Fic: Vigil | Supernatural | Sam/Dean | PG-13 | 1/1
Title: Vigil
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,330
Summary: After bringing Dean back from Hell, Sam waits for him to wake up. While he waits, he considers his brother.
Disclaimer: Dean owns my soul. Eric Kripke and WB own everything else. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Notes/Warnings: Written in-post, as the plot bunny finally worked its way out. Spoilers for 3.16. Light Wincest.
Vigil
A week after Sam finally gets Dean out of Hell - a journey he has no desire to relive in any part of his memory, save the shattering relief at finally having Dean next to him again, whole and alive - he's still keeping his vigil at his brother's side. It's been a hard few days, with Dean mostly sleeping it off as he recovers, the stillness occasionally pierced by fevered sweats and nightmares as the infection from the Hell Hounds' attack is driven out by round after round of antibiotics. But even as the nightmares come and go, Dean hasn't woken yet, hasn't opened his eyes once. Conversely, Sam hasn't slept much, himself, glued as he's been to the chair at Dean's bedside. Bobby's brought him his meals and a pretty much endless supply of coffee, helped him change Dean's wound dressings and IVs - where he got the resources to scrounge those up, Sam can't figure; he doesn't really want to know, anyway - but for the most part, the older man has left Sam to his vigil, waiting for Dean to wake up.
Tired after a long night of soothing his brother through another set of unending nightmares, stroking his hair and murmuring soft words over him, Sam watches him sleep, oblivious to the light of morning creeping into the room except where it illuminates Dean's face. In that pale gray, everything seems to stand out. The gentle curve of his lips, the swath of thick eyebrows over his closed eyes, still trembling with dreams Sam doesn't want to think about. The fading yellow of bruises left by the Hounds. The black of the stitches on a cheek. Old scars outlined in white. The crease of a wrinkle at the corner of an eye. Long, thick lashes. Soft cheek covered over with week-old stubble leading down to his neck. Neck curving down to the tattoo on his shoulder, marred by a long row of stitches. They'll have to get it redone, but that can wait until Dean is healed.
Sam's sure he's seen Dean's face before, his face and his body and everything, but not like this. Never like this. He thinks for a moment that maybe he hasn't. Maybe he's never really seen his brother before at all. Maybe what he thought was Dean's face was a mask that denied him the truth.
That his brother was the most beautiful person on the face of the Earth.
But then he shakes his head, allowing a little smirk at what Dean surely would have called a 'chick-flick moment', and thinks that's maybe the dumbest thing he's ever come up with. Like he was never less than fully aware of just how unbelievably gorgeous Dean is. But now, with his features bruised and battered and soft with sleep, it's just that much more apparent.
Dean. Living, beautiful, fragile, strong Dean. Who sacrificed more than Sam thinks he can ever comprehend. Who loved him when everyone else was gone. Who took care of him with only the grudging complaint of a caring older brother. Who will bitch Sam out over what he had to do to bring him back. Who will never forgive him for what he put the Impala through over the last month.
Another faint smile at that thought as he holds Dean's locket in his fist, the metal sharp and hot from being gripped so hard, and Sam can already hear Dean's voice working him over for the dents and the ruined shocks and the insane mileage and the crack in the radiator. But Bobby's already fixed most of the damage, so maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe Dean will yell at him for leaving his tapes out of order and for the tiny rip in the leather of the front seat. Thing is, it'll feel good.
But all this waiting is driving Sam up a wall. He wants to hear his brother's voice so badly it hurts, an ache curled into the pit of his stomach that won't ease. Wants to see his eyes - God, his eyes! - more than anything else. He'd gladly go blind if he could just see Dean open his eyes again. See that changeable green, ringed dark and flecked with gold, brown, and blue. When did he get so familiar with Dean's eyes, anyway? Not that it matters; he just needs to see them again, needs to see them flutter open, see Dean reach up to wipe the caked up sleep out of the corners and blink lazily at him, trying to focus in the steadily growing light of morning.
"You gonna sit there and stare all morning, or are you gonna welcome me back to the land of the living?"
It's with a jolt that Sam comes to his senses and realizes Dean is blinking lazily at him, his voice no more than a croaked whisper, rough like sandpaper, and the most wonderful thing Sam's ever heard. "Dean!" he finally manages, and he's surprised when it comes out as more of a sob than a greeting, even as his mouth pulls into a grin. But he's out of his uncomfortable chair and perched on the edge of the bed in a heartbeat, the locket falling from his hand to the comforter. "Dean, God..."
