Looking for the Morning; PG; Sam, Dean
For the summer_sam_love episode tag project.
Episode: 2.16, Roadkill
Title: Looking for the Morning
Submission Type: Fic
Author: geminigrl11
Rating: PG
Summary: It’s a hell of a thing to be kept up nights by the cold, growing certainty that your brother won’t kill you.
Notes: Thank you, faye_dartmouth, for the very speedy beta and harrigan for all the ongoing encouragement (and watching live!). Thanks again to faye and to sendintheklowns for running another awesome challenge and picking up the slack wherever it may land. You two amaze me.
Title from “Drivin' My Life Away” by Eddie Rabbitt.
+++
The windshield wipers slap back and forth, rain coming on strong again as dawn slides to day, and Sam is tired.
His hair’s wet and he’s cold and his voice has slowly deteriorated from hoarse to almost nonexistent and if he thought about it, he’d probably have to add that he’s hungry, too, since dinner had really been lunch had been almost a full day ago already. But he doesn’t think about them, the small, incessant discomforts, because he’s just so damn tired.
It’s a good thing, what they did: helping Molly find closure and hopefully peace. Greely, too, even though his wasn’t exactly as happy an ending; and his wife, whose soul might have been at rest but whose body deserved the same kind of respect after all these years. But it’s hard for Sam to focus on the positives. He feels a little miserable, beyond the pounding in his head and the hitch in his chest when he breathes too deep.
In the last few months, he’s lost his father, watched Dean kill himself-which, okay, had only been a vision but still way too close for Sam’s comfort-discovered he was somehow immune to a demonic virus that wiped out an entire town, been possessed and nearly killed his brother. Again.
And oh, yeah: found out Dad thought it was a legitimate possibility Sam could turn into a monster. Had told Dean to take him out if he couldn’t prevent it from happening.
Couldn’t forget that one.
What Sam said to Molly about vengeful spirits, how they hadn’t been bad people but things happened they couldn’t control…he believed it. For himself, too, knowing-praying-he hadn’t been born evil, hadn’t chosen the dark path that seemed to be laid out before him. But people got caught sometimes, the same tragedies repeating over and over. And if there’s one thing Winchesters know above all, it’s tragedy.
But Sam doesn’t know what the future will bring and doesn’t know if he can stop it, once he figures it out. Doesn’t know if Dean can stop him, if it comes right down to it, and that scares the crap out of him. Not that Dean can’t, but that he won’t.
It’s a hell of a thing to be kept up nights by the cold, growing certainty that your brother won’t kill you.
Dean throws him a glance. “How ‘bout we find a place to hole up for few hours? Since you’re sick anyway.”
“Not sick,” Sam grumbles, even as he shifts to dig a knuckle against his sternum, out of sight behind the folds of his jacket.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, Francis.” He takes the next exit anyway, with its little blue sign of a stick figure in a bed, an arrow at the end of the T pointing toward the Sleep n’ Inn, 0.5 miles away.
The radio’s off but Dean’s tapping his fingers, something imagined or remembered or maybe so ingrained he doesn’t have to think about it, the way he doesn’t have to think about how to pack shotgun shells or change the oil in the Impala or light a funeral pyre.
There’s a scratch on his face and he’s sitting crooked, just a little, enough to let Sam know his back is still hurting. But he looks strong. Relaxed, even.
Sam gets why he was so tough on Molly in the beginning. The message wasn’t for her, but for Sam. Black and white, evil and innocent, the things they hunt and the things they protect: them and us, and for Dean, there’s no question which side Sam is on. His mission is to make sure Sam never questions it either.
For Sam, though, it’s not so simple. Even a year ago, he wouldn’t have had these sorts of doubts. But then came Max. Dad’s ultimatum. Andy and Anson. Ava. Gordon.
What’s evil can seem good at first. Can even be justified sometimes. And what’s good can be tainted. Turned. Dean’s blind loyalty is a comfort…sometimes the only comfort. But it’s no guarantee.
Sam waits in the parking lot while Dean gets the room, hopes there’s enough hot water and that the heater’s already running. For tonight, that will be enough.
The trunk creaks a protest when Dean opens it to grab the weapons bag, and Sam’s back creaks in agreement when he grabs the bag from Dean’s hand and swings it over his own shoulder. Dean huffs but Sam gives him a pointed look that says, I know you’re hurting and Don’t be an idiot.
Dean gives him a one-fingered response and elbows him out of the way when they get to the door.
The air inside the motel room is musty but warm. So nice and warm. Sam lets the bags sink to the floor and flops onto the bed. He’s aiming for sprawled, but the effect is kind of ruined when he starts coughing as soon as his back hits the mattress. He scrambles back up, leaning forward, one hand propped against his forehead and the other wrapped around his stomach.
“Told you you were getting sick.” Dean manages to sound smug and sympathetic at the same time-a gift; one he’s employed more than once at Sam’s expense.
“Thought I was the psychic one.” Through the scrape of irritated vocal cords, Sam manages to sound both annoyed and appreciative. They each have their talents.
“You gonna live?”
It sounds innocent, but Sam knows what Dean’s really asking. However miserable Sam feels in the moment, though, he’s already given Dean his answer. Hope’s kind of the whole point. All he can do is try to trust his own words. “Yeah.”
Not a ringing endorsement, but it seems to satisfy. Dean eyes him for a moment, then jingles his keys, flicking Sam’s ear as he walks toward the door.
“Hey!”
“I’m gonna get us some dinner.”
“Breakfast.”
“Food.” With that, he’s gone.
Sam stuffs his pillows behind him so he can sit up against the headboard. He’ll doze until Dean gets back. Then they’ll eat, read the paper, watch the news, not talk about anything that happened in the last twenty-four hours, and get some real sleep.
