SPN FIC: Everyday Use
Title: Everyday Use
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby (mentioned)
Word count: 1,039
Summary: Coda to 6.22,sequel to Legos We Have Known and ...and God has Turned his Back
Warnings: Angst. Dean!POV,
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Notes: I completely forgot that I wrote this. It's the final part of the 3-part s6 coda I wrote a bazillion months ago.
The sand along the shore of Lake Michigan is called “singing sand” because it squeaks when you walk across it. Sam says it has a higher quartz content, making the grains coarser than regular sand. Dean’s only half-listening, contemplating the feasibility of stealth if they should ever end up hunting a lake monster here in the future.
Dean’s pretty sure there are no monsters in Lake Michigan. Erie maybe, but not Michigan.
He stops for a moment, hovering in the doorway of the little place Sam found for them. It’s small, out of South Haven proper, with weather beaten walls and a dusty driveway. Sam is sitting on the steps leading down to the beach; a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He has a mug of something in his hands. Dean’s guessing tea. Coffee makes him jumpy. Green tea is supposed to heal the soul or something.
The weathered deck boards creak when Dean steps across the threshold and he thinks, “Nope. No stealth in Michigan,” and he stops, again, startled, because this is the first time he’s thought about stealth or sea monsters or the complications derived from stupid singing sand in months.
Sam jumps when the boards creak. Dean is quick to say, “It’s me, Sammy,” closing the space between them and dropping onto the step next to Sam.
It’s chilly out, 3am on the coast in that part of summer that is mostly autumn. Dean shivers and Sam offers his mug.
“Your tea’s ice cold, dude.”
Sam glances at the mug. It doesn’t look like he’s managed a single drink from it. Sam runs a finger over the lip of the mug and he looks pale, like an alabaster statue in the blue light off the lake.
“Oh.” He says.
“How about we go back inside?” Dean rubs at his arms. He’s only in a ratty t-shirt and its actually pretty fucking cold if he stops to think about it. He looks down and of course Sam’s barefoot. “C’mon, Sammy. Inside.”
Sam shakes his head and offers Dean a corner of the blanket. He huffs out, “Seriously?” and takes it. He pulls it around his own shoulders and presses against Sam who is still doing his gargoyle routine, all hunched over with his head down. Dean sets the cold mug of tea off to the side. His hands are useless in his lap when he asks, quietly, “You with me, Sam?”
He gets a jerky nod in response. Sam’s hands are shaking. Dean reaches out to stop them. Sam looks out at the dark waves like he’s waiting for Jaws to rise up and gnaw his legs off.
“They said you would p-p-probably d-die.”
“I didn’t.”
“N-not even on a hunt…m-maybe all the hunts.”
“You’re not making a whole lot of sense here, Sammy.“ If this was just a few months earlier, Dean would have been bodily dragging Sam back inside minutes ago. Sam shakes his head and Dean sighs, never really understands how to help this Sam. He wants a drink. Or eight. He thinks really hard about jumping into the Impala and heading into town to pick the lock on the nearest liquor store.
Sam turns towards him, like he knows what he was considering. Dean smiles nervously and gives him a small shake, “Hey.” He annunciates carefully, like speaking to a deaf person. It annoys Sam. That’s the point. “What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”
“You were…I c-c-couldn’t…”
Sam never says as much, but Dean knows that these days, not all of his nightmares are byproducts of the cage. Once, Sam admitted, “Sometimes, I thought it was p-poison.”
“What?”
“When you would drug me.”
“Let me get this straight-you considered the possibility that I was killing you all those times when you were too freaked to go back to sleep, but you didn’t think to, I don’t know, kick me in the jewels?”
Sam seemed to consider him, then shrugged. Dean used to think that he was Sam’s monster then.
Apparently, he was still his fucked up savior.
Dean calls Bobby a few times each week. He doesn’t tell Sam. He doesn’t think Sam blames Bobby for their problems, but he definitely doesn’t not blame Bobby, at least a little bit. They’ll go back to the salvage yard eventually. Dean would leave tomorrow if he didn’t think Sam would pull a bitchface the entire way back, if he didn’t think that this vacation or exile or whatever wasn’t just as much Sam giving himself what he needed as well as Dean.
Sam stands abruptly, taking the blanket with him. The chilly air is a shocking wake-up call, ripping Dean out of his thoughts like a glass of water to the face. Sam steps over him, drops the blanket on the deck and makes a beeline for the sliding glass door.
“Sammy what-“
“Pancakes.”
“Okay. Yeah. I’ll make you pancakes. Hold on.” Dean’s bad knee pops and he tries not to wince as he limps like an old man across the moonlit deck. He bends to retrieve Sam’s blanket and Sam halts, just inside the door,.
“No, I’ll m-make pancakes.”
When Dean got out of the hospital, Sam got it in his head to play nursemaid, which just cracked Dean the fuck up, and maybe insulted him a little bit, after all, he wasn’t the one with a headful of hell. A few choice words were said, an iPad got up close and personal with a wall, followed by two days of tense silence that even Bobby dared not break, until Sam took the Impala to the store down the road to pick up milk and bread and Dean glared daggers into his bowl of fucking oatmeal.
“He ain’t useless, Dean.” Bobby said.
“I didn’t say that.” Dean snapped.
“You’ve been implying it with every move you make.”
Dean stared into his oatmeal. Oatmeal and milk. Everything else was too acidic.
“You ain’t useless either, boy.”
Dean folds the blanket and follows Sam inside. He slides onto a stool at the counter in the kitchen and rests his chin in his hands, “Alright, man, show me what you got.”
