SPN fic: Sam/Dean. (R)
Title: 366.
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Rating: R.
Summary: A year can pass too quickly.
Warning: Character death.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Feedback: Anonymous commenting is enabled, if you feel the need. ;)
Notes: Yeah, so I finished this last night before things went nuts and I'm posting it today because I feel the need to do so. *nods* Also? One day I will write SPN fic that doesn't involve death and bucket loads of angst, today however, is not that day. Much love to zelda_zee for the beta and for many other things as well.
As soon as Sam wakes he knows what day it is. It’s reflex that makes him recoil from the too cool feeling of Dean’s skin pressing against his own, rolling up and off the mattress before he fully registers what that cold means. His head feels fuzzy, his limbs heavy and it’s on shaky legs that he stands by the bed and looks down at Dean’s body, still curled on its side and he thinks my arm was under his arm, my legs were drawn up just like his, I was holding him when he died. And then he thinks I was sleeping, he died alone.
Sam knows that’s not true, he knows Dean would have felt him holding on as he slipped away, but he also knows he promised Dean he would stay awake, that he would be there when it happened and through the fuzz in his brain Sam can hear the words you failed him begin to echo and he knows they will never go away.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring down at Dean, willing his chest to swell with breath and his limbs to twitch with life. It feels like time has stopped, like the world is holding its breath and any minute now it will exhale and then maybe, just maybe, Dean will roll over onto his back and glare at him through half-opened eyes and mutter quit standing there like an idiot, Sammy, get back into bed, I’m freezing my ass off here. But Dean doesn’t move and he doesn’t speak and finally it hits Sam that Dean is gone and he has to race to the bathroom of the tiny cabin, feet tangling in clothes left scattered on the floor, skidding inside just before the wave of nausea hits him and he falls, retching, to his knees, the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl reminding him of the clammy feel of Dean’s skin.
Once his stomach is as empty as the rest of him feels, Sam pushes himself up from the floor and moves to the sink. He turns on the tap and leans down to drink from it, trying to wash the sour taste from his mouth and then he cups his hands beneath the flow and splashes water on his face, flinching as the cold hits him. As he straightens up he catches sight of himself in the mirror and he sees the bruise that marks the skin just above his collar bone, a dark red circle that half covers another bruise already faded to a dirty yellow and he thinks Dean put those there and they’ll be gone soon. There are other brands on his body, Sam knows this without seeing them - a bite mark high on his inner thigh, lines on his back etched by Dean’s rough-bitten nails that scored down from shoulder to hip, leaving a trail that stung as sweat seeped into it. Sam knows that Dean’s body bears similar marks - patterned bruises on his hips that Sam could fit his fingers against, the imprint of teeth on the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder, wide and circling a smaller bruise in the center. All proof of what they had, of what they’d become in this past year when simply being brothers was no longer enough.
His mind is flooded with the memory of the first time, when Dean’s whispered Sammy, no had really meant please, yes. He can see Dean so clearly, his eyes dark and hooded, his breathing fast and desperate, arching beneath him and fitting so perfectly that no matter how wrong it was, it had to be right.
And suddenly Sam can no longer bear to look at himself because he knows the marks will fade and eventually, the memories with them, and he’s not ready to deal with that thought yet.
Sam returns to the room where Dean lies but he can’t look at the bed, can’t look at Dean, so he grabs his jeans and a T-shirt from the floor and pulls them on, feeling like he’s on automatic pilot, like he’s simply doing what he’s done every day for the past week, following the set pattern that started when they first returned to the place where the last year began, the place where Dean said it made sense to be because I’m not gonna run, Sammy. I made the deal fair and square, so we may as well show that demon bitch I intend to pay up by getting as close to her as we can. And Sam agreed, because he had no choice. He had no intention of spending their last week fighting about where they would say their goodbyes when they could spend it fucking - that’s the only goodbye that Sam wanted to remember.
