SPN Gen | Three Times Sam Almost Called Dean, and One Time He Did
Title: Three Times Sam Almost Called Dean, and One Time He Did
Words: 1,100
Characters: Sam and Dean, but not Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13? For once I didn’t write any curses! Imagine that!
Warnings: References to things that have aired
Summary: Think the title says it all.
Notes: I was thisclose to turning off the computer and watching any of the zillion shows on my DVR, when this popped into my head and thought it just had to be written to calm my brother-loving soul. So, you know, here it is. (also, I know the fics are usually “four times XXX and one time XXX,” but I couldn’t think of a fourth that I really liked and I’d rather you have quality than quantity. I gots some standards to upkeep, ya knows?)
When Sam left for school, John had been pretty explicit. His steps out the door, the steps to his new life signaled the end of his old one and there was no reason to even consider staying in touch. And he didn’t. Sam was successful in cutting himself off, slicing away that part of him that he didn’t even realize a good three months had floated by without family on his mind. Everyone around him talked of Thanksgiving and Christmas, family and massive home-cooked meals. Sam thought about hotel rooms and his absent father and his overprotective brother.
Getting in late at night after a lengthy study group, Sam clutched his cell phone before rolling it over his palm. He sat on the slim dorm bed and stared at it, willing it to tell him it was okay even while his mind told him to forget it. His thumb buttoned through the address book slowly. Chris Calc. Dad. Danielle Chem. Dylan Calc. Dean. Deborah … the thumb kept going but his mind stalled on those two entries.
A couple buttons later the phone rang yet one more button put an end to the whole thing. He sighed, air burning in his chest. Or maybe it was just the memories he’d ditched since he got to California.
*
After a visit to the coroner’s office left him with more questions than answers, Sam walked the mile back to the hotel. Along the way, he spotted a diner and felt his stomach rumble. It’d been a long morning and afternoon, bringing him somewhere near four o’clock and the smell of grease and cheese was hitting him just so.
At the counter he ordered a couple cheeseburger meals with fries and onion rings and then he paused at the dessert rack. He reached into his pocket for his phone but stopped, thinking for a split second before he turned back to the waitress with a smirk, knowing what Dean’s reply would be. “Add on a slice of strawberry rhubarb?”
*
Sam didn’t drink much, but lately he’d been doing a lot of things he never considered when he was just shotgun in the Impala. Before he was owner and driver. But he had beer and whiskey and some fruity thing the bartender flirted into his hands. He took it with a smirk, took it for free, and he ignored the sting down his throat because when he wasn’t drinking everything stung him hard and deep.
At the motel, stumbling his way inside and into corners of the bed, he laughed at himself with nothing but anger. For his clumsiness. For getting this drunk. For how tired he was.
Sam collapsed on the bed, kicking one shoe off then forgetting about the other one entirely. He pulled his phone out and held it close to his eyes, rolling through contacts and settling over Dean. His thumb rubbed the Send button. He murmured low, “How’s things?” with a smile, imagining Dean’s gruff voice. Full of sarcasm. Hell’s a cakewalk, Sammy. Thanks for askin’.
*
It’s been weeks, all too many. The last time they went this long without talking was Dean’s sentence in Hell, but Sam doesn’t like to count that. It wasn’t under their control, wasn’t a decision. Before that: when Sam was at Stanford and living a completely different life. Much like how he’s spent the last four months being someone so unlike the Sam in college, the Sam that fought along Dean, the one that fell under Ruby’s spell. He’s getting his head back on, learning to believe in himself before he can ask for Dean to do it. Doesn’t make it any easier. In fact, this feels harder.
Sam checks his phone on a regular basis, convincing himself it’s to make sure Bobby’s doing okay, that the guy isn’t failing to reach him. But he knows what it really is.
And it hits him in the middle of the night, when he plucks his phone from its charger and puts so little thought into it, pushing send with a quick flurry of emotions swelling in his stomach.
“Sammy?” Dean grumbles, his voice so thick with sleep but high with worry.
He sighs and waits. It feels like decades since he’s heard Sammy, but it runs warm through his ears. “Dean,” he replies, so lost on what else to say.
“Yeah.”
The warmth burrows into his chest then reappears in his eyes as tears prick their way out. “You, uh,” and he clears his throat when he hears the break and emotion in his throat. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah. Everything okay, Sam?”
“No, yeah, I’m good.”
“There’s nothin’ good about three in the mornin’.”
“Dean …” Everything else fails on his lips and he waits for his brother to prompt more out of him.
Instead, he asks, “You drunk?”
Sam's jaw tenses and he smiles uncomfortably, a few more tears tumbling down his cheeks. His chuckle is low as he takes the out Dean’s extending his way. “Yeah, funny, that.”
Dean sighs then grumbles, “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ll, uh, let you … ”
“Alright,” he replies with a break on the second syllable.
Sam hangs up and lays back down, staring at the empty ceiling, but seeing his brother. Imagining the hotel he’s in, how he sleeps on his stomach most nights with his hands tucked under the pillow inches from his gun.
He replays the entire conversation over and over again. Instead of counting sheep, he counts how many breaths he heard his brother take. And his own lungs hitch a bit when he hears There’s nothing good about three in the morning.
But he considers the fact that he finally heard that voice, knows Dean’s alive, knows Dean’ll accept his middle-of-the-night calls when he’s in trouble. Or when he’s just anxious and can’t sleep. And he knows there’s a lot of good about three in the morning.
