venatoris | ic contact

[ Yeah, the Winchesters are pretty good at fucking things up for a lot of people. They're generally well intended, but sometimes the devastation they leave behind is..

Significant. ]

Yeah, well. [ Dean's gonna do it anyway. ] They did a number on you.

[ And they're gonna pay. ]

[Yeah, well, maybe some other people could pick up the goddamn save-the-world-from-demons-and-angels slack. They're just two traumatized dudes, how were they supposed to fix things instead of making the, worse? That's a design flaw by nature.]

Yeah, they sure did. I broke a molar.

[He runs a tongue over the spot where fragmented tooth still sits. It's fine, it's fine. Winchesters get impromptu dental visits with fake insurance cards all the time. After a moment, he says tiredly:]

Really good form, too. All things considered.

[What? He has no self-love, he's allowed to compliment attempted murder.]

[ Seriously. They've had enough thrown on their shoulders. Isn't there someone else that can carry the load for a little while? Fucks sake. ]

You should probably get that looked at.

[ Christ, Sam. Dean sighs, digging out antibiotic ointment and slapping it on Sam's various cuts. ]

Military style, like Dad?

Mm. I'll call the tooth fairy over.

[Sam's gaze flicks up to Dean, at the question.

He would have said 'something uniformed, something close to boxing'.

He would have, if Dean weren't adamant on getting hints on who hurt him.

So instead he says:]

Not sure. I probably wasn't the best judge of anything, at the time.

There's probably one here.

[ Hm. Sam's onto him. He'd tried to ask nonchalant, like a throwaway question Sam would just automatically answer, but oh no.

Stanford here is too smart for that. ]

No, I guess you wouldn't have been, not with someone beating your face in.

[He smiles thinly; it's mostly a wince, because Dean's prodding at his cut face.]

I'm guessing you're not going to let me sleep this off right now?

[Like Dad always said: "never mess with concussions".

Not to be confused with likening them to soldiers or cadets at elementary school ages.]

No, definitely not.

[ There's no way he's letting Sammy fall asleep right now. So, you get to sit up with him and play some cards, because he's got a deck and a bottle of booze to burn.

Sam's face is as cleaned up and disinfected as it's gonna get, and Dean gently pats his shoulder as he closes the little plastic kit and gets up to put it away (though he has a feeling he's gonna need it again pretty soon).

When he returns, he's holding a deck of cards. ]

You still suck at poker?

[He rolls his eye, slumping back more into his chair. Guess this is going to be one of those all-nighters were Dean eyeballs the hell out of him until he's out of the danger zone.

(And let's not talk anymore about the fact that the last time they were together, Sam blew his brains out, let's not talk about what he did to Dean, or the fact that he was gone, or the things he'd done; let's not talk about how Sam feels worse on the inside than he does on the outside, and how he'd failed this town, and failed his brother and Cas and those people-)

He clears his throat, glances up.]

Depends. You still suck at chess?

Edited 2021-04-29 19:20 (UTC)

[ He sits down across from Sam, ignoring everything that happened, that he watched his brother die, that he sat for days and watched the death on repeat until Sam 2 showed up and helped him banish it, that he spent time following Sam's death killing everything Deerington offered that he could get his hands on, there's still blood under his nails. ]

Shaddup. Five card?

Five card.

[He refrains from sniffing, because his nose hurts like a bitch right now; instead he leans forward in his seat. Dean'll probably cut him some slack and ignore the slight tremble in his hands as they sit on the table, ready to catch any cards slid his way.

He runs his tongue over the tender, swollen cut on his lip, glances to the deck of cards in Dean's hands.]

Got anything to bet? Can't imagine you have a bag'f marbles for this one.

[They used to bet with all kinds of shit in their youth. Marbles were always cooler than most of what they used. LEGOs, too. Dean was always a hundred times better than Sammy ever was, though; he half suspected back then that Dean snuck into bars to watch older hunters play, but the burden of proof was on him, and he had zero interest in those gross, smoke-filled places at that age.

This Sam never out-played a witch for Dean's life, though.

Never got the opportunity to prove he's got what it takes.

Maybe someday.]

[ That's exactly what Dean did, and it paid off, so don't judge him for going into smokey, gross dives. It always worked out well enough for them when he hustled people later, winning them enough to buy a better dinner than a lukewarm burrito warmed in a gas station microwave.

He flashes a smile, holds up a finger, then disappears because you better believe he's got some. This is the fifties, man. Marbles and jacks and shit are all there is and Dean likes toys, sue him.

He'll reappear with a shiny little bag of marbles that he'll push over at Sam. ]

Divvy 'em up while I deal.

Edited 2021-04-30 11:55 (UTC)

... Alright.

[His lips twitch, and though he looks wretched and sickly, it doesn't exactly stop him from shakily divvying up those marbles — giving Dean ten as... he slides way more than ten to his side of the table.

If Dean gives him any sort of look, he says:]

What? I'm probably concussed. Can't be held accountable.

[Even in the midst of dying and abject misery and sappy, sad reunions after a nightmare of a month, he can still manage a bit of younger brother teasing.]

[ You giant (pun intended) cheater. Dean gives him such a look as he deals, because obviously he does, but it doesn't stop him from smiling a little. ]

Yeah, right. I'm sure. Jokers are wild, anty up.

[ He'll probably let Sam win, but. It's nice to do this. ]

ic contact

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject