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avidrosette: SPN, Sam/Dean, what if after all the apocalypses Sam and Dean took up a new mission: helping to exonerate those who'd been blamed for events caused by the supernatural - a SPNnocence Project
The funny thing was, their new careers were perfect. Sam wasn’t admitted to practice, but he knew the law and wrote the briefs most of the time, with local counsel signing on. (Kevin’s mom knew everyone. It was possibly the most supernatural thing they’d ever experienced.) Dean was born to be some kind of law enforcer, whether an actual cop or not, and knowing that he was a legit investigator—licensed in five states, admittedly not under his real name—gave him just the right amount of confidence, so that he didn’t overcompensate.
Now, when they arrived someplace, they had a budget, courtesy of the real estate investor whose kid would’ve gone to jail for murder if the Winchesters hadn’t identified the real, undead culprit. True, they’d then had to fake the evidence implicating the vampire (and then arrange to kill it in a way that read plausibly as suicide, which was not the simplest plan they’d ever pulled off, even counting apocalypses). But the payoff had been getting funded for a multiyear mission: finding and freeing the people who’d been blamed when conventional minds needed a human culprit for unhuman acts.
Okay, yes, there was still a lot of forgery involved, since courts rarely found “a ghost did it” a convincing defense. But they weren’t going to convince the civilian world of the existence of the supernatural; that denial was too well-entrenched. And they were used to lying in the service of the greater good.
Most importantly, the job didn’t involve asking to get killed (and subsequently resurrected) on a daily basis. Sure, the cops weren’t always big fans of guys who blew into town to open a supposedly solved case, but Sam and Dean had never been easily intimidated by humans, and they weren’t planning to start now.
Dean got to save people. Sam got to make a difference. Those weren’t exactly the same goals, but it turned out that there was enough of an overlap that Dean didn’t feel betrayed and Sam didn’t feel suffocated. It was their very own miracle, one they’d made together. Sam wouldn’t trust anyone or anything else to do it.
Not that they didn’t fight, or get sick of the other’s face, smell, habits with respect to flossing, et infinite cetera. If anything, the little problems turned more vicious. Neither of them knew when to stop. Without the pressure of saving and/or destroying the world, it was harder to calibrate a reaction to Dean’s dirty socks (you don’t like ‘em there, you pick ‘em up, ‘cause I’m happy) or Sam’s disgusting bathroom noises (then Jesus, Dean, just don’t listen!).
The fights were as predictable as their laundry—there were only so many items in their bags. Someplace to stay when the money runs out, Sam said, and Dean heard ‘I want to set it up so you have to leave me to be the person you think you have to be.’ Next case, Dean said, and Sam heard ‘I am never going to let this stop.’
Lather, rinse, repeat—until the squabble that turned into a wrestling match, halfway between playful and intent to break some bones. They’d fallen into the gap between the two beds, Sam on top of Dean, and while Dean was still trying to catch his breath Sam leaned down and kissed him.
That wasn’t the plan. There was no plan, not even ‘I’ve tried everything else, why not this?’ He kissed Dean, starting gentle but building to a bite that was sure to swell Dean’s already-lush lower lip. And then he hoisted himself up, looking down at Dean with total shock, as if Dean had been the one to initiate the kiss.
Dean blinked back up; he’d been more coherent after concussions.
Sam could run away now. He had a better reason than he’d had for most of his departures, and several of them had been extremely well-justified.
But then who would get poor Dalton Cantwell out of prison? Sam couldn’t expect Dean to do it all on his own.
Dean’s lips moved, soundlessly shaping Sam’s name.
Holy shit, if fucking Dean could get him to shut up, Sam had been wasting serious time.
In the end, Dean recovered his voice, but that was okay; Sam reduced him to whimpers with satisfying ease.
“Don’t think this means you win,” Dean said after, staring up at the ceiling. He was still panting.
Sam just smiled. He was pretty sure it did.
… and also for avidrosette: SPN, Sam/Dean, what if Dean had gone with Sam to Stanford?
