fic: and then there was one, gen, teen
Oct. 8th, 2007 04:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ella_mennoAnd here I thought I wouldn't have time to write today. Hunh.
title: and then there was one
author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ella_menno
fandom: Supernatural
rating: Teen
length: 771
spoilers: Coda for 3.01
pairings/characters: Sam, Dean, some OC's
notes: I was thinking about a story I wanted to read, and I decided to write it, instead. Comments, including concrit, are always welcome.
They haven’t resolved anything, not one damned thing, and Sam knows it. But he also knows that they aren’t going to resolve anything, not right now at least, not with Bobby’s hopeless farewell, (he could have lied to me, Sam thought as he watched Bobby give them his back and walk away), not with the smell of roasted flesh and hair coating the both of them, not right now.
So sure, whatever – going out for a beer is about the last thing he feels like doing, but. Dean pulls into the dusty parking lot of yet another run-down bar and gets out of the car, throwing a look over his shoulder in Sam’s direction, not even asking him if he wants to come along, and Sam has to stomp down on the flare of "I don’t wanna" before it even has a chance to fully form, because in three hundred sixty days, he won’t be able to do anything with his brother anymore, ever again.
By the time he passes through the bar doors, Dean is already racking up a game of pool, laughing and as unconcerned as he’s ever been – same old Dean – and Sam decides, well, okay, I can do that too. He lopes over to a stool at the counter and is holding a bottle of whatever’s local without ever having heard himself ask for a beer.
He sits there for who knows how long, not registering any of the hours or minutes that pass save one – the moment the clock ticks over from one side of midnight to the other. One more day gone.
Sam absently keeps track of how many bottles he’s gone through; he is acutely aware of Dean’s tally (seven, so far, plus two shots). Sam can’t remember how many people have tried to start conversations with him – meaningless small talk, bar chatter, shooting the shit; he can describe with startling accuracy the gender, race, height, approximate age and weight, and clothing of every single person who’s exchanged as much as one word with his brother. Sam knows how many times Dean has glanced over in his direction (fourteen).
Sam hasn't taken his eyes off his brother since he entered the bar.
Dean, who’s just sunk the eight-ball again (fourth time he’s won, fifth time he played – Sam wonders why he bothered to lose, since he can tell Dean isn’t running a scam), turns to face Sam and looks at him for the first time all night.
With a jerk of his head, Dean asks if Sam is ready to go; in response, Sam gets off the stool, shoves a few bills toward the bartender and heads toward the door.
He’s almost caught up to Dean when a crowd of guys walks in, all swagger and deep, too-loud voices. The guy in front bumps into Dean, his elbow and side into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean mutters a half-hearted watch it, buddy.
Of course the guy is an asshole, the kind of guy who always has something to prove, especially in front of his friends, especially when he’s not on his first (or second, or third) bar of the night. Go to hell, he spits back, shoving Dean in the arm.
Sam’s chest is heaving with the effort of drawing in breath. Sweat drips from his hair into his eyes. His arms and legs, feet and fists connect with no forethought. His ears are filled with the unintelligible words being yelled down at him. His eyes are so blurred he can barely see the man lying on the filthy ground beneath him. Someone is sobbing.
There’s an insistent tug on his left arm that Sam jerks away from, he’s not done, it’s not over, it can’t be over, it can’t be, this can’t be, it can’t. Another tug, this time from arms locked around his waist, and Sam is up, he’s standing, and he lets Dean (because those are Dean’s arms, Dean has him, Dean has always had his back, Dean’s always, Dean) steer him out the door, into the parking lot, to the car.
Sam leans his weight against the car and stares at his shoes. Listens as the familiar tread of his brother’s boots makes its way around the back of the Impala. Hears the trunk open and then fall closed. Sees Dean’s feet stop in front of his own.
There’s a cool touch at his forehead; he flinches and Dean grabs his face, holds it still. Dean’s exhaled Sam flows across his chin, his cheek, and Sam’s eyes sink closed as he lets his brother take care of him.
