SPN fic: Little Slices of Death
I have a bad habit of seeing prompts at comment fic memes, thinking, "Ooh," and then never writing them. But a couple stuck in my head lately, and during mini_nanowrimo, I actually wrote two comment fics for memes that are old, old, old. This first one, I think I saw it at hoodie_time, although I can't be sure. "Five times Dean couldn't sleep." That sounds like hoodie_time, right?
Anyway, here it is. Or it's here, too, at AO3.
Title: Little Slices of Death
Pairing: It's actually pretty gen.
Word count" 1770
Warnings: None. Spoilers up to season 6 but not including 6.11.
Summary: Um, five times Dean couldn't sleep.
Dean shifted restlessly, kicking the covers off as the heat of the night pressed in on him. He was sweating and the sheets stuck to him, twisting around his legs, trapping him.
He could look at the clock beside the bed, but he really didn't want to know what time it was. He'd just panic about how little sleep he was getting the night before his first hunt if he did that.
"Get some sleep, Dean," Dad had said, sending him off to bed almost as early as Sam. Usually Dad didn't give a rat's ass about what time he and Sam went to bed, but tonight he'd said, "I need you rested and ready to go, dude."
Now Dean was trying not to toss and turn on the narrow bed he had to share with Sam. Not only was Sam was a pissy bitch if he didn't get his full eight hours of beauty sleep, but Dad wouldn't be real happy if Dean wasn't awake and alert for the trip to the outskirts of town and the old house where the ghost of Sarah Brown was causing so much trouble.
Dean wasn't nervous, exactly. More like excited. Excited and scared to death that he was going to let Dad down, screw up somehow.
Dean turned his pillow over, the pillowcase cool against his cheek, if only for a few minutes. He tried not to sigh as he stared at the wall, moonlight reflected in the mirror above the battered dresser.
And then Sam rolled over next to him and Dean waited for him to start bitching about how Dean was keeping him up when he had an important math test tomorrow, or something.
But Sam didn't bitch, he didn't heave his usual long-suffering sigh, he didn't even huff in indignation.
He sat up and untangled the sheet from where it had wrapped itself around Dean's knees and pushed it neatly to the foot of the bed. Then he curled up on his side, facing Dean, and said, "It'll be okay, Dean. You'll do good."
He said it with such absolute faith shining in his eyes that Dean could feel himself relax. Sam smiled and Dean smiled back.
"Dork."
"Go to sleep, Dean," Sam said.
With Sam looking at him like that, he really had no choice.
*
Tiffani with an "i" rolled over, snuffling lightly into her pillow. Dean had no idea why he was still here, except that he'd unexpectedly fallen asleep, or maybe passed out, after he and Tiffani had some rather sloppy, drunken sex. That was the only explanation and now here he was, wide awake and stuck in some chick's crappy apartment in the middle of the night.
Dean was at least grateful that the octopus-like Tiffani had finally released her stranglehold around his neck and moved over to the other side of the bed. He'd been waiting for what seemed like forever, lying motionless in the dark. He didn't want to wake her up.
He didn't want to talk to her.
Now he debated how likely she was to wake up if he got out of bed, got his clothes on and got the hell out of there.
He cautiously slid his legs over the side of the bed, but before he could sit up, Tiffani moved again, shifting restlessly onto her back.
Dean froze.
If she woke up, chances were good she'd be up for another round and although Dean wasn't really in the mood anymore, that would still be okay.
But the chances were equally good that she'd want to talk, to resume their conversation from earlier, talk about that "sadness she'd sensed in him," or some such shit.
"I'm very sensitive, Dean," she'd said, peering into his eyes. Her mascara was smudged and she looked like a very earnest raccoon. "I can see how sad you are. I sensed it the minute I saw you." She cocked her head. "It's in your eyes."
"Terrific," Dean said with a leer. "I know how you can make me feel better."
She looked at him almost reprovingly and shook her head. "You're avoiding the subject." If Dean had known she was going to be like this, he'd have gone home with the hot blonde at the end of the bar instead of the waitress who'd brought him beer all evening.
"What subject?" Dean tried to guide her hand down to where he wanted it, but she pulled it back and settled it under her chin, watching him.
"What makes you so sad."
"Oh, for the love of -" Dean sighed. "I'm sad because I haven't gotten laid in weeks." I'm sad because my brother left me to go to college and I don’t know how he's doing.
