Our life will never end (genfic with some mild Sam/Dean, pg-13, 911 words)
The fleshflutter is home. She did not get as much writing done as she would like but this was inevitable once she discovered she was in charge of two boys under the age of six, plus a dog. If fic follows about how the reason John became alcoholic was because it was the only way he could listen to wee!SamandDean chatter a second longer without throttling them both, please do not be surprised.
Our life will never end
(genfic with some mild Sam/Dean, pg-13, 911 words)
For pershin. ♥
After breakfast Dean tosses the motel room keys to Sam and heads out to the parking lot to pack up the Impala. They're planning on heading down to Jackson to follow up on some rumours of a poltergeist. It'll be a long drive but Sam doesn't mind. The sky is bruised and blue with banks of clouds but the glare of the sun burns atomic-white along the horizon.
Sam glances back over his shoulder at Dean as he goes inside and Dean grins and waves at him, still contented and full from the huge, grease-dripping breakfast he's had. Sam smiles back at him - he doesn't mind the long drive ahead of them at all.
The manager's office is empty and Sam waits patiently at the counter, examining the posters of local tourist attractions tacked to the walls. He's disappointed that they all seem pretty dire because he was hoping to find one Dean would enjoy.
It's eighteen months since Wyoming and it's a honeymoon period that will never end. This is how life is now.
"Checking out?"
Sam turns around and smiles at the manager. He's an old guy with plastic-framed glasses and a wheezy voice. He shuffles behind the counter and takes the key Sam holds out to him. He writes something down in the ledger, hand wavering as it grips the pen.
"You boys sleep all right?" he says. "Had a whole load of wild geese come over early this morning. Their damn honking woke my wife up. And of course, they set the dogs going." He shakes his head. "Don’t know where them damn birds thought they were going." He looks up and gives Sam an earnest look. "Don't normally get 'em 'round here."
"Maybe they were lost," says Sam, and grins again.
The old man gives a huffing laugh and nods his head. "Maybe they were."
Sam gives a little wave, turns to go and then stops. The air throbs with the heaving sweeps of the overhead fan. Heat prickles his skin and for a moment he can't catch his breath. Just stands there, dizzy and swaying, the world spiralling down into a pinpoint of yellow light.
"You all right, son?" the manager says.
Sam nods slowly as breath whispers back into his lungs. He turns around and cocks his head at him.
"Is this any good?" he says, pointing at a poster for a local beer factory.
The manager pushes his glasses up his thick nose and peers at it. It's too far away for him to get a proper look so he comes out from behind the counter and makes his way over. He looks at the poster for just a second before he looks back at Sam and nods.
"Took my grandson there when he was on break from school last year. We had a good day out. They're pretty generous with the free samples!"
"Great," says Sam, before he puts his hands around the manager's throat and slams him up against the wall.
The old man's neck is fleshy and his windpipe is a hard, lumpy column beneath the sagging folds of skin. He whuffs and wheezes as he struggles, tries to wrench Sam's hands off him. Sam holds him steady and carefully moves his thumb over to the carotid, pushes down and down. It's a mistake to push too hard because otherwise it will be over too soon. Sam hasn't made that mistake in a while.
Blood vessels bursting in his watering eyes, his face mottled red and white, the manager stares at Sam and his lips move but no sound beyond wet gasps escapes. Sweat breaks out on his skin, tiny beads of dampness popping up on his face and neck, turning Sam's hands slippery.
The pulse of the fan is deafening in Sam's ears and he grits his teeth against it.
When the old man is dead, Sam drags his body back behind the counter, out of sight. He neatly slices the page out of the ledger, puts it in the trashcan and imagines it catching fire. Smiles at the wisps of smoke that drift up into the air.
Before he leaves, he takes the poster for the beer factory off the wall.
He strides across the parking lot to where Dean is leaning over the Impala hood, studying a map. He looks up and grins.
"What took so long?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Old guy wanted to tell me about some geese that woke his wife up in the night." Dean raises an eyebrow and Sam pulls a face and shakes his head. "Really… don't ask."
His hands are still damp with the manager's sweat; he's wearing it like hot, wet silk gloves. His belly goes heavy and rolls over. It's more than a desire. It's a compulsion, a physical need. Something he can't not do, even if it means riding a struggling, kicking Dean down into the dust.
"I thought we could take a look at this," says Sam, thrusting the poster at Dean.
And when Dean reaches out to take it, Sam catches his wrist and wraps both his hands around it. His hands of life and death, his godly hands. He ignores Dean's confused but indulgent look while he presses the sweat of the man he murdered into his brother's skin. And Dean's skin is smooth and soft, his bones are fragile little things and his pulse flutters so sweetly.
