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hoodie_timeTitle: Rage, Rage, and All That Crap
Author: nwhepcat
Spoilers: Set shortly after 7.02, skipping ahead through months at a time.
Rating: R, for copious F-bombs
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Lisa, Sam
Summary: As Dean begins to lose something he can't get back, he longs to regain another irreplaceable part of himself.
Part 1 is here: http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/505254.html
This was the part Dean hated most about their new world order -- which now wasn't even all that new. Waiting in some dingy motel room for Sam to get back from a hunt. Wondering if he'd come back battered and bloody, or if this was the time he wouldn't come back at all. This was the time he got twitchy and wished he had a drink in his hand.
It felt like a shitty bargain, giving up booze for a chance at a few more years of sight when he was already unfit for the one thing he was meant to do. (And "give up the booze" was as drastic an oversimplification as "kill that motherfucker" usually was, but he was doing it. One fucking day at a fucking time.) There was nothing he could do except wait and fear this last unbearable loss in a long string of them: Mom, Dad, Ellen, Jo, Cas --
Dean had worn a path in the floor and gone around the TV dial at least fourteen times by the time he heard a thump and pawing at the door. Grabbing his Glock from the nightstand, he moved to stand beside the door.
Another pawing, accompanied by: "It's me, Dean."
Hurriedly Dean tucked the gun away at his spine and yanked open the door, only to get an armful of Sam. He was half covered in slime and the other half in blood, the back of his jacket shredded, and he stank like three-day-old death.
"Got it," Sam mumbled, as if that was the most important thing.
Lowering him onto the garish bedspread of Dean's own bed, he asked, "Where did it get you? Just your back?"
"Yeah."
Carefully he eased Sam's jacket off, then his flannel shirt, then he flicked open his pocket knife to cut Sam's t-shirt away. Dean held his breath until he saw no darkly glistening organs pulsing beneath the six claw marks that slashed from the lower tip of Sam's left shoulder blade to his right hip.
"Sonofabitch," Dean muttered. "i think I need a Handy Stitch."
A groan was Sam's only response.
"Man, we've got to get you cleaned up first."
After a struggle and multiple hisses and curses from Sam, he was sprawled face down on his own clean bed as Dean tore open a suture kit. Dean had pulled the lampshade off the bedside light, but it was still pretty damn dim for this kind of work.
"You're gonna look like the Chicago railyards when this is done," Dean said two claw marks in. "Sorry.
"Adds character," Sam said into the space behind his folded arms. "Otherwise I'm too damn pretty."
"Dude. Don't make me laugh."
When he was three-quarters done with the last gash, Dean paused to rub his forehead above the bridge of his nose. "I can't do this anymore."
"How much further do you have to go?"
"That's not what I meant." He took the needle up again. "I mean the whole thing. Hunting. Or whatever it is I'm doing while you're hunting."
"Dean--"
"Don't tell me how indispensible I am. I don't want to fucking hear it." Dean continued working until he'd put in the last stitch, then managed to bandage up the whole mess. He took up the bottle of Vicodin he'd used to dose up Sam and took two himself, then put the shade back on the lamp, tilting it to cast most of the room in shadow. His head throbbing, he stripped off the filthy bedspread on his own bed and fell onto the threadbare sheets.
In the morning, they tucked into the diner breakfast Dean had brought back to the room, Sam straddling his chair to keep his stitches out of harm's way.
"Did you mean what you said last night?" Sam asked through a mouthful of Greek omelet.
"I'm surprised you remember anything I said last night."
Sam just eyed him, waiting.
"Yeah, I meant it. I can't do something that's that close to hunting without actually hunting. Especially if it's you out there doing the dangerous part."
Sam chewed a while, absorbing this. "Have you thought about what you'll do instead?"
He'd had hours to think of it, lying awake the night before. And on some level he'd been working on this question throughout the months since his diagnosis. Nodding, he said, "I want to settle down. Open a business."
"What sort of thing are you thinking of?"
"What's the one thing every hunter needs?"
