New DTTE fic: All This Present Tense (Sam/Dean)
All This Present Tense
Sam/Dean, 1,320 words
Notes: For riadsala, who asked for guns, orange, Sam's birthday. Down to the End 'verse; really just a ficlet, title notwithstanding, so much self-indulgent schmoop it might actually provoke a diabetic coma. Thanks to my lovely tvm for the beta.
The grave is on a lonely hill, marked only with a crude wooden cross, and they don't find it until nearly sun up. It takes three hours to dig it up, to salt and burn the bones, another two to drive back to town. It's after ten when they stumble into their motel room, nearly eleven by the time they've washed off the dirt and acrid smoke that lingers in the pile of clothes they leave by the bathroom door.
Sam's thinking of nothing but sleep, but Dean has other plans, pulling into jeans and boots as Sam crawls into bed. "What are you--"
"Things to do, little brother," Dean says. "Places to go, people to fuck..."
"What's so important--" Sam begins, but Dean cuts him off again.
"Joshua's just an hour or two from here," he says. "He got a new shipment of guns in yesterday, and it's time to restock the arsenal."
"And this can't wait until after you've slept?"
"Longer I wait, the less he'll have left." Dean cocks an eyebrow, curves his lips into the barest hint of a smile. "Don't worry, princess, you can stay here and get your beauty sleep."
He should argue, insist on going if only to keep Dean from buying enough weaponry to make Waco look like a children's birthday party, or remind his brother that it's been thirty-six hours since he slept and an hour's drive out to Joshua's and back is the last thing he needs. But Dean's never been all that rational on the subject of firearms, and Sam's too exhausted to fight. "Just don't fall asleep and crash the car," he says.
"You know I'd never put my baby in danger," Dean says, and slips out the door.
***
It's been awhile since he tried to sleep without Dean. Months, maybe even years. They aren't always a package deal... there's always history to research and witnesses to interview and authorities to con, and sometimes during a hunt they end up separated more than they're together, but they fall asleep together every night, wake up together every morning. There's no agreement, no promise in place; it's just how things work, and the bed is too cold and empty without Dean in it.
Sam tosses and turns, trying to get comfortable, and it seems like hours before sleep overcomes him.
***
He wakes to firm hands on his shoulders, a whispered, "Hey, Sammy, rise and shine." He winces as his eyes flutter open in the harsh sunlight the thin motel curtains do nothing to dampen.
"Time is it?" he asks muzzily.
Dean shrugs. "Maybe two?"
"Fuck that," Sam groans, and closes his eyes again.
"Saaaaam..." It's Dean's wheedling voice, the one that's charmed panties off women from California to Maine, but Sam's had a lifetime to build up an immunity.
"Just... come to bed, okay?" he says. "A few more hours...."
Dean sighs heavily, but Sam can already hear him shrugging his jacket off, fumbling with his boots, and he smiles when the bed dips under his brother's weight.
"Hi," Sam breathes softly, rolling to position himself in Dean's arms, his back pressed against Dean's chest. Dean just snorts, but his hand is already snaking beneath Sam's t-shirt to move in slow, firm circles across his belly, and Sam feels a gentle kiss against his neck as he slides back into sleep.
***
The sun is setting when he wakes again, and the room is bathed in an orange glow. Dean's arms are still around him, possessive and sure, and he toys with the idea of kissing his brother awake, stealing a slow, sleepy fuck before either of them is really conscious. But Dean's had less sleep than he has, and it's not really fair to disturb him yet, so he slips carefully from Dean's grasping arms.
It's not until he's dressed and flirting with the idea of coffee that he notices the table and realizes why Dean tried to wake him before. There's a cake beside Dean's knives and the laptop, a horror of bubble-gum pink buttercream in the shape of a Barbie. In a whimsical display of what Dean no doubt thinks is sophisticated adult humor, a single candle pokes from each of her breasts. There's a bottle of Jack Daniels beside it, and a folded brown paper bag that's the closest to wrapping paper Dean's come in years.
May 2. He's thirty, he's been thirty for an entire day, and he didn't even notice. Might not have remembered for weeks if it wasn't for Dean. "Christ," he says, louder than he means to, but the thought hits him suddenly and hard: the milestone's utter unimportance, just another day in another faceless motel room, vanquished evil behind them, rising evil ahead.
"They didn't have a My Little Pony one," Dean says gravely, and Sam jumps at the sound of his voice, turns to see him grinning smugly. "I told them it was your favorite, but they were sure any little girl would love Barbie just as much..."
"I had one My Little Pony, Dean," Sam says. "Twenty-six years ago."
Dean grins wider, stretching luxuriously as he climbs out of bed. "You carried it everywhere and cried for four hours when you forgot it at Pastor Jim's."
"And you called Pastor Jim when Dad went to the bathroom at that gas station and told him to send it to Dad's P.O. box in Iowa, and it was waiting for me when we got there three days later," Sam says. He means to match Dean's teasing tone, but warmth floods his chest at the memory, and his voice is softer than he intended, so suffused with affection he winces a little, waiting for Dean's disgusted eye-roll.
But Dean just laughs. "I am an awesome brother," he proclaims, and Sam thinks there aren't enough words in the world to express how much he agrees.
Not that he'd ever say that aloud. "When you're not a gigantic pain in the ass, anyway."
"Shut up and open your present."
Sam lifts the bag from the table. It's light but bulky, the contents oddly squishy, and he hears the crackle of cellophane beneath his fingers. "What the hell is in here?"
Dean beams, looking absurdly pleased with himself. "Just open it, geekboy."
Sam upends the bag over the surplus bed, and laughs aloud, equal parts delight and disbelief, as brightly colored gummy rats, each as large as his hand, cascade onto the frayed duvet. "Where the hell did you find these?"
"Candy store in Akron," Dean says. "I bought the whole box."
"I haven't seen these since--"
"Dallas," Dean nods.
"The mini-mart, and after that redneck asshole behind the counter yelled at me, you walked out with half the candy aisle under your jacket..."
"And you damned near came in your pants when you saw it all."
"I was six," Sam protests, but he can't help laughing. "And you ate your share, as I recall."
"Not of the rats," Dean says. "You were a greedy little bastard."
"You said you didn't even like them!"
"I lied," Dean grins. "I wanted to see if you could actually eat two pounds of gummy by yourself."
"Asshole," Sam mutters. "See if I share these now."
"I'll just steal them while you sleep," Dean says brightly.
***
The cake is awful, so sickly sweet Sam thinks he can actually feel his teeth rotting. Dean loves it, and on any other day, Sam would have a few choice things to say about his preschool-educated palate. Instead he eats every crumb of his generous slice and then licks diluted sweetness from Dean's mouth.
Later, when his brother is still buried inside him, both of them slick with sweat and come, he says, "Dean," and in the quiet darkness it sounds like a promise.
"Sammy," Dean says, and it sounds like the one word he'll never say.
Companion piece:
Ghosts and Clouds and Nameless Things