Sam Winchester | Lucifer | Endverse (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
endoftheverse) wrote2020-11-08 07:18 pm
endoftheverse) wrote2020-11-08 07:18 pm
Deerington Inbox.
[A general automated voicemail plays.]
[A general automated voicemail plays.]
[A general automated voicemail plays.]
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Yeah, okay Paul Bunyon. You go do that. Axe is by the woodpile, holler if you cut your hand off.
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[He starts toward the back of the place, and if Dean looks, he'll see the flash of a fond smile before Sam's gone. It doesn't take him long to get right to work; he's a pretty good worker, probably because he can do it without eating or resting for a long time compared to usual. You can thank being possessed by an archangel for that. Wouldn't want his vessel to collapse and die, you know.
He gets so lost in the work that he spaces out, and soon enough he's got enough wood stacked up to build a very fancy doghouse; it's hard not to lose himself in time, most days; it's this whole... being in charge of yourself thing. Fighting to stay in charge. Whatever.
He snaps out of it long enough to start the tedious task of sawing down wood into cleaner, thinner strips while the sun begins to set in the distance. It's kinda beautiful. Makes you forget Deerington's a nightmare more than a dream, most days.]
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Sammy? How's it hanging? You good? Still got all your limbs?
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But then he says, in that stupidly soft way Sam Winchester sometimes speaks:]
... It's been months since I woke up here, but it still doesn't even feel real.
Being able to see the sky like this again.
It's pretty amazing.
[Beautiful, honestly. He can get so lost in it all. The painted reds or star-punched blues... Makes you forget the deep, unyielding dark you get left in, sometimes.]
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He comes up next to Sam, arms folding over his chest as he peers up, taking a moment to savor this little slice of peace. ]
It's sure something else.
[ Dean honestly cant remember the last time he just stopped and looked up, appreciated the beauty of a color splashed sky. ]
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Mmm. Yeah.
Even in some kind of nightmare world, where the sky's glitching every other week.
[In fact, some of that weird glitching just adds to it. Those odd patches in the sky where there's no color, it makes it kind of look like a painting. Like the nighttime is punching through the sunset.]
Well. [He holds up one of the planks of wood, turning it left and right to demonstrate.] What do you think? Thick enough to hold your weight?
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[ He smirks, reaching to take the plank from his jackass of a brother, inspecting his work. ]
Looks good. Should be able to get them fixed up with all this.
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[He probably should be, actually. Between Dean living on very little back in a Croat-infested world and Sam half-starving himself from guilt and literally forgetting to eat as a human fucking being, they’re certainly not gorged on calories these days.
But he’ll still insult his brother anyway. Might as well keep the status quo, even when they’ve long since fucked that up.]
How much am I getting paid for all this construction work again?
[:)]
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[ Yeeeah, the only thing possibly keeping any weight on Dean is the alcohol he drinks. Beyond that, he's probably more fit now than he's been in a long ass time. ]
You're getting paid in gratitude. Now come inside and have a beer.
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Well, okay, Sam's not exactly what people'd call fit these days. His elbows could probably be used as knives, and his appetite is apparently adamant about gaunt cheekbones. He could use the pounds. So fine, alright. Beer it is.]
... You know, the first time I got a part-time job that actually paid me during college, it felt like walking into an alien world. Who knew you could be paid for something and be a Winchester?
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Not sayin' it was honest, but...we got paid. [ pool hustling and poker is totally legit, right? ]
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He pops it open and sips.]
You know, I had some jobs after we split. Made life easier to just be paid in cash, so I was a bartender for a little bit.
... Really stupid idea in hindsight, but. Kind of nice while it lasted.
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You? [ He chuckles, moving to sit on his rickety little kitchen chairs, kicking his feet up to rest on the table. ] A bartender? Tell me more, Sammy.
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Sam doesn't even think, when he reaches over and slaps one of Dean's feet off the table. It's just habit, regardless of the time between them; somebody's got to give Dean shit in his own cabin.]
