And I Won’t Sympathise Anymore (gen-fic, 1500 words, PG)
And I Won’t Sympathise Anymore
(gen-fic, 1500 words, PG)
An empty hour at work + listening to Bjork on my iPod = me writing some bizarre Stanford-era Sam'n'Dean gen-fic
"There are three of them," the old woman says, while Dean just stares. "I gave them all the same face - it seemed to be the only genuine thing about you."
She smiles as Dean backs up a step. His shotgun isn't even levelled at the nearest of the men. He's just staring. She nods approvingly.
"Yes. That's right. They're going to kill you, you know. And you're going to let them."
:::
The bar's too crowded for Sam to feel properly comfortable. The crowd is mainly students, rowdy and full of Friday-night freedom. He's jostled at the bar and he hunches over the drinks he's ordered before they can be spilt. He glances out across the room and Jess waves at him from the far corner.
On his way over to her, his cell starts to ring.
"Sorry," he says as he sets the drink down in front of her. "I'll just be a second."
He turns away and pulls the phone from his pocket. Then he sees the name flashing on the screen and hesitates. It's his first instinct to simply kill the call. He's managed two years, why fuck things up by having a conversation now?
Jess leans closer when he doesn't answer it immediately. She's all soft concern, framed with blonde curls.
"Is something wrong? Who is it?"
Sam looks at her while the phone trills on in his hand. Then he takes a deep breath and shakes his head, even manages a smile.
"No, nothing's wrong. Won't take long." He presses the button and puts the phone to his ear. “Dean,” he says.
It’s been so long since he last heard Dean’s voice, not even weeks and months but years now. Still, even in Dean’s first words - Hey Sammy, how you doing? - he registers the thready note of desperation.
“What’s wrong?” he demands, and is met with a laugh that is both heart-achingly longed-for and entirely unconvincing.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Can’t a man check in on his little brother without there being something wrong?”
“Not for the last two years he couldn’t,” says Sam.
He’s been telling himself that he’s glad that Dean and their father haven’t tried pestering him with phonecalls or letters. He’s been saying: it’s okay that they’re nothing but a card on his birthday and the occasional three-line postcard, I don’t want anything more from them, I want to be left alone. But he hears Dean and feels a clenching bitterness in his stomach. It’s about time, is what he really thinks.
There’s another empty laugh and then a sound that Sam doesn’t even have to think about: the click of a shotgun being cocked.
“That’s my Sammy. So, you got a moment to catch up? How are… uh… classes? Any hot professors?”
“Dean. What’s going on?”
Another crowd of people bustle past and Sam sidesteps them, taking him further away from Jess’s table. He moves distractedly towards the door and keeps the phone clutched close to his ear. Something’s happening on the other end: a quick scuffle then Dean says,
“Talk to me, Sammy.”
And just as Sam says, “What about? You really expect me to believe you’re just calling for the latest news from Stanford? Don’t treat me like an idiot, Dean,” he hears a shot fired.
His heart catches mid-beat. A wave of sickness rushes over Sam and he reaches out blindly to steady himself on the nearest table. He swallows hard and tries to speak. Fails.
“Sam? You still there? Don’t hang up on me, man. C’mon, stay with me… uh, you remember that time just outside of Reno, while Dad was off hunting jackalopes, and I took you to that crappy little diner with the Christmas lights in the window, even though it was frickin’ April? You remember?”
“And I ordered the spicy chicken and couldn’t eat it and spilt it all down your leg.”
Sam supplies it blankly. He’s taken back to the diner, to that evening, against his will. Because if he thinks too long about the days when it was just him and Dean, he’ll start to question himself. It was never Dean he had a problem with; the only crazy ideas Dean ever got were the ones Dad encouraged him to have.
Dean laughs and it sounds strong and vibrant, even coming over all that way from that short, other life that Sam enjoyed, when Dad wasn’t around to ruin everything.
“Yeah and it was so fucking hot it practically took a layer of skin off me!”
“You tried washing it off in the restroom but it just looked like you’d had a nasty bout of diarrhea.” Sam smiles for a second. Dean had dragged him back to the motel and refused to let him eat anything but pretzels the next day as punishment. The day after that Dad had come home and they’d jumped states to Utah. They’d left behind nothing but a stain of chili chicken on the diner’s carpet. “What about it?”
Another shot is fired, bursting through Sam’s ear and he jerks the cell away. When he brings it back, he’s just in time to hear Dean give a strangled breath then fall into quiet, helpless cursing.
“Dean? Tell me. What’s going on?”
Dean goes quiet and it seems like the whole bar does too, because all Sam can hear is his brother’s shallow breathing. He hears the wet sound of Dean’s mouth and then Dean says,
“I just wanted to hear from you. Just… it’s been a while, just wanted to know you were doing okay.”
Sam finds he’s at the door and pushes through it. The noise level drops to a low buzz and throb of music and voices. The alley’s empty and he sinks down against the wall, dropping into a crouch.
“So?” says Dean. “You doing okay? School everything you ever dreamed of?”
