SPN FIC - To See Ourselves As Others See Us
Slightly delayed, but here it is -- time to look at Skin.
Eyes lowered, Sam rested his hands on his knees. He looked like he was trying to work up the nerve to ask somebody to dance. The tip of his right index finger began to work at a frayed spot in the knee of his jeans. "You killed the shapeshifter, yeah. But…I mean…you gave up a lot. To let the cops think you committed those murders. To let them think you're dead."
Characters: Dean and Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: Skin
Length: 1222 words
TO SEE OURSELVES AS OTHERS SEE US
By Carol Davis
"Listen," Sam said.
That was the last thing Dean wanted to do - unless what he was listening to was the sound of his own snoring. Difficult to accomplish, yes, but worth a shot. He flung an arm over his eyes to block out what little light the greasy, smoke-stained curtains let into the motel room and ignored his brother, hoping that maybe this one time Sam would take the damn hint and clam up. For a minute he thought he'd succeeded, because Sam didn't say anything more. Dean could hear him breathing, shuffling his feet, then sitting down on the other bed.
"I want -" Sam began then.
"Dude," Dean groaned. "I just want to crash for a couple hours. Show me some freakin' mercy, would you?"
Sam fell silent again, but Dean knew better than to hope he'd stay that way, because he had the proverbial other shoe dangling from one of his ginormous hands. He'd let the silence go on for a minute, maybe two; then, when Dean had finally started sliding down under the surface into the blissful nothingness of sleep, he'd let the freakin' shoe drop.
Sam Pain In My Ass Winchester, Dean thought. The human torture device.
"WHAT," he grunted.
"I just -"
Dean lifted his arm and glowered at Sam. "Should I have left you in the sewer? Seriously. Save this."
"I wanted to say thank you."
"What?"
"For what you did."
"Yeah, well, whatever."
Eyes lowered, Sam rested his hands on his knees. He looked like he was trying to work up the nerve to ask somebody to dance. The tip of his right index finger began to work at a frayed spot in the knee of his jeans. "You killed the shapeshifter, yeah. But…I mean…you gave up a lot. To let the cops think you committed those murders. To let them think you're dead."
"It was the easiest way out, Sam. We went through this."
"No," Sam said firmly. "You went through it. I don't recall you giving me any kind of a vote."
"A vote on what? Plan B? There was no Plan B, Sam."
"We didn't even try to come up with one."
"Because there isn't one."
Sam's mouth worked for a second. He was angry, frustrated, exhausted, relieved, scared. Twenty years of living with him had made him pretty much an open book to Dean - not that figuring Sam out really took a lot of in-depth investigation. Even when he was trying to lie, trying to bury what he was feeling, it always showed itself in small ways.
Or big ones.
"We wouldn't have gone to St. Louis in the first place if I hadn't insisted," Sam said stubbornly.
"And if we hadn't, that sick son of a bitch would have killed a lot more people. I'm not blaming you for anything. We saved people. That's what we're supposed to do. Them being your friends doesn't make any difference."
"Yes it does."
"You're not ever gonna let me sleep, are you?" Groaning, Dean got up off the bed, shuffled into the bathroom and ran himself a drink of water. A glance in the mirror over the sink showed him somebody who'd been…well, knocked out and tied up in a sewer. Compared to now, being unconscious in a sewer seemed like all kinds of a good time. With Sam watching him from the other room, he wet a washcloth and ran it over the back of his neck, then his face. "We would've done the same thing for strangers," he said.
To his surprise, Sam picked up the TV remote and began surfing through channels. He was working himself up into a good solid snit.
"Sam," Dean said.
"Why is 'thank you' something you don't want to hear? Huh? Explain that to me."
"I was doing my job, Sam."
"Maybe you should make some phone calls."
"To who?"
"I don't know. Dad."
"Why would I call Dad? To tell him I killed a shapeshifter?"
"To tell him you're not dead. The man watches the news, Dean. He reads newspapers. That's what he does. One of the news services is bound to pick up a story from St. Louis saying the cops caught the freak who tied up, mutilated and murdered a woman and tried to murder two more."
Dean put the washcloth down and leaned heavily against the sink. "He'll know it wasn't me."
"Will he?"
"Yeah, he will."
