Ground State by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
brutti_ma_buoni for <user site="livejournal.com
Apr. 15th, 2014 04:00 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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spn_springflingTitle: Ground State
Pairing: Sam, Dean gen
Rating: PG13
Any warnings: canon character death
Dean always had an affinity with dirt. In general, but specifically with mud. Sam looks at the closed eyes, the still features, the streaks of dirt disfiguring pale skin, and remembers.
*
“So, is this like, Yellowstone?” Dean’s trying to be cool, but the age of eleven and a bunch of hot springs on a cool, clear, sunny day after too many motel-bound weeks don’t really produce cool. Dean’s been talking about this place for days, and it’s dumb luck they’ve been allowed to come here.
Sam watches him bounce on his heels, tagging along after Dad as he takes measurements, notes, moves on. Sam’s supposed to be staying behind, and Dean’s supposed to be watching him, but there’s nothing stopping Dean from following, and there’s no way Sam is waiting alone in among all these weird noises and smells. So.
“Yeah,” says Dad, and he sounds calmer than he has for weeks. They have a job now, and that always makes Dad happier. “Yeah, some of these pools are warm mud, like a beauty treatment. And some of them will boil the skin off your bones… and one of them holds a mud monster who likes to eat little kids.”
Dean laughs, which is possibly a mistake, because Dad’s brow furrows. At Sam’s side, the mud boils, and a hand reaches out. Dad says, “Yeah, like that.” And the rocksalt reaches the monster before his hands grasp Sam.
Dean gets grounded for a week for lousy babysitting. Sam doesn’t sleep soundly for a month.
*
“Shit, shit, shit,” is all Sam can hear, the other side of the bathroom door. Which, really, not that surprising. He should be in bed, or at least revising one last time. Instead, he’s waiting to mock, because this one is just far too good to waste. Assuming Dean still has a face once he’s levered that crap off, but Dean sounds pissed instead of panicked.
“What were you even doing?” Sam can’t resist any longer. “Going to take more than one beauty treatment to fix your stupid face.” Objectively, Dean’s pretty good looking, he realises, but it’s not brotherly to admit it. And mockery is way more fun.
“Suzy wanted to try it,” says Dean. Yells, really, but Dad isn’t home and the neighbour is a drunk, so who cares about that? “She’s going to be beautician.” Which, obviously, Sam knows, because Dean told him the first time he got a date with Suzy, and approximately twice a day since. Sam doesn’t entirely get why this is such a big deal, and all Dean has said is a meaningful, “You know. Grooming.” Which means nothing at all to Sam at this point. “Anyway, it’s cool. Mud all over my face, beautiful girl got her hands all over me? Yeah, I’m so there.”
“How did you forget to take it off?” Sam asks. Because if Dean wants him to believe they were making out and lost track of time, he’s shit out of luck. Not with all the mud. Dean looks pretty much like the mud monster of Sam’s kid nightmares, or he did before he locked himself in the bathroom with their entire stock of cleaning products.
“Her dad came home,” Dean yells. “I had to hide under her bed. For, like, an hour. And then I climbed out of the window.”
Classy. But Dean sounds a little calmer, like some of the mud is coming off and he still has skin, so Sam relaxes enough to laugh more loudly and shout more through the bathroom door. It’s not such a bad memory.
*
Dean’s soaked in mud that last night before Stanford. They were all outdoor-messy, with the usual day of training, a survival track Dad set for them, and then a little actual hunting practice in the woods. Sam’s boots are dirty, and he can see some small scratches on his hands when he looks down. But Dean’s pants are pretty much dripping, like he forded a stream or wallowed in a mudhole, and Sam’s half wondering how in hell Dean got so damn dirty. The mud is barely drying at the edges. A few flakes forming around his knees, and the lighter splashes up his thighs. It’s not important, but it’s a thing to focus on.
The other half of Sam is listening to Dad severing him from his family. The way Sam always knew he would, when this confrontation came. It’s bad, but it’s not unexpected. So Sam’s okay. When Dad finally winds down, he says his piece, and it’s done. And he has a future to find.
But he’ll miss Dean’s stupid muddy pants.
*
Memories more recent flow fast. Because one way Sam knows he really is back in the family business is how damn dirty they both get. It wasn’t like this at Stanford. Laundry didn’t mean finding clothes that aren’t encrusted in filth long enough to sit decently in a Laundromat till the worst is sluiced off of them rest
Not that mud is the worst. Enough blood or demon goo and clothes are unwearable, trashed beyond redemption. Laundry days are a sign they’re doing okay. Even if Dean bitches about Sam’s insistence because he doesn’t care so much about mud on his stuff.
Sam catches himself there.
Bitched. Not bitches. It’s time to start using the past tense about Dean. He died as he lived: muddy, bloody and demon-ridden. Wherever the hell Dean is now, whatever the hell, Sam doesn’t anticipate honest dirt playing a part.
