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Down
by whereupon
Something I wrote for lavinialavender a few days ago. Supernatural, preseries, Sam/Dean, R. 2,600 words.
There's always going to be something else to hunt.
Fires some forty miles inland, but even out here, between the craggy rocks and the coniferous trees, the air tastes like smoke. Burning forests, though, not bones, and that at least is something new. The fires are too far off for their flames to be audible to Dean, but his mind supplies the deadwood crackle all the same, to match the way the smoke unfurls across the sky, turning blue to bruised orange.
The peak of summer, and the town before last, there were girls in cutoffs and shirts so small they barely counted, July-tan skin and smiles that hinted at things they'd never do with the boys they'd have to see the next day. Here, though, there's hardly anybody. He saw fire crews on the way in, helicopter way up high. The kind of thing he'd wanted to do, once, though he'd dreamed not of wildfire but of the suburban variety. Happy little families he could save, put back together the way his own can never be.
What he's doing now is closer to fighting wildfires, huge, sweeping forces of nature that can never be beaten, that only lie dormant for a day or for a season, waiting for lightning, or for carelessness, or luck.
He gets it, now. There's always going to be something else to hunt. There's no point in thinking about anything else, because there's never going to be anything else. This morning he sat across from Dad in the back-corner booth of a diner named after somebody else's mother, drinking black coffee despite the heat because he needed the caffeine fix, and he didn't once think about stopping, about some other life, even though he's tired past the point of reason, like the ashes from the fires that have been burning all his life have accumulated on his skin, weighing him down more with every step.
He takes showers, trying to scrub it off, to no avail. It's burned down deep, maybe engrained in his soul. Not enough water in the world to scrub that out, and after five minutes, Sam's banging on the bathroom door, telling him to stop being an asshole and save some hot water for somebody else.
Not that he uses what meager hot water there is, though he won't tell Sam that. It'd be one more reason for Sam to give him that look, the one that catches him first and instantly like a slap and second, minutes or hours later, like a splinter, something nagging and insistent, poisoning his blood, leaving him wrecked, vertiginous. It makes him want to hit things, maybe hit Sam, split his knuckles on something.
Sharp, physical pain, because he can tolerate that better than the other.
It's hard to be awake, these days, which is one reason, the safest reason, for the cold water. This constant pervasive heat, smoke in his lungs all the time, always the smell of things burning, half nightmare and half memory. The way one day blends into night blends into the next. They're all the same, and there's never enough sleep to divide them.
His eyes threaten to slip closed, any minute, every minute. His movements are sluggish. This morning he almost knocked the salt shaker across the table, reaching for his coffee mug, but Dad didn't say anything, his eyes on the newspaper, tracking connections, looking for clues, and Sammy too had his head in a book, massive hardbound volume he stole from a library on the other side of the country.
Each time Dean's reminded him about that, he's flushed, glared. Like he's ashamed of it. It was funny the first couple of times, but it got old after that, and Dean's since stopped asking about it, stopped taunting. He doesn't like the look Sam gets on his face, stubborn set of his mouth, defiant cut of his eyes, like he can afford to be ashamed because this isn't going to be his life much longer.
He's planning to run, Dean knows. Sam's not gonna be here for long. He's got his exit route planned, he's only waiting for the day, the right moment.
As soon as he turns eighteen, he'll be out of here, and Dean tries not to think about that, too. About what it'll be like when he's gone. If Dad knows, he hasn't said anything, which Dean's pretty sure means he doesn't know.
If Dad had any idea, he wouldn't be quiet about it. He'd rage, and Sam would yell back, and neither of them would notice when Dean left the room, scuffed down the sidewalk to drink cheap, watery beer in a bar grimy with cigarette smoke and a miasma of desperation. He'd return a few hours later, tasting waxy lipstick and stale hops or maybe tequila, and even if he'd drunk enough for the paranoiac tingling at the back of his neck, this constant feeling like he's being watched, like any minute the trigger's going to be pulled, to loosen, he'd still notice the blood-orange tint of the sun, still taste smoke beneath everything.
He's not sure if there's a point at which he wouldn't. In the split-second before unconsciousness, maybe, or if he were very drunk. He doesn't dare find out; he's not suicidal.
He's not suicidal, which is why he knows that's exactly what would happen, were Dad to have even a hint. It happens every other time there's a fight, every time Dad gives an order without explanation or Sam rolls his eyes and Dad happens to notice. Dean's given up trying to break them apart, once they start shouting, because it never works. These days, he just takes shelter when it happens, heads out so that he can't be used as collateral by either side.
Maybe that makes him a coward. Sometimes, he really doesn't care.
And right now it doesn't matter, because right now, he's got a gun in his hand and dirt on his knees, the thin patches in his jeans having finally given away, and he thinks his nose is bleeding, because he's starting to taste copper, on top of everything else. His ears are ringing, too, and it's kind of hard to focus, his thoughts moving like rainwater or dissipating breath. He blinks and the world seems to skip, jump. He's missed a frame, like the movie of his life has somehow continued on without him.
Threadbare towel in the bathroom this morning; the motel only gave them two, and one of them's Dad's, so Dean's sharing this one with Sam, the way they share absolutely everything, or at least the way they used to. The backseat, when they were little, the same bed, when the only room available's a double. Their scent. Except even though rationally Dean knows that it's the same, that they share it, that there's no difference, that they're using the same soap, the same goddamn cheap shampoo and everything else is skin, he'd swear all the same--
He used that fucking towel this morning, and ever since then, beneath the smell of smoke and his own sweat, he's been breathing Sam.
But none of that's going to matter in a second, not if he doesn't get his ass moving, or more accurately, his arm, so he lifts the gun. The trees look black, beneath the burning sky, as though they've been charred by its proximity. He's going to die on his knees, and he's still not sure how he got there.
Something skeletal, with a carapace like stone, across the clearing and closing the distance fast. He remembers now, in clips, fragments: one of its arms colliding with his chest, and the resulting supernova of white, blossoming galaxy of something just this side of pain, as he hit the ground. Dad telling him to watch his back, and to watch Sam's. Sam rolling his eyes, turning away, I'm not a little kid anymore, Dean, just because Dad still thinks I am doesn't mean it's true. I don't need you.
Anybody'd be off his game, if somebody'd just told him his whole world had ended without his noticing. Not that it wasn't anything Dean hadn't seen coming, or really anything Sam hadn't said before, but this made it official, somehow.
He'd wanted to shout at Sam, maybe knock him down into the dirt and keep him there until both of them were breathless and bruised, make him swear it wasn't true, that he'd been lying, but no way that was an option and Dad was already heading for the other trail, so Dean did what he always does. He followed orders, and he's not sure where Sam went, after that. Maybe he stalked back to the car; wherever he went, Dean hopes he's safe. He hopes this thing, this skittering, chittering thing with eyes that aren't human in the least and far too many joints, doesn't get Sam, too. The gun in his hand weighs a ton, no way he'll be able to pull the trigger, and his head's starting to spin.
He's not going to be sick, though. God, spare him that one final indignity.
And then there's a burst, a gunshot, and he's not sure how he managed to pull that off, thinks maybe he blacked out again, because all of a sudden the creature is on the ground, leaking blood dark enough to be the opposite of stars.
"Dean," Sam says, and of course it was Sam. His brother emerging from the trees, pistol in hand and hair a swath of dark across his eyes, and Dean lets himself pitch forward a little because he knows Sam will catch him. Even though Sam shouldn't have to, Dean's meant to be the one to carry him, carry him home, and maybe this is one of the reasons Sam is leaving; Dean has never been good enough, not for him. "Hey, stay with me," and his hands are clean, sliding across Dean's skin, but Dean imagines them leaving sticky prints all over his forearms, all over his neck, all over his scalp, invisible tattoos. Sam's on his knees beside him and Dean lets himself lean into Sam's grasp, rest his head against Sam's chest. He remembers belatedly the blood on his face, thinks it's going to stain Sam's shirt, Rorschach the soft-worn grey, but Sam doesn't say anything about it.
Sam is lifting Dean's face, is making Dean meet his eyes. Huge, frightened eyes, like a kid again, like when he used to rely on Dean for everything, except he couldn't shoot like that when he was eight, and he wasn't nearly strong enough, big enough, to support Dean's weight the way he is now. "Are you okay?" Sam says.
