“Okay, uh… listen, kid. Here’s how it is.”
It’s been a long, long time since Dean’s had to have a conversation like this.
Jack looks so damn earnest, same as he always does. Eyes all big and curious, hands clasped together and resting in his lap, leaning closer like Dean’s about to share the secrets of the universe with him. Dean made him come out to the kitchen for this particular talk, because it felt a little too weird to be doing it in the kid’s bedroom. Kid. He reminds himself, not for the first time, that Jack’s not even two years old. It makes this whole thing seem a lot more awkward than it already is.
Dean clears his throat and tries to focus. Straightforward. Simple. He’s done this before; Sam hadn’t been quite so eager about the whole thing- mostly winced and looked embarrassed for them both- but it still counts. It’s still experience enough. Dean can do this.
“Sex is… well, okay, let’s start with something else. When two people really, really care about each other-”
“They court each other?” Jack pops right in with that answer, looking proud to have known an answer. “And then there’s the dating, and then there’s the sex. That’s how it goes, right?”
It’s not any easier to hear the second time around. “Uh- yeah. Something like that. I mean, it isn’t always that way, but…” He trails off. He doesn’t want to get Jack confused about the way things are, and he doesn’t want to send the kid off searching for one-night stands, but he doesn’t want Jack to think that’s wrong, either, and this- this feels a whole lot harder than he thought it would. “Anyways, when two people really like each other- or more than two people, even, depending- when they like each other, sometimes, they’ll want to do… stuff. Together.”
“Sex,” Jack says helpfully. “They want to have sex.”
“Uh- right. Yeah.” Dean wonders, if he prays hard enough, whether some greater being will have enough mercy to kill him on the spot. No harm in trying. “And- and that’s good. Sex is a good thing. As long as everybody’s into it.”
Jack tilts his head. “Into it?”
Dean nods, happy for something to focus on that’s a little less uncomfortable. Consent is easy. “Yeah, into it. Like- like if those two people are gonna do something, then it’s important they both like it, or else somebody’s gonna get hurt. And that’s bad.”
Jack looks like he’s just short of whipping out his little notepad from the hunt and scribbling down every word that comes out of Dean’s mouth. “Bad. Got it. Then what’s good?”
“Whatever they both like doing.” Dean clears his throat again. “They, uh… look, there’s the conventional way of doing things, but lots of people have lots of different tastes, and-”
“Dean, you in here?”
Somebody must have heard his prayers, after all.
Sam comes in with a furrow in his brow and a book in his hand. He opens his mouth like he’s got more to say, but then pauses as he takes in the atmosphere of the room. “What’re you two up to?”
Dean almost comes up with an excuse in time. Almost.
“Dean’s teaching me about sex,” Jack says cheerfully, and Dean watches the way Sam’s face goes slack, counting the reactions as they tick by. Confusion, deeper confusion, a flicker of amusement, more confusion still. “Everybody has to like it, and people like different things.”
Sam visibly fumbles for words for a few seconds. “I, uh- what?”
“He started it,” Dean defends himself. “And- and it’s important. He needs to know these things.”
Sam doesn’t look like he wants to argue that point, but still shakes his head. “That’s… sure. Okay.” A beat passes. “Do you want me to leave, or-?”
“No,” Dean says quickly, because this might be minutely more bearable if he isn’t the sole focus of Jack’s intense gaze. “You, uh- you can stay. Give commentary. Whatever.”
Sam blinks. “You didn’t let me give commentary when you gave me the talk.”
“You gave Sam the talk, too?” Jack asks, and he’s wholly focused on this new topic, and Dean grabs onto it without abandon. “When?”
Eager for the chance to shift the embarrassment to his brother, Dean launches into a story about how they came to be sitting in this very position, decades ago. Jack listens, Sam grumbles and tries not to blush, and Dean slowly settles, finding himself more at ease with his brother’s presence and the comfortable atmosphere.