Ever since Dean outed Sam’s supposed friend Brady as a demon with an involuntary curse when a book fell on his foot, they’d had a ritual for people who tried to get close to Sam. Okay, not a ritual ritual. Just rules. A little holy water in the drink, a little Devil’s Trap under the carpet of Sam’s crappy dorm room (Bobby Singer had proved very helpful when they explained how they couldn’t really ask Dad for assistance in demon-proofing, given how they’d split from him). If Sam really liked a person, Dean had a special silver needle on his keyring that could be uncapped and ‘accidentally’ scraped along a hand or arm—Dean was an awfully clumsy drunk, so sorry.
Most people already thought Sam was a weirdo, what with him not having all the advantages of a standard Stanford kid (Stepford kid, Dean privately thought, but he’d given up his right to bitch when he’d thrown in with Sam, so he only said that to himself). When they found out that Sam spent practically every evening with his brother, they either gave up or they inherently understood how awesome Sam was and they put in the extra effort. Dean had to respect the ones in the second group.
Dean himself worked the early shift at a garage in East Palo Alto, where his shitty apartment also was. The garage owner let him leave the Impala there, protected by a better security system than even the Stanford campus had. Dean was building up a cash reserve. Turned out “full scholarship” didn’t mean you’d have a full belly, at least not during the summers.
He took the occasional California hunt. Sam hated it, but that had been the one concession Dean had been able to extract. His leverage had been limited: “I’m going,” Sam had said. He’d been packed, ticket in hand, and Dean had been contemplating alcohol poisoning by the time Sam had suggested that Dean could come along.
That first night on the road, Dean had given Sam everything he’d asked for.
Dean meant to continue as he began. By the time Sam had his Stanford Law acceptance, Dean had saved enough money that he was willing to pay the insane prices for near-campus housing, now that it wouldn’t be odd for Sam to be living off-campus.
When the old Colt revolver showed up with a note from Dad—you’ll know what to do, it said—Dean didn’t say anything to Sam about it, any more than he’d told Sam about the two demons he’d caught after Brady, the ones he’d exorcised. He had a quiet word with Bobby Singer about the gun.
And when Sam told him about the dreams he was having, people in danger and pain, Dean held him until he fell back to sleep and then went and found the news reports. Sam’s shining wasn’t anything Bobby needed to know, Dean judged, though honestly Bobby probably would’ve been a safer consult than Dad. Dad had never trusted humans who walked too close to the veil, by choice or by chance.
Dean couldn’t do the hunts Sam dreamed himself. Sam would’ve noticed a bunch of cross-country trips, especially ones that correlated with his nightmares. If it hadn’t been for the rigors of the first year of law school, Sam probably would’ve picked up on how Dean’s research was mysteriously based on elements from his dreams, but for once Sam’s total focus on school was doing Dean a favor. Anyway, he passed the hunts along—told Bobby he was in touch with a psychic, made it sound like a chick he was banging. He wasn’t sure Bobby entirely believed him, but Bobby didn’t come investigate or send any Dad-minded hunter out to Palo Alto, and he did direct some of his other friends to deal with the cases, so Dean called it a win.
When Sam started to move things with his mind, Dean couldn’t say he was that surprised. Freaked as fuck, yes, but when you knew demons were watching your little brother, you tended to ask why. (He’d asked the demons, but either they didn’t know anything other than that they’d been sent by a bigger, badder demon or he hadn’t been able to inflict the right flavor of persuasion. Of course Dad would’ve done better, but they didn’t have Dad, so Dean was just going to have to deal.)
Then Sam disappeared, and Dean got a blinding headache and an image in his head like one of Sam’s visions.
He grabbed the Colt out of its hiding place at the back of the closet and hit the road. He’d call Bobby along the way. Hell, he’d leave a message with Dad. Maybe Sam being in danger would matter to him, the way it used to. Maybe Dad was even alive.