"I'm fine," Dean says, or tries to say. He doesn't think it comes out quite right, because Sam's forehead furrows and then his head shakes and then he's shifting, adjusting his grip, his palm resting this time on Dean's cheek. Dean resists the urge to lean into it like a cat, tries instead to get to his feet. Sam has to help him more than he'd like to admit. More than he'll admit, later.
He feels jittery, like a caffeine overdose or an adrenaline aftermath, and that's certainly a possibility. "You're concussed," Sam says, ever the speaker of reason and cold harsh reality, but his voice hitches. Hope, Dean thinks, and the thought's enough to start conflagrations of its own. Sam's got his shoulder against Dean's, one arm tight around Dean's back, and the sky is whirling, full of meteors and fireworks. It's the end of the world, but Sam isn't saying anything; maybe he hasn't noticed yet. Dean gets his own arm around Sam, pulls him close, hooks his hand around Sam's belt for balance. He pushes his face into the hair curling against the side of Sam's neck, opens his mouth.
Salt, and smoke, and once-twice the beat of Sam's heart; Dean's going to bruise him all over, make sure no matter where he goes, he does not forget his brother, and then Dean is staggering, falling, and this time, Sam doesn't catch him.
He goes to his knees again beside him, though. Crouches for a second, rocking back on his sneakers, before kneeling onto the dirt. They go to their knees for each other time and again, Dean thinks, and this is maybe the first time it's ever been new. Sam's eyes are still huge, but his cheeks are flushed, and it isn't just the heat. There's a second, fraction of a second in which it might be, but then Sam's got his hands under Dean's shirt, one knee between Dean's legs as he bites at Dean's mouth, heedless, demanding, fierce as any wild thing, and there's no other possibility.
Sam makes the most beautiful sounds, though half of them might be Dean's own. Choked, gasping things, and Dean's hands slip below the waistband of Sam's jeans. Sam's mouth on his and they breathe together, or maybe Sam's doing the breathing for both of them as Dean fumbles with Sam's belt like it's his first time, as though he's never once known the crush and thunder of someone against him. Rough edges of the zipper against the pads of his fingers, and then Sam is saying his name, over and over again, louder than the crackle of the forest fire, louder than the white noise hum of Dean's own thoughts.
All it takes is Sam's hand on him, later, and he thinks he might never come down. His fingers caught in his brother's hair and Sam watching him the whole time, Sam's face inches from his own, Sam kissing him and when he closes his eyes, all he senses is Sam, nothing else left in the world.
He comes back to himself sometime later, on his back, fire-hazed and drifting. He could spend the rest of his life there, maybe, curl up beneath the trees, burrow into the pine needles and sleep with Sam at his back, but Sam tugs him to his feet. He tucks one hand in Sam's back pocket in revenge, and Sam lets him, doesn't say anything about it.
He has to lean on Sam, the whole way back to the car, and Dad is waiting for them there. "I heard a shot," he says. "You boys get it?"
"Yes, sir," Sam says, and Dean blinks woozily. There's something off about the moment, about talking to Dad this soon after getting Sam off, to having Sam's hand in his boxers, and he thinks he should blush, maybe. Apologize. He tries to pull away from Sam and nearly goes down onto his ass. He can't tell whether it's the sun or the moon, smoke-blinded in that apocalypse sky, and has the sudden sick desire for a cigarette. That might be irony, his subconscious fucking with him.
"Dean okay?" Dad says, his voice like something dredged up from the bottom of the ocean, rusty and old and echoing.
"Just concussed," Sam says. "Not like it's the first time." His hands on Dean's shoulders, guiding him into the back seat, sliding in after him so that they fit against the leather, together, the way they used to. From the front seat, Dad's congratulating them on a job well done, but his eyes are fixed on the road ahead, and Dean slumps against Sam's shoulder, the friction of Sam's t-shirt against his face at once an unbearable thing and necessary for his continued survival.
All that night, he wakes coughing and choking on smoke. He could roll over, rest his hand on Sam's hip, kiss him dizzy and illicit, Dad in the next bed. All these dirty things they can do together, and the smoke makes it unreal, the smoke makes it safe. Sam's hands all over him and nobody will see, and Dean's not going to think about what will happen after that, when all that's left are ashes and it's time to wake up.
