Whoo! So here it is! Our first ever collab as a trio. Never thought we'd see this dream become reality so soon.
We were very lucky to have the amazing happilysammy choose our summary and make amazing art for it. It's so cute, guys! And so perfect! She captured the essence of the fic perfectly and her style make us want to cry tears of joy. Please, please check out her art here! [sunshinesamdotcodotvu/post/157944588545/authors-winchesterpooja-chestercbennington-and]
Our beta, quickreaver is just the best. She took us up despite how busy she is and helped us make this thing readable. Thank you, Cris. 3
Also, thank you, mods of the Sam Winchester Big Bang for hosting this! Loving Sammy is truly the best kind of love there is. He doesn't nearly get enough of it. Poor bby.
And without further ado, we'd like to direct you to the story. Hope it makes you smile, laugh, cry and growl as much as we did when we wrote it.
-Sanjana, Naila and Pooja
One
Sam gets up the first time the alarm rings, the tone a slightly off-key but somehow still loving rendition of Hey Jude. Dean's already up; Sam knows this because Dean's bed is empty, and also because there is a slight smell of burnt bacon in the air.
Groaning to himself, he gets out of bed and pads off to the kitchen, where sure enough, he finds Dean trying to manage a frying pan full of sizzling bacon and his phone at the same time. The client on the other end is yelling so loudly Sam can hear it across the room. Catching Dean's eye, he grimaces in sympathy before heading off to the bathroom.
Dean's used up all the hot water again, he thinks irritably as he gets into the shower. Whatever's left is a sickly lukewarm at best, and Sam sighs to himself as he gets under the spray. There's an ache in his joints that won't go away, and some hot water would've done him good. He makes a mental note to talk to Dean about it later.
The mindless, mechanical motions of showering leave his brain free to think of something else, and he begins planning out his day instead. Shower. Breakfast. Studio. Practice. Some more practice. And then some more, until he is perfect.
Rinse. Repeat. Do over. Repeat until desired results are obtained.
Dedication is key.
Perfection is an achievable goal.
Setbacks are nonexistent.
His joints ache. The cold water doesn't help. He ignores the pain and carries on.
Dedication. Perseverance. Perfection. Success.
~o~
Dean's off the phone when Sam exits the shower, and is waiting for him at their small table with a plate of slightly overdone bacon. Sam chooses not to comment on it, instead taking his seat and quietly digging in. Dean, seated across from him, eats his own breakfast in silence, his phone next to his plate.
Eventually Sam asks, "Angry client?"
Dean sighs irritably. "Says his car stalled again. I fucking told him to get his engine looked at, but he insists it's because of the tires. Says to change them all over again."
Sam snorts. "Tell him if he's so smart, he can fix his own car himself."
"I wish," Dean says, "but he pays well, so." He shrugs. "Rich people, man, what can ya do. What about you? What are you doing today?"
"Same old," Sam replies, finishing up his bacon and pouring himself some OJ. "Practice till I'm perfect."
"Or till your feet fall off." There is a furrow of concern between Dean's eyebrows. "Sam, this can't be healthy, man."
"I'm fine. it's not like this is the first time."
"That doesn't make me feel better," mutters Dean.
"Well, what else can I do?" Sam argues. "I can't practice any less than I already do, Dean, the show is in a week!"
"And you're already perfect!" Dean retorts. "I'm damn sure no one else is working as hard as you are, Sammy. Give yourself some rest."
"After the show," Sam says, attempting to negotiate. When Dean doesn't look convinced, he adds, "I promise."
"Fine," concedes Dean. "If I catch you dancing after the show, so help me, Sam, I'll tie you down."
"Whatever," mutters Sam.
~o~
The ride to the studio is a quiet one. Dean is humming along to the radio, some lady's husky, homely Beatles cover, and Sam chooses to use this free time to go over his steps in his head. He doesn't even realize the car's stopped until Dean nudges him with his elbow.
"Earth to Sammy."
"What? Oh." He blinks, realizing they're parked outside his studio. "Thanks. I'll call you when it's time to pick me up."
Dean nods. "Before midnight."
"Dean—" Sam begins, exasperated, but Dean isn't done yet.
"Or I'll call Jess."
"No," hisses Sam. "She'll kill me."
Dean smirks. "Exactly."
"Ugh," groans Sam. "I hate you."
"You too, bitch!" Dean calls after Sam as he stomps off.
~o~
One two three four
Ded – i – ca – tion
Five six seven eight
Per – sev – er – ance
One two three four
Per – fec – tio – on
Five six seven eight
Success.