Finally, Sam's heart starts beating again.
~end
Our life will never end
(genfic with some mild Sam/Dean, pg-13, 911 words)
For pershin. ♥
After breakfast Dean tosses the motel room keys to Sam and heads out to the parking lot to pack up the Impala. They're planning on heading down to Jackson to follow up on some rumours of a poltergeist. It'll be a long drive but Sam doesn't mind. The sky is bruised and blue with banks of clouds but the glare of the sun burns atomic-white along the horizon.
Sam glances back over his shoulder at Dean as he goes inside and Dean grins and waves at him, still contented and full from the huge, grease-dripping breakfast he's had. Sam smiles back at him - he doesn't mind the long drive ahead of them at all.
The manager's office is empty and Sam waits patiently at the counter, examining the posters of local tourist attractions tacked to the walls. He's disappointed that they all seem pretty dire because he was hoping to find one Dean would enjoy.
It's eighteen months since Wyoming and it's a honeymoon period that will never end. This is how life is now.
"Checking out?"
Sam turns around and smiles at the manager. He's an old guy with plastic-framed glasses and a wheezy voice. He shuffles behind the counter and takes the key Sam holds out to him. He writes something down in the ledger, hand wavering as it grips the pen.
"You boys sleep all right?" he says. "Had a whole load of wild geese come over early this morning. Their damn honking woke my wife up. And of course, they set the dogs going." He shakes his head. "Don’t know where them damn birds thought they were going." He looks up and gives Sam an earnest look. "Don't normally get 'em 'round here."
"Maybe they were lost," says Sam, and grins again.
The old man gives a huffing laugh and nods his head. "Maybe they were."
Sam gives a little wave, turns to go and then stops. The air throbs with the heaving sweeps of the overhead fan. Heat prickles his skin and for a moment he can't catch his breath. Just stands there, dizzy and swaying, the world spiralling down into a pinpoint of yellow light.
"You all right, son?" the manager says.
Sam nods slowly as breath whispers back into his lungs. He turns around and cocks his head at him.
"Is this any good?" he says, pointing at a poster for a local beer factory.
The manager pushes his glasses up his thick nose and peers at it. It's too far away for him to get a proper look so he comes out from behind the counter and makes his way over. He looks at the poster for just a second before he looks back at Sam and nods.
"Took my grandson there when he was on break from school last year. We had a good day out. They're pretty generous with the free samples!"
"Great," says Sam, before he puts his hands around the manager's throat and slams him up against the wall.
The old man's neck is fleshy and his windpipe is a hard, lumpy column beneath the sagging folds of skin. He whuffs and wheezes as he struggles, tries to wrench Sam's hands off him. Sam holds him steady and carefully moves his thumb over to the carotid, pushes down and down. It's a mistake to push too hard because otherwise it will be over too soon. Sam hasn't made that mistake in a while.
Blood vessels bursting in his watering eyes, his face mottled red and white, the manager stares at Sam and his lips move but no sound beyond wet gasps escapes. Sweat breaks out on his skin, tiny beads of dampness popping up on his face and neck, turning Sam's hands slippery.
The pulse of the fan is deafening in Sam's ears and he grits his teeth against it.
When the old man is dead, Sam drags his body back behind the counter, out of sight. He neatly slices the page out of the ledger, puts it in the trashcan and imagines it catching fire. Smiles at the wisps of smoke that drift up into the air.
Before he leaves, he takes the poster for the beer factory off the wall.
He strides across the parking lot to where Dean is leaning over the Impala hood, studying a map. He looks up and grins.
"What took so long?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Old guy wanted to tell me about some geese that woke his wife up in the night." Dean raises an eyebrow and Sam pulls a face and shakes his head. "Really… don't ask."
His hands are still damp with the manager's sweat; he's wearing it like hot, wet silk gloves. His belly goes heavy and rolls over. It's more than a desire. It's a compulsion, a physical need. Something he can't not do, even if it means riding a struggling, kicking Dean down into the dust.
"I thought we could take a look at this," says Sam, thrusting the poster at Dean.
And when Dean reaches out to take it, Sam catches his wrist and wraps both his hands around it. His hands of life and death, his godly hands. He ignores Dean's confused but indulgent look while he presses the sweat of the man he murdered into his brother's skin. And Dean's skin is smooth and soft, his bones are fragile little things and his pulse flutters so sweetly.
Finally, Sam's heart starts beating again.
~end