Tiffani shrugged. "Okay. If you don't want to talk about it…." She leaned forward and kissed him. Her glossy lipstick felt waxy and kind of gross, but her hand was finally where it belonged and that made up for it.
And now he was stuck, lying there and staring at the ceiling, which Tiffani had decorated with about a million glowing stars.
Fuck it. If she woke up now or if he had to deal with her in the morning, what difference would it make? She'd still want to analyze him and he still wouldn't want to talk about it.
Dean swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up, looking around for his discarded boxers and jeans. He spotted them in a messy pile in the middle of the bedroom floor and stood up.
"Dean?"
"I gotta go, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."
"S'okay," Tiffani said sleepily. "I had fun tonight, thanks." She burrowed down under the covers and Dean heard a gentle snore.
He stood there, socks in one hand, shirt in the other, strangely disappointed.
"Huh," he said. He shrugged, pulled his clothes on and slipped out the door.
Sliding behind the wheel, Dean checked his cell phone for any messages from Dad. Nothing, but there was one missed call from an unknown number with a California area code.
He sat staring at his phone, feeling lighter than he had in months. His mouth was suddenly dry as he pushed send.
"Sammy?"
Dean drove back to his motel as they talked, catching up. He let himself in the door as the sun crept up over the horizon. It was still early, and he had nowhere to be. Maybe he could still catch a few Z's.
*
Castiel watched as Dean's eyes moved rapidly under his eyelids, back and forth, as if trying hard not to look at any one thing. Castiel knew enough about human anatomy and physiology to understand that Dean was dreaming his way out of sleep and would soon be awake again.
Castiel also knew what Dean dreamed about and while it was unfortunate and he wished he could prevent it, interfering in dreams was beyond the scope of his powers at present.
Besides, Dean frequently complained that Castiel invaded his personal space and Castiel felt sure that Dean would regard Castiel's interference in his dreams to be a gross invasion of privacy.
Castiel knew what Dean dreamed about because he'd been there. He'd seen for himself what Hell was like when he had put his hand on Dean and pulled him out. He would not wish Dean's dreams on the worst of his enemies and it pained him to see Dean suffer.
Maybe he could give Dean just a few minutes' respite. He couldn't prevent the dreams, but he could make Dean go deeper, make the dreams less vivid.
He leaned forward, reached out with his hand and touched Dean on the forehead.
Dean's breathing slowed, the occasional hitch in the rhythm evened out and the tightness around his eyes relaxed.
Castiel sat and watched Dean sleep.
*
Dean ignored the voice in his head that pointed out to him exactly how many times he'd already checked to see that the front door was locked, the devil's trap under the rug was intact, and the windows were secure.
Nothing and no one was getting in Lisa's house on his watch, no matter how many times he needed to check.
He wandered into the kitchen, checking the back door and then snagging the half-empty bottle of scotch off the top of the refrigerator. Pouring two fingers into a glass, he made his way to the garage door, opening it and flicking on the light.
Bright, florescent light flooded the room, making the contents stand out. His car stood covered on the far side of the room and Dean's eyes avoided it. It hurt too much, made him morose and miserable to look at his car.
Lisa didn't need morose, and she didn't deserve someone who needed half a bottle of scotch to get to sleep at night, but she'd let him in and he wasn't going anywhere.
There was nowhere for him to go. There was nothing left, nothing but this half-life he'd been living since Sam went in the hole.
Dean carried his drink with him into the living room, walking over to the door and checking the lock. Then he lifted up the rug in front of the door and checked the devil's trap. He thought about the garage and nodded his head.
It wouldn't hurt to check one more time.
*
Dean thought the not sleeping thing was the creepiest part of Sam's soul being missing. Not the worst part, but definitely the creepiest.
The first night after the big Sam doesn't have a soul reveal, Dean must have woken up a million times, absolutely unable to sleep. He was convinced Sam was watching him and he hated when someone watched him sleep. And every time Dean woke up and looked over at Sam, Sam was completely engrossed in something else, either his laptop or the muted TV, or yesterday's newspaper.
He didn't seem to be interested in Dean at all.
Dean couldn't decide if that made it harder to sleep, or easier.
"Hey," he finally said. Sam looked up from the newspaper.
"What?"
"You really don't sleep?" Dean asked.
Sam shook his head. "I really don't sleep. I can't explain it, but I don't."
"Don't you get tired?"
Sam considered this. "Nope."
"That's just weird, Sam," Dean said.
