With Air So Still
Title: With Air So Still
Type: fandom
Pairing: gen, pre-Dean/Sammy
Word Count: ~1500
Rating: PG-13 for language
Author's Note: Originally posted here.
Summary: "Sam is possibly, probably, more than likely going to have to kill Dean."
Sam is possibly, probably, more than likely going to have to kill Dean.
He doesn't get what's wrong, but since last night when they fought off that Ghost-Gone-Murdering-Banshee, Dean hasn't said two words to him.
Yes, Banshees are basically death detectors of Irish descendants and, yes, their great grandmother's name had been Kavanagh and, yes, the Banshee had screamed Sam's name, but.
Okay, the Banshee wasn't even a real Banshee. All she foresaw were the murders that she herself had committed. And it wasn't like she'd screamed his name while he was safely tucked in bed or something; she'd screamed it in his face right before she'd lifted him off the ground by his neck.
Basically, this girl had been a ghost who was crazy in life and crazier in death. Nothing they haven't seen, oh, just about every other time they take a new case.
Okay, so he'd come out of the whole thing with a shrapnel wound from the shotgun Dean had fired to ward off the ghost, but come on. It was in his abdomen. And they'd been able to remove it just fine with some pliers, heavy amounts of alcohol (of both varieties), and a pillow to muffle the yelling.
Sam is fine, and Dean is being a giant baby over what is pretty much a normal, everyday thing for them.
They'd left that town already and had started back out on the road.
"So," Sam starts, reaching down around his feet for the laptop. It's too much of a strain on his side, and he has to stop short, catch his breath and then snatch it quickly before Dean has time to notice the pause. He almost drops the laptop, but he still might be a little drunk from last night, and it wouldn't be that hard to shrug off if Dean said something. "So, any particular part of the country you want to go be superheroes in?"
"No."
Sam sets the laptop on his knees and starts searching for an internet connection. They aren't that far out of town, so he can catch a signal, but it's a weak one at best so he's got to hurry. "What, no jokes about maybe going to Miami?" He types 'ghost on beach' into google. "It's Spring Break, you know."
"Oh." Dean doesn't even smile.
"Yeah. Spring Break. College freshmen wearing next to nothing. Running scared from the ghosts into your arms." If Dean is nothing else, he is a troll. He's always looking for a way to fit boobs into the equation on any given hunt. Sam is going to chop him into tiny little bits if he doesn't answer with more than a single syllable.
"Uh-huh," Dean grunts. His eyes are fixated on the road, dark and green and stormy, and the twitch at the corners of his mouth is ridiculously fake.
Sam grits his teeth and hits search. A few obvious urban legends pop up, but nothing that stands out. He types in 'disappearing girls in Miami' instead, and rifles through a few missing persons reports.
A silence grows between them, thick and loud and fucking torture. Sam actually thinks that if he passes his hand between them he might feel it. He imagines that it would feel like molasses. Or something.
Much like molasses, it only gets thicker, heavier, and more unbearable as time passes.
"There's um. A cluster of missing girls in Destin," Sam reads, skimming quickly for similarities. "There's always plant life at their last known location." He smiles, nudging Dean's shoulder. "But it's plant life that's not indigenous to this region."
"I was thinking we should lay low for a while." Dean isn't looking at him, just staring into the distance. "Maybe hole up in a motel the next state over or something."
Sam rolls his eyes. "My side is fine."
Dean glances at him and sniffs. "Like everything's about you. Maybe I just want a break."
"That's bull, and you know it." Sam turns a little, trying not to wince at the motion. "You never take breaks. Ever."
"Well maybe I need to start." Dean sets his jaw. "Damn, Sammy, chill out."
"My name is Sam," Sam hisses, more venomously than he maybe meant to.
The silence appears again.
Then, Dean jerks the Impala to the side of the road (Sam gasps when he hits his wound at a bad angle) and shoves the door open. "Fuck off," he mutters, kicking the door shut.
Sam strains to watch Dean as he walks back behind the Impala, shoving his hands into his jeans. There finally comes a point that Dean is too far away for Sam to comfortable stretch to see, and Sam gives up trying, dropping his head back against his seat.
He has a headache, and his side is throbbing. He shouldn't have to be guessing what crawled up Dean's ass right now. All he wants to do is down a bottle of Advil and go to sleep.
Sam adjusts the rear view mirror so he can see Dean. Dean isn't actually that far behind the car, and he's stopped moving now. He's just staring out at the cornfield they've stopped beside.
Sam hates being the placating little brother sometimes.
He opens the door and grabs the crutch Dean had liberated from the motel while Sam was checking out. He doesn't know why there's only one, but Dean had seemed particularly proud of himself for thinking to look for it so Sam hadn't said anything. He tries to lean most of his weight on the crutch and walk forward, but it's more like a hobble-trip-about-to-fall-flat-on-his-ass gate he's trying to make work.
