happy wincest wednesday! what is something the boys would do for each when the other isn't looking or paying attention just to be nice?
Hahhh... sorry for letting this sit so long; I have been extremely distracted. Idk if it's appropriate to say "happy" today, but it does so happen to be wincest wednesday and well... this probably wasn't the kind of answer you expected at the time, but here's what this makes me think about today...
~
Dean wakes up -- later than he's been used to most of his life, but earlier than he's grown accustom. He can feel that Sam's still in bed, and guesses it's before Sam's 6am run. But then the hairs on his body raise inexplicably, and he sits up with the urgency of a house fire.
"What's going on?"
And Sam's answer is tired, red-rimmed eyes and his phone wordlessly turned so Dean can see the screen.
Dean feels detached from the bigger issues of the election as Sam cycles through the stages of grief throughout the morning. Dean's only concern is Sam.
Sam tries to start getting ready for his run. "They haven't really even finished the count yet. There's still a chance for a miracle in the mail-in votes," he says, but his shoe drops from his hand when he tries to pick it up, and he just stares at it. Dean wonders if Sammy is thinking about their track record in miracles.
So Dean agrees, "Of course, come on, this guy again? No way. The blue guys'll clinch it." And he helps Sam put on his shoes and then puts on his own, pulling Sam out of the bunker with him and bracing against the early morning chill, only to be met with a balmy, pre-sunrise 50 degrees.
Halfway through their jog, Sam suddenly breaks his sync with Dean, kicking at a tree with a guttural growl and the full force of his foot as if he was wearing his hunting boots. Dean cringes.
"Maybe if I'd found a way for us to vote without getting arrested -- we've broken so many laws anyway, what's a little voter fraud, right?! But no. And now look!"
He aims for the tree again, but Dean catches his leg with an 'oof.'
"C'mon, Sam, you know that's ridiculous. The two of us wouldn't have turned Kansas around by ourselves. You can't help that you still have faith in people, Sammy. You wouldn't be you if you didn't."
"Because I'm stupid," Sam says bitterly, and turns around to jog back to the bunker.
Dean follows him, but can't quite keep up this time. When he reaches the bunker, Sam is on the phone in the kitchen.
"I'm tellin' you, Garth, it's just like that time with Dick Roman when they drugged everybody to turn us into food. You really haven't heard anything? Don't you think it's completely crazy to believe his followers aren't under some kind of supernatural influence, for him to get away with all the horrible shit he does?"
"Well, maybe you could try asking Rowena---" Garth's tinny voice suggests as Dean pulls the phone away and hangs up.
"Dean--" Sam complains, reaching for the phone dispassionately.
"You know we already looked into this asshole. He's 100% human evil, Sammy."
Sam collapses onto the table bench, hand over his face. "Claire's already texted me twelve times. I don't even know what to say to her."
Dean looks at Sams phone and sees that there's a voicemail from Patience too. Pursing his lips, he turns off Sam's phone and pockets it. He sidles up behind Sam, cupping the back of Sam's neck and squeezing like he's scruffing him.
Sam takes a deep, hitching breath and holds it, breathing it out long and slow as Dean slides his hands down to dig his thumbs into the knots Sam's formed over the last twelve anxious hours.
"Well I guess," Sam starts, softly, "At least now he can't run again after this."
Dean starts to glimpse the promise of relief in his belly, before Sam adds with a self deprecating laugh: "As long as he doesn't change the law about term limits."
Dean squeezes Sam's shoulders, and keeps working at the tension until his hands get sore. Then he makes them breakfast, and makes sure Sam gets something in his stomach besides coffee.
But after Sam mechanically finishes the eggs and pancakes, Dean adds a couple splashes of whiskey when he tops up Sam's coffee -- after which, Sam says he should finally take his shower, but decides to lay his head down on the table for a minute and falls asleep.
Dean does his best to make sure Sam won't wake up with an even gnarlier backache, and does the dishes quickly before sneaking into the archives for the ingredients to contact Rowena.
But Rowena is no help to him if it doesn't come with a deal, and Dean has finally learned enough to know Sam wouldn't find the trade fair.
Dean lets Rowena go and turns Sam's phone back on, refreshing the election map. It still shows a handful of states at less than 80% reported, despite the bold banner at the top announcing a winner, and Dean looks at it in disgust.
A new text notification chimes in, and Dean sees Claire's name and a preview of her text: "I can get Alex to teach us how to do backroom abor" and Dean can guess what the rest of the text says.
Dean meets Sam in the hallway, calling for him.
"Hey," Sam says, sliding on his socked feet as he sees Dean and stops short. "I heard my phone. Was that Claire?" He snatches his phone from Dean and immediately starts scrolling, reading Claire's texts under his breath and dancing his fingers across the keys in a sudden fury. Quickly, Sam goes from upright to hunched like a question mark over his phone, shuffling restlessly up and down the corridor and mumbling about hrt supplies.