"So I gather," Sam said dryly. He looked at Dean. "Are you going to sleep?"
"Probably not."
"Breakfast?"
"Sure."
It wasn't what Dean wanted, but it was all he had right now, so he went with it.
Anyway, here it is. Or it's here, too, at AO3.
Title: Little Slices of Death
Pairing: It's actually pretty gen.
Word count" 1770
Warnings: None. Spoilers up to season 6 but not including 6.11.
Summary: Um, five times Dean couldn't sleep.
Dean shifted restlessly, kicking the covers off as the heat of the night pressed in on him. He was sweating and the sheets stuck to him, twisting around his legs, trapping him.
He could look at the clock beside the bed, but he really didn't want to know what time it was. He'd just panic about how little sleep he was getting the night before his first hunt if he did that.
"Get some sleep, Dean," Dad had said, sending him off to bed almost as early as Sam. Usually Dad didn't give a rat's ass about what time he and Sam went to bed, but tonight he'd said, "I need you rested and ready to go, dude."
Now Dean was trying not to toss and turn on the narrow bed he had to share with Sam. Not only was Sam was a pissy bitch if he didn't get his full eight hours of beauty sleep, but Dad wouldn't be real happy if Dean wasn't awake and alert for the trip to the outskirts of town and the old house where the ghost of Sarah Brown was causing so much trouble.
Dean wasn't nervous, exactly. More like excited. Excited and scared to death that he was going to let Dad down, screw up somehow.
Dean turned his pillow over, the pillowcase cool against his cheek, if only for a few minutes. He tried not to sigh as he stared at the wall, moonlight reflected in the mirror above the battered dresser.
And then Sam rolled over next to him and Dean waited for him to start bitching about how Dean was keeping him up when he had an important math test tomorrow, or something.
But Sam didn't bitch, he didn't heave his usual long-suffering sigh, he didn't even huff in indignation.
He sat up and untangled the sheet from where it had wrapped itself around Dean's knees and pushed it neatly to the foot of the bed. Then he curled up on his side, facing Dean, and said, "It'll be okay, Dean. You'll do good."
He said it with such absolute faith shining in his eyes that Dean could feel himself relax. Sam smiled and Dean smiled back.
"Dork."
"Go to sleep, Dean," Sam said.
With Sam looking at him like that, he really had no choice.
*
Tiffani with an "i" rolled over, snuffling lightly into her pillow. Dean had no idea why he was still here, except that he'd unexpectedly fallen asleep, or maybe passed out, after he and Tiffani had some rather sloppy, drunken sex. That was the only explanation and now here he was, wide awake and stuck in some chick's crappy apartment in the middle of the night.
Dean was at least grateful that the octopus-like Tiffani had finally released her stranglehold around his neck and moved over to the other side of the bed. He'd been waiting for what seemed like forever, lying motionless in the dark. He didn't want to wake her up.
He didn't want to talk to her.
Now he debated how likely she was to wake up if he got out of bed, got his clothes on and got the hell out of there.
He cautiously slid his legs over the side of the bed, but before he could sit up, Tiffani moved again, shifting restlessly onto her back.
Dean froze.
If she woke up, chances were good she'd be up for another round and although Dean wasn't really in the mood anymore, that would still be okay.
But the chances were equally good that she'd want to talk, to resume their conversation from earlier, talk about that "sadness she'd sensed in him," or some such shit.
"I'm very sensitive, Dean," she'd said, peering into his eyes. Her mascara was smudged and she looked like a very earnest raccoon. "I can see how sad you are. I sensed it the minute I saw you." She cocked her head. "It's in your eyes."
"Terrific," Dean said with a leer. "I know how you can make me feel better."
She looked at him almost reprovingly and shook her head. "You're avoiding the subject." If Dean had known she was going to be like this, he'd have gone home with the hot blonde at the end of the bar instead of the waitress who'd brought him beer all evening.
"What subject?" Dean tried to guide her hand down to where he wanted it, but she pulled it back and settled it under her chin, watching him.
"What makes you so sad."
"Oh, for the love of -" Dean sighed. "I'm sad because I haven't gotten laid in weeks." I'm sad because my brother left me to go to college and I don’t know how he's doing.
Tiffani shrugged. "Okay. If you don't want to talk about it…." She leaned forward and kissed him. Her glossy lipstick felt waxy and kind of gross, but her hand was finally where it belonged and that made up for it.