--
end
by whereupon
Something I wrote for lavinialavender a few days ago. Supernatural, preseries, Sam/Dean, R. 2,600 words.
There's always going to be something else to hunt.
Fires some forty miles inland, but even out here, between the craggy rocks and the coniferous trees, the air tastes like smoke. Burning forests, though, not bones, and that at least is something new. The fires are too far off for their flames to be audible to Dean, but his mind supplies the deadwood crackle all the same, to match the way the smoke unfurls across the sky, turning blue to bruised orange.
The peak of summer, and the town before last, there were girls in cutoffs and shirts so small they barely counted, July-tan skin and smiles that hinted at things they'd never do with the boys they'd have to see the next day. Here, though, there's hardly anybody. He saw fire crews on the way in, helicopter way up high. The kind of thing he'd wanted to do, once, though he'd dreamed not of wildfire but of the suburban variety. Happy little families he could save, put back together the way his own can never be.
What he's doing now is closer to fighting wildfires, huge, sweeping forces of nature that can never be beaten, that only lie dormant for a day or for a season, waiting for lightning, or for carelessness, or luck.
He gets it, now. There's always going to be something else to hunt. There's no point in thinking about anything else, because there's never going to be anything else. This morning he sat across from Dad in the back-corner booth of a diner named after somebody else's mother, drinking black coffee despite the heat because he needed the caffeine fix, and he didn't once think about stopping, about some other life, even though he's tired past the point of reason, like the ashes from the fires that have been burning all his life have accumulated on his skin, weighing him down more with every step.
He takes showers, trying to scrub it off, to no avail. It's burned down deep, maybe engrained in his soul. Not enough water in the world to scrub that out, and after five minutes, Sam's banging on the bathroom door, telling him to stop being an asshole and save some hot water for somebody else.
Not that he uses what meager hot water there is, though he won't tell Sam that. It'd be one more reason for Sam to give him that look, the one that catches him first and instantly like a slap and second, minutes or hours later, like a splinter, something nagging and insistent, poisoning his blood, leaving him wrecked, vertiginous. It makes him want to hit things, maybe hit Sam, split his knuckles on something.
Sharp, physical pain, because he can tolerate that better than the other.
It's hard to be awake, these days, which is one reason, the safest reason, for the cold water. This constant pervasive heat, smoke in his lungs all the time, always the smell of things burning, half nightmare and half memory. The way one day blends into night blends into the next. They're all the same, and there's never enough sleep to divide them.
His eyes threaten to slip closed, any minute, every minute. His movements are sluggish. This morning he almost knocked the salt shaker across the table, reaching for his coffee mug, but Dad didn't say anything, his eyes on the newspaper, tracking connections, looking for clues, and Sammy too had his head in a book, massive hardbound volume he stole from a library on the other side of the country.
Each time Dean's reminded him about that, he's flushed, glared. Like he's ashamed of it. It was funny the first couple of times, but it got old after that, and Dean's since stopped asking about it, stopped taunting. He doesn't like the look Sam gets on his face, stubborn set of his mouth, defiant cut of his eyes, like he can afford to be ashamed because this isn't going to be his life much longer.
He's planning to run, Dean knows. Sam's not gonna be here for long. He's got his exit route planned, he's only waiting for the day, the right moment.
As soon as he turns eighteen, he'll be out of here, and Dean tries not to think about that, too. About what it'll be like when he's gone. If Dad knows, he hasn't said anything, which Dean's pretty sure means he doesn't know.
If Dad had any idea, he wouldn't be quiet about it. He'd rage, and Sam would yell back, and neither of them would notice when Dean left the room, scuffed down the sidewalk to drink cheap, watery beer in a bar grimy with cigarette smoke and a miasma of desperation. He'd return a few hours later, tasting waxy lipstick and stale hops or maybe tequila, and even if he'd drunk enough for the paranoiac tingling at the back of his neck, this constant feeling like he's being watched, like any minute the trigger's going to be pulled, to loosen, he'd still notice the blood-orange tint of the sun, still taste smoke beneath everything.
He's not sure if there's a point at which he wouldn't. In the split-second before unconsciousness, maybe, or if he were very drunk. He doesn't dare find out; he's not suicidal.
