I don’t like Tuesdays... (gen-fic but Sam/Dean friendly, pg, 1135 words)
Things are very hectic here - mostly in the good way but hectic is never all that much fun. So I’m not around as much as I should be. And I would love to be around more because you lot are just completely wonderful. I mean, really you are. I don’t know what I did to ever get so lucky with you lot but I shall be trying to do it again next life.
Thank you, sweet anonymous, for the rose! And thank you, other adored anonymouses, for the wonderful Valentine’s messages. I received an anonymous link to the post and was a little confused as to what was going on and then it clicked and I really did squee out loud. I am so immensely grateful for it. This Valentine’s has been a little rubbishy in RL and so the Valentine’s you guys gave me really made my day. ♥
I have seen the episode and, God, my show loves me as much as I love my show. I will do a response post hopefully, but for now, please have this coda, hastily scribbled out while I was in a dreadfully dull meeting.
I don’t like Tuesdays (Tell me why)
(gen-fic but Sam/Dean friendly, pg, 1135 words, spoilers for 3.11)
On Wednesday, as they leave, Sam won’t get in the Impala until Dean agrees to let him drive. In protest, Dean plays the radio far too loud and absolutely refuses to turn it down. It’s a small concession to make. Sam drives the Impala more carefully than he has done for the past three months, the three months that didn’t happen. That won’t ever happen. He drives carefully: diligently observes every single stop sign, looks both ways a couple of times before pulling out.
He drives more carefully because he has a passenger.
When they check into a motel, Sam gives the room a thorough once over before insisting that Dean sit down, watch TV and not touch anything while he goes out to fetch take-out. Getting back, Sam takes a sizeable bite out of the cheeseburger, stuffs a few fries in his mouth then gulps from the soda. He chews, swallows, then nods and passes it to Dean. With a thoroughly unimpressed expression, Dean looks at the indents Sam’s teeth have left in the burger and bun.
“Dude, you couldn’t get your own?” Dean says finally.
After Dean’s asleep, Sam rolls over on his side in his own bed and watches him. Watches the steady rise and fall of his chest. Then he gets up and checks that the doors are still locked, that his gun is still loaded and ready to fire at the first sign of danger. Everything is quiet. Safe.
In the diner at breakfast the next morning, Sam insists on accompanying Dean to the restroom. He stands guard at the door and ignores Dean’s slightly awkward attempts to pretend that he’s not freaked out by the situation one little bit. Back at the table and talking smoothly over Dean’s frustrated complaints, Sam orders two black coffees from the waitress and, once she’s gone, assures Dean that’ll find him something to eat later where the hygiene levels are not so suspicious.
Dean takes a deep, cleansing breath and serenely drowns anything he might have been about to say in his coffee.
There’s a mild pang of guilt when he catches Dean on the phone - Sam had only stepped out of the room for a moment to collect another shotgun from the trunk, just in case - and Dean hurriedly assures him that he’s only talking to Bobby. Like Sam’s some kind of mad, possessive boyfriend. Or something.
When Dean says there’s a lead on Bela’s whereabouts and Sam calmly tells him that he wants to keep the hell away from her, he thinks it might be the moment Dean snaps. Dean stares at him, jaw clenched.
“Seriously, man, we’re running away from Bela? What, you scared?”
“Yes.”
He’s terrified. Absolutely fucking terrified and determined to hang on to what he’s got ‘til his fingernails are worn down to bloody stumps. Bela’s unpredictable. No saying she won’t lash out and get lucky and manage to hurt Dean. Sam’s not going there again. He's not. Won’t. Dean rails at him, calls him names and tries to provoke him into an argument. Sam ignores him. It’s pointless trying to make Dean understand. For Dean to understand, there has to be no Dean.
Privately, once Dean’s slumped down on his bed in disgusted disbelief, Sam considers whether there’s anywhere safe he could hide Dean while he goes to take care of Bela himself.
In the meantime, he’s not particularly keen on the way Dean’s looking at him. Dean’s a stubborn sonofabitch, prone to acting out just to make a point. Sometimes, mostly, he obeys Sam just like he did John. There’s more backchat and more demands for explanation but he obeys. Sam can’t trust that though because, sometimes, when Dean feels bullied or defensive, he acts out. Sam can’t take that risk.
