A/N: Just a silly little thing, so it's probably utter cra*. Sorry. Spoilers for S9, S10 (just in case you haven't seen those seasons yet). I own the story, but I do not own the boys, SPN or anything related to that and I'm sorry for any and all grammar/spelling mistakes you might find.
"So ... so what do you wanna do today?"
He was leaning heavily on the back of the chair in the 'map room', gripping the wood with knuckles going white and stiff, but this was just awkward. It shouldn't be, never was really, but this year ... after all they've been through, after all they've confessed to each other, after seeing each other at their weakest and strongest … there was a subtle feeling of awkwardness whenever they talked about everyday things, not … not business things. Business things, the job, saving people, hunting things they never had issues talking about that. But this … ordinary things, normal things … the awkwardness just came alive between them.
But he wanted, this year … and they had some free time, had a ... had a place to stay, had a ... home, even, and there was no urgent matters to attend to, well, not really ... the Mark was a matter, yeah, but it could wait for a day, but still … it was just awkward asking his little brother what he wanted to do on this day.
"Ummm ..." He watched as Sam shuffled some papers all over South America and rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe this whole 'talking' thing was awkward for his brother too. Huh, who knew?
"… dunno. I wanted to go check out some books, maybe find something about the Mark, then just go to sleep."
"Oh ... uh, okay then."
Well, okay then, so it'd just be him, his own room – emptyemptyempty - his memory foam mattress and music blasting in his ear – neverlouderthantheMark. Nothing new then.
"Why?" he cringed when Sam's voice changed from casual to worried, "'s there something wrong?"
He looked up from where he was studying lines on the table; lines that separated countries and continents and shook his head when he saw the sincere look of worry in Sam's eyes. Jesus, but could they go through one fuckin' day without his little brother having a coronary over what was wrong with Dean?
Yes, he was worried about the Mark too, yes he was freakin' terrified of what it was doing to him, with him, in him. Yes, he was scared shitless of what it might make him do, because he could feel it. Feel it feed him rage and murder as a mother feeds a baby milk. But he was trying so damn hard not to fold and all he wanted was for his little brother to not look at him with lines of worry all over his face and a body stiff like a wooden plank. Damn it. Just one day, a few hours of peace and not having to worry about the damn Mark or, or, or angels and when everything would go to hell. Again.
One day.
One.
"Nawh, nothing wrong, I just," he shrugged, because this really was all kinds of awkward, "thought we'd open some beers and dunno, watch some TV or something."
"Umm, all right. You sure you're okay? You're acting ... weird."
"Dude, 'm fine," he chuckled, because he was fine – hewasntfine – "just thought we'd wait for midnight with some beers, getting drunk 'n watch crappy television. Ya know? The good old days, not thinking of the Mark," that was itching, itching, scratching at him from the inside, "or, or angels, or Crowley, or witches or the damn world being fucked up, okay?"
He was expecting a lot of things from Sam, really he was, but the look of absolute confusion on his little brother's face, well he sure wasn't expecting that.
"Wait, what? Wait for midnight? Why?"
He frowned, because well, sure they had their hands full these couple of days, weeks, months, not really having a chance to breathe, but ... "Dude, it's new year's."
He watched Sam straighten up in the chair and the look of confusion morphed into one of shock that his little brother could never really hide well. Not from him anyway.
"Wh- what?! You're kidding."
"Um, no."
"Huh, wow, yeah okay, well, okay then. Yeah sure, let's have some beers and watch crap on TV."
His brother capitulating that easily made Dean's skin crawl. Usually Sam'd be all worried about forgetting stuff like this, then he'd start making excuses about why he couldn't or wouldn't and shit like that, so this ... this was unexpected. But he wouldn't pry; whatever the reason was, Sam could keep it. They were masters in keeping shit close to their hearts, right? Besides, television, beer and little brother? Hell yeah and then the New Year could begin and they'd deal with crap later. Tomorrow.
Just one day.
One.
-:-
"So," he cleared his throat and raised his half full bottle of beer, the liquid inside foaming and cold, "happy New Year, Sammy."
The clink of the two bottles echoed through the empty, dark hallways and rooms of the bunker, "yeah, yeah happy New Year, Dean."
The look on his little brother's face was sad, eyes already sparkling with tears and Dean looked back at the black screen of their TV.
Damn it. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid; Sam being all –ugh- emotional and, and teary eyed and thinking of the Mark and what it meant and probably remembering what it took to get him back from being a demon and damn it, damn it, damn it.
He didn't want this. He wanted an evening with just his little brother getting stupidly drunk on everything they had alcoholic in this place and watch crappy movies on TV and criticize everything they saw or heard and then be so drunk that they'd fall off the couch and fall asleep without this fucking Mark – itchingitchingitching - hanging above their heads.
But he should've known better, because his little brother was a sappy, sad drunk and –ugh- of course feelings would come pouring out of his brother like water out of a fountain.
Damn it.
"'m gonna get that mark off of you."
He took a deep breath and let it slip out between his lips very slowly.
Damn it, Sammy.
He raised the beer bottle to his lips and almost poured all of the remaining beer down his gullet. He really couldn't – didntwantto - deal with that tonight and fuck Sam for bringing it up, damnit, he just wanted one night, okay, one night of just nothingness. Slipping into an alcohol induced coma, because he knew that it was the best coma a person could slip into. There were no problems there, there was nothing pushing his head on the chopping board there, no Mark, angels, witches, Devil, Hell, Heaven, deadfriendsbecauseofhim, deadpeoplebecauseofhim. There was nothing, but a horrible headache and a puke fest the next day. And all that was punishment he deserved and welcomed with open arms.
This? This wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want Sam to go all wide, teary eyed and promise him things that he'd start to believe in if Sam would tell them to him one more time.
"Promise, man."
He almost choked on the last swallow and wanted to shove the bottle down his throat just so that he wouldn't need to reply to what Sam was saying, because ... damn it, just one night. One.
And now Sam made him believe. That they'd be able to do this, that Sam wouldn't rest until the Mark would be off his arm. Because if anything, anything at all, Sam was a persistent son of a bitch and he wouldn't rest until he'd find a solution.
Until Sam would make them both find a solution.
He placed the empty bottle in his lap, blunt fingernails going to work on the label and chanced a look at Sam.
His brother was peeling off the label on his own beer bottle, looking down at his work as if it was the most fascinating thing on the planet and Dean couldn't ...
… everything disappeared; the black television screen, the glass of the beer bottle in his hand, the couch under his ass, the loneliness blanketing the bunker, the buzz in his head – theitchstayedtheitchstyedtheitchstayed. It all went away, leaving him stranded between one breath and another and he couldn't say anything else to his brother's left profile than: "Yeah, know you will, Sammy."
They sat there on the couch in silence that rivaled the one spread out across the hallways and empty rooms of their home.
Sam's lips tugged up into a tiny smile, fingers still playing with the torn apart label: "Wonder if we have any fireworks."
"Dude," he put on his best manic grin, knowing that it had nothing to do with the Mark – finallyfinallyfinally; no this was purely his inner pyromaniac talking, "thought you'd never ask."
The End