It’s still embarrassing having to explain all the mechanics to the kid, but at least Sam’s there to suffer through it with him.
320/365
Tag: ficlet
“They really just… give you candy? For knocking on the door?”
Sam hasn’t been trick-or-treating in decades. It’s something he associates with the time before; back when he didn’t know that monsters were real and the world seemed a whole lot safer. Dean would cart him around whichever neighbourhood they were occupying at the time, and they’d come back to the motel room with a few bags of candy and wake up the next morning with stomach-aches and cavities. These days, Halloween is just another day on the job, albeit a busier one than usual.
This year, things are a little different, because suddenly, they’ve got somebody else around.
Jack’s genuine befuddlement around the entire concept of Halloween is endearing. He’s the one who brings up trick-or-treating; he comes to Sam a few days in advance and asks about a commercial he saw on TV. A bunch of kids going door-to-door and getting candy from strangers.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to strangers?” he’d asked then, and Sam had laughed and explained the whole tradition to him. And now-
Now it’s become a bit of a family affair.
Of course Dean was on board right away. Everything else aside, he’s always loved Halloween, if only for the candy. He’s spent the last couple days preparing a costume for himself, and then helping Jack put one together when he asks. It’s nice to see them bond over it. Sam’s not as enthusiastic about the holiday as a general rule, but he wants to give Jack a good experience, so he stays cheerful and nods along when the two of them gush about their upcoming excursion.
Now it’s the night of, and they’re in the car bound for Lebanon, and Jack’s getting nervous. He keeps asking questions, like he’s worried that they’re playing a joke on him. “That doesn’t make any sense. Just… free candy?”
“Free candy,” Dean agrees. He’s decked out in full cowboy gear, because of course he is. Sam has to hide a smile every time he looks his brother’s way. “It’s the best day of the year, next to Christmas. Loads of free candy, and nobody asks any questions. Trust us.”
Jack seems to ponder on that for a moment. He’s wearing little white wings and a halo- his own request, and one that still makes Sam warm to see- and in his lap is an old pillowcase they dug up, ready to be filled with whatever candy they’re offered. “I do.”
Dean drives them around until they find a busy neighbourhood, extensively decorated for the season. Kids are running around with their parents, and older teenagers move in packs from house to house. Sam thinks they might end up looking a little out of place, but it doesn’t matter. “Ready to go?”
Apparently over his nerves, Jack nods, nearly bouncing in his seat. It’s easy to forget how young he really is, but it’s clear in the way his eyes are lit up. “I’m ready!”
With that, he scrambles out of the car, and Sam goes to follow suit until Dean catches his wrist. He glances towards his brother, puzzled, and when Dean reaches up towards his hair with something black in hand-
“You have to be wearing a costume,” Dean tells him seriously, and Sam makes a face as the little kitty ear headband is placed on his head. It’s small for him, but he decides not to protest. It’ll only be for a couple hours. “It’s Halloween, Sam. C’mon.”
And just like that, they’re on their way. The three of them stick out like a sore thumb- two grown men and a teenage boy acting like an excited puppy- but for how happy Jack already is, Sam thinks it’s worth it. Jack’s the one who leads the way, picking out the first house with some bright lights and inflatable ghosts out front, and he marches straight up to the front door, only glancing back at them once before regaining his confidence and raising a hand to knock.
He’s been practicing for this. Sam’s heard him in his room, and it’s precious.
“Trick or treat!” Jack says when a woman answers the door, as happy as Sam’s ever heard him, and it’s impossible not to be cheerful right now.
“We should’ve brought more bags,” Dean says solemnly when they see the full-sized candy bars that Jack walks away with, and Sam laughs, giving his brother a playful nudge as their resident nephilim leads the way to the next house.
Halloween isn’t so bad, Sam decides. Not if he gets to spend it with the people he loves.
304/365
Sam sheds his baby skin during an autumn in Detroit.