And tomorrow, they’ll start again.
Fin
Episode: 2.16, Roadkill
Title: Looking for the Morning
Submission Type: Fic
Author: geminigrl11
Rating: PG
Summary: It’s a hell of a thing to be kept up nights by the cold, growing certainty that your brother won’t kill you.
Notes: Thank you, faye_dartmouth, for the very speedy beta and harrigan for all the ongoing encouragement (and watching live!). Thanks again to faye and to sendintheklowns for running another awesome challenge and picking up the slack wherever it may land. You two amaze me.
Title from “Drivin' My Life Away” by Eddie Rabbitt.
+++
The windshield wipers slap back and forth, rain coming on strong again as dawn slides to day, and Sam is tired.
His hair’s wet and he’s cold and his voice has slowly deteriorated from hoarse to almost nonexistent and if he thought about it, he’d probably have to add that he’s hungry, too, since dinner had really been lunch had been almost a full day ago already. But he doesn’t think about them, the small, incessant discomforts, because he’s just so damn tired.
It’s a good thing, what they did: helping Molly find closure and hopefully peace. Greely, too, even though his wasn’t exactly as happy an ending; and his wife, whose soul might have been at rest but whose body deserved the same kind of respect after all these years. But it’s hard for Sam to focus on the positives. He feels a little miserable, beyond the pounding in his head and the hitch in his chest when he breathes too deep.
In the last few months, he’s lost his father, watched Dean kill himself-which, okay, had only been a vision but still way too close for Sam’s comfort-discovered he was somehow immune to a demonic virus that wiped out an entire town, been possessed and nearly killed his brother. Again.
And oh, yeah: found out Dad thought it was a legitimate possibility Sam could turn into a monster. Had told Dean to take him out if he couldn’t prevent it from happening.
Couldn’t forget that one.
What Sam said to Molly about vengeful spirits, how they hadn’t been bad people but things happened they couldn’t control…he believed it. For himself, too, knowing-praying-he hadn’t been born evil, hadn’t chosen the dark path that seemed to be laid out before him. But people got caught sometimes, the same tragedies repeating over and over. And if there’s one thing Winchesters know above all, it’s tragedy.
But Sam doesn’t know what the future will bring and doesn’t know if he can stop it, once he figures it out. Doesn’t know if Dean can stop him, if it comes right down to it, and that scares the crap out of him. Not that Dean can’t, but that he won’t.
It’s a hell of a thing to be kept up nights by the cold, growing certainty that your brother won’t kill you.
Dean throws him a glance. “How ‘bout we find a place to hole up for few hours? Since you’re sick anyway.”
“Not sick,” Sam grumbles, even as he shifts to dig a knuckle against his sternum, out of sight behind the folds of his jacket.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, Francis.” He takes the next exit anyway, with its little blue sign of a stick figure in a bed, an arrow at the end of the T pointing toward the Sleep n’ Inn, 0.5 miles away.
The radio’s off but Dean’s tapping his fingers, something imagined or remembered or maybe so ingrained he doesn’t have to think about it, the way he doesn’t have to think about how to pack shotgun shells or change the oil in the Impala or light a funeral pyre.
There’s a scratch on his face and he’s sitting crooked, just a little, enough to let Sam know his back is still hurting. But he looks strong. Relaxed, even.
Sam gets why he was so tough on Molly in the beginning. The message wasn’t for her, but for Sam. Black and white, evil and innocent, the things they hunt and the things they protect: them and us, and for Dean, there’s no question which side Sam is on. His mission is to make sure Sam never questions it either.
For Sam, though, it’s not so simple. Even a year ago, he wouldn’t have had these sorts of doubts. But then came Max. Dad’s ultimatum. Andy and Anson. Ava. Gordon.
What’s evil can seem good at first. Can even be justified sometimes. And what’s good can be tainted. Turned. Dean’s blind loyalty is a comfort…sometimes the only comfort. But it’s no guarantee.
Sam waits in the parking lot while Dean gets the room, hopes there’s enough hot water and that the heater’s already running. For tonight, that will be enough.
The trunk creaks a protest when Dean opens it to grab the weapons bag, and Sam’s back creaks in agreement when he grabs the bag from Dean’s hand and swings it over his own shoulder. Dean huffs but Sam gives him a pointed look that says, I know you’re hurting and Don’t be an idiot.
Dean gives him a one-fingered response and elbows him out of the way when they get to the door.
The air inside the motel room is musty but warm. So nice and warm. Sam lets the bags sink to the floor and flops onto the bed. He’s aiming for sprawled, but the effect is kind of ruined when he starts coughing as soon as his back hits the mattress. He scrambles back up, leaning forward, one hand propped against his forehead and the other wrapped around his stomach.
“Told you you were getting sick.” Dean manages to sound smug and sympathetic at the same time-a gift; one he’s employed more than once at Sam’s expense.
“Thought I was the psychic one.” Through the scrape of irritated vocal cords, Sam manages to sound both annoyed and appreciative. They each have their talents.
“You gonna live?”
It sounds innocent, but Sam knows what Dean’s really asking. However miserable Sam feels in the moment, though, he’s already given Dean his answer. Hope’s kind of the whole point. All he can do is try to trust his own words. “Yeah.”
Not a ringing endorsement, but it seems to satisfy. Dean eyes him for a moment, then jingles his keys, flicking Sam’s ear as he walks toward the door.
“Hey!”
“I’m gonna get us some dinner.”
“Breakfast.”
“Food.” With that, he’s gone.
Sam stuffs his pillows behind him so he can sit up against the headboard. He’ll doze until Dean gets back. Then they’ll eat, read the paper, watch the news, not talk about anything that happened in the last twenty-four hours, and get some real sleep.
And tomorrow, they’ll start again.
Fin