fic commentary: words for snow
LOL first attempt at posting this = massive laptop crash. SCREW YOU GUYS, I'M PERSEVERING.
For laulan, courtesy of the fic commentary meme: my thoughts on Words For Snow!
So, my initial concept for this fic was something a lot darker and sadder. The idea I had, before I was seriously considering actually writing it, was that ‘the apocalypse is averted and him and Dean are trying to fix their relationship and learn how to be brothers again with bonus Sam Cannot Talk angst.’ With anything I write, the first two things I hold in my mind before I start actually planning a fic are: what happens, and what’s the mood. The mood for this was going to be ANGST - the kind of angst with glimmers of hope that Sam and Dean were maybe on the road to mending their relationship, but angst, nevertheless. Sam was going to stop talking for a psychological reason rather than a physical one. There was going to be distance and awkwardness and unhappiness between them.
Then I sat down to actually plan the thing and I mutinied against myself. Actually, I think the mutiny started a little before that, when my mum trimmed my hair for me and thus gave me an overwhelming need to write some Dean-cuts-Sam hair fic. It was such an abstract idea (and yet so vital to my life!) that I decided to just stick into whatever WIP it would work with - and mute!Sam was the only thing into which it really seemed to fit. Haircutting is - especially in this fandom - such an act of love. It still would have worked in the original angsty plan (and would have been pretty glorious, in an ‘oh they are so broken but Dean still cuts Sam’s hair because HE LOVES HIM’ kind of way), but I got all caught up in the thought of it: caretaking, acts and gestures of love, ways to communicate your love to a person when you can no longer say ‘I love you.’
Because my mind makes these weird kinds of leaps sometimes, I then started to think about the urban legend that the ‘Eskimo language’ has one hundred words for snow. One hundred ways to communicate this one thing, to communicate all the different aspects of this one thing.
Obviously, the one thing Sam and Dean can say in one hundred different ways is love. Dark, angsty fic was NO LONGER AN OPTION. Somehow, it was a very quick leap from this to ‘Sam should have Mr. T keyring.’ Idek. WEIRD LEAPS.
So I opened up my notepad and made a quick list of ways Sam and Dean could communicate without Sam talking (and I googled the Mr T keyring’s catchphrases) and then… I wrote!
This was actually pretty unplanned, as far as my fic goes, so I’m not sure how much I can say about it. Aside from these massive paragraphs up here, anyway. Hush.
*
Regina Spektor - Samson
SAMSON. HAIR CUTTING. DO YOU GET IT? I think you may have got it.
So hey, this was an adventure in writing Dean’s POV for me! I’ve only done it a couple of times (not including the two ficlets for the post-s4 schmoop meme, which were written after this), and I was a bit nervous. The fic really wouldn’t have worked from Sam’s POV - it would kind have defeated the purpose and all - so it had to be done!
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #1: via Mr. T
Dean’s standing in line, staring real hard at a jar filled with glittery pens with feathers on the end - because, seriously, what the fuck - when he spots the keychain out of the corner of his eye. There’s a whole row of them hanging from the display on top of the counter, hard to miss. He probably would have spotted them sooner if there hadn’t been all those freaking feathers.
“Huh,” Dean says.
He shuffles forwards as the line moves, dumps his armful of cold soda and bags of skittles on the countertop. The cashier smiles vaguely at his left eyebrow as she rings it all through.
“Wait,” Dean says, grabbing one of the keychains off of the rack and adding it to the pile. “Present for my little brother,” he explains, because even he has standards.
“Whatever,” the cashier - Molly - tells his eyebrow. I have a bit of a thing for writing cashiers/motel owners/whathaveyou that have a complete disinterest in the Winchesters. I could pretend it’s for some deep, philosophical reason, but really I just find it funny. Yeah, they are hot, but they are also - let’s face it - probably a bit smelly. Molly doesn’t like your smell, Dean. Go away.
Dean rolls his eyes, grabs his bag and heads back out to the parking lot. The tarmac is shimmering with skin-prickling heat. Midday goddamn sun in the clear, blue sky.
“Hey,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the back of his baby’s roof. Rubs a thumb across the edge of the door. Freaking hot.
Sam sticks his head out of the wide-open window, looking for all the world like a big, dumb dog. One of those really hairy ones. He smiles with all white teeth, and the driver’s door is already opened by the time Dean gets around. Big, hairy, well-trained dog. I don’t really have anything to say about this. I just like it. IT’S ALL AFFECTIONATE AND STUFF. I guess this whole fic is really just me going ‘HEY GUYS BE MORE AFFECTIONATE OR SOMETHING.’ Observe:
“Got you a present,” Dean says, slumping into his seat. “’Cause I’m awesome.” He rifles through the bag for the keychain’s brightly coloured packaging, finds it and grabs it and - duh - throws it at Sam’s face.
Sam catches it, because he’s a dick. He turns the thing over in his hands, and then glances up at Dean with an eyebrow raised.
“It’s Mr. T,” Dean says. “I know you like Mr. T, everybody likes Mr. T. Even Cas likes Mr. T. I also have a thing for giving Castiel really ridiculous habits/hobbies in fic (He tells bad jokes! He watches the A Team! He communes with wallpaper!) It’s just my passive-aggressive way of making the character a little bit interesting for a change. Also, even before I found Castiel as boring as I do now, you can’t deny the potential hilarity of his ridiculous deadpan face indulging in pop culture. I think he’ll be addicted to twinkies in my next fic. Seriously,” he adds, as the eyebrow takes on a sceptical quirk, “he used to watch The A Team all the freaking time, when you were - you know. Anyway. It’s Mr. goddamn T and I’m goddamn awesome.”
Ohh ~when you were - you know~ A hint of the past! A vague, vague, never clarified hint of the past. Another thing I like to do: never give the full backstory. To me, Sam’s ‘you know’ was when he was healing post-Lucifer showdown. But hey, to someone else it could be when Sam was off drinking blood, or maybe him and Dean had a falling out, or whatever. I like to leave things to reader interpretation!
Sam shrugs - okay, whatever, it seems to say - and rips the packaging apart. No matter how stupidly tall Sam gets, he still opens shit up like he’s an uncoordinated five-year-old at Christmas; it’s great.
Shut up, fool, Mr. T says, when Sam presses one of the buttons. Another. Quit your jibba jabba.
Sam stares down at the keychain. Then he stares up at Dean.
“I just thought - what with the whole-” Dean waves a hand, shrugs one shoulder. “You know.” Although, of course, at this point we don’t know Sam’s mute yet. I LIKE TO BE VAGUE, okay.
Sam’s face breaks into a grin. Don’t gimme no back talk, sucka, Mr. T says, which just makes Sam’s hairy dog grin get all the wider. Seriously. Seriously. I am not going to be even a little bit modest about this. Can you imagine Sam actually saying these things in his Sam voice? I CAN AND IT MAES ME LOL.
Dean isn’t relieved - shut the fuck up, he isn’t relieved - because he knew it was awesome and he knew Sam would like it, so the grin he throws back is just an acknowledgement of his own amazing gift-giving skills, pure and simple.
“Told you so,” he says, turning the ignition. Her engine purrs into life, smooth sounding.
First name mister, middle name period, last name T.
“Careful, Sammy,” Dean cautions brightly, pulling out onto the highway. “Castiel might start takin’ an interest.”
Sam throws the empty packaging at his head and misses.
Dean just laughs. They are so happyyyy together :(
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #2: Mouthing! Shrugging! Eyebrows! I… don’t think I really have anything much to say about this.
Fifty miles outside of Bartlesville, in a diner called Mary Lou’s. Dean’s pretty sure something like 80% of these old-style, mom-and-pop diners are ran by a Mary Lou, and they all look exactly the freaking same.
Sam might not be talking anymore, but he still manages to charm them all, somehow. He points out his salad on the menu, smiles awkwardly up at Mary Lou from under his hair. Dimples, dimples. Mary Lou’s a goner. Dean leans back in his seat to watch the show.
“Sure thing, hon,” she says, scribbling Sam’s order down under his. “You need anything else just-” her eyes flicker nervously to Dean. “-you just holler.” She blushes, at that, but with an apologetic smile. Keeps her cool as she walks away.
“Not bad,” Dean muses, watching her go.
Sam chokes on his mouthful of ice water. Pity Mary Lou ain’t here to see it.