So he tries to soothe Dean a little by taking them out to a bar that night. He hates it. There are too many people, too many people standing too close to Dean. Too many things that could go wrong. He sits at a table in the corner, fidgeting anxiously, and only ever taking his eyes off Dean as he hustles pool to appraise possible threats. They get through an hour and a half before Sam can’t bear it any more and surges out of his chair, pushing Dean behind him and getting right up in the face of the guy who Dean had been playing against. Snarls at him to Back the fuck away from my brother before I break your fucking kneecaps while Dean cringes, rubs the back of his neck and flashes a reassuring smile at the crowd that’s gathered.
On the walk back to the motel, Sam tries to explain that the guy was waving his pool stick in a threatening manner and Dean seethes at him.
Just as Sam was hoping to avoid, Dean acts out the next morning. Sam had watched Dean sleep as usual and even caught a few hours himself. Then he wakes and finds Dean’s bed is empty. Empty. Panic knocks him breathless and he flails about helplessly for something to cling on to, finally crumpling to his knees because he knows, knows, Dean is dead somewhere. Dean’s dead and Sam hasn’t managed to save him and he’s going to be alone forever and ever.
He doubles over, face pressed into the stained, coarse fibre of the carpet as he struggles to breathe. His head is tight and dizzy at the lack of oxygen, his lungs clenched and refusing to release. His face is wet and sticky with tears and he can’t stop crying because Dean’s gone.
“Hey, c’mon, just breathe… please, just breathe…”
A hand rubs soothing circles on the small of his back and Sam gulps in air. As soon as he’s able, he knots his fingers into the flannel of Dean’s shirt and drags him closer. Blankly, he registers the newspaper and bag of M&Ms lying discarded on the floor beside where they’re kneeling together. Fury that Dean would walk out on him for a newspaper and fucking M&Ms makes him want to punch Dean but relief is still a palpable throb going through him.
“Sam, c’mon… God, look at you.” Dean’s thumb swipes over Sam’s cheeks, wiping away tears. The thick band of silver on Dean’s finger is cool against Sam’s flushed face. “Sam, I’m here… m’sorry, all right? Didn’t mean to… Christ, Sammy, don’t you get it? I can’t live like this, man. Can’t, not with you watching me like… Fuck. I’m not going anywhere. All right?”
Sam tilts his face up to look at him and, ever so briefly, he’s that guy that doesn’t exist, that guy who hunts alone and will quite happily drain a body dry if it gets the job done.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Sam agrees.
~end
Thank you, sweet anonymous, for the rose! And thank you, other adored anonymouses, for the wonderful Valentine’s messages. I received an anonymous link to the post and was a little confused as to what was going on and then it clicked and I really did squee out loud. I am so immensely grateful for it. This Valentine’s has been a little rubbishy in RL and so the Valentine’s you guys gave me really made my day. ♥
I have seen the episode and, God, my show loves me as much as I love my show. I will do a response post hopefully, but for now, please have this coda, hastily scribbled out while I was in a dreadfully dull meeting.
I don’t like Tuesdays (Tell me why)
(gen-fic but Sam/Dean friendly, pg, 1135 words, spoilers for 3.11)
On Wednesday, as they leave, Sam won’t get in the Impala until Dean agrees to let him drive. In protest, Dean plays the radio far too loud and absolutely refuses to turn it down. It’s a small concession to make. Sam drives the Impala more carefully than he has done for the past three months, the three months that didn’t happen. That won’t ever happen. He drives carefully: diligently observes every single stop sign, looks both ways a couple of times before pulling out.
He drives more carefully because he has a passenger.
When they check into a motel, Sam gives the room a thorough once over before insisting that Dean sit down, watch TV and not touch anything while he goes out to fetch take-out. Getting back, Sam takes a sizeable bite out of the cheeseburger, stuffs a few fries in his mouth then gulps from the soda. He chews, swallows, then nods and passes it to Dean. With a thoroughly unimpressed expression, Dean looks at the indents Sam’s teeth have left in the burger and bun.
“Dude, you couldn’t get your own?” Dean says finally.
After Dean’s asleep, Sam rolls over on his side in his own bed and watches him. Watches the steady rise and fall of his chest. Then he gets up and checks that the doors are still locked, that his gun is still loaded and ready to fire at the first sign of danger. Everything is quiet. Safe.