Sam only makes it about halfway before he's breathing heavily and having to stop to rest. His side fucking hurts like crazy, and it's starting to feel sort of warm; he thinks maybe he reopened the gash.
He feels lightheaded.
"Dean?" he calls, sort of weak. He clears his throat and says, a little louder, "Dean."
Dean glances over his shoulder, and his eyes get big. "What the hell?" And then he's right on top of Sam, grabbing under his arms and forcing most of Sam's weight onto him. "What the hell is wrong with you, Sammy?"
Sam's face is pressed into Dean's neck, his cheek scratching against Dean's stubble. He closes his eyes and lets Dean call him whatever he wants to. "I'm trying to figure out what's wrong with you, jackass."
"When you get better," Dean growls right in Sam's ear, "I am going to kick your ass."
Sam smiles a little, leaning back against the crutch to let Dean lead him back to the Impala. Thank god Dean hadn't walked that far. They're a mess against each other. Sam is too tall and Dean is too fast and it's all awkward and hesitant, but they somehow make it back.
Dean somehow manages to open the door with the toe of his shoe and helps Sam slide inside.
"Okay," Dean says, a little breathless. "I don't know if you get this concept, but when someone walks away, it means they don't want you to follow them."
Sam leans his head back against his seat. His hair is stuck to his forehead and curling around his ears. His hands are shaking. He can feel his heartbeat in his side, which, never a good sign. Life sucks.
He opens the glove box and grabs a couple of loose pills that look like advil; that's good enough for him. He pops them into his mouth and swallows. "Not you."
Dean grabs a water bottle from the backseat and hands it to Sam. "Suddenly you can read minds now, too?"
Sam huffs a laugh around a mouthful of lukewarm water. "If I could do that, I wouldn't have had to follow you in the first place."
Dean seems thoughtful for a moment, then shrugs. "I guess."
Sam takes another sip of water, making a little face. "So, are you gonna tell me what's wrong?"
Dean purses his lips and leans forward, ruffling Sam's hair. "Nope."
Sam jerks his head away from Dean's hand, and Dean laughs, slamming the door shut.
Sam watches him move around behind the impala from the mirror, just to make sure he's not wandering off again. He doesn't. He just comes back around, dropping into the driver's seat.
He starts the car, revving the engine a little. "Destin, right?"
Sam snorts. "Unless you've got some cornfield you need to stare at."
Dean smiles devilishly. "Sunshine state it is."
Sam tries to look a little disgusted but mostly just smiles. He leans his head against the seat and closes his eyes, waiting for the drugs to set in.
Type: fandom
Pairing: gen, pre-Dean/Sammy
Word Count: ~1500
Rating: PG-13 for language
Author's Note: Originally posted here.
Summary: "Sam is possibly, probably, more than likely going to have to kill Dean."
Sam is possibly, probably, more than likely going to have to kill Dean.
He doesn't get what's wrong, but since last night when they fought off that Ghost-Gone-Murdering-Banshee, Dean hasn't said two words to him.
Yes, Banshees are basically death detectors of Irish descendants and, yes, their great grandmother's name had been Kavanagh and, yes, the Banshee had screamed Sam's name, but.
Okay, the Banshee wasn't even a real Banshee. All she foresaw were the murders that she herself had committed. And it wasn't like she'd screamed his name while he was safely tucked in bed or something; she'd screamed it in his face right before she'd lifted him off the ground by his neck.
Basically, this girl had been a ghost who was crazy in life and crazier in death. Nothing they haven't seen, oh, just about every other time they take a new case.
Okay, so he'd come out of the whole thing with a shrapnel wound from the shotgun Dean had fired to ward off the ghost, but come on. It was in his abdomen. And they'd been able to remove it just fine with some pliers, heavy amounts of alcohol (of both varieties), and a pillow to muffle the yelling.
Sam is fine, and Dean is being a giant baby over what is pretty much a normal, everyday thing for them.
They'd left that town already and had started back out on the road.
"So," Sam starts, reaching down around his feet for the laptop. It's too much of a strain on his side, and he has to stop short, catch his breath and then snatch it quickly before Dean has time to notice the pause. He almost drops the laptop, but he still might be a little drunk from last night, and it wouldn't be that hard to shrug off if Dean said something. "So, any particular part of the country you want to go be superheroes in?"
"No."
Sam sets the laptop on his knees and starts searching for an internet connection. They aren't that far out of town, so he can catch a signal, but it's a weak one at best so he's got to hurry. "What, no jokes about maybe going to Miami?" He types 'ghost on beach' into google. "It's Spring Break, you know."
"Oh." Dean doesn't even smile.
"Yeah. Spring Break. College freshmen wearing next to nothing. Running scared from the ghosts into your arms." If Dean is nothing else, he is a troll. He's always looking for a way to fit boobs into the equation on any given hunt. Sam is going to chop him into tiny little bits if he doesn't answer with more than a single syllable.
"Uh-huh," Dean grunts. His eyes are fixated on the road, dark and green and stormy, and the twitch at the corners of his mouth is ridiculously fake.