“Gosh, Sam, you’re so dreamy,” Dean sighs, grabbing a couple napkins from the dispenser and holding them out. Sam wheezes at him in a weirdly articulate, shut the fuck up fucker kind of way.
“Seriously, did you forget how to swallow? Is your head filled up with so much useless crap about, I dunno - poetry and corpses - that you can’t swallow anymore? Is that it? I only ask,” he adds, as Sam, scowling, grabs the napkins out of his hand, “’cause I’m concerned. For your, y’know, well being.”
Shut up, fool, Mr. T suggests.
Once Sam’s done hacking, and done trying to dump his hacked-on napkins into Dean’s coffee - a brief fight ensued, which Dean won fair and square by stamping on Sam’s toes - he jerks his head in Mary Lou’s direction and raises an eyebrow.
“Huh?” Dean says.
Sam raises the other eyebrow, smirking a little. Well? he mouths.
“What, me and Mary Lou?”
Sam shrugs.
“Nah, man,” Dean says. “I think she likes the strong, silent type.” Obviously Dean means ‘NO I LOVE YOU.’
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #3: post-its. And, oh, if only I had a scanner. I miss multi-mediaing.
Ghouls are the worst. Second worst, but Dean’s talking second to fucking Lucifer here, so for anyone with a halfway normal, non-Winchester-cursed life, ghouls are the worst. And they all flock to Seattle for some reason. A) They like the damp. B) They’re passive-aggressive bitches who like to get Dean damp before he wastes them. C) All of the above.
Even in the summer. Dean doesn’t know how the fuck they manage it. Freaky-ass weather-forecasting rain powers, or something. He’s dripping wet and dripping ghoul juice by the time he’s gotten the Impala parked and made it into the warmth of their motel room.
“Hey,” he begins, but the room’s empty.
The room’s empty and the shower’s running and there’s one of Sam’s billion post-it notes stuck to the bathroom door.
TOO SLOW.
PROMISE I’LL LEAVE YOU
SOME HOT WATER. :)
“Goddammit, Sam,” Dean yells.
The shower runs.
“You’re a bitch and I hate you,” Dean continues, kicking the door. “Also I hope you slip over and die.”
Shower, running.
“You drank demon blood,” he shouts through the keyhole. “You owe me a million first showers for that shit. You owe me foot rubs. You should be out here right now baking me a fucking cake.” I hope that one day in the future they’re brothers enough again that they can joke about that one time Sam drank demon blood D: And then Sam really does bake Dean a cake and Dean maybe cries a little bit because it’s so delicious and MADE WITH LOVE.
He might just be imagining it, but he’s pretty sure he can hear Sam laughing over the shower noises now. I’m not sure whether or not someone getting his throat slit would stop them from being able to laugh (what with people generally not surviving it and all.) When I wrote it, I was imagining a wheezy, maybe mostly silent kind of laugh. Or maybe Dean is just imagining it. Or maybe he can laugh, after all.
He tears the post-it up and dumps all the pieces in one of Sam’s socks, all the same.
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #4: touch!
Really, what are newly de-black dogged parks good for, if not opportune napping.
Birds are singing, honest to God. Dean’s right on the edge of it, dozing with that fuzzy sleep-taste in his mouth and grass prickling under his neck and his edges well-warmed in the summer sunlight, when he feels Sam fiddling with his bootlaces.
Dean grunts, eyes blinking open and then screwing up again, the multi-coloured afterimage of the sun burnt into his retinas, the silhouette of Sam tugging his boots off a dark shape on the insides of his eyelids.
Boots off, Sam pauses at the socks, and then flicks Dean’s ankle.
“Oh yeah,” Dean snorts. “Like your feet smell of roses after chasing that beast all afternoon.”
Another flick delivered, but softer this time. Dean counts it a victory.
“You’re not off the hook yet, you know,” he says, as Sam peels his socks off and - after a second’s hesitation - pulls Dean’s feet into his lap. “Fucking smartass.”
He drifts back into sleep.
Yeaaah, I don’t really have much to say about this either. I was really pleased with this fic, don’t get me wrong, but there isn’t really much going on beneath the surface! It’s just about Sam and Dean and How Much They Love Each Other. Not a great deal of thought went into it. BUT, I do like this bit a lot. They’re all comfortable and content together! Their life is still a bit rubbish, but it’s good enough for sun-bathing and foot rubs! Yaaaay!
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #5: MR. T STRIKES BACK.
For some reason, kids always make the most vicious ghosts. Dean figures it’s something to do with the immaturity and emotions and shit. Also, if he’d died when he was seven, he would’ve been pretty fucking pissed as well. Allison Trevors, aged seven-and-a-half, is really fucking pissed about it.
He’s always felt like an asshole, digging up a child’s grave, though. It’s pretty far down the rungs of the fucked up shit ladder. And seriously high up the ‘oh god I hope the cops don’t catch us doing this’ ladder.
“Hey, Sam,” he yells. Shovel to dirt. “So a cucumber and a pickle get into a conversation. Pickle says, ‘my life sucks, man, every time I get big, fat and juicy I get seasoned and stuck in a jar.’” Shovel to dirt. Sam’s keeping look out, maybe can’t even hear him, but he goes on anyway. “So cucumber says, ‘screw you, my life sucks more. I get big, fat and juicy, they chop me up and put in a salad.’” It took me like ten minutes to find the perfect joke, fyi.
Shovel to dirt. Just a couple more inches, he figures. “So then a dick walks by, and it says-”
Quit your jibba jabba, Mr. T says, from overhead. Shut up, fool. Quit your jibba jabba.
Dean spins around - and then jesus christ he ducks, narrowly missing a swipe from Allison’s tiny, too-sharp nails. He rolls over in the grave dirt, grabs up his shotgun, and she’s diving back in for another go at the slicing and dicing as he fires the rocksalt into her face.
Where she disappears, Sam’s standing at the edge of the grave, lowering his own shotgun. Mr. T hangs securely from the yarn around his neck. See, look, they are being normal (for Winchesters) and okay and moving on with their lives! Sam is still Sam, despite his muteness, and a Sam that is still Sam is a Sam that can still hunt. Ngl, this is pretty much The Way I Want The Show To End: things a little bit fucked up and not perfect and maybe they’re both damaged, but they pick themselves up and keep living. (aka. the plot of basically every fic I’ve ever written?)
“You see?” Dean climbs to his feet, dusting himself off. “Mr. T is hilarious and useful.”
Sam rolls his eyes, lips quirking. Don’t gimme no back talk, sucka.
“You love my backtalk,” Dean says. He puts his shotgun back to the side and grabs his shovel again. To dirt. Sam’s still lingering on the edge of the grave, so Dean grins up at him. “So anyway, then the dick comes by…” and the dick says, ‘you think you guy have got it bad? I get big, fat and juicy and they stick a plastic bag over my head, shove me into a small, damp cave and bang my head against the wall until I throw up!’
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #6: written word.
Boston on the jukebox, the rattle of a game of pool behind them. No more hustling these days. They’re sat at the bar and Dean’s drinking something green, because it was Sam’s turn to order and he’s gotten into this habit of just closing his eyes and pointing. Adapting to the change, developing new habits, a new way of being, they keep on going yada yada.
“You know something, man,” Dean says. He drips his finger into the mysterious green drink, licks it. Lime flavoured. “You know something. I have never pissed my name into snow. Not even - not even once. Remember that time when we stayed in that cabin up in Minnesota? You were, I dunno, eleven. You had really bad hair - even worse than now, ‘cause you put a fuckin’ bowl on your head and tried to cut it yourself, Christ funniest night of my life, you remember that?”
He remembers, belatedly, to look up, away from his drink - it’s really fucking green - and towards Sam. Okay, maybe when I said this fic wasn’t going to be angsty, I meant not entirely angsty. Things still aren’t perfect. Sometimes Dean forgets to look up. Sam shrugs, waving a hand uncertainly.
“Yeah, I guess when you got a childhood full of bad hair remembering the specifics gets kinda tricky.” He grins at Sam’s offended expression, drinks a mouthful of his mysterious green thing. Lime, a hint of - what? Liquorice? Boston’s endnote fades out, and a couple seconds later Gimme Shelter starts up. “My point is, it was pretty snowy there. Not freeze your dick off snowy, but snowy enough to piss on. So I was gonna - cause, I dunno, I was fifteen. What fifteen-year-old guy doesn’t wanna piss on snow, right? I’d got my junk out and everything, then Dad sticks his head round the door and he just - looks at me and my dick for a second - that look, the you’re doing somethin’ stupid and I’m beyond caring look, that one - and then he just tells me to put it away and come clean the guns. I fuckin’ shrivelled.”