Nothing that exciting to it. Chopped lemons, served beers. Got hit on a lot. [By gals and guys alike. 6'4" handsome guy serving booze to tipsy guests? Yeah, we all know where that heads.] It was a little weird, being on the inside looking out. Usually it's me sitting on the rickety barstools ordering something.
... I mean, 80% of me sitting at a bar in my life was bitterly. But.
[Pretty good job, Dean. He doesn't really talk this much about just about anything these days, not outside of the bare essentials and feeding Lucifer news to you and Cas and the people from home.]
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Sounds like a good job to me; lemons and chicks. [ chicks because wheeeeeee SOMEONE'S IN DENIIIALLLL ]
Punny, Sam. [ Bitterly sitting on a bar, lemons...ha. Hahaha. It makes Dean chuckle a little. ] Do the rickety chairs we're sitting on count? Or is there a quota that needs to be met?
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And big scary dudes with guns and their butt-cracks hanging out. You know, our usual flock.
[Hunters come in many shapes and sizes, but, uh. You know the statistic. He sits down in one of those rickety chairs, playing a bit with his beer bottle, trying to decide what he should and shouldn't say. He opts for making it all sound fairly innocuous in tone - not so much in theory.]
As it turns out, being a wanted man in a place where people looking for you would end up? Not the smartest decision I made in my life.
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(he keeps his other foot up, so hah). ]
Yeah, your favorite type.
[ Ngh - there it is. He knows what Sam is sort of saying, he can read between the lines. Sam has been watched, hunted, and manipulated since he was a kid, and when Dean left him to his own devices, of course it got out he was Lucifer's vessel, of course hunters went after him. ]
We aren't known for smart decisions.
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[But he pushes through the awkward, between-the-lines truth, because it was his reality for a while, and he's used to it. He's accepted it.]
But... after that mess, I did a lot better as a maintenance man. Jumped around motels, learned how to fix things I never thought I'd know how to fix in a million years. So, uh. If you need any help with plumbing or electric work, I know a little of everything now.
[It was actually one of the nicer things.
Being able to fix things for once. No strings attached, no ulterior motives.
Just.
Fixing stuff.]
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[ A little wry, because...it's a mess. What kinda joke is this, throwing him into some dilapidated fixer-upper. ]
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What, you never learned how to fix a sink in all those years living in hotels?
[Looking around at the place, he seems a touch wistful. Like he's revisiting an old family home, despite the fact that this place is new and -- for lack of a better term -- fucked up.]
It's a project, right? Something to, uh. Keep our heads occupied.
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He had to do it again. That's the one thing he's got to do, here, while he has the opportunity, the time. Fix her, make her beautiful, make her perfect again - gift her to Sam, maybe, that wonderful old car, because he doesn't know how long he'll be here. Dean's not that lucky, all things considered.
Dean flashes a smile at Sam, lifting a shoulder, and he nods. ]
Yeah, exactly. Something to work on. And, you know -- [ he adds, pretending it's an afterthought when it isn't, it's a plea, ] You can stay here anytime.
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It just feels good. Using your hands for something other than hurting something. Hunting something. Breaking something. It's weird to both yearn for the days of hunting, and... also dreading the thought of it.]
I don't know. I think I'd cramp your style.
[He says it jokingly, when he is so desperately wishing he could immediately say yes. But Lucifer's little voice in the back of his head, it's telling him all sorts of things; reminds him of just how unsafe he is to be around. How off he is. How he would probably just make things worse. (Remember when he went to hell for 40 years because of you? Remember when you lied to him? Remember when you broke a promise? Remember when you left him beat up on a motel floor? Remember when you released hell on earth, and ruined his life even more than before?)
He stares a thousand-yard stare, his smile fading.
He's struggling to focus. Shakes his head, placing the wooden planks near the stairs carefully, like he's putting down glass.]
Maybe once — I can get my head on straight.
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Yeah, there's clearly a revolving door.
[ He's not opposed to that, never has been. But he just...hasn't had it in himself to try. Too much going on, too many Sam Winchesters to worry about. ]
Sure, course. [ Baby steps, Dean. Baby steps. It's all still so new. ]