He's not suicidal, which is why he knows that's exactly what would happen, were Dad to have even a hint. It happens every other time there's a fight, every time Dad gives an order without explanation or Sam rolls his eyes and Dad happens to notice. Dean's given up trying to break them apart, once they start shouting, because it never works. These days, he just takes shelter when it happens, heads out so that he can't be used as collateral by either side.
Maybe that makes him a coward. Sometimes, he really doesn't care.
And right now it doesn't matter, because right now, he's got a gun in his hand and dirt on his knees, the thin patches in his jeans having finally given away, and he thinks his nose is bleeding, because he's starting to taste copper, on top of everything else. His ears are ringing, too, and it's kind of hard to focus, his thoughts moving like rainwater or dissipating breath. He blinks and the world seems to skip, jump. He's missed a frame, like the movie of his life has somehow continued on without him.
Threadbare towel in the bathroom this morning; the motel only gave them two, and one of them's Dad's, so Dean's sharing this one with Sam, the way they share absolutely everything, or at least the way they used to. The backseat, when they were little, the same bed, when the only room available's a double. Their scent. Except even though rationally Dean knows that it's the same, that they share it, that there's no difference, that they're using the same soap, the same goddamn cheap shampoo and everything else is skin, he'd swear all the same--
He used that fucking towel this morning, and ever since then, beneath the smell of smoke and his own sweat, he's been breathing Sam.
But none of that's going to matter in a second, not if he doesn't get his ass moving, or more accurately, his arm, so he lifts the gun. The trees look black, beneath the burning sky, as though they've been charred by its proximity. He's going to die on his knees, and he's still not sure how he got there.
Something skeletal, with a carapace like stone, across the clearing and closing the distance fast. He remembers now, in clips, fragments: one of its arms colliding with his chest, and the resulting supernova of white, blossoming galaxy of something just this side of pain, as he hit the ground. Dad telling him to watch his back, and to watch Sam's. Sam rolling his eyes, turning away, I'm not a little kid anymore, Dean, just because Dad still thinks I am doesn't mean it's true. I don't need you.
Anybody'd be off his game, if somebody'd just told him his whole world had ended without his noticing. Not that it wasn't anything Dean hadn't seen coming, or really anything Sam hadn't said before, but this made it official, somehow.
He'd wanted to shout at Sam, maybe knock him down into the dirt and keep him there until both of them were breathless and bruised, make him swear it wasn't true, that he'd been lying, but no way that was an option and Dad was already heading for the other trail, so Dean did what he always does. He followed orders, and he's not sure where Sam went, after that. Maybe he stalked back to the car; wherever he went, Dean hopes he's safe. He hopes this thing, this skittering, chittering thing with eyes that aren't human in the least and far too many joints, doesn't get Sam, too. The gun in his hand weighs a ton, no way he'll be able to pull the trigger, and his head's starting to spin.
He's not going to be sick, though. God, spare him that one final indignity.
And then there's a burst, a gunshot, and he's not sure how he managed to pull that off, thinks maybe he blacked out again, because all of a sudden the creature is on the ground, leaking blood dark enough to be the opposite of stars.
"Dean," Sam says, and of course it was Sam. His brother emerging from the trees, pistol in hand and hair a swath of dark across his eyes, and Dean lets himself pitch forward a little because he knows Sam will catch him. Even though Sam shouldn't have to, Dean's meant to be the one to carry him, carry him home, and maybe this is one of the reasons Sam is leaving; Dean has never been good enough, not for him. "Hey, stay with me," and his hands are clean, sliding across Dean's skin, but Dean imagines them leaving sticky prints all over his forearms, all over his neck, all over his scalp, invisible tattoos. Sam's on his knees beside him and Dean lets himself lean into Sam's grasp, rest his head against Sam's chest. He remembers belatedly the blood on his face, thinks it's going to stain Sam's shirt, Rorschach the soft-worn grey, but Sam doesn't say anything about it.
Sam is lifting Dean's face, is making Dean meet his eyes. Huge, frightened eyes, like a kid again, like when he used to rely on Dean for everything, except he couldn't shoot like that when he was eight, and he wasn't nearly strong enough, big enough, to support Dean's weight the way he is now. "Are you okay?" Sam says.
