At the risk of spoiling a teeny plot twist, I won't tell you why this feels like one of the saddest fics I've ever written. But be warned.
Don't own the boys.
Minor language...er...I think, anyway. I don't know. I curse so much I don't realize I'm cursing half the time.
Apologize for any bad grammar. It's 1:40 in the morning so I wasn't as concerned with commas as usual.
But it's really sad...proceed with caution.
"Pleeeease, Dean?"
Sam is a born beggar. It's practically witchcraft the way he can look at Dean and, with a tilt of his head and a micro-expression, render him powerless.
Dean wilts to that look more often then he'd like to admit.
But then, he supposes, someone has to.
But not this time. Dean is adamant.
It's the middle of July and the Winchester brothers are camped at some sleazy motel in Atlanta for the foreseeable future.
Their dad's gone off on a solo hunt and left them with a little cash and a lot of time on their hands. It's a common enough scene.
Dean doesn't know what his dad is hunting, but based on the look he gave him when he asked to go along, Dean doesn't think he wants to know.
The air-conditioning unit in their piece-of-crap room is broken, so Sam and Dean get a close encounter with the Georgia heat in the dead of summer. It's like a preview of hellfire.
Dean goes out periodically and gets ice from the ice machine or cold sodas from the vending machine and the boys lay on top of the bed, sprawled out and miserable, and try not to melt into the sheets.
"Deaann..."Sam whines again.
"Sammy, for the thousandth time, we're not going out to swim in that scaly, frog-infested, germ-soup that passes for a pool! Besides, I don't even have any swim trunks and neither do you."
Sam rolls his eyes. Even though he's only 6 years old, his expression has all the sass of an overly-dramatic teenager. "I already figured that out." He asserts. "We wait until dark and then we can just swim in our underwear." He grins at Dean "Nobody will see us!"
"We aren't leaving this room, Sammy. Dad specifically told us to stay here and that's what we're gonna do. End of discussion."
"But we've been here for daaaayyysss..." Sam pouts and drags the word out for about a minute " and daaayyyysss and daaaayyyss and daaayyysss and..."
"Sam!" Dean warns but Sam just keeps going, his voice turning sing-song and relentless. "And days and days and days an..."
"Sammy! Shut UP!" He's cut short as Dean jabs him away. Dean doesn't mean to push very hard he's just so frustrated and it happens almost before he realizes what he's doing. Sam must have been wholly unprepared, because he flies off the bed with a force that surprises Dean, landing with a thud as his head smashes back into the nightstand.
"Sammy!" Dean rolls over and slides down to his brother's side in an instant. "Hey! Hey are you ok?!"
Sam sits quietly for moment, looking dazed and confused. Then a look of hurt like Dean has never seen spreads across his little brother's face, and he curls up into himself and starts to cry.
And Dean is practically hysterical, repeating "I'm sorry" over and over again, and trying to tell Sam it was an accident, but Sam is just crying, not looking up and not saying anything. It's this quiet, betrayed kind of crying too, a reaction that seems too adult for a little boy of barely 6.
Finally, Dean just sits down beside him and tries not to cry too.
He's 10 years old now, way too old for that kind of behavior, he has to be a brave soldier, push on, keep fighting.
But it's so hot, and he's so tired and more than a little scared for his dad, and now he's hurt his brother who he's supposed to protect and it's so overwhelming and...and oh god, his dad will be so angry with him. He'll probably knock him around pretty good if he ever hears a whisper of what he did to Sam.
That thought scares Dean some, but, at the same time, there's a twisting deep down inside him, a heavy guilt that says "Good. You more than deserve whatever you get."
"I'm sorry, Sammy." Dean whispers again. But it's barely audible this time, and right then Dean finds he can't be so brave anymore so he just tucks himself away into a ball-covering his face with his arms.
Sam stops sniffling beside him and looks up, finally, conscious that his brother seems to be more distraught than he is. His kind eyes crinkle up with worry and he reaches over and taps Dean.
"What's wrong? Did you get hurt too?"
But even at 6, Sammy has good emotional instincts and he realizes that Dean's wounds might not be on the surface.
