Sam’s stool keeps wobbling.
Every time it shakes, he frowns meanly at it, eyes narrow and razor-sharp. It would be funny, except that nothing’s very funny anymore.
“Dean,” Sam says, not a question, not really an acknowledgement either. Just a word.
Dean must have been staring too long. He does that sometimes, has stopped caring if this Sam notices. He stares at Sam’s skin, at his hair, especially at the way it curls down around his ears, weirded out sometimes by the sameness of it all, when what’s inside is so different.
“Dean?” Sam says again, and this time it’s just barely a question.
Not what’s wrong, not dude, what’s your problem. Just his name. Base level curiosity, that’s all this is. This Sam takes note of Dean’s moods, not because he cares, but, Dean suspects, because it’s inconvenient when Dean is too much of anything - too angry, too anxious, too drunk. Tonight, Dean may be too drunk.
But this Sam surprises him sometimes, just like Old Sam used to.
“You should tell me what you’re thinking,” Sam says, voice commanding and measured, as his eyes slide away to catch a glimpse of the bartender’s cleavage.
Dean sighs. It’s been a long night, and he really has had a lot to drink. He blames that for what comes out next.
“You know, I always used to wonder what you were thinking. Old You. I mean, you’d sort of tell me if I asked, but… I always wondered what you were really thinking.”
Dean takes a deep breath that feels shaky in his lungs, and remembers dark, empty nights on the road with Sam staring out the window of the Impala, remembers Stanford, Ruby.
“I’m pretty sure you were thinking about leaving,” he says. “Packing it up, getting the hell out. A normal life, all that crap. I wanted it for you, sometimes.”
Sam narrows his eyes, and Dean downs his fifth/sixth/whatever whiskey, and taps his glass to get another. It’s hard to drink with this Sam, because he doesn’t really get drunk. Basically, this Sam drinks him under the table without even trying. It's annoying, but Dean's always up for a challenge. What can he say, it’s a gift.
“I was definitely thinking that a lot of the time,” Sam says carefully. “But I don’t think I ever would have left. Not for good anyway.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” Dean says, and doesn’t smile. The fresh drink in front of him is probably going to make him sick, beer before liquor and all of that, but he tips the glass back anyway. It burns his throat on the way down, numbing and familiar and almost pleasant.
“Why aren’t you drunk?” Dean asks after a moment, staring into those cold eyes, trying to find something of Old Sam there, anything. It doesn’t take him long before he gives up - he’s been down this road many, many times before, after all.
Sometimes Dean thinks Sam's soul must have been his anchor to reality, because without it, staring into this Sam’s eyes and finding nothing but emptiness there, Dean is well on his way toward lost, floating out into the open ocean.
He blinks, and Sam’s face swims a little in front of him. It’s vast out here, nothing but dark water and empty sky for miles and miles.
“We’ve been over this before,” Sam says, raising his voice over the din of the bar chatter. “I have no idea. Just a side effect, I guess.”
“Right,” Dean says, that was one way to put it. He slumps forward, elbows on the bar, resigned.
He downs the rest of his drink, waits a second, and yeah, there goes the room, spinning a little. Sam’s face ripples and then blurs in front of him. When he looks at him like this, he can almost imagine that the next thing that comes out of Sam’s mouth is going to be something like, come on, I think you’ve had enough, right before he picks Dean up and carries him back to the motel like a good little brother, all arms and legs and too-long hair flopping all over the place.
Shit - Dean thinks, as his stomach churns and the bile rises in his throat. This is such a stupid, stupid reason to get drunk, and Dean knows it, but he keeps doing it anyway, like fucking clockwork.
He’s not really sure how he makes it to the bathroom --excellent reflexes, maybe-- but he does, and then he’s hunched over the toilet, watching lunch, and dinner, and everything else come up before squeezing his eyes shut tight, gripping the bowl and just letting it all go.
Everything hurts. Not just because his stomach feels like it’s trying to eat him alive, but his head is pounding too, blood rushing in his ears. His chest feels tight, his face warm, and suddenly he’s overcome by it, by missing Sam, missing his brother, the real one, the one who probably spent half of his time resenting their entire family, and the other half tied together with Dean in this huge mess that they used to call their lives. It doesn’t matter, Dean thinks. He just wants it back. He’s sure Sam would want it back too, if he were capable of wanting that sort of thing. And it only makes it worse having Sam’s giant body next to him, walking and talking and…
He hears the bathroom door open, and before Sam says a word, Dean knows it’s him, can tell by the sound of his feet against the tiled floor. He’s Sam in so many ways it’s terrifying.
“In here,” Dean croaks. “I’ll be out in a-“ But it turns out his stomach isn’t quite done rebelling against him yet.
He’s just finished puking up whatever else is left in his stomach when Sam’s arms come up around his shoulders. It’s almost convenient, considering his knees had just been about to give out. He feels shaky now, as he tries to orient himself.
“I’ve got you,” Sam says, soothing and a little creepy. Dean’s stomach churns violently.
Everything calms down after a second though, with Sam’s hands on his clammy forehead, and Sam’s warm breath against his neck, just holding him there while time stops around them. He’s not sure if Old Sam would have done this, would have gone this far. He’d have been stopped by Dean’s pride, maybe. Concerned, sure, but he wouldn’t have swung that stall door open, wouldn’t have sat back on his knees like this and wrapped his hands around Dean's shoulders, at least not without asking first.
