fic: cracked (supernatural)
Title: Cracked
Rating: R
Summary: It's not about him. It's about Sam.
Spoilers: Through Asylum.
******
Sam and Dean drink bad coffee in the diner across the street from the motel and watch the neon vacancy sign flicker on and off, vivid against the rush of twilight. They can’t see the sunset from here, only the deep orange light that turns the trees into shadows and makes pedestrians quicken their steps. Sam’s eyes are shadowed and Dean’s staring at the dog-eared menu, and just outside, the Impala gleams with false promises.
If you go fast enough, you’ll escape.
If you go far enough, it won’t matter anymore.
If you don’t mention it, it’ll go away.
They’re both too old to believe these, but they’re used to pretending. They both think their father’s responsible for this; the difference is that Dean thanks him and Sam hates him for it.
******
Dean doesn’t have much use for regrets. Life happens, shit happens, you go on. His mother dies screaming on the ceiling, engulfed in flames, and he makes a vow to find whatever did that to her (though that’s years later, when he can comprehend exactly what it was, when it’s more than his brother in his arms as he stumbles down the front stairs, crying with smoke and fear and where’s mommy?). But he doesn’t regret it, doesn’t relive it any more than he has to, ‘cause there’s nothing he can do about it. When his brother’s almost mauled by a werewolf, the shotgun bucks in his hands and he doesn’t think about being there sooner. When the shapeshifter with his dad’s eyes charges at him, he kills it without question, because it’s what his dad told him to do. He follows orders and he doesn’t regret, and he sleeps (though not exactly well) at night.
And so he doesn’t wish he’d left Sam in California, when their dad (left) went missing. He doesn’t wish that he’d let Sam play Mr Joe Normal for a little longer, until his girlfriend’s blood dripped onto his face and she went up in flames, sacrificed to who the hell knows what. If he had, Sam would have been there. And Sam would have died, because nobody would have been there to drag him from the room before the whole fucking apartment caught on fire. And how can he wish for something that would kill his brother, that would leave him to die staring at his dead girlfriend, realization slipping in like ice as smoke curled around him?
He can’t. So he doesn’t.
It’s simple.
And yet he still can’t get Sam’s words out of his head: Sam wishes that Dean didn’t exist, that Dean had left him there, that Dean had abandoned him to some psycho Stepford life.
Sam wishes that Dean were dead. And the click of the hammer against the empty chamber echoes off of the walls of Dean’s skull, ‘cause this is something that he can’t just ignore, no matter how hard he tries.
Sam tried to kill him, because he really does hate Dean that much. Dean had thought that they both hated each other, just a little, and that’s what keeps them going, what keeps either of them from sacrificing too much, but that it was borne of jealousy. Sam -- Sam just hates him.
So suddenly (though maybe he should have known it all along, rather than pretending that things were a-okay, we’re road-tripping to find our dad, killing evil things along the way, go team) -- suddenly there’s a reason Sam doesn’t laugh at his jokes and why he sometimes just stares at Dean, eyes dark and shadowed and Dean feels something creep at the back of his mind, because stares like that mean something’s coming, something bad, run while you can. Except in this case, it’s Sam who wants to run, who wants to go back to his fucking normal life and leave Dean in the middle of fucking nowhere. He wonders if one day Sam’ll just be gone, if Dean’ll wake up and there’ll be a note -- thanks, that was fun, don’t call me -- and that’ll be it. Because he doesn’t think that Sam will try to kill him again (at least of his own volition), but he’s not sure that being abandoned would be any better.
Dean read about his death in the paper, after New Orleans: they had a funeral, but nobody showed. He didn’t mention it to Sammy, ‘cause what else would he expect (funeral of a serial killer and all) and he doesn’t think Sam would get it. Sam (had) has friends. Dean doesn’t.
There’s steam on the mirror and the hot water burns across his skin, because it’s easier for the water to scar than for the water that stings his cuts to be tears. He’s meant to be protecting Sammy. They’re family. And Sam hates him, which is totally in line with his life and which is totally wrong, and Dean can’t help but think that maybe Sam’s right, just a little.