I HAVE NO IDEA QUITE WHERE THIS STORY CAME FROM. NONE. I sit down to write some drunk Dean rambling, and pissing stories come out!
Sam rests his head in his hands.
“Exactly, man,” Dean says. “Exactly. Kinda put me off the whole experience.”
He downs the rest of the green drink in one gulp. Definitely liquorice. Watches as Sam fumbles a pen out of his pocket and sets to work on a napkin. Even writing drunken comments about failed pissing stories, he frowns with concentration.
YOU’RE UNIQUE.
“Damn right,” Dean says. It’s his turn now, so he catches the barman’s eye, holds two fingers up and mouths beer. He folds Sam’s napkin up and sticks it in his pocket. I think he saves Sam’s notes in the same way he used to save Sam’s voicemails. (And you know he did.)
Silence, for a while, just drinking. Someone loses their game of pool and makes a lot of noise about it. Going to California starts playing on the jukebox.
“I’ve never,” Dean says. The label on the beer bottle is peeling at one edge, and he tugs it further. “I’ve never eaten jell-o off a hooker’s stomach.” To his side, Sam splutters, coughs, wipes a hand across his face. Dean smirks down at the tearing label and nudges Sam with his shoulder. “Don’t be a prude, Sammy. Sex is a natural and beautiful act.”
Sam grabs his pen again, and then Dean’s hand. WITH JELLO? he scrawls on the back of it.
“Jell-o’s natural and beautiful too.” He keeps his face straight for as long as he can - which is pretty damn long, considering how much he’s had to drink tonight - but in the end, laughter wins out. Face scrunched up, eyes watering, full-on head thrown back laughter.
When he straightens up again, wipes at his eyes, Sam’s mouth is twitching like he wants to say something. Like he really wishes he could. The shape of it twists up in Dean’s gut, sudden and souring, brakes hit and an abrupt U-turn. Again with the things aren’t perfect. Sam wishes he could speak! Dean wishes Sam could speak too! But they are okay, despite it, because they have each other.
“Hey,” he says, ignoring it. “I know this game’s all about you gettin’ off on my sexy baritone, but I think it’s about damn time you took a turn.”
Sam closes his mouth, rolls his eyes, but then he pulls Dean’s clean hand towards him across the bar top. Just stares down at it, for a little while, frowning like he always does. Then he writes.
I NEVER REGRETTED IT.
Right there in the centre of Dean’s palm, ink cobwebbing into all the tiny creases, the intersection of his lifeline. Another way Sam can communicate with Dean without talking! BY WRITING ON HIM. Which - is something else I have a bit of a thing for. I’m not sure I can really word it without sounding like an enormous twat, but. Sam’s words on Dean’s skin. It’s a thing. He stares down at it. Sam turns away from him and to the bar. He waves the barman down, closing his eyes and pointing like he always does now.
“Seriously,” Dean says, eventually. He swallows. “Seriously, we were havin’ a piss and hooker jell-o moment. Why’d ya have to ruin it?”
Sam at least has the decency to look sheepish, when he turns back to him, presses a glass of something vivid orange into his ink-stained hands.
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #7: just by existing, really.
Later - after however many drinks, and there were shots, and there were a handful more of Dean’s favourite songs drifting through the air, and a couple guys started arguing too loud ‘til they took it outside, and a girl with red hair took home the guy three stools down from them, and Dean stared at the strands of hair tucked behind Sam’s right ear (and what I mean by that is, he’s staring at Sam in general)- Later, with an arm slung over Sam’s shoulder and his face against Sam’s collarbone, walking back to their motel.
“I thought you’d died,” Dean says. “Jesus, all that fuckin’ blood, nobody can survive that. Thought -impossible. Nobody can.” Ohh look at me, being a little less vague. ~The story unfolds~
Sam huffs out a breath, which means But I did.
“Was gonna kill - someone. Anyone. Y’know? With the same fuckin’ knife.” He closes his eyes, feels the air move around him. Hopes like hell he doesn’t throw up. Hopes like hell (that things are gonna be okay in the end. (Yes, Dean, they are.))
“Miss your stupid fuckin’ voice,” he says.
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #8: texting!
Franklin, New Hampshire, closeted in the library. Sam thinks it’s a glaistig. Dean’s never even heard of glaistigs before now, but that’s what Sam thinks it is, because his brain’s full of poetry and weird facts about corpses and also random Scottish mythology apparently. But because Sam only thinks it is - doesn’t know for sure - they have to research it.
(Gratuitous inside joke with self: there is this preseries teenchester fic I’ve been vaguely planning for ages - but never really gone anywhere with - in which the boys deal with a glaistig. But, yeah, I’ve never gone anywhere with it, so Dean sure as hell hasn’t heard of a glaistig as far as my fic is concerned. MAYBE ONE DAY.)
Honestly, Dean isn’t a dumb guy - he’s not smart in the kind of way Sam is, and he sure as hell isn’t gay for old newspapers, but he’s got brains - but at this point he’s just looking at the freaking pictures.
He eyes the children’s section. Kids like Scotland, right? Then he pulls out his cell:
‘i can c u’
Sam’s a few aisles away, frowning intently at a book’s index, so engrossed in it that he jumps when his phone vibrates. Dean snickers, ducking his head down to look at his book again. Not too long later:
‘might be because I’m six feet away.’
‘what r u wearing’
‘lacy blue panties.’
Dean drops his head down onto his dictionary of Celtic Mythology, words blurring together as he muffles his laughter in pages GL to GU. When he can look up again, Sam’s moved a couple aisles further away. From the excited look on his face, he’s found the old newspapers.
‘lend glaistig a pair? half woman half goat. anyone needs to feel pretty its her’
‘you’re so considerate.’
Sam disappears around a corner, following whatever research-y scent he’s caught.
‘hey come back wanna c ur panties’
Dean leans back in his chair, waits one - two - three seconds, and then Sam sticks his head back around the corner, cell already in hand. He looks satisfyingly scandalised as he thumbs out his text. Dean’s cell, roughly bookmarking his page, beeps.
‘dinner and a movie first,’ Dean reads. He can’t keep the grin off his face as he scrolls down and hits reply.
‘i’ll wine & dine you babe.’
Sam rolls his eyes, head disappearing back around the corner. Not fast enough to hide his smile, though. Nowhere near fast enough to hide his smile.
I THINK I AM KIND OF JUST PATTING MYSELF ON THE BACK FOR THIS COMMENTARY? Sorry. But hey, whatever, I wrote this fic entirely to make myself happy and it has achieved that aim. And I make myself happy by writing about the boys being happy, against all odds, and having stupid text conversations and being Mostly Okay In The End. Mmmm.
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #9: the alluring scent of coffee.
Black. Sleeping blackness growing light around the edges shifting fading into dark blue into sunlight colours shining through his eyelids. Cotton sheets. Smells like coffee. Smells like good morning waking up now coffee. I like a little bit of stream o’ consciousness. I slip it in WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT. Also it is just - a fun way of playing around with POV/character voice/whatnot.
“Mrrg,” Dean says, peeling his eyes open.
Coffee cup in his face. Sam’s face behind the coffee cup, grinning wide.
Dean rubs his fists into his eyes, then holds his hands out. One important word. “Gimme.”
Sam gimmes, placing the coffee cup carefully between Dean’s outstretched hands. He pokes the tip of Dean’s nose. I miss them having casual touching. Boo. Get on that, Kripke. (And also hugging please.)
“Fuckin’ hate you,” Dean mutters into his coffee.
You love me, Sam mouths back. It’s true! It’s all true!
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #10: kissing WITH TONGUE.
They’re on the downtime between hunts when Dean finally gets sick of it. It had to happen sooner or later. Honestly, he’s surprised it wasn’t sooner. And at last, the hair theme brought up in the opening, with Sam being a hairy dog and whatnot, reaches its thrilling climax! Loving haircuts!
“Your hair’s gotta go, man” he blurts out. “I think things are living in it. As in, I think Bigfoot’s relocated with the wife and kids. Seriously, they’ve relocated to your head.”