There hadn't been a lot of options available to him back in St. Louis, and there weren't many now. Shut the bathroom door and camp in a damp, windowless box for a while. Go back to the bed and try to rest with Sam staring at him. Or go out somewhere. Find a place to grab a drink, doze off in a booth. Yeah, that'd work well.
It'd work better than admitting to Sam that when he closed his eyes, he could see that thing wearing his face.
The thing he'd killed.
He'd seen himself lying there dead, in Becky's parents' fancy house.
He was shuddering as he went back to the bed and sat down facing his brother. They ought to get something to eat, he thought; they hadn't had anything since breakfast, if you could call take-out coffee and donuts breakfast. They ought to go somewhere and order a full meal, something hot and hearty, fill up their bellies, then sleep a while.
"What's the matter?" Sam asked him.
"Nothing."
"Dude, if you'd just talk to me…"
"I need some sleep, man. Jesus. Is this what they teach you in college? That you have to psychoanalyze every goddamn thing?"
His voice was shrill enough to make Sam's left eyebrow go up.
"It's not like I had some big career thing going on," Dean muttered. "So, the cops think Dean Winchester's dead. Big fuckin' deal."
"It is a big deal," Sam said quietly.
They sat there for a minute, not looking at each other. Then Sam got to his feet, pulled his wallet out of his jeans pocket and checked the cash inside. "I'll go over and get us something to eat," he told Dean. "You gonna be all right?"
"I'm spectacular," Dean replied.
"I'll be right back."
"You're not even gonna ask me what I want?"
Sam took a step toward the door. "You didn't ask me what I wanted," he said over his shoulder, his voice mild and matter-of-fact, no accusation in it, no leveling of blame. He'd let go of the snit, it sounded like.
Dean knew better.
He sat there on the bed watching Sam unlock the door and pull it open.
He'd seen worse shit in his life. Things way worse than some evil son of a bitch wearing his face, lying dead in somebody's fancy house.
Yeah, way worse than that.
Sam stopped, one hand on the door. "I appreciate what you did," he said. "I think we could have come up with a better plan, if we'd taken some time. But I get that there wasn't a lot of time. And not a lot of ways out of that situation that wouldn't turn the spotlight on us in some way. I just wish you wouldn't -"
"It ain't that big a deal, Sam."
"Yes," Sam said. "It is."
And he went on out the door.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eyes lowered, Sam rested his hands on his knees. He looked like he was trying to work up the nerve to ask somebody to dance. The tip of his right index finger began to work at a frayed spot in the knee of his jeans. "You killed the shapeshifter, yeah. But…I mean…you gave up a lot. To let the cops think you committed those murders. To let them think you're dead."
Characters: Dean and Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: Skin
Length: 1222 words
TO SEE OURSELVES AS OTHERS SEE US
By Carol Davis
"Listen," Sam said.
That was the last thing Dean wanted to do - unless what he was listening to was the sound of his own snoring. Difficult to accomplish, yes, but worth a shot. He flung an arm over his eyes to block out what little light the greasy, smoke-stained curtains let into the motel room and ignored his brother, hoping that maybe this one time Sam would take the damn hint and clam up. For a minute he thought he'd succeeded, because Sam didn't say anything more. Dean could hear him breathing, shuffling his feet, then sitting down on the other bed.
"I want -" Sam began then.
"Dude," Dean groaned. "I just want to crash for a couple hours. Show me some freakin' mercy, would you?"
Sam fell silent again, but Dean knew better than to hope he'd stay that way, because he had the proverbial other shoe dangling from one of his ginormous hands. He'd let the silence go on for a minute, maybe two; then, when Dean had finally started sliding down under the surface into the blissful nothingness of sleep, he'd let the freakin' shoe drop.
Sam Pain In My Ass Winchester, Dean thought. The human torture device.
"WHAT," he grunted.
"I just -"
Dean lifted his arm and glowered at Sam. "Should I have left you in the sewer? Seriously. Save this."
"I wanted to say thank you."
"What?"
"For what you did."
"Yeah, well, whatever."
Eyes lowered, Sam rested his hands on his knees. He looked like he was trying to work up the nerve to ask somebody to dance. The tip of his right index finger began to work at a frayed spot in the knee of his jeans. "You killed the shapeshifter, yeah. But…I mean…you gave up a lot. To let the cops think you committed those murders. To let them think you're dead."
"It was the easiest way out, Sam. We went through this."
"No," Sam said firmly. "You went through it. I don't recall you giving me any kind of a vote."