Pink, chubby cheeks hollow out, and suddenly he has
long legs and bony elbows and a sharp jawline sprinkled with pink little zits.
Dean teases him about his uncoordinated limbs, but not about the red blemishes.
The polite silence is more humiliating than a remark ever could be.Sam lets his hair grow to have something to hide
behind.
Two brothers fall in love in the backseat of a car.
They love each other, and it’s not pretty. It’s not
sweet; they don’t giggle beneath blankets and they don’t kiss softly when the
day bleeds into night.They love, achingly and possessively; jealousy roars
like fire between them silently and Dean feels something slide out of place
when he realizes that he wants to kill a sweet brown eyed girl for the way she
bats her eyelashes at his little brother.They grow up, and they try to fall out of love,
because they’re drowning. The intensity scares them. Sam leaves, and Dean doesn’t
breathe for four years. Everything is easy, because he doesn’t have to care.
Hunting is so simple: if he lives, he lives. If he dies, he dies.He never falls out of love. When he feels Sam’s scent
again, it almost knocks him to his knees. They surrender to each other like two
tired soldiers on the battlefield; mouths melting together as hands find new
scars on familiar skin, and they tell each other all the soft, dangerous truths
they have tried to put to rest.It’s a tired, heavy kind of love. It aches and it
wears Dean down, it’s not the light-headed rush of speeding hearts and happiness.
Their love is a merciless monster baring its fangs; Dean’s bane, and the threat of losing Sam haunts Dean every night.They fuck the same way they love: desperately and
violently, tongues over bloodied knuckles, clawing love notes into bare skin.
Bruises blossoms between them, dark and ugly, like everything else in their lives.He ain’t
heavy, he’s my brother.It’s a lie, because he is so very heavy: he is the whole
world and he has galaxies in his eyes, and Dean will carry him until the end of
time.In the end, like in the beginning, it’s just him, him,
him.Dean carries on.
“There will be no new King of Hell.”
It’s a familiar feeling, this power. An old friend, dusting itself off from the depths of his memories; a hand on his shoulder that guides him. A voice that whispers in his ear and says you deserve this. You deserve to see them kneel.
The inside of the bar has gone absolutely still. People gasp for breath, blood flows, and the stink of sulphur is thick in the air. For this single moment, the entire world seems to be holding its breath. Sam casts his eyes across the group of demons scattered around the room, each rooted to their place and watching him with something he can only read as fear, and he feels… he feels.
This is something he hasn’t felt in a very long time.
He remembers when this was supposed to be his destiny. Plucked from his cradle to lead the forces of Hell against all who opposed them; to be the boy king. He remembers the demon blood pumping hot through his veins and he remembers how fucking good it was, being able to curl his fingers around that intangible thing and do absolutely whatever he wanted. It was a feeling of infinity, and it was a feeling of dizzying importance. Of a million years of infinitesimal choices that brought him to where he was supposed to be.
Here and now, it comes to him again, easy as breathing. He doesn’t have the patience to wait out this fight, or to watch his friends and family get hurt any longer. He doesn’t have the time to waste here when he needs to be scouring the face of the Earth for his brother. He needs this to stop, and-
And his voice is enough. His command. And fuck, does it ever feel good when they listen.
Watching black smoke spiral out of the building feels a bit like getting high, leaving Sam dazed and warm and filled to the tips of his fingers with nervous energy. With the need to do more, to lean into this, to embrace the power and take the next step further and-
“Sam?“
And then Mom calls for him, and Jack’s still unconscious, and Bobby’s bleeding pretty bad, and Sam- Sam’s still coming down from this heightened sense of existence, and he sees something in them, too. His family and friends. The same thing he saw in the demons, if a slightly different flavour. Fear. "You good?”
Sam breathes out hard and he shakes out his shoulders and he spares a final glance for the abandoned meatsuits on the floor. He thinks about the demons, fleeing with their tails between their legs, out to spread his message to every awful thing that lives in Hell. His shiny new doctrine, freshly minted for all to see. He thinks about the way he used to be able to crush a demon’s entire being with a stray thought; about feeling the last, horrific flash of life before he extinguished them entirely. Rendered powerless.
