8.
where the sunsets are all breathtaking (8/?)
PG-13, eventual wincest, AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
eight
Joe Purdy- Two Left Feet
Back in Julius Rhodes’ immaculately surfaced parking lot, with the promise of all demands met a glimmer of hope on the horizon so long as Mr Rhodes never sees their faces again, Dean rounds on Sam while he’s fumbling to unlock the car.
“What the fuck?” Dean snaps, grabbing Sam by the arm and spinning him around. “That was your master plan? Harass an old guy until he gives us money?”
He gives Sam another furious shove, pushing him back against the car door, and Sam goes easily with the motion. He gazes down at Dean from under his hair, leaning against the door with the keys still dangling from his hand, and he says, “Hey,” like he’s trying to calm Dean down, just waiting for him to be reasonable about it all. “It’s okay. I was almost certain he’d give it to us.”
“That really isn’t what worries me.” He hits Sam again, open palmed against his shoulder, futile, and Sam catches hold of his wrist. Dean tenses for the battle, but Sam just smiles at him, in a tender kind of way that leaves Dean shaking with fury. “What the hell were you thinking, Sam? What if he’d just kicked us the fuck out? You just gonna move down the goddamn list until you’ve got everything you think we need?”
“Dean,” Sam says. His thumb rubs against the jut of Dean’s wrist, and Dean rips his arm away.
“We are not fucking living like that, Sam. Not if you want me to stay,” he says, stepping back.
Sam starts forwards at that, hand already reaching out for Dean again. It’s only a couple steps, Dean backing sharply away, and then he stops again. His hand hovers in the air, outstretched. “They left two weeks after I was born,” he says.
Dean shrugs, tight-lipped, and Sam just stares at him for a second, with a lost kind of expression. When he starts to speak again, the words spill out in a pleading rush. “They knew what was going on, Dean. Not entirely. They didn’t know it was me, or that it was Azazel, or what his plans really were. But they knew enough to know it was something bad. They knew there was a war coming and they left.”
“Christ, Sam, that doesn’t make it okay to just demand shit from them--”
“They should pay,” Sam insists. There’s a wild look in his eyes, and it makes Dean’s stomach twist, makes his fingers clench against his sides. “If they’d just stayed, if they’d fought-- Maybe you wouldn’t have--”
“We left too!”
“No.” Sam shakes his head, takes a step closer. His hand comes up to grip Dean’s shoulder, tight enough it almost hurts, and Dean is going to pull away, he is; but then Sam’s slipping his hand up and around the back of Dean’s neck, gentle now, and he’s stepping in to Dean’s space until he’s so fucking close he can tip their foreheads together. Until all Dean can see are Sam’s wide, lost eyes.
“It’s not the same,” Sam whispers. His voice catches in his throat, soft and hesitant. “We’ve done enough.”
“There’s always something more to do. You know that.”
“No. No, Dean. You went to hell.” Sam’s other hand bunches in the front of Dean’s shirt, then smoothes it out again, fingers spread wide across his chest. He can feel Sam’s fingers shift and shiver over his heart. Sam breathes out, “We’ve done enough.”
They stand like that, in silence, with Sam’s hand clutching bluntly at the back of Dean’s neck, the other heavy and solid against his chest. Sam’s eyes are closed, and his face is pressed so close his nose brushes against Dean’s cheek with every trembling inhale.
“Would you have killed him?” Dean murmurs. “If he’d said no?”
“I don’t know,” Sam says. His lips brush the corner of Dean’s mouth as he speaks, and it’s all Dean can do not to jerk away from it. He holds still, muscles locked in place, breath caught frozen in his throat, until Sam lets out a sigh and says, “Maybe.”
Dean nods. “Okay.” It’s time to break the spell, and he steps back, gently extracting himself from his brother’s grip. He tugs the car key from Sam’s unresponsive hand, and when he glances up again Sam’s staring right back down at him.
“Okay,” Dean says again. And then, “C’mon, bitch, you need some sleep before you fall over,” with a hand on Sam’s elbow, tugging him forwards. Sam blinks back into motion at the touch, huffing out a breath of laughter that curves his lips up.
“Jerk,” he whispers, as he lets Dean shepherd him back to the car.
It’s soft enough that Dean can ignore it; so he does. It’s just easier that way.
