prompt 12. wind
Written for prompt 12. wind over at spn_30snapshots.
OMGWTF: Dean-POV; gen; brief scene in something that should possibly have more background, but doesn't (so, should I warn for confusion?); 5 on TEH ANGST-O-METER.
12. wind: Sing the Words
“You’re not alive, you know.” It’s said with his brother’s mouth. Cat green eyes are wide and dark lashed and so fuckin’ sincere that he stumbles away. A step. Two.
‘What,” he says, and he doesn’t know why, but he finds his fingers drift to his neck, to his pulse. Counting beats, before he manages to drop his hand when Sam smiles.
“I mean it. I can see, Dean.” Sam isn’t moving, but it feels like his brother is looming over him, suffocating him. Like Dean can’t breathe without it being Sammy. “I don’t know what it means.”
“That I’m dead, maybe,” he says. The words are thick, though, and slur the joke until it’s awkward, brief lulls in his breathing that leave his chest aching. Sam doesn’t move; he doesn’t flinch or laugh, and maybe Dean was expecting it. He doesn’t know, but his brother’s eyes are empty [are you? He wants to ask. Are you like me? Could you be? But he doesn’t; just feels the need like some kind of wind settling over his skin, into him, leaving him chilled and numb].
“I don’t know what it means,” Sam says again, like the second time will make the difference, will make Dean understand when he hasn’t before. Three, he thinks, but he reaches for his jacket, slides the sleeves over his arms and sighs when the weight settles across his shoulders and against his back.
“I’m gonna,” he says. He doesn’t think he’s scared [Sammy; it’s only Sammy], but he doesn’t let his back turn toward his brother as he goes past to the door. He doesn’t go farther than that, though. Just stares at the fading off-white paint, the worn surface.
“Sure, Sam says, “go.” And maybe he needed his brother’s permission, because suddenly it’s easy to open the door, to step into humid, cool air. To leave. And when the door snicks shut, he doesn’t think it’s final.
here's the rest of the table.
OMGWTF: Dean-POV; gen; brief scene in something that should possibly have more background, but doesn't (so, should I warn for confusion?); 5 on TEH ANGST-O-METER.
12. wind: Sing the Words
“You’re not alive, you know.” It’s said with his brother’s mouth. Cat green eyes are wide and dark lashed and so fuckin’ sincere that he stumbles away. A step. Two.
‘What,” he says, and he doesn’t know why, but he finds his fingers drift to his neck, to his pulse. Counting beats, before he manages to drop his hand when Sam smiles.
“I mean it. I can see, Dean.” Sam isn’t moving, but it feels like his brother is looming over him, suffocating him. Like Dean can’t breathe without it being Sammy. “I don’t know what it means.”
“That I’m dead, maybe,” he says. The words are thick, though, and slur the joke until it’s awkward, brief lulls in his breathing that leave his chest aching. Sam doesn’t move; he doesn’t flinch or laugh, and maybe Dean was expecting it. He doesn’t know, but his brother’s eyes are empty [are you? He wants to ask. Are you like me? Could you be? But he doesn’t; just feels the need like some kind of wind settling over his skin, into him, leaving him chilled and numb].
“I don’t know what it means,” Sam says again, like the second time will make the difference, will make Dean understand when he hasn’t before. Three, he thinks, but he reaches for his jacket, slides the sleeves over his arms and sighs when the weight settles across his shoulders and against his back.
“I’m gonna,” he says. He doesn’t think he’s scared [Sammy; it’s only Sammy], but he doesn’t let his back turn toward his brother as he goes past to the door. He doesn’t go farther than that, though. Just stares at the fading off-white paint, the worn surface.
“Sure, Sam says, “go.” And maybe he needed his brother’s permission, because suddenly it’s easy to open the door, to step into humid, cool air. To leave. And when the door snicks shut, he doesn’t think it’s final.
here's the rest of the table.