A/N- So here's another snippet. Sorry it took so long. Finale wiped me out, you know. I still think the last bit was only because the show was renewed, believe the final image of the series was supposed to be Dean, broken and sipping on scotch -or whiskey or whatever. Sounds like John after Mary, yeah? So every time I tried to start writing some Supernatural fanfiction, I got depressed. I started this snapshot right after the finale, and seriously couldn't bring myself to finish it until now. I'll be coming out with lighter, perhaps sexier, fics in the next couple days. Enjoy!
Dean looked down at the carvings they had just done – initials clumsily etched into the Impala – and wondered exactly how mad Dad would be.
Dean's guessing pretty pissed, much like he gets about everything.
You think leaving the safety off is funny, Dean? Do you?
Well, if Sam didn't do it and you didn't either, who did? Got ourselves a ghost I don't know about, huh, Dean?
Shut him up, Dean! I swear to God, shut Sam up or I will!
Dean doesn't defy his father often, but he defies Sam even less.
"Wow, Dean!"
Speak of the devil.
He turns to his little brother, and something clenches high in is chest, making it difficult to breathe. All thoughts of the punishment they're going to receive (probably sooner rather than later) are chased away by that mysterious tightening in his throat. It feels an awful lot like crying, and he swallows a few times in a desperate attempt to stem the tears. It works.
Sammy isn't looking at him, instead completely enraptured by the initials on the dash. His chubby fingers are running over those rough grooves and he has a smile so wide Dean thinks his brother's face might break. Or at the very least freeze that way.
That wouldn't be so bad, if he could manage to get Sam to smile like that every day for the rest of his life.
Dean sniffs and leans back casually.
"I dunno why you were so hell bent on doing this, anyways."
Sam whips around, eyes wide in shock at Dean's language. Dean himself feels a thrill of power surge through him. Hell fuck shit he thinks to himself, and grins. After all, in for a penny and all that jazz.
But Sam manages to take it one step further.
"Because it's fucking awesome!"
The cuff to the back of Sam's head is automatic, but it lacks any real force. Sam frowns for all of a second before putting on a grin to match Dean's.
It's a lazy afternoon and Dad is passed out and Dean is happy here with Sam in the Impala.
Sammy falls back into Dean, and he immediately lifts his arm to wrap around his brother's shoulders and pull him closer. It might be a bit too hot, but Sam's warmth (Sammy's here, Sammy's safe) is comforting. Dean likes the feeling that spreads through him when he clutches Sammy close. Nothing can hurt Sam when Dean's got him. Sure, Dean's a little overprotective, but the kid is such a runt. Dean'll probably have to chase after the brat for the rest of their lives.
He rests his head on top of Sam's and smiles at the thought.
They sit for a while and Dean is about to doze off when Sam speaks up again.
"Hhhm? What was that, Sammy?" he mumbles drowsily. They'll have to start moving again soon, try to clean up the mess they've made as best as they can. Dad is sure to notice something anyways, though, but Dean's not sure he cares anymore.
"It's ours. Our place, ya know? Jus' me an' you. Now everyone will know."
He sounds determined, and Dean is a little surprised by the steel in his brother's voice. He wants to ask Sam what about Dad? but he understands what Sammy's trying to say.
"Yeah," he replies.
Dean leans over and runs his fingers over the 'D.W.' and 'S.W.' reverently, tears once again stealing his breath.
He doesn't remember much about that day, or why Sam suddenly decided to carve their initials into the dash. There was some fight with Dad the night before, some trifling little thing that had set Sam off (such a sensitive bitch). The reason didn't matter. Sam had always fought with their father, had always tried everything to get Dean to himself.
Dean guesses it worked. There's no 'J.W.' marking the car.
But he remembers that peace when Sam was in his arms, safe and sound. Sam was his home, his constant, and he would have died to protect him.
Instead, it's Dean sitting in the Impala, drunk and reminiscing like a wimp (as Sam would do) while his brother is in a hell that even he can't imagine.
Protect Sam? What a great big fucking joke.
He had given his life to save Sam, went to Hell with a capital 'H,' and his brother – his home – was still dead.
