Past the Only Future [Unrequited Sam/Dean, PG-13]
So, they say late fic is better than no fic... they do say that, right?
This is for the absolutely wonderful leighm. I was supposed to be writing her a gen fic for Sweet Charity, and this is that story... only, with her blessing, it's unspoken, unrequited Sam/Dean instead. Honey, the story I was writing for you collapsed just yards before the finish line and couldn't be revived. It's all very tragic, but I hope this little bout of angsty, teenage Sam suffices in its stead!
Past the Only Future [Unrequited Sam/Dean, PG-13]
“You ever wonder if there’s no tomorrow?” Dean says. “If there’s just, like, a million different flavors of yesterday?”
Thanks go to Eugene O'Neill for providing the inspiration and the title, and to innie_darling for providing a quick and kickass beta.
There is no present or future, only the past, happening over and over again, now.
-Eugene O'Neill
Past the Only Future
“You ever wonder if there’s no tomorrow?” Dean says. “If there’s just, like, a million different flavors of yesterday?”
Eugene O’Neill meets Baskin Robbins, Sam thinks. Mrs. McGeary from the high school before last would be proud.
From three feet above his head, the springs in Dean’s mattress call down to him like they’ve made a secret promise to report Dean’s every move. It twists Sam’s stomach to admit that he’s grateful, that he's thankful for the way a few creaky bedsprings allow him to etch all of Dean's movements into his mind.
Sometimes, he feels like he's been memorizing Dean his entire life, like his greatest achievement is this rolling ache in his chest, this slow burn that steals more and more of his breath, the further he gets from Dean.
Maybe that's why he's been following Dean practically forever. Following him into danger, following him out. Bringing up the rear of their own fucked up little family parade, Dean's feet following Dad, his eyes turned back, always on Sam. It's not normal, this life.
Sam's been waiting for someone to mention that.
He usually ends up doing it himself.
It's been a lot of years since they slept in bunk beds. Sam's not sure why they're doing it now, why they're not just dragging the mattresses onto the floor and camping out, like the adults they technically are.
Though no one's an adult in John Winchester's house, no matter which house they’re calling home for the night. Not even the man himself, half the time.
No one's a child, either, for that matter, though as bitterly as Sam feels those words, he always believes Dean when he says that Dad does his best.
Of course he does.
There's almost nothing in this world that matters to John Winchester as much as his kids.
That's the problem, though. Almost isn't really good enough for Sam.
Almost. But not quite.
Sam blames himself sometimes. Thinks that if he could stop feeling this way, back off a little. If he could cut Dad a little slack, if he could be more like Dean.
Maybe it's his own fault, the way the three of them snake through life, Dean twisted and stretched in between, holding on hard to keep the head and tail connected.
He sees what it does.
To Dean, he makes himself add. He sees what it does to Dean, and he doesn't stop. Can't stop, won't stop.
Not even when Dean breaks, when he runs out of words so completely that he just looks at Sam, stares at him like it's some hidden, secret power he has, and maybe it is, because it makes Sam want to say, I know, makes him want to say, I'm sorry, makes him want to kiss the slump of Dean's shoulders, under his chin, the barely trembling corner of his lower lip.
It's wrong, Sam knows that.
Hell, Sam's an expert on right and wrong. He's a living, breathing archive, composing their oral histories day by day, argument by argument, filing them away until it's time to pass them on to whatever generation needs reminding of just how fucked up they really are.
And they really, really are.
Sam especially.
Sometimes, he wants to pull Dad aside and say, look at me, look what you've done.
Look what you've done, old man, so busy hunting monsters, you never even noticed that you created one of your own.
And then sometimes, he wants to crawl into Dean's bed like he did when he was little, hide under the covers, tucked in the curve of Dean's neck, in the crook of his arm until everything that makes it wrong just goes away, vanishes like it was never there at all.
Mostly, he doesn't do anything.
He just listens to Dean's bedsprings creak above him and wants everything he can never have.
When he dreams, it's always the same.
Dad, the kind of salesman who goes away for a week and comes home with a payroll check instead of a broken wrist. Dean, the kind of brother who only sleeps alone in the top bunk when Dad comes home.
He's not sure what his subconscious is trying to tell him. That he loves Dad even when he knows he shouldn't, that he loves Dean in ways he knows he shouldn't.
That's not exactly news.
Sometimes, he thinks about what would happen if he said it out loud. If he just started talking and didn't stop until it was all out there, an ugly mess of words that he could never take back.
He sees the only future in that as clearly as if it were permanently etched into the air in front of his face, wonders how he should feel, knowing that he has something inside him powerful enough to destroy a family that's already seen the wrong side of destruction.
Scared, he thinks. Scared is how he should feel.
Scared that he could break down what little they have now into nothing at all, just dust scattered under a pile of selfish words.
He could stay.
He could keep on following Dean following Dad, town after town, yesterday after yesterday, like nothing's wrong but the obvious.
He could stay and listen to the way his heartbeat echoes like a ticking time bomb, he could stay until there's nothing left but dust.
Or he could go.
Leave Dean to the life he loves, leave Dad to the life he’s living.
Leave the vendetta to the people who actually remember the reason they’re fighting.
He could just go, travel west until all the yesterdays start looking like tomorrows, until he’s far enough away that he learns how to breathe on his own.
Dean’s bedsprings sound their alarm, and Sam can feel the bed shake just a little as Dean flops over on his side. More than anything, he wants Dean’s weight at his back, Dean’s breath on his neck, and his heart ticks faster just thinking about it.
“Sammy?” Dean says, and Sam doesn’t let go of the envelope he’s clutching under his pillow, even when the sharp edge of the flap slices into his knuckle.