"It's ok, Dean" he says consolingly after a moment.
He puts a hand on his big brother's arm and shakes him, trying to get him to look at him.
"It's ok." He repeats "It was just an accident. It's not your fault, Dean."
"It's not your fault...I promise. It's ok." Sammy's still shaking him but his voice changes as he speaks, deepening and his little brother's hand is heavy on his arm.
Dean looks down at the hand and sees it has changed into a man's hand, Sammy's smooth, baby-skin is now tough and tanned and covered in scars.
It's still his brother sitting next to him but little Sammy is gone.
This is Sam now. Grown up and even bigger than him but still looking at him with those, huge, compassionate eyes that can break your heart with a glance. Always his Sammy, his big-little brother.
"It's not your fault, Dean. None of this is your fault. It's ok."
He says it again and again, like repeating it will make Dean believe him. He's still shaking him...Dean wishes he would stop. Wishes he would go and leave him alone.
"Dean, Dean!" Sam keeps repeating.
Why does he keep saying his name?
"Dean! Wake up, boy, yer just dreamin'!"
Dean wakes up to Bobby shaking him.
He's lying on the couch in Bobby's living room, drenched in sweat. The analog clock on the coffee table reads 3:45 am. Dean's mind adjusts slowly and the memories come flooding back.
Stull Cemetery.
Lucifer beating him till the bones in his face felt like finely crushed gravel.
The pit.
That dark chasm in the earth where all his life had fallen into ruin.
Now the only thing bigger than that pit is the hole inside his chest.
Bobby's still kneeling beside Dean, watching his face as the loss of Sam hits him all over again. Bobby doesn't say comment.
The old hunter clears his throat like he's about to speak but Dean turns away towards the back of the couch and lies motionless. What could he possibly say to make this better?
Dean studies the worn, blue pattern of the couch and listens to the thump of his heart-beating against the walls of its bone cage like the indestructible monster that it is.
After awhile he hears Bobby get up from beside him, hears his slow ascent up the stairs to his room, and then Dean's alone in the darkness once again.
He tries not to think, but his brain, like his heart, is a relentless bastard and the tag scene to his dream/memory slips unbidden into his thoughts.
"It's ok, Dean."
Young Sam had brought Dean out of his guilt with a touch and the brightest, most forgiving smile.
"Don't worry, I won't tell."
Dean loved his little brother so much in that moment that he felt his resolve slide away and that night the Winchester brothers, wearing nothing but their underwear, swam in what was possibly the shittiest little hotel pool in all of Atlanta. It was so cloudy you couldn't see to the bottom, there was green scum lining the dimly lit walls, and more than a few times something brushed against Dean's leg that he did NOT want to think about.
And it was one of the best nights of his life.
Lying alone in the dark now, Dean remembers laughing with his little brother, he remembers sneaking up beside him and pushing him in(Sammy was always a natural swimmer, thank god) he remembers racing him (letting him win and swearing he didn't). He remembers their splash fight and how he had to keep reminding Sam to keep it down when he laughed too loud, and how they forgot to bring towels and had to run, dripping and breathless back to their room. He remembers the relief of the cool night air and warm pool water surrounding them. He can still smell the heavy chlorine mingled with the damp, musty, sweat of the overcrowded city, hear the far-off rush of traffic and voices, a distant rumble that felt like an alternate universe, a life of responsibilities and big problems that, for the moment, had nothing to do with them.
Dean remembers ever detail like it just happened.
Then he buries his face into the couch cushion and bawls his eyes out.
"It's not okay, Sammy. He chokes into the darkness, "It's my fault and it's not okay."
~End.
Ok, so I hate myself.
I sat down to write a fluffy story about the boys swimming in a hotel pool based off a prompt I saw, and what does my cruel brain decide to create? A miserable, dark, depressing, agonizing tag to Swan Song that I actually teared-up writing.
Grrrr... apologies to all...I need to go watch some cat videos now to balance out this uncontrollable fit of angst.
Write me a kind review to pull me out of this self-inflicted darkness, why don't you? :)