He doesn't know where to start, and his hands float around looking for someplace to land that won't hurt his brother. "Dean, Dean..." he repeats mindlessly, and after a long moment, Dean takes his still-hovering hands, gripping his wrists lightly, as if he doesn't have the strength to hold tighter.
"Sam," the older brother says hoarsely, eyes beginning to shine green and gold as the sun broaches the horizon and pours in through the window, and Sam can't stand it, the way the scab over his own heart seems to rip open of its own accord, spilling out all the terror and grief he'd stored away since the night Dean was taken from him, filling again with relief he didn't know he was waiting to feel.
He doesn't even realize he's crying until fat tears begin to fall down his face and land on Dean's chest, soaking into the bandages quickly.
"Sam, whoa, I'm all right," Dean tries to comfort him, still holding his wrists and tracing circles with one thumb over the soft skin there. "Aren't I? I mean, you got me out of Hell, didn't you? I am alive, aren't I?" His throat moves as he swallows uncomfortably, mild confusion and his own fear apparent to Sam, even through the tough, nonchalant - completely unnecessary - exterior Dean tries to project.
Sam can only nod, trying to reign himself in, but not really succeeding as his whole body trembles, quiet sobs escaping him anyway.
Dean blinks for a moment, then lifts the corner of his mouth in a little smirk. "Well, all right, then. Come here." Releasing a wrist, he reaches up to wrap a hand around the back of Sam's neck and pull him down, kissing his forehead, then pulling his brother more tightly to him and holding him there with what little energy he has.
All Sam can do is melt into him, wrapping his arms around Dean's sides and burying his face in his neck. "Missed you... God, I missed you, Dean," he gets out after a moment, finally collected enough to be gentle and try not to disturb any of the still-healing wounds.
"I'm here, Sammy. I'm here."
"Don't ever leave me again."
Dean's deep breath and his smile against Sam's hair is all the answer he needs, but hearing it makes it a real promise, binds them together in a way that no demon will ever be able to break again. "Never, Sam. Never gonna leave you. I swear. Love you."
And with that promise and the clear light of the morning sun, a new day has come.
* * * * *
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,330
Summary: After bringing Dean back from Hell, Sam waits for him to wake up. While he waits, he considers his brother.
Disclaimer: Dean owns my soul. Eric Kripke and WB own everything else. I own nothing. Darnit.
Author's Notes/Warnings: Written in-post, as the plot bunny finally worked its way out. Spoilers for 3.16. Light Wincest.
Vigil
A week after Sam finally gets Dean out of Hell - a journey he has no desire to relive in any part of his memory, save the shattering relief at finally having Dean next to him again, whole and alive - he's still keeping his vigil at his brother's side. It's been a hard few days, with Dean mostly sleeping it off as he recovers, the stillness occasionally pierced by fevered sweats and nightmares as the infection from the Hell Hounds' attack is driven out by round after round of antibiotics. But even as the nightmares come and go, Dean hasn't woken yet, hasn't opened his eyes once. Conversely, Sam hasn't slept much, himself, glued as he's been to the chair at Dean's bedside. Bobby's brought him his meals and a pretty much endless supply of coffee, helped him change Dean's wound dressings and IVs - where he got the resources to scrounge those up, Sam can't figure; he doesn't really want to know, anyway - but for the most part, the older man has left Sam to his vigil, waiting for Dean to wake up.
Tired after a long night of soothing his brother through another set of unending nightmares, stroking his hair and murmuring soft words over him, Sam watches him sleep, oblivious to the light of morning creeping into the room except where it illuminates Dean's face. In that pale gray, everything seems to stand out. The gentle curve of his lips, the swath of thick eyebrows over his closed eyes, still trembling with dreams Sam doesn't want to think about. The fading yellow of bruises left by the Hounds. The black of the stitches on a cheek. Old scars outlined in white. The crease of a wrinkle at the corner of an eye. Long, thick lashes. Soft cheek covered over with week-old stubble leading down to his neck. Neck curving down to the tattoo on his shoulder, marred by a long row of stitches. They'll have to get it redone, but that can wait until Dean is healed.
Sam's sure he's seen Dean's face before, his face and his body and everything, but not like this. Never like this. He thinks for a moment that maybe he hasn't. Maybe he's never really seen his brother before at all. Maybe what he thought was Dean's face was a mask that denied him the truth.
