w e . g o t . o u r s e l v e s . t o n i g h t

We Got Ourselves Tonight
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG

Summary: If Dean is finally going to break, Sam will be there to put him back together again.

Spoilers: Through 2.02: "Everybody Loves a CLown."

Notes: Thanks to amberlynne for hashing it out, to mousapelli for handholding, and to luzdeestrellas for betaing. Title from Pearl Jam's "Leash."

Date: October 8, 2006

"What were you thinking? Just what the hell were you thinking in there, Dean?" Sam yells as Dean, hampered by an injured ankle he can barely put any weight on, tries to walk away from him, slapping at Sam's hands when Sam tries to help. "That was stupid and reckless, and--You know better. You fucking know better, so if you want to tell me what the hell was going on in that fucked up head of yours, I'd really appreciate it."

Dean stops, looks back over his shoulder, and in the moonlight, his face is all angles and shadows, no stubble or freckles visible to soften it. "Shut up."

"Dean--"

"I said, shut up, Sam." His voice is low, hard, dangerous--a tone that sounds more like Dad than Dean, Dad at his tyrannical worst. "Or, so help me God, I'll shut you up myself."

Sam shuts up.

They ride back to the motel in silence.

Since Dad died, there's a hard edge to Dean that Sam's never seen before; he doesn't like it and he doesn't know how to deal with it. He knows they are not okay, knows they are so far from okay that they may as well be in Egypt, and Dean is visiting the pyramids.

Dean acts like nothing's wrong, though, tries to hide his feelings, but anger and pain vibrate off him at frequencies too loud for Sam to ignore, and Sam's afraid he's going to shake apart if he doesn't vent it somehow, so he takes it when Dean lashes out at him, the way Dean used to step in front of him and take it from Dad when they were younger.

Dean stumbles getting out of the car, but again, when Sam tries to help him, Dean shoves him away, hard. Sam lurches, bangs into the car, and automatically shoves back. Dean goes down, injured leg folding under him like a cheap tent in a hurricane.

"You really wanna do this?" Sam asks, tired and angry now himself.

Dean glares at him, forces himself up. "You think you can take me, Sammy? You really think so?"

Sam snorts in disbelief. "Well, the fact you can't even stand on your left ankle tells me, yeah, I could. But I don't want to."

"Well, fuck you, too," Dean mutters, gimping to the door of the room.

Sam shakes his head and follows.

He manages to get Dean's boot off without cutting it, which is just as well, because they don't have enough money right now to buy a good pair of boots, and Dean can't hunt without them.

Dean digs out a flask from deep inside his duffle and puts it to his mouth, drinking steadily while Sam examines and then bandages his ankle.

By the time Sam's done, Dean is buzzed, the tight, angry lines around his mouth easing.

"I'm going to get some ice," Sam says, and Dean just waves him off, concentrating on finding the bottom of his flask before he passes out. Just to be safe, Sam snags the car keys from Dean's jacket pocket--the last thing he needs is to come back to find Dean and the car wrapped around a telephone pole.

The ice machine is broken, of course, but the night clerk tells him there's a twenty-four hour Wawa just down the road. It's a little further than that, but they have ice, and he buys milk and cereal for breakfast, along with some coffee cake that looks fresh. They can take it easy in the morning; the poltergeist is gone, they don't have anywhere they need to be, and Dean's going to need to sleep off whatever it is he's sucking out of that flask.

He gets back to the room to find Dean wild-eyed and half-dressed--shirt misbuttoned, an unlaced boot on his good foot, and his jeans still on the floor where he'd tossed them earlier--scrabbling around the desk, obviously looking for his keys.

"Sam! Where the hell--" Dean grabs onto him with both hands, swaying. "I thought you left."

Sam leans away from the heavy smell of whiskey on Dean's breath. He holds up the bag of ice. "I went for ice, remember?"

"Oh. Oh, yeah." But Dean doesn't let go.

Sam bites back a sigh. Dean was always the one who dealt with Dad when he got drunk, and Dad took care of Dean the few times he'd come home like this. But Sam's had three years of dealing with drunk roommates and frat boys, so he walks Dean back to the bed, uncurls his hands from his shirt, and shoves him lightly. Dean lands with a thump and Sam can't help laughing at the surprised look on his face.

"Come on," he says, pulling the unlaced boot off Dean's good foot and covering him with the rumpled sheet. "Time to sleep it off. On your side, man. Don't want you choking if you puke. You didn't drink any water, did you?" Dean doesn't move, just stares up at him in confusion. "No, of course you didn't. It's not manly to hydrate."

Dean shakes his head. "Water here tastes funny. Took more Advil, though."

"Good." Sam is pretty sure chasing Advil with whiskey doesn't cause internal damage. He hopes it doesn't, anyway. He leans over, puts a hand on Dean's forehead and smoothes his hair back, the way Dean used to for him when they were kids and he'd had a fever or something. He thinks about pressing a kiss there, and laughs, because he can just imagine how Dean would react to that. "Get some sleep."

Dean wraps his fingers around Sam's wrist and won't let go. "Sam," he says. "Sam, Sam, Sammy."

"That's my name; don't wear it out," Sam answers automatically, the way he would have as a kid.

"Sammy." There's a break in Dean's voice that makes Sam's chest hurt.

He sits on the bed, gets his boots off one-handed, because Dean is still holding onto his wrist; he doesn't appear to be letting go any time soon, and Sam doesn't want to fight him.

As he swings his legs onto the bed, he says, "It's okay, Dean. It's gonna be okay." He feels a little queasy, because usually he's the one who gets to break down, to fuck up, and it's Dean who makes everything okay again. But he's determined to do this. If Dean is finally going to break, Sam will be there to put him back together again.

Dean's fingers tighten, the metal of his ring hard against the bones of Sam's wrist. "You're not leaving again?"

He pushes Dean onto his side and curls up behind him, grateful for the long legs and arms that allow him to surround his brother, give him some kind of comfort. He presses his face to the nape of Dean's neck, smelling sweat, cheap motel soap. Smelling Dean. Smelling home.

"I'm here, Dean. I'm not leaving. I'm right here."

"I... Sam, I need..." He trails off into silence, going limp as sleep and pain and alcohol finally catch up with him.

"Yeah," Sam whispers against Dean's skin, breathing him in deep, trying to ease the ache in his chest. "Me, too."

Dean looks younger when he's sleeping, almost innocent in a way he never got to be as a kid. Sam can't give him that, but he can make sure Dean stays safe tonight. So Sam stays awake a little while longer, and watches over him.

end

~*~

If you liked this story, feel free to leave a comment.

~*~

Back to Supernatural Stories Index

Back to Main Stories Index

~*~

Disclaimer: All Supernatural characters belong to Eric Kripke, etc. This piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.