It’s weird how the hellhounds didn’t touch Dean’s face. What’s left of the rest of him is ribbons and gore, but his face is all there, enough that Sam can see the marks of their last hunt, those dirty smears that represent the last hours of Dean and Sam’s normality. Sam wants to fix a picture in his mind, a snapshot of just this. Just this. Not the rest. Not the emptiness around Sam, the still quiet, the blood reek and the sulphur in the air around Dean’s corpse.
“Bout ready, boy?” say Bobby, and Sam isn’t, but.
Earth to earth. Earth to Dean. Shovelful on shovelful, and it’s a comfort, sort of a comfort, that they don’t have to burn him. That he gets to be a part of the earth, because that’s where he’s comfortable.
*
When Dean comes back, and Sam wraps his arms around his brother, he’s expecting a lungful of leaf mould and worm casts. Of Dean back from the earth. Maybe he’s not visibly mud-soaked, the way his memory shade has returned to Sam in dreams and longing these past endless months. But Sam’s been anticipating it. He isn’t even aware of how much till he gets in a deep, thankful, breath.
And chokes.
Dean smells of ashes and blood and burning, like hellfire.
“Shit, man,” Sam says, after a while. “What did they do to you?” Stupid question, sure, but the wrong of what’s here is stunning him beyond good sense.
“I don’t remember,” Dean responds. Too fast, maybe. But maybe Sam doesn’t want to know. “Nothing from before I got out of my grave,” he adds. He breaks them apart, looks down at himself consideringly.
Sam waits. Dean flexes his hands, looks down at the knuckles, the fingernails. Now that Sam looks, there are signs, little cuts, some missed dirt under the nails. “I was pretty much a mud-monster mess when I rocked up at Bobby’s,” Dean adds. Beat. “That was pretty cool.”
He’s back in Sam’s arms then, because, really? Whatever traces hell left on Dean, this guy really is his brother. Dean’s back.
Sam silently plans a hunting trip asap somewhere damp and outdoor, where Dean can get up to his neck filthy and maybe that’ll clear the stains of hell.
Maybe.
*
Pairing: Sam, Dean gen
Rating: PG13
Any warnings: canon character death
Dean always had an affinity with dirt. In general, but specifically with mud. Sam looks at the closed eyes, the still features, the streaks of dirt disfiguring pale skin, and remembers.
*
“So, is this like, Yellowstone?” Dean’s trying to be cool, but the age of eleven and a bunch of hot springs on a cool, clear, sunny day after too many motel-bound weeks don’t really produce cool. Dean’s been talking about this place for days, and it’s dumb luck they’ve been allowed to come here.
Sam watches him bounce on his heels, tagging along after Dad as he takes measurements, notes, moves on. Sam’s supposed to be staying behind, and Dean’s supposed to be watching him, but there’s nothing stopping Dean from following, and there’s no way Sam is waiting alone in among all these weird noises and smells. So.
“Yeah,” says Dad, and he sounds calmer than he has for weeks. They have a job now, and that always makes Dad happier. “Yeah, some of these pools are warm mud, like a beauty treatment. And some of them will boil the skin off your bones… and one of them holds a mud monster who likes to eat little kids.”
Dean laughs, which is possibly a mistake, because Dad’s brow furrows. At Sam’s side, the mud boils, and a hand reaches out. Dad says, “Yeah, like that.” And the rocksalt reaches the monster before his hands grasp Sam.
Dean gets grounded for a week for lousy babysitting. Sam doesn’t sleep soundly for a month.
*
“Shit, shit, shit,” is all Sam can hear, the other side of the bathroom door. Which, really, not that surprising. He should be in bed, or at least revising one last time. Instead, he’s waiting to mock, because this one is just far too good to waste. Assuming Dean still has a face once he’s levered that crap off, but Dean sounds pissed instead of panicked.
“What were you even doing?” Sam can’t resist any longer. “Going to take more than one beauty treatment to fix your stupid face.” Objectively, Dean’s pretty good looking, he realises, but it’s not brotherly to admit it. And mockery is way more fun.
“Suzy wanted to try it,” says Dean. Yells, really, but Dad isn’t home and the neighbour is a drunk, so who cares about that? “She’s going to be beautician.” Which, obviously, Sam knows, because Dean told him the first time he got a date with Suzy, and approximately twice a day since. Sam doesn’t entirely get why this is such a big deal, and all Dean has said is a meaningful, “You know. Grooming.” Which means nothing at all to Sam at this point. “Anyway, it’s cool. Mud all over my face, beautiful girl got her hands all over me? Yeah, I’m so there.”
“How did you forget to take it off?” Sam asks. Because if Dean wants him to believe they were making out and lost track of time, he’s shit out of luck. Not with all the mud. Dean looks pretty much like the mud monster of Sam’s kid nightmares, or he did before he locked himself in the bathroom with their entire stock of cleaning products.
“Her dad came home,” Dean yells. “I had to hide under her bed. For, like, an hour. And then I climbed out of the window.”
Classy. But Dean sounds a little calmer, like some of the mud is coming off and he still has skin, so Sam relaxes enough to laugh more loudly and shout more through the bathroom door. It’s not such a bad memory.
