(no subject)
the night descending
gen (or slightly sam/deanish); 756 words; post-Skin, what if?
notes: unbeta'd, because i am impatient. apologies for the cheesy summary. the title is stolen from the song of the same name by iron and wine, because i really can't make up my own.
After St. Louis, Sam dreams.
In the car, next to his brother, he dreams of skin peeling from skin. Hands that are hands beneath themselves, nails beneath nails. A body that is not a body.
He dreams and feels sick to his stomach. Watching the road and watching the images in his head.
“Dean, pull over,” he says.
Dean looks over, brow creased, brought back from whatever world he goes to when he’s driving and the windows are down and the radio is up, and does as he’s told. “You okay, Sam?” he asks.
Sam rubs his stomach. He leans his head against the door and presses his lips together tight, bites down on his tongue.
“Sam?” Dean prompts.
“I saw you die,” Sam says.
Dean says, “I see you dying all the time.”
“I thought-for one second I thought-I had it all wrong.”
Dean stares straight ahead. His knuckles are white and bloodless, his hands are wrapped around the wheel. “I see you dying all the time,” he repeats.
Sam opens the door, leans out, and throws up.
---
At night Sam lies awake and listens to his brother sleep. Listens to the familiar hitching sounds of breath, to the way his brother tosses and turns (left side, then right, a rolling pattern).
“What did you mean, you see me dying all the time?” he asks the air.
Dean’s eyes snap open, his breath halts mid-inhale. As if he has been only waiting for Sam to speak, half-conscious through his sleep. After a moment, he says, “In my dreams.”
Sam rolls onto his side to face his brother across the gap between their beds. Their bodies mirroring each other.
“Now I see you dying too,” he says in a half-whisper, “only it’s almost real.”
“Welcome to the family Winchester, Sammy,” Dean says, and closes his eyes.
---
Sam still dreams, though, dreams with his eyes open and on the ceiling, his hands drumming a pattern on his stomach.
Dreams of hands.
Dreams of his brother.
Or the monster with his brother’s skin; in the dark it’s hard to tell. The shapeshifter bent over Sam and called him little brother and Sam almost.
Sam almost believed.
Sam dreams of the gun in his hand.
He dreams of pulling the trigger.
Then, he dreams of being wrong.
---
“What if you’re the shapeshifter?” Sam asks one day. He is driving; Dean has cranked the passenger seat back and lies with his hands behind his head.
“Yeah, so what?” Dean replies.
“I mean what if I was wrong all along?”
Dean laughs. “Would it really matter? You said he could download my thoughts, he could take me on-maybe he could just become me.”
“Shut up,” Sam says.
“A monster’s second chance,” Dean drones on.
“I’d know,” Sam says, “I ‘d know it wasn’t you.”
Dean says, “No, you wouldn’t.”
---
They sit in a hotel bar combing the internet and newspaper for jobs. Sam looks at his own fingers on the keys and thinks of the skin folding away to reveal someone completely new underneath.
He feels sick again.
“I mean, there has to be some sort of symbolism to it,” Sam says vaguely, circling his thumb and forefinger around the neck of his beer bottle. “You shooting yourself in the chest.”
Dean downs his own beer and gives Sam a dirty look. He is tired of talking about it, Sam knows, but he can’t help it.
“I once fucked a guy who looked exactly like you, Sam, would you like to discuss the fucking symbolism in that?” Dean snaps. His bottle bangs down on the table with unnecessary force.
Sam stares at the table. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he says quietly.
“Yeah, well,” Dean says, standing to go, “Neither can I.”
Sam watches his brother until Dean turns a corner and disappears.
---
When Sam returns to the room Dean is sleeping, stretched out on top of the covers, on his back, his head tilted to one side, his mouth slightly open.
Sam sits on the edge of his brother’s bed. “I dreamed about you in college,” he says to the floor. “But you were never you.”
“You are always you,” Dean says without opening his eyes.
Sam puts a hand carefully on Dean’s ankle. “I would know, Dean,” he says. “I would know if this wasn’t you, I would know if something was just-just taking you on.”