"I'm fine," Dean says, or tries to say. He doesn't think it comes out quite right, because Sam's forehead furrows and then his head shakes and then he's shifting, adjusting his grip, his palm resting this time on Dean's cheek. Dean resists the urge to lean into it like a cat, tries instead to get to his feet. Sam has to help him more than he'd like to admit. More than he'll admit, later.
He feels jittery, like a caffeine overdose or an adrenaline aftermath, and that's certainly a possibility. "You're concussed," Sam says, ever the speaker of reason and cold harsh reality, but his voice hitches. Hope, Dean thinks, and the thought's enough to start conflagrations of its own. Sam's got his shoulder against Dean's, one arm tight around Dean's back, and the sky is whirling, full of meteors and fireworks. It's the end of the world, but Sam isn't saying anything; maybe he hasn't noticed yet. Dean gets his own arm around Sam, pulls him close, hooks his hand around Sam's belt for balance. He pushes his face into the hair curling against the side of Sam's neck, opens his mouth.
Salt, and smoke, and once-twice the beat of Sam's heart; Dean's going to bruise him all over, make sure no matter where he goes, he does not forget his brother, and then Dean is staggering, falling, and this time, Sam doesn't catch him.
He goes to his knees again beside him, though. Crouches for a second, rocking back on his sneakers, before kneeling onto the dirt. They go to their knees for each other time and again, Dean thinks, and this is maybe the first time it's ever been new. Sam's eyes are still huge, but his cheeks are flushed, and it isn't just the heat. There's a second, fraction of a second in which it might be, but then Sam's got his hands under Dean's shirt, one knee between Dean's legs as he bites at Dean's mouth, heedless, demanding, fierce as any wild thing, and there's no other possibility.
Sam makes the most beautiful sounds, though half of them might be Dean's own. Choked, gasping things, and Dean's hands slip below the waistband of Sam's jeans. Sam's mouth on his and they breathe together, or maybe Sam's doing the breathing for both of them as Dean fumbles with Sam's belt like it's his first time, as though he's never once known the crush and thunder of someone against him. Rough edges of the zipper against the pads of his fingers, and then Sam is saying his name, over and over again, louder than the crackle of the forest fire, louder than the white noise hum of Dean's own thoughts.
All it takes is Sam's hand on him, later, and he thinks he might never come down. His fingers caught in his brother's hair and Sam watching him the whole time, Sam's face inches from his own, Sam kissing him and when he closes his eyes, all he senses is Sam, nothing else left in the world.
He comes back to himself sometime later, on his back, fire-hazed and drifting. He could spend the rest of his life there, maybe, curl up beneath the trees, burrow into the pine needles and sleep with Sam at his back, but Sam tugs him to his feet. He tucks one hand in Sam's back pocket in revenge, and Sam lets him, doesn't say anything about it.
He has to lean on Sam, the whole way back to the car, and Dad is waiting for them there. "I heard a shot," he says. "You boys get it?"
"Yes, sir," Sam says, and Dean blinks woozily. There's something off about the moment, about talking to Dad this soon after getting Sam off, to having Sam's hand in his boxers, and he thinks he should blush, maybe. Apologize. He tries to pull away from Sam and nearly goes down onto his ass. He can't tell whether it's the sun or the moon, smoke-blinded in that apocalypse sky, and has the sudden sick desire for a cigarette. That might be irony, his subconscious fucking with him.
"Dean okay?" Dad says, his voice like something dredged up from the bottom of the ocean, rusty and old and echoing.
"Just concussed," Sam says. "Not like it's the first time." His hands on Dean's shoulders, guiding him into the back seat, sliding in after him so that they fit against the leather, together, the way they used to. From the front seat, Dad's congratulating them on a job well done, but his eyes are fixed on the road ahead, and Dean slumps against Sam's shoulder, the friction of Sam's t-shirt against his face at once an unbearable thing and necessary for his continued survival.
All that night, he wakes coughing and choking on smoke. He could roll over, rest his hand on Sam's hip, kiss him dizzy and illicit, Dad in the next bed. All these dirty things they can do together, and the smoke makes it unreal, the smoke makes it safe. Sam's hands all over him and nobody will see, and Dean's not going to think about what will happen after that, when all that's left are ashes and it's time to wake up.
--
end