Sam drops his sandwich. He licks a drop of mustard off his thumb, eyeing Dean like some kind of startled - Bigfoot, Dean’s mind supplies - fluffy woodland creature. Then he grabs a notepad.
1. SOMETIMES I WORRY ABOUT YOU.
2. OKAY.
Dean blinks down at the sheet of paper. He’d kinda been expecting more of a fight. Maybe wrestling Sam onto a chair, having to tie him to it. Screaming and sobbing. That sort of thing.
“Okay,” he says, dropping his own sandwich back onto its wrapper. “Now?”
Sam shrugs and nods, making his own personal ‘shower’ hand action. Dean’s never told him - and he’s never going to - but it kinda looks like he’s sprinkling fairy dust onto his head.
Shower turns on. Dean grabs his chair and drags it into the centre of the motel room. They’ve got a pair of scissors somewhere, for spontaneous hair-cutting times like these, or for when money’s too short to waste on things like hair cuts. By the time Dean’s found them, in one of the duffles in the Impala, and rustled up a comb as well, Sam’s done showering. He ambles out of the bathroom, roughly towelling his hair. It’s past shoulder length, when wet.
Dean can’t remember the last time Sam got it cut, but he figures it was probably before everything ended. Too damn long. And now they’re moving on, in a way.
“Sit,” he says.
Sam sits. Dean grabs the damp towel from him and drops it around his shoulders. He combs Sam’s hair quickly and can’t help smirking as Sam makes disgruntled little noises whenever he reaches a knot.
“Seriously,” he says, “how old are you? Do I need to get you a lollipop?”
He can feel Sam roll his eyes. Don’t ask him how; he just can.
“Okay, kiddo, gonna start cutting now. Don’t be scared of the scissors,” he adds, ruffling Sam’s hair. “I know they seem scary, but I promise they’re gentle.”
Sam flicks his stomach. Dean starts snipping.
He likes using his hands; he always has. Okay, usually it’s more the kind of thing that involves his baby’s engine or a broken radio, but using his hands is using his hands. There’s something weirdly soothing about these repetitive movements: runs comb through hair, separates a strand, trims it down. It’s not fantastic, ‘cause, yeah, he likes using his hands but that doesn’t make him a freaking hairdresser, but Sam’s hair is getting shorter and Sam’s a warm, still presence to the touch.
“I feel like I should be asking you about your vacation,” he mutters. “Going anywhere nice this summer? Tilt your head down,” he adds, pressing a hand to the back of Sam’s neck. Sam snorts, lowering his head so Dean can trim the hair at the nape, and he does a reasonably tidy job of it too.
He’s multi-talented, apparently.
“Okay, I think we got rid of Bigfoot now,” he says, shifting around to the side to get at Sam’s bangs. Sam glances across at him, head tilting sceptically. “Yeah, easy for you to say, you didn’t have to look at it every day.”
Bangs trimmed - a bit lopsided, but who’s gonna know? - he brushes them back behind Sam’s ear. And there’s the scar. Ear to ear, almost.
He’s never really looked at it too closely, not lately. At first, when it was still healing, he could barely look away, but - not lately. The long hair hid it, kind of. Maybe that’s why Sam let it get so long in the first place.
“It’s fading,” he says, trailing a finger down. “Think you’ll ever be able to-”
Sam shakes his head, gently. Consolatory smile. Like Dean’s the one needs consoling.
“Yeah, I guess not.” He sighs, crouching down. Folds his arms on Sam’s thigh. “I was ready to kill Ruby, you know. I’d almost been starting to trust her, and then - then she did that. I grabbed the knife right out of her hand.” It’s exhausting just remembering. He drops his chin into his arms and, within seconds, Sam’s hand is curling around the back of his neck. “No fucking way, I thought - no fucking way someone can survive that. I thought you were dead.”
Okay so, in my original plan - the angsty one - Sam’s muteness was, like I said, a psychological thing. In my first plan of this version of the fic, when I was just brainstorming and jotting down ideas, Sam took Lucifer into himself and then psychically killed him from the inside (which - I do think would be pretty badass.) The fiery demonic death left him kind of charred inside, which burnt his throat up and voila, muteness.
Unlike with the angsty version, it had to be a sacrifice. It had to be Sam making a sacrifice. Not because I necessarily think that he needs to be redeemed, per se, but I think he thinks he needs to be redeemed. Dean went to Hell for him and, as far as my interpretation of Sam is concerned, the fact that it was for/because of him made his need for revenge even worse than it would have been. (In Mystery Spot, he wasn’t really looking for revenge against the Trickster; just his brother back.) Sam needs to sacrifice something for Dean, so he can stop being all revenge-y and just be his brother again, debt repaid. YMMV.
Sam taps his ear gently.
I was, he mouths, when Dean looks up. And then, I’m sorry.
“Right, right, blood sacrifice. I know.” He pauses, rubs a hand across his face. “Next time we gotta save the world, man, tell me what you’re planning. I mean - Bam, you break the final seal, bam, oh great it’s Lucifer, bam, he’s possessed you, bam, you’re dead. It was a pretty stressful coupla minutes.”
So it stopped being Sam killing Lucifer from the inside with his psychic powers and became a blood sacrifice because:
Blood letting as purification &c. Blood magic is powerful. Blood in general is powerful (family blood, demon blood, drinking blood.) I subscribe to the theory that when a demon possesses a human they are in the bloodstream, as much as a kinda metaphorical construct can be anywhere. The demon blood inside of Sam. Lucifer was in Sam’s blood. Ruby’s knife kills demons by - maybe - coming into contact with their blood. (It’s not the Colt that kills demons, it’s the bullets.) Maybe the knife alone wouldn’t be able to do the job, but combine that with blood and a self-sacrificial death and you’ve got some serious evil-vanquishing power. If Aslan has taught us only one thing, it’s that.
Sam died for his/our/Lucifer’s sins and then he came back. Because he’s the motherfucking (anti)Christ.
I’m sorry.
“Asshole.”
Sam smiles down at him, with his stupid lopsided hair and his big, dumb dog face and the thin white scar across his throat. A soft look in his eyes. He draws Dean up into kneeling by the collar of his shirt, smooths a hand down the side of his face. Foreheads tipped together.
I’m sorry, Sam mouths again, too close for Dean to see it, but he can feel it; the movement in the air, the slightest brush of their lips. He breathes out. Sam breathes in.
I should be scared right now, Dean thinks, distantly. I should be fucking terrified.
He isn’t, though.
One tiny little shift into place brings their lips together. Tiny like tectonic plates. Sam breathes out, Dean breathes in, and there’s a second where he thinks oh fuck because he’s got it all wrong, but then Sam’s grip tightens almost painful on the back of his neck and his mouth falls open and suddenly it’s kissing. The slow easy pressure of their lips moving together, the slide of tongues, the friction-heat of it coiling from his mouth right down to his spine. One hand on Sam’s knee still, the other open on his stomach. Loose curls of hair between his fingers.
Sam mouths something against Dean’s lips (I love you), but he already knows it. Doesn’t need to see it or feel it. Doesn’t need to hear it.
He just knows it. He knows it because it’s what Sam’s been saying for the entire damn fic.
Here is the first sentence I wrote: Route 66, with all the windows rolled down, riding in the slipstream of the sunset light. Dean could drive this with his eyes closed, nothing but the wind and the speed and the engine’s vibrations, Rush on the stereo. The world’s a golden glow. And this was the first mental image I had, once I’d done away with the angsty fic idea and converted to this one instead. Sam and Dean and an empty road and contentment. I actually started writing it as the opening to the fic, but then I decided it would be a lot more emotionally satisfying here at the end. SO I DID THAT.
Shut up, fool.
“I wish I’d never gotten you that, now.”
I pity the fool.
“Pity your face.”
Don’t gimme no backtalk, sucka.
“Jesus, I can’t believe I was upset when I thought you’d died again.”
Sam throws his head back and he laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs. (Wheezily, or normally, or silently.)
And the road before them is long and empty and perfect. They bicker and they drive and they be HAPPY together and they have a whole new ambiguous journey ahead of them. In conclusion: self-indulgent fic is very, very self-indulgent. AND I LIKE IT THAT WAY.
Elbow - On a Day Like This
I think you just need to listen to this song to know why it’s here. But - because it is immensely happy and it sounds like this fic felt to write.
*
HOPEFULLY THIS WASN’T ENTIRELY BORING.
For laulan, courtesy of the fic commentary meme: my thoughts on Words For Snow!