And now he was stuck, lying there and staring at the ceiling, which Tiffani had decorated with about a million glowing stars.
Fuck it. If she woke up now or if he had to deal with her in the morning, what difference would it make? She'd still want to analyze him and he still wouldn't want to talk about it.
Dean swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up, looking around for his discarded boxers and jeans. He spotted them in a messy pile in the middle of the bedroom floor and stood up.
"Dean?"
"I gotta go, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."
"S'okay," Tiffani said sleepily. "I had fun tonight, thanks." She burrowed down under the covers and Dean heard a gentle snore.
He stood there, socks in one hand, shirt in the other, strangely disappointed.
"Huh," he said. He shrugged, pulled his clothes on and slipped out the door.
Sliding behind the wheel, Dean checked his cell phone for any messages from Dad. Nothing, but there was one missed call from an unknown number with a California area code.
He sat staring at his phone, feeling lighter than he had in months. His mouth was suddenly dry as he pushed send.
"Sammy?"
Dean drove back to his motel as they talked, catching up. He let himself in the door as the sun crept up over the horizon. It was still early, and he had nowhere to be. Maybe he could still catch a few Z's.
*
Castiel watched as Dean's eyes moved rapidly under his eyelids, back and forth, as if trying hard not to look at any one thing. Castiel knew enough about human anatomy and physiology to understand that Dean was dreaming his way out of sleep and would soon be awake again.
Castiel also knew what Dean dreamed about and while it was unfortunate and he wished he could prevent it, interfering in dreams was beyond the scope of his powers at present.
Besides, Dean frequently complained that Castiel invaded his personal space and Castiel felt sure that Dean would regard Castiel's interference in his dreams to be a gross invasion of privacy.
Castiel knew what Dean dreamed about because he'd been there. He'd seen for himself what Hell was like when he had put his hand on Dean and pulled him out. He would not wish Dean's dreams on the worst of his enemies and it pained him to see Dean suffer.
Maybe he could give Dean just a few minutes' respite. He couldn't prevent the dreams, but he could make Dean go deeper, make the dreams less vivid.
He leaned forward, reached out with his hand and touched Dean on the forehead.
Dean's breathing slowed, the occasional hitch in the rhythm evened out and the tightness around his eyes relaxed.
Castiel sat and watched Dean sleep.
*
Dean ignored the voice in his head that pointed out to him exactly how many times he'd already checked to see that the front door was locked, the devil's trap under the rug was intact, and the windows were secure.
Nothing and no one was getting in Lisa's house on his watch, no matter how many times he needed to check.
He wandered into the kitchen, checking the back door and then snagging the half-empty bottle of scotch off the top of the refrigerator. Pouring two fingers into a glass, he made his way to the garage door, opening it and flicking on the light.
Bright, florescent light flooded the room, making the contents stand out. His car stood covered on the far side of the room and Dean's eyes avoided it. It hurt too much, made him morose and miserable to look at his car.
Lisa didn't need morose, and she didn't deserve someone who needed half a bottle of scotch to get to sleep at night, but she'd let him in and he wasn't going anywhere.
There was nowhere for him to go. There was nothing left, nothing but this half-life he'd been living since Sam went in the hole.
Dean carried his drink with him into the living room, walking over to the door and checking the lock. Then he lifted up the rug in front of the door and checked the devil's trap. He thought about the garage and nodded his head.
It wouldn't hurt to check one more time.
*
Dean thought the not sleeping thing was the creepiest part of Sam's soul being missing. Not the worst part, but definitely the creepiest.
The first night after the big Sam doesn't have a soul reveal, Dean must have woken up a million times, absolutely unable to sleep. He was convinced Sam was watching him and he hated when someone watched him sleep. And every time Dean woke up and looked over at Sam, Sam was completely engrossed in something else, either his laptop or the muted TV, or yesterday's newspaper.
He didn't seem to be interested in Dean at all.
Dean couldn't decide if that made it harder to sleep, or easier.
"Hey," he finally said. Sam looked up from the newspaper.
"What?"
"You really don't sleep?" Dean asked.
Sam shook his head. "I really don't sleep. I can't explain it, but I don't."
"Don't you get tired?"
Sam considered this. "Nope."
"That's just weird, Sam," Dean said.
"So I gather," Sam said dryly. He looked at Dean. "Are you going to sleep?"
"Probably not."
"Breakfast?"
"Sure."
It wasn't what Dean wanted, but it was all he had right now, so he went with it.