SPN fic
I can code, I really can.
I wrote something for this week's spnflashfic. The prompt was things not said.
Sam doesn’t speak to Dean for two days after Omaha.
At first, Dean keeps up his usual running commentary on how hot the Sheriff’s deputy had been and what a dick the Sheriff himself was and come on, tell the truth now, had Sammy ever tasted better blackberry pie than they’d had at the dinner before they headed out of town?
He pretty much talks himself hoarse, what with having to answer himself to cover up the fact that Sam sure as hell isn’t answering him. But it’s not like he’s fooling either one of them into thinking there are really two people in this conversation, and round about sundown he trails off and pulls into the parking lot of a small neglected-looking motel without a word.
The desk clerk, a young lady so glassy-eyed with boredom that Dean’s not even sure she knows he’s there, runs his credit card and hands him a room key without blinking even once. It’s an impressive feat. When he gets back to the Impala he considers telling Sam that they’ve checked into a Zombie Motel, but a quick glance at Sam’s rigid face stops the words before they’re half-formed.
Dean shrugs and opens the trunk, hauling his duffle out. He grabs the first-aid kit while he’s at it. Might as well tend to those stitches after he takes a shower. Sam’s beside him, grabbing his own bag, and his glare gets fiercer when he sees the kit Dean’s trying to quickly shove into his duffle.
Dean heads toward their room, feeling Sam’s frown drilling a hole between his shoulder blades as he shoves the key into the lock and opens the door. The room has that musty smell Dean always associates with their childhood and he misses his Dad like a phantom limb. The pang of loss is so familiar it barely registers, nothing sudden so much as just an increase in intensity of what’s always present anyway.
There’s a number for a local pizza delivery place next to the phone and Dean’s got it dialed and the pizza ordered almost before Sam gets his big giant head into the room. Then he kicks his boots off, grabs his shit and heads for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
If Sam wants to be a dick about things, Dean can be one, too.
When Dean gets out of the shower, Sam is standing there waiting for him, first aid kit in his hand. “Dude, a little privacy here?” Dean says, but mostly he’s glad he doesn’t have to deal with his injury himself. It’s not really what he’d call an injury, it’s just a really deep scratch, but Sam had insisted on whipping a few stitches in before they left Omaha.
“Shut up and hold still,” Sam had snarled, and he hasn’t said a word since.
It may only be a scratch, but it’d damn near impossible to deal with something like that when it’s on your own hip, so after Sam checks the stitches and smears antibiotic ointment on it before slapping a clean dressing none-too-gently across Dean’s ass, Dean tries a smile and says, “Thanks, dude.”
Sam turns away without a word and Dean feels his shoulders slump just a little.
The television is broken and the evening passes pretty goddamn quietly, the silence broken only by the sounds of eating and drinking. Dean doesn’t bother to make as much noise as he could with his pizza. No sense trying to gross Sam out if he’s pointedly not looking at Dean.
They’re not headed anywhere in particular yet, so when Dean wakes up before Sam he heads to the McDonald’s across the street, bringing back Egg McMuffins and hash browns and pancakes and coffee. It’s not a peace offering, per se, they have to eat, but Sammy used to love Egg McMuffins when they were kids. He’d probably deny it now, even with a gun to his head.
Sam eats his food, but not with any noticeable sign of enjoyment or appeasement. Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t understand someone who can’t be won over with food.
They spend the day driving in the same silence they spent yesterday in and now Dean’s getting pissed. Where the fuck does Sam get off, acting this way? Dean hasn’t done anything wrong, certainly not anything to deserve the silent treatment that Sam’s such an expert at dishing out.
Dean’s tried doing that a few times, when Sam’s pissed him off enough, but he’s crap at it. He just can’t be quiet long enough for Sam to even notice that Dean’s not speaking to him. Dean’s better at yelling.
Sam, though. Sam’s more than good at it. He knows how to make the silence talk, how to make the silence say, “You fucked up, Dean. You fucked up but good and this is what happens when you fuck up. You’re not worth the effort of words.”
Sam had learned it from an expert.