"Psychotherapy."
"Oh, you're funny, Sam."
"I'm not kidding." He washed down a mouthful of home fries with a swig of orange juice. "Everyone who gets into this life has lived through something horrific. And those who were born to it have plenty of issues too. Think of the times we could've used someone to help us work things through who wouldn't automatically assume we're head cases."
"We are head cases. Last thing anyone would want is a therapist crazier than them."
"What, then?"
"What's one thing I can do with my eyes closed?"
"You want to open a sperm bank?"
"Oh, you're a real card, Andy. Why don't you go over to the old folks' home and wax the steps? I can field strip pretty much any gun blindfolded. I thought I'd take up gunsmithing."
It took Sam a moment to lose his smirk, then he asked, "Where are you thinking you'll settle?"
"Portland."
"Portland?"
"Portland."
"Maine or Oregon?"
"Oregon."
Sam wrinkled his brow. "Why there? Don't you want to be somewhere more central so you get more business? Or move closer to Bobby?"
"Portland's got bike trails out the ass. They've got mass transit. Either way I'll be able to get around if things get bad enough I can't drive in the day. And I won't have to worry about sun glare most of the time."
After he'd mulled this over a while, Sam said, "But is a place like that going to be that fertile for a gunsmith? It seems a little, well, crunchy granola, to use a phrase I've heard come out of your mouth."
"A hunter who'll drive across three states to gank a ghost will go to Portland to get his favorite gun fixed. I know I would. Especially if it's the sort of gun they can't exactly take to the gun shop downtown."
"Okay, but what --"
Dean overrode him. "You do realize you're not the actual devil's advocate anymore."
He knew in an instant he'd jammed his foot so far into his mouth that his shit was going to come out with Vibram sole treadmarks on it.
"Fuck, I'm sorry Sam. That's was out of line."
Sam shrugged. "You're right. It's your plan, I should shut up and let you plan it."
The undercurrent was plain enough, though. If Dean didn't think of every single factor and something went wrong, it was tough tits.
***
It surprised Dean that it took so long for Sam to figure out the real reason he'd chosen Portland. They had set up base camp in a motel, and Dean had begun circling real estate ads for business and residential spaces, and a few likely sounding combination properties.
"I don't get it," he said. "Why are you limiting your search to one area?"
"I like it. It has a good feel."
"A 'good feel'?" Sam echoed. "Man, I don't even know you."
"Oh, get bent," Dean said without heat.
"Seriously, Dean, we've done one drive around town, and we didn't even get to all the potential neighborhoods."
"We don't need to get to all of them if I find something I like in this one."
Shaking his head, Sam gave up at this point, but a day later Dean let himself into the room bearing a bag of Chinese takeout, only to be greeted by Sam flapping a sheaf of papers in Dean's face.
"Jesus, Dean. Jesus. You wanted to move here because Lisa lives here?"
Dean pulled the papers away from him. "Why the fuck are you rummaging around in my research, anyway?"
"What are you thinking? What the hell are you planning to do -- walk up to her and say, 'You don't remember me, but I saved you and your kid from monsters back in Indiana'?"
"Don't be stupid, Sam."
"What, then? You're going to stalk her?"
"No. Dammit, Sammy, you were the one who was so pissed off about me cutting myself out of Lisa's life that way. Now you're pissed that I want to try to start fresh with her?"
"It's creepy. Arranging an accidental meeting and then pretending you never met her before."
"Since that's not what's going to happen, you shouldn't have a problem."
"Then what?" Sam demanded.
"I'm going to get my life started and hope that at some point it intersects with hers and Ben's."
"Dean, I'm telling you, this--"
Dean cut in. "You remember the conversation we had after I visited Lisa in the hospital?"
"The one about you breaking my face?"
"That one, yeah. Consider that warning back in effect." Snatching up his jacket, he said, "I'm going for a walk. Save me the fucking sesame noodles -- all of them."
Author: nwhepcat
Spoilers: Set shortly after 7.02, skipping ahead through months at a time.
