[Fic] Time Again [gen, PG; Sam, Dean]
Aug. 12th, 2012 06:11 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
ukefied.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hoodie_timeAuthor: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ukefied
Disclaimer: No loitering, no line dancing. Also, this show and its characters do not belong to me.
Word Count: 1,659
Rating/Warnings: PG, no warnings.
Character/Pairings: Dean, Sam [gen]
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hc_bingo, prompt & notes spoil the fic:
This was getting a little unwieldy for my projected hc_bingo, so I stopped it, but I really wanted to write more of this world.
Summary: People wish for second chances, but what if you got it right the first time and wrong the second?
“Time Again”
by Mina Lightstar
On the third day, Sam finally snaps.
“Dude,” he growls, “what is your problem?” Because there is a problem. Watching as Dean visibly crumples beneath the question, Sam’s more certain of it than ever; his big brother doesn’t crumple.
“I don’t have a problem,” Dean evades, huddling further against the passenger window. He thumps his head against the glass and and goes very still, trying to make good on his claim of not having a problem.
Sam figures it’s lunchtime. He catches a glimpse of a road sign boasting a Biggerson’s in five miles. “We’ll eat soon,” he promises.
“Sure,” Dean agrees, ambivalent.
Which, seriously. Sam has no freaking idea what is up his brother’s ass. The hunt went well, the burgers had been greasy, and the waitress had been hot. He watches Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean’s fingers keep drifting to his stump, rubbing the covered wrist like it’s alien.
“Does it hurt?” Sam asks. He knows the answer; he’s asked this question a dozen times over the past few days. “Feeling any phantom pain?”
Dean immediately stops poking at it, planting his right arm firmly on his thigh and curling the stump against his stomach. “No.”
“Right,” Sam sighs, pulling off at the exit. “Then you want to put your Skywalker hand back on?”
“No!”
The reply is so sudden, Sam nearly stalls as he shifts gears. “Dean,” he huffs. “Look. I’ve been patient, okay? But you have to tell me what the hell your baggage is, because I’m obviously shit at guessing!”
“… Sammy,” Dean manages, in a broken voice torn from somewhere deep inside. His good hand wanders up to touch his shirt, like he’s unconsciously grabbing at something. “I’m fine, okay?”
“Bullshit,” Sam calls it. He regrets the tone when Dean’s eyes widen — which, again, what the hell? Where did this wilting flower of a brother come from, all of a sudden? “Dean,” he tries for a gentler approach, “I know something’s wrong. You freaked out when you saw …” your wrist “… the car. You’ve been dodgy since our run-in with the witches. I thought you said they didn’t have time to whammy you before I killed them.”
“They didn’t,” Dean replies, very softly.
Sam pulls into a parking spot between two hybrid SUVs. The smokers standing out front give the Challenger an appraising look. “Are you upset about the mess I made? I’m sorry I killed them, but I had no choice. You saw what they were doing.”
“I did,” his brother agrees, just as quietly. But he doesn’t sound like he’s made peace with it.
Shoving down a burst of irritation, Sam glares at the gear shaft and it slides itself into park. “Then what is wrong, Dean?”
His brother looks at him then, really looks at him, and Sam feels acutely like a stranger. Dean looks older and wearier than Sam’s ever seen him, and Sam thinks, This is it. This is when one of them breaks beyond repair — this is the moment they are never the same again.
Dean says, “Your hair.”
Sam blinks, taken aback. “Huh?” He grabs one lock, blond-and-black streaks twining around his fingers. “Why would…? Hey, shut up, jerk, that’s not your freaking problem.” His roots are showing, though; it’s time to dye his hair again. “Quit deflecting.”
And Dean suddenly looks very sad. “My arm hurts,” he mumbles.
“Okay,” Sam says, cutting him some slack. “Okay.”
***
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember the hunt before the witches?”
“Sure, we took care of that kelpie for Pastor Jim. It wasn’t that long ago.
“… Dean?”
“Right. Right, I remember.”
***
The fifth day, Dean tries to dig his own heart out with a knife, yelling about how he had to “wake up.”
Sam chalks it up to the painkillers, confiscates them, and has the prescription changed.
***
The seventh day, Dean starts disappearing at night. Sam figured it would only be a matter of time. Dean thinks he’s being stealthy, heading to various city libraries under the pretense of helping them find jobs — except that he stays holed up there longer than Sam knows Dean is able to sit still. So either Dean is playing hooky and getting laid in the middle of the afternoon, or something has him obsessed.
Sam hasn’t asked, because Dean hasn’t been responding well to his bedside manner. Actually, Sam isn’t entirely convinced that the witches didn’t cast a spell on his brother — except, a spell that what? Makes him a moody bookworm? Doesn’t make sense.
