ficish
Reciprocity
A short coda to 311.
pairing - gen (or at least no more slashy than the show)
rating -g
Angst. 204 words. Dean POV.
Reciprocity
A hundred and five Tuesdays. He thinks of Sam counting each and every one of them, watching him die a hundred and five times, and it feels like he's breathing through shards of broken glass.
One Wednesday. One more death. One Wednesday that lasted months, a year maybe. Sam was pretty vague when he finally started talking -- his voice without inflection, his jaw set, and so much pain in his eyes that Dean almost wished he could die again just so he didn't have to see it. Yeah, he's that much of a selfish bastard.
When he finally found his own voice, when he finally managed to form a word, the only word he could manage was, "Sam..."
But Sam said, "Don't." Not asking Dean to drop it. Telling him to.
Two Wednesdays, if he counts the one he actually survived.
It's 3AM Thursday. He's sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, watching his brother sleep, and remembering. He saw Sam die once. Spent a little less than three days without him. Spent a little less than three days going crazy with grief and guilt and need.
He reaches out, sees his fingers trembling, and stops. Rubs his damp palm against his thigh instead.
He sold his soul to bring Sam back.
He can't stop wondering what Sam did for him.
A short coda to 311.
pairing - gen (or at least no more slashy than the show)
rating -g
Angst. 204 words. Dean POV.
Reciprocity
A hundred and five Tuesdays. He thinks of Sam counting each and every one of them, watching him die a hundred and five times, and it feels like he's breathing through shards of broken glass.
One Wednesday. One more death. One Wednesday that lasted months, a year maybe. Sam was pretty vague when he finally started talking -- his voice without inflection, his jaw set, and so much pain in his eyes that Dean almost wished he could die again just so he didn't have to see it. Yeah, he's that much of a selfish bastard.
When he finally found his own voice, when he finally managed to form a word, the only word he could manage was, "Sam..."
But Sam said, "Don't." Not asking Dean to drop it. Telling him to.
Two Wednesdays, if he counts the one he actually survived.
It's 3AM Thursday. He's sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, watching his brother sleep, and remembering. He saw Sam die once. Spent a little less than three days without him. Spent a little less than three days going crazy with grief and guilt and need.
He reaches out, sees his fingers trembling, and stops. Rubs his damp palm against his thigh instead.
He sold his soul to bring Sam back.
He can't stop wondering what Sam did for him.