So, my initial concept for this fic was something a lot darker and sadder. The idea I had, before I was seriously considering actually writing it, was that ‘the apocalypse is averted and him and Dean are trying to fix their relationship and learn how to be brothers again with bonus Sam Cannot Talk angst.’ With anything I write, the first two things I hold in my mind before I start actually planning a fic are: what happens, and what’s the mood. The mood for this was going to be ANGST - the kind of angst with glimmers of hope that Sam and Dean were maybe on the road to mending their relationship, but angst, nevertheless. Sam was going to stop talking for a psychological reason rather than a physical one. There was going to be distance and awkwardness and unhappiness between them.
Then I sat down to actually plan the thing and I mutinied against myself. Actually, I think the mutiny started a little before that, when my mum trimmed my hair for me and thus gave me an overwhelming need to write some Dean-cuts-Sam hair fic. It was such an abstract idea (and yet so vital to my life!) that I decided to just stick into whatever WIP it would work with - and mute!Sam was the only thing into which it really seemed to fit. Haircutting is - especially in this fandom - such an act of love. It still would have worked in the original angsty plan (and would have been pretty glorious, in an ‘oh they are so broken but Dean still cuts Sam’s hair because HE LOVES HIM’ kind of way), but I got all caught up in the thought of it: caretaking, acts and gestures of love, ways to communicate your love to a person when you can no longer say ‘I love you.’
Because my mind makes these weird kinds of leaps sometimes, I then started to think about the urban legend that the ‘Eskimo language’ has one hundred words for snow. One hundred ways to communicate this one thing, to communicate all the different aspects of this one thing.
Obviously, the one thing Sam and Dean can say in one hundred different ways is love. Dark, angsty fic was NO LONGER AN OPTION. Somehow, it was a very quick leap from this to ‘Sam should have Mr. T keyring.’ Idek. WEIRD LEAPS.
So I opened up my notepad and made a quick list of ways Sam and Dean could communicate without Sam talking (and I googled the Mr T keyring’s catchphrases) and then… I wrote!
This was actually pretty unplanned, as far as my fic goes, so I’m not sure how much I can say about it. Aside from these massive paragraphs up here, anyway. Hush.
*
Regina Spektor - Samson
SAMSON. HAIR CUTTING. DO YOU GET IT? I think you may have got it.
- (Oh I cut his hair myself one night
A pair of dull scissors and the yellow light
And he told me that I'd done alright
and kissed me till the morning light, the morning light)
So hey, this was an adventure in writing Dean’s POV for me! I’ve only done it a couple of times (not including the two ficlets for the post-s4 schmoop meme, which were written after this), and I was a bit nervous. The fic really wouldn’t have worked from Sam’s POV - it would kind have defeated the purpose and all - so it had to be done!
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #1: via Mr. T
Dean’s standing in line, staring real hard at a jar filled with glittery pens with feathers on the end - because, seriously, what the fuck - when he spots the keychain out of the corner of his eye. There’s a whole row of them hanging from the display on top of the counter, hard to miss. He probably would have spotted them sooner if there hadn’t been all those freaking feathers.
“Huh,” Dean says.
He shuffles forwards as the line moves, dumps his armful of cold soda and bags of skittles on the countertop. The cashier smiles vaguely at his left eyebrow as she rings it all through.
“Wait,” Dean says, grabbing one of the keychains off of the rack and adding it to the pile. “Present for my little brother,” he explains, because even he has standards.
“Whatever,” the cashier - Molly - tells his eyebrow. I have a bit of a thing for writing cashiers/motel owners/whathaveyou that have a complete disinterest in the Winchesters. I could pretend it’s for some deep, philosophical reason, but really I just find it funny. Yeah, they are hot, but they are also - let’s face it - probably a bit smelly. Molly doesn’t like your smell, Dean. Go away.
Dean rolls his eyes, grabs his bag and heads back out to the parking lot. The tarmac is shimmering with skin-prickling heat. Midday goddamn sun in the clear, blue sky.
“Hey,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the back of his baby’s roof. Rubs a thumb across the edge of the door. Freaking hot.
Sam sticks his head out of the wide-open window, looking for all the world like a big, dumb dog. One of those really hairy ones. He smiles with all white teeth, and the driver’s door is already opened by the time Dean gets around. Big, hairy, well-trained dog. I don’t really have anything to say about this. I just like it. IT’S ALL AFFECTIONATE AND STUFF. I guess this whole fic is really just me going ‘HEY GUYS BE MORE AFFECTIONATE OR SOMETHING.’ Observe:
“Got you a present,” Dean says, slumping into his seat. “’Cause I’m awesome.” He rifles through the bag for the keychain’s brightly coloured packaging, finds it and grabs it and - duh - throws it at Sam’s face.
Sam catches it, because he’s a dick. He turns the thing over in his hands, and then glances up at Dean with an eyebrow raised.
“It’s Mr. T,” Dean says. “I know you like Mr. T, everybody likes Mr. T. Even Cas likes Mr. T. I also have a thing for giving Castiel really ridiculous habits/hobbies in fic (He tells bad jokes! He watches the A Team! He communes with wallpaper!) It’s just my passive-aggressive way of making the character a little bit interesting for a change. Also, even before I found Castiel as boring as I do now, you can’t deny the potential hilarity of his ridiculous deadpan face indulging in pop culture. I think he’ll be addicted to twinkies in my next fic. Seriously,” he adds, as the eyebrow takes on a sceptical quirk, “he used to watch The A Team all the freaking time, when you were - you know. Anyway. It’s Mr. goddamn T and I’m goddamn awesome.”
Ohh ~when you were - you know~ A hint of the past! A vague, vague, never clarified hint of the past. Another thing I like to do: never give the full backstory. To me, Sam’s ‘you know’ was when he was healing post-Lucifer showdown. But hey, to someone else it could be when Sam was off drinking blood, or maybe him and Dean had a falling out, or whatever. I like to leave things to reader interpretation!
Sam shrugs - okay, whatever, it seems to say - and rips the packaging apart. No matter how stupidly tall Sam gets, he still opens shit up like he’s an uncoordinated five-year-old at Christmas; it’s great.
Shut up, fool, Mr. T says, when Sam presses one of the buttons. Another. Quit your jibba jabba.
Sam stares down at the keychain. Then he stares up at Dean.
“I just thought - what with the whole-” Dean waves a hand, shrugs one shoulder. “You know.” Although, of course, at this point we don’t know Sam’s mute yet. I LIKE TO BE VAGUE, okay.
Sam’s face breaks into a grin. Don’t gimme no back talk, sucka, Mr. T says, which just makes Sam’s hairy dog grin get all the wider. Seriously. Seriously. I am not going to be even a little bit modest about this. Can you imagine Sam actually saying these things in his Sam voice? I CAN AND IT MAES ME LOL.
Dean isn’t relieved - shut the fuck up, he isn’t relieved - because he knew it was awesome and he knew Sam would like it, so the grin he throws back is just an acknowledgement of his own amazing gift-giving skills, pure and simple.
“Told you so,” he says, turning the ignition. Her engine purrs into life, smooth sounding.
First name mister, middle name period, last name T.
“Careful, Sammy,” Dean cautions brightly, pulling out onto the highway. “Castiel might start takin’ an interest.”
Sam throws the empty packaging at his head and misses.
Dean just laughs. They are so happyyyy together :(
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #2: Mouthing! Shrugging! Eyebrows! I… don’t think I really have anything much to say about this.
Fifty miles outside of Bartlesville, in a diner called Mary Lou’s. Dean’s pretty sure something like 80% of these old-style, mom-and-pop diners are ran by a Mary Lou, and they all look exactly the freaking same.
Sam might not be talking anymore, but he still manages to charm them all, somehow. He points out his salad on the menu, smiles awkwardly up at Mary Lou from under his hair. Dimples, dimples. Mary Lou’s a goner. Dean leans back in his seat to watch the show.
“Sure thing, hon,” she says, scribbling Sam’s order down under his. “You need anything else just-” her eyes flicker nervously to Dean. “-you just holler.” She blushes, at that, but with an apologetic smile. Keeps her cool as she walks away.
“Not bad,” Dean muses, watching her go.
Sam chokes on his mouthful of ice water. Pity Mary Lou ain’t here to see it.