But Dean’s been acting very strangely. Sam wonders if it’s some form of PTSD, related to the trauma of losing his hand to a hellhound. He’d have lost much more than that, if Sam hadn’t ripped the beast apart before making Ruby and Lilith burst at the seams. He wonders how long it takes for PTSD to develop.
A week ago, after Sam had saved him from the witches, Dean’s first course of action had been to scream bloody murder when he saw his hand. Then he’d flipped out over the car — something about a Chevy Impala being his one and only. Then he’d wanted to know why their tattoos had moved. It had all sounded crazy.
Sam rubs the pentagram on his inner wrist and sighs. His brother had been making incredible progress, too. Even though they could only scam so much insurance these days, they’d managed to get a pretty good prosthetic made. Dean was well on his way to being able to drive again — but he hasn’t put the prosthetic on since they interrupted the witches’s summoning circle. He looks at it like … like he has no idea what to do with it.
Sam rubs his face. Things were supposed to get easier after Lilith was dead.
***
The twelfth day, Sam wakes up with the sun, just as Dean trudges through the motel door. He’s covered in dirt, looks miserable as hell, and smells like twenty different plants and relics.
Whatever he’d been doing, it’s obvious from his expression that it had failed.
***
Two weeks in, Sam can’t take it anymore. Grasping at straws, he looks over at where Dean is lying on the bed, staring at his stump. “Dean, don’t get mad at me for asking, but are you sure those witches didn’t cast a spell on you, curse you?”
Dean tenses immediately. “No spell,” he grits out. “I told you, they had to keep me asleep until they were finished whatever they were doing. You stopped them before they even started, remember?” He fidgets on the mattress, and Sam is about to interrogate him further when he admits, “I had a dream, though.”
Sam sits up straighter. Finally, it was something. “While you were with the witches? What sort of dream?”
“Did you ever give me an amulet?”
The non-sequitur brings Sam up short. “What?” An amulet? “You mean like I gave Dad?”
Dean’s cheek twitches. “Yeah,” he confirms wearily. “Like you gave Dad.”
“No,” Sam replies easily, not sure where this is going. “You don’t remember? I tried giving you Dad’s present one year, but you said you couldn’t take it.” He cocks his head. “Why? What’s that got to do with your dream?”
Dean stares at the ceiling. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”
Oh, come on. “Dean, seriously! I don’t know what to do here, man. You say you aren’t hexed, and I haven’t seen anything that tells me you are hexed, but you are being weird and obsessive and you’re out in the middle of the night cooking up god-knows-what in the woods. What exactly am I supposed to think about this, huh?”
Dean doesn’t answer. Inwardly, Sam rages and spits and very nearly opens his mouth and tells Dean stop playing games. But then he notices Dean is biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.
“Fuck,” Sam growls, leaning back in his chair.
***
Nothing prepares him for Day Sixteen.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean sobs, rubbing at his runny nose with his stump. “It’s okay. I won’t be weird anymore.”
“Sure,” Sam says, moving empty bottles aside with his foot. “Sure, yeah.” He hooks his hands under Dean’s arms and hauls him up. “Don’t worry, kiddo,” he soothes, helping him settle on the bed, “whatever it is, we’ll deal with it, okay? We’ll do what we always do.”
Dean looks wretched. “I don’t know what that is anymore,” he confesses through tears.
And this is the climax of three weeks of Bizarro World. Sam murmurs comforting nothings and massages Dean’s stump and helps him drink some water. All the while, he wonders if this is just life. Not witches or hexes or anything supernatural at all — just a really shitty part of life.
“Won’t be weird anymore,” Dean whispers. It sounds like an admission of defeat.
“Okay,” Sam says, even though he’s not sure that’s what he wants anymore. “Whatever you want.”
Dean’s drunk and exhausted and falls asleep before Sam can help him get undressed. It’s stifling in the room, though, so Sam goes it solo. When he shimmies Dean’s jeans off, he hears something crinkle in the pocket. Thinking it’s a receipt or phone number, he reaches in, surprised to pull out a crumpled — not folded, crumpled — piece of lined paper. Curiosity has him straighten it out and read the one word scrawled in Dean’s squarish hand:
Khonsu.
Sam frowns. He glances at his brother, at the dried tear tracks on his face, at the empty bottles of booze on the floor.
After he tucks Dean in, he opens the laptop.
***
The next morning, Dean puts on his prosthetic hand.
~End.
ukefiedDisclaimer: No loitering, no line dancing. Also, this show and its characters do not belong to me.
