(no subject)
A Purpose to This Life
Coda to 5.22: 900 words
It ain’t Mayberry. Not by a long shot. Sure, there are lawns to be mowed and bar-be-ques to be had. Dean does both, and he even sits out on the Perry’s driveway, knocking beers back with a few guys in the neighborhood. They watch football together, talk about Nascar and little league. Dean goes with it even though he hates the Colts, only thinks of mullets and Ash.
There are days he can’t take it, doesn’t want to, thinks about quitting. But he can’t, because … It was a Promise. He only tries harder to make it work.
*
Dean feels her slip close, feels her hand rest right over his heart as she’s sleeping. But he’s not. He can’t, because last time he did, last time he got through an entire REM cycle, he saw Sam and spent what felt like hours chasing after him, never catching up, legs burning and cycling as fast as possible, but Sam just kept on walking.
He can’t reach Sam.
*
His eyes are wide to the ceilling when Ben creeps in, leaning at his side of the bed. “What’s up, buddy?” Dean whispers.
First he hums but then he twists a finger into the blanket. “Can’t sleep.”
“Know the feeling,” Dean smirks without feeling.
Ben frowns. It’s all too typical of late. Dean’s seen the slight fear in Ben’s eyes ever since he came back a few months ago. He hears Ben whisper and worry to Lisa that Dean’s in town because there’re monsters around. With a motherly touch, she assures him that’s not so. It never seems to help.
He gets up and leads Ben back to bed. It’s unlikely either of them will get any rest, no reason to make him face it alone. He slides in next to Ben, sits against the headboard, lays his arm up and around Ben’s head with a gentle hand on his shoulder. This feels familiar, and he likes it. Reminds him of Sam and long nights in empty hotel rooms while their dad was out hunting.
This, Dean can get used to. This he knows and wants.
*
Since he stumbled through their front door, he’s watched over Ben like he’s the reincarnation. He keeps a close eye on him, minds every scrape and bruise on the boy’s body. But, where it differs … he lets him go. When Ben climbs higher in the trees, he smiles and watches him roam. When he skips over rocks and winces, Dean walks - doesn’t run - to check on him. It’s a nice balance that he’s proud of. Thinks Sam would be proud of.
As Ben’s breathing levels out, Dean closes his eyes. And thinks.
“Sam.”
“Hey,” Sam nods back.
He looks good, real good for someone who cascaded down a hollow grave with Lucifer riding shotgun. Dean smiles, but it breaks, because it’s been far too long since he’s seen his brother’s face. His last memory is a little soft around the edges and only came from one good eye. But he remembers Sam smiling.
Right now, he’s not.
“How they treatin’ you? All Sandals and Club Dead?”
Sam laughs on a breath, smiles sadly, and tips his head to the side.
Dean can’t take the silence, so he figures now’s as good a time as ever to say what all he’s thought. “I miss ya like hell, Sammy.”
“Nice choice of words.”
He shakes his head with a painful smile. Tears build in his eyes like they always do for his stupid, big-headed, little brother. “We couldn’t just stick to spirits and wendigoes?” He flinches at the desperation in his voice, but it’s safe here with Sam.
“It was always about something, Dean.”
Dean’s breath is harsh; he knows there’s always been a fight on their hands, something bigger than they could realistically, feasibly handle, even when they did.
“You came and got me to find Dad. And he was off looking for Azazel.”
He nods, and a thick swallow keeps him from saying too much. “Yeah, I know.” He clears his throat and looks right into Sam, into those compassionate eyes that never gave up on him. “At least we had a few years.”
The corner of Sam’s mouth tilts and he’s nodding, too. “Yeah, we did.”
“Thanks for comin’ with me,” Dean rushes out, trying so hard to get the words out before he can truly feel the weight of them.
“Thanks for coming to get me.”
A tear breaks free, sliding down his cheek and under his jaw. He should wipe it away, his fingers twitch with the thought, but he just smiles and with one blink, Sam’s gone.
*
Dean feels him slip close, feels the hand rest right over his too-fast heart. He’s awake, can’t manage to get back to Sam. No matter how many times he closes his eyes, he’s awake.
As he shifts in the bed, Ben snuffles against him, nudges his head further under Dean’s arm.
It’s a dead weight; his arm can’t be moved. But then he looks down on Ben: tuffs of brown hair in every direction and a warm hand on his chest. Dean breathes deep, slides lower, breathes into Ben’s space.
He finally closes his eyes and can lift his arm to hold Ben, keep him close. And his heart slows and pumps warm.
Tomorrow he’ll teach Ben how to change oil.