You've got this, Sam persuades himself when he stops for a break, watching himself in the mirror. Some of his hair's escaped from his bun, and is plastered to his face with sweat. His clothes are soaked through, and his chest is heaving. The burn in his muscles is a vindictive pleasure.
He reaches for his water bottle, ignoring the sudden pop his wrist makes, and takes a few sips before setting it down. "You got this," he tells himself, looking himself in the eye through the wall of mirrors. "You can do it."
He doesn't realize he's not alone until he hears his understudy Jake say, "Sam, man, you've got to rest. You're killing yourself here."
"I'm fine," replies Sam, his tone careful. He likes Jake; he's easygoing enough, but he doesn't exactly trust him. He doesn't really trust anyone here. Everyone's out for blood.
His, to be precise.
"If you say so." Jake shrugs. "Mind if I practice with you?"
Sam shrugs in response. "Okay, I guess."
"You can point out my mistakes," Jake says.
"I don't think there are any." In truth, Sam wants to practice alone. He doesn't want to see Jake dance. He doesn't want to even entertain the possibility that Jake will go onstage in his place, for any reason whatsoever.
It's not happening, not after everything Sam's sacrificed to get here. Period.
"You're too kind," Jake says, with a smile. He walks up to Sam until they're just three feet apart, and takes on the starting stance. "Let's do this thing, then," he says, and begins dancing.
He's good, thinks Sam as he watches him out of the corner of his eye. Almost as good as Sam. Almost, because no one works as hard as Sam does, puts in the hours Sam does, is as obsessively dedicated as Sam is. No one has Sam's graceful, fluid moves, his intensity, his expression of himself through carefully chosen choreography.
One two three four
His knee twinges. He ignores it, keeps going, keeps surreptitiously watching Jake.
Five six seven eight
It's almost lunchtime. He's hungry, but he doesn't want to waste time eating. Practice makes perfect. He needs to be perfect.
One two three four
Jake is a little out of step, but Sam doesn't think he knows. He keeps dancing on, making no move to correct himself. Sam wants to stop, to help him, but holds himself back. After this dance.
Five six seven eight
Jake's caught sight of himself in the mirror, and caught on. He corrects himself immediately, and despite himself Sam feels proud. He's trained this guy. He's helped him come this far.
Hopefully, under Sam's guidance, Jake can go on to be so much more than an understudy.
They dance on, fluid and elegant and united, through movement if nothing else. Sam's feet beat against the wooden floor in time with his heart, and he can hear the rush of his blood in his ears. There is nothing else in the world right now.
~o~
Dean sighs when Sam slides into the front seat, at half past one. "I said midnight," he chides, but he sounds more tired than angry.
"I know," Sam replies shortly, shutting the door after himself. "I lost track of the time."
"I don't like you being alone in there," Dean says, not beginning to drive just yet.
"Dean, I'm not a kid," argues Sam, slumping against the comfortable seat. "And besides, Jake was with me."
Dean frowns, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "I don't trust that guy. I don't know what it is about him, but I don't trust him. I feel like he's gonna stab you in the back somehow."
Sam considers this, and realizes that in all the time he's known Jake, he's been incredibly careful never to turn his back on him. It's strange how literal Dean's comment is, especially when Sam thinks about his behavior around his understudy. The funny thing is how much he thought he could trust Jake until now, when Dean's voiced his doubts.
"He's not bad," Sam says anyway, in a lame effort to try to defend Jake, though he's not sure why he's bothering. He trusts Dean, and Dean trusts his instincts. "You know he helps me out with the kids sometimes."
"All the same," Dean retorts. "Something's fishy about that guy. I don't like you being alone with him, and especially not at this time."
"You do realize I'm not a kid, right?" Sam asks rhetorically.
Dean opts not to reply. The 2010 Dodge Charger pulls out of the parking and begins heading home. The radio is turned off.
The silence is thick, deafening, and Sam knows that Dean's not happy with him. He can't help it though. It's not like he enjoys working himself to the bone—okay, maybe he does. But he also needs this. And Dean knows this.
"Dean," he begins, wondering if Dean will understand.
"I get it, Sammy," Dean interrupts. "I know this is your big break, man. But you can't keep doing this to yourself. Look at you. You're skinny as fuck, Sammy, 'cause you don't eat. All you do is dance."
"Dean—"
"I ain't saying it's a bad thing, Sam. I know it makes you happy. But you can't let it kill you."