He’d put his fist through the shower door if they had one, but it’s a flimsy plastic curtain, so he just lets go, and he can’t muster the energy to smash the mirror, either, when he sees his reflection.
It’s not about him. It’s about Sam. And what they don’t have.
******
Sam’s waiting for him, sitting on the edge of the bed, when he comes out of the bathroom. “Dean, we need to talk,” he says, looking tired and sad and all of sixteen years old in his fraying pajamas. There is no chick-flick moment Oprah enough to make up for Sam having lied to Dean, for Sam letting Dean believe that they were somehow okay, that they were brothers and friends and that Sam actually liked him.
“No,” Dean says. “We really don’t.” He smiles brightly until Sam gets out of his way, and then he turns the lamp off and tries to sleep.
******
Dean wakes when Sammy has nightmares, but not when he has dreams. If Sam gasps, his hand will be on his knife, at his brother’s side, but when Sam is quiet, he sleeps, and even if it’s not peaceful, it could be worse.
This doesn’t change.
But when Sammy wakes, he’s not crying for Jess, but for Dean, and he stares down at his hands as though expecting them to be covered in blood, pricked with gunpowder.
Dean rolls over to face the wall and listens to Sammy breathe. Neither of them are able to fall back asleep that night.
******
The next day, Sam wants to get his hair trimmed. Dean, grinning maniacally, offers to cut it himself, but Sam, wide-eyed, steps out of his reach. Dean flips the scissors open on his utility knife and takes a step closer. Sam neatly dodges him and goes left; Dean trips him. It’s a game, until Sam cringes and says, “don’t do it,” and Dean knows that Sam knows that he could, and he knows that Sam thinks that he will. It’s just a fucking haircut and Sammy sounds like he’s pleading for his life, and partly because of this, Dean doesn’t think things will ever be the same between them. Trying to kill somebody tends to destroy a relationship, and if it’s your brother (I would die for you) --
Dean doesn’t have much experience in lasting relationships, but he’s pretty sure that this won’t end well.
******
There’s darkness behind them, darkness all the way to the horizon ahead. Dean drives and Sam slumps in the passenger’s seat, offering half-hearted sarcasm, and neither says anything until they’re out of Illinois.
“Why did Dad send us there?” Sam asks, toying with a loose string from his jacket sleeve. Dean looks over at him, but he doesn’t look up. This is the first time he’s mentioned it since the motel room, and Dean wonders what Sam thinks has changed. Because as far as he’s concerned, nothing has.
“It was a job, man,” Dean says. “And he couldn’t make it.”
“No, I mean, do you think he knew about . . . what would happen? The spirits?”
“Of course he knew,” Dean says. “He thought we could handle it. And we did, so what’s the problem?”
“I almost killed you.”
He shrugged. “Other than that, I mean.”
“I said horrible things, Dean, and I know you don’t wanna talk about it, but we have to.”
“Why? ‘Cause you say so? Sorry, Sammy, but I don’t follow your orders.”
“Right, you just follow his,” Sam says.
“We’re not doing this,” Dean says, and he turns up the music. Sam opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but he decides against it and leans back against the seat, staring at the rain.
They’re bruised, hollow. Their lives are shadows and cigarettes, knife-glints and the way the headlights cut through rain at midnight. Phantoms and ghosts and engine noise, blood-cry and Metallica. They live in the in-between, on the sides, out of reach. There is so much that Dean wants, and so much that he’ll never have, so he’s learned to pretend that it doesn’t matter. Sam is learning to do the same, and it kills Dean to see this; each time, with each word, he feels it as though it’s happening to him again, this slow harshening.
And Sam doesn’t notice. Which is how it should be.
******
They’re exhausted by the time they stop for the night. Dean’s hands are shaking on the wheel and they’re seeing death out of the corners of their eyes. There are shapes in the fog and they hurry inside, because they face death every night and the day it gets old is the day they die for real.
Nobody lives forever. It’s in their eyes, underlying every word, but neither will be the first to say it aloud. To say it makes it real. Dean is tough and Sam is brave. Dean acts like he’s five years old and Sammy rolls his eyes. They survive on fantasy.
Nobody lives forever, and they’re not champions. Rain smashes against the windows and pools on the uneven asphalt of the parking lot. Dean leaves crumpled coffee cups and paper wrappers all over the room, and Sam doesn’t say anything.