He has no idea what it means that he’s almost relieved that it’s this Sam here, now. Is a little ashamed at how good these hands feel against his skin, how good it feels to lean back and feel the solid warmth of Sam’s body, right there.
He pushes him off eventually though, and stands up. A little unsteady, but okay, better. Nothing’s spinning, and Sam’s face is clear in front of him. His body feels hollow inside, and a little raw, but he’ll survive. He pushes past Sam so that he can get over to the sink to wash his hands, swish some water around his mouth to kill the taste, and when he’s done, Sam is staring at him like he’s a specimen in a zoo or something.
“What?” Dean asks. “Never seen a guy puke before, come on. Well, you probably haven’t, but still. Get over it.”
Sam looks confused for a second. “I have all of his memories. I’ve seen you puke before. More than once.”
Dean shakes his head, but Sam just stares and stares, narrowing his eyes until finally, Dean’s about ready to crawl out of his skin.
“Jesus, Sam, what the hell?”
“What do you want, Dean?” Sam asks matter-of-factly. The words have weight, like he’s thought about this for at least ten seconds before saying it.
Dean rolls his eyes. “What do you think I want? To get the hell out of this damn bathroom, for one thing. A shower would be nice.”
“No, I mean from me. The way you were staring at me before, it got me thinking,” Sam says, sounding genuinely curious. “I didn’t want to mention it before, because… Well, because I thought it might complicate things, but if there’s something you want from me - something physical - all you have to do is ask.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dean says, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly protective of Old Sam. What they’d had, fucked up as it was, it’d been between the two of them and it had been theirs, and there’s something about the look in this Sam’s eyes right now that feels off, wrong.
"I have all of his memories, Dean."
"Yes, I know," Dean says, steeling himself against the anger he can feel bubbling up under his skin at the slightly amused look on this Sam’s face. "I get it. But the answer is no."
“Fine,” Sam says, taking a step back, and spreading his hands wide, because of course, what is it to him anyway.
Dean has still had a lot to drink though, and his inhibitions are already down somewhere around the filthy bathroom floor. He's pretty sure that all he really has to do here is meet Sam’s eyes, and they’ll end up right back in the stall Dean had just puked his guts out in, and god - this was disgusting, he was disgusting, but he’s imagining Sam’s mouth, hot and tight and perfect around him, taking him deep, and then deeper, all the way back into his throat. Part of him wants nothing more than to just let him do it, already.
He’d been trying not to think about this, because after all, there were more important things to worry about, and it’s not like he’s a horny teenager with sex on his mind constantly, but god, he’d missed it. The feather-light curl of Sam’s breath hitching against his neck. The rhythm of it, full of purpose and need. The hot press of Sam’s mouth, his hips thrusting up against Dean’s, every inch of him taut, like a spring waiting to snap.
Dean leans back against the curve of the sink, knuckles tight against the smooth porcelain. He breathes deep, and then lets it go. He has to. Even half-drunk, even like this, the person staring at him with his brother’s eyes right now is not Sam. Not really. Not in the ways that matter. Dean doesn’t even need his eyes to tell him that, he can feel it in the air, in everything that’s missing in the space between them.
Sam’s eyes are dark, and he actually licks his lips before fixing Dean with a smile that looks only somewhat put on.
Then he smirks, a twist of his lips that Dean feels below his beltline. “I can tell what you’re thinking, Dean. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s really not.”
“It could make things easier,” Sam offers lightly, casting a line, as if he couldn’t care less if Dean takes the bait or not.
“I highly doubt that,” Dean says, mouth dry. “But I appreciate your concern.”
Then Dean pushes past Sam, and walks out of the bathroom. The door swings on its hinges behind him, squeaky, too loud.
**
“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” Sam says later, as he slides into the driver’s seat. “Maybe it was before, but…” He shrugs. “It shouldn’t be.”
Dean just stares at him for a second, at the calm, placating look in his eyes. He imagines that the look in this Sam's eyes would be much the same if he were trying to sell Dean a used car, or convince him not to order onions on his burger with lunch.
“I can’t say I disagree with you,” Dean says, and then, just to make sure they’re clear, “Still not happening though.”
Sam shrugs, revs the engine. “Your loss.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, not really agreeing, but not really disagreeing either.
Mostly, he’s just tired. And his head is pounding. He’s not sure it’ll ever let up, if he even wants it to. He figures he kind of deserves this. This and the monster hangover tomorrow.
Sam turns up the radio. He's tapping his fingers against the steering wheel (which, by the way, is not something Old Sam would ever do, at least not to Black Sabbath) and Dean just turns his head against the leather seat, and closes his eyes.
He wonders if Sam had ever felt this way. Sitting here in the passenger seat, body itching to rebel against the confines of this space, against the way the leather conformed to the curve of his thighs and the set of his shoulders, all the while knowing this was the only place he truly belonged. Knowing too that there was nowhere else to go, so he'd better buck up, kiddo, if he knew what was good for him.
Yeah, Dean thinks, squeezing his eyes shut against the headlights flashing past from across the median, he's pretty sure Sam's been here before. Pretty sure he'll be here again too, before it's all over, at least if Dean has anything to say about it.
Because if Sam's soul is his anchor, well… Dean's going to make damn sure he doesn't let go of the rope.
end