"It's not gonna kill me—"
"I'm not gonna stop you, okay? I know I can't. But after the show, you're resting. You're giving yourself a break, and dammit, you're gonna look after yourself or so help me, Sam—"
"Thank you," Sam says suddenly. He had this entire argument planned out in his head since morning, knowing that Dean wouldn't be happy, that Dean would want him to stop. But Dean's gone bizarrely off-script, in a rare moment of compromise and understanding, and it means something, it does. It means Dean's thought about this, and is ready to let Sam do it his own way as long as he rests afterwards.
It means a lot.
Dean doesn't reply, clearly as surprised as Sam is about the lack of argument. "This isn't how I'd planned it in my head," he says, frowning.
"Same," laughs Sam. "You know what," he adds, a sudden idea forming in his mind. "After all this is over, let's you and me go somewhere. Just take a break from everything."
"Uh, sure." Dean looks nonplussed. "Like where?"
"Why don't we join Mom on her vacation?" Sam suggests. "She'll like that, I think, especially with Dad's death anniversary coming up. I don't want her to be alone."
Dean considers the idea for a few moments, driving in silence, deep in thought. Then he says, "Hell. Why not?"
Sam grins. "Great."
Dean smiles back despite himself. The issue is momentarily solved.
~o~
Every single one of Sam's aches makes itself known the moment he settles into bed; his twinging knee, his hip, the ankle he sprained a couple days ago. His stomach rumbles, even though he's just had dinner. It feels like nothing he eats these days is ever enough, but he's got to watch his diet. Less carbs, more protein. Energy. Muscle mass. Stamina. Strength.
It'll be better by morning, he tries to convince himself, shifting to find a comfortable position. Dean is already snoring away in the bed next to his, face down in the pillow. Sam debates getting up to find painkillers or a hot water bottle but knows the noise will wake Dean, who will be curious, and then angry.
So he clenches his teeth and bears it stoically, resolving to get up first the next morning and get to the hot water before Dean can.
~o~
He practices with music the next day, letting the sound guide his limbs, letting it permeate every cell of his body so that he feels saturated with it. He's alone, though he knows it's only a matter of time before Jake arrives, and so he resolves to practice as much as he can in the solitude available to him.
This is his moment. He's got this in the bag, he can do this. He has to. He's worked too hard for this, come too far to fail now. Nothing less than success is an option. Nothing short of perfection will do.
He's got to prove himself to everyone that's ever doubted him. He needs to show Dean what he's capable of. Needs to make his mother proud, needs to honor his father's memory. Dad never got to see him dance. A drunk driver made sure of that. And while he and John had their differences, Sam has no doubt that if his dad were alive, he would've been in the front seat, rooting for his son.
God, he misses Dad. Misses him so much. He wishes he could've been closer to his father, could've understood him while he was still alive. Wishes he could hug him now, tell him how sorry he is for everything.
God, if only.
The music swells; he's flying gracefully, arcing through the air like he belongs in it—
and then he's on the floor, his ankle throbbing, his teeth clenched against the pain. He must've landed wrong, he thinks, something that hasn't happened in months. He's unreasonably angry at himself for it. This is unacceptable. This won't do at all. He might as well sabotage himself.
Angrily he struggles to his feet and cuts off the music mid-note, leaning against the bar on the wall for support. Gingerly he tests his foot, checking to see if it can take his weight—and even if it can't, dammit he'll make it support him. It hurts something awful, but he thinks he can take it.
He can't afford to waste time anyway, not at this crucial stage.
He reaches towards the music player to restart the song.
His phone rings. It's not Dean, since Dean knows better than to call him when he's practicing, and it can't be Mom, since she's off vacationing in Paris or someplace. That leaves just one person.
He sighs, shuts off the music once more, and picks up the call. "Hey, Jess."
"Sam, hey," comes her bright, beautiful voice. "I'm not disturbing, am I?"
"No," he lies. "What's up?"
"Just wanted to wish you all the best," she says, and he can't help but fall in love with her all over again. "We're going to be great together."
"I know, babe," he says, leaning against the wall, trying to rest his foot a little while he's on the phone. "Mostly because you're awesome."
"Don't be silly," she says, and he can hear her smile, oh her beautiful, sunny smile. "You're amazing, too. We're going to love dancing for everyone. And afterwards, you're taking me to dinner!"
"I'll take you anywhere you ask."
"And I'll go anywhere you take me," she laughs. "Except maybe not Taco Bell," she adds teasingly. "All right, baby, I gotta go now, gotta get back to practising. You go kick ass, all right?"
"Gotcha," he says. "Love you, Jess."
"Love you too, Sam."
He's smiling as he hangs up and puts his phone aside. She never fails to make him feel better about everything. And the period of rest has done him good too—his foot feels much better.
