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Ficlet: Bring Back Her Head (Supernatural)
Title: Bring Back Her Head
Characters/pairing: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG
Warnings/contains: Spoilers for 10.2.
Word count: 1300
Summary: Coda to 10.2. Dean escapes the bunker. He comes back with a license plate and a bill of sale.
Notes: Unbetaed splurge of 10.2 feels. Don't say you weren't warned.
The bag lands with a metallic thunk, jarring Sam’s fogged-up brain and making him wince. Dean must’ve gotten him good. The back of his head hurts and his thoughts come slow, difficult to hold onto, like the inside of his head is all molasses.
He manages to feel vaguely surprised that it’s still attached, though.
“Rise and shine, Sammy!” Dean’s voice says, somewhere behind him, like it’s just another day, like a thousand mornings in a thousand shitty motel rooms. (Or it would be, if Sam just closed his eyes, if he could just forget about the cords digging furrows in his wrists, the black slick of Dean’s eyes looking down on him as he hit the floor).
Dean’s voice is the same. His face looms into view and his smile looks the same.
It’s just that there’s something missing from it. It’s just that there isn’t enough missing from it.
Looking at it makes Sam feel a little sick, like he’s staring down the sides of the Uncanny Valley. He swallows, breathes in through his nose.
“C’mon! Wake up and smell the—” Dean stops. The smile widens. “Well, I got something for you, but it sure ain’t coffee.”
He reaches into the bag, and Sam can’t help the involuntary clench of his hands, the twitch under his skin. But the expected clatter of weaponry doesn’t come.
What Dean comes out with—Sam doesn’t recognize it at first. Something flat and rectangular. It’s only when Dean steps forward into the light that he realizes what it is.
He always thought they’d ditched that old Kansas license plate, the one the Impala had when Dad gave it to Dean. Must’ve been in back somewhere, though, maybe under the weapons in the trunk along with the spare tire. Just like Dean, to hang onto something like that.
Only now, Dean’s brandishing it under his nose, and he’s holding something else on top of it.
A piece of paper. Sam peers at it, and Dean holds still to let him read. Which should be enough to tell him it’s nothing good.
It’s a bill of sale. The signature scrawled along the bottom gives a fake name in familiar handwriting.
Sam’s looks up, meaning to search Dean’s face, try and work out what he thinks he’s doing here, but his eyes catch on the figure on the paper. Which is maybe half of what it should be. Sam knows.
He knows because he Googled the going rate for a ’67 Chevy Impala, just the one time. Dean had been dead for a month, and Sam was down to scrabbling on the floor under the driver’s seat for nickels, trying to scrape together the price of a fifth. He didn’t find any money, but he did find an uneaten Twinkie and the scuffed cassette inlay out of a Metallica album. Dean was gone, but he was still all over that damn car. Suddenly, the thought of being rid of it looked as friendly as a bottle of painkillers after a tough hunt.
Sam got as far as looking it up online before he remembered Dean saying, take care of my wheels, and slammed the laptop shut. He felt shitty about it for weeks.
He sighs. “What are you trying to do here, Dean?” he says. “Selling your prize possession for a song just to piss me off? ‘Cos that looks a lot like cutting off your—”
Dean snickers, interrupting him. “Prize possession, Sammy? Now that is priceless.” The smirk fades, just for a moment. Dean straightens and his face falls into shadow. His eye-sockets catch the dark and hold it. “But no, seriously, I will get her back. Whatever Crowley Baggins tries to pull.”
Yeah, Sam should probably be glad Dean’s decided to keep on tormenting him instead of shooting off in search of the Blade. Sam knew what he was risking, when he brought Dean back to the bunker. It’s a kind of containment, even if it isn’t the kind Sam was aiming for. Better him than innocent collateral damage.
Still, he flinches involuntarily, wrists straining against the cords. Like if he was free, he could grab onto Dean and keep him from running.
Because that worked out so well the last time around.
Dean gives him an amused look. “Don’t get me wrong,” he goes on. “Sweet of you to worry about me getting screwed over. But I ain’t worrying. Cleaned the dealer out.”
Sam’s eyes narrow. “Dean,” he says. “What did you do?”
Dean shrugs, does that, you got me look, like Sam just caught him snagging the last beer out the fridge. “Didn’t like me poking around in the air vents after I’d sold it to him,” he says. “Shame. I liked the guy. He had this great big bushy beard—seriously, Sam, you should’ve seen it, that was some ZZ Top shit—” He breaks off. “Anyway, point is, I took the money and ran. Stole a ride and ditched it. Dad’s car—it’s gone.” He turns back to the bag and starts rummaging.