This new power, he thinks- this one where his words alone have the very same effect; where he can dismantle the entirety of the forces of Hell with his voice– is somehow even better.
“Yeah,” he says, and for the first time in weeks, he almost means it. “I’m good.”
284/365
Free, Sam says to himself as he hurries down the pavement, free at last. He’s happy. Of course he’s happy. He’s gonna do it, really do it, right now, gonna get on the next damn bus out of this shithole town and schlep himself and his duffel bag all the way across the continent. Stanford. He’s seen the brochures, pored over the pictures online. Big and bright and sunny and clean. Full of normal people – clever people, interesting people – but normal people, who aren’t gonna look at him sideways for wanting to do normal things like play sports and read books and make something better of himself. And it’s sunny there, not fucking grey and miserable like it’s felt for the past six months, sunny and California and he’s going to go to the goddamn beach. O-kay.
Until this afternoon he’d been more’n half-sure it wouldn’t ever happen, too scared to tell Dean or Dad what he was doing, too scared every single day of this summer and the weeks had crawled by and he still hadn’t told them and every morning he’d woken up and thought I’m gonna tell them today and every night he’d gone to bed knowing he was chicken-shit worthless and didn’t deserve to leave anyway. And. And then he’d come in today from his lawnmowing job and Dad was back, sitting at the table looking thunder-heavy at the wall and his hand on the table, resting on his gun, and in front of it the folded up letter Sam had been carrying in his bag for the past six states. Sam had honest to God thought Dad was gonna shoot him, just for a moment, felt a sharp jerk of fear across his chest and thought Dean’s gonna be furious but of course that didn’t happen. And of course Dean was furious, but not at Dad; had stalked out of the kitchen with his arms folded to look on silent and accusing while Dad let rip and Sam dug out from deep inside himself all the accumulated misery that had got him here in the first place, all the fights and the squabbles and the constant, suffocating pressure of being somebody that he hated and not even doing that well. Fuck you, he’d said, straight to his Dad’s face, fuck you for never even seeing how unhappy I am.
Christ, Dad had said, all we ever hear about is how unhappy you are, Sam, not much of a fucking hunter if I missed that one. This is ridiculous and you know it’s ridiculous. You need to stop being such a baby and get real. Look at Dean.
Fuck you, Sam had said again, Fuck you and fuck Dean, livid at his brother’s silent support for their father, livid with Dean for his flip-flopping concern for Sam’s wellbeing and his constant, wearying coaxing to suck it up and be happy and just let everything be okay. I can’t, Sam thought, I just can’t do it any more, and he’d gritted his teeth and jutted his jaw and grabbed his bag from the couch beside him, left there in readiness for the next fucking day on the road, and spun around and groped for the door handle through eyes that couldn’t quite see.
If you go, John had told him, don’t you ever come back.
Shows how much his Dad knows him, saying that; or maybe it does show exactly how much Dad knows him and shows, too, how utterly done he is, how glad he is to get Sam off his back at last. Because there’s nothing that could have prompted Sam out of that door faster than the kind of horrible ultimatum that’s kept him pinned down so long.
So. He did it, slammed the door behind him on his family and strode out down the road, and here he is and he’s nineteen years old and alone in the world, and he’s gonna be really fucking happy just as soon as he can stop crying, okay?
Goes with this gifset for @padaleckijared as the Season 1 component of my 10k party, based on 1×08, Bugs.
Sam sets two steaming cups of coffee down to the
bedside table and sinks down to the bed, careful not to wake Dean just yet. He reaches
out and touches his brother’s neck: he’s warm with sleep and comfort beneath
Sam’s touch.It’s sweet and simple: absolutely perfect.