That prompts a short, sharp laugh from Sam. He rests his head against the brick and tries to think how to explain it to Dean. He wants Dean to understand, wants Dean to approve but they always seem to hit a language barrier. The words don’t mean the same thing to Dean as they do to Sam.
“Yeah,” Sam says finally. “It’s good. Lot of hard work and if I never have to write another essay again it’ll be too soon, but… it’s good, Dean. It’s still what I want. Doesn’t mean I don’t… y’know, doesn’t mean I don’t miss-”
“Hang on,” says Dean. “Don’t go anywhere, stay right there.”
First instinct is to hang up. If Dean wants to play Dad, not explain a damn thing but still expect Sam to do as he says, he can go fuck himself. Sam’s got a girlfriend who must be mightily pissed off right now and he’s got a new life here and he doesn’t need to put up with this bullshit. But then he recognizes what he’s listening to and he can’t hang up. He’s hearing Dean fight. He’s hearing Dean punch and be punched, he’s hearing someone hurt his brother and he’s hearing Dean hurt them right back.
And he hears himself say, Dean! Please! No! but his lips haven’t moved. There’s the sickening crunch of splintering bone.
Sam’s fingers feel like they’ve been grown about the cellphone, like the joints have bent specifically to grip the phone and to let go would break his hand. He closes his eyes and tries to shut out everything but the scrape of someone moving - someone moving somewhere, Sam doesn’t know where, doesn’t know if it’s the other side of the country or maybe just a street over.
“You still with me?” says Dean at last.
Sam wets his lips and nods. Realises that Dean won’t have caught that and says, “Yeah. Dean, what’s-?“
“Don’t want to take up too much of your time so I’ll let you get on. You’ve probably got stacks of studying to do or something. Don’t want to- Just wanted to hear you were okay. Yeah. So… uh… thanks, Sammy.”
The call ends and Sam’s listening to the blank buzz before he’s even taken in what Dean’s just said.
:::
Dean shoves the cellphone back into his jacket and wipes his hand over his face. He tries to catch his breath but his mouth tastes dead and numb. He drops to a crouch and pushes the hair out of Sam’s face. His brother’s neck is at a funny angle, like he’s tilting his head to look at something across the room. Maybe he’s looking at one of the two other bodies: the one with a neat bullet hole between Sam’s eyes, or the one with a bullet going straight through Sam’s chest.
Dean wipes his hand on his jeans. The golems are already starting to melt back to animal flesh, slick and jellified. They don’t look like Sam for long.
Dean straightens back up and slings his shotgun over his shoulder.
“Hey, bitch!” he shouts as he starts down the corridor. “Gonna kill you for that, y’know.”
~end
(gen-fic, 1500 words, PG)
An empty hour at work + listening to Bjork on my iPod = me writing some bizarre Stanford-era Sam'n'Dean gen-fic
"There are three of them," the old woman says, while Dean just stares. "I gave them all the same face - it seemed to be the only genuine thing about you."
She smiles as Dean backs up a step. His shotgun isn't even levelled at the nearest of the men. He's just staring. She nods approvingly.
"Yes. That's right. They're going to kill you, you know. And you're going to let them."
:::
The bar's too crowded for Sam to feel properly comfortable. The crowd is mainly students, rowdy and full of Friday-night freedom. He's jostled at the bar and he hunches over the drinks he's ordered before they can be spilt. He glances out across the room and Jess waves at him from the far corner.
On his way over to her, his cell starts to ring.
"Sorry," he says as he sets the drink down in front of her. "I'll just be a second."
He turns away and pulls the phone from his pocket. Then he sees the name flashing on the screen and hesitates. It's his first instinct to simply kill the call. He's managed two years, why fuck things up by having a conversation now?
Jess leans closer when he doesn't answer it immediately. She's all soft concern, framed with blonde curls.
"Is something wrong? Who is it?"
Sam looks at her while the phone trills on in his hand. Then he takes a deep breath and shakes his head, even manages a smile.
"No, nothing's wrong. Won't take long." He presses the button and puts the phone to his ear. “Dean,” he says.
It’s been so long since he last heard Dean’s voice, not even weeks and months but years now. Still, even in Dean’s first words - Hey Sammy, how you doing? - he registers the thready note of desperation.
“What’s wrong?” he demands, and is met with a laugh that is both heart-achingly longed-for and entirely unconvincing.
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Can’t a man check in on his little brother without there being something wrong?”
“Not for the last two years he couldn’t,” says Sam.
He’s been telling himself that he’s glad that Dean and their father haven’t tried pestering him with phonecalls or letters. He’s been saying: it’s okay that they’re nothing but a card on his birthday and the occasional three-line postcard, I don’t want anything more from them, I want to be left alone. But he hears Dean and feels a clenching bitterness in his stomach. It’s about time, is what he really thinks.
There’s another empty laugh and then a sound that Sam doesn’t even have to think about: the click of a shotgun being cocked.
“That’s my Sammy. So, you got a moment to catch up? How are… uh… classes? Any hot professors?”
“Dean. What’s going on?”
