1.
STFU THIS STILL COUNTS AS THE 1ST SEPT. So, um. Surprise motherfuckers! Serial fic! Just a small part today because I'm already late enough as it is to get the ball rolling.
where the sunsets are all breathtaking (1/?)
PG-13, eventual wincest (probably of the NC-17 variety), AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
one
The sky is blue.
It’s all that Dean can see. He closes his eyes again, breathes in a couple times, slow and steadying; he feels like his skin is absorbing moisture, like he’s woken up on the tail-end of sliding back into himself. The last thing he remembers is being at Bobby’s, or maybe some other ratty house, arguing with someone about something, or maybe just talking. It’s as fuzzy as a scene in a movie you only half-remember watching, one of those quiet moments that’re all talk and no explosions and leave nothing behind but a vague imprint of an image of the screen. That should worry him, he’s pretty sure, but the chunk missing from his memory apparently took his fear with it.
When he opens his eyes for a second time, the sky is still there above him. It’s the deep, rich blue of summer, with fine wisps of cloud cobwebbing from one side to the other. As he watches, a single bird flits up into his field of vision, and then dive-bombs back out of it again.
There’s something else Dean can’t quite put his finger on.
He rolls onto his side, wincing as sun-sharpened grass scrapes against his arms. His skin feels raw, almost, but he’s clothed and he can feel the familiar weight of his wallet in his pocket, his gun at the small of his back, and when you wake up in a field with no idea how you got there you take all the plus sides you can get. So: he hasn’t been mugged; he can sit up, although his arms are oddly stiff and he can feel a headache coming; he’s alive, which is a serious fucking plus, considering--
“Sam?” Dean calls. He struggles up until he’s crouching, and just that makes his legs ache like he’s been asleep for a fucking decade, Jesus, Sam could be in a ditch somewhere and he can’t even-- “Sam?”
“Hey,” says that most familiar of voices, soft from somewhere behind him.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean snaps, whipping around to face his brother. The movement sends him tumbling back onto his ass in the prickly grass, but there’s Sam sat a couple feet away, alive and ditchless and even smiling a little. He can’t remember the last time he really saw Sam smile.
“Sorry,” Sam says. “Didn’t mean to make you jump. I was waiting for you.”
“Just sat there watching me sleep, huh? Fuckin’ pervert,” Dean mutters. Sam’s smile just widens, unabashed, his head ducked down and his hair falling into his face like he’s twelve again, and Dean has to look away. He runs a hand through the grass, eyes on the trees in the distance, and says, “So, I’m hopin’ you know what the fuck we’re doing here.”
where the sunsets are all breathtaking (1/?)
PG-13, eventual wincest (probably of the NC-17 variety), AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
one
The sky is blue.
It’s all that Dean can see. He closes his eyes again, breathes in a couple times, slow and steadying; he feels like his skin is absorbing moisture, like he’s woken up on the tail-end of sliding back into himself. The last thing he remembers is being at Bobby’s, or maybe some other ratty house, arguing with someone about something, or maybe just talking. It’s as fuzzy as a scene in a movie you only half-remember watching, one of those quiet moments that’re all talk and no explosions and leave nothing behind but a vague imprint of an image of the screen. That should worry him, he’s pretty sure, but the chunk missing from his memory apparently took his fear with it.
When he opens his eyes for a second time, the sky is still there above him. It’s the deep, rich blue of summer, with fine wisps of cloud cobwebbing from one side to the other. As he watches, a single bird flits up into his field of vision, and then dive-bombs back out of it again.
There’s something else Dean can’t quite put his finger on.
He rolls onto his side, wincing as sun-sharpened grass scrapes against his arms. His skin feels raw, almost, but he’s clothed and he can feel the familiar weight of his wallet in his pocket, his gun at the small of his back, and when you wake up in a field with no idea how you got there you take all the plus sides you can get. So: he hasn’t been mugged; he can sit up, although his arms are oddly stiff and he can feel a headache coming; he’s alive, which is a serious fucking plus, considering--
“Sam?” Dean calls. He struggles up until he’s crouching, and just that makes his legs ache like he’s been asleep for a fucking decade, Jesus, Sam could be in a ditch somewhere and he can’t even-- “Sam?”
“Hey,” says that most familiar of voices, soft from somewhere behind him.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean snaps, whipping around to face his brother. The movement sends him tumbling back onto his ass in the prickly grass, but there’s Sam sat a couple feet away, alive and ditchless and even smiling a little. He can’t remember the last time he really saw Sam smile.
“Sorry,” Sam says. “Didn’t mean to make you jump. I was waiting for you.”
“Just sat there watching me sleep, huh? Fuckin’ pervert,” Dean mutters. Sam’s smile just widens, unabashed, his head ducked down and his hair falling into his face like he’s twelve again, and Dean has to look away. He runs a hand through the grass, eyes on the trees in the distance, and says, “So, I’m hopin’ you know what the fuck we’re doing here.”