Rating: R, for copious F-bombs
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Lisa, Sam
Summary: As Dean begins to lose something he can't get back, he longs to regain another irreplaceable part of himself.
Part 1 is here: http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/505254.html
This was the part Dean hated most about their new world order -- which now wasn't even all that new. Waiting in some dingy motel room for Sam to get back from a hunt. Wondering if he'd come back battered and bloody, or if this was the time he wouldn't come back at all. This was the time he got twitchy and wished he had a drink in his hand.
It felt like a shitty bargain, giving up booze for a chance at a few more years of sight when he was already unfit for the one thing he was meant to do. (And "give up the booze" was as drastic an oversimplification as "kill that motherfucker" usually was, but he was doing it. One fucking day at a fucking time.) There was nothing he could do except wait and fear this last unbearable loss in a long string of them: Mom, Dad, Ellen, Jo, Cas --
Dean had worn a path in the floor and gone around the TV dial at least fourteen times by the time he heard a thump and pawing at the door. Grabbing his Glock from the nightstand, he moved to stand beside the door.
Another pawing, accompanied by: "It's me, Dean."
Hurriedly Dean tucked the gun away at his spine and yanked open the door, only to get an armful of Sam. He was half covered in slime and the other half in blood, the back of his jacket shredded, and he stank like three-day-old death.
"Got it," Sam mumbled, as if that was the most important thing.
Lowering him onto the garish bedspread of Dean's own bed, he asked, "Where did it get you? Just your back?"
"Yeah."
Carefully he eased Sam's jacket off, then his flannel shirt, then he flicked open his pocket knife to cut Sam's t-shirt away. Dean held his breath until he saw no darkly glistening organs pulsing beneath the six claw marks that slashed from the lower tip of Sam's left shoulder blade to his right hip.
"Sonofabitch," Dean muttered. "i think I need a Handy Stitch."
A groan was Sam's only response.
"Man, we've got to get you cleaned up first."
After a struggle and multiple hisses and curses from Sam, he was sprawled face down on his own clean bed as Dean tore open a suture kit. Dean had pulled the lampshade off the bedside light, but it was still pretty damn dim for this kind of work.
"You're gonna look like the Chicago railyards when this is done," Dean said two claw marks in. "Sorry.
"Adds character," Sam said into the space behind his folded arms. "Otherwise I'm too damn pretty."
"Dude. Don't make me laugh."
When he was three-quarters done with the last gash, Dean paused to rub his forehead above the bridge of his nose. "I can't do this anymore."
"How much further do you have to go?"
"That's not what I meant." He took the needle up again. "I mean the whole thing. Hunting. Or whatever it is I'm doing while you're hunting."
"Dean--"
"Don't tell me how indispensible I am. I don't want to fucking hear it." Dean continued working until he'd put in the last stitch, then managed to bandage up the whole mess. He took up the bottle of Vicodin he'd used to dose up Sam and took two himself, then put the shade back on the lamp, tilting it to cast most of the room in shadow. His head throbbing, he stripped off the filthy bedspread on his own bed and fell onto the threadbare sheets.
In the morning, they tucked into the diner breakfast Dean had brought back to the room, Sam straddling his chair to keep his stitches out of harm's way.
"Did you mean what you said last night?" Sam asked through a mouthful of Greek omelet.
"I'm surprised you remember anything I said last night."
Sam just eyed him, waiting.
"Yeah, I meant it. I can't do something that's that close to hunting without actually hunting. Especially if it's you out there doing the dangerous part."
Sam chewed a while, absorbing this. "Have you thought about what you'll do instead?"
He'd had hours to think of it, lying awake the night before. And on some level he'd been working on this question throughout the months since his diagnosis. Nodding, he said, "I want to settle down. Open a business."
"What sort of thing are you thinking of?"
"What's the one thing every hunter needs?"
"Psychotherapy."
"Oh, you're funny, Sam."
