Work Text:
Ten Seconds
The flames rise higher, climbing and violently caressing the corpse. The fire is reflected in Dean’s eyes. To anyone who didn’t know him, his expression is unreadable – but beyond the hard-set jaw line and his unflinching green eyes, there is tension and worry.
Because Sam isn’t with him.
Sammy stayed behind to fight off the spirit while Dean took the Impala and shoved it towards the graveyard, armed with only a name, a general grave location, and a shovel.
He had never dug so fast in his life.
When the flames die, the body reduced to ash, the hunter digs his phone out of his pocket and dials Sam’s number.
The tone rings once, then twice, and then more after that. Ten seconds hang in the air before the line clicks, signifying it has been picked up and Sam speaks.
“I’m fine Dean.”
Ten Seconds
“Sam!” Dean yells, voice bouncing unhelpfully off the brick walls around him. He wears an unguarded concerned face, which is reserved only for Sam. “Sammy!” He tries again, “Sam!”
Dean picks up his pace, striking an indecisive stride in the middle of running and walking – wanting to go the length of the dark factory room, but at the same time doesn’t want to miss anything.
A low, weak moaning sound on Dean’s left barely crawls its way to his ears, but shotgun raised, Dean moves towards the pitiful whimper.
Sam is unconscious, but there is no blood. Dean suspects his head was bashed against something – probably that large and aggressively dangerous piece of machinery that does who-knows-what standing egotistically behind Sam’s prone form.
The older Winchester runs briskly, lowering his body as he moves until he is at his little brother’s side. Sam is covered in bruises and how the hell did he get attacked so fast and silently.
“Sam.” Dean says, carelessly letting abundant worry fall into his usually guarded voice. There is no response, “Sam.” Dean says more urgently, gently shaking his brother, “C’mon Sammy, wake up. Sam. Sam. Sam!”
Ten electrified seconds pass between them with Dean holding his brother who can take care of himself but who suddenly seems so fragile, in his arms. Then the voice that Dean wants to hear most in the world allows him to breathe a sigh of relief,
“…D’n?”
Ten Seconds
“Sam where have you been!?” Dean demands, his low voice deep and gruff and furious.
“I went for a walk.” Sam replies, equally angry. But Sam’s is a simmering anger, barely detectable but too prominently there – the scowl on his lips and the darkness in his eyes.
“I called you ten times!” Dean says, anger somehow successfully conveying worry.
“Oh because now you want to talk. You!”
“Yes.” Dean says, the word unmovable, “I do. I—I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’m sorry Sammy.”
“You know, you can’t just keep saying things to me Dean! You can’t keep waiting for me to apologize for things that you just don’t understand.”
“I said I was sorry!”
“Yeah.” Sam’s terse one-word answer carries so much spite that Dean wants to pluck it out of the air and crush it for containing the amount of unbearable malice that it does.
“Do you accept my apology or not?” Dean growls, the phrase turning in his mouth and making him feel like he’s four.
“Yeah.” This one is softer, “Yeah, we’re good for now.”
“Bitch.” Dean says.
After ten long seconds, the lines of displeasure soften into a very-Sam smile as his reply rolls easily off his tongue,
“Jerk.”
Ten Seconds
Dean has waited before. He isn’t by far the most patient person, but he has waited. He waited for the chance to kill old Yellow-Eyes, waited in the car for a stakeout, waited for a whole lot of things – many of which never came.
But Dean had never waited so long in his life than the ten seconds.
Ten seconds that seemed to be so terrible. It seemed that within that stretch of time, the world could end. Ten seconds was a long time.
Ten seconds to hear Sam’s voice,
Ten seconds to know Sammy was alive,
Ten seconds to wait and see if his brother forgave him.
Those were the worst ten seconds of his life.
Because – easily – Sam could end his world.
END