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Title: To Make Things Right
Rating: T... mostly for language
Genre: Family, h/c, some angst
Spoilers/warnings: Spoilers for 4.08 "Wishful Thinking"
Length: Just over 2000 words.
Notes: This is my response to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
authoressnebula 's prompt over at the SPN h/c meme. It kinda grew out of control... to the point where it's too long to post in one go, so I figured I'd just post it here. :) Heheheh...
Notes the second: I've been writing nothing but Star Trek for the last couple weeks, so hopefully this isn't too rusty. *g*
Summary: Sam's brush with lightning hasn't quite finished with him yet. Tag to 4.08.
His finger won’t stop twitching.
Ordinarily, he’d put it off to being nervous. Dean’s gone, been out of sight for a few hours now, getting drunk, getting laid, doing whatever the hell it is Dean does to try and get Hell off his mind. Sam cares, but he doesn’t know what to do about it.
You wouldn’t understand. And I can never make you understand.
Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair as he turns the page of the book he’s looking at. The words float on the page, a jumble of letters that occasionally fall together to make words that he vaguely understands. He rubs his eyes, clenches his fist to stop the twitching, and focuses on the book again, wishing for an answer to suddenly leap out at him. An answer to what, he’s not entirely sure – he’s got enough problems that he’d like to get solved. How to kill Lilith, how to stop the seals from breaking, how to fix a brother who’s been to Hell and back, how to do something successfully when everything you try seems to be cursed by the demon blood pumping inside you… and those are just the problems on the tip of the iceberg.
For now, he’d settle for something to stop the twitching. It’s been a full day since that bolt of lightning had come out of nowhere and killed him, and only a few minutes less than a day since he’d been brought right back to life. The effects of the wish should have worn off hours ago, but instead they’re getting worse. When he’d met up with Dean, the only sign anything had happened had been the smell of burnt rubber, which Sam had passed off as being from a car’s tires. Dean had shot him a funny look but hadn’t pressed.
The coin’s out of the well and melted down. Anything that might have happened during the brief time they were split up should have been cancelled out as soon as Wes pulled the coin out of the well.
Which is why Dean is still bruised after getting beat up by a kid and Sam’s left index finger is currently trying to twitch its way off his hand.
That’s life, Sam thinks bitterly, slamming his book closed. He sighs again, rubbing at his face, before pushing his chair back and standing.
And then promptly stumbling and falling to his knees as seemingly every muscle in his legs and lower back seizes up.
He hisses in pain as his temple clips the corner of the table on his way down to the floor. “Perfect,” he mutters under his breath, reaching up with his right hand to press against his now throbbing and slightly bleeding head. He curls in on himself, resting so his forehead is pressed against his knees as he waits for the spasms to pass, trying to force some coherent thought besides sonofabitchowdamnitthathurtsowow out of his mind.
Then, in perfect ironic timing, the door opens.
“Sam?” Dean calls. Sam can sense the moment Dean’s eyes fall on him, because the floor vibrates as Dean moves to kneel next to him, a tinge of panic lacing his voice as he growls, “Sam? Sam!”
Sam’s too busy trying to breathe through the pain to respond, so instead he reaches out with his left hand, fingers instinctively curling around the hem of Dean’s leather coat. Even though his finger’s still twitching, his head’s still bleeding, and his muscles are still aching, it all seems to lessen as he feels a hand rest between his shoulder blades.
Things may still be awkward between them, but somewhere deep down, Sam knows that Dean can make it better.
“Hey, Sam, c’mon, talk to me, dude. What’s wrong?” Dean asks, hand moving up from Sam’s back to wrap lightly around his neck. “And what’s up with your hand, dude? Your finger’s twitching like a–”
“Muscle spasms,” Sam groans through gritted teeth, raising his head off the floor.
Dean’s eyebrows furrow, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he shifts positions so he can sling Sam’s left arm over his shoulder, wrapping his own arm around Sam’s waist. “Alright, let’s get you up.”
The pain’s receding, but Sam can’t stop the small whimper from slipping through his lips as the muscles in his back lock up again. Dean doesn’t vocally respond to it, but Sam feels his grip tighten instinctively. Moments later Sam’s stretched out on the bed, and he can’t help but sigh in relief. It may have been extremely lumpy last night, but the mattress feels incredibly soft now, and he can feel his muscles loosen instinctively.
“Here, let me take a look,” Dean urges, tugging Sam’s right hand away from his temple. Sam lets his eyes slide close as Dean gently tilts his head and probes through his hair to examine the cut. “Not too bad, little brother. Let me grab the antiseptic a sec and it’ll be good as new.”