“She,” Sam says.
Dean goes still. Just for a moment, and then he’s looking round. His expression is deceptively light. “What now?”
“She. You call her she.”
Dean’s eyeroll is straight out of the Petulant Teenager Handbook. “Dude. Change the record.” He fumbles in the bag.
He’s getting antsy. That’s dangerous. It’s the best Sam has.
When he turns around, Dean’s holding something, small and rattling clasped between both hands. Sam leans back a little in his chair, eyeing it with caution, but then he realizes it’s—a handful of Legos.
Poking around in the air vents. The noise they made in there. The sound of her breathing around them.
Dean empties his handful onto the floor. Brings a heavy boot down on top of them—then does it again, and again, and then there are no more Legos, just a smear of plastic dust.
Next up, it’s the little plastic army guy that’s been jammed in the ashtray since Sam was seven. God only knows how Dean got it out: it’s been a fixture almost as long as Sam can remember.
He remembers being mad at himself, when he first got it stuck in there, worried that Dad was gonna notice and yell at him—but eventually it got to be part of what made the car feel like home. Having something in there that was his own, Sam’s. And then when he caught sight of it out the corner of his eye, in the cemetery at Stull—
Oh.
Oh. That’s what this is about.
For the first time since he stepped into that empty bar and heard Dean say, I’m not walking outta here with you, Sam feels a flicker of hope.
The toy soldier blisters and sags in the flame of Dean’s Zippo. Dean’s cassette tapes unspool their shiny black guts across the table. The piece of faux-wood trim they carved their initials into doesn’t burn, so in the end, Dean scratches the graffiti out with the tip of a knife, watching Sam’s face while he works.
Sam holds steady. He can do this. If there’s one last thing he can do, it’s this.
It’s sudden when it comes. Dean hurls knife and plastic onto the floor, smile extinguished in a heartbeat.
“C’mon, Sammy,” he growls. “Give it up. Quit looking at me like that.” There’s a cruel quirk to his lips. “Ain’t like you ever had trouble giving up on me before.”
Sam just looks at him. “What are you doing, Dean?” he asks. “What do you want from me?”
Dean scowls. “Nothing,” he spits. “Nothing’s what I want from you.”
It sounds like a threat and it sounds like a plea, and Sam holds on to the latter.
He holds on.
Characters/pairing: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG
Warnings/contains: Spoilers for 10.2.
Word count: 1300
Summary: Coda to 10.2. Dean escapes the bunker. He comes back with a license plate and a bill of sale.
Notes: Unbetaed splurge of 10.2 feels. Don't say you weren't warned.
The bag lands with a metallic thunk, jarring Sam’s fogged-up brain and making him wince. Dean must’ve gotten him good. The back of his head hurts and his thoughts come slow, difficult to hold onto, like the inside of his head is all molasses.
He manages to feel vaguely surprised that it’s still attached, though.
“Rise and shine, Sammy!” Dean’s voice says, somewhere behind him, like it’s just another day, like a thousand mornings in a thousand shitty motel rooms. (Or it would be, if Sam just closed his eyes, if he could just forget about the cords digging furrows in his wrists, the black slick of Dean’s eyes looking down on him as he hit the floor).
Dean’s voice is the same. His face looms into view and his smile looks the same.
It’s just that there’s something missing from it. It’s just that there isn’t enough missing from it.
Looking at it makes Sam feel a little sick, like he’s staring down the sides of the Uncanny Valley. He swallows, breathes in through his nose.
“C’mon! Wake up and smell the—” Dean stops. The smile widens. “Well, I got something for you, but it sure ain’t coffee.”
He reaches into the bag, and Sam can’t help the involuntary clench of his hands, the twitch under his skin. But the expected clatter of weaponry doesn’t come.
What Dean comes out with—Sam doesn’t recognize it at first. Something flat and rectangular. It’s only when Dean steps forward into the light that he realizes what it is.
He always thought they’d ditched that old Kansas license plate, the one the Impala had when Dad gave it to Dean. Must’ve been in back somewhere, though, maybe under the weapons in the trunk along with the spare tire. Just like Dean, to hang onto something like that.
Only now, Dean’s brandishing it under his nose, and he’s holding something else on top of it.
A piece of paper. Sam peers at it, and Dean holds still to let him read. Which should be enough to tell him it’s nothing good.
It’s a bill of sale. The signature scrawled along the bottom gives a fake name in familiar handwriting.
Sam’s looks up, meaning to search Dean’s face, try and work out what he thinks he’s doing here, but his eyes catch on the figure on the paper. Which is maybe half of what it should be. Sam knows.