Word Count: 1,659
Rating/Warnings: PG, no warnings.
Character/Pairings: Dean, Sam [gen]
Notes: For
hc_bingo, prompt & notes spoil the fic: | “time-travel goes wrong.” Ergo, AU officially from 3x16, but other things have also changed. |
Summary: People wish for second chances, but what if you got it right the first time and wrong the second?
“Time Again”
by Mina Lightstar
On the third day, Sam finally snaps.
“Dude,” he growls, “what is your problem?” Because there is a problem. Watching as Dean visibly crumples beneath the question, Sam’s more certain of it than ever; his big brother doesn’t crumple.
“I don’t have a problem,” Dean evades, huddling further against the passenger window. He thumps his head against the glass and and goes very still, trying to make good on his claim of not having a problem.
Sam figures it’s lunchtime. He catches a glimpse of a road sign boasting a Biggerson’s in five miles. “We’ll eat soon,” he promises.
“Sure,” Dean agrees, ambivalent.
Which, seriously. Sam has no freaking idea what is up his brother’s ass. The hunt went well, the burgers had been greasy, and the waitress had been hot. He watches Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean’s fingers keep drifting to his stump, rubbing the covered wrist like it’s alien.
“Does it hurt?” Sam asks. He knows the answer; he’s asked this question a dozen times over the past few days. “Feeling any phantom pain?”
Dean immediately stops poking at it, planting his right arm firmly on his thigh and curling the stump against his stomach. “No.”
“Right,” Sam sighs, pulling off at the exit. “Then you want to put your Skywalker hand back on?”
“No!”
The reply is so sudden, Sam nearly stalls as he shifts gears. “Dean,” he huffs. “Look. I’ve been patient, okay? But you have to tell me what the hell your baggage is, because I’m obviously shit at guessing!”
“… Sammy,” Dean manages, in a broken voice torn from somewhere deep inside. His good hand wanders up to touch his shirt, like he’s unconsciously grabbing at something. “I’m fine, okay?”
“Bullshit,” Sam calls it. He regrets the tone when Dean’s eyes widen — which, again, what the hell? Where did this wilting flower of a brother come from, all of a sudden? “Dean,” he tries for a gentler approach, “I know something’s wrong. You freaked out when you saw …” your wrist “… the car. You’ve been dodgy since our run-in with the witches. I thought you said they didn’t have time to whammy you before I killed them.”
“They didn’t,” Dean replies, very softly.
Sam pulls into a parking spot between two hybrid SUVs. The smokers standing out front give the Challenger an appraising look. “Are you upset about the mess I made? I’m sorry I killed them, but I had no choice. You saw what they were doing.”
“I did,” his brother agrees, just as quietly. But he doesn’t sound like he’s made peace with it.
Shoving down a burst of irritation, Sam glares at the gear shaft and it slides itself into park. “Then what is wrong, Dean?”
His brother looks at him then, really looks at him, and Sam feels acutely like a stranger. Dean looks older and wearier than Sam’s ever seen him, and Sam thinks, This is it. This is when one of them breaks beyond repair — this is the moment they are never the same again.
Dean says, “Your hair.”
Sam blinks, taken aback. “Huh?” He grabs one lock, blond-and-black streaks twining around his fingers. “Why would…? Hey, shut up, jerk, that’s not your freaking problem.” His roots are showing, though; it’s time to dye his hair again. “Quit deflecting.”
And Dean suddenly looks very sad. “My arm hurts,” he mumbles.
“Okay,” Sam says, cutting him some slack. “Okay.”
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember the hunt before the witches?”
“Sure, we took care of that kelpie for Pastor Jim. It wasn’t that long ago.
“… Dean?”
“Right. Right, I remember.”
The fifth day, Dean tries to dig his own heart out with a knife, yelling about how he had to “wake up.”
Sam chalks it up to the painkillers, confiscates them, and has the prescription changed.
The seventh day, Dean starts disappearing at night. Sam figured it would only be a matter of time. Dean thinks he’s being stealthy, heading to various city libraries under the pretense of helping them find jobs — except that he stays holed up there longer than Sam knows Dean is able to sit still. So either Dean is playing hooky and getting laid in the middle of the afternoon, or something has him obsessed.
Sam hasn’t asked, because Dean hasn’t been responding well to his bedside manner. Actually, Sam isn’t entirely convinced that the witches didn’t cast a spell on his brother — except, a spell that what? Makes him a moody bookworm? Doesn’t make sense.
But Dean’s been acting very strangely. Sam wonders if it’s some form of PTSD, related to the trauma of losing his hand to a hellhound. He’d have lost much more than that, if Sam hadn’t ripped the beast apart before making Ruby and Lilith burst at the seams. He wonders how long it takes for PTSD to develop.