Feedback is adored.
title: and then there was one
author:
ella_mennofandom: Supernatural
rating: Teen
length: 771
spoilers: Coda for 3.01
pairings/characters: Sam, Dean, some OC's
notes: I was thinking about a story I wanted to read, and I decided to write it, instead. Comments, including concrit, are always welcome.
They haven’t resolved anything, not one damned thing, and Sam knows it. But he also knows that they aren’t going to resolve anything, not right now at least, not with Bobby’s hopeless farewell, (he could have lied to me, Sam thought as he watched Bobby give them his back and walk away), not with the smell of roasted flesh and hair coating the both of them, not right now.
So sure, whatever – going out for a beer is about the last thing he feels like doing, but. Dean pulls into the dusty parking lot of yet another run-down bar and gets out of the car, throwing a look over his shoulder in Sam’s direction, not even asking him if he wants to come along, and Sam has to stomp down on the flare of "I don’t wanna" before it even has a chance to fully form, because in three hundred sixty days, he won’t be able to do anything with his brother anymore, ever again.
By the time he passes through the bar doors, Dean is already racking up a game of pool, laughing and as unconcerned as he’s ever been – same old Dean – and Sam decides, well, okay, I can do that too. He lopes over to a stool at the counter and is holding a bottle of whatever’s local without ever having heard himself ask for a beer.
He sits there for who knows how long, not registering any of the hours or minutes that pass save one – the moment the clock ticks over from one side of midnight to the other. One more day gone.
Sam absently keeps track of how many bottles he’s gone through; he is acutely aware of Dean’s tally (seven, so far, plus two shots). Sam can’t remember how many people have tried to start conversations with him – meaningless small talk, bar chatter, shooting the shit; he can describe with startling accuracy the gender, race, height, approximate age and weight, and clothing of every single person who’s exchanged as much as one word with his brother. Sam knows how many times Dean has glanced over in his direction (fourteen).
Sam hasn't taken his eyes off his brother since he entered the bar.
Dean, who’s just sunk the eight-ball again (fourth time he’s won, fifth time he played – Sam wonders why he bothered to lose, since he can tell Dean isn’t running a scam), turns to face Sam and looks at him for the first time all night.
With a jerk of his head, Dean asks if Sam is ready to go; in response, Sam gets off the stool, shoves a few bills toward the bartender and heads toward the door.
He’s almost caught up to Dean when a crowd of guys walks in, all swagger and deep, too-loud voices. The guy in front bumps into Dean, his elbow and side into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean mutters a half-hearted watch it, buddy.
Of course the guy is an asshole, the kind of guy who always has something to prove, especially in front of his friends, especially when he’s not on his first (or second, or third) bar of the night. Go to hell, he spits back, shoving Dean in the arm.
Sam’s chest is heaving with the effort of drawing in breath. Sweat drips from his hair into his eyes. His arms and legs, feet and fists connect with no forethought. His ears are filled with the unintelligible words being yelled down at him. His eyes are so blurred he can barely see the man lying on the filthy ground beneath him. Someone is sobbing.
There’s an insistent tug on his left arm that Sam jerks away from, he’s not done, it’s not over, it can’t be over, it can’t be, this can’t be, it can’t. Another tug, this time from arms locked around his waist, and Sam is up, he’s standing, and he lets Dean (because those are Dean’s arms, Dean has him, Dean has always had his back, Dean’s always, Dean) steer him out the door, into the parking lot, to the car.
Sam leans his weight against the car and stares at his shoes. Listens as the familiar tread of his brother’s boots makes its way around the back of the Impala. Hears the trunk open and then fall closed. Sees Dean’s feet stop in front of his own.
There’s a cool touch at his forehead; he flinches and Dean grabs his face, holds it still. Dean’s exhaled Sam flows across his chin, his cheek, and Sam’s eyes sink closed as he lets his brother take care of him.
Feedback is adored.