"I'm not kidding." He washed down a mouthful of home fries with a swig of orange juice. "Everyone who gets into this life has lived through something horrific. And those who were born to it have plenty of issues too. Think of the times we could've used someone to help us work things through who wouldn't automatically assume we're head cases."
"We are head cases. Last thing anyone would want is a therapist crazier than them."
"What, then?"
"What's one thing I can do with my eyes closed?"
"You want to open a sperm bank?"
"Oh, you're a real card, Andy. Why don't you go over to the old folks' home and wax the steps? I can field strip pretty much any gun blindfolded. I thought I'd take up gunsmithing."
It took Sam a moment to lose his smirk, then he asked, "Where are you thinking you'll settle?"
"Portland."
"Portland?"
"Portland."
"Maine or Oregon?"
"Oregon."
Sam wrinkled his brow. "Why there? Don't you want to be somewhere more central so you get more business? Or move closer to Bobby?"
"Portland's got bike trails out the ass. They've got mass transit. Either way I'll be able to get around if things get bad enough I can't drive in the day. And I won't have to worry about sun glare most of the time."
After he'd mulled this over a while, Sam said, "But is a place like that going to be that fertile for a gunsmith? It seems a little, well, crunchy granola, to use a phrase I've heard come out of your mouth."
"A hunter who'll drive across three states to gank a ghost will go to Portland to get his favorite gun fixed. I know I would. Especially if it's the sort of gun they can't exactly take to the gun shop downtown."
"Okay, but what --"
Dean overrode him. "You do realize you're not the actual devil's advocate anymore."
He knew in an instant he'd jammed his foot so far into his mouth that his shit was going to come out with Vibram sole treadmarks on it.
"Fuck, I'm sorry Sam. That's was out of line."
Sam shrugged. "You're right. It's your plan, I should shut up and let you plan it."
The undercurrent was plain enough, though. If Dean didn't think of every single factor and something went wrong, it was tough tits.
***
It surprised Dean that it took so long for Sam to figure out the real reason he'd chosen Portland. They had set up base camp in a motel, and Dean had begun circling real estate ads for business and residential spaces, and a few likely sounding combination properties.
"I don't get it," he said. "Why are you limiting your search to one area?"
"I like it. It has a good feel."
"A 'good feel'?" Sam echoed. "Man, I don't even know you."
"Oh, get bent," Dean said without heat.
"Seriously, Dean, we've done one drive around town, and we didn't even get to all the potential neighborhoods."
"We don't need to get to all of them if I find something I like in this one."
Shaking his head, Sam gave up at this point, but a day later Dean let himself into the room bearing a bag of Chinese takeout, only to be greeted by Sam flapping a sheaf of papers in Dean's face.
"Jesus, Dean. Jesus. You wanted to move here because Lisa lives here?"
Dean pulled the papers away from him. "Why the fuck are you rummaging around in my research, anyway?"
"What are you thinking? What the hell are you planning to do -- walk up to her and say, 'You don't remember me, but I saved you and your kid from monsters back in Indiana'?"
"Don't be stupid, Sam."
"What, then? You're going to stalk her?"
"No. Dammit, Sammy, you were the one who was so pissed off about me cutting myself out of Lisa's life that way. Now you're pissed that I want to try to start fresh with her?"
"It's creepy. Arranging an accidental meeting and then pretending you never met her before."
"Since that's not what's going to happen, you shouldn't have a problem."
"Then what?" Sam demanded.
"I'm going to get my life started and hope that at some point it intersects with hers and Ben's."
"Dean, I'm telling you, this--"
Dean cut in. "You remember the conversation we had after I visited Lisa in the hospital?"
"The one about you breaking my face?"
"That one, yeah. Consider that warning back in effect." Snatching up his jacket, he said, "I'm going for a walk. Save me the fucking sesame noodles -- all of them."
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Date: 2011-11-03 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-05 02:41 am (UTC)And I'm glad you liked the dialog -- I had a lot of fun with it in this story.
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Date: 2011-11-03 07:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-05 02:42 am (UTC)And your icon is killing me.
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Date: 2011-11-07 02:13 pm (UTC)