“No,” he answers.
Not anymore.
###
This is for the absolutely wonderful leighm. I was supposed to be writing her a gen fic for Sweet Charity, and this is that story... only, with her blessing, it's unspoken, unrequited Sam/Dean instead. Honey, the story I was writing for you collapsed just yards before the finish line and couldn't be revived. It's all very tragic, but I hope this little bout of angsty, teenage Sam suffices in its stead!
Past the Only Future [Unrequited Sam/Dean, PG-13]
“You ever wonder if there’s no tomorrow?” Dean says. “If there’s just, like, a million different flavors of yesterday?”
Thanks go to Eugene O'Neill for providing the inspiration and the title, and to innie_darling for providing a quick and kickass beta.
There is no present or future, only the past, happening over and over again, now.
-Eugene O'Neill
Past the Only Future
“You ever wonder if there’s no tomorrow?” Dean says. “If there’s just, like, a million different flavors of yesterday?”
Eugene O’Neill meets Baskin Robbins, Sam thinks. Mrs. McGeary from the high school before last would be proud.
From three feet above his head, the springs in Dean’s mattress call down to him like they’ve made a secret promise to report Dean’s every move. It twists Sam’s stomach to admit that he’s grateful, that he's thankful for the way a few creaky bedsprings allow him to etch all of Dean's movements into his mind.
Sometimes, he feels like he's been memorizing Dean his entire life, like his greatest achievement is this rolling ache in his chest, this slow burn that steals more and more of his breath, the further he gets from Dean.
Maybe that's why he's been following Dean practically forever. Following him into danger, following him out. Bringing up the rear of their own fucked up little family parade, Dean's feet following Dad, his eyes turned back, always on Sam. It's not normal, this life.
Sam's been waiting for someone to mention that.
He usually ends up doing it himself.
It's been a lot of years since they slept in bunk beds. Sam's not sure why they're doing it now, why they're not just dragging the mattresses onto the floor and camping out, like the adults they technically are.
Though no one's an adult in John Winchester's house, no matter which house they’re calling home for the night. Not even the man himself, half the time.
No one's a child, either, for that matter, though as bitterly as Sam feels those words, he always believes Dean when he says that Dad does his best.
Of course he does.
There's almost nothing in this world that matters to John Winchester as much as his kids.
That's the problem, though. Almost isn't really good enough for Sam.
Almost. But not quite.
Sam blames himself sometimes. Thinks that if he could stop feeling this way, back off a little. If he could cut Dad a little slack, if he could be more like Dean.
Maybe it's his own fault, the way the three of them snake through life, Dean twisted and stretched in between, holding on hard to keep the head and tail connected.
He sees what it does.
To Dean, he makes himself add. He sees what it does to Dean, and he doesn't stop. Can't stop, won't stop.
Not even when Dean breaks, when he runs out of words so completely that he just looks at Sam, stares at him like it's some hidden, secret power he has, and maybe it is, because it makes Sam want to say, I know, makes him want to say, I'm sorry, makes him want to kiss the slump of Dean's shoulders, under his chin, the barely trembling corner of his lower lip.
It's wrong, Sam knows that.
Hell, Sam's an expert on right and wrong. He's a living, breathing archive, composing their oral histories day by day, argument by argument, filing them away until it's time to pass them on to whatever generation needs reminding of just how fucked up they really are.
And they really, really are.
Sam especially.
Sometimes, he wants to pull Dad aside and say, look at me, look what you've done.
Look what you've done, old man, so busy hunting monsters, you never even noticed that you created one of your own.
And then sometimes, he wants to crawl into Dean's bed like he did when he was little, hide under the covers, tucked in the curve of Dean's neck, in the crook of his arm until everything that makes it wrong just goes away, vanishes like it was never there at all.
Mostly, he doesn't do anything.
He just listens to Dean's bedsprings creak above him and wants everything he can never have.
When he dreams, it's always the same.
Dad, the kind of salesman who goes away for a week and comes home with a payroll check instead of a broken wrist. Dean, the kind of brother who only sleeps alone in the top bunk when Dad comes home.
He's not sure what his subconscious is trying to tell him. That he loves Dad even when he knows he shouldn't, that he loves Dean in ways he knows he shouldn't.
That's not exactly news.
Sometimes, he thinks about what would happen if he said it out loud. If he just started talking and didn't stop until it was all out there, an ugly mess of words that he could never take back.
He sees the only future in that as clearly as if it were permanently etched into the air in front of his face, wonders how he should feel, knowing that he has something inside him powerful enough to destroy a family that's already seen the wrong side of destruction.
Scared, he thinks. Scared is how he should feel.
Scared that he could break down what little they have now into nothing at all, just dust scattered under a pile of selfish words.
He could stay.
He could keep on following Dean following Dad, town after town, yesterday after yesterday, like nothing's wrong but the obvious.
He could stay and listen to the way his heartbeat echoes like a ticking time bomb, he could stay until there's nothing left but dust.
Or he could go.
Leave Dean to the life he loves, leave Dad to the life he’s living.
Leave the vendetta to the people who actually remember the reason they’re fighting.
He could just go, travel west until all the yesterdays start looking like tomorrows, until he’s far enough away that he learns how to breathe on his own.
Dean’s bedsprings sound their alarm, and Sam can feel the bed shake just a little as Dean flops over on his side. More than anything, he wants Dean’s weight at his back, Dean’s breath on his neck, and his heart ticks faster just thinking about it.
“Sammy?” Dean says, and Sam doesn’t let go of the envelope he’s clutching under his pillow, even when the sharp edge of the flap slices into his knuckle.
“No,” he answers.
Not anymore.
###