Dean stirs, and his eyes draw open. Sam’s heart aches
in the loveliest way because Michael is gone: it’s Dean in there, looking up at him; a soft, sleepy smile spreading
over his face. Dean stretches with the air of a spoiled cat, rubbing his face
into Sam’s hand.“Hey,” Sam whispers. It’s so calm and quiet and Dean
is so soft, and the happiness that flares in Sam’s chest is almost frightening.
The moment feels so perfect and frail that he’s afraid he’ll shatter it just by
speaking.“Hey,” Dean murmurs back, the fullness of his mouth warm
against Sam’s palm. “I smell coffee.”“Yeah. I made pancakes too.”
Dean pushes himself up on his elbows, winces a little,
and looks at Sam properly. “Instead of brushing your hair?” he asks flippantly,
his raspy voice achingly familiar and affectionate. “It looks like an animal crawled
onto your head and died there. One of these days I might lose it, you know. Seize
a pair of scissors and cut it all off.”Sam laughs as he catches a glimpse of himself in the
mirror across the room. His hair is a long, tangled mess around his unshaven,
pale face. He drags a hand through his dirty strands, pointlessly. “Grooming
hasn’t been a top priority lately.”The mirth fades from Dean’s face at that, and he
reaches out. Sam swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath Dean’s soft touch. “Yeah,
I can tell,” Dean says, quietly. Can’t remember ever seeing you with a beard like
this before.”Sam’s fingers curl around Dean’s wrist. The pulse beneath
his fingertips is quick and fluttering, and it makes Sam’s entire body thrum
with want: he wants to feel that heartbeat in his bones, wants to feel it
against him forever, wants to become one with that soft, perfect rhythm of Dean.He tugs his brother closer, feels Dean gasp a little
against his face as his hand comes to rest on Sam’s shoulder. Sam cradles Dean’s
head in his hand. Dean’s naked chest is warm against Sam.“I’ll get rid of it,” Sam promises against Dean’s
mouth. “The hair stays though.”“Mm,” Dean murmurs in agreement, fingers tangling in
the hair of Sam’s nape. His eyes find Sam’s. Dean looks so certain, so kind, and Sam wants to cry. “Hey,”
Dean adds gently. “So do I.”Dean slowly kisses the shaky little sigh of relief
from Sam’s mouth.Soon, the coffee goes cold beside them.
In the aftermath, Dean forgets all about the bullet.
It drops onto the floor of his room with a metallic “plink!” when he tosses his jacket onto the back of his chair. He hears the sound, but he’s busy yanking the t-shirt stained with too many bodily fluids from too many people over his head and hurling it (with a little more force than needed) in the direction of his garbage can.
There’s dried blood on his stomach. He doesn’t want to think about whose it might be, so he looks for distraction and finds it in the glint of steel on the floor.
He stoops and picks up the bullet, rolling it in the palm of his hand. It’s innocuous enough now, harmless and innocent in his grasp, but this little thing nearly cost him Sam. Nearly cost him everything.
He remembers telling Sam through gritted teeth that they’re going to keep this one, that it’ll be a memento. Looking at it now, he can’t think of anything he wants to remember less than today’s events.
He closes his hand around the bullet, making a fist, and storms out of his room, shirtlessness unheeded.
Sam is in bed, doing as he’s told for once. He’d begged for a shower but Dean had been inexorable, threatening to strap Sam down. He’d do it, too. They both know it.
He’s in bed, but not asleep – Dean supposes he’ll give his brother that one. He’s poring over some book with tiny-ass writing that is too small for the feeble light of his desk lamp, but Sam’s a stubborn bastard.
Dean figures that stubborness may have been all that kept this room from being empty forever, so he doesn’t say anything.
As Sam jerks his head up, concern for Dean’s abrupt entry overlaying the exhaustion on his face, Dean stalks over to the bed and holds out his clenched fist. Perplexed, Sam reaches out. When his fingers brush over Dean’s, slowly uncurling the tightly-held digits, Dean does his best to ignore the shiver that rolls down his spine at the gentle touch.