Sam grins and tears into a box of Bisquick.
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby (mentioned)
Word count: 1,039
Summary: Coda to 6.22,sequel to Legos We Have Known and ...and God has Turned his Back
Warnings: Angst. Dean!POV,
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox.
Notes: I completely forgot that I wrote this. It's the final part of the 3-part s6 coda I wrote a bazillion months ago.
The sand along the shore of Lake Michigan is called “singing sand” because it squeaks when you walk across it. Sam says it has a higher quartz content, making the grains coarser than regular sand. Dean’s only half-listening, contemplating the feasibility of stealth if they should ever end up hunting a lake monster here in the future.
Dean’s pretty sure there are no monsters in Lake Michigan. Erie maybe, but not Michigan.
He stops for a moment, hovering in the doorway of the little place Sam found for them. It’s small, out of South Haven proper, with weather beaten walls and a dusty driveway. Sam is sitting on the steps leading down to the beach; a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He has a mug of something in his hands. Dean’s guessing tea. Coffee makes him jumpy. Green tea is supposed to heal the soul or something.
The weathered deck boards creak when Dean steps across the threshold and he thinks, “Nope. No stealth in Michigan,” and he stops, again, startled, because this is the first time he’s thought about stealth or sea monsters or the complications derived from stupid singing sand in months.
Sam jumps when the boards creak. Dean is quick to say, “It’s me, Sammy,” closing the space between them and dropping onto the step next to Sam.
It’s chilly out, 3am on the coast in that part of summer that is mostly autumn. Dean shivers and Sam offers his mug.
“Your tea’s ice cold, dude.”
Sam glances at the mug. It doesn’t look like he’s managed a single drink from it. Sam runs a finger over the lip of the mug and he looks pale, like an alabaster statue in the blue light off the lake.
“Oh.” He says.
“How about we go back inside?” Dean rubs at his arms. He’s only in a ratty t-shirt and its actually pretty fucking cold if he stops to think about it. He looks down and of course Sam’s barefoot. “C’mon, Sammy. Inside.”
Sam shakes his head and offers Dean a corner of the blanket. He huffs out, “Seriously?” and takes it. He pulls it around his own shoulders and presses against Sam who is still doing his gargoyle routine, all hunched over with his head down. Dean sets the cold mug of tea off to the side. His hands are useless in his lap when he asks, quietly, “You with me, Sam?”
He gets a jerky nod in response. Sam’s hands are shaking. Dean reaches out to stop them. Sam looks out at the dark waves like he’s waiting for Jaws to rise up and gnaw his legs off.
“They said you would p-p-probably d-die.”
“I didn’t.”
“N-not even on a hunt…m-maybe all the hunts.”
“You’re not making a whole lot of sense here, Sammy.“ If this was just a few months earlier, Dean would have been bodily dragging Sam back inside minutes ago. Sam shakes his head and Dean sighs, never really understands how to help this Sam. He wants a drink. Or eight. He thinks really hard about jumping into the Impala and heading into town to pick the lock on the nearest liquor store.
Sam turns towards him, like he knows what he was considering. Dean smiles nervously and gives him a small shake, “Hey.” He annunciates carefully, like speaking to a deaf person. It annoys Sam. That’s the point. “What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”
“You were…I c-c-couldn’t…”
Sam never says as much, but Dean knows that these days, not all of his nightmares are byproducts of the cage. Once, Sam admitted, “Sometimes, I thought it was p-poison.”
“What?”
“When you would drug me.”
“Let me get this straight-you considered the possibility that I was killing you all those times when you were too freaked to go back to sleep, but you didn’t think to, I don’t know, kick me in the jewels?”
Sam seemed to consider him, then shrugged. Dean used to think that he was Sam’s monster then.
Apparently, he was still his fucked up savior.
Dean calls Bobby a few times each week. He doesn’t tell Sam. He doesn’t think Sam blames Bobby for their problems, but he definitely doesn’t not blame Bobby, at least a little bit. They’ll go back to the salvage yard eventually. Dean would leave tomorrow if he didn’t think Sam would pull a bitchface the entire way back, if he didn’t think that this vacation or exile or whatever wasn’t just as much Sam giving himself what he needed as well as Dean.
Sam stands abruptly, taking the blanket with him. The chilly air is a shocking wake-up call, ripping Dean out of his thoughts like a glass of water to the face. Sam steps over him, drops the blanket on the deck and makes a beeline for the sliding glass door.
“Sammy what-“
“Pancakes.”
“Okay. Yeah. I’ll make you pancakes. Hold on.” Dean’s bad knee pops and he tries not to wince as he limps like an old man across the moonlit deck. He bends to retrieve Sam’s blanket and Sam halts, just inside the door,.
“No, I’ll m-make pancakes.”
When Dean got out of the hospital, Sam got it in his head to play nursemaid, which just cracked Dean the fuck up, and maybe insulted him a little bit, after all, he wasn’t the one with a headful of hell. A few choice words were said, an iPad got up close and personal with a wall, followed by two days of tense silence that even Bobby dared not break, until Sam took the Impala to the store down the road to pick up milk and bread and Dean glared daggers into his bowl of fucking oatmeal.
“He ain’t useless, Dean.” Bobby said.
“I didn’t say that.” Dean snapped.
“You’ve been implying it with every move you make.”
Dean stared into his oatmeal. Oatmeal and milk. Everything else was too acidic.
“You ain’t useless either, boy.”
Dean folds the blanket and follows Sam inside. He slides onto a stool at the counter in the kitchen and rests his chin in his hands, “Alright, man, show me what you got.”
Sam grins and tears into a box of Bisquick.