Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dudeimbatman) wrote2009-03-18 01:44 pm
dudeimbatman) wrote2009-03-18 01:44 pm
If it's for my squad, let's play [Back him 'gainst the door]
[Who do you work best with?]
The tension that runs between the two of you like a trip wire just waiting to trigger an explosion melts away in the thick of a case. Your backs against each others, guns raised and flash lights held above the guns. Tension still exists but it binds you together, tighter than wire or tape, tighter than glue or a weld. This is what you were raised for and more importantly in ways that no one will ever understand, this is what he was raised for; need and circumstance, blood and responsibility have wound you both together so that neither of you know exactly where one ends nor where the other begins. Trusting him is in your bones, protection is in your soul and that’s why you take a couple of steps in front him, your body angled just a little so that you’re in the line of fire. You like to pretend he doesn’t know what you’re doing because that’s part of protecting him; hiding all the bad things from him, even if he’s becoming one of the bad things.
There’s an unearthly scream and talons rake your shoulder.
“Sammy!”
You dropped the flashlight and you can’t see him but you can still feel him at your back and the crunch of bone against rock isn’t his. Somehow you know that because instinctively you would know what the crunch of his bone sounded like. You would know the smell of his blood because it smells like yours and the metallic scent that makes your stomach twists isn’t his blood.
Light bounces in your eyes and then angles up at the ceiling once before arcing across your eyes again to the ground. He’s crouching in front of you, the heel of his hand pressing against the deep gashes in your shoulder and it hurts and it’s right and it’s home and it’s the way everything is supposed to be.
“You okay?”
And you are because he is. Whatever wounded you is dead and you don’t want to ask how he did it because those are things about him that scare you now so you nod instead and clap your free hand to his shoulder, pushing—half pulling yourself to your feet.
“Me? I’m smokin’ Sammy,” you say and you know your words are too bright, too cocky, too wrong, too everything but they usually are these days.
“Let’s get out of here. I want to look at your shoulder and I need a shower.”
“Thought I smelled something. You gotta start taking those more than once a week, Sammich.” Because insults and snapbacks are easier than asking why your baby brother has blood all over him, blood that’s not his or yours and why you only heard one scream, the crunch of bone and a wet, fleshy pop. Those sounds are etched in your ears and your brain, squealing somewhere in the back like nails on a chalk board. You never heard a gun fire, never smelled burnt powder and you know Sam doesn’t have a knife. Whatever happened, however that monster died, Sam did it and you know that and it’s eating away at you faster than what was in that cave ever could.
The walk back to the Impala is slow and you lean on Sam more because you can then because you need to. Using your brother as a crutch makes some of the horror go away because no matter what happens, no matter what he becomes or what you become, he’s still the person you work best with in the world. The person you’ll stand beside against everything else. It’s what you raised for. More importantly it’s what he was raised for.
The tension that runs between the two of you like a trip wire just waiting to trigger an explosion melts away in the thick of a case. Your backs against each others, guns raised and flash lights held above the guns. Tension still exists but it binds you together, tighter than wire or tape, tighter than glue or a weld. This is what you were raised for and more importantly in ways that no one will ever understand, this is what he was raised for; need and circumstance, blood and responsibility have wound you both together so that neither of you know exactly where one ends nor where the other begins. Trusting him is in your bones, protection is in your soul and that’s why you take a couple of steps in front him, your body angled just a little so that you’re in the line of fire. You like to pretend he doesn’t know what you’re doing because that’s part of protecting him; hiding all the bad things from him, even if he’s becoming one of the bad things.
There’s an unearthly scream and talons rake your shoulder.
“Sammy!”
You dropped the flashlight and you can’t see him but you can still feel him at your back and the crunch of bone against rock isn’t his. Somehow you know that because instinctively you would know what the crunch of his bone sounded like. You would know the smell of his blood because it smells like yours and the metallic scent that makes your stomach twists isn’t his blood.
Light bounces in your eyes and then angles up at the ceiling once before arcing across your eyes again to the ground. He’s crouching in front of you, the heel of his hand pressing against the deep gashes in your shoulder and it hurts and it’s right and it’s home and it’s the way everything is supposed to be.
“You okay?”
And you are because he is. Whatever wounded you is dead and you don’t want to ask how he did it because those are things about him that scare you now so you nod instead and clap your free hand to his shoulder, pushing—half pulling yourself to your feet.
“Me? I’m smokin’ Sammy,” you say and you know your words are too bright, too cocky, too wrong, too everything but they usually are these days.
“Let’s get out of here. I want to look at your shoulder and I need a shower.”
“Thought I smelled something. You gotta start taking those more than once a week, Sammich.” Because insults and snapbacks are easier than asking why your baby brother has blood all over him, blood that’s not his or yours and why you only heard one scream, the crunch of bone and a wet, fleshy pop. Those sounds are etched in your ears and your brain, squealing somewhere in the back like nails on a chalk board. You never heard a gun fire, never smelled burnt powder and you know Sam doesn’t have a knife. Whatever happened, however that monster died, Sam did it and you know that and it’s eating away at you faster than what was in that cave ever could.
The walk back to the Impala is slow and you lean on Sam more because you can then because you need to. Using your brother as a crutch makes some of the horror go away because no matter what happens, no matter what he becomes or what you become, he’s still the person you work best with in the world. The person you’ll stand beside against everything else. It’s what you raised for. More importantly it’s what he was raised for.