“Gosh, Sam, you’re so dreamy,” Dean sighs, grabbing a couple napkins from the dispenser and holding them out. Sam wheezes at him in a weirdly articulate, shut the fuck up fucker kind of way.
“Seriously, did you forget how to swallow? Is your head filled up with so much useless crap about, I dunno - poetry and corpses - that you can’t swallow anymore? Is that it? I only ask,” he adds, as Sam, scowling, grabs the napkins out of his hand, “’cause I’m concerned. For your, y’know, well being.”
Shut up, fool, Mr. T suggests.
Once Sam’s done hacking, and done trying to dump his hacked-on napkins into Dean’s coffee - a brief fight ensued, which Dean won fair and square by stamping on Sam’s toes - he jerks his head in Mary Lou’s direction and raises an eyebrow.
“Huh?” Dean says.
Sam raises the other eyebrow, smirking a little. Well? he mouths.
“What, me and Mary Lou?”
Sam shrugs.
“Nah, man,” Dean says. “I think she likes the strong, silent type.” Obviously Dean means ‘NO I LOVE YOU.’
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #3: post-its. And, oh, if only I had a scanner. I miss multi-mediaing.
Ghouls are the worst. Second worst, but Dean’s talking second to fucking Lucifer here, so for anyone with a halfway normal, non-Winchester-cursed life, ghouls are the worst. And they all flock to Seattle for some reason. A) They like the damp. B) They’re passive-aggressive bitches who like to get Dean damp before he wastes them. C) All of the above.
Even in the summer. Dean doesn’t know how the fuck they manage it. Freaky-ass weather-forecasting rain powers, or something. He’s dripping wet and dripping ghoul juice by the time he’s gotten the Impala parked and made it into the warmth of their motel room.
“Hey,” he begins, but the room’s empty.
The room’s empty and the shower’s running and there’s one of Sam’s billion post-it notes stuck to the bathroom door.
TOO SLOW.
PROMISE I’LL LEAVE YOU
SOME HOT WATER. :)
“Goddammit, Sam,” Dean yells.
The shower runs.
“You’re a bitch and I hate you,” Dean continues, kicking the door. “Also I hope you slip over and die.”
Shower, running.
“You drank demon blood,” he shouts through the keyhole. “You owe me a million first showers for that shit. You owe me foot rubs. You should be out here right now baking me a fucking cake.” I hope that one day in the future they’re brothers enough again that they can joke about that one time Sam drank demon blood D: And then Sam really does bake Dean a cake and Dean maybe cries a little bit because it’s so delicious and MADE WITH LOVE.
He might just be imagining it, but he’s pretty sure he can hear Sam laughing over the shower noises now. I’m not sure whether or not someone getting his throat slit would stop them from being able to laugh (what with people generally not surviving it and all.) When I wrote it, I was imagining a wheezy, maybe mostly silent kind of laugh. Or maybe Dean is just imagining it. Or maybe he can laugh, after all.
He tears the post-it up and dumps all the pieces in one of Sam’s socks, all the same.
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #4: touch!
Really, what are newly de-black dogged parks good for, if not opportune napping.
Birds are singing, honest to God. Dean’s right on the edge of it, dozing with that fuzzy sleep-taste in his mouth and grass prickling under his neck and his edges well-warmed in the summer sunlight, when he feels Sam fiddling with his bootlaces.
Dean grunts, eyes blinking open and then screwing up again, the multi-coloured afterimage of the sun burnt into his retinas, the silhouette of Sam tugging his boots off a dark shape on the insides of his eyelids.
Boots off, Sam pauses at the socks, and then flicks Dean’s ankle.
“Oh yeah,” Dean snorts. “Like your feet smell of roses after chasing that beast all afternoon.”
Another flick delivered, but softer this time. Dean counts it a victory.
“You’re not off the hook yet, you know,” he says, as Sam peels his socks off and - after a second’s hesitation - pulls Dean’s feet into his lap. “Fucking smartass.”
He drifts back into sleep.
Yeaaah, I don’t really have much to say about this either. I was really pleased with this fic, don’t get me wrong, but there isn’t really much going on beneath the surface! It’s just about Sam and Dean and How Much They Love Each Other. Not a great deal of thought went into it. BUT, I do like this bit a lot. They’re all comfortable and content together! Their life is still a bit rubbish, but it’s good enough for sun-bathing and foot rubs! Yaaaay!
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #5: MR. T STRIKES BACK.
For some reason, kids always make the most vicious ghosts. Dean figures it’s something to do with the immaturity and emotions and shit. Also, if he’d died when he was seven, he would’ve been pretty fucking pissed as well. Allison Trevors, aged seven-and-a-half, is really fucking pissed about it.
He’s always felt like an asshole, digging up a child’s grave, though. It’s pretty far down the rungs of the fucked up shit ladder. And seriously high up the ‘oh god I hope the cops don’t catch us doing this’ ladder.
“Hey, Sam,” he yells. Shovel to dirt. “So a cucumber and a pickle get into a conversation. Pickle says, ‘my life sucks, man, every time I get big, fat and juicy I get seasoned and stuck in a jar.’” Shovel to dirt. Sam’s keeping look out, maybe can’t even hear him, but he goes on anyway. “So cucumber says, ‘screw you, my life sucks more. I get big, fat and juicy, they chop me up and put in a salad.’” It took me like ten minutes to find the perfect joke, fyi.
Shovel to dirt. Just a couple more inches, he figures. “So then a dick walks by, and it says-”
Quit your jibba jabba, Mr. T says, from overhead. Shut up, fool. Quit your jibba jabba.
Dean spins around - and then jesus christ he ducks, narrowly missing a swipe from Allison’s tiny, too-sharp nails. He rolls over in the grave dirt, grabs up his shotgun, and she’s diving back in for another go at the slicing and dicing as he fires the rocksalt into her face.
Where she disappears, Sam’s standing at the edge of the grave, lowering his own shotgun. Mr. T hangs securely from the yarn around his neck. See, look, they are being normal (for Winchesters) and okay and moving on with their lives! Sam is still Sam, despite his muteness, and a Sam that is still Sam is a Sam that can still hunt. Ngl, this is pretty much The Way I Want The Show To End: things a little bit fucked up and not perfect and maybe they’re both damaged, but they pick themselves up and keep living. (aka. the plot of basically every fic I’ve ever written?)
“You see?” Dean climbs to his feet, dusting himself off. “Mr. T is hilarious and useful.”
Sam rolls his eyes, lips quirking. Don’t gimme no back talk, sucka.
“You love my backtalk,” Dean says. He puts his shotgun back to the side and grabs his shovel again. To dirt. Sam’s still lingering on the edge of the grave, so Dean grins up at him. “So anyway, then the dick comes by…” and the dick says, ‘you think you guy have got it bad? I get big, fat and juicy and they stick a plastic bag over my head, shove me into a small, damp cave and bang my head against the wall until I throw up!’
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #6: written word.
Boston on the jukebox, the rattle of a game of pool behind them. No more hustling these days. They’re sat at the bar and Dean’s drinking something green, because it was Sam’s turn to order and he’s gotten into this habit of just closing his eyes and pointing. Adapting to the change, developing new habits, a new way of being, they keep on going yada yada.
“You know something, man,” Dean says. He drips his finger into the mysterious green drink, licks it. Lime flavoured. “You know something. I have never pissed my name into snow. Not even - not even once. Remember that time when we stayed in that cabin up in Minnesota? You were, I dunno, eleven. You had really bad hair - even worse than now, ‘cause you put a fuckin’ bowl on your head and tried to cut it yourself, Christ funniest night of my life, you remember that?”
He remembers, belatedly, to look up, away from his drink - it’s really fucking green - and towards Sam. Okay, maybe when I said this fic wasn’t going to be angsty, I meant not entirely angsty. Things still aren’t perfect. Sometimes Dean forgets to look up. Sam shrugs, waving a hand uncertainly.
“Yeah, I guess when you got a childhood full of bad hair remembering the specifics gets kinda tricky.” He grins at Sam’s offended expression, drinks a mouthful of his mysterious green thing. Lime, a hint of - what? Liquorice? Boston’s endnote fades out, and a couple seconds later Gimme Shelter starts up. “My point is, it was pretty snowy there. Not freeze your dick off snowy, but snowy enough to piss on. So I was gonna - cause, I dunno, I was fifteen. What fifteen-year-old guy doesn’t wanna piss on snow, right? I’d got my junk out and everything, then Dad sticks his head round the door and he just - looks at me and my dick for a second - that look, the you’re doing somethin’ stupid and I’m beyond caring look, that one - and then he just tells me to put it away and come clean the guns. I fuckin’ shrivelled.”