Sam grits his teeth and hits search. A few obvious urban legends pop up, but nothing that stands out. He types in 'disappearing girls in Miami' instead, and rifles through a few missing persons reports.
A silence grows between them, thick and loud and fucking torture. Sam actually thinks that if he passes his hand between them he might feel it. He imagines that it would feel like molasses. Or something.
Much like molasses, it only gets thicker, heavier, and more unbearable as time passes.
"There's um. A cluster of missing girls in Destin," Sam reads, skimming quickly for similarities. "There's always plant life at their last known location." He smiles, nudging Dean's shoulder. "But it's plant life that's not indigenous to this region."
"I was thinking we should lay low for a while." Dean isn't looking at him, just staring into the distance. "Maybe hole up in a motel the next state over or something."
Sam rolls his eyes. "My side is fine."
Dean glances at him and sniffs. "Like everything's about you. Maybe I just want a break."
"That's bull, and you know it." Sam turns a little, trying not to wince at the motion. "You never take breaks. Ever."
"Well maybe I need to start." Dean sets his jaw. "Damn, Sammy, chill out."
"My name is Sam," Sam hisses, more venomously than he maybe meant to.
The silence appears again.
Then, Dean jerks the Impala to the side of the road (Sam gasps when he hits his wound at a bad angle) and shoves the door open. "Fuck off," he mutters, kicking the door shut.
Sam strains to watch Dean as he walks back behind the Impala, shoving his hands into his jeans. There finally comes a point that Dean is too far away for Sam to comfortable stretch to see, and Sam gives up trying, dropping his head back against his seat.
He has a headache, and his side is throbbing. He shouldn't have to be guessing what crawled up Dean's ass right now. All he wants to do is down a bottle of Advil and go to sleep.
Sam adjusts the rear view mirror so he can see Dean. Dean isn't actually that far behind the car, and he's stopped moving now. He's just staring out at the cornfield they've stopped beside.
Sam hates being the placating little brother sometimes.
He opens the door and grabs the crutch Dean had liberated from the motel while Sam was checking out. He doesn't know why there's only one, but Dean had seemed particularly proud of himself for thinking to look for it so Sam hadn't said anything. He tries to lean most of his weight on the crutch and walk forward, but it's more like a hobble-trip-about-to-fall-flat-on-his-ass gate he's trying to make work.
Sam only makes it about halfway before he's breathing heavily and having to stop to rest. His side fucking hurts like crazy, and it's starting to feel sort of warm; he thinks maybe he reopened the gash.
He feels lightheaded.
"Dean?" he calls, sort of weak. He clears his throat and says, a little louder, "Dean."
Dean glances over his shoulder, and his eyes get big. "What the hell?" And then he's right on top of Sam, grabbing under his arms and forcing most of Sam's weight onto him. "What the hell is wrong with you, Sammy?"
Sam's face is pressed into Dean's neck, his cheek scratching against Dean's stubble. He closes his eyes and lets Dean call him whatever he wants to. "I'm trying to figure out what's wrong with you, jackass."
"When you get better," Dean growls right in Sam's ear, "I am going to kick your ass."
Sam smiles a little, leaning back against the crutch to let Dean lead him back to the Impala. Thank god Dean hadn't walked that far. They're a mess against each other. Sam is too tall and Dean is too fast and it's all awkward and hesitant, but they somehow make it back.
Dean somehow manages to open the door with the toe of his shoe and helps Sam slide inside.
"Okay," Dean says, a little breathless. "I don't know if you get this concept, but when someone walks away, it means they don't want you to follow them."
Sam leans his head back against his seat. His hair is stuck to his forehead and curling around his ears. His hands are shaking. He can feel his heartbeat in his side, which, never a good sign. Life sucks.
He opens the glove box and grabs a couple of loose pills that look like advil; that's good enough for him. He pops them into his mouth and swallows. "Not you."
Dean grabs a water bottle from the backseat and hands it to Sam. "Suddenly you can read minds now, too?"
Sam huffs a laugh around a mouthful of lukewarm water. "If I could do that, I wouldn't have had to follow you in the first place."
Dean seems thoughtful for a moment, then shrugs. "I guess."
Sam takes another sip of water, making a little face. "So, are you gonna tell me what's wrong?"
Dean purses his lips and leans forward, ruffling Sam's hair. "Nope."
Sam jerks his head away from Dean's hand, and Dean laughs, slamming the door shut.
Sam watches him move around behind the impala from the mirror, just to make sure he's not wandering off again. He doesn't. He just comes back around, dropping into the driver's seat.
He starts the car, revving the engine a little. "Destin, right?"
Sam snorts. "Unless you've got some cornfield you need to stare at."
Dean smiles devilishly. "Sunshine state it is."
Sam tries to look a little disgusted but mostly just smiles. He leans his head against the seat and closes his eyes, waiting for the drugs to set in.