mirabella: (Supernatural no dust)
mirabella ([personal profile] mirabella) wrote in [community profile] mirabellafic2013-05-20 08:08 pm
Entry tags:

Successive Approximations, Supernatural, Sam/Dean, G.

Title: Successive Approximations (Ten drabbles: Wincest)
Fandom: Supernatural, Sam/Dean, PG. Okay, I guess you could read it as gen, but it is Wincest because I say so.
Summary: Gonna be a long road home. Sam and Dean, S1.

Sam doesn't know which is more disorienting – the adrenaline spike that drove him into combat mode or how suddenly it vanishes. One minute he's fighting, cold clarity and sharp pain, shit this guy's good favors his right side if I just, and the next –

"Easy, there, tiger."

- his brother's hands, his brother's voice, his brother's smile, and those things have meant safety since before Sam knew what danger was. The transition leaves him shaking.

Then Dean pisses him off and it's on. But Sam can't shake the feeling that that moment cost him something he doesn't want to pay.

The truth is, for the first few months Dean didn't know who the hell he was anymore. And unlike Sam, Dean wasn't enthusiastic about reinventing himself, because being Dean Winchester wasn't half bad. Dean Winchester had chicks, hunting, Dad, his pain-in-the-ass little brother growing like the Devil was chasing him up.

Until he didn't, anyway.

He tried to get out of the habit of being a big brother. He failed miserably, every day. With the Impala stinking of smoke and Sam white and shaking in the passenger seat, Dean's for once in his life damn glad he dropped the ball.

In St. Mary Parish, Dean crouches on the other side of a bonfire, watching, need to keep track of the ritual warring with the instinct not to compromise his night vision. Sam's seen him keep watch like this a thousand times… but tonight is weird somehow, and nothing feels familiar.

He was gone for four years of Dean's life. Suddenly he wonders if the brother he knew everything about is gone too, replaced by this man whose firelit eyes aren't quite the color Sam remembers.

"Christo," he whispers, and for an unsettling moment doesn't know which of them he's testing.

Teenage girls are either the fiercest creatures God made or the stupidest, because nobody else would stand in front of a mirror in the dark and say "Bloody Mary" three times. Sam's the size of a standing Kodiak and won't even say it once, because Dad and Dean raised him right.

Until someone has to. Then he fights for it. But he freaks a little afterward, reading Dean's blood with his fingertips, guilt and promises heavy in his eyes.

Dean brushes him off and starts the car. He loves Sammy like dying, but forever doesn't fit in his brother's mouth.

The first time Sam laughed after Jess died, the earth was fresh-turned on her grave and he thought he'd never forgive himself. He can't remember now what was funny, something stupid Dean said or did.

"Atta boy, Sammy," Dean said, contented. Seventeen-year-old Sam would have lost it and punched him. Twenty-two-year-old Sam just sat there, bewildered and snickering, weird things happening in his chest as laughter and Dean loosened one knot and guilt tried to sew another.

Now when he laughs he forgets at first to feel guilty, which is even worse; but Dean is still there, strong and safe.

Dean milks the "house-hunting gay couple" thing in Oklahoma just to see how long it'll take Sammy's face to freeze like that. Well, and to clue in the scary Stepford real estate agent that there's no bad-boy sex coming her way, because a man's gotta have standards and Dean's sort of afraid she's going to want to fuck with her oven mitts on or something.

This is what Sam wants. Tract houses and barbecues. It scares Dean like watching his brother walk into a vampire nest without Dean at his back, and fear makes him say more than he should.

In Pensacola, Dean takes a gut wound from a bunyip's filthy claws. By nightfall he's unconscious, sweating out the poison or dying of an infection – Sam doesn't know which and no doctor could tell him. He calls Dad once, hopelessly, then sits by Dean's bed stroking damp washcloths against his face with shaking hands.

Missouri calls at four in the morning. She doesn't say anything; only sings to him, whisper-soft and soothing, a lullaby Sam knows but has never heard. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Dean's arm, waiting to feel the fever break on his skin.

When the "Art Deco choker" in a tiny Arizona museum is really a 2,000-year-old Celtic torc, the look on Sam's face is priceless, like he's personally offended by the caliber of artifact-identification fuckup. When the torc flies out of Dean's hand to latch harmlessly around Sam's throat, Dean actually tears up thinking of all the ways Sam will never live this down.

When the exasperated torc-spirit shows up to explain how to complete the bonding ritual and make get-on-with-it gestures at them, they almost light Sam's hair on fire destroying the torc and then avoid each other's eyes for days.

There's a bus leaving for California soon. Sam's leaving on it, again; but this time there's no Dean pushing money into his hands without looking him in the eye. No Dean, and Sam's hand goes to his phone over and over as if it were a rosary.

Something inside him is whispering things he doesn't want to listen to. He isn't ready to let go yet, of law school and a home and family. Of not being dirty or hurt or afraid.

He pulls out his phone, puts it away, thinks Dean like an incantation. Meg watches him, curiously incurious.

Nothing's forever. If anyone alive knows that for truth, it's Dean Winchester. He's done too many salt-and-burns to have any illusions about what happens when you can't let go. You may start out with good intentions, but before you know it you're getting your ass handed to you by a dead toddler with a scalpel.

Sam is still asleep, face buried in the pillows, one hand lying in a pool of rising sunlight. Dean goes to get coffee, and maybe somewhere in his head he just keeps on driving, but here and now he's got his little brother to feed.