Dean curls over himself, trying to somehow contain the pain shooting through him. God, he can't do this. He can't.
The memory of that afternoon is torturing him. He wants Sam to never have existed (oh god no), his mother to be alive, his father to have been a stronger man, but mostly he just wants to die.
"Fuck you, Sam. FUCK YOU."
Because he can't keep going.
He left Lisa and Ben months ago, couldn't stop drinking and hunting and hurting. Hasn't talked to Bobby since . . .
He hasn't talked to Bobby in a while.
Dean once asked what he was supposed to do when his brother's body was laid out before him. Desperation and sorrow had torn him apart back then, but the true pain hadn't really set in. Shock cushioned most of the agony, and Sam was back within a day because Dean had taken care of everything.
Just like a big brother was supposed to do.
But apparently now he couldn't risk saving his brother because the world was at stake. In pulling out Sam, he could also release Lucifer.
But Sam was his world, and Sam was dead. How could the world – this insignificant little rock – be more important than his Sammy?
It wasn't.
"I think we got this one wrong, Sammy," Dean slurs, and looks at the clock.
Four minutes. Not too much longer.
The alcohol makes him fall back, and Dean decides fuck it and manages to crawl to the passenger's seat. It may just be his imagination (with the jack and the fumes and all) but he swears he can detect Sam's scent.
He falls asleep and thinks, happily, home.
When he awakes, Sam is already trying to recover the dash.
Dean shakes his head, wondering about the sudden sorrow constricting his heart. He sits up, clutching his chest. He should have some shame. After all, Sammy is right there and how is his brother going to respect him when he's bawling like a baby for no reason?
"How do I put this back on?" Sam asks breathlessly, and Dean's big brother instincts kick in at once. Because that's his Sam that's worried, and a worried Sam can quickly turn into a crying Sam.
Sure enough, Sam is looking at him with those watery eyes, all regret and apologies, and Dean just doesn't give a shit whether Dad finds out.
He hauls Sam in for a hug, and suddenly his arms are full to the brim with Sam.
Dean lets go immediately, springing back and craning his neck to get a good look at the sasquatch who has magically replaced his wimpy little brother. He thinks he should be scared instead of merely startled, but the giant has Sam's hair and cheekbones and eyes. And he's gazing at Dean like Sam does, like Dean is the whole damned world.
The new Sam reaches out and ruffles Dean's hair, and whoa, that is way disconcerting. Because he knows this is his Sam, but his Sam is a shrimp, right? Dean's the taller one, the stronger one, but now he's dwarfed.
"Hey, man," this giant Sam says, love and relief rolling off him in waves, and Dean is seriously yucked out by the touchy-feely girliness in his brother's voice, "been waiting for ya."
And Dean doesn't know what to say, still doesn't know what's going on, because he's a kid and his little brother is a fully fledged ogre. A sudden, unexpected attack of shyness has him averting his eyes from his brother.
"Dean?" Sam tries again, and reaches for him. Once again, he backs away, not stopping till his back hits the passenger door. Sam huffs out a laugh.
"I know it's you, dude. This place – this place can mess with your mind, y'know? Tried to give me a bunch of you. When you were little, teenager, grown – but, but I could always tell. Come on, Dean, it's gotta be you. Paradise hasn't completely fried my brain."
And it's the slight hesitation in Sam's voice, the little disbelief, that has Dean reaching for his brother. Because Sam sounds vulnerable, and Dean is the protector.
It's when his arms wrap around Sam that Dean realizes everything, when the puzzle pieces click.
He's crying on Sam's shoulder, hands desperately clutching arms, waist, shoulders – unable to sit still for long, searching for confirmation that he's real, he's here – and absently notices that he's older now.
"I'm sorry, Sam, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and Jesus he just can't stop himself, can he? Balling like a damn baby, and isn't he supposed to be comforting Sam?
But maybe Sam doesn't notice, because he's clutching Dean just as fiercely, and he can feel Sam's shoulders shaking.
"S'okay, man, it's alright. Missed you so much, and promises are fucking hard to keep, y'know?"