driftfleet | first one to make that doctor who joke loses

[He should really expect the fist, right? Right.

Dean's always had a solid fast hook that Sam's had a hard time avoiding (many, many times). Which is weird, because you'd hope he was tall enough to duck backward from such easy punches. Then again, Sam's not necessarily one to resort to outright violence, especially not against Dean, not unless he's got that icy, dangerous threat about him. He prefers words, maybe, but a fistfight? Usually it has to be pretty damn bad. Or one-on-one with a vamp on a hunt. Maybe a time when Sam's at his lowest. Like, say, him strung out on demon blood and disassociated from the man who'd hunt him. Or, say, self-defense against a reverse of the situation: Dean, strung out on the power of the Mark, ready to punch Sam down to floor level.

They have rough brotherly tiffs, okay.

Usually, though, he just takes the punch he knows is coming. It doesn't do a damn bit of good to get either of them worked up into a real fight. Lord knows it's happened on occasion. Nobody wins. Well, Dean usually wins, but they still don't win. Sam doesn't feel good about hitting him and Dean probably feels just as shitty as he started and --

Wow, you're really swinging quick there, huh?

He evades left as best he can, the fist grazing his jaw and clacking his teeth together roughly from the force; jesus, man, no holds bar with you. But Sam's not interested in punching Dean's face, so. He does the incredibly unwise thing of blocking the wild arm and putting his hand on Dean's shoulder there. To be fair to him, this is kind of split-second choices made. He doesn't want to get beat up, thanks.

But he also doesn't want the civilians (who are glancing their way in surprise now) to force them both into a war game match because they're getting into fisticuffs in a fucking store. Do kind the shelf, Dean, it's got a lot of expense shit on it.]

Whoa, whoa, wait a second--!

Edited 2016-04-05 20:36 (UTC)

[ If Dean was given the option, he'd more than willingly take being tossed in a cell as punishment for beating Sam's face in. Granted, there's no doubt that he'd lose any battles with the locals, but that's hardly the point. It'd be something of a fair trade and anything that provides him the opportunity to take out some aggression is one he's more than happy to be handed.

But there's nothing he wants less than to be ushered, tossed into automatic warfare, into a rousing fight in the center of a mud pit, wrestling to earn points. He isn't here for anyone's glory, their entertainment. He wants a goddamn fistfight, wants the brutal remnants of a brotherly battle that he at least thinks he can win. He's the one who's angry here, who wants all the retribution he's so utterly desperate for. And while a fistfight won't truly win him more than a few seconds worth of relief, he still wants those few seconds to be handed to him. It only seems fair when nothing is, the world having wrenched away all possibility of returning to thing it once was, long gone.

Beating the shit out of Sam won't save anything. He knows that.

That doesn't change the fact that he wishes it would.

His punch hardly connects, not in any kind of way that's satisfying, and all Dean can do is grit is his teeth from it, nearly working himself up into something worthy of a snarl. It doesn't help matters that Sam isn't fighting back, spanning the distance with an arm to his shoulder, which- no thanks. Ducking himself down and back out of the way, Dean has the full on intention of grabbing Sam, throwing his weight into it, knocking his way into a reared back jab.

But people are collecting, people walking by staring and gawking and pointing and Dean is a hundred kinds of unamused. ]

You need something? [ Words hurtled at the group, it is by far easier to shout at those he doesn't know than it is to even try to face Sam. ]

Dammit, Dean, stop.

[This reminds him too much of Dean with the Mark — all aggression, all pent-up energy thrumming through his veins. He doesn't want to think of the implications: that there's a scenario in life that would make Dean so much like that side of him. That he doesn't need the supernatural weapon to feel the urge to fly into a fight. Dean's always had a bit of a dark side — that much was obvious from a young age, that Sam remembers. He dealt with his pain with flinging himself headlong to his job. And his job? It was a violent one.

He does what he'll always do, for any Dean. He steps around to stand between him and the crowd, arms fanned out. His jaw throbs a bit, but it's nothing. He can deal with a lot. What he isn't going to deal with is Dean getting pissed at a crowd that is still walking by them anyway.]

Just calm down--

[ The problem is- well, alright, one amongst many, is that so far he has jack squat to do. There's nothing to occupy himself with, nothing to keep him furiously busy in the ways that he's altogether used to. At the very least, over the past five years and far longer than that, he's had an outlet. Now, suddenly it's gone. Kapoot.

And what's he supposed to do, spend all that time thinking?