That his brother was the most beautiful person on the face of the Earth.
But then he shakes his head, allowing a little smirk at what Dean surely would have called a 'chick-flick moment', and thinks that's maybe the dumbest thing he's ever come up with. Like he was never less than fully aware of just how unbelievably gorgeous Dean is. But now, with his features bruised and battered and soft with sleep, it's just that much more apparent.
Dean. Living, beautiful, fragile, strong Dean. Who sacrificed more than Sam thinks he can ever comprehend. Who loved him when everyone else was gone. Who took care of him with only the grudging complaint of a caring older brother. Who will bitch Sam out over what he had to do to bring him back. Who will never forgive him for what he put the Impala through over the last month.
Another faint smile at that thought as he holds Dean's locket in his fist, the metal sharp and hot from being gripped so hard, and Sam can already hear Dean's voice working him over for the dents and the ruined shocks and the insane mileage and the crack in the radiator. But Bobby's already fixed most of the damage, so maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe Dean will yell at him for leaving his tapes out of order and for the tiny rip in the leather of the front seat. Thing is, it'll feel good.
But all this waiting is driving Sam up a wall. He wants to hear his brother's voice so badly it hurts, an ache curled into the pit of his stomach that won't ease. Wants to see his eyes - God, his eyes! - more than anything else. He'd gladly go blind if he could just see Dean open his eyes again. See that changeable green, ringed dark and flecked with gold, brown, and blue. When did he get so familiar with Dean's eyes, anyway? Not that it matters; he just needs to see them again, needs to see them flutter open, see Dean reach up to wipe the caked up sleep out of the corners and blink lazily at him, trying to focus in the steadily growing light of morning.
"You gonna sit there and stare all morning, or are you gonna welcome me back to the land of the living?"
It's with a jolt that Sam comes to his senses and realizes Dean is blinking lazily at him, his voice no more than a croaked whisper, rough like sandpaper, and the most wonderful thing Sam's ever heard. "Dean!" he finally manages, and he's surprised when it comes out as more of a sob than a greeting, even as his mouth pulls into a grin. But he's out of his uncomfortable chair and perched on the edge of the bed in a heartbeat, the locket falling from his hand to the comforter. "Dean, God..."
He doesn't know where to start, and his hands float around looking for someplace to land that won't hurt his brother. "Dean, Dean..." he repeats mindlessly, and after a long moment, Dean takes his still-hovering hands, gripping his wrists lightly, as if he doesn't have the strength to hold tighter.
"Sam," the older brother says hoarsely, eyes beginning to shine green and gold as the sun broaches the horizon and pours in through the window, and Sam can't stand it, the way the scab over his own heart seems to rip open of its own accord, spilling out all the terror and grief he'd stored away since the night Dean was taken from him, filling again with relief he didn't know he was waiting to feel.
He doesn't even realize he's crying until fat tears begin to fall down his face and land on Dean's chest, soaking into the bandages quickly.
"Sam, whoa, I'm all right," Dean tries to comfort him, still holding his wrists and tracing circles with one thumb over the soft skin there. "Aren't I? I mean, you got me out of Hell, didn't you? I am alive, aren't I?" His throat moves as he swallows uncomfortably, mild confusion and his own fear apparent to Sam, even through the tough, nonchalant - completely unnecessary - exterior Dean tries to project.
Sam can only nod, trying to reign himself in, but not really succeeding as his whole body trembles, quiet sobs escaping him anyway.
Dean blinks for a moment, then lifts the corner of his mouth in a little smirk. "Well, all right, then. Come here." Releasing a wrist, he reaches up to wrap a hand around the back of Sam's neck and pull him down, kissing his forehead, then pulling his brother more tightly to him and holding him there with what little energy he has.
All Sam can do is melt into him, wrapping his arms around Dean's sides and burying his face in his neck. "Missed you... God, I missed you, Dean," he gets out after a moment, finally collected enough to be gentle and try not to disturb any of the still-healing wounds.
"I'm here, Sammy. I'm here."
"Don't ever leave me again."
Dean's deep breath and his smile against Sam's hair is all the answer he needs, but hearing it makes it a real promise, binds them together in a way that no demon will ever be able to break again. "Never, Sam. Never gonna leave you. I swear. Love you."
And with that promise and the clear light of the morning sun, a new day has come.
* * * * *