Dean rolls over, away from Sam’s hand. “No,” he says. “I don’t think you would.”
gen (or slightly sam/deanish); 756 words; post-Skin, what if?
notes: unbeta'd, because i am impatient. apologies for the cheesy summary. the title is stolen from the song of the same name by iron and wine, because i really can't make up my own.
After St. Louis, Sam dreams.
In the car, next to his brother, he dreams of skin peeling from skin. Hands that are hands beneath themselves, nails beneath nails. A body that is not a body.
He dreams and feels sick to his stomach. Watching the road and watching the images in his head.
“Dean, pull over,” he says.
Dean looks over, brow creased, brought back from whatever world he goes to when he’s driving and the windows are down and the radio is up, and does as he’s told. “You okay, Sam?” he asks.
Sam rubs his stomach. He leans his head against the door and presses his lips together tight, bites down on his tongue.
“Sam?” Dean prompts.
“I saw you die,” Sam says.
Dean says, “I see you dying all the time.”
“I thought-for one second I thought-I had it all wrong.”
Dean stares straight ahead. His knuckles are white and bloodless, his hands are wrapped around the wheel. “I see you dying all the time,” he repeats.
Sam opens the door, leans out, and throws up.
---
At night Sam lies awake and listens to his brother sleep. Listens to the familiar hitching sounds of breath, to the way his brother tosses and turns (left side, then right, a rolling pattern).
“What did you mean, you see me dying all the time?” he asks the air.
Dean’s eyes snap open, his breath halts mid-inhale. As if he has been only waiting for Sam to speak, half-conscious through his sleep. After a moment, he says, “In my dreams.”
Sam rolls onto his side to face his brother across the gap between their beds. Their bodies mirroring each other.
“Now I see you dying too,” he says in a half-whisper, “only it’s almost real.”
“Welcome to the family Winchester, Sammy,” Dean says, and closes his eyes.
---
Sam still dreams, though, dreams with his eyes open and on the ceiling, his hands drumming a pattern on his stomach.
Dreams of hands.
Dreams of his brother.
Or the monster with his brother’s skin; in the dark it’s hard to tell. The shapeshifter bent over Sam and called him little brother and Sam almost.
Sam almost believed.
Sam dreams of the gun in his hand.
He dreams of pulling the trigger.
Then, he dreams of being wrong.
---
“What if you’re the shapeshifter?” Sam asks one day. He is driving; Dean has cranked the passenger seat back and lies with his hands behind his head.
“Yeah, so what?” Dean replies.
“I mean what if I was wrong all along?”
Dean laughs. “Would it really matter? You said he could download my thoughts, he could take me on-maybe he could just become me.”
“Shut up,” Sam says.
“A monster’s second chance,” Dean drones on.
“I’d know,” Sam says, “I ‘d know it wasn’t you.”
Dean says, “No, you wouldn’t.”
---
They sit in a hotel bar combing the internet and newspaper for jobs. Sam looks at his own fingers on the keys and thinks of the skin folding away to reveal someone completely new underneath.
He feels sick again.
“I mean, there has to be some sort of symbolism to it,” Sam says vaguely, circling his thumb and forefinger around the neck of his beer bottle. “You shooting yourself in the chest.”
Dean downs his own beer and gives Sam a dirty look. He is tired of talking about it, Sam knows, but he can’t help it.
“I once fucked a guy who looked exactly like you, Sam, would you like to discuss the fucking symbolism in that?” Dean snaps. His bottle bangs down on the table with unnecessary force.
Sam stares at the table. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” he says quietly.
“Yeah, well,” Dean says, standing to go, “Neither can I.”
Sam watches his brother until Dean turns a corner and disappears.
---
When Sam returns to the room Dean is sleeping, stretched out on top of the covers, on his back, his head tilted to one side, his mouth slightly open.
Sam sits on the edge of his brother’s bed. “I dreamed about you in college,” he says to the floor. “But you were never you.”
“You are always you,” Dean says without opening his eyes.
Sam puts a hand carefully on Dean’s ankle. “I would know, Dean,” he says. “I would know if this wasn’t you, I would know if something was just-just taking you on.”
Dean rolls over, away from Sam’s hand. “No,” he says. “I don’t think you would.”