I HAVE NO IDEA QUITE WHERE THIS STORY CAME FROM. NONE. I sit down to write some drunk Dean rambling, and pissing stories come out!
Sam rests his head in his hands.
“Exactly, man,” Dean says. “Exactly. Kinda put me off the whole experience.”
He downs the rest of the green drink in one gulp. Definitely liquorice. Watches as Sam fumbles a pen out of his pocket and sets to work on a napkin. Even writing drunken comments about failed pissing stories, he frowns with concentration.
YOU’RE UNIQUE.
“Damn right,” Dean says. It’s his turn now, so he catches the barman’s eye, holds two fingers up and mouths beer. He folds Sam’s napkin up and sticks it in his pocket. I think he saves Sam’s notes in the same way he used to save Sam’s voicemails. (And you know he did.)
Silence, for a while, just drinking. Someone loses their game of pool and makes a lot of noise about it. Going to California starts playing on the jukebox.
“I’ve never,” Dean says. The label on the beer bottle is peeling at one edge, and he tugs it further. “I’ve never eaten jell-o off a hooker’s stomach.” To his side, Sam splutters, coughs, wipes a hand across his face. Dean smirks down at the tearing label and nudges Sam with his shoulder. “Don’t be a prude, Sammy. Sex is a natural and beautiful act.”
Sam grabs his pen again, and then Dean’s hand. WITH JELLO? he scrawls on the back of it.
“Jell-o’s natural and beautiful too.” He keeps his face straight for as long as he can - which is pretty damn long, considering how much he’s had to drink tonight - but in the end, laughter wins out. Face scrunched up, eyes watering, full-on head thrown back laughter.
When he straightens up again, wipes at his eyes, Sam’s mouth is twitching like he wants to say something. Like he really wishes he could. The shape of it twists up in Dean’s gut, sudden and souring, brakes hit and an abrupt U-turn. Again with the things aren’t perfect. Sam wishes he could speak! Dean wishes Sam could speak too! But they are okay, despite it, because they have each other.
“Hey,” he says, ignoring it. “I know this game’s all about you gettin’ off on my sexy baritone, but I think it’s about damn time you took a turn.”
Sam closes his mouth, rolls his eyes, but then he pulls Dean’s clean hand towards him across the bar top. Just stares down at it, for a little while, frowning like he always does. Then he writes.
I NEVER REGRETTED IT.
Right there in the centre of Dean’s palm, ink cobwebbing into all the tiny creases, the intersection of his lifeline. Another way Sam can communicate with Dean without talking! BY WRITING ON HIM. Which - is something else I have a bit of a thing for. I’m not sure I can really word it without sounding like an enormous twat, but. Sam’s words on Dean’s skin. It’s a thing. He stares down at it. Sam turns away from him and to the bar. He waves the barman down, closing his eyes and pointing like he always does now.
“Seriously,” Dean says, eventually. He swallows. “Seriously, we were havin’ a piss and hooker jell-o moment. Why’d ya have to ruin it?”
Sam at least has the decency to look sheepish, when he turns back to him, presses a glass of something vivid orange into his ink-stained hands.
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #7: just by existing, really.
Later - after however many drinks, and there were shots, and there were a handful more of Dean’s favourite songs drifting through the air, and a couple guys started arguing too loud ‘til they took it outside, and a girl with red hair took home the guy three stools down from them, and Dean stared at the strands of hair tucked behind Sam’s right ear (and what I mean by that is, he’s staring at Sam in general)- Later, with an arm slung over Sam’s shoulder and his face against Sam’s collarbone, walking back to their motel.
“I thought you’d died,” Dean says. “Jesus, all that fuckin’ blood, nobody can survive that. Thought -impossible. Nobody can.” Ohh look at me, being a little less vague. ~The story unfolds~
Sam huffs out a breath, which means But I did.
“Was gonna kill - someone. Anyone. Y’know? With the same fuckin’ knife.” He closes his eyes, feels the air move around him. Hopes like hell he doesn’t throw up. Hopes like hell (that things are gonna be okay in the end. (Yes, Dean, they are.))
“Miss your stupid fuckin’ voice,” he says.
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #8: texting!
Franklin, New Hampshire, closeted in the library. Sam thinks it’s a glaistig. Dean’s never even heard of glaistigs before now, but that’s what Sam thinks it is, because his brain’s full of poetry and weird facts about corpses and also random Scottish mythology apparently. But because Sam only thinks it is - doesn’t know for sure - they have to research it.
(Gratuitous inside joke with self: there is this preseries teenchester fic I’ve been vaguely planning for ages - but never really gone anywhere with - in which the boys deal with a glaistig. But, yeah, I’ve never gone anywhere with it, so Dean sure as hell hasn’t heard of a glaistig as far as my fic is concerned. MAYBE ONE DAY.)
Honestly, Dean isn’t a dumb guy - he’s not smart in the kind of way Sam is, and he sure as hell isn’t gay for old newspapers, but he’s got brains - but at this point he’s just looking at the freaking pictures.
He eyes the children’s section. Kids like Scotland, right? Then he pulls out his cell:
‘i can c u’
Sam’s a few aisles away, frowning intently at a book’s index, so engrossed in it that he jumps when his phone vibrates. Dean snickers, ducking his head down to look at his book again. Not too long later:
‘might be because I’m six feet away.’
‘what r u wearing’
‘lacy blue panties.’
Dean drops his head down onto his dictionary of Celtic Mythology, words blurring together as he muffles his laughter in pages GL to GU. When he can look up again, Sam’s moved a couple aisles further away. From the excited look on his face, he’s found the old newspapers.
‘lend glaistig a pair? half woman half goat. anyone needs to feel pretty its her’
‘you’re so considerate.’
Sam disappears around a corner, following whatever research-y scent he’s caught.
‘hey come back wanna c ur panties’
Dean leans back in his chair, waits one - two - three seconds, and then Sam sticks his head back around the corner, cell already in hand. He looks satisfyingly scandalised as he thumbs out his text. Dean’s cell, roughly bookmarking his page, beeps.
‘dinner and a movie first,’ Dean reads. He can’t keep the grin off his face as he scrolls down and hits reply.
‘i’ll wine & dine you babe.’
Sam rolls his eyes, head disappearing back around the corner. Not fast enough to hide his smile, though. Nowhere near fast enough to hide his smile.
I THINK I AM KIND OF JUST PATTING MYSELF ON THE BACK FOR THIS COMMENTARY? Sorry. But hey, whatever, I wrote this fic entirely to make myself happy and it has achieved that aim. And I make myself happy by writing about the boys being happy, against all odds, and having stupid text conversations and being Mostly Okay In The End. Mmmm.
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #9: the alluring scent of coffee.
Black. Sleeping blackness growing light around the edges shifting fading into dark blue into sunlight colours shining through his eyelids. Cotton sheets. Smells like coffee. Smells like good morning waking up now coffee. I like a little bit of stream o’ consciousness. I slip it in WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT. Also it is just - a fun way of playing around with POV/character voice/whatnot.
“Mrrg,” Dean says, peeling his eyes open.
Coffee cup in his face. Sam’s face behind the coffee cup, grinning wide.
Dean rubs his fists into his eyes, then holds his hands out. One important word. “Gimme.”
Sam gimmes, placing the coffee cup carefully between Dean’s outstretched hands. He pokes the tip of Dean’s nose. I miss them having casual touching. Boo. Get on that, Kripke. (And also hugging please.)
“Fuckin’ hate you,” Dean mutters into his coffee.
You love me, Sam mouths back. It’s true! It’s all true!
Way Sam can still communicate with Dean #10: kissing WITH TONGUE.
They’re on the downtime between hunts when Dean finally gets sick of it. It had to happen sooner or later. Honestly, he’s surprised it wasn’t sooner. And at last, the hair theme brought up in the opening, with Sam being a hairy dog and whatnot, reaches its thrilling climax! Loving haircuts!
“Your hair’s gotta go, man” he blurts out. “I think things are living in it. As in, I think Bigfoot’s relocated with the wife and kids. Seriously, they’ve relocated to your head.”
Sam drops his sandwich. He licks a drop of mustard off his thumb, eyeing Dean like some kind of startled - Bigfoot, Dean’s mind supplies - fluffy woodland creature. Then he grabs a notepad.