Sam looks down at the bullet and then up at him, eyes glimmering with something Dean can’t put a name to.
“I know I said we’d keep it,” Dean says gruffly, covering the tremour in his voice with roughness, “but I don’t want to see it again. Ever.” He frowns. “Unless you do.”
Sam takes the bullet in too-clean fingers – Dean had seen the blood caked in his nailbeds, knows that Sam would have scrubbed his hands to rid himself of any trace – and rolls it for a few seconds before setting it on the bedside table. Wordlessly, he turns back to Dean, the same hand outstretched, waiting.
When Dean puts his own hand in Sam’s, his brother tugs him forward, pulling him bodily into the bed, dragging him along until he’s spooned right up against Sam’s warm chest. He can feel Sam’s heart beating, strong and steady, and he presses back into the rhythm, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Sam’s arms come around him, solid and comforting, and Dean closes his eyes against the reflection of the lamp on the bullet and loses himself in his brother’s embrace.
Sam is dangerous when he gets like this: feigned bashful
and doe-eyed, pink lips shiny with spit as he looks up at Dean from beneath
dark lashes. “Dean,” he says, whining like a brat, “I want to. Haven’t tasted
you all week, I know you want to.”“Wanted to fuck your mouth for days, Sammy,” Dean
tells him, long fingers tangling in Sam’s hair. ”But dad’s gonna be back soon. Next
case he leaves for, I promise. The things I’m gonna do to you, baby brother. Gonna mess you up.”“You know how fast my mouth gets you off, big brother,”
Sam says, filthily: he’s just a kid. “Dad’s
not around.”The thing is, John is.
John’s stiff with dread behind the front door,
takeaway pizzas going cold in his arms as he tries to keep the bile down his
throat. He thinks of the backseat of the Impala, of single beds to save money
and of warnings not to let anyone close – family
first, we’re leaving town, don’t get attached.He thinks of Dean’s young face; sweet and determined: “Sammy comes first.”
John feels his knees go weak and he leans against the
door when he thinks of Sam’s first steps, first words, first kiss and first fuck, and he thinks of Dean’s clear,
green gaze always searching for Sam. He thinks of Sam and Dean’s clothes always
smelling the same; he thinks of them tangled together everywhere; from cradle
to motels to cases to funerals, and
he wants to cry.John thinks about little Sam who’s never been on a
hunt but whose wrists are constantly bruised and about how many times he’s told
himself it’s just a trick of the light when his boys share looks that make John’s
chest go cold.He thinks of the vengeance he’s fed them and of the whiskey
nights he hadn’t been there to stop his sons from walking hand in hand into a
darkness so compact John wouldn’t be able to follow.He tries to think of Mary; of the sound of her voice
and the planes of her face but he finds that he can’t because holding onto her
memory is like water in a clenched fist, and all he hears is Dean and Sam
behind the door.“Okay Sammy,” Dean says, breathlessly. “Kneel, baby. I’ll
give it to you.”John falls to his knees with a soft thud.
On the other side of the door, his youngest boy does
the same.
Sam wakes up to find Billie sitting next to his bed, one leg over the other, in a chair he distinctly remembers as the one Dean uses when he wants to watch over Sam after a particularly bad scare.
“Hello, Sam,” she says, calm and serene as always.
“Um, hello,” Sam says, sitting up, and then, “No offence, but why are you here?”
She smiles at that, leaning forward just a little. “What do you think?” she asks simply.
Sam frowns. “I’m – dead?” he guesses, and then immediately backtracks. “But I can’t be, I’m–”
“And yet,” she interrupts. “You are.”
“You’re here to reap me?”
“I already have,” she tells him. “You’re in Heaven.”
“Heaven?” Sam’s frown deepens. “I thought you said–”
“And yet,” she repeats, and she is still smiling. “Here you are.”
Backup bloh 