Words: 1,100
Characters: Sam and Dean, but not Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13? For once I didn’t write any curses! Imagine that!
Warnings: References to things that have aired
Summary: Think the title says it all.
Notes: I was thisclose to turning off the computer and watching any of the zillion shows on my DVR, when this popped into my head and thought it just had to be written to calm my brother-loving soul. So, you know, here it is. (also, I know the fics are usually “four times XXX and one time XXX,” but I couldn’t think of a fourth that I really liked and I’d rather you have quality than quantity. I gots some standards to upkeep, ya knows?)
When Sam left for school, John had been pretty explicit. His steps out the door, the steps to his new life signaled the end of his old one and there was no reason to even consider staying in touch. And he didn’t. Sam was successful in cutting himself off, slicing away that part of him that he didn’t even realize a good three months had floated by without family on his mind. Everyone around him talked of Thanksgiving and Christmas, family and massive home-cooked meals. Sam thought about hotel rooms and his absent father and his overprotective brother.
Getting in late at night after a lengthy study group, Sam clutched his cell phone before rolling it over his palm. He sat on the slim dorm bed and stared at it, willing it to tell him it was okay even while his mind told him to forget it. His thumb buttoned through the address book slowly. Chris Calc. Dad. Danielle Chem. Dylan Calc. Dean. Deborah … the thumb kept going but his mind stalled on those two entries.
A couple buttons later the phone rang yet one more button put an end to the whole thing. He sighed, air burning in his chest. Or maybe it was just the memories he’d ditched since he got to California.
*
After a visit to the coroner’s office left him with more questions than answers, Sam walked the mile back to the hotel. Along the way, he spotted a diner and felt his stomach rumble. It’d been a long morning and afternoon, bringing him somewhere near four o’clock and the smell of grease and cheese was hitting him just so.
At the counter he ordered a couple cheeseburger meals with fries and onion rings and then he paused at the dessert rack. He reached into his pocket for his phone but stopped, thinking for a split second before he turned back to the waitress with a smirk, knowing what Dean’s reply would be. “Add on a slice of strawberry rhubarb?”
*
Sam didn’t drink much, but lately he’d been doing a lot of things he never considered when he was just shotgun in the Impala. Before he was owner and driver. But he had beer and whiskey and some fruity thing the bartender flirted into his hands. He took it with a smirk, took it for free, and he ignored the sting down his throat because when he wasn’t drinking everything stung him hard and deep.
At the motel, stumbling his way inside and into corners of the bed, he laughed at himself with nothing but anger. For his clumsiness. For getting this drunk. For how tired he was.
Sam collapsed on the bed, kicking one shoe off then forgetting about the other one entirely. He pulled his phone out and held it close to his eyes, rolling through contacts and settling over Dean. His thumb rubbed the Send button. He murmured low, “How’s things?” with a smile, imagining Dean’s gruff voice. Full of sarcasm. Hell’s a cakewalk, Sammy. Thanks for askin’.
*
It’s been weeks, all too many. The last time they went this long without talking was Dean’s sentence in Hell, but Sam doesn’t like to count that. It wasn’t under their control, wasn’t a decision. Before that: when Sam was at Stanford and living a completely different life. Much like how he’s spent the last four months being someone so unlike the Sam in college, the Sam that fought along Dean, the one that fell under Ruby’s spell. He’s getting his head back on, learning to believe in himself before he can ask for Dean to do it. Doesn’t make it any easier. In fact, this feels harder.
Sam checks his phone on a regular basis, convincing himself it’s to make sure Bobby’s doing okay, that the guy isn’t failing to reach him. But he knows what it really is.
And it hits him in the middle of the night, when he plucks his phone from its charger and puts so little thought into it, pushing send with a quick flurry of emotions swelling in his stomach.
“Sammy?” Dean grumbles, his voice so thick with sleep but high with worry.
He sighs and waits. It feels like decades since he’s heard Sammy, but it runs warm through his ears. “Dean,” he replies, so lost on what else to say.
“Yeah.”
The warmth burrows into his chest then reappears in his eyes as tears prick their way out. “You, uh,” and he clears his throat when he hears the break and emotion in his throat. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah. Everything okay, Sam?”
“No, yeah, I’m good.”
“There’s nothin’ good about three in the mornin’.”
“Dean …” Everything else fails on his lips and he waits for his brother to prompt more out of him.
Instead, he asks, “You drunk?”
Sam's jaw tenses and he smiles uncomfortably, a few more tears tumbling down his cheeks. His chuckle is low as he takes the out Dean’s extending his way. “Yeah, funny, that.”
Dean sighs then grumbles, “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ll, uh, let you … ”
“Alright,” he replies with a break on the second syllable.
Sam hangs up and lays back down, staring at the empty ceiling, but seeing his brother. Imagining the hotel he’s in, how he sleeps on his stomach most nights with his hands tucked under the pillow inches from his gun.
He replays the entire conversation over and over again. Instead of counting sheep, he counts how many breaths he heard his brother take. And his own lungs hitch a bit when he hears There’s nothing good about three in the morning.
But he considers the fact that he finally heard that voice, knows Dean’s alive, knows Dean’ll accept his middle-of-the-night calls when he’s in trouble. Or when he’s just anxious and can’t sleep. And he knows there’s a lot of good about three in the morning.