Supernatural ficlet: 5479 - Sam/Dean (PG)
Title: 5479
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Warnings: incest, mentions of canon character death
Spoilers: through the end of S2
Word Count: 475
A/N: Schmoop overdose. Thanks to lunachickk and ranereins.
Sam is covered in foul-smelling gunk, wishing Dean would finish up in the shower more than anything, when he remembers the date. Fifteen years have dulled the feel of slick blood anointing his forehead, of hellish heat and flame, of Dean’s hands on his body, guiding him away. Would’ve been, ten years ago, maybe even five, that Sam would have spent the day silent and distant, and for once Dean wouldn’t call him on his brooding. Instead he’s spent the day in Boston’s sewers following who-knows-what. Time has dulled, but not erased, even if Sam (tells himself he) had long ago stopped wondering what his life would be if Jess had never died.
Somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten what it’s like to look at white picket fences with longing. In between Dad’s death and Dean’s deal, Sam redefined normal, stopped envisioning a wife and kids and a law firm partnership. It doesn’t hurt so much now, knowing that he wasn’t meant for a regular life (thirty-seven, thirty-seven years ago he lost it, never even had the chance); time has blunted that, too.
Sam doesn’t notice that the shower has shut off until Dean is coming out of the bathroom stark naked and toweling his hair. “Ugh. Thought that crap would never come out…Sam? What’s wrong?” It doesn’t surprise Sam that Dean can see. Not much about Dean can surprise him, now.
“You know what day it is.”
Dean crosses the room and sits next to him on the bed. “Yeah,” Dean says. The lengths of their bodies touch, shoulder to foot, and it’s getting harder every day to remember a time when Dean wasn’t right there with him.
And it’s been fifteen years on the road with Dean. Hundreds of cheap motels, greasy diners, and shots fired. Neat rows of stitching in ripped clothes and cut skin. Years of ghosts and demons and other ugly things hiding in the dark. Uncountable miles of yellow lines down the highways and scattered grains of salt. All of it with Dean still at his side.
Sam turns his head and presses a kiss to Dean’s bare shoulder. Another to Dean’s neck, the thrum of his pulse steady under skin so easily broken. “Dude, get off me. You stink,” Dean complains, but there’s no annoyance in it. Dean says a lot of things he doesn’t mean.
Sam laughs, a little broken and a little hopeful, and then Dean’s mouth is there to meet his, wet and warm, with the barest touch of tongues. Not fifteen years of this (of them), but close, and it’s just as familiar, just as necessary in the rhythm of their life.
Sam doesn’t (can’t) tell him, you haven’t left me, you made it, you’re the only one. Instead he breathes against his brother’s mouth, saying, “Dean…Dean,” and knows that Dean understands.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Warnings: incest, mentions of canon character death
Spoilers: through the end of S2
Word Count: 475
A/N: Schmoop overdose. Thanks to lunachickk and ranereins.
Sam is covered in foul-smelling gunk, wishing Dean would finish up in the shower more than anything, when he remembers the date. Fifteen years have dulled the feel of slick blood anointing his forehead, of hellish heat and flame, of Dean’s hands on his body, guiding him away. Would’ve been, ten years ago, maybe even five, that Sam would have spent the day silent and distant, and for once Dean wouldn’t call him on his brooding. Instead he’s spent the day in Boston’s sewers following who-knows-what. Time has dulled, but not erased, even if Sam (tells himself he) had long ago stopped wondering what his life would be if Jess had never died.
Somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten what it’s like to look at white picket fences with longing. In between Dad’s death and Dean’s deal, Sam redefined normal, stopped envisioning a wife and kids and a law firm partnership. It doesn’t hurt so much now, knowing that he wasn’t meant for a regular life (thirty-seven, thirty-seven years ago he lost it, never even had the chance); time has blunted that, too.
Sam doesn’t notice that the shower has shut off until Dean is coming out of the bathroom stark naked and toweling his hair. “Ugh. Thought that crap would never come out…Sam? What’s wrong?” It doesn’t surprise Sam that Dean can see. Not much about Dean can surprise him, now.
“You know what day it is.”
Dean crosses the room and sits next to him on the bed. “Yeah,” Dean says. The lengths of their bodies touch, shoulder to foot, and it’s getting harder every day to remember a time when Dean wasn’t right there with him.
And it’s been fifteen years on the road with Dean. Hundreds of cheap motels, greasy diners, and shots fired. Neat rows of stitching in ripped clothes and cut skin. Years of ghosts and demons and other ugly things hiding in the dark. Uncountable miles of yellow lines down the highways and scattered grains of salt. All of it with Dean still at his side.
Sam turns his head and presses a kiss to Dean’s bare shoulder. Another to Dean’s neck, the thrum of his pulse steady under skin so easily broken. “Dude, get off me. You stink,” Dean complains, but there’s no annoyance in it. Dean says a lot of things he doesn’t mean.
Sam laughs, a little broken and a little hopeful, and then Dean’s mouth is there to meet his, wet and warm, with the barest touch of tongues. Not fifteen years of this (of them), but close, and it’s just as familiar, just as necessary in the rhythm of their life.
Sam doesn’t (can’t) tell him, you haven’t left me, you made it, you’re the only one. Instead he breathes against his brother’s mouth, saying, “Dean…Dean,” and knows that Dean understands.