Sequel of sorts? Doing Your Best to Get By
Coda to 5.22: 900 words
It ain’t Mayberry. Not by a long shot. Sure, there are lawns to be mowed and bar-be-ques to be had. Dean does both, and he even sits out on the Perry’s driveway, knocking beers back with a few guys in the neighborhood. They watch football together, talk about Nascar and little league. Dean goes with it even though he hates the Colts, only thinks of mullets and Ash.
There are days he can’t take it, doesn’t want to, thinks about quitting. But he can’t, because … It was a Promise. He only tries harder to make it work.
*
Dean feels her slip close, feels her hand rest right over his heart as she’s sleeping. But he’s not. He can’t, because last time he did, last time he got through an entire REM cycle, he saw Sam and spent what felt like hours chasing after him, never catching up, legs burning and cycling as fast as possible, but Sam just kept on walking.
He can’t reach Sam.
*
His eyes are wide to the ceilling when Ben creeps in, leaning at his side of the bed. “What’s up, buddy?” Dean whispers.
First he hums but then he twists a finger into the blanket. “Can’t sleep.”
“Know the feeling,” Dean smirks without feeling.
Ben frowns. It’s all too typical of late. Dean’s seen the slight fear in Ben’s eyes ever since he came back a few months ago. He hears Ben whisper and worry to Lisa that Dean’s in town because there’re monsters around. With a motherly touch, she assures him that’s not so. It never seems to help.
He gets up and leads Ben back to bed. It’s unlikely either of them will get any rest, no reason to make him face it alone. He slides in next to Ben, sits against the headboard, lays his arm up and around Ben’s head with a gentle hand on his shoulder. This feels familiar, and he likes it. Reminds him of Sam and long nights in empty hotel rooms while their dad was out hunting.
This, Dean can get used to. This he knows and wants.
*
Since he stumbled through their front door, he’s watched over Ben like he’s the reincarnation. He keeps a close eye on him, minds every scrape and bruise on the boy’s body. But, where it differs … he lets him go. When Ben climbs higher in the trees, he smiles and watches him roam. When he skips over rocks and winces, Dean walks - doesn’t run - to check on him. It’s a nice balance that he’s proud of. Thinks Sam would be proud of.
As Ben’s breathing levels out, Dean closes his eyes. And thinks.
“Sam.”
“Hey,” Sam nods back.
He looks good, real good for someone who cascaded down a hollow grave with Lucifer riding shotgun. Dean smiles, but it breaks, because it’s been far too long since he’s seen his brother’s face. His last memory is a little soft around the edges and only came from one good eye. But he remembers Sam smiling.
Right now, he’s not.
“How they treatin’ you? All Sandals and Club Dead?”
Sam laughs on a breath, smiles sadly, and tips his head to the side.
Dean can’t take the silence, so he figures now’s as good a time as ever to say what all he’s thought. “I miss ya like hell, Sammy.”
“Nice choice of words.”
He shakes his head with a painful smile. Tears build in his eyes like they always do for his stupid, big-headed, little brother. “We couldn’t just stick to spirits and wendigoes?” He flinches at the desperation in his voice, but it’s safe here with Sam.
“It was always about something, Dean.”
Dean’s breath is harsh; he knows there’s always been a fight on their hands, something bigger than they could realistically, feasibly handle, even when they did.
“You came and got me to find Dad. And he was off looking for Azazel.”
He nods, and a thick swallow keeps him from saying too much. “Yeah, I know.” He clears his throat and looks right into Sam, into those compassionate eyes that never gave up on him. “At least we had a few years.”
The corner of Sam’s mouth tilts and he’s nodding, too. “Yeah, we did.”
“Thanks for comin’ with me,” Dean rushes out, trying so hard to get the words out before he can truly feel the weight of them.
“Thanks for coming to get me.”
A tear breaks free, sliding down his cheek and under his jaw. He should wipe it away, his fingers twitch with the thought, but he just smiles and with one blink, Sam’s gone.
*
Dean feels him slip close, feels the hand rest right over his too-fast heart. He’s awake, can’t manage to get back to Sam. No matter how many times he closes his eyes, he’s awake.
As he shifts in the bed, Ben snuffles against him, nudges his head further under Dean’s arm.
It’s a dead weight; his arm can’t be moved. But then he looks down on Ben: tuffs of brown hair in every direction and a warm hand on his chest. Dean breathes deep, slides lower, breathes into Ben’s space.
He finally closes his eyes and can lift his arm to hold Ben, keep him close. And his heart slows and pumps warm.
Tomorrow he’ll teach Ben how to change oil.
Sequel of sorts? Doing Your Best to Get By