Fic: On Ice
Title: On Ice
Author: britomart_is
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1400
Spoilers: AU from 6x01.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
That's what Dean thinks of the watercolor seascape on the wall. That's what he thinks of the calm beige and blue decorating scheme, because donchaknow dying people are serious business, a splash of bright red paint might just do them in. One glimpse of shiny chrome, and Mrs. Andersen across the hall could kick it. That's what Dean thinks of pureed food, that's what he thinks of food at all because what is the goddamn point at this stage in the game? That's what Dean thinks of catheters and bedpans. That's certainly what he thinks of chaplains, because Dean's not too sick to tell them where God can stick it.
Dean's died in a diverse range of settings, but this is one he never thought he'd see. This is how you do it, though. When you're a family man, civilized member of society. When you've lived to be gray and paunchy and midway between so young, too soon and he had a good, long life. You don't make your wife and kid clean the bedpan, and you don't crawl off in the woods to die like a wounded animal, no matter how much you want to. You sit tight and eat the pureed prunes.
Not too much longer, though. Dean knows it, in the fits and starts of consciousness. Lisa and Ben know it, judging by how rarely they leave the plasticized armchairs at his bedside. Everything's covered in plastic here - chairs, mattresses. Death is messy even for civilized members of society, it turns out.
Every time Dean goes under with morphine he assumes he won't resurface. So Dean's not altogether surprised when the first thing he sees upon awakening is a tall shadow skulking in the door frame.
Sam looks more surprised than Dean is. Kind of the same look he had when Dean walked in on him jerking it to bondage porn on pay-per-view.
"I have never been so happy to see anyone in my goddamn life," Dean says, for the first time in weeks cracking a smile that isn't plastered on to comfort anyone else.
Sam licks his lips and steps into the fluorescence of the room. "Dean?"
"Didn't feel a thing," Dean says. "That wasn't so bad." Sam folds his long-ass self into the plasticized chair. If this is Dean's heaven and he's calling the shots, those chairs are the first to go. No, the bedpan is the first to go, the chairs are second.
"You're not dead," Sam says. Sammy's looking pretty serious himself, and Dean wants to hit him upside the head for buying into the hushed beige reverence of this joint.
Dean takes a moment to assess. He does still have that end-stage pancreatic cancer feeling - it's not really a subtle, easy-to-miss sensation. But he can suck it up for another five minutes if he needs to have a special walk-into-the-light moment before the asshole in the sky lets him pass Go and collect two hundred dollars. "But not too much longer, man, right?" He looks to Sam. "Cut a guy a break."
Sam's quiet for a minute, looking at Dean. Poor guy's making kind of a shitshow of fetching Dean's soul away, obviously whoever runs these things didn't give him much of a briefing. Then Sam smiles, and hell if that ain't like the sun coming out after a long winter. "Nah, Dean. Not too much longer." Sam leans forward, elbows weighting the mattress. "I was just upstairs sticking a couple of beers on ice for us. Gotta wait for 'em to get nice and cold."
Dean nods, shutting his eyes, flickering them open a moment later. "Sammy?"
"Yeah?"
"I missed you, man." Dean catches his breath.
"Me too," Sam says like the words are broken glass in his mouth. The kid needs to lighten up. He isn't even real.
But oh. Oh. Dean wishes he hadn't thought that. He really, really wishes he hadn't. Dean looks at the tall, broad-shouldered figment of his imagination and he stops smiling. "Fuck," he drags out, throat tight.
"Dean?" The figment's voice gets a little higher, nervous. He clutches at Dean's shoulder.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep it all reigned in. "I want it to stop hurting all the goddamn time. I want to stop being trapped in this stupid fucking body that doesn't even work." He gasps a whoop of a breath, tries to pace his lungs, can't. "I want to go and crack open a cold one with you and just - aw, man, get in my old car with my brother and see if Zeppelin's touring in heaven. Fuck, I want that."
A thumb massages into Dean's shoulder. He can feel the figment leaning over him. "You will," Sam says quietly. "It's gonna be great."
Dean's eyes snap open. "I can't," he says, breath coming fast. "I can't, you gotta give me more time."
"Dean," Sam says. "Dean, it's gonna be okay."
"It's really not." Dean fixes the man leaning over him with a look of contempt. He wanted Dean to forget. Wanted him to pretend. "Cause you aren't him, are you?" Dean narrows his eyes. "I'm not gonna kick back with my brother in heaven cause he isn't there. He's never gonna be."
Sam's shaking his head, eyes wide and alarmed. "Dean, no -"
Dean tries to push up off the pillows, doesn't make it far. "I can't go yet. I can't leave him down there." He makes eye contact with the fake Sam, tries to reason with him. "Just a little more time, then I'll go. I won't give you any trouble."