"A vote on what? Plan B? There was no Plan B, Sam."
"We didn't even try to come up with one."
"Because there isn't one."
Sam's mouth worked for a second. He was angry, frustrated, exhausted, relieved, scared. Twenty years of living with him had made him pretty much an open book to Dean - not that figuring Sam out really took a lot of in-depth investigation. Even when he was trying to lie, trying to bury what he was feeling, it always showed itself in small ways.
Or big ones.
"We wouldn't have gone to St. Louis in the first place if I hadn't insisted," Sam said stubbornly.
"And if we hadn't, that sick son of a bitch would have killed a lot more people. I'm not blaming you for anything. We saved people. That's what we're supposed to do. Them being your friends doesn't make any difference."
"Yes it does."
"You're not ever gonna let me sleep, are you?" Groaning, Dean got up off the bed, shuffled into the bathroom and ran himself a drink of water. A glance in the mirror over the sink showed him somebody who'd been…well, knocked out and tied up in a sewer. Compared to now, being unconscious in a sewer seemed like all kinds of a good time. With Sam watching him from the other room, he wet a washcloth and ran it over the back of his neck, then his face. "We would've done the same thing for strangers," he said.
To his surprise, Sam picked up the TV remote and began surfing through channels. He was working himself up into a good solid snit.
"Sam," Dean said.
"Why is 'thank you' something you don't want to hear? Huh? Explain that to me."
"I was doing my job, Sam."
"Maybe you should make some phone calls."
"To who?"
"I don't know. Dad."
"Why would I call Dad? To tell him I killed a shapeshifter?"
"To tell him you're not dead. The man watches the news, Dean. He reads newspapers. That's what he does. One of the news services is bound to pick up a story from St. Louis saying the cops caught the freak who tied up, mutilated and murdered a woman and tried to murder two more."
Dean put the washcloth down and leaned heavily against the sink. "He'll know it wasn't me."
"Will he?"
"Yeah, he will."
There hadn't been a lot of options available to him back in St. Louis, and there weren't many now. Shut the bathroom door and camp in a damp, windowless box for a while. Go back to the bed and try to rest with Sam staring at him. Or go out somewhere. Find a place to grab a drink, doze off in a booth. Yeah, that'd work well.
It'd work better than admitting to Sam that when he closed his eyes, he could see that thing wearing his face.
The thing he'd killed.
He'd seen himself lying there dead, in Becky's parents' fancy house.
He was shuddering as he went back to the bed and sat down facing his brother. They ought to get something to eat, he thought; they hadn't had anything since breakfast, if you could call take-out coffee and donuts breakfast. They ought to go somewhere and order a full meal, something hot and hearty, fill up their bellies, then sleep a while.
"What's the matter?" Sam asked him.
"Nothing."
"Dude, if you'd just talk to me…"
"I need some sleep, man. Jesus. Is this what they teach you in college? That you have to psychoanalyze every goddamn thing?"
His voice was shrill enough to make Sam's left eyebrow go up.
"It's not like I had some big career thing going on," Dean muttered. "So, the cops think Dean Winchester's dead. Big fuckin' deal."
"It is a big deal," Sam said quietly.
They sat there for a minute, not looking at each other. Then Sam got to his feet, pulled his wallet out of his jeans pocket and checked the cash inside. "I'll go over and get us something to eat," he told Dean. "You gonna be all right?"
"I'm spectacular," Dean replied.
"I'll be right back."
"You're not even gonna ask me what I want?"
Sam took a step toward the door. "You didn't ask me what I wanted," he said over his shoulder, his voice mild and matter-of-fact, no accusation in it, no leveling of blame. He'd let go of the snit, it sounded like.
Dean knew better.
He sat there on the bed watching Sam unlock the door and pull it open.
He'd seen worse shit in his life. Things way worse than some evil son of a bitch wearing his face, lying dead in somebody's fancy house.
Yeah, way worse than that.
Sam stopped, one hand on the door. "I appreciate what you did," he said. "I think we could have come up with a better plan, if we'd taken some time. But I get that there wasn't a lot of time. And not a lot of ways out of that situation that wouldn't turn the spotlight on us in some way. I just wish you wouldn't -"
"It ain't that big a deal, Sam."
"Yes," Sam said. "It is."
And he went on out the door.
~~~~~~~~~~~~