******
“I’m going out,” Dean says, and the wind slams the door shut behind him. Later, when he comes back, he sheds his soaked-through jacket and tosses his winnings down on the table. Cigarette smoke clings to him, untouched by the rain, and he wants nothing more than to sleep.
“We’re going to talk about it,” Sam says.
“No, we’re not.”
“Are too,” Sam says automatically.
“Could always try holding a gun to my head again,” Dean says as he kicks off his boots.
“Do you want me to beg?” Sam asks. “Please, Dean.” This is what comes closest to breaking Dean, because it’s Sam who’s doing this, Sam who hates him, and so Sam should not be pleading for forgiveness. Dean presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“Go to sleep, Sammy,” Dean says, and then Sam is quiet, and Dean reaches over to turn off the light.
******
This time, when Sam wakes screaming, he’s screaming for help. And this is what makes the difference. This is why Dean rolls out of bed and thumbs away Sammy’s tears, and this is why they both say a lot of things that they don’t mean, and some that they do. More is expressed with the heartbroken tone, the stutter and pause, than they could ever say with words, anyway.
Dean crushes Sammy against him, because all they have is each other and so he, neither of them, can ever leave, because there is nothing else left for either of them. Because nothing could come close to this. Sam leans against him like he’s empty, broken, like there’s nothing left to cry. His hair still smells like the expensive hair-stuff from the barber shop and Dean’s chest aches, because neither of them are ever really numb, and there are a thousand cracks and crevices between them. However they look on the outside, just below that they’re seething, tensed, rubbed raw, jagged, alive. Waiting.
And he will never say no, and he will never say please. This is how it goes.
******
So Sam bleeds and breathes and hits him, and Dean’s no longer alone. Together, they’re still broken, but they’re stronger than he could have imagined. And when Sam chokes and screams and almost dies, later, and Dean’s arms are tight around him because he can’t imagine ever letting go -- that’s family.
This is what he has and he will die before he lets it go.
******
Dean sleeps.
He tries not to dream anymore.
******
End
Rating: R
Summary: It's not about him. It's about Sam.
Spoilers: Through Asylum.
******
Sam and Dean drink bad coffee in the diner across the street from the motel and watch the neon vacancy sign flicker on and off, vivid against the rush of twilight. They can’t see the sunset from here, only the deep orange light that turns the trees into shadows and makes pedestrians quicken their steps. Sam’s eyes are shadowed and Dean’s staring at the dog-eared menu, and just outside, the Impala gleams with false promises.
If you go fast enough, you’ll escape.
If you go far enough, it won’t matter anymore.
If you don’t mention it, it’ll go away.
They’re both too old to believe these, but they’re used to pretending. They both think their father’s responsible for this; the difference is that Dean thanks him and Sam hates him for it.
******
Dean doesn’t have much use for regrets. Life happens, shit happens, you go on. His mother dies screaming on the ceiling, engulfed in flames, and he makes a vow to find whatever did that to her (though that’s years later, when he can comprehend exactly what it was, when it’s more than his brother in his arms as he stumbles down the front stairs, crying with smoke and fear and where’s mommy?). But he doesn’t regret it, doesn’t relive it any more than he has to, ‘cause there’s nothing he can do about it. When his brother’s almost mauled by a werewolf, the shotgun bucks in his hands and he doesn’t think about being there sooner. When the shapeshifter with his dad’s eyes charges at him, he kills it without question, because it’s what his dad told him to do. He follows orders and he doesn’t regret, and he sleeps (though not exactly well) at night.
And so he doesn’t wish he’d left Sam in California, when their dad (left) went missing. He doesn’t wish that he’d let Sam play Mr Joe Normal for a little longer, until his girlfriend’s blood dripped onto his face and she went up in flames, sacrificed to who the hell knows what. If he had, Sam would have been there. And Sam would have died, because nobody would have been there to drag him from the room before the whole fucking apartment caught on fire. And how can he wish for something that would kill his brother, that would leave him to die staring at his dead girlfriend, realization slipping in like ice as smoke curled around him?
He can’t. So he doesn’t.