Sam’s head still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool, he feels like he’s been drugged and when he walks into the cabin’s other room and sees the bottle on the table he knows he was. There’s an envelope beside it that feels heavy when he picks it up. Inside are the keys to the Impala and a note in Dean’s messy scrawl.
Sammy,
There’s coffee in the cupboard, that fancy shit you like, you’re gonna need that to wake up. The sleeping pills I slipped you will make you feel like crap for a couple of hours, but if you get enough caffeine inside you you’ll be fine. And I threw the rest of the bottle away so can’t pull some dumb trick. It’s up to you to keep the family business going, so you don’t have time for any of that college-boy emo crap. The Impala is yours now. Make sure to check the oil at least every couple weeks and the brake pads will need changing in 1000 miles or so. You take care of my baby, not a scratch on her or so help me God I will haunt your sorry ass.
And don’t go getting any stupid ideas about going down to the crossroads. I’m not worth it, Sammy. You were.
Dean
Sam folds the note carefully and slips it back inside the envelope, pushes it into the pocket of his jeans along with the keys to Dean’s car. He picks up the mug that sits on the table waiting to be filled with coffee and that’s when it hits him. All the anger and frustration and resentment that he’s been holding in for the last 365 days rises to the surface in a wave and he throws the mug hard against the wall, not even seeing it smash into a dozen pieces before he upends the table and picks up a chair and slings it across the room, almost blind with fury and the tears that course down his cheeks.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts - the rage that takes hold of him - he loses himself to it, lets it take over and guide him as he screams and shouts and curses Dean’s name and his own. When it’s over it’s like waking up again, he’s curled tight in on himself on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, forehead resting on them and he feels dazed and fuzzy, like it’s all been a dream.
But Sam knows it isn’t a dream, he knows it’s real, and he knows there’s only one thing left for him to do. He leans back against the upturned table behind him and stares out the window, waiting for night to fall so he can do what his father and his brother did before him. Because Sam knows that now, it’s his turn.
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Rating: R.
Summary: A year can pass too quickly.
Warning: Character death.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Never will.
Feedback: Anonymous commenting is enabled, if you feel the need. ;)
Notes: Yeah, so I finished this last night before things went nuts and I'm posting it today because I feel the need to do so. *nods* Also? One day I will write SPN fic that doesn't involve death and bucket loads of angst, today however, is not that day. Much love to zelda_zee for the beta and for many other things as well.
As soon as Sam wakes he knows what day it is. It’s reflex that makes him recoil from the too cool feeling of Dean’s skin pressing against his own, rolling up and off the mattress before he fully registers what that cold means. His head feels fuzzy, his limbs heavy and it’s on shaky legs that he stands by the bed and looks down at Dean’s body, still curled on its side and he thinks my arm was under his arm, my legs were drawn up just like his, I was holding him when he died. And then he thinks I was sleeping, he died alone.
Sam knows that’s not true, he knows Dean would have felt him holding on as he slipped away, but he also knows he promised Dean he would stay awake, that he would be there when it happened and through the fuzz in his brain Sam can hear the words you failed him begin to echo and he knows they will never go away.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring down at Dean, willing his chest to swell with breath and his limbs to twitch with life. It feels like time has stopped, like the world is holding its breath and any minute now it will exhale and then maybe, just maybe, Dean will roll over onto his back and glare at him through half-opened eyes and mutter quit standing there like an idiot, Sammy, get back into bed, I’m freezing my ass off here. But Dean doesn’t move and he doesn’t speak and finally it hits Sam that Dean is gone and he has to race to the bathroom of the tiny cabin, feet tangling in clothes left scattered on the floor, skidding inside just before the wave of nausea hits him and he falls, retching, to his knees, the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl reminding him of the clammy feel of Dean’s skin.
