Short fic: Stranger Than Your Sympathy
This is an older ficlet, but it contains some of my prompts for spn_30snapshots. So, this is for prompt 22. sweat. I guess this can be taken as a continuation of my other drabble-like ficlet, Edge of a Burning Light. On that note, it's time for--
warnings before reading: gen, angst (of course). And mild hints of general season 4 (nothing really spoilery). Hmm, that's it I think, besides REVIEW
Dean catches Sam staring at him, once in a while. He'd mentioned it once, those furtive glances; watched in horror as his brother's mouth opened, and Dean knew, he knew, that Sam was gonna talk, ask, in his earnest way. And Dean couldn't, not during the day, not at some bar with the girl-of-the-week sidling up to their table. Nowhere outside of crappy hotel rooms late at night--drifting out of sweat and blood and dull glints of metal--did Dean even think about laying it all out on the table for his brother.
He likes to think it won't make a difference. All it'll take is an extra shot of Jack or another beer, and he'll be fine. He'll sleep. He'll hop on the next case--maybe save a family, or, fuck, a dog and he'll remember what it's like to see something besides Sam's confused (angry) face, Bobby's pity, Castiel's goddamn disappoint.
"Dean," Sam's not sleeping tonight, either, but his voice isn't cracking with that mix of tension and exhaustion he remembers from before (Jess, Dad's death, the deal). Dean wonders if he'll resume being Sam's puzzle, the missing piece his brother has to figure out before the clock stops. "Are you awake?"
He thinks about ignoring it. Thinks that Sam already knows the answer, but is giving Dean one of his few pardons. "Yeah, Sammy. I'm up." He hears his brother shift, imagines the feel of Sam's eyes trying to find him in the darkness. He stays still, though, unmoving. Waiting, and suddenly the staccato beat of his heart feels like a warning.
"I just wondered---I mean. What was it like? Coming back?" Sam's voice is whisper-thin, and Dean remembers all the times, when Sam was a kid, when he'd press his mouth to Dean's ear, pretending everything was a secret. It fits, now. Everything they've done is supposed to stay hidden--we're freaks, Sam. All of us.
But he says, "I don't know. There, I guess. I was just there. And breathing." He laughs, a short burst of sound that's too loud. "I remember that."
He hears Sam's breath. Steady, gentle. Feels the rough fabric of the blanket against his chest. Figures it's over--Sam's had enough. Then he hears, "I'm sorry," and he pushes his head back into his pillow. Silence, then, and he wonders if there's anything left to say.
fin
Here's the rest of the table: Elemental