He knows because he Googled the going rate for a ’67 Chevy Impala, just the one time. Dean had been dead for a month, and Sam was down to scrabbling on the floor under the driver’s seat for nickels, trying to scrape together the price of a fifth. He didn’t find any money, but he did find an uneaten Twinkie and the scuffed cassette inlay out of a Metallica album. Dean was gone, but he was still all over that damn car. Suddenly, the thought of being rid of it looked as friendly as a bottle of painkillers after a tough hunt.
Sam got as far as looking it up online before he remembered Dean saying, take care of my wheels, and slammed the laptop shut. He felt shitty about it for weeks.
He sighs. “What are you trying to do here, Dean?” he says. “Selling your prize possession for a song just to piss me off? ‘Cos that looks a lot like cutting off your—”
Dean snickers, interrupting him. “Prize possession, Sammy? Now that is priceless.” The smirk fades, just for a moment. Dean straightens and his face falls into shadow. His eye-sockets catch the dark and hold it. “But no, seriously, I will get her back. Whatever Crowley Baggins tries to pull.”
Yeah, Sam should probably be glad Dean’s decided to keep on tormenting him instead of shooting off in search of the Blade. Sam knew what he was risking, when he brought Dean back to the bunker. It’s a kind of containment, even if it isn’t the kind Sam was aiming for. Better him than innocent collateral damage.
Still, he flinches involuntarily, wrists straining against the cords. Like if he was free, he could grab onto Dean and keep him from running.
Because that worked out so well the last time around.
Dean gives him an amused look. “Don’t get me wrong,” he goes on. “Sweet of you to worry about me getting screwed over. But I ain’t worrying. Cleaned the dealer out.”
Sam’s eyes narrow. “Dean,” he says. “What did you do?”
Dean shrugs, does that, you got me look, like Sam just caught him snagging the last beer out the fridge. “Didn’t like me poking around in the air vents after I’d sold it to him,” he says. “Shame. I liked the guy. He had this great big bushy beard—seriously, Sam, you should’ve seen it, that was some ZZ Top shit—” He breaks off. “Anyway, point is, I took the money and ran. Stole a ride and ditched it. Dad’s car—it’s gone.” He turns back to the bag and starts rummaging.
“She,” Sam says.
Dean goes still. Just for a moment, and then he’s looking round. His expression is deceptively light. “What now?”
“She. You call her she.”
Dean’s eyeroll is straight out of the Petulant Teenager Handbook. “Dude. Change the record.” He fumbles in the bag.
He’s getting antsy. That’s dangerous. It’s the best Sam has.
When he turns around, Dean’s holding something, small and rattling clasped between both hands. Sam leans back a little in his chair, eyeing it with caution, but then he realizes it’s—a handful of Legos.
Poking around in the air vents. The noise they made in there. The sound of her breathing around them.
Dean empties his handful onto the floor. Brings a heavy boot down on top of them—then does it again, and again, and then there are no more Legos, just a smear of plastic dust.
Next up, it’s the little plastic army guy that’s been jammed in the ashtray since Sam was seven. God only knows how Dean got it out: it’s been a fixture almost as long as Sam can remember.
He remembers being mad at himself, when he first got it stuck in there, worried that Dad was gonna notice and yell at him—but eventually it got to be part of what made the car feel like home. Having something in there that was his own, Sam’s. And then when he caught sight of it out the corner of his eye, in the cemetery at Stull—
Oh.
Oh. That’s what this is about.
For the first time since he stepped into that empty bar and heard Dean say, I’m not walking outta here with you, Sam feels a flicker of hope.
The toy soldier blisters and sags in the flame of Dean’s Zippo. Dean’s cassette tapes unspool their shiny black guts across the table. The piece of faux-wood trim they carved their initials into doesn’t burn, so in the end, Dean scratches the graffiti out with the tip of a knife, watching Sam’s face while he works.
Sam holds steady. He can do this. If there’s one last thing he can do, it’s this.
It’s sudden when it comes. Dean hurls knife and plastic onto the floor, smile extinguished in a heartbeat.
“C’mon, Sammy,” he growls. “Give it up. Quit looking at me like that.” There’s a cruel quirk to his lips. “Ain’t like you ever had trouble giving up on me before.”
Sam just looks at him. “What are you doing, Dean?” he asks. “What do you want from me?”
Dean scowls. “Nothing,” he spits. “Nothing’s what I want from you.”
It sounds like a threat and it sounds like a plea, and Sam holds on to the latter.
He holds on.
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