Once his stomach is as empty as the rest of him feels, Sam pushes himself up from the floor and moves to the sink. He turns on the tap and leans down to drink from it, trying to wash the sour taste from his mouth and then he cups his hands beneath the flow and splashes water on his face, flinching as the cold hits him. As he straightens up he catches sight of himself in the mirror and he sees the bruise that marks the skin just above his collar bone, a dark red circle that half covers another bruise already faded to a dirty yellow and he thinks Dean put those there and they’ll be gone soon. There are other brands on his body, Sam knows this without seeing them - a bite mark high on his inner thigh, lines on his back etched by Dean’s rough-bitten nails that scored down from shoulder to hip, leaving a trail that stung as sweat seeped into it. Sam knows that Dean’s body bears similar marks - patterned bruises on his hips that Sam could fit his fingers against, the imprint of teeth on the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder, wide and circling a smaller bruise in the center. All proof of what they had, of what they’d become in this past year when simply being brothers was no longer enough.
His mind is flooded with the memory of the first time, when Dean’s whispered Sammy, no had really meant please, yes. He can see Dean so clearly, his eyes dark and hooded, his breathing fast and desperate, arching beneath him and fitting so perfectly that no matter how wrong it was, it had to be right.
And suddenly Sam can no longer bear to look at himself because he knows the marks will fade and eventually, the memories with them, and he’s not ready to deal with that thought yet.
Sam returns to the room where Dean lies but he can’t look at the bed, can’t look at Dean, so he grabs his jeans and a T-shirt from the floor and pulls them on, feeling like he’s on automatic pilot, like he’s simply doing what he’s done every day for the past week, following the set pattern that started when they first returned to the place where the last year began, the place where Dean said it made sense to be because I’m not gonna run, Sammy. I made the deal fair and square, so we may as well show that demon bitch I intend to pay up by getting as close to her as we can. And Sam agreed, because he had no choice. He had no intention of spending their last week fighting about where they would say their goodbyes when they could spend it fucking - that’s the only goodbye that Sam wanted to remember.
Sam’s head still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool, he feels like he’s been drugged and when he walks into the cabin’s other room and sees the bottle on the table he knows he was. There’s an envelope beside it that feels heavy when he picks it up. Inside are the keys to the Impala and a note in Dean’s messy scrawl.
Sammy,
There’s coffee in the cupboard, that fancy shit you like, you’re gonna need that to wake up. The sleeping pills I slipped you will make you feel like crap for a couple of hours, but if you get enough caffeine inside you you’ll be fine. And I threw the rest of the bottle away so can’t pull some dumb trick. It’s up to you to keep the family business going, so you don’t have time for any of that college-boy emo crap. The Impala is yours now. Make sure to check the oil at least every couple weeks and the brake pads will need changing in 1000 miles or so. You take care of my baby, not a scratch on her or so help me God I will haunt your sorry ass.
And don’t go getting any stupid ideas about going down to the crossroads. I’m not worth it, Sammy. You were.
Dean
Sam folds the note carefully and slips it back inside the envelope, pushes it into the pocket of his jeans along with the keys to Dean’s car. He picks up the mug that sits on the table waiting to be filled with coffee and that’s when it hits him. All the anger and frustration and resentment that he’s been holding in for the last 365 days rises to the surface in a wave and he throws the mug hard against the wall, not even seeing it smash into a dozen pieces before he upends the table and picks up a chair and slings it across the room, almost blind with fury and the tears that course down his cheeks.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts - the rage that takes hold of him - he loses himself to it, lets it take over and guide him as he screams and shouts and curses Dean’s name and his own. When it’s over it’s like waking up again, he’s curled tight in on himself on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, forehead resting on them and he feels dazed and fuzzy, like it’s all been a dream.
But Sam knows it isn’t a dream, he knows it’s real, and he knows there’s only one thing left for him to do. He leans back against the upturned table behind him and stares out the window, waiting for night to fall so he can do what his father and his brother did before him. Because Sam knows that now, it’s his turn.