“Cure cancer, Dean. They said they were gonna cure.... cure cancer.”
Dean squints.
“I mean, what if we've got them all wrong?” Sam says. He's got a hand on the desk, ridiculously close to where Dean's hip is, and it twitches like it's about to make a leap. “What if they just wanna... wanna help?”
“Hell of a body count for guys who want to help.” Dean snorts at the concept.
“We have a hell of a body count, too.”
“We kill monsters.” Dean scowls. “Monsters that deserve it.”
“We all deserve it.” Sam's pout is ridiculous, his lower lip sticking out a full inch, and Dean's salivating for no good reason. “I mean, imagine if we just stopped. Stopped killing. And then they stopped killing. And then we could all just... just...”
“What? We all just sit by the campfire, sing kumbaya? Hand in hand in... tentacle thing?”
Sam looks at him silently. At least he’s stopped stuttering, Dean thinks. Damn stutter when he’s drunk, drives Dean nuts. But his lower lip is still way out there, big eyes full of ideas and if Dean’s really quiet he thinks he can hear Sam’s brain whirling with a thousand more of ‘em.
“Come sit with me, Dean,” Sam says. His hand makes the jump to Dean’s hipbone and yanks in, and oh hey looks like sit with means sit on because abruptly Dean’s riding sidesaddle on Sam’s lap, Sam’s hands low around his waist like a seatbelt. Sam leans in, rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder so his breath is buffeting against Dean’s neck. Giving him goosebumps with every freaking exhale.
“You ever think maybe...” (“No, I never do,” Dean says curtly, trying to shut him up, but he plows ahead) “...maybe we have the whole thing all wrong? Like, everyone else in the world just lives, they never think about killing things, hunting monsters. What if we just stopped? What if we settled down, opened, you know, a hardware store or something, just lived?”
Dean turns his head, tries to shut him down with a frown.
“”What?” Sam says after Dean’s answer doesn’t come.
“I’m not even gonna say it.”
“Fine, don’t talk then.” And Sam’s hands are crawling up his back like a pair of spiders, and if they weren’t so warm they’d creep Dean out. A half-smile plays at the side of Sam’s mouth. “What if it were you and me,” he goes on, half-dreamily, “just living, just being...”
“If you say being normal, so help me--”
“Together,” Sam says, and the dreaminess has cleared into a sudden, focused look, the smile gone. “I was gonna say being together.”
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Date: 2012-04-02 12:27 pm (UTC)“Cure cancer, Dean. They said they were gonna cure.... cure cancer.”
Dean squints.
“I mean, what if we've got them all wrong?” Sam says. He's got a hand on the desk, ridiculously close to where Dean's hip is, and it twitches like it's about to make a leap. “What if they just wanna... wanna help?”
“Hell of a body count for guys who want to help.” Dean snorts at the concept.
“We have a hell of a body count, too.”
“We kill monsters.” Dean scowls. “Monsters that deserve it.”
“We all deserve it.” Sam's pout is ridiculous, his lower lip sticking out a full inch, and Dean's salivating for no good reason. “I mean, imagine if we just stopped. Stopped killing. And then they stopped killing. And then we could all just... just...”
“What? We all just sit by the campfire, sing kumbaya? Hand in hand in... tentacle thing?”
Sam looks at him silently. At least he’s stopped stuttering, Dean thinks. Damn stutter when he’s drunk, drives Dean nuts. But his lower lip is still way out there, big eyes full of ideas and if Dean’s really quiet he thinks he can hear Sam’s brain whirling with a thousand more of ‘em.
“Come sit with me, Dean,” Sam says. His hand makes the jump to Dean’s hipbone and yanks in, and oh hey looks like sit with means sit on because abruptly Dean’s riding sidesaddle on Sam’s lap, Sam’s hands low around his waist like a seatbelt. Sam leans in, rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder so his breath is buffeting against Dean’s neck. Giving him goosebumps with every freaking exhale.
“You ever think maybe...” (“No, I never do,” Dean says curtly, trying to shut him up, but he plows ahead) “...maybe we have the whole thing all wrong? Like, everyone else in the world just lives, they never think about killing things, hunting monsters. What if we just stopped? What if we settled down, opened, you know, a hardware store or something, just lived?”
Dean turns his head, tries to shut him down with a frown.
“”What?” Sam says after Dean’s answer doesn’t come.
“I’m not even gonna say it.”
“Fine, don’t talk then.” And Sam’s hands are crawling up his back like a pair of spiders, and if they weren’t so warm they’d creep Dean out. A half-smile plays at the side of Sam’s mouth. “What if it were you and me,” he goes on, half-dreamily, “just living, just being...”
“If you say being normal, so help me--”
“Together,” Sam says, and the dreaminess has cleared into a sudden, focused look, the smile gone. “I was gonna say being together.”
He doesn’t stutter at that.