Sam hums out an agreement as Dean quietly moves away before returning a moment later. “Here,” Dean murmurs, pressing a couple pills into Sam’s hand. Sam pops them into his mouth and drains the glass of water Dean offers, closing his eyes again as Dean starts working on the head wound. He barely registers the sting as Dean dabs at the cut with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide. “You wanna tell me what brought all of this on?” Dean asks quietly as he works.
“Lightning,” Sam whispers instinctively. Dean’s hand freezes just as Sam’s eyes fly open in a panic.
Shit, he thinks. That wasn’t supposed to come out.
“Something you forget to tell me?” Dean asks, voice still quiet but noticeably harder as he dabs at the cut again.
Sam winces, but not from the antiseptic. “Someone… made a wish before Wes pulled the coin out of the well.”
“Uh huh. And what does that have to do with you and lightning?”
Sam’s eyes close again, and he can sense Dean tense up – which only makes sense, really. Dean can read Sam like an open book, so Sam had always talked with his eyes closed when he was trying to hide something from Dean when they were younger.
Well. Good to know some of his habits hadn’t changed while Dean was gone, anyway.
“It was Hope,” Sam says slowly, opening his eyes as he raises his left hand up to take a look. The finger’s still twitching, but not as violently as it had been before. “She… she must’ve heard us telling Wes to unwish his wish. So she tried to stop him.”
“And?”
It’s by sheer willpower that Sam doesn’t sigh in resignation. “And… apparently stopping Wes meant stopping me.”
Dean’s not stupid. Sam’s always known that, so he trails off and lets Dean draw his own conclusions. After a moment, Dean’s eyes widen and his fist clenches reflexively as he growls, “So she wished you’d be struck by lightning?”
“I guess.”
Dean’s eyes narrow fiercely. “You guess?” He pauses, sliding a hand under Sam’s chin so they can look each other directly in the eyes. “Sam? What happened?”
Sam shrugs as he shifts into a sitting position, wincing slightly as his back muscles twitch in protest. “One minute I’m talking with Wes, and the next thing I know, I’m waking up on the sidewalk a couple feet away from my shoes and Hope’s walking outside like she just woke up from a very long dream.”
Dean looks confused now. “So how did you convince Wes to pull out the coin, then?”
Sam shrugs again. The spasms aren’t as painful anymore, which he takes as a sign that the physical aftermath of this ordeal will be practically gone by morning.
The emotional aftermath? Yeah, that’s still up in the air.
“It’s over now, can we just move on?” Sam finally asks when Dean makes no move to get up again.
“Sam…”
“Dean, I swear, I don’t know why Wes changed his mind.”
“But you probably have an educated guess.”
“Does it matter?”
Dean folds his arms, shifting so he’s perched on the edge of the bed. “Whatever happened has you twitching and collapsing from muscle spasms, Sam. Yeah, I’d say it matters,” he says coolly.
Sam chuffs a sigh through his nose as he stares at his older brother. Dean stares back, showing none of his earlier pain and fear as he’d told Sam that he remembered everything about Hell.
What do you want from me, huh?
The truth, Dean. I mean, I’m your brother. I just wish you’d talk to me.
Dean hadn’t liked it, but he’d delivered eventually. Maybe it’s time for Sam to start doing the same.
Sam runs a hand through his hair, suppressing a wince as he feels the spot just below the crown of his head where the lightning had first connected. “My guess is that when Wes saw… me… lying there, he… felt guilty,” he says after another moment.
Dean’s head tilts a little as he ponders that information. His eyes suddenly widen, and Sam can see a flash of panic in them. “The lightning… it didn’t… you just… got knocked out. Right?”
Crap. This was what Sam’s been hoping to avoid. He looks away immediately, trying to figure out a way to not tell Dean this particular truth, but his looking away is confirmation enough.
“You died? Again? And you didn’t think you needed to tell me about this?”
“It’s not a big deal – Wes pulled the coin out, all the wishes were cancelled, so it doesn’t matter.”
But as soon as the words slip out of Sam’s mouth, he knows he’s said the wrong thing. Dean’s eyes have that look to them, the one where he’s doing his best to keep in control but is close to failing.
“Doesn’t matter?” he finally asks, voice slightly hysterical as he springs to his feet, running a hand through his hair. “Your heart friggin’ stops and you think it’s not a big deal?” he exclaims, whirling back to look at Sam.
