Hello. My promp is: Sam repairs the door that Dean broke as a demon. (Your fics are so sad. I love them! )
((note: thank you anon! here is a very quick prompt fill before i pass out tonight, hahaha))
Sam had replaced doors before. One time in college, he had to put up a new door for Jess when someone had broken hers down – some thugs or whatever looking for something to steal. The other times, he’d been working in Texas as a maintenance man, trying to get by day to day. It was an honest living, at least. And he wasn’t fixing up his own messes – just everyone else’s. It was nice to do that, he thinks. Now, though, he’s got this busted door in the Bunker, all bits of wood and a mangled skeleton that used to be its frame.He had considered, albeit briefly, hammering everything back together. But then he realizes he’d be using the one that almost broke his skull in; the thought wasn’t pleasant, so replacing the door it was.
He stops by the local hardware store on the way to get his brother some cholesterol, finds the right size (it’ll be a new 21st century door in the middle of an old-as-the-hills bunker; not bad). Then he drags the door down the stairs, punctuating his footfalls with a THUNK, THUNK, THUNK as the heavy slab hits step; with his sling on, he’s having a hell of a hard time moving anything and it takes him a long while to get from point A to miserable point B.
But it’s not enough to wake up Dean, though. Dean, who’s laid out on his bed, looking tired, tossing a bit in his sleep. Sam leans the door against the wall and rubs his own face, which feels a bit sharper under his palms, now that he thinks about it. He hasn’t slept in over thirty hours. No, fourty hours. His mind feels like mush. His fingertips tremble a bit. The sun outside is peaking through the trees that line the horizon; if he went outside now, the beams of gold would hit him and remind him he’s nearly out of his mind for not turning in.
But he doesn’t want this fucking door here, blasted to pieces. He doesn’t want a reminder of how broken everything is, even with Dean at his side again, salvaged, normal (or is he? is he really normal? is he really at his side? he doesn’t know, not without Dean’s word to comfort him). He triple-checks to make sure Dean’s breathing through the night out of some sleep-deprived anxiety that he’ll be cold and stiff in the morning, then he gets to work.
He’s not really sure how, but he wakes up curled in his bed a few hours later. His shoes are off, blanket tucked up around his chin, and his head is throbbing on top of that. When he moves to sit up, the world see-saws a little bit. His arm is seriously killing him. Kneading his temples with his good hand, he groans low in his throat, trying to relax. His heartbeat shouldn’t be in this many obvious places at once, should it? This loud and aggravating in his skin?
“You passed out,” Dean says from the doorway, spooking him; Sam nearly leaps out of his skin before he looks to his brother, hazel eyes meeting hazel. “Fell right on top of your busted chicken arm, too. Should’ve been resting, man.”
It all sounds a little empty and lost. Like he doesn’t know how to be Sam’s brother anymore. Sam sits up against his headrest. He’s being dramatic, if that’s the case. “Yeah, well. I had stuff to do.”
Dean dips his chin, unable to meet Sam’s stare. “Yeah… like clean up my messes, huh?”
He breathes in, holds the air. “Dean…”
“No, it’s – it’s all good, Sam,” Dean says, putting a hand up quickly. He looks like he’s in the middle of a big room, giving a speech; his eyes dart away as he licks his lips and toys with the end of the red button-up he wears over his black tee. “You did good, okay? I’m… Just get some sleep, alright? At least sleep passed 2:00 or 3:00 like any decent slob.”
He wanders over, slow and cautious. Shakes a bottle of pills at him for the headache.
Sam doesn’t know it, but Dean thinks this is probably a metaphor for something, this image right here. Sam just smiles with all the relief in the world that his brother is trying to take the pain away from his head, instead of mashing it with the hammer he would have needed to fix that fucking door.
“At least the door’s replaced,” Sam mumbles into a coffee cup later on, his own cholesterol on a breakfast plate made by a wary brother and his old spatula.They need to fix more than a door, though.
That would definitely be a toss-up between The Author’s Notesand The Long Calendar. I really really like the pacing of The Long Calendar and the effect it has with Dean as the helpless POV, and I think it gave a ‘less is more’ sort of feel. I love the sequel to it, too, and I feel I was at the top of my writing with these ones – but the original stands out ‘cus of the way it plummets into horribleness.
I like The Author’s Notes (more than it’s prequel) because I have a crazy big fondness for implanting Sam in Endverse. I love the ‘Sam is damaged but healing’ stories a lot, too, and with the endverse I love that painful Winchester brother interaction. And also I love the idea of Sam, even though he’s mentally unwell, dedicating himself to trying to fix and grow things. Literally. :’)