Not that John ever gave Sam the silent treatment. Not with much success, anyway. Sam never let him. He’d push and poke until John exploded in anger, but it was a hot rage that burned itself out quickly. It was at least warm.
Dean didn’t push John, he acquiesced in his own punishment, letting the silence get colder and colder until his dad decided it was enough to make his point.
And now Sam is doing the same thing and in spite of his bravado, Dean isn’t sure how much longer he can stand it.
Another crappy motel with another bored desk clerk, Chinese this time instead of pizza. No way is Dean sitting in a diner or restaurant with someone who isn’t speaking to him. He eats his mu shoo pork sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, staring at the TV, not hearing the laugh track of whatever inane sitcom they’re watching or the loud used car commercials. He goes back over the hunt in his head, and he still doesn’t think he took any unnecessary chances. Not enough for Sam to have his panties in such a twist about, anyway.
The news comes on while he’s still sucking on the end of his chopsticks and he shakes himself out of his reverie, looking across the fathomless space between the beds at his brother.
Sam’s face has relaxed without Dean’s scrutiny, softened as he watches the news and Dean takes a chance, gambles on that softness.
“Sammy.” He pauses. “Sammy, I’m sorry.” He waits.
Sam’s lips thin and his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t even twitch.
“Please,” Dean whispers, and he feels like he’s twelve years old again.
Sam bows his head. He sighs. Finally, finally he looks at Dean and says, “You have - we have four months left. Are you trying to take that away from me, too?” His eyes are dark and heavy with grief.
Sam will never have any notion of the considerable burden of guilt Dean labors under, has labored under, all his life. Guilt and duty so intertwined it’s impossible anymore for him to tell one from the other. Sam will never have any idea because Dean will never tell him.
He knows he adds to it everyday, because he adds to Sam’s fear and grief everyday. It’s not what he wanted, but what he wanted has never mattered.
Dean looks across at Sam. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. There’s nothing else he can say. Sam nods and begins to talk.
That’s one more thing for Dean to feel guilty about - the fact that he’s lying to Sam.
He’s not really sorry at all.
I wrote something for this week's spnflashfic. The prompt was things not said.
Sam doesn’t speak to Dean for two days after Omaha.
At first, Dean keeps up his usual running commentary on how hot the Sheriff’s deputy had been and what a dick the Sheriff himself was and come on, tell the truth now, had Sammy ever tasted better blackberry pie than they’d had at the dinner before they headed out of town?
He pretty much talks himself hoarse, what with having to answer himself to cover up the fact that Sam sure as hell isn’t answering him. But it’s not like he’s fooling either one of them into thinking there are really two people in this conversation, and round about sundown he trails off and pulls into the parking lot of a small neglected-looking motel without a word.
The desk clerk, a young lady so glassy-eyed with boredom that Dean’s not even sure she knows he’s there, runs his credit card and hands him a room key without blinking even once. It’s an impressive feat. When he gets back to the Impala he considers telling Sam that they’ve checked into a Zombie Motel, but a quick glance at Sam’s rigid face stops the words before they’re half-formed.
Dean shrugs and opens the trunk, hauling his duffle out. He grabs the first-aid kit while he’s at it. Might as well tend to those stitches after he takes a shower. Sam’s beside him, grabbing his own bag, and his glare gets fiercer when he sees the kit Dean’s trying to quickly shove into his duffle.
Dean heads toward their room, feeling Sam’s frown drilling a hole between his shoulder blades as he shoves the key into the lock and opens the door. The room has that musty smell Dean always associates with their childhood and he misses his Dad like a phantom limb. The pang of loss is so familiar it barely registers, nothing sudden so much as just an increase in intensity of what’s always present anyway.
There’s a number for a local pizza delivery place next to the phone and Dean’s got it dialed and the pizza ordered almost before Sam gets his big giant head into the room. Then he kicks his boots off, grabs his shit and heads for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
If Sam wants to be a dick about things, Dean can be one, too.