"Sammy, will ya take a breath? I'll knock over a pharmacy before I make ya go without your shots. --They'll still be makin' it for cis dudes, right?"
"Yeah. Probably. And I know you would, Dean, but I'm not worried about me," Sam says, not looking up. "Claire's going to scope out some manufacturing facilities with the girls and we're gonna set up an underground hrt resource. I wonder if there's anyone in our network who could work out a small manufacturing setup. It's too bad Kevin...or Charlie..." Sam mumbles down into nothing as he keeps typing, and Dean's stomach clenches.
He herds Sam, still typing, down to the showers, and gets the steam going while he strips Sam down and finally pulls the phone from his grasp. Dean pulls Sam down to him and goes up on his tiptoes to kiss Sam's forehead. He swears he can smell the salt of Sam's tears, and when he looks at Sam's face again they shimmer on his cheeks like the silvery scars of his top surgery.
Gently, Dean pushes Sam into the shower and under the water, carving his hands through Sam's hair to wet it down.
"Didn't think we'd be going through another apocalypse again so soon."
"Or ever," Dean agrees gruffly, grabbing Sam's special shampoo. "But this one isn't on us, Sam."
Sam closes his eyes, somehow still admonishing even as more tears join the water on his face. Dean's sudsy fingers scrub his scalp soothingly. "Dean. It's what we do."
"HRT, ok, that's one thing. But clandestine abortions?"
Sam snorts. "Alex can teach us."
"Us?"
Sam leans to rinse under the water when Dean directs him. "We'll cache abortion pills for the easy stuff, but we should be prepared to do more. We've taken bigger risks on DIY, and at least we'll get some training on this. Soon there might not even be any other options..."
So that's how Dean finds himself on his knees. Alone in his room. Praying to Jack as Sam sets up some type of mission control in the library.
"Please, Jack, I know you said you're hands off, an' all, but I think you should make an exception for Sammy. Just this once. He's had a lifetime of Hell-- more'n a lifetime-- and this is supposed to be our retirement. So can ya chip in a little for his 41st half-birthday -- which you missed, by the way -- and fix this freaking election so we don't hafta spend our retirement in another friggin' apocalypse?"
A weird feeling comes over Dean as he prays, buzzing through him with warm, alien reassurance. And as his stomach starts to unclench, he adds: "and hey, I'm not expecting ya to fix all of human history-- we're still team free will down here-- but throw in some worldwide human rights and extended ceasefires while you're at it. You missed a few of his actual birthdays, too, y'know."
Five minutes later, Dean's knees are cracking as he stands up and sprints down the halls towards the sound of Sam's bellowed, "Oh my god. Dean!"
Sam is gaping blearily at his laptop in the library.
"What's up? You okay?"
Sam can only gesture at his laptop, where the screen is displaying the final results of the count, and the Dems managed to pull a sudden upset, tilting the final count to their favor by two swing states after the paper ballots were counted.
"Ho-ly shit," Dean says, almost unable to believe it himself.
"And that's not all!" Sam says with a hint of bright incredulity, and scrolls down his news page.
"ALL the firearms disappeared?!" Dean asks, reaching for his gun automatically but realizing he'd never armed himself today. "Bombs, too? How?"
He knows how, but he still feels shocked. He'll have to check their stashes to see if Jack disarmed even them -- Dean really needs to get better at wording his wishes. They can't just be naked out here if monsters still exist.
But Sam answers Dean obliviously, "No idea! There's already a bunch of conspiracy theories on social media, each one crazier and yet more plausible than the last. Tucker Carlson already uploaded an AI shortfilm about how it was demons---" Sam turns to Dean suddenly and Dean cuts him off before he can speak it.
"It wasn't Rowena."
When Sam frowns at him in confusion, Dean begrudgingly elaborates, "I tried asking her for a favor while you were asleep, but she said that big of an ask would require a deal. You know I know better than that." (Now.)
Sam looks outrageously skeptical, and Dean feels offended. "Dean, people are reporting resurrections and olive trees sprouting full grown from rubble. Razor wire around global borders turning to wildflowers. Fields of grain in Ukraine. Cereal stalks cropping up in desolate Sudan farms, sprouted with grain and full heads of cooked kisra..." Sam keeps scrolling past miraculous headlines. "And these videos don't look like AI."
Dean bites his lip, wondering-- hoping-- that this will bring an end to the suffering, and not just be a bandaid before things continue going to shit. He focuses on the headlines and video titles quickly scrolling by, watching for anything about peace agreements or troops retreating. Screw free will, actually, just a little bit.
"D-Dean... do you think... Jack?"
Dean watches the weight of the world ease off Sammy's shoulders, infinitesimally, and doesn't resist the urge to wrap his arms around Sam, kissing his temple.
"Maybe, Sammy. Maybe."