"Relax," Sam says, pushing Dean back down. "You don't need to worry about him, just - you're going to be fine, Dean, it's okay."
Dean fists the bedclothes tight as he can, because his body won't even let him get out of bed, and he can't go yet, he needs more time but he's had time, he's had decades and he hasn't found the answer or even come close. Not once. "You don't understand." Dean's vision is blurred at the edges, and shit, that's embarrassing. He may have a good reason but it's still incredibly lame that Dean's crying on his deathbed. "I'm the only one that's left." Dean's breath hitches. He locks eyes with the Sam-thing, imploring. "When I'm gone, they'll all just … forget him. No one'll get him out. Not ever."
It smells like urine and Clorox and Dean feels a little less present than five minutes ago, but he can't go now. Sam's grasping at him, touching his face. Dean twists away. "Please," the Sam-thing says, eyes glistening. "Dean, please don't."
"Five minutes, then!" Dean blurts out. He curls his fingers in Sam's shirtfront. "Give me five minutes, I go across the hall and spike Mrs. Andersen's insulin with corn syrup. That's enough to get me a ticket downstairs."
"You're not going to Hell, Dean," Sam says.
Dean can feel the clock is ticking. He's inching closer and closer to an eternity of flavorless beer, a car that means nothing, nothing when it's empty, and a pallid simulacrum of the only person he wants to be with. And he'll be stuck there. Forever. Dean huffs a laugh, vinegar-bitter. "You sure?"
"I'm sorry," the Sam-thing whispers, staring at Dean. Then it's on its feet, lurching out of the room, and Dean is alone.
Dean watches the morphine drip and waits.
-
Sam leans against the beige wall and shuts his eyes. He only opens them when he feels the expectant silence at his side.
Ben stands with arms crossed, gray in his hair and tic in his jaw. "Well? You get your look?"
Sam wipes a hand over his face. "He woke up. I thought he was totally under, but he woke up. He saw me."
"Oh, are you fucking kidding me?" Ben reels back, looking at Sam like he's a dog who just shit on the rug. Lisa puts a restraining hand on her son's shoulder and looks at Sam gravely.
"Did you tell him?" she asks.
Sam's heart pounds. "I couldn't," he says. "I couldn't. Forty years. How could I tell him?"
Author: britomart_is
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1400
Spoilers: AU from 6x01.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
That's what Dean thinks of the watercolor seascape on the wall. That's what he thinks of the calm beige and blue decorating scheme, because donchaknow dying people are serious business, a splash of bright red paint might just do them in. One glimpse of shiny chrome, and Mrs. Andersen across the hall could kick it. That's what Dean thinks of pureed food, that's what he thinks of food at all because what is the goddamn point at this stage in the game? That's what Dean thinks of catheters and bedpans. That's certainly what he thinks of chaplains, because Dean's not too sick to tell them where God can stick it.
Dean's died in a diverse range of settings, but this is one he never thought he'd see. This is how you do it, though. When you're a family man, civilized member of society. When you've lived to be gray and paunchy and midway between so young, too soon and he had a good, long life. You don't make your wife and kid clean the bedpan, and you don't crawl off in the woods to die like a wounded animal, no matter how much you want to. You sit tight and eat the pureed prunes.
Not too much longer, though. Dean knows it, in the fits and starts of consciousness. Lisa and Ben know it, judging by how rarely they leave the plasticized armchairs at his bedside. Everything's covered in plastic here - chairs, mattresses. Death is messy even for civilized members of society, it turns out.
Every time Dean goes under with morphine he assumes he won't resurface. So Dean's not altogether surprised when the first thing he sees upon awakening is a tall shadow skulking in the door frame.
Sam looks more surprised than Dean is. Kind of the same look he had when Dean walked in on him jerking it to bondage porn on pay-per-view.
"I have never been so happy to see anyone in my goddamn life," Dean says, for the first time in weeks cracking a smile that isn't plastered on to comfort anyone else.
Sam licks his lips and steps into the fluorescence of the room. "Dean?"
"Didn't feel a thing," Dean says. "That wasn't so bad." Sam folds his long-ass self into the plasticized chair. If this is Dean's heaven and he's calling the shots, those chairs are the first to go. No, the bedpan is the first to go, the chairs are second.
"You're not dead," Sam says. Sammy's looking pretty serious himself, and Dean wants to hit him upside the head for buying into the hushed beige reverence of this joint.
