I'm back to the angst of course, couldn't stay away for too long!
Title taken from the Coldplay song. Sorry, everything about this story is super random.
Set sometime after 9x12 and before 9x13.
Dean's POV.
I wake up slow, letting the reddish orange light of day seep steadily into my slightly cracked eyelids. It's a rare moment, this waking up in stages, so I indulge myself just a little while longer, counting out each beat of my heart as consciousness returns. It's a calm cadence for once, a steady rhythm that thrums comfortably against my chest- an ever-present reminder that I'm still here, for better or worse. Groaning, I run a hand down my scruffy face, wondering how long it's been since I last shaved. Wondering how Sam will look at me today.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee finally manages to coax me out from under the warmth of my sheets, and within minutes I'm on my feet and heading towards the bunker's kitchen, trying not to think too hard about the other night. About that conversation.
I round the corner, and immediately freeze.
"...Sam?"
"Huh?" he grunts. Sam sits at the small table in our kitchen, coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other, completely oblivious to the look of disgust now plastered on my face.
"What is that?" I ask, my voice rising a few extra octaves. Sounds pathetic. Stupid. Sam glances up from his breakfast and fixes me with a hardened stare, his eyebrows mashed together in confusion.
"What's what?"
"Jesus, it's fucking blinding. Are you actually planning on wearing that out in public today? Because if that's the case, you can count me out. I'm not gonna be caught anywhere near you while you're wearing that shirt," I reply, immediately turning away from his imploring gaze and grabbing a mug from the cabinet above my head, pouring myself some coffee.
It's a stupid thing to say really, I know that. I shouldn't've said anything. We're barely on speaking terms as it is right now, and the last thing we need is more tension, more wedges to drive between us. I just couldn't help it.
Sam stares down at himself, apparently not seeing anything wrong with the plaid shirt that is dominated by a puke-inducing shade of bright yellow. His eyebrows have stopped trying to smash into one another, but now they've migrated their way up to his hairline as he continues to stare at me, his mouth quirking slightly.
"What the hell's wrong with my shirt?" he asks, his tone edging just past irritated.
"Oh nothing," I huff, striding over to join him at the table. Might as well keep up with the hounding now, it's too late to let it drop. "Unless of course you want people to still have eyes after they look at ya. Come on man, you can't wear that. Seriously."
"Seriously?" Sam repeats "You're complaining about my wardrobe choices now? I mean I knew you were controlling but this...this is a whole new level." I flinch at the barely concealed dig. He seems much more annoyed than I'd anticipated now, his jaw clenched just a little too tightly for the easy banter I was attempting. Guess the levity didn't really seep into my voice enough. Probably because we're on totally different pages at the moment. Probably because the comment wasn't completely without a sliver of truth.
Because the truth is that I hate that color more than anything. That piercing, golden yellow. It disgusts me.
It's the stupidest thing really. I mean, it's just a goddamn color. Seriously. I fight off some of the ugliest sons of bitches out there: demons and ghosts and spirits that are dripping in blood and gore and stink. And I kill them all without blinking, without thought. So why does this one damn color make me gag slightly and push my coffee mug hastily away? Why does it make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I squeeze my eyes shut tight?
"Dean?" A little worry seeping into his voice. It's uncharacteristic of him these days so obviously I've fucked up my whole pursuit of neutrality if he's showing this much concern. "What's wrong?"
"Headache. It's that damn shirt of yours," I mutter, eyes still closed, only halfway committing to the attempt at keeping up with the signature insults.
Because how the hell do I explain this ridiculous reaction? How the hell do I explain that all I think of when I look at that golden monstrosity of a shirt, all I can see, is Azazel. Even after all these years, that color is sickening to me. And to see it adorning my brother, to see the reflection of that yellow fabric bouncing off from his pupils and staining his eyes with that venomous glow? I don't think I'll ever get over it. Don't think I can handle looking at it.
I open my eyes anyway. Sam's still got those damn eyebrows raised, but there's a small pulling at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, definitely not a smile, but a slightly inquisitive expression. I read the question fairly easily: "What's the angle here Dean? Where's all the teasing coming from? Testing the waters?"
I want to smile back at him, tell him without words that I want things back the way they were. Tell him that this isn't gonna work without the occasional jabs back and forth. I want to tell him it's just a joke. I don't really hate the damn shirt. I mean it's just a damn shirt, right? I want to say it all out loud, scream it if I have to. But I can't. Because the light has just caught Sam's eye, and suddenly all I see is that hideous yellow. All I see is that terrible, evil glimmer echoing back at me from my little brother's eyes.
It's the stupidest thing really.
You guys, I have no idea where this came from or why I wrote it but I figured I'd post it anyway. So weird. Azazel? Really? Whatever, it's past my bedtime or something. But yeah, of course leave a review if you've got time, let me know if it's as random as I think it is =P. And of course have an awesome day. Thanks for reading, as always.