You are meager and mundane

[framedhim.livejournal.com]

Title:You are meager and mundane

author:  framedhim

beta'd:  yahnkehy; any and all mistakes found are my, framedhim 's, sole responsibility

pairing:  Sam/Dean

rated:  Adult, R for foul language and brief mention of sexual situations

warning(s):  foul language, death fic with the lack of resolution, grief/depression
spoiler:  tiny reference to season 6 finale; au placed after those events

disclaimer:  my work of fiction based on characters and a television show to which I do not claim/have proprietary rights

This is a self-indulgent one-shot with a lack of happy ending.  Beta'd by the lovely and efficient yahnkehy , whose expertise was an absolute necessity due to my poor grammar, etc.  Thank you dear!  Any mistakes found here are my sole responsibility.

 

 

You are this - a wealth of knowledge and training.  You are John Winchester’s son.  You have loved and lost and rode your soul to heaven and hell and back and you are here.

 

You are … 

 

                         ******

 

You know what it’s going to be like, sitting there with your heart on your sleeve, wondering when his watch will tick away the embarrassment.  When you finally stop, get to the end of your story, there is no reprieve; no hope for you to slink away - your proverbial tail tucked between your thighs. 

 

You are so sad and any chance of escape is swept away as quickly as an afterthought.  So when this someone, this lifelong friend who doesn’t share your blood and smells different and has all these mannerisms, when this someone tries to keep you grounded in the here and now – you cringe.

 

“Just a little more time.  I don’t know what I’m doing, ‘specially now.  Aw, hell, I don’t know.  Just a little more time, get this offa your chest.  Ain’t like we got nothing but a bottle of whiskey to do today.”

 

It’s not…god, it’s so far from okay. 

 

It’s wrong is what it is, this universe is wrong and you feel claustrophobic in your own skin, sitting here just - being. 

 

It’s you losing sanity, right here on this man’s steps, in this man’s front yard that’s filled to brimming with metal bones.  And no matter the audience watching, the one friend who won’t back off – who is trying to help, not matter that he will fail – you are going to fall. 

 

You know it. 

 

He consoles.

 

You think maybe it’s him grieving you as well, his way of letting go.  Last Winchester standing was never a saying because it’s a lie.  Because there’s no way, no way in this world he does not see how far down your mind is tumbling, shattering your soul before your bones ever touch the earth to crack.

 

A plan B that was never meant to be.  You’re going to split wide open, bloodied, and no one will be able to stitch you up correctly.  All your parts will be laid out, decaying.  You’re already a rotting mess of dead wishes in the well, hopes of a life you and he had that you won’t ever be able to shove back into your guts.  Sew them back in there where they damn well belong, nice and tidy like. 

 

Not this time. 

 

“…that set you off this morning?  You’re not gettin’ any better.  Hell, I’m scared boy…”

 

You are so fucking sad. 

 

So grief stricken that his words filter in and out and you couldn’t form an answer even if you wanted to.  There’s this feeling in your head that shoots right down to your chest, blazing a path as it goes and leaving your eyes clouded.  You ache and crave and you can’t think past the next breath because, oh my god, it’ll hurt worse on the intake.  The exhale leaves you shaky and the hand on yours is sudden and grotesque, makes your chest cave in; hope to hell it does so you won’t have to be so full of feeling.

 

It’s so fucking pathetic.  He wouldn’t laugh.  He wouldn’t and you want to cry but you don’t.  What you do is raise your hand to your mouth to cover the sob.

 

                            ******

 

What you do is pray to die, “dear Castiel, full of grace and hate, I cannot do this.  Please, Castiel, oh god, please I can’t...” you choke on spit, hope it kills you right then and there.

 

“I just…I just can’t do this anymore, you know?  Castiel!  Get your winged ass down here, please, please, please, please….”

 

You scream the rest and rage - throw the covers off the bed, try to rip the curtains off their ebony rods.  Maybe you’ll torch the fuckers, go down in a blaze of fire.  Linen ashes to cover your sorry corpse. 

 

Salt water downed from a tumbler, so fucking easy you have to stop…just think. 

 

Just wait a minute. 

 

You’re confused for a moment and how did you get here and why is your face not buried in his neck.

 

Just wait a minute, damnit.  But grief doesn’t wait for anyone so you gather your wounds, go to tip the bedside table over.  But it’s right on top so you stop in your destructive fit.  If it breaks. 

 

Well. 

 

What you do is you blink back the water in your eyes – red crimson capillaries, eyes a week past any hope of white.  You hope it scares away heaven, the sight of your eyes showing how much you hate. 

 

“Fuck you, Castiel.  Fuck you so hard.”

 

What you do is sink to your knees and curse a god who was never meant to be, who will not appease you.  Will not bring him back.  You pray, curse, and rage and yet, he’s still not in your bed.  He’s still not underneath you, despite feeling him in your bones.

 

How your heart doesn’t collapse from this is beyond your understanding, the hurt so horrible there are no words to name it.

 

You are here and you are so fucking sad.

