SPN FIC - Stages (7.10)
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.10
LENGTH: 1000 words
"You drive," Dean said when they reached the parking lot, and there was no arguing the point, not when Dean slammed the keys into Sam's chest with a force that would leave a bruise; not when Dean turned away and stared off at trees while Sam fumbled with the keys and got the doors open, passenger side first and then the driver's.
STAGES
By Carol Davis
"You drive," Dean said when they reached the parking lot, and there was no arguing the point, not when Dean slammed the keys into Sam's chest with a force that would leave a bruise; not when Dean turned away and stared off at trees while Sam fumbled with the keys and got the doors open, passenger side first and then the driver's.
"Are we -" Sam ventured after the noise of Dean's door crashing shut had faded away and left a throbbing silence in its place.
"Just drive," Dean said.
The van smelled of fish and donuts. For no good reason; they'd eaten neither of those things any time recently.
What it should smell like - well, it didn't.
Sam tried again. "Dean -"
"Leave it. Just frigging leave it, would you?"
Dean sat ramrod straight for the first couple of miles, his right hand lying on his thigh, fingers curling, then spreading open in equally-spaced intervals, as if it were some form of stretching exercise, some small form of therapy. The hand still hurt, Sam realized after what was maybe the fiftieth repetition. The hand still hurt because Dean had responded to the words organ donation by shattering a pane of glass with it, and had likely hurt it again when he hit Sam's chest.
There'd be a need, now, to keep Dean away from crowbars. Tire irons. Hammers.
Out from behind the wheel of any sort of motor vehicle.
Denial, Sam thought: they'd left that behind a while ago.
Anger.
Bargaining, depression, acceptance.
Funny - how he hadn’t followed Dean's lead, hadn't managed to work himself up into being angry. Not yet, at least. Dean would have to solo for a while, until he caught up. With any luck, Dean wouldn't hit bargaining before he…
No deals. All right? No deals this time. He'd never forgive us. Let's just go straight to depression.
Let's just…
"Just drive," Dean said. "That too much for you to handle?"
Not until Sam glanced at the speedometer did he understand Dean's annoyance: he'd eased up on the gas without realizing it, had let them drift practically to a standstill. He wasn't holding anybody back, though - there was no other traffic. They were alone, the two of them, in a pilfered van that smelled of old fish and bear claws.
"I don't know where we're going," he said to the steering wheel.
To his hands.
They'd have to go back to the hospital, in any event, and would have to do it soon. They'd left things unfinished, just for the sake of spending a few hours not doing what needed to be done. What had to be done by the two of them, because there was no one else left to do it. No Karen. No Rufus. No…
"Did he have any family?" Sam murmured. "I don't remember if he - he never said, but I don't think we ever asked him if -"
"Shut up. Shut up about that."
"But did -"
"No," Dean snapped. "He didn't have any damn family. We're his family."
Nephew, Sam thought, and his heart was crushed hard, as if Dean had wrapped it in his fist and squeezed. The guy in the suit had given his sales pitch one more try, out of Dean's hearing, and when Sam said, "No. All right? NO," the guy had sighed and shifted gears to "Is there a funeral home you'd like us to -"
"We want to take him home."
"I see."
I'm glad somebody does, Sam thought.
Home? To Sioux Falls? Bobby would want that, he supposed; Karen was there. At least, Karen's gravestone was.
It was in Sam's head then: the image of a sweet-smiling blonde woman holding a fresh-baked pie, and the expression on Bobby's face, joy and melancholy and grief and hope and pure, undiluted love. Was it like that? Sam thought, barely aware that he was mashing down on the accelerator, sending the creaking van surging ahead down a road that seemed to lead nowhere at all - at least, nowhere good.
Did I look at Jess like that? Did she look at me like that?
"Stop the car," Dean said.
And there was no arguing with that, either. By someone's grace there was a length of wide shoulder up ahead, and Sam arced the van into it, far more clumsily than he wanted to. He hadn't finished shifting it down out of gear when Dean flung his door open and spilled out, and Sam watched through the open doorway as Dean stumbled through the weeds and brush at the side of the road, half-vanishing as he dropped to his knees to puke.
Sam joined his brother in the weeds a minute later and stood with his hands in his pockets, saying nothing, looking down at the back of Dean's bowed head.
The size of the puddle of vomit in front of Dean's knees was truly impressive, given that Dean hadn't eaten anything in well over twenty-four hours.
Dean's right hand again lay against his thigh. It, too, was impressive: it had swelled as though what lay beneath was trying its best to burst out through his skin.
"We gotta get you some ice," Sam said quietly. "You won't be able to use that hand at all."
Dean didn't move. Didn't stir, didn't say anything.
Then, in a voice that sounded as if it were coming from somewhere else, as if someone unseen were using him as a ventriloquist's dummy, he said to the ground, "Would you tell me what we did?"
"I don't know, man."
Dean turned his head and lifted it, and gazed both up at Sam and past him, at the graying December sky. His face was flushed and pale at the same time, his eyes brimming with tears that seemed to be trying not to fall.
Anger, Sam thought. Bargaining, depression, acceptance.
"I want -" Dean said.
Didn't seem to be able to say anything more.
"I know," Sam told him. "I do too."