*
Dean’s soaked in mud that last night before Stanford. They were all outdoor-messy, with the usual day of training, a survival track Dad set for them, and then a little actual hunting practice in the woods. Sam’s boots are dirty, and he can see some small scratches on his hands when he looks down. But Dean’s pants are pretty much dripping, like he forded a stream or wallowed in a mudhole, and Sam’s half wondering how in hell Dean got so damn dirty. The mud is barely drying at the edges. A few flakes forming around his knees, and the lighter splashes up his thighs. It’s not important, but it’s a thing to focus on.
The other half of Sam is listening to Dad severing him from his family. The way Sam always knew he would, when this confrontation came. It’s bad, but it’s not unexpected. So Sam’s okay. When Dad finally winds down, he says his piece, and it’s done. And he has a future to find.
But he’ll miss Dean’s stupid muddy pants.
*
Memories more recent flow fast. Because one way Sam knows he really is back in the family business is how damn dirty they both get. It wasn’t like this at Stanford. Laundry didn’t mean finding clothes that aren’t encrusted in filth long enough to sit decently in a Laundromat till the worst is sluiced off of them rest
Not that mud is the worst. Enough blood or demon goo and clothes are unwearable, trashed beyond redemption. Laundry days are a sign they’re doing okay. Even if Dean bitches about Sam’s insistence because he doesn’t care so much about mud on his stuff.
Sam catches himself there.
Bitched. Not bitches. It’s time to start using the past tense about Dean. He died as he lived: muddy, bloody and demon-ridden. Wherever the hell Dean is now, whatever the hell, Sam doesn’t anticipate honest dirt playing a part.
It’s weird how the hellhounds didn’t touch Dean’s face. What’s left of the rest of him is ribbons and gore, but his face is all there, enough that Sam can see the marks of their last hunt, those dirty smears that represent the last hours of Dean and Sam’s normality. Sam wants to fix a picture in his mind, a snapshot of just this. Just this. Not the rest. Not the emptiness around Sam, the still quiet, the blood reek and the sulphur in the air around Dean’s corpse.
“Bout ready, boy?” say Bobby, and Sam isn’t, but.
Earth to earth. Earth to Dean. Shovelful on shovelful, and it’s a comfort, sort of a comfort, that they don’t have to burn him. That he gets to be a part of the earth, because that’s where he’s comfortable.
*
When Dean comes back, and Sam wraps his arms around his brother, he’s expecting a lungful of leaf mould and worm casts. Of Dean back from the earth. Maybe he’s not visibly mud-soaked, the way his memory shade has returned to Sam in dreams and longing these past endless months. But Sam’s been anticipating it. He isn’t even aware of how much till he gets in a deep, thankful, breath.
And chokes.
Dean smells of ashes and blood and burning, like hellfire.
“Shit, man,” Sam says, after a while. “What did they do to you?” Stupid question, sure, but the wrong of what’s here is stunning him beyond good sense.
“I don’t remember,” Dean responds. Too fast, maybe. But maybe Sam doesn’t want to know. “Nothing from before I got out of my grave,” he adds. He breaks them apart, looks down at himself consideringly.
Sam waits. Dean flexes his hands, looks down at the knuckles, the fingernails. Now that Sam looks, there are signs, little cuts, some missed dirt under the nails. “I was pretty much a mud-monster mess when I rocked up at Bobby’s,” Dean adds. Beat. “That was pretty cool.”
He’s back in Sam’s arms then, because, really? Whatever traces hell left on Dean, this guy really is his brother. Dean’s back.
Sam silently plans a hunting trip asap somewhere damp and outdoor, where Dean can get up to his neck filthy and maybe that’ll clear the stains of hell.
Maybe.
*
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no subject
Date: 2014-04-15 11:39 pm (UTC)Earth to earth. Earth to Dean. Shovelful on shovelful, and it’s a comfort, sort of a comfort, that they don’t have to burn him. That he gets to be a part of the earth, because that’s where he’s comfortable.
So much feeling packed in here. I really enjoyed this!
no subject
Date: 2014-04-24 06:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-15 11:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-24 07:17 pm (UTC)Now this one might actually be a surprise to you... Glad you enjoyed this different kind of writing from me!
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Date: 2014-04-24 10:10 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-04-16 12:02 pm (UTC)I loved seeing all the different snapshots of time involving Dean and mud, and I adored how you explored it towards the end in relation to Dean's time in hell. Very powerful.
I enjoyed reading every word of this!
no subject
Date: 2014-04-24 07:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-16 11:26 pm (UTC)Dean gets grounded for a week for lousy babysitting. Sam doesn’t sleep soundly for a month. LOL
Bitched. Not bitches. It’s time to start using the past tense about Dean. He died as he lived: muddy, bloody and demon-ridden. Break my heart.
And Dean the mud monster rocking up at Bobby's. I love how Dean smells wrong to Sam and how Sam already has plans to fix that.
What a great look at Dean through his brother's eyes. I LOVED it!
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Date: 2014-04-24 08:47 pm (UTC)