You promised yourself you wouldn't even call him, and you last less than a week. Frankly, you blame the booze.
You blame the booze, and you blame that douchebag who decided to be ironic and played "Back in Black" real loud as he bounced around the party air-guitaring like some moron. And yeah, that seals the deal, because all the things you've been trying not to think about, all the things you've been trying not to feel, they're crackling to the surface and suddenly you miss your brother so much it hurts. Your brother, who loves this song totally unironically, who knows every word of the fucking album, who'd sing louder at you when you told him to shut up. You know every word to "Back in Black" too, but only because Dean gave you no choice.
You're stumbling out of the party and you sort of push this one dude out of the way, you feel kind of sorry about it. You don't know your own strength when you're wasted. You know exactly how strong you are when you're fighting monsters though, ha, you know exactly how hard to hit them, how fast to run, you know where to aim the bullet and the blade.
You push past the smokers' circle hanging outside as Dean's cellphone rings and rings and there's a part of you that says hang up and a part that says don't pick up, but when you hear your brother's sleep-fuzzed "Wha?", you say his name instead of hello and hate the way you say it, all tight and cracked and desperate.
"Sammy?"
"I'm back," you say, forcing laughter, "I'm back in black!"
"You drunk?"
"No. Yes."
"Fuck off, Sam, I just killed three ghouls, okay? I'm going back to sleep."
"No!" And you hate the way you say that too, you hate the way your heart seizes up, so you start making up some bullshit about a girl you're unsuccessfully trying to screw, because if there's anything Dean loves more than calling you a girl, it's calling you bad at girls, and it works. Suddenly it's bitch this and geek that, and you think maybe you can hear the smile in his voice, tired as he is, and there is no smile on your face but now that Dean's here, there's a chance one might show up.
You cast one last look at the frathouse behind you, and then you make your way back to your dorm, calling Dean a jerk while he calls you a bitch and it's all so familiar, you might as well be in the Impala. You might as well be waking up in anonymous motel rooms with the only thing that the world will ever let you know. Dean's hands have set your bones and his eyes have seen through every lie, he taught you how to ride a bike and shoot a gun, and when you came here to Stanford and listened to everyone talk about their families and friends, you wondered if they have a brother like Dean, or a friend or someone, anyone who ever pushed them out of the way of danger, ever ripped up their own shirt to make you a bandage even if they were bleeding just as badly. Ever said "Over my dead body" to creatures that wanted you dead, and meant it.
i've been looking at the sky, Sam & Dean, PG13 - 1/2
You blame the booze, and you blame that douchebag who decided to be ironic and played "Back in Black" real loud as he bounced around the party air-guitaring like some moron. And yeah, that seals the deal, because all the things you've been trying not to think about, all the things you've been trying not to feel, they're crackling to the surface and suddenly you miss your brother so much it hurts. Your brother, who loves this song totally unironically, who knows every word of the fucking album, who'd sing louder at you when you told him to shut up. You know every word to "Back in Black" too, but only because Dean gave you no choice.
You're stumbling out of the party and you sort of push this one dude out of the way, you feel kind of sorry about it. You don't know your own strength when you're wasted. You know exactly how strong you are when you're fighting monsters though, ha, you know exactly how hard to hit them, how fast to run, you know where to aim the bullet and the blade.
You push past the smokers' circle hanging outside as Dean's cellphone rings and rings and there's a part of you that says hang up and a part that says don't pick up, but when you hear your brother's sleep-fuzzed "Wha?", you say his name instead of hello and hate the way you say it, all tight and cracked and desperate.
"Sammy?"
"I'm back," you say, forcing laughter, "I'm back in black!"
"You drunk?"
"No. Yes."
"Fuck off, Sam, I just killed three ghouls, okay? I'm going back to sleep."
"No!" And you hate the way you say that too, you hate the way your heart seizes up, so you start making up some bullshit about a girl you're unsuccessfully trying to screw, because if there's anything Dean loves more than calling you a girl, it's calling you bad at girls, and it works. Suddenly it's bitch this and geek that, and you think maybe you can hear the smile in his voice, tired as he is, and there is no smile on your face but now that Dean's here, there's a chance one might show up.
You cast one last look at the frathouse behind you, and then you make your way back to your dorm, calling Dean a jerk while he calls you a bitch and it's all so familiar, you might as well be in the Impala. You might as well be waking up in anonymous motel rooms with the only thing that the world will ever let you know. Dean's hands have set your bones and his eyes have seen through every lie, he taught you how to ride a bike and shoot a gun, and when you came here to Stanford and listened to everyone talk about their families and friends, you wondered if they have a brother like Dean, or a friend or someone, anyone who ever pushed them out of the way of danger, ever ripped up their own shirt to make you a bandage even if they were bleeding just as badly. Ever said "Over my dead body" to creatures that wanted you dead, and meant it.