It’s simple.
And yet he still can’t get Sam’s words out of his head: Sam wishes that Dean didn’t exist, that Dean had left him there, that Dean had abandoned him to some psycho Stepford life.
Sam wishes that Dean were dead. And the click of the hammer against the empty chamber echoes off of the walls of Dean’s skull, ‘cause this is something that he can’t just ignore, no matter how hard he tries.
Sam tried to kill him, because he really does hate Dean that much. Dean had thought that they both hated each other, just a little, and that’s what keeps them going, what keeps either of them from sacrificing too much, but that it was borne of jealousy. Sam -- Sam just hates him.
So suddenly (though maybe he should have known it all along, rather than pretending that things were a-okay, we’re road-tripping to find our dad, killing evil things along the way, go team) -- suddenly there’s a reason Sam doesn’t laugh at his jokes and why he sometimes just stares at Dean, eyes dark and shadowed and Dean feels something creep at the back of his mind, because stares like that mean something’s coming, something bad, run while you can. Except in this case, it’s Sam who wants to run, who wants to go back to his fucking normal life and leave Dean in the middle of fucking nowhere. He wonders if one day Sam’ll just be gone, if Dean’ll wake up and there’ll be a note -- thanks, that was fun, don’t call me -- and that’ll be it. Because he doesn’t think that Sam will try to kill him again (at least of his own volition), but he’s not sure that being abandoned would be any better.
Dean read about his death in the paper, after New Orleans: they had a funeral, but nobody showed. He didn’t mention it to Sammy, ‘cause what else would he expect (funeral of a serial killer and all) and he doesn’t think Sam would get it. Sam (had) has friends. Dean doesn’t.
There’s steam on the mirror and the hot water burns across his skin, because it’s easier for the water to scar than for the water that stings his cuts to be tears. He’s meant to be protecting Sammy. They’re family. And Sam hates him, which is totally in line with his life and which is totally wrong, and Dean can’t help but think that maybe Sam’s right, just a little.
He’d put his fist through the shower door if they had one, but it’s a flimsy plastic curtain, so he just lets go, and he can’t muster the energy to smash the mirror, either, when he sees his reflection.
It’s not about him. It’s about Sam. And what they don’t have.
******
Sam’s waiting for him, sitting on the edge of the bed, when he comes out of the bathroom. “Dean, we need to talk,” he says, looking tired and sad and all of sixteen years old in his fraying pajamas. There is no chick-flick moment Oprah enough to make up for Sam having lied to Dean, for Sam letting Dean believe that they were somehow okay, that they were brothers and friends and that Sam actually liked him.
“No,” Dean says. “We really don’t.” He smiles brightly until Sam gets out of his way, and then he turns the lamp off and tries to sleep.
******
Dean wakes when Sammy has nightmares, but not when he has dreams. If Sam gasps, his hand will be on his knife, at his brother’s side, but when Sam is quiet, he sleeps, and even if it’s not peaceful, it could be worse.
This doesn’t change.
But when Sammy wakes, he’s not crying for Jess, but for Dean, and he stares down at his hands as though expecting them to be covered in blood, pricked with gunpowder.
Dean rolls over to face the wall and listens to Sammy breathe. Neither of them are able to fall back asleep that night.
******
The next day, Sam wants to get his hair trimmed. Dean, grinning maniacally, offers to cut it himself, but Sam, wide-eyed, steps out of his reach. Dean flips the scissors open on his utility knife and takes a step closer. Sam neatly dodges him and goes left; Dean trips him. It’s a game, until Sam cringes and says, “don’t do it,” and Dean knows that Sam knows that he could, and he knows that Sam thinks that he will. It’s just a fucking haircut and Sammy sounds like he’s pleading for his life, and partly because of this, Dean doesn’t think things will ever be the same between them. Trying to kill somebody tends to destroy a relationship, and if it’s your brother (I would die for you) --
Dean doesn’t have much experience in lasting relationships, but he’s pretty sure that this won’t end well.
******
There’s darkness behind them, darkness all the way to the horizon ahead. Dean drives and Sam slumps in the passenger’s seat, offering half-hearted sarcasm, and neither says anything until they’re out of Illinois.
