Tumblr rescue: Drabbles

[vanja]

But when Sam gets his soul back and Dean is trying to be patient, let him get his bearings, watching him eat his sandwich, catch up with Bobby. And when he just can’t wait any more he drags Sam upstairs and shoves him down on the first bed he can find, and Sam thinks this is gonna be one of those rough times, and he’s ok with it cause it’s Dean and Sam understands, he’s been gone for a long time. But instead, Dean’s touch turns gentle, his lips claiming Sam’s carefully, his eyes searching. Sam isn’t sure what Dean is searching for but he tries to give him everything at once, with his hands, his mouth, straining to feel every inch of Dean’s skin. But Dean traps him with his arms and knees, holds him down tightly to whisper, “Tell me you love me.” And Sam doesn’t understand why Dean needs to hear it because he knows that Sam loves him, that Sam has loved him his entire life. Still he doesn’t hesitate, “Always, Dean. Always and forever.”

--

Do you ever just think about how Dean felt after Sam left for Stanford?

 

To have your brother by you almost your entire life. A set of eyes always looking up to you, a shoulder always brushing yours, his step echoing in beat with yours on all the roads you’ve ever traveled. To have that one person in the world who understands, who can read you like a book. Who knows your smiles and frowns and anger as well as they know their own. That one person that you’re always ready to catch when they stumble. Your life revolving around their safety and happiness and they way they look at you. Because when they do, you see yourself as something better, something worth loving. Because you only feel like a human being when they love you. And without them you’re nothing but an empty shell, a machine that runs on anger and fumes and fury that can’t be explained.

 

I wonder if he could still hear Sam’s laughter long after Sam was gone. I wonder if he saw him in the shadows of the trees in the evening, in the shaggy haired youths bent over their books on park benches. Did he ever learn to sleep without Sam’s breath echoing in the hotel rooms. Could he ever look at his face in the mirror without seeing his brother staring back. 

--

What if Sam only goes for it because Dean is so drunk that he thinks maybe, just maybe, the next day Dean won’t remember it. So he tries to kiss him in the alley behind the bar, but Dean pushes him back and asks what the hell his problem is. And the next day everything is back to normal and Dean is back to normal, but every once in a while, Sam catches him brushing his fingers over his lips, as if he could still feel Sam there.

--

Au where Dean shows up at Stanford to get Sam because dad’s on a hunting trip and hasn’t been home in a few days. And Sam goes along with it even though dad’s been dead for quite a few years and the psych hospital where Dean had spent most of his life never called him and notified him that Dean had escaped again. 

 

So he goes along with it, telling Dean he’s gonna help him ‘find dad,’ all the while trying to steer him back to the hospital, hoping to get him back under lock and key with the minimal amount of damage to Dean and people around him. 

 

Days go by, then weeks, then months, and Sam figures out that Dean is too smart to be steered, too intricately delusional to be reasoned with, and he knows that the only way to get back to Stanford and his life and his girlfriend is to have Dean sedated and taken back by force. But he’s grown to enjoy Dean’s world of hunting and ghosts and demons, and even though he knows it’s all in Dean’s head, there’s something soothing about crossing the country with his older brother, something that finally feels like home.

 

So he gives up. He figures dad is dead, mom is dead, all he’s ever had is Dean and in the larger scheme of things the two of them hardly matter to anyone but each other.

 

Ten years go by in a blink of an eye. Dean is getting faint creases around his eyes, the laugh lines around his mouth are growing deeper and Sam doesn’t know where the real world begins and Dean’s delusions end. But he knows in his heart, that he never would’ve been this happy practicing law. That he never would’ve laughed this hard with Jess at his side. And that he never would’ve known how breathtaking the world could look like if he hadn’t seen it though his brothers eyes.

--

I need an unrequited Dean x Benny fic starting with their meeting in purgatory. Hell, starting before that, with Benny following Dean secretly for weeks, watching him hunt and kill, watching him become something even the worst monsters fear. Falling in love with this gorgeous fucking human who obviously doesn’t belong. Falling in love with the way Dean fights, the way he stalks his pray, that low growl right before he kills. 

 

Benny revealing himself to Dean and secretly being terrified that this beautiful fucking human would want nothing to do with him, would despise him. Promising to get him out of purgatory, even though he’s not sure it could be done, but promising it anyway because under that green fucking gaze he would promise anything and everything just to keep Dean by his side. Having one single night with Dean; not even an entire night. Just a few hours after they were both exhausted and torn up, covered in blood of their kills, adrenaline surging, where Dean finally gives in. Benny finding out that Dean is his match in every way, teeth and bruises and chunks of flesh torn with his nails. Constellations of freckles, rock hard thighs clenching as Dean rode him, filth spewing out of those pretty lips. And if in the end, Dean calls him Sam, it doesn’t matter so much because Sam isn’t there.

--

Man, sometimes I feel so bad for Gabriel.

 

What you guys call the Apocalypse, I used to call Sunday dinner!

