pocket howl

foxfireflamequeen  asked:

I wish you would also write a fic where the Commandos have to deal with the fact that Bucky Barnes is the Oldest of Four Kids.

“What if we –”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky interrupted, dropping the pile of dirty laundry on Jim’s bunk.  “Did I sound like I was asking?  Fresno, you’re on laundry.  I need it done by tonight, and Monty can’t keep it in his pants around Julia the washer woman.”

“That’s not –”

“You’re headed to the commissary with Dernier and I don’t want to hear it, Lieutenant.”  Bucky rolled his eyes, caught Monty’s left hook in his open palm and twisted, landing on top of Falsworth and tugging the man’s arm high enough up his back to drag out an undignified whimper.  “Anything you wanted to say?” he wondered, waiting patiently for Falsworth to growl out a “no” before helping the man back onto his feet.

“But I am to get the weapons,” Dernier declared, arms folded rebelliously, face set in the same scowl he wore when Steve decided they didn’t need to blow anything up.

“Not this time,” Bucky informed him.  “Jones is going to handle that.  And Dugan, you’re with Carter.  I want radio codes, maps, all the information she’s got for us memorized and ready to spoon feed Fresno by the time we fly out.”

Even Jones frowned at that—it was his job to work with Carter.  He ran the radio, and he was the one who didn’t make her threaten to clock him on a regular basis.

“C’mon.”  Barnes clapped his hands once, sharply, and then spun and headed for the door without waiting to see if the Commandos would obey.  “Howard wants us in the hangar by dark, so let’s move.”

“Fucking asshole,” Dum Dum muttered, though he waited until Barnes’s footsteps stopped echoing down the corridor.  “He knows Agent Carter wants to set my hat on fire.”

“I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t stop with the hat,” Gabe told him, on his fourth deep breath and his sixth slow count to ten.

“Why can’t I go collect our rations?” Morita complained, shoving the pile of dirt encrusted uniforms off his lap and onto the floor.  “In fact, why don’t I? Monty, you can take the laundry—and take Julia, while you’re there—and Sarge will never even know.”

Dernier giggled, and shook his head when the others turned to stare.  “He will not know?  Barnes, who knew when you tripped over your feet for ze girl who drives the ambulance and she refused your kiss?”  Jim blushed, stared at the ground and kicked at the small mountain of clothes.  “Who knew when the Captain lied about checking his parachute?  When –”

“We get it,” Monty announced with a huff.  “Why don’t you tell me all about Sarge’s fucking superpowers while we’re sitting around counting stale crackers and beef paste?”

Dernier’s face fell, at the reminder that he wouldn’t be spending the next few hours devising explosives with Stark, but he sighed and followed Falsworth out the door.

“Why’d he pick today to be an asshole, huh?” Morita demanded, shoving the laundry into a bag.  “We had a working system!”

“We’ve only been back ten hours,” Dugan pointed out, tugging half a cigar from behind his ear and lighting it with obvious relief.  “And it was three weeks in Poland before that.  He’s probably just fussy because his balls ache.”

“So why doesn’t he go see Julia?” Morita muttered, standing up and slinging the bag over his shoulder, nearly toppling over under the sudden weight.  “Or at least let Monty see her, so that one of us gets some relief.”

“The last time Monty took down the laundry, he was two hours late,” Jones said, cutting his nails with his pocket knife.  “You moped for a week because the medic who turned you down was in the commissary, and Jackie caught Stark on fire and delayed the mission by two days.”

“I didn’t say it was a perfect system,” Jim offered grudgingly, and staggered toward the door.

“Bucky?”  Steve’s voice echoed down the stairwell and reverberated through the hall, bouncing ahead of the slap of his boots on the concrete floor.  “Buck?”  Evidently Cap’s uncanny hearing or eyesight must have spotted their sergeant, because the voice changed direction, growing fainter as it raced away.  “Hey, jerk, wait up!  I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I wonder what Barnes is doing, while we’re fetching and carrying and having our hats set on fire by ungrateful broads.”

Jones kept his gaze focused on the blade of his knife, so that Dum Dum and Jim couldn’t see the edges of his smirk.  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said quietly, grinning at his hands.  “I’d guess he’s getting some relief.”

(Author’s note: If Bucky is the oldest in this, Gabe is totally the middle child, Jim is the youngest, and the others shove their way in and elbow each other down the line.)


You were good, they thought.

You were happier now, they thought.

You were finally freed, they thought.

But they were wrong.

You had to suffer through their arguments, worse than before now that they thought you couldn’t hear, and their conversations, most of the time revolving around you for weeks before you could connect with them again.  It was the unofficial blame game; you could hear the heavy weight of guilt and accusation surrounding their tones with every word that fell out of their mouths.  

If Sam had done this, if Dean had attacked that, then you wouldn’t be dead.  But you felt that it was more than that.  You felt that it had more to do with the fact that they viewed themselves responsible for your untimely demise, which wasn’t true in the slightest.  You just wished you could tell them that—hell, even a sign would do.

The longer you sat in that back seat, song after song, fight after fight, town after town until the brothers could numb their emotional pain with physical, the closer you felt to insanity.  Like an anchor tied to your pockets, the howling loneliness pulled at you until you were on the cusp of vengeful.  You could jerk the steering wheel ever so slightly so that Dean was moderately derailed and mostly confused.  You could push Sam’s head forward when he slept so that he would smack his head against the dashboard, and you wouldn’t feel bad about it.  You just felt the overwhelming urge to do more, hurt more.

It wasn’t until months later when your name finally popped up again.  They had avoided talking about you, and to your slipping mindset, you had taken it as their hurtful good riddance.  Your favorite song began playing on a cassette tape, a song that you hadn’t heard since the night of your death, and both boys stopped their conversation to look at the radio.  Their eyes seemed glossy, adams-apples bobbing as their minds took them back to a better time.

The lyrics pierced through the veil of fury, and you regained control over yourself.  You felt broken like this, unable to help or leave; you were stuck in the backseat of a car, frequently listening to the two men you loved most bicker about the most trivial things.

They weren’t able to see you until after almost a year had passed.  Leaving a local clinic, Sam spotted a head through the back windshield and motioned to Dean.  They had thought you were a shifter at first, or some sick, cruel joke played by a demon, but when Dean made to grab you, his hand flew right through your form, and you disappeared for all but a second.

Then, they realized how wrong they were, and if you could have, you would have cried because you were finally able to talk with your boys again.

The anchor fell to the ocean floor, and you floated towards the surface again.