* * * * *
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.10
LENGTH: 1000 words
"You drive," Dean said when they reached the parking lot, and there was no arguing the point, not when Dean slammed the keys into Sam's chest with a force that would leave a bruise; not when Dean turned away and stared off at trees while Sam fumbled with the keys and got the doors open, passenger side first and then the driver's.
STAGES
By Carol Davis
"You drive," Dean said when they reached the parking lot, and there was no arguing the point, not when Dean slammed the keys into Sam's chest with a force that would leave a bruise; not when Dean turned away and stared off at trees while Sam fumbled with the keys and got the doors open, passenger side first and then the driver's.
"Are we -" Sam ventured after the noise of Dean's door crashing shut had faded away and left a throbbing silence in its place.
"Just drive," Dean said.
The van smelled of fish and donuts. For no good reason; they'd eaten neither of those things any time recently.
What it should smell like - well, it didn't.
Sam tried again. "Dean -"
"Leave it. Just frigging leave it, would you?"
Dean sat ramrod straight for the first couple of miles, his right hand lying on his thigh, fingers curling, then spreading open in equally-spaced intervals, as if it were some form of stretching exercise, some small form of therapy. The hand still hurt, Sam realized after what was maybe the fiftieth repetition. The hand still hurt because Dean had responded to the words organ donation by shattering a pane of glass with it, and had likely hurt it again when he hit Sam's chest.
There'd be a need, now, to keep Dean away from crowbars. Tire irons. Hammers.
Out from behind the wheel of any sort of motor vehicle.
Denial, Sam thought: they'd left that behind a while ago.
Anger.
Bargaining, depression, acceptance.
Funny - how he hadn’t followed Dean's lead, hadn't managed to work himself up into being angry. Not yet, at least. Dean would have to solo for a while, until he caught up. With any luck, Dean wouldn't hit bargaining before he…
No deals. All right? No deals this time. He'd never forgive us. Let's just go straight to depression.
Let's just…
"Just drive," Dean said. "That too much for you to handle?"
Not until Sam glanced at the speedometer did he understand Dean's annoyance: he'd eased up on the gas without realizing it, had let them drift practically to a standstill. He wasn't holding anybody back, though - there was no other traffic. They were alone, the two of them, in a pilfered van that smelled of old fish and bear claws.
"I don't know where we're going," he said to the steering wheel.
To his hands.
They'd have to go back to the hospital, in any event, and would have to do it soon. They'd left things unfinished, just for the sake of spending a few hours not doing what needed to be done. What had to be done by the two of them, because there was no one else left to do it. No Karen. No Rufus. No…
"Did he have any family?" Sam murmured. "I don't remember if he - he never said, but I don't think we ever asked him if -"
"Shut up. Shut up about that."
"But did -"
"No," Dean snapped. "He didn't have any damn family. We're his family."
Nephew, Sam thought, and his heart was crushed hard, as if Dean had wrapped it in his fist and squeezed. The guy in the suit had given his sales pitch one more try, out of Dean's hearing, and when Sam said, "No. All right? NO," the guy had sighed and shifted gears to "Is there a funeral home you'd like us to -"
"We want to take him home."
"I see."
I'm glad somebody does, Sam thought.
Home? To Sioux Falls? Bobby would want that, he supposed; Karen was there. At least, Karen's gravestone was.
It was in Sam's head then: the image of a sweet-smiling blonde woman holding a fresh-baked pie, and the expression on Bobby's face, joy and melancholy and grief and hope and pure, undiluted love. Was it like that? Sam thought, barely aware that he was mashing down on the accelerator, sending the creaking van surging ahead down a road that seemed to lead nowhere at all - at least, nowhere good.
Did I look at Jess like that? Did she look at me like that?
"Stop the car," Dean said.
And there was no arguing with that, either. By someone's grace there was a length of wide shoulder up ahead, and Sam arced the van into it, far more clumsily than he wanted to. He hadn't finished shifting it down out of gear when Dean flung his door open and spilled out, and Sam watched through the open doorway as Dean stumbled through the weeds and brush at the side of the road, half-vanishing as he dropped to his knees to puke.
Sam joined his brother in the weeds a minute later and stood with his hands in his pockets, saying nothing, looking down at the back of Dean's bowed head.
The size of the puddle of vomit in front of Dean's knees was truly impressive, given that Dean hadn't eaten anything in well over twenty-four hours.
Dean's right hand again lay against his thigh. It, too, was impressive: it had swelled as though what lay beneath was trying its best to burst out through his skin.
"We gotta get you some ice," Sam said quietly. "You won't be able to use that hand at all."
Dean didn't move. Didn't stir, didn't say anything.
Then, in a voice that sounded as if it were coming from somewhere else, as if someone unseen were using him as a ventriloquist's dummy, he said to the ground, "Would you tell me what we did?"
"I don't know, man."
Dean turned his head and lifted it, and gazed both up at Sam and past him, at the graying December sky. His face was flushed and pale at the same time, his eyes brimming with tears that seemed to be trying not to fall.
Anger, Sam thought. Bargaining, depression, acceptance.
"I want -" Dean said.
Didn't seem to be able to say anything more.
"I know," Sam told him. "I do too."
* * * * *