Dean takes a moment to assess. He does still have that end-stage pancreatic cancer feeling - it's not really a subtle, easy-to-miss sensation. But he can suck it up for another five minutes if he needs to have a special walk-into-the-light moment before the asshole in the sky lets him pass Go and collect two hundred dollars. "But not too much longer, man, right?" He looks to Sam. "Cut a guy a break."
Sam's quiet for a minute, looking at Dean. Poor guy's making kind of a shitshow of fetching Dean's soul away, obviously whoever runs these things didn't give him much of a briefing. Then Sam smiles, and hell if that ain't like the sun coming out after a long winter. "Nah, Dean. Not too much longer." Sam leans forward, elbows weighting the mattress. "I was just upstairs sticking a couple of beers on ice for us. Gotta wait for 'em to get nice and cold."
Dean nods, shutting his eyes, flickering them open a moment later. "Sammy?"
"Yeah?"
"I missed you, man." Dean catches his breath.
"Me too," Sam says like the words are broken glass in his mouth. The kid needs to lighten up. He isn't even real.
But oh. Oh. Dean wishes he hadn't thought that. He really, really wishes he hadn't. Dean looks at the tall, broad-shouldered figment of his imagination and he stops smiling. "Fuck," he drags out, throat tight.
"Dean?" The figment's voice gets a little higher, nervous. He clutches at Dean's shoulder.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep it all reigned in. "I want it to stop hurting all the goddamn time. I want to stop being trapped in this stupid fucking body that doesn't even work." He gasps a whoop of a breath, tries to pace his lungs, can't. "I want to go and crack open a cold one with you and just - aw, man, get in my old car with my brother and see if Zeppelin's touring in heaven. Fuck, I want that."
A thumb massages into Dean's shoulder. He can feel the figment leaning over him. "You will," Sam says quietly. "It's gonna be great."
Dean's eyes snap open. "I can't," he says, breath coming fast. "I can't, you gotta give me more time."
"Dean," Sam says. "Dean, it's gonna be okay."
"It's really not." Dean fixes the man leaning over him with a look of contempt. He wanted Dean to forget. Wanted him to pretend. "Cause you aren't him, are you?" Dean narrows his eyes. "I'm not gonna kick back with my brother in heaven cause he isn't there. He's never gonna be."
Sam's shaking his head, eyes wide and alarmed. "Dean, no -"
Dean tries to push up off the pillows, doesn't make it far. "I can't go yet. I can't leave him down there." He makes eye contact with the fake Sam, tries to reason with him. "Just a little more time, then I'll go. I won't give you any trouble."
"Relax," Sam says, pushing Dean back down. "You don't need to worry about him, just - you're going to be fine, Dean, it's okay."
Dean fists the bedclothes tight as he can, because his body won't even let him get out of bed, and he can't go yet, he needs more time but he's had time, he's had decades and he hasn't found the answer or even come close. Not once. "You don't understand." Dean's vision is blurred at the edges, and shit, that's embarrassing. He may have a good reason but it's still incredibly lame that Dean's crying on his deathbed. "I'm the only one that's left." Dean's breath hitches. He locks eyes with the Sam-thing, imploring. "When I'm gone, they'll all just … forget him. No one'll get him out. Not ever."
It smells like urine and Clorox and Dean feels a little less present than five minutes ago, but he can't go now. Sam's grasping at him, touching his face. Dean twists away. "Please," the Sam-thing says, eyes glistening. "Dean, please don't."
"Five minutes, then!" Dean blurts out. He curls his fingers in Sam's shirtfront. "Give me five minutes, I go across the hall and spike Mrs. Andersen's insulin with corn syrup. That's enough to get me a ticket downstairs."
"You're not going to Hell, Dean," Sam says.
Dean can feel the clock is ticking. He's inching closer and closer to an eternity of flavorless beer, a car that means nothing, nothing when it's empty, and a pallid simulacrum of the only person he wants to be with. And he'll be stuck there. Forever. Dean huffs a laugh, vinegar-bitter. "You sure?"
"I'm sorry," the Sam-thing whispers, staring at Dean. Then it's on its feet, lurching out of the room, and Dean is alone.
Dean watches the morphine drip and waits.
-
Sam leans against the beige wall and shuts his eyes. He only opens them when he feels the expectant silence at his side.
Ben stands with arms crossed, gray in his hair and tic in his jaw. "Well? You get your look?"
Sam wipes a hand over his face. "He woke up. I thought he was totally under, but he woke up. He saw me."
"Oh, are you fucking kidding me?" Ben reels back, looking at Sam like he's a dog who just shit on the rug. Lisa puts a restraining hand on her son's shoulder and looks at Sam gravely.
"Did you tell him?" she asks.
Sam's heart pounds. "I couldn't," he says. "I couldn't. Forty years. How could I tell him?"