1. SOMETIMES I WORRY ABOUT YOU.
2. OKAY.
Dean blinks down at the sheet of paper. He’d kinda been expecting more of a fight. Maybe wrestling Sam onto a chair, having to tie him to it. Screaming and sobbing. That sort of thing.
“Okay,” he says, dropping his own sandwich back onto its wrapper. “Now?”
Sam shrugs and nods, making his own personal ‘shower’ hand action. Dean’s never told him - and he’s never going to - but it kinda looks like he’s sprinkling fairy dust onto his head.
Shower turns on. Dean grabs his chair and drags it into the centre of the motel room. They’ve got a pair of scissors somewhere, for spontaneous hair-cutting times like these, or for when money’s too short to waste on things like hair cuts. By the time Dean’s found them, in one of the duffles in the Impala, and rustled up a comb as well, Sam’s done showering. He ambles out of the bathroom, roughly towelling his hair. It’s past shoulder length, when wet.
Dean can’t remember the last time Sam got it cut, but he figures it was probably before everything ended. Too damn long. And now they’re moving on, in a way.
“Sit,” he says.
Sam sits. Dean grabs the damp towel from him and drops it around his shoulders. He combs Sam’s hair quickly and can’t help smirking as Sam makes disgruntled little noises whenever he reaches a knot.
“Seriously,” he says, “how old are you? Do I need to get you a lollipop?”
He can feel Sam roll his eyes. Don’t ask him how; he just can.
“Okay, kiddo, gonna start cutting now. Don’t be scared of the scissors,” he adds, ruffling Sam’s hair. “I know they seem scary, but I promise they’re gentle.”
Sam flicks his stomach. Dean starts snipping.
He likes using his hands; he always has. Okay, usually it’s more the kind of thing that involves his baby’s engine or a broken radio, but using his hands is using his hands. There’s something weirdly soothing about these repetitive movements: runs comb through hair, separates a strand, trims it down. It’s not fantastic, ‘cause, yeah, he likes using his hands but that doesn’t make him a freaking hairdresser, but Sam’s hair is getting shorter and Sam’s a warm, still presence to the touch.
“I feel like I should be asking you about your vacation,” he mutters. “Going anywhere nice this summer? Tilt your head down,” he adds, pressing a hand to the back of Sam’s neck. Sam snorts, lowering his head so Dean can trim the hair at the nape, and he does a reasonably tidy job of it too.
He’s multi-talented, apparently.
“Okay, I think we got rid of Bigfoot now,” he says, shifting around to the side to get at Sam’s bangs. Sam glances across at him, head tilting sceptically. “Yeah, easy for you to say, you didn’t have to look at it every day.”
Bangs trimmed - a bit lopsided, but who’s gonna know? - he brushes them back behind Sam’s ear. And there’s the scar. Ear to ear, almost.
He’s never really looked at it too closely, not lately. At first, when it was still healing, he could barely look away, but - not lately. The long hair hid it, kind of. Maybe that’s why Sam let it get so long in the first place.
“It’s fading,” he says, trailing a finger down. “Think you’ll ever be able to-”
Sam shakes his head, gently. Consolatory smile. Like Dean’s the one needs consoling.
“Yeah, I guess not.” He sighs, crouching down. Folds his arms on Sam’s thigh. “I was ready to kill Ruby, you know. I’d almost been starting to trust her, and then - then she did that. I grabbed the knife right out of her hand.” It’s exhausting just remembering. He drops his chin into his arms and, within seconds, Sam’s hand is curling around the back of his neck. “No fucking way, I thought - no fucking way someone can survive that. I thought you were dead.”
Okay so, in my original plan - the angsty one - Sam’s muteness was, like I said, a psychological thing. In my first plan of this version of the fic, when I was just brainstorming and jotting down ideas, Sam took Lucifer into himself and then psychically killed him from the inside (which - I do think would be pretty badass.) The fiery demonic death left him kind of charred inside, which burnt his throat up and voila, muteness.
Unlike with the angsty version, it had to be a sacrifice. It had to be Sam making a sacrifice. Not because I necessarily think that he needs to be redeemed, per se, but I think he thinks he needs to be redeemed. Dean went to Hell for him and, as far as my interpretation of Sam is concerned, the fact that it was for/because of him made his need for revenge even worse than it would have been. (In Mystery Spot, he wasn’t really looking for revenge against the Trickster; just his brother back.) Sam needs to sacrifice something for Dean, so he can stop being all revenge-y and just be his brother again, debt repaid. YMMV.
Sam taps his ear gently.
I was, he mouths, when Dean looks up. And then, I’m sorry.
“Right, right, blood sacrifice. I know.” He pauses, rubs a hand across his face. “Next time we gotta save the world, man, tell me what you’re planning. I mean - Bam, you break the final seal, bam, oh great it’s Lucifer, bam, he’s possessed you, bam, you’re dead. It was a pretty stressful coupla minutes.”
So it stopped being Sam killing Lucifer from the inside with his psychic powers and became a blood sacrifice because:
Blood letting as purification &c. Blood magic is powerful. Blood in general is powerful (family blood, demon blood, drinking blood.) I subscribe to the theory that when a demon possesses a human they are in the bloodstream, as much as a kinda metaphorical construct can be anywhere. The demon blood inside of Sam. Lucifer was in Sam’s blood. Ruby’s knife kills demons by - maybe - coming into contact with their blood. (It’s not the Colt that kills demons, it’s the bullets.) Maybe the knife alone wouldn’t be able to do the job, but combine that with blood and a self-sacrificial death and you’ve got some serious evil-vanquishing power. If Aslan has taught us only one thing, it’s that.
Sam died for his/our/Lucifer’s sins and then he came back. Because he’s the motherfucking (anti)Christ.
I’m sorry.
“Asshole.”
Sam smiles down at him, with his stupid lopsided hair and his big, dumb dog face and the thin white scar across his throat. A soft look in his eyes. He draws Dean up into kneeling by the collar of his shirt, smooths a hand down the side of his face. Foreheads tipped together.
I’m sorry, Sam mouths again, too close for Dean to see it, but he can feel it; the movement in the air, the slightest brush of their lips. He breathes out. Sam breathes in.
I should be scared right now, Dean thinks, distantly. I should be fucking terrified.
He isn’t, though.
One tiny little shift into place brings their lips together. Tiny like tectonic plates. Sam breathes out, Dean breathes in, and there’s a second where he thinks oh fuck because he’s got it all wrong, but then Sam’s grip tightens almost painful on the back of his neck and his mouth falls open and suddenly it’s kissing. The slow easy pressure of their lips moving together, the slide of tongues, the friction-heat of it coiling from his mouth right down to his spine. One hand on Sam’s knee still, the other open on his stomach. Loose curls of hair between his fingers.
Sam mouths something against Dean’s lips (I love you), but he already knows it. Doesn’t need to see it or feel it. Doesn’t need to hear it.
He just knows it. He knows it because it’s what Sam’s been saying for the entire damn fic.
Here is the first sentence I wrote: Route 66, with all the windows rolled down, riding in the slipstream of the sunset light. Dean could drive this with his eyes closed, nothing but the wind and the speed and the engine’s vibrations, Rush on the stereo. The world’s a golden glow. And this was the first mental image I had, once I’d done away with the angsty fic idea and converted to this one instead. Sam and Dean and an empty road and contentment. I actually started writing it as the opening to the fic, but then I decided it would be a lot more emotionally satisfying here at the end. SO I DID THAT.
Shut up, fool.
“I wish I’d never gotten you that, now.”
I pity the fool.
“Pity your face.”
Don’t gimme no backtalk, sucka.
“Jesus, I can’t believe I was upset when I thought you’d died again.”
Sam throws his head back and he laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs. (Wheezily, or normally, or silently.)
And the road before them is long and empty and perfect. They bicker and they drive and they be HAPPY together and they have a whole new ambiguous journey ahead of them. In conclusion: self-indulgent fic is very, very self-indulgent. AND I LIKE IT THAT WAY.
Elbow - On a Day Like This
I think you just need to listen to this song to know why it’s here. But - because it is immensely happy and it sounds like this fic felt to write.
- What made me behave that way?
Using words I never say
I can only think it must be love
Oh, anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day
*
HOPEFULLY THIS WASN’T ENTIRELY BORING.