Another crowd of people bustle past and Sam sidesteps them, taking him further away from Jess’s table. He moves distractedly towards the door and keeps the phone clutched close to his ear. Something’s happening on the other end: a quick scuffle then Dean says,
“Talk to me, Sammy.”
And just as Sam says, “What about? You really expect me to believe you’re just calling for the latest news from Stanford? Don’t treat me like an idiot, Dean,” he hears a shot fired.
His heart catches mid-beat. A wave of sickness rushes over Sam and he reaches out blindly to steady himself on the nearest table. He swallows hard and tries to speak. Fails.
“Sam? You still there? Don’t hang up on me, man. C’mon, stay with me… uh, you remember that time just outside of Reno, while Dad was off hunting jackalopes, and I took you to that crappy little diner with the Christmas lights in the window, even though it was frickin’ April? You remember?”
“And I ordered the spicy chicken and couldn’t eat it and spilt it all down your leg.”
Sam supplies it blankly. He’s taken back to the diner, to that evening, against his will. Because if he thinks too long about the days when it was just him and Dean, he’ll start to question himself. It was never Dean he had a problem with; the only crazy ideas Dean ever got were the ones Dad encouraged him to have.
Dean laughs and it sounds strong and vibrant, even coming over all that way from that short, other life that Sam enjoyed, when Dad wasn’t around to ruin everything.
“Yeah and it was so fucking hot it practically took a layer of skin off me!”
“You tried washing it off in the restroom but it just looked like you’d had a nasty bout of diarrhea.” Sam smiles for a second. Dean had dragged him back to the motel and refused to let him eat anything but pretzels the next day as punishment. The day after that Dad had come home and they’d jumped states to Utah. They’d left behind nothing but a stain of chili chicken on the diner’s carpet. “What about it?”
Another shot is fired, bursting through Sam’s ear and he jerks the cell away. When he brings it back, he’s just in time to hear Dean give a strangled breath then fall into quiet, helpless cursing.
“Dean? Tell me. What’s going on?”
Dean goes quiet and it seems like the whole bar does too, because all Sam can hear is his brother’s shallow breathing. He hears the wet sound of Dean’s mouth and then Dean says,
“I just wanted to hear from you. Just… it’s been a while, just wanted to know you were doing okay.”
Sam finds he’s at the door and pushes through it. The noise level drops to a low buzz and throb of music and voices. The alley’s empty and he sinks down against the wall, dropping into a crouch.
“So?” says Dean. “You doing okay? School everything you ever dreamed of?”
That prompts a short, sharp laugh from Sam. He rests his head against the brick and tries to think how to explain it to Dean. He wants Dean to understand, wants Dean to approve but they always seem to hit a language barrier. The words don’t mean the same thing to Dean as they do to Sam.
“Yeah,” Sam says finally. “It’s good. Lot of hard work and if I never have to write another essay again it’ll be too soon, but… it’s good, Dean. It’s still what I want. Doesn’t mean I don’t… y’know, doesn’t mean I don’t miss-”
“Hang on,” says Dean. “Don’t go anywhere, stay right there.”
First instinct is to hang up. If Dean wants to play Dad, not explain a damn thing but still expect Sam to do as he says, he can go fuck himself. Sam’s got a girlfriend who must be mightily pissed off right now and he’s got a new life here and he doesn’t need to put up with this bullshit. But then he recognizes what he’s listening to and he can’t hang up. He’s hearing Dean fight. He’s hearing Dean punch and be punched, he’s hearing someone hurt his brother and he’s hearing Dean hurt them right back.
And he hears himself say, Dean! Please! No! but his lips haven’t moved. There’s the sickening crunch of splintering bone.
Sam’s fingers feel like they’ve been grown about the cellphone, like the joints have bent specifically to grip the phone and to let go would break his hand. He closes his eyes and tries to shut out everything but the scrape of someone moving - someone moving somewhere, Sam doesn’t know where, doesn’t know if it’s the other side of the country or maybe just a street over.
“You still with me?” says Dean at last.
Sam wets his lips and nods. Realises that Dean won’t have caught that and says, “Yeah. Dean, what’s-?“
“Don’t want to take up too much of your time so I’ll let you get on. You’ve probably got stacks of studying to do or something. Don’t want to- Just wanted to hear you were okay. Yeah. So… uh… thanks, Sammy.”
The call ends and Sam’s listening to the blank buzz before he’s even taken in what Dean’s just said.
:::
Dean shoves the cellphone back into his jacket and wipes his hand over his face. He tries to catch his breath but his mouth tastes dead and numb. He drops to a crouch and pushes the hair out of Sam’s face. His brother’s neck is at a funny angle, like he’s tilting his head to look at something across the room. Maybe he’s looking at one of the two other bodies: the one with a neat bullet hole between Sam’s eyes, or the one with a bullet going straight through Sam’s chest.
Dean wipes his hand on his jeans. The golems are already starting to melt back to animal flesh, slick and jellified. They don’t look like Sam for long.
Dean straightens back up and slings his shotgun over his shoulder.
“Hey, bitch!” he shouts as he starts down the corridor. “Gonna kill you for that, y’know.”
~end