... Alright, fine, Sam does a perfectly fine job snagging his attention by way of visibly puffing himself up, though it doesn't do too terribly much to temper Dean's anger. Instead, it's just honed in perfectly well onto Sam, gaze set wholly into ferocity as he stares. He's not even going to remotely make the promise that he won't try anything again, but at least he's standing still, albeit with fingers curled into fists at his side. It's the best he can do in the moment, all that he's willing to give. ]

Sure, calm is good.

[He exhales deeply in temporary relief, rubbing a hand over his achy jaw as he turns halfway to wave off the crowd. Sorry, sorry. It's fine. Nothing to see here. He sidesteps and lets people carry on down the street (and stragglers are best left ignored anyway), before turning to look back at Dean. He breathes in and holds it.]

... Look.

I'm sorry. I was just — looking for anything helpful here.

[It's clear now Sam's got one of the masks in his hand — for the polluted atmosphere. Going into ventilated stores is one thing, leaves a more comfortable atmosphere. Lucky for Dean's knuckles, at least because if he had been wearing it when Dean swung his fist he probably would've split his knuckles on the plastic too.

He rubs a hand over his face, then drops his hands at his sides, undefended. He's not gonna fight you, bud.]

... You good yet?

[Because you look coiled and ready to strike out, man.]

Or is this just the norm I should be expecting?

[ Sam, just punch him in the face, it would be so much easier. Just do it. Please? (Dean's not going to say please.) At least it would be for Dean. It's by far what he would prefer to be happening here, not a stare down by a crowd, and definitely not apologies. He'd be lying if he said he didn't still want to knock Sam off his feet, to dig his heels in and ruin the moment until it's black and blue, Dean a hair trigger away from doing exactly that.

It's just so utterly offensive that Sam is all calm against it when all Dean wants to do is split the moment wide open. There'd be no real relief in it if he doesn't hit back, and Dean's annoyance flares as he stares off at nothing in particular.

Why can't you just hit back.

It's not like Lucifer held back and Dean wants another go at it. Another attempt to prove that he isn't some waste of space that managed to walk the Earth for as long as he did. The asshole that let everyone get killed just so he could die too. Real great legacy he left behind.

So, no. He's not good yet. ]

What did you think you were gonna get?

[Man, he's not gonna hit you. He just shakes his head, solemn.]

That's up to you. If throwing punches makes you feel better, fine.

... But it's not. Nothing changes that way, Dean.

[ Except you keep saying shit like it's going to suddenly fix things, and Dean is so not interested. Excuse him while he stares down the city street, trying to determine his best way out of this. And possibly find something he can break. A lot of somethings. ]

Pretty sure some things do.

[Sam frowns deeply, squinting at Dean, a sort of hardheadedness about him.]

Like what?

What does it solve? It's never solved anything before, it sure won't now.

[ Dean just drags his attention back, the most utterly long suffering. As if he's so damn sure that he's right in this argument, which he pretty much knows he isn't. But that's so not even the point.

Besides, Dean never said it solves anything, he just said it changes it. A point he will stand by, tremendously so. ]

Maybe it'd solve this.

[ Boy, that sure is a huge ass lie. ]

[He thins his lips, standing straighter.]

Yeah, well... I'm not Lucifer.

And even then, pretty sure punching him doesn't work in the long-run. Pretty sure working together would be a hell of a bigger benefit for the two of us. Even if it's just co-workers. Allies. Whatever you wanna call it.

You think I don't know that?

[ On all fronts. He knows all those things, and he knows them a little too goddamn well. Which is maybe why he's suddenly a little more ragey than he was a millisecond ago. ]

[He doesn't budge from his spot in front of Dean, but his expression softens nonetheless. It's strange — but home might be fucked over for him, too. And before Dean had showed up, he wasn't exactly in good spirits. Now, though, he's determined to try and keep his head above water and look out for Cas and him. Cas, after getting blackout drunk, after looking so lost. And now Dean, who is a trigger, a switch that flips, and to nothing good.

And yeah. Yeah, he feels guilt. He felt guilt when Cas told him, and he feels it now, facing the person he loves the most, the one whose life he surely has wrecked. He has no doubts that Dean and Cas are dead. Cas for sure, and Dean... Well. The guilt shows in his eyes despite his unwillingness to step back.

He lowers his voice instead, steps closer, now that the crowd is dispersing and things are settling again. He's relaxed, posture as easy and calm as if they were just like they were, on the road, speaking in hushed voices about who-dun-its from their latest case.]

I know you're not getting anything out of it, in the end. That's what I know.

You're on edge. You're ready to push and shove.

... But it's not gonna get rid of the other shit.

[ Dean hates this. Hates being looked at like some kind of raging bull, being taken on by someone who's trying so hard to be the calm in the storm. But more so than that, he hates being figured out, translated in ways he enjoys pretending he doesn't need. He's in no way foreign to it, Cas has been doing it on a daily basis for years now, and Sam did it even before, but he tries so damn hard to be unflappable. The proverbial rock, remaining stone cold in the face of everything else. This person who simply has no insides.