When Dean gets out of the shower, Sam is standing there waiting for him, first aid kit in his hand. “Dude, a little privacy here?” Dean says, but mostly he’s glad he doesn’t have to deal with his injury himself. It’s not really what he’d call an injury, it’s just a really deep scratch, but Sam had insisted on whipping a few stitches in before they left Omaha.
“Shut up and hold still,” Sam had snarled, and he hasn’t said a word since.
It may only be a scratch, but it’d damn near impossible to deal with something like that when it’s on your own hip, so after Sam checks the stitches and smears antibiotic ointment on it before slapping a clean dressing none-too-gently across Dean’s ass, Dean tries a smile and says, “Thanks, dude.”
Sam turns away without a word and Dean feels his shoulders slump just a little.
The television is broken and the evening passes pretty goddamn quietly, the silence broken only by the sounds of eating and drinking. Dean doesn’t bother to make as much noise as he could with his pizza. No sense trying to gross Sam out if he’s pointedly not looking at Dean.
They’re not headed anywhere in particular yet, so when Dean wakes up before Sam he heads to the McDonald’s across the street, bringing back Egg McMuffins and hash browns and pancakes and coffee. It’s not a peace offering, per se, they have to eat, but Sammy used to love Egg McMuffins when they were kids. He’d probably deny it now, even with a gun to his head.
Sam eats his food, but not with any noticeable sign of enjoyment or appeasement. Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t understand someone who can’t be won over with food.
They spend the day driving in the same silence they spent yesterday in and now Dean’s getting pissed. Where the fuck does Sam get off, acting this way? Dean hasn’t done anything wrong, certainly not anything to deserve the silent treatment that Sam’s such an expert at dishing out.
Dean’s tried doing that a few times, when Sam’s pissed him off enough, but he’s crap at it. He just can’t be quiet long enough for Sam to even notice that Dean’s not speaking to him. Dean’s better at yelling.
Sam, though. Sam’s more than good at it. He knows how to make the silence talk, how to make the silence say, “You fucked up, Dean. You fucked up but good and this is what happens when you fuck up. You’re not worth the effort of words.”
Sam had learned it from an expert.
Not that John ever gave Sam the silent treatment. Not with much success, anyway. Sam never let him. He’d push and poke until John exploded in anger, but it was a hot rage that burned itself out quickly. It was at least warm.
Dean didn’t push John, he acquiesced in his own punishment, letting the silence get colder and colder until his dad decided it was enough to make his point.
And now Sam is doing the same thing and in spite of his bravado, Dean isn’t sure how much longer he can stand it.
Another crappy motel with another bored desk clerk, Chinese this time instead of pizza. No way is Dean sitting in a diner or restaurant with someone who isn’t speaking to him. He eats his mu shoo pork sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, staring at the TV, not hearing the laugh track of whatever inane sitcom they’re watching or the loud used car commercials. He goes back over the hunt in his head, and he still doesn’t think he took any unnecessary chances. Not enough for Sam to have his panties in such a twist about, anyway.
The news comes on while he’s still sucking on the end of his chopsticks and he shakes himself out of his reverie, looking across the fathomless space between the beds at his brother.
Sam’s face has relaxed without Dean’s scrutiny, softened as he watches the news and Dean takes a chance, gambles on that softness.
“Sammy.” He pauses. “Sammy, I’m sorry.” He waits.
Sam’s lips thin and his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t even twitch.
“Please,” Dean whispers, and he feels like he’s twelve years old again.
Sam bows his head. He sighs. Finally, finally he looks at Dean and says, “You have - we have four months left. Are you trying to take that away from me, too?” His eyes are dark and heavy with grief.
Sam will never have any notion of the considerable burden of guilt Dean labors under, has labored under, all his life. Guilt and duty so intertwined it’s impossible anymore for him to tell one from the other. Sam will never have any idea because Dean will never tell him.
He knows he adds to it everyday, because he adds to Sam’s fear and grief everyday. It’s not what he wanted, but what he wanted has never mattered.
Dean looks across at Sam. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. There’s nothing else he can say. Sam nods and begins to talk.
That’s one more thing for Dean to feel guilty about - the fact that he’s lying to Sam.
He’s not really sorry at all.