In the diner at breakfast the next morning, Sam insists on accompanying Dean to the restroom. He stands guard at the door and ignores Dean’s slightly awkward attempts to pretend that he’s not freaked out by the situation one little bit. Back at the table and talking smoothly over Dean’s frustrated complaints, Sam orders two black coffees from the waitress and, once she’s gone, assures Dean that’ll find him something to eat later where the hygiene levels are not so suspicious.
Dean takes a deep, cleansing breath and serenely drowns anything he might have been about to say in his coffee.
There’s a mild pang of guilt when he catches Dean on the phone - Sam had only stepped out of the room for a moment to collect another shotgun from the trunk, just in case - and Dean hurriedly assures him that he’s only talking to Bobby. Like Sam’s some kind of mad, possessive boyfriend. Or something.
When Dean says there’s a lead on Bela’s whereabouts and Sam calmly tells him that he wants to keep the hell away from her, he thinks it might be the moment Dean snaps. Dean stares at him, jaw clenched.
“Seriously, man, we’re running away from Bela? What, you scared?”
“Yes.”
He’s terrified. Absolutely fucking terrified and determined to hang on to what he’s got ‘til his fingernails are worn down to bloody stumps. Bela’s unpredictable. No saying she won’t lash out and get lucky and manage to hurt Dean. Sam’s not going there again. He's not. Won’t. Dean rails at him, calls him names and tries to provoke him into an argument. Sam ignores him. It’s pointless trying to make Dean understand. For Dean to understand, there has to be no Dean.
Privately, once Dean’s slumped down on his bed in disgusted disbelief, Sam considers whether there’s anywhere safe he could hide Dean while he goes to take care of Bela himself.
In the meantime, he’s not particularly keen on the way Dean’s looking at him. Dean’s a stubborn sonofabitch, prone to acting out just to make a point. Sometimes, mostly, he obeys Sam just like he did John. There’s more backchat and more demands for explanation but he obeys. Sam can’t trust that though because, sometimes, when Dean feels bullied or defensive, he acts out. Sam can’t take that risk.
So he tries to soothe Dean a little by taking them out to a bar that night. He hates it. There are too many people, too many people standing too close to Dean. Too many things that could go wrong. He sits at a table in the corner, fidgeting anxiously, and only ever taking his eyes off Dean as he hustles pool to appraise possible threats. They get through an hour and a half before Sam can’t bear it any more and surges out of his chair, pushing Dean behind him and getting right up in the face of the guy who Dean had been playing against. Snarls at him to Back the fuck away from my brother before I break your fucking kneecaps while Dean cringes, rubs the back of his neck and flashes a reassuring smile at the crowd that’s gathered.
On the walk back to the motel, Sam tries to explain that the guy was waving his pool stick in a threatening manner and Dean seethes at him.
Just as Sam was hoping to avoid, Dean acts out the next morning. Sam had watched Dean sleep as usual and even caught a few hours himself. Then he wakes and finds Dean’s bed is empty. Empty. Panic knocks him breathless and he flails about helplessly for something to cling on to, finally crumpling to his knees because he knows, knows, Dean is dead somewhere. Dean’s dead and Sam hasn’t managed to save him and he’s going to be alone forever and ever.
He doubles over, face pressed into the stained, coarse fibre of the carpet as he struggles to breathe. His head is tight and dizzy at the lack of oxygen, his lungs clenched and refusing to release. His face is wet and sticky with tears and he can’t stop crying because Dean’s gone.
“Hey, c’mon, just breathe… please, just breathe…”
A hand rubs soothing circles on the small of his back and Sam gulps in air. As soon as he’s able, he knots his fingers into the flannel of Dean’s shirt and drags him closer. Blankly, he registers the newspaper and bag of M&Ms lying discarded on the floor beside where they’re kneeling together. Fury that Dean would walk out on him for a newspaper and fucking M&Ms makes him want to punch Dean but relief is still a palpable throb going through him.
“Sam, c’mon… God, look at you.” Dean’s thumb swipes over Sam’s cheeks, wiping away tears. The thick band of silver on Dean’s finger is cool against Sam’s flushed face. “Sam, I’m here… m’sorry, all right? Didn’t mean to… Christ, Sammy, don’t you get it? I can’t live like this, man. Can’t, not with you watching me like… Fuck. I’m not going anywhere. All right?”
Sam tilts his face up to look at him and, ever so briefly, he’s that guy that doesn’t exist, that guy who hunts alone and will quite happily drain a body dry if it gets the job done.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Sam agrees.
~end