So why, why does Sam have to be so insistent when it comes to getting under his skin. ]

Because talking will. Right?

[ Sam is offering the impending threat of moving his way closer and Dean is staring off in the other direction, fully set on taking advantage of his escape route. Now that the sea has parted, Dean can't help but already remove himself from this conversation, figuring that Sam will once again try his hand at digging deeper, and he'll take the opportunity to simply make himself gone. ]

Won't know until we try, right?

[He smiles, and while it's strained and doesn't reach his eyes (how could it, when this situation is so miserable), it's at least something in contrast to Dean's darker, discontent expression.]

Look, whatever happened back home -- in this place, I'm here for you, man.

Our mistake was walking away from each other for good. We don't have to do that here.

[ Really.

You're really going to put that out there? It's almost like you know he really wants to walk away from this, really really wants to. And maybe Sam does, but Dean still has it in his head that he wants to leave. Except now he feels twice as guilty about it, as if he's been firmly rooted to the ground without his goddamn approval. ]

Except if I don't walk away from you right now? We're gonna have more issues.

[Sam's shoulders sag, and he sighs through his nose. This could be the last time he sees Dean — here in this place. Because if Lucifer did kill him, or plans to, back home? Then Billie will no doubt make good on her word, to cast him into the void. If that's the case... He's got a limited time to figure out a way to escape here, go back in time, and fix the errors back in his world. And if he vanishes here back to his world, then he's fucked. Dean'll have to carry on as is.

So this could be it. This could be the last Dean he sees: one that doesn't want anything to do with him. And boy, that fucking stings. He feels like a heavy weight is on his shoulders. Do you really hate me that much? He looks down at the space between them.]

... Pretty sure it can't get any worse.

But what I said... still hasn't changed. You're not gonna be okay -- I know that. [Because even he'll never be completely alright. Cas isn't either. They all have their shitty trauma loads to bear.] But things'll get better here. I'll figure something out. I'm not gonna leave you behind; I'll be waiting.

[ As if it truly couldn't get any worse.

Dean averts his gaze upwards, avoiding Sam's pitiful yet unintentional insistence at all costs. He doesn't know quite what it is about leaving for what- a day, two days? - that's got Sam all riled up, and he's not going to ask. As far as Dean is concerned, he's figuring that Sam will harass him anyway, and walking off hardly means much of anything apart from the fact that if he sticks around, he'll likely break his way into another fight sooner rather than later.

And he's trying. It might not look like it, but he's trying. ]

What do you want me to say, that i'm getting a kick out of this? [ Because really, he's not doing it purposefully, and certainly not just to be an asshole. ] I am trying to come up with a solution, here. And walking away seems like a damn good one.

[... Is he making this worse? That's what he can't help but ask himself. It had worked before, with his Dean. When Dean was a demon, he'd never stopped trying to get to him, to get through to him. When he was under the influence of the Mark, he'd never let him get too far. Always went after him, tried to bring him back to himself. He did it for Cas, he'll do it for Dean, because that's what... family's supposed to do, right? It's what Dean had resented him for, when he had thought Dean was dead and gone — and certainly not in a fucking afterlife for monsters.

Isn't this what he's supposed to do? Didn't not doing this fuck up their timeline and create this other universe to begin with? What would have happened if Dean didn't come for him, when Lucifer had possessed him and was winning?

He doesn't look at Dean, quiet for a long, terrible moment... but nods weakly.

He has to... respect Dean's choices here. If Sam's just some bad reminder and that's it... then maybe he's just... being the villain here. And that's not what he wants to do.]

... Alright. Alright.

I won't push it. Just... If you ever need anything. I'm there.

[He takes a step back. Gives Dean room to leave.

And it hurts like a bitch.]

[ Is he making it worse -- In all honesty? Dean has no idea. Doesn't have a clue. Staying and chatting could quite possibly fix it all up, stitch it back together in some mishmashed kind of way, but that doesn't mean he's capable of it. He talks, sure, but the bullshit he gives to people isn't exactly the kind of conversation he knows Sam is looking for. It won't be how's the weather and does the devil really have horns?

Apart from that, Dean just can't quite manage bringing things to the surface.

Not to the face that- well, Nope. Not going there.

Dean is just fairly sure that he can't win no matter how he looks at this, that right this very second he won't get any further no matter which way it's approached. And that he'll only make it worse by lingering. And so he finally turns and heads off thata'way, head bowed as he goes. ]

first one to make that doctor who joke loses

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