 

That quote always got me cause it makes it so much easier to understand. You can literally picture the four of them, Gabriel, Lucifer, Michael and Raphael, at the dinner table, God like their version of preoccupied and overworked father, probably trying to do what today equals to hiding behind a newspaper so he can ignore the endless bickering. Michael and Lucifer constantly going at it because that’s what they do, back and forth across the table, Lucifer obnoxious because he’s being ignored by the only entity whose attention he ever wanted and Michael righteous and offended. Raphael eating in silence because if God deigns to address anyone at the table, it would probably be Raphael, the quiet one, the one who doesn’t rise to provocation and obeys orders without question. If God addresses Michael, it would be to ask why he lets Lucifer get a rise out of him every time. All of them convinced that Raphael is the favorite, the golden boy with a stick up his ass, a suck up and a prick who looks down on the rest of them. And none of them know that Lucifer, with all his wit and sarcasm and sharp, cutting tongue is the one God wants to protect the most because he doesn’t understand this son, this rebel, he doesn’t know what to do with him, where he came from, what feeds all that anger and resentment. 

 

And all the while Gabriel is that kid that no one notices. The smallest of them all, that kid that chokes his food down so fast that he spends his entire childhood with upset stomach. Who never says anything because no one would listen to him anyway. And he hates every moment of every dinner, hates it with passion, because he loves his brothers, he loves his father, but he can already see how flawed they all are, even God who’s supposed to infallible. Worse, he feels rotten because he understands Lucifer, he understands where all that anger and fury comes from and he’s afraid for his brother, for what others may do to him or what he may do to himself. He spends his days tagging behind Castiel or Anna or even Balthazar, anyone who would have him, so he can avoid the simmering pot that is his family. He feels small and unimportant and every day he watches his family disintegrate a little more, lower angels, brothers and sisters taking sides, and no one cares what he feels, how much he hurts. 

--

I am a hero.

 

Because heroes are alone. They carry a burden no one gets to see. They don’t complain, they don’t ask questions, they don’t mind lumpy motel room mattresses and cracked bathroom mirrors and sleepless nights. They don’t need a home.

 

I am a hero.

 

Because heroes are not killers. Because they are allowed calluses on their hands, they are allowed a sharp blade in their boot. They can fall and get back up again. They don’t mind the cold or the hunger or the pain. They are made better, stronger, faster. 

 

I am a hero.

 

Because heroes don’t cry. They give and give and give until there is nothing left. They make hard decisions and live with the consequences. They let their families rot in hell for the good of the world. They carry that world on their shoulders and never get to put it down.

 

I am a hero. I have to be.

 

Because if I’m not, then I am nothing. Just a boy who mindlessly obeyed his father, a homeless kid living on the road, a freak who sleeps with a gun under his pillow. A man who sold his soul to hell, a man who let his brother die over and over again, a man who couldn’t love a woman, couldn’t be a father, a man who drinks too hard and cares too little. A man who in the end will die for nothing.

 

I am a hero. Because if I’m not, then I am barely human. 

--

So this is it then.

 

It takes him a few moments to identify the twisting in his stomach, the tightness.

 

It’s fear.

 

It’s fear and it’s strange and unfamiliar because it’s been so long since he’s felt anything but fury.

 

The wheel of the Impala is slick in his hands.

 

He knows he should stop pressing on the gas pedal with so much force. They’re stuck. There is a logical thought process happening somewhere in the back of his head, cool and calculated voice that always sounds like John.

 

‘Lay off the gas boy, you’re just digging yourself deeper in.’

 

Even in his head John manages to sound exasperated.

 

But he can’t. He can’t. Because it’s only been a few minutes, moments really, since he’s felt human again. And it’s not fair.

 

The darkness is creeping closer and his foot is pressing harder and there are thousands, millions of words stuck in his throat, months of things unsaid. So many mistakes made. The last one still imprinted on Sam’s face, on the cut on his cheek, the blood on his lip. It’s not fair.

 

“Sam,” he says, and he sounds desperate.

 

A fitting punishment, this. To feel all this again, all this guilt, all the pain, all the love, and to be out of time. To feel each wound he inflicted turn back on himself, to know the entirety of the damage he caused, and to only have time for one word, three letters, a prayer no one else would understand.

 

Sam’s hand brushes his. His brother’s knuckles are split and bruised. Not enough, never enough. Had Death only taken him when he asked. Had he never taken the Mark. Had they never gone on the impossible quest to close the gates of Hell, had he only–

 

Sam’s hand grips his and squeezes tight. The first hail of rocks is hitting the windshield. It’s growing darker in the Impala, but not dark enough so he can’t see Sam’s face. So he can’t see the tiny, tired smile.

 

“I’ve got you,” Sam says softly.

 

And darkness takes over.

--

 

Comments

[shy_magpie]

Oh my, these are great! Should I be checking this post in case you add more or will you be posting your work separately in the future? I don't want to miss it! Mind if I rec these fics on my journal?

[vanja]

I don't mind at all! I'm just randomly transporting everything I wrote on tumblr to here, bc I'm pretty sure my blog will be a goner after 17th. There'll probably separate posts for headcanons, longer fic, meta, and so on. If I find any more drabbles I'll add them to this post though :)

[shy_magpie]

Thanks!