“Why did Dad send us there?” Sam asks, toying with a loose string from his jacket sleeve. Dean looks over at him, but he doesn’t look up. This is the first time he’s mentioned it since the motel room, and Dean wonders what Sam thinks has changed. Because as far as he’s concerned, nothing has.
“It was a job, man,” Dean says. “And he couldn’t make it.”
“No, I mean, do you think he knew about . . . what would happen? The spirits?”
“Of course he knew,” Dean says. “He thought we could handle it. And we did, so what’s the problem?”
“I almost killed you.”
He shrugged. “Other than that, I mean.”
“I said horrible things, Dean, and I know you don’t wanna talk about it, but we have to.”
“Why? ‘Cause you say so? Sorry, Sammy, but I don’t follow your orders.”
“Right, you just follow his,” Sam says.
“We’re not doing this,” Dean says, and he turns up the music. Sam opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but he decides against it and leans back against the seat, staring at the rain.
They’re bruised, hollow. Their lives are shadows and cigarettes, knife-glints and the way the headlights cut through rain at midnight. Phantoms and ghosts and engine noise, blood-cry and Metallica. They live in the in-between, on the sides, out of reach. There is so much that Dean wants, and so much that he’ll never have, so he’s learned to pretend that it doesn’t matter. Sam is learning to do the same, and it kills Dean to see this; each time, with each word, he feels it as though it’s happening to him again, this slow harshening.
And Sam doesn’t notice. Which is how it should be.
******
They’re exhausted by the time they stop for the night. Dean’s hands are shaking on the wheel and they’re seeing death out of the corners of their eyes. There are shapes in the fog and they hurry inside, because they face death every night and the day it gets old is the day they die for real.
Nobody lives forever. It’s in their eyes, underlying every word, but neither will be the first to say it aloud. To say it makes it real. Dean is tough and Sam is brave. Dean acts like he’s five years old and Sammy rolls his eyes. They survive on fantasy.
Nobody lives forever, and they’re not champions. Rain smashes against the windows and pools on the uneven asphalt of the parking lot. Dean leaves crumpled coffee cups and paper wrappers all over the room, and Sam doesn’t say anything.
******
“I’m going out,” Dean says, and the wind slams the door shut behind him. Later, when he comes back, he sheds his soaked-through jacket and tosses his winnings down on the table. Cigarette smoke clings to him, untouched by the rain, and he wants nothing more than to sleep.
“We’re going to talk about it,” Sam says.
“No, we’re not.”
“Are too,” Sam says automatically.
“Could always try holding a gun to my head again,” Dean says as he kicks off his boots.
“Do you want me to beg?” Sam asks. “Please, Dean.” This is what comes closest to breaking Dean, because it’s Sam who’s doing this, Sam who hates him, and so Sam should not be pleading for forgiveness. Dean presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“Go to sleep, Sammy,” Dean says, and then Sam is quiet, and Dean reaches over to turn off the light.
******
This time, when Sam wakes screaming, he’s screaming for help. And this is what makes the difference. This is why Dean rolls out of bed and thumbs away Sammy’s tears, and this is why they both say a lot of things that they don’t mean, and some that they do. More is expressed with the heartbroken tone, the stutter and pause, than they could ever say with words, anyway.
Dean crushes Sammy against him, because all they have is each other and so he, neither of them, can ever leave, because there is nothing else left for either of them. Because nothing could come close to this. Sam leans against him like he’s empty, broken, like there’s nothing left to cry. His hair still smells like the expensive hair-stuff from the barber shop and Dean’s chest aches, because neither of them are ever really numb, and there are a thousand cracks and crevices between them. However they look on the outside, just below that they’re seething, tensed, rubbed raw, jagged, alive. Waiting.
And he will never say no, and he will never say please. This is how it goes.
******
So Sam bleeds and breathes and hits him, and Dean’s no longer alone. Together, they’re still broken, but they’re stronger than he could have imagined. And when Sam chokes and screams and almost dies, later, and Dean’s arms are tight around him because he can’t imagine ever letting go -- that’s family.
This is what he has and he will die before he lets it go.
******
Dean sleeps.
He tries not to dream anymore.
******
End