Sam slides his feet off the bed, preparing to stand up but thinking second thoughts as twinges of pain run up his legs. He settles for sitting up as tall as he can and staring Dean in the eyes. “I… I didn’t mean it like that,” he says softly.
Dean sighs in frustration and moves to sit on the bed, knee and shoulder knocking against Sam’s. “Look, Sammy,” he begins, and it’s amazing how that one nickname can clog Sam’s throat so fast that it’s suddenly hard to breathe.
He’d almost forgotten what it was like to be Sammy.
Dean pauses, intuitively sensing what’s racing through his brother’s brain. “Sammy,” he says again, bumping Sam’s shoulder gently. “I know… I know things haven’t been the greatest these last few months. And I know that… that you don’t need me as much–”
“Not true,” Sam whispers, cutting Dean off mid-sentence. “That’s never going to be true.”
They’re silent for a moment before Dean finally finishes, “Then you gotta tell me these things. Because your heart stopping is pretty high up on the list of things you should always tell me.”
“I know,” Sam replies softly, leaning in to his brother’s shoulder a little more. The painkillers are starting to kick in, and Sam really wants to do nothing more than sleep. “I… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Dean shoots back immediately, reaching up to put an arm on Sam’s shoulder as the younger Winchester lets his head drop to rest on Dean’s shoulder. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
Sam snorts a little, and his voice is slightly muffled by Dean’s jacket when he mumbles, “The heart-stopping part or the not-telling-you part?”
Dean’s grip on his shoulder tightens as he lightly replies, “Preferably both. Although if I really had to pick, I’d go with the heart-stopping part. Not sure how many more times you can do that, bro.”
Sam smiles a little despite himself. “Same goes for you, jerk,” he says.
He lets his eyes slide close as he feels Dean’s chin drop lightly on the top of his head. His voice is fond as he murmurs, “Whatever, bitch.”
End.
Rating: T... mostly for language
Genre: Family, h/c, some angst
Spoilers/warnings: Spoilers for 4.08 "Wishful Thinking"
Length: Just over 2000 words.
Notes: This is my response to
authoressnebula 's prompt over at the SPN h/c meme. It kinda grew out of control... to the point where it's too long to post in one go, so I figured I'd just post it here. :) Heheheh...Notes the second: I've been writing nothing but Star Trek for the last couple weeks, so hopefully this isn't too rusty. *g*
Summary: Sam's brush with lightning hasn't quite finished with him yet. Tag to 4.08.
His finger won’t stop twitching.
Ordinarily, he’d put it off to being nervous. Dean’s gone, been out of sight for a few hours now, getting drunk, getting laid, doing whatever the hell it is Dean does to try and get Hell off his mind. Sam cares, but he doesn’t know what to do about it.
You wouldn’t understand. And I can never make you understand.
Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair as he turns the page of the book he’s looking at. The words float on the page, a jumble of letters that occasionally fall together to make words that he vaguely understands. He rubs his eyes, clenches his fist to stop the twitching, and focuses on the book again, wishing for an answer to suddenly leap out at him. An answer to what, he’s not entirely sure – he’s got enough problems that he’d like to get solved. How to kill Lilith, how to stop the seals from breaking, how to fix a brother who’s been to Hell and back, how to do something successfully when everything you try seems to be cursed by the demon blood pumping inside you… and those are just the problems on the tip of the iceberg.
For now, he’d settle for something to stop the twitching. It’s been a full day since that bolt of lightning had come out of nowhere and killed him, and only a few minutes less than a day since he’d been brought right back to life. The effects of the wish should have worn off hours ago, but instead they’re getting worse. When he’d met up with Dean, the only sign anything had happened had been the smell of burnt rubber, which Sam had passed off as being from a car’s tires. Dean had shot him a funny look but hadn’t pressed.
The coin’s out of the well and melted down. Anything that might have happened during the brief time they were split up should have been cancelled out as soon as Wes pulled the coin out of the well.
Which is why Dean is still bruised after getting beat up by a kid and Sam’s left index finger is currently trying to twitch its way off his hand.
That’s life, Sam thinks bitterly, slamming his book closed. He sighs again, rubbing at his face, before pushing his chair back and standing.
And then promptly stumbling and falling to his knees as seemingly every muscle in his legs and lower back seizes up.
He hisses in pain as his temple clips the corner of the table on his way down to the floor. “Perfect,” he mutters under his breath, reaching up with his right hand to press against his now throbbing and slightly bleeding head. He curls in on himself, resting so his forehead is pressed against his knees as he waits for the spasms to pass, trying to force some coherent thought besides sonofabitchowdamnitthathurtsowow out of his mind.