PG-13, eventual wincest, AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
eight
Joe Purdy- Two Left Feet
Back in Julius Rhodes’ immaculately surfaced parking lot, with the promise of all demands met a glimmer of hope on the horizon so long as Mr Rhodes never sees their faces again, Dean rounds on Sam while he’s fumbling to unlock the car.
“What the fuck?” Dean snaps, grabbing Sam by the arm and spinning him around. “That was your master plan? Harass an old guy until he gives us money?”
He gives Sam another furious shove, pushing him back against the car door, and Sam goes easily with the motion. He gazes down at Dean from under his hair, leaning against the door with the keys still dangling from his hand, and he says, “Hey,” like he’s trying to calm Dean down, just waiting for him to be reasonable about it all. “It’s okay. I was almost certain he’d give it to us.”
“That really isn’t what worries me.” He hits Sam again, open palmed against his shoulder, futile, and Sam catches hold of his wrist. Dean tenses for the battle, but Sam just smiles at him, in a tender kind of way that leaves Dean shaking with fury. “What the hell were you thinking, Sam? What if he’d just kicked us the fuck out? You just gonna move down the goddamn list until you’ve got everything you think we need?”
“Dean,” Sam says. His thumb rubs against the jut of Dean’s wrist, and Dean rips his arm away.
“We are not fucking living like that, Sam. Not if you want me to stay,” he says, stepping back.
Sam starts forwards at that, hand already reaching out for Dean again. It’s only a couple steps, Dean backing sharply away, and then he stops again. His hand hovers in the air, outstretched. “They left two weeks after I was born,” he says.
Dean shrugs, tight-lipped, and Sam just stares at him for a second, with a lost kind of expression. When he starts to speak again, the words spill out in a pleading rush. “They knew what was going on, Dean. Not entirely. They didn’t know it was me, or that it was Azazel, or what his plans really were. But they knew enough to know it was something bad. They knew there was a war coming and they left.”
“Christ, Sam, that doesn’t make it okay to just demand shit from them--”
“They should pay,” Sam insists. There’s a wild look in his eyes, and it makes Dean’s stomach twist, makes his fingers clench against his sides. “If they’d just stayed, if they’d fought-- Maybe you wouldn’t have--”
“We left too!”
“No.” Sam shakes his head, takes a step closer. His hand comes up to grip Dean’s shoulder, tight enough it almost hurts, and Dean is going to pull away, he is; but then Sam’s slipping his hand up and around the back of Dean’s neck, gentle now, and he’s stepping in to Dean’s space until he’s so fucking close he can tip their foreheads together. Until all Dean can see are Sam’s wide, lost eyes.
“It’s not the same,” Sam whispers. His voice catches in his throat, soft and hesitant. “We’ve done enough.”
“There’s always something more to do. You know that.”
“No. No, Dean. You went to hell.” Sam’s other hand bunches in the front of Dean’s shirt, then smoothes it out again, fingers spread wide across his chest. He can feel Sam’s fingers shift and shiver over his heart. Sam breathes out, “We’ve done enough.”
They stand like that, in silence, with Sam’s hand clutching bluntly at the back of Dean’s neck, the other heavy and solid against his chest. Sam’s eyes are closed, and his face is pressed so close his nose brushes against Dean’s cheek with every trembling inhale.
“Would you have killed him?” Dean murmurs. “If he’d said no?”
“I don’t know,” Sam says. His lips brush the corner of Dean’s mouth as he speaks, and it’s all Dean can do not to jerk away from it. He holds still, muscles locked in place, breath caught frozen in his throat, until Sam lets out a sigh and says, “Maybe.”
Dean nods. “Okay.” It’s time to break the spell, and he steps back, gently extracting himself from his brother’s grip. He tugs the car key from Sam’s unresponsive hand, and when he glances up again Sam’s staring right back down at him.
“Okay,” Dean says again. And then, “C’mon, bitch, you need some sleep before you fall over,” with a hand on Sam’s elbow, tugging him forwards. Sam blinks back into motion at the touch, huffing out a breath of laughter that curves his lips up.
“Jerk,” he whispers, as he lets Dean shepherd him back to the car.
It’s soft enough that Dean can ignore it; so he does. It’s just easier that way.