 

                                     *****

 

“…maybe in about a month, okay?  I want to know you’ll be alright, safe.  You won’t do anything, right boy?”

 

If you open your mouth you will sob.  You will let loose all the broken, ugly things that never were meant to see the light of day and you will vomit them up on Bobby’s front porch.  It will break you.  Sobbing and moaning will destroy you. 

 

Holding on to your grief means it’s yours and no one, not a single damned soul, deserves an ounce of what it is you carry.  The idea of sharing stings, leaves you blanched and choking.  When did you think that giving any of this away, making the hurt less of something so god awful, was your right?  Angels can’t console you and demons stay away.  Both backed in corners because you’re ‘just no fun to play with anymore, is what you are boy’. 

 

“… grocery store for supplies.  I just don’t know anymore, son.  I can’t help you if you won’t at least let me in.”

 

You wrap your thoughts tight and your hands shake.  Swallowing down your grief makes your veins throb.  You weren’t there, couldn’t stop the mundane accident that stole your brother.  The idea of him alone, bleeding, plays on a loop.  You were pressed back against your shared headboard, sipping sugared coffee.  You should’ve died right there with him, both of you in the Impala, hit head on.  You’d be dead now but you promised Bobby, in the morgue, you promised something unattainable, like an idiot. 

 

Your whole life of familiarity and dysfunction, it came to a screeching halt in the most normal of ways.  The absurdity of the thought reinforces your need to go back to bed.  Lie down for a good long while because your chest is too heavy.  Your mind is worn out, tired of reeling over the stupidity of you still breathing.  You pat the hand next to you and you stand, walk away from the jumble of words…

 

“…Sam?  We’ll work on her.  Just one more month and you can take her out, get her back where she belongs.”

 

You visualize catching the words in the air, your fists pummeling them down to the ground.  Making them a bloodied heap of stupid, demented things.  A disgusting mockery of you and him and what will never be until you die, die, die.  You want to go back to the house you ran from this morning, a home full of first times.  First time lovers, of lover quarrels that broke you both in strange ways and of fucking to put you both right.

 

“’Kay, Bobby.  Thanks.”

 

Maybe you’ll dream of him if you get home, right now.  If he comes to you, he’s always there when you call, he won’t laugh.  There will be love and a poke to your chest.  Might call you girl names and demand you straighten out this emo crap while threatening you within an inch of your life and if he does – you’ll beg him to take it. 

 

It’s stupor and pain and grief rolled into muscled packaging wasting away from a severe lack of sleep and a forgotten need to eat. 

 

It’s hate and an inability to function that’s moving your shell into the home you shared. 

 

It’s love, death, and tears on your pillow as you crawl into bed.  It’s warm under the down comforter he bought on a bland, rainy Saturday afternoon.  Its duvet is white with scalloped edges, black scrolls and tiny fleur-de-lis lining the top portion of the flip side, so that when you turn it down….he was so proud his eyes crinkled at their corners.

 

“Congrats, you big dork, your gay has finally infiltrated my brain.  Oh, but look dude, it comes with these Euro shams and it’s all black and white, so that’s not girly.  Drapes weren’t included but we got a steal.  And you can stop laughing now, bitch.” 

 

You sink into isolation.  Press the shams against your body, tuck your arms under like you can still fill each of his ribs, like you can still grind into his ass and tease him.  Ask him what’s worse on the ‘going to hell for the tenth time list’, taking it up the ass or incest.  Match his heartbeat but there’s none in this room. 

 

None.

 

You’re almost to oblivion when you spot it -  takes your soul down  and you ‘now I lay me, down to sleep.  Pray to god my soul to keep.’    

 

                             ****

 

“Rise and shine, dude! I’ve gotta run down to the hardware store, stop by Bobby’s - grab a few parts for my girl.  Get her oil changed, swap out her plugs and what say you and me take her for a drive.  Feel like a road trip this weekend, found a piece a’ cake salt and burn two towns over.  Dingy diner, pie to die for.  I took a few sips of it but your coffee’s on the nightstand,” Dean leans over and you catch the smell of your coffee on his breath, try to drag him down into bed with you.

 

“Naw, dude, c’mon.”  A slip of a kiss against your mouth has your morning wood tenting your boxer briefs but you stay stock still, faces inches from each other.  Your brother’s eyes locked on yours then roving to your lips. 

 

“Give me an hour, I won’t be longer.  Stay in bed, I’ll join you when I get home.”  He whispers it against your lips, eyes wide and looking into yours and this is you.  This is him and this is what perfection can only hope to attain. 

 

One more coffee soaked kiss breaks the spell and then he’s a tornado, a whorl of chaos grabbing his wallet, keys.

 

“Hey, Dean?”

 

Almost out the bedroom door, he leans around the doorframe.  He’s up against the trim and pats it, waiting.

 

“What’s up?”

 

“Love you, jerk.”

 

A catch of breath, he’s laughing and you know the sound of your front door opening.

 

“Hey, Sammy?”  a pause as quick as a heartbeat, “Love you too, bitch.”