A week ago, after Sam had saved him from the witches, Dean’s first course of action had been to scream bloody murder when he saw his hand. Then he’d flipped out over the car — something about a Chevy Impala being his one and only. Then he’d wanted to know why their tattoos had moved. It had all sounded crazy.
Sam rubs the pentagram on his inner wrist and sighs. His brother had been making incredible progress, too. Even though they could only scam so much insurance these days, they’d managed to get a pretty good prosthetic made. Dean was well on his way to being able to drive again — but he hasn’t put the prosthetic on since they interrupted the witches’s summoning circle. He looks at it like … like he has no idea what to do with it.
Sam rubs his face. Things were supposed to get easier after Lilith was dead.
The twelfth day, Sam wakes up with the sun, just as Dean trudges through the motel door. He’s covered in dirt, looks miserable as hell, and smells like twenty different plants and relics.
Whatever he’d been doing, it’s obvious from his expression that it had failed.
Two weeks in, Sam can’t take it anymore. Grasping at straws, he looks over at where Dean is lying on the bed, staring at his stump. “Dean, don’t get mad at me for asking, but are you sure those witches didn’t cast a spell on you, curse you?”
Dean tenses immediately. “No spell,” he grits out. “I told you, they had to keep me asleep until they were finished whatever they were doing. You stopped them before they even started, remember?” He fidgets on the mattress, and Sam is about to interrogate him further when he admits, “I had a dream, though.”
Sam sits up straighter. Finally, it was something. “While you were with the witches? What sort of dream?”
“Did you ever give me an amulet?”
The non-sequitur brings Sam up short. “What?” An amulet? “You mean like I gave Dad?”
Dean’s cheek twitches. “Yeah,” he confirms wearily. “Like you gave Dad.”
“No,” Sam replies easily, not sure where this is going. “You don’t remember? I tried giving you Dad’s present one year, but you said you couldn’t take it.” He cocks his head. “Why? What’s that got to do with your dream?”
Dean stares at the ceiling. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”
Oh, come on. “Dean, seriously! I don’t know what to do here, man. You say you aren’t hexed, and I haven’t seen anything that tells me you are hexed, but you are being weird and obsessive and you’re out in the middle of the night cooking up god-knows-what in the woods. What exactly am I supposed to think about this, huh?”
Dean doesn’t answer. Inwardly, Sam rages and spits and very nearly opens his mouth and tells Dean stop playing games. But then he notices Dean is biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.
“Fuck,” Sam growls, leaning back in his chair.
Nothing prepares him for Day Sixteen.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean sobs, rubbing at his runny nose with his stump. “It’s okay. I won’t be weird anymore.”
“Sure,” Sam says, moving empty bottles aside with his foot. “Sure, yeah.” He hooks his hands under Dean’s arms and hauls him up. “Don’t worry, kiddo,” he soothes, helping him settle on the bed, “whatever it is, we’ll deal with it, okay? We’ll do what we always do.”
Dean looks wretched. “I don’t know what that is anymore,” he confesses through tears.
And this is the climax of three weeks of Bizarro World. Sam murmurs comforting nothings and massages Dean’s stump and helps him drink some water. All the while, he wonders if this is just life. Not witches or hexes or anything supernatural at all — just a really shitty part of life.
“Won’t be weird anymore,” Dean whispers. It sounds like an admission of defeat.
“Okay,” Sam says, even though he’s not sure that’s what he wants anymore. “Whatever you want.”
Dean’s drunk and exhausted and falls asleep before Sam can help him get undressed. It’s stifling in the room, though, so Sam goes it solo. When he shimmies Dean’s jeans off, he hears something crinkle in the pocket. Thinking it’s a receipt or phone number, he reaches in, surprised to pull out a crumpled — not folded, crumpled — piece of lined paper. Curiosity has him straighten it out and read the one word scrawled in Dean’s squarish hand:
Khonsu.
Sam frowns. He glances at his brother, at the dried tear tracks on his face, at the empty bottles of booze on the floor.
After he tucks Dean in, he opens the laptop.
The next morning, Dean puts on his prosthetic hand.
~End.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-08-12 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-12 11:01 pm (UTC)Mmm, alternate universe. So tasty! And Sam's hair.
I love all the possibilities opened up by this kind of scenario. Really interesting read!
Edition 2,301
Date: 2012-08-12 11:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-12 11:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-13 12:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-13 01:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-13 06:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-13 03:49 am (UTC)OTP Weekly Recap: 8/19/2012: Edition #66
Date: 2012-08-19 05:37 am (UTC)