alright this is the last one
Okay, I wrote another quick fic over at ohsam. Getting a bit of feedback on it made me realize just how many friggin typos and stupid mistakes I commit regularly in fic.
It's frightening.
So, for my sanity here's a cleaned up version of that commentfic.
accidents of faith and nature
He can still feel the echoes of Sam's grip on him, spastic and tight, the solid weight of Sam's arm across his neck. It's a little more frantic, a little more unsure than Dean's used to from Sam.
So he knows. He's not an idiot, he knows something's up with Sam.
He can remember The Trickster, and Sam's tight-lipped, weary face. He can remember his brother's anger and his fear, and so he's relieved to have Sam at his back, two steps behind him and solid. It lets him know his brother's with him. Nowhere else.
They'll get out of Broward County. Put the Mystery Spot in the rearview mirror, and Dean won't stop til Sam can look away, a minute or a second or even just a blink of an eye. Just miles, Dean thinks. That's all it'll take. Miles and they'll be alright.
**
They're not. Sam doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, doesn't fuckin talk. He just sits and flicks his eyes to Dean every few seconds, like he doesn't want to get caught but he can't look away.
"Hey, Sam," Dean finally says, ducking his head to try and catch Sam's eyes on the return. "it's over."
"Yeah," and it's clear and strong, sounds all right but it makes Dean want to twitch anyway. "Yeah, it is."
Okay, Dean thinks, hands tight on the wheel and heart thudding fast in his chest. Okay.
**
He doesn't know why he's surprised. Given everything, he shouldn't be. It's Sam, who's always been sure of his place and his body in relation to Dean, and upset Sam, of course, is going to use all those things until everything starts making sense again.
In hindsight it's clear as day.
Then Dean's just thinking he's lucky - Sam's still and even in the other bed. No nightmares, no staring, God, no staring. No tears.
Sleep. They can both sleep and wake up and hit the road all over again. They'll be that much closer to normal in the morning.
He's jerked awake, though, half past too-damn late. He knows it's Sam, knows his brother's breath and smell, so he doesn't push or shove when Sam's arms wrap around his chest and Sam's chest presses tight against his back.
"Sam." Jesus, jesus, what a fuckin way to wake up, but he pats at the hands locked tight in front of him.
He feels it when Sam starts talking. It's too low to hear at first, but Sam's face is buried in Dean's neck, and he can feel every word in the hot air brushing over his skin.
"What? Sam, are you...?"
"The shower," Sam says, and there it is, brief clench of arms that make Dean want to flinch away. "You fell, and died, and got tangled in the shower curtain and died. You took a bath and you drowned. You ate and you choked. You drove and you crashed the Impala, you walked and you got hit or mugged or shot. You cleaned the guns and they went off, or you held a knife and slipped. A goddamn piano fell on you, a golden retriever klled you."
"Sam - "
"You died, Dean." The words are thick and heavy, like Sam's choking trying to get them out. "You died so many times, and you came back and we did it over and over and over again." Sam presses closer. Dean doesn't know how he can, but Sam finds a way. "You died," and it's said like a prayer, deep into his skin.
**
After the fifth night, Dean stops pretending that things might have a chance of normal. He just gets a queen, and falls asleep to whispers and hands holding him and bracing him for an impact only Sam can feel.
It's some night, maybe ten or twenty or fifty days after that, and Sam's wrapped around him. He's quiet this time, like he's empty or everything's been taken from him, and Dean says, "hey."
Sam breathes against him, warm and wet enough that when Sam holds his breath the room's air settles cold over him, shivers pricking along his spine. "You died," it's explosive, hot, and the only thing Dean has is, "I know."
"It's wasn't just Tuesdays. It was days, Dean. Months."
Jesus fuck. "What?" But he gets it, now, everything, or at least thinks he does.
"You died," and here's the sob, brief and muffled like Dean actually fuckin cares he's crying, like it's something that he really has to hide. "You died and you didn't come back."
"Alright," Dean says, and gets his arms braced against Sam's, gets enough force to break the grip on him. It turns Sam frantic, like Dean's going to disappear, and Sam won't quit reaching for him. "Dammit, stop, Sam!"
Sam does, quick like Dean hurt him. He goes stiff and still, so still that Dean can't even be sure he's actually breathing. It gives him a chance, though, to flip onto his side facing Sam, get his brother wrapped up, best Dean can fit anyway, in his arms.
"Listen, alright? Listen to me. I'm here," he tightens his arms around Sam, until he can feel muscle and bone and hear Sam's grunt. "I'm right fuckin here, now. No Trickster, no Ground Hog's Day bullshit, Sam. Just me and you." He can hear the hitches in Sam's breath, the wet grief trying to spill out of him. "And I know what you're thinking, Sammy, I do. But if you say I'll be here come the end of my year, I'll be here." He pulls far enough away to catch Sam's eye. "Understand?"
Dean sees Sam's eyes fall shut, like maybe that's what Sam was waiting all this time for, just that, for Dean to say something. He hears Sam sigh, broken and low, before he feels the jerk of Sam nodding his head. "Good," he says, and tries to do what Sam did, tug his brother closer until there's nowhere else to go and no space between them. Then, low, a third time, because maybe that's the charm, the luck that'll make it real, he says, "I'll be here."