Then, in perfect ironic timing, the door opens.
“Sam?” Dean calls. Sam can sense the moment Dean’s eyes fall on him, because the floor vibrates as Dean moves to kneel next to him, a tinge of panic lacing his voice as he growls, “Sam? Sam!”
Sam’s too busy trying to breathe through the pain to respond, so instead he reaches out with his left hand, fingers instinctively curling around the hem of Dean’s leather coat. Even though his finger’s still twitching, his head’s still bleeding, and his muscles are still aching, it all seems to lessen as he feels a hand rest between his shoulder blades.
Things may still be awkward between them, but somewhere deep down, Sam knows that Dean can make it better.
“Hey, Sam, c’mon, talk to me, dude. What’s wrong?” Dean asks, hand moving up from Sam’s back to wrap lightly around his neck. “And what’s up with your hand, dude? Your finger’s twitching like a–”
“Muscle spasms,” Sam groans through gritted teeth, raising his head off the floor.
Dean’s eyebrows furrow, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he shifts positions so he can sling Sam’s left arm over his shoulder, wrapping his own arm around Sam’s waist. “Alright, let’s get you up.”
The pain’s receding, but Sam can’t stop the small whimper from slipping through his lips as the muscles in his back lock up again. Dean doesn’t vocally respond to it, but Sam feels his grip tighten instinctively. Moments later Sam’s stretched out on the bed, and he can’t help but sigh in relief. It may have been extremely lumpy last night, but the mattress feels incredibly soft now, and he can feel his muscles loosen instinctively.
“Here, let me take a look,” Dean urges, tugging Sam’s right hand away from his temple. Sam lets his eyes slide close as Dean gently tilts his head and probes through his hair to examine the cut. “Not too bad, little brother. Let me grab the antiseptic a sec and it’ll be good as new.”
Sam hums out an agreement as Dean quietly moves away before returning a moment later. “Here,” Dean murmurs, pressing a couple pills into Sam’s hand. Sam pops them into his mouth and drains the glass of water Dean offers, closing his eyes again as Dean starts working on the head wound. He barely registers the sting as Dean dabs at the cut with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide. “You wanna tell me what brought all of this on?” Dean asks quietly as he works.
“Lightning,” Sam whispers instinctively. Dean’s hand freezes just as Sam’s eyes fly open in a panic.
Shit, he thinks. That wasn’t supposed to come out.
“Something you forget to tell me?” Dean asks, voice still quiet but noticeably harder as he dabs at the cut again.
Sam winces, but not from the antiseptic. “Someone… made a wish before Wes pulled the coin out of the well.”
“Uh huh. And what does that have to do with you and lightning?”
Sam’s eyes close again, and he can sense Dean tense up – which only makes sense, really. Dean can read Sam like an open book, so Sam had always talked with his eyes closed when he was trying to hide something from Dean when they were younger.
Well. Good to know some of his habits hadn’t changed while Dean was gone, anyway.
“It was Hope,” Sam says slowly, opening his eyes as he raises his left hand up to take a look. The finger’s still twitching, but not as violently as it had been before. “She… she must’ve heard us telling Wes to unwish his wish. So she tried to stop him.”
“And?”
It’s by sheer willpower that Sam doesn’t sigh in resignation. “And… apparently stopping Wes meant stopping me.”
Dean’s not stupid. Sam’s always known that, so he trails off and lets Dean draw his own conclusions. After a moment, Dean’s eyes widen and his fist clenches reflexively as he growls, “So she wished you’d be struck by lightning?”
“I guess.”
Dean’s eyes narrow fiercely. “You guess?” He pauses, sliding a hand under Sam’s chin so they can look each other directly in the eyes. “Sam? What happened?”
Sam shrugs as he shifts into a sitting position, wincing slightly as his back muscles twitch in protest. “One minute I’m talking with Wes, and the next thing I know, I’m waking up on the sidewalk a couple feet away from my shoes and Hope’s walking outside like she just woke up from a very long dream.”
Dean looks confused now. “So how did you convince Wes to pull out the coin, then?”
Sam shrugs again. The spasms aren’t as painful anymore, which he takes as a sign that the physical aftermath of this ordeal will be practically gone by morning.
The emotional aftermath? Yeah, that’s still up in the air.
“It’s over now, can we just move on?” Sam finally asks when Dean makes no move to get up again.
“Sam…”
“Dean, I swear, I don’t know why Wes changed his mind.”
“But you probably have an educated guess.”
“Does it matter?”