But no matter what, Dean was going to save his brother.
avidrosette: SPN, Sam/Dean, what if after all the apocalypses Sam and Dean took up a new mission: helping to exonerate those who'd been blamed for events caused by the supernatural - a SPNnocence ProjectThe funny thing was, their new careers were perfect. Sam wasn’t admitted to practice, but he knew the law and wrote the briefs most of the time, with local counsel signing on. (Kevin’s mom knew everyone. It was possibly the most supernatural thing they’d ever experienced.) Dean was born to be some kind of law enforcer, whether an actual cop or not, and knowing that he was a legit investigator—licensed in five states, admittedly not under his real name—gave him just the right amount of confidence, so that he didn’t overcompensate.
Now, when they arrived someplace, they had a budget, courtesy of the real estate investor whose kid would’ve gone to jail for murder if the Winchesters hadn’t identified the real, undead culprit. True, they’d then had to fake the evidence implicating the vampire (and then arrange to kill it in a way that read plausibly as suicide, which was not the simplest plan they’d ever pulled off, even counting apocalypses). But the payoff had been getting funded for a multiyear mission: finding and freeing the people who’d been blamed when conventional minds needed a human culprit for unhuman acts.
Okay, yes, there was still a lot of forgery involved, since courts rarely found “a ghost did it” a convincing defense. But they weren’t going to convince the civilian world of the existence of the supernatural; that denial was too well-entrenched. And they were used to lying in the service of the greater good.
Most importantly, the job didn’t involve asking to get killed (and subsequently resurrected) on a daily basis. Sure, the cops weren’t always big fans of guys who blew into town to open a supposedly solved case, but Sam and Dean had never been easily intimidated by humans, and they weren’t planning to start now.
Dean got to save people. Sam got to make a difference. Those weren’t exactly the same goals, but it turned out that there was enough of an overlap that Dean didn’t feel betrayed and Sam didn’t feel suffocated. It was their very own miracle, one they’d made together. Sam wouldn’t trust anyone or anything else to do it.
Not that they didn’t fight, or get sick of the other’s face, smell, habits with respect to flossing, et infinite cetera. If anything, the little problems turned more vicious. Neither of them knew when to stop. Without the pressure of saving and/or destroying the world, it was harder to calibrate a reaction to Dean’s dirty socks (you don’t like ‘em there, you pick ‘em up, ‘cause I’m happy) or Sam’s disgusting bathroom noises (then Jesus, Dean, just don’t listen!).
The fights were as predictable as their laundry—there were only so many items in their bags. Someplace to stay when the money runs out, Sam said, and Dean heard ‘I want to set it up so you have to leave me to be the person you think you have to be.’ Next case, Dean said, and Sam heard ‘I am never going to let this stop.’
Lather, rinse, repeat—until the squabble that turned into a wrestling match, halfway between playful and intent to break some bones. They’d fallen into the gap between the two beds, Sam on top of Dean, and while Dean was still trying to catch his breath Sam leaned down and kissed him.
That wasn’t the plan. There was no plan, not even ‘I’ve tried everything else, why not this?’ He kissed Dean, starting gentle but building to a bite that was sure to swell Dean’s already-lush lower lip. And then he hoisted himself up, looking down at Dean with total shock, as if Dean had been the one to initiate the kiss.
Dean blinked back up; he’d been more coherent after concussions.
Sam could run away now. He had a better reason than he’d had for most of his departures, and several of them had been extremely well-justified.
But then who would get poor Dalton Cantwell out of prison? Sam couldn’t expect Dean to do it all on his own.
Dean’s lips moved, soundlessly shaping Sam’s name.
Holy shit, if fucking Dean could get him to shut up, Sam had been wasting serious time.
In the end, Dean recovered his voice, but that was okay; Sam reduced him to whimpers with satisfying ease.
“Don’t think this means you win,” Dean said after, staring up at the ceiling. He was still panting.
Sam just smiled. He was pretty sure it did.
… and also for avidrosette: SPN, Sam/Dean, what if Dean had gone with Sam to Stanford?