It's frightening.
So, for my sanity here's a cleaned up version of that commentfic.
accidents of faith and nature
He can still feel the echoes of Sam's grip on him, spastic and tight, the solid weight of Sam's arm across his neck. It's a little more frantic, a little more unsure than Dean's used to from Sam.
So he knows. He's not an idiot, he knows something's up with Sam.
He can remember The Trickster, and Sam's tight-lipped, weary face. He can remember his brother's anger and his fear, and so he's relieved to have Sam at his back, two steps behind him and solid. It lets him know his brother's with him. Nowhere else.
They'll get out of Broward County. Put the Mystery Spot in the rearview mirror, and Dean won't stop til Sam can look away, a minute or a second or even just a blink of an eye. Just miles, Dean thinks. That's all it'll take. Miles and they'll be alright.
**
They're not. Sam doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, doesn't fuckin talk. He just sits and flicks his eyes to Dean every few seconds, like he doesn't want to get caught but he can't look away.
"Hey, Sam," Dean finally says, ducking his head to try and catch Sam's eyes on the return. "it's over."
"Yeah," and it's clear and strong, sounds all right but it makes Dean want to twitch anyway. "Yeah, it is."
Okay, Dean thinks, hands tight on the wheel and heart thudding fast in his chest. Okay.
**
He doesn't know why he's surprised. Given everything, he shouldn't be. It's Sam, who's always been sure of his place and his body in relation to Dean, and upset Sam, of course, is going to use all those things until everything starts making sense again.
In hindsight it's clear as day.
Then Dean's just thinking he's lucky - Sam's still and even in the other bed. No nightmares, no staring, God, no staring. No tears.
Sleep. They can both sleep and wake up and hit the road all over again. They'll be that much closer to normal in the morning.
He's jerked awake, though, half past too-damn late. He knows it's Sam, knows his brother's breath and smell, so he doesn't push or shove when Sam's arms wrap around his chest and Sam's chest presses tight against his back.
"Sam." Jesus, jesus, what a fuckin way to wake up, but he pats at the hands locked tight in front of him.
He feels it when Sam starts talking. It's too low to hear at first, but Sam's face is buried in Dean's neck, and he can feel every word in the hot air brushing over his skin.
"What? Sam, are you...?"
"The shower," Sam says, and there it is, brief clench of arms that make Dean want to flinch away. "You fell, and died, and got tangled in the shower curtain and died. You took a bath and you drowned. You ate and you choked. You drove and you crashed the Impala, you walked and you got hit or mugged or shot. You cleaned the guns and they went off, or you held a knife and slipped. A goddamn piano fell on you, a golden retriever klled you."
"Sam - "
"You died, Dean." The words are thick and heavy, like Sam's choking trying to get them out. "You died so many times, and you came back and we did it over and over and over again." Sam presses closer. Dean doesn't know how he can, but Sam finds a way. "You died," and it's said like a prayer, deep into his skin.
**
After the fifth night, Dean stops pretending that things might have a chance of normal. He just gets a queen, and falls asleep to whispers and hands holding him and bracing him for an impact only Sam can feel.
It's some night, maybe ten or twenty or fifty days after that, and Sam's wrapped around him. He's quiet this time, like he's empty or everything's been taken from him, and Dean says, "hey."
Sam breathes against him, warm and wet enough that when Sam holds his breath the room's air settles cold over him, shivers pricking along his spine. "You died," it's explosive, hot, and the only thing Dean has is, "I know."
"It's wasn't just Tuesdays. It was days, Dean. Months."
Jesus fuck. "What?" But he gets it, now, everything, or at least thinks he does.
"You died," and here's the sob, brief and muffled like Dean actually fuckin cares he's crying, like it's something that he really has to hide. "You died and you didn't come back."
"Alright," Dean says, and gets his arms braced against Sam's, gets enough force to break the grip on him. It turns Sam frantic, like Dean's going to disappear, and Sam won't quit reaching for him. "Dammit, stop, Sam!"
Sam does, quick like Dean hurt him. He goes stiff and still, so still that Dean can't even be sure he's actually breathing. It gives him a chance, though, to flip onto his side facing Sam, get his brother wrapped up, best Dean can fit anyway, in his arms.
"Listen, alright? Listen to me. I'm here," he tightens his arms around Sam, until he can feel muscle and bone and hear Sam's grunt. "I'm right fuckin here, now. No Trickster, no Ground Hog's Day bullshit, Sam. Just me and you." He can hear the hitches in Sam's breath, the wet grief trying to spill out of him. "And I know what you're thinking, Sammy, I do. But if you say I'll be here come the end of my year, I'll be here." He pulls far enough away to catch Sam's eye. "Understand?"
Dean sees Sam's eyes fall shut, like maybe that's what Sam was waiting all this time for, just that, for Dean to say something. He hears Sam sigh, broken and low, before he feels the jerk of Sam nodding his head. "Good," he says, and tries to do what Sam did, tug his brother closer until there's nowhere else to go and no space between them. Then, low, a third time, because maybe that's the charm, the luck that'll make it real, he says, "I'll be here."