Dean folds his arms, shifting so he’s perched on the edge of the bed. “Whatever happened has you twitching and collapsing from muscle spasms, Sam. Yeah, I’d say it matters,” he says coolly.
Sam chuffs a sigh through his nose as he stares at his older brother. Dean stares back, showing none of his earlier pain and fear as he’d told Sam that he remembered everything about Hell.
What do you want from me, huh?
The truth, Dean. I mean, I’m your brother. I just wish you’d talk to me.
Dean hadn’t liked it, but he’d delivered eventually. Maybe it’s time for Sam to start doing the same.
Sam runs a hand through his hair, suppressing a wince as he feels the spot just below the crown of his head where the lightning had first connected. “My guess is that when Wes saw… me… lying there, he… felt guilty,” he says after another moment.
Dean’s head tilts a little as he ponders that information. His eyes suddenly widen, and Sam can see a flash of panic in them. “The lightning… it didn’t… you just… got knocked out. Right?”
Crap. This was what Sam’s been hoping to avoid. He looks away immediately, trying to figure out a way to not tell Dean this particular truth, but his looking away is confirmation enough.
“You died? Again? And you didn’t think you needed to tell me about this?”
“It’s not a big deal – Wes pulled the coin out, all the wishes were cancelled, so it doesn’t matter.”
But as soon as the words slip out of Sam’s mouth, he knows he’s said the wrong thing. Dean’s eyes have that look to them, the one where he’s doing his best to keep in control but is close to failing.
“Doesn’t matter?” he finally asks, voice slightly hysterical as he springs to his feet, running a hand through his hair. “Your heart friggin’ stops and you think it’s not a big deal?” he exclaims, whirling back to look at Sam.
Sam slides his feet off the bed, preparing to stand up but thinking second thoughts as twinges of pain run up his legs. He settles for sitting up as tall as he can and staring Dean in the eyes. “I… I didn’t mean it like that,” he says softly.
Dean sighs in frustration and moves to sit on the bed, knee and shoulder knocking against Sam’s. “Look, Sammy,” he begins, and it’s amazing how that one nickname can clog Sam’s throat so fast that it’s suddenly hard to breathe.
He’d almost forgotten what it was like to be Sammy.
Dean pauses, intuitively sensing what’s racing through his brother’s brain. “Sammy,” he says again, bumping Sam’s shoulder gently. “I know… I know things haven’t been the greatest these last few months. And I know that… that you don’t need me as much–”
“Not true,” Sam whispers, cutting Dean off mid-sentence. “That’s never going to be true.”
They’re silent for a moment before Dean finally finishes, “Then you gotta tell me these things. Because your heart stopping is pretty high up on the list of things you should always tell me.”
“I know,” Sam replies softly, leaning in to his brother’s shoulder a little more. The painkillers are starting to kick in, and Sam really wants to do nothing more than sleep. “I… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Dean shoots back immediately, reaching up to put an arm on Sam’s shoulder as the younger Winchester lets his head drop to rest on Dean’s shoulder. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
Sam snorts a little, and his voice is slightly muffled by Dean’s jacket when he mumbles, “The heart-stopping part or the not-telling-you part?”
Dean’s grip on his shoulder tightens as he lightly replies, “Preferably both. Although if I really had to pick, I’d go with the heart-stopping part. Not sure how many more times you can do that, bro.”
Sam smiles a little despite himself. “Same goes for you, jerk,” he says.
He lets his eyes slide close as he feels Dean’s chin drop lightly on the top of his head. His voice is fond as he murmurs, “Whatever, bitch.”
End.
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This was wonderfully brilliant. Love all the little touches and you write the guys perfectly. Especially Sam. When I watch the show, I want to slap him sometimes and your fic makes me feel the same way :)
Wonderful job, Moogs!
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This is AWESOME! I love how you brought in the whole thing with Dean and his issues, and how the brothers always seem to be able to fix themselves through each other. ♥
And this line is just:
“Look, Sammy,” he begins, and it’s amazing how that one nickname can clog Sam’s throat so fast that it’s suddenly hard to breathe.
He’d almost forgotten what it was like to be Sammy.
Oh. Oh oh oh. *hearts on you* You're fantastic.
I got two such lovely fics for my prompt! EEEEE!
Thank you oodles upon oodles sweetpea! MWAH!
~Nebula
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*Hugs this story hard*
I loove how you had the boys interacting and when Dean called Sam, "Sammy" my throat clogged up too.
Your stories and strangevisitor7's stories are pretty much my cannon for SPN.
Thanks for creating and sharing.
take care
hugs
Angela
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