Still smiling, he restarts the song for the second time, readying himself to dance, and switching on the music so he can immerse himself in it all.
Sam's just started again when the door opens and Jake enters, completely breaking Sam's tempo. "Oh, shit, sorry," he says, wide-eyed with apology. "My bad."
"It's okay." Sam does his best not to sound irritable. "Good you're here. We can practice with the music."
Jake nods. "Gotcha. Gimme a moment, let me get into it."
Sam waits for his understudy to warm up, trying very hard to resist the urge to tap his foot impatiently against the wooden floor. Finally Jake straightens and takes his place next to Sam, giving him a thumbs up. "Let's get started, then."
Sam resists the urge to point out that he got started ages before Jake did, and instead silently turns on the music for the third time, praying to whomever's listening that he's not interrupted this time. He thinks he might actually strangle the culprit if that happens. But then the music starts, and he's lost in it again.
They dance on. Sam notices Jake glancing towards his foot every now and then, but pays no mind. Let Jake do and think what he wants. Sam's not going to let something as inconsequential as a sprain hold him back.
~o~
Jake leaves around ten; Sam finally stops dancing at half past midnight, when he cannot bring himself to move any longer. Shutting off the music and sitting down with his back against the wall, he calls Dean to come pick him up.
He feels so tired. His ankle is swollen, throbbing painfully with each beat of his heart, and he looks at it in dismay. Somehow he doesn't think this is something that will go away with a bit of icing and rest.
Whatever. It's okay. He can handle it. He's handled much worse.
Not while he was performing, though.
It's okay.
He can handle it.
Perfection, he reminds himself. He needs to be perfect, and to do that, he needs to not let anything get in his way. Not even himself.
Especially not himself.
~o~
He's so tired he can think of nothing but his soft bed and warm comforter, but unfortunately they're out of bread, eggs and some other necessities, so Dean stops at a supermarket on their way home. Sam refuses point-blank to go inside. He's not sure his ankle could take it, honestly, but he's not about to tell Dean that, so he just cites exhaustion.
"Fine," Dean says. "Just sit in the driver's seat till I'm back, then."
The short walk from the passenger's side to the driver's is awful, just plain fucking awful, but Sam braves through it, trying his best not to limp. Last thing he needs is Dean finding out about his ankle. He settles himself in the driver's seat and tries not to go to sleep, turning on the radio to keep himself more or less awake.
Hey Jude, sings the lady who's apparently getting quite popular on the radio for her cover of the song. Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…
He's quite proud of himself for managing to stay awake until Dean returns ten minutes later. Dean dumps the bags of grocery into the backseat and gets into the passenger's side. "Drive," he tells Sam.
"Aren't you gonna—?" Sam gestures towards the steering wheel.
"Well, you're already in the driver's side, and we're five minutes away from home," Dean points out.
Sam shrugs. "Okay." He puts the car into gear.
He doesn't want to do this, he really doesn't. He tired, his foot hurts, and all he wants is to sleep. But he knows that saying any of this out loud will be his own death sentence. Dean won't let him dance. He doesn't blame Dean for his worry, but sometimes he thinks Dean just doesn't get it.
Next to him, Dean's singing along quietly to Metallica on the radio, tapping his fingers against his denim-clad knee. He looks just as tired as Sam feels, and all of a sudden Sam feels a rush of sympathy and affection for his brother. It can't be easy on him, working all those long hours and getting yelled at by idiot clients, just so he can earn enough money to support the two of them while Sam waits to make it big.
It just strengthens Sam's resolve to ace this, to kick it in the ass. It's about damn time he supports himself, or at least earns enough to help Dean out. For now, he's nothing but a liability, finance-wise, but it's only a matter of time. Only a couple more days. He can do his. He'll power through this on ten broken bones if he has to (but of course he hopes it doesn't come to that).
There's an SUV in front of them, and Sam focuses on its bright red taillights to distract himself from the pain.. His ankle feels heavy and swollen now, and Sam's almost afraid to look at it when he gets home. He just hopes he can find a way to hide it from Dean until it gets better—
Something's wrong. The SUV's hazard lights are flashing; it's slowed down, and Dean is shouting Sam's name. Sam tries to move his foot from the accelerator to the brake, but it won't obey, it won't listen to him, what the fuck is wrong with his foot—
Dean lunges to put himself between Sam and the impact, but doesn't get there fast enough, and Sam slams into the steering wheel, knocking the breath out of him. There's blood and shouting and painpainpainpainpainpain and… blackness.
~o~
Far, far away in another world, an angel looks for Sam and Dean, searching for them with everything he has, while another, more powerful angel laughs at what has just been dropped into his lap.