Ever since Dean outed Sam’s supposed friend Brady as a demon with an involuntary curse when a book fell on his foot, they’d had a ritual for people who tried to get close to Sam. Okay, not a ritual ritual. Just rules. A little holy water in the drink, a little Devil’s Trap under the carpet of Sam’s crappy dorm room (Bobby Singer had proved very helpful when they explained how they couldn’t really ask Dad for assistance in demon-proofing, given how they’d split from him). If Sam really liked a person, Dean had a special silver needle on his keyring that could be uncapped and ‘accidentally’ scraped along a hand or arm—Dean was an awfully clumsy drunk, so sorry.
Most people already thought Sam was a weirdo, what with him not having all the advantages of a standard Stanford kid (Stepford kid, Dean privately thought, but he’d given up his right to bitch when he’d thrown in with Sam, so he only said that to himself). When they found out that Sam spent practically every evening with his brother, they either gave up or they inherently understood how awesome Sam was and they put in the extra effort. Dean had to respect the ones in the second group.
Dean himself worked the early shift at a garage in East Palo Alto, where his shitty apartment also was. The garage owner let him leave the Impala there, protected by a better security system than even the Stanford campus had. Dean was building up a cash reserve. Turned out “full scholarship” didn’t mean you’d have a full belly, at least not during the summers.
He took the occasional California hunt. Sam hated it, but that had been the one concession Dean had been able to extract. His leverage had been limited: “I’m going,” Sam had said. He’d been packed, ticket in hand, and Dean had been contemplating alcohol poisoning by the time Sam had suggested that Dean could come along.
That first night on the road, Dean had given Sam everything he’d asked for.
Dean meant to continue as he began. By the time Sam had his Stanford Law acceptance, Dean had saved enough money that he was willing to pay the insane prices for near-campus housing, now that it wouldn’t be odd for Sam to be living off-campus.
When the old Colt revolver showed up with a note from Dad—you’ll know what to do, it said—Dean didn’t say anything to Sam about it, any more than he’d told Sam about the two demons he’d caught after Brady, the ones he’d exorcised. He had a quiet word with Bobby Singer about the gun.
And when Sam told him about the dreams he was having, people in danger and pain, Dean held him until he fell back to sleep and then went and found the news reports. Sam’s shining wasn’t anything Bobby needed to know, Dean judged, though honestly Bobby probably would’ve been a safer consult than Dad. Dad had never trusted humans who walked too close to the veil, by choice or by chance.
Dean couldn’t do the hunts Sam dreamed himself. Sam would’ve noticed a bunch of cross-country trips, especially ones that correlated with his nightmares. If it hadn’t been for the rigors of the first year of law school, Sam probably would’ve picked up on how Dean’s research was mysteriously based on elements from his dreams, but for once Sam’s total focus on school was doing Dean a favor. Anyway, he passed the hunts along—told Bobby he was in touch with a psychic, made it sound like a chick he was banging. He wasn’t sure Bobby entirely believed him, but Bobby didn’t come investigate or send any Dad-minded hunter out to Palo Alto, and he did direct some of his other friends to deal with the cases, so Dean called it a win.
When Sam started to move things with his mind, Dean couldn’t say he was that surprised. Freaked as fuck, yes, but when you knew demons were watching your little brother, you tended to ask why. (He’d asked the demons, but either they didn’t know anything other than that they’d been sent by a bigger, badder demon or he hadn’t been able to inflict the right flavor of persuasion. Of course Dad would’ve done better, but they didn’t have Dad, so Dean was just going to have to deal.)
Then Sam disappeared, and Dean got a blinding headache and an image in his head like one of Sam’s visions.
He grabbed the Colt out of its hiding place at the back of the closet and hit the road. He’d call Bobby along the way. Hell, he’d leave a message with Dad. Maybe Sam being in danger would matter to him, the way it used to. Maybe Dad was even alive.
But no matter what, Dean was going to save his brother.
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