(no subject)
Title: Out of Reach
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Rating: Um, yeah. PG. I fail.
Notes: For slytherinblack on her birthday! (happy birthday, here's some crap! hee.)
Sam’s life started with fire, but it is ice that preoccupies him.
This sheen of ice, whether real or imagined, surrounds him. He is Midas, although nothing he touches turns to gold; it turns to crystalline, crackling glass, frozen mirrors.
The first, is his mother. Long before he can remember, shortly after the life is breathed into him. She is the unknown, the can’t know; smoke and mirrors. Now, he might say that it was something like providence. That they were meant to take this path, to be so alone and so divergent. Icebergs exist in fleets, but they exist alone within them. And inevitably, they sink ships.
It is heat that claims her. That engulfs everyone but him. He is protected by the layer of frozen water, a barrier against the pain and the burning fury.
.
At twenty-two, that barrier is permeated. The second, Jessica. She is the sunshine, albeit here it is too weak to burn through the nightfall. Inevitably, it manages to throw some light. She goes, in the night. Irony at it’s finest.
Under the flicker of the firelight, his ice starts to crackle.
.
He is darkness. Work-rough hands, voice of grit, facade of danger. The third, is Dean. Sam is still frozen ice, a statuette deflecting the sun’s rays without her.
They spend infinite nights together, forever encapsulated in winter. Here, it is always nighttime and frigidly cold. They pass unaware of each other, Dean shrouded in night’s mourning colours and Sam in her best preservative. They try to coexist, feeling but not knowing the sun that burns around them.
The darkness knows no discretion. Ice is from the same jurisdiction of shade, and when everything is clouded by night it’s so hard to see.
He finds Sam’s bed, still half asleep. Curls up next to him like when they were younger, just shadows and shards of who they are now. Dean is still shivering; it’s so cold here. He tries to warm his body against Sam’s, unseen in the depths of this dusk. He can hear Sam’s shallow, icicle-ridden breaths, the cold gasps in the night. He does not know that Sam dreams of spring, of the sunshine competing with the fog. When Sam whimpers, Dean is overcome by the overwhelming need for daylight and presses their lips together, not knowing any other way to charge the energy. Starlight lips meet frozen blue, and Sam stirs.
“No, Dean.” Still mostly asleep, but shrewd anyhow. “It’s too cold.”
.
Dean is the unattainable, the ungraspable. The shadow is what keeps him alive, this ability to slip away, out of reach, to be incorporeal. Sam learns to adapt, to be curtained windows and dry ice.
It’s eight months to Jess’ death now, and he hardly even thinks of it. Wouldn’t have time to, if the demon they’re exorcising (freaky ass little boy, he thinks) hadn’t brought it up. Always expect polite conversation with demons, he can hear Dean’s voice taunting in the back corners of his mind. He pushes the thought back, into the shadows, where he keeps all hope of a ‘normal’ life, Stanford, a wife. His pipedreams and pipememories.
When they’ve got a normal kid back (Sam still can’t help his distaste for little Billy, even though he knows that he’s being irrational), they head out to the Impala. Worn out, tired, bodies dragging. Finally home - home being a Manhattan Motor Inn this week that is fascinatingly far from New York - they collapse together on the nearest bed, a habit comfortingly familiar and left over from childhood. As sleep pulls Dean under like the hand of Hades, Sam curls in next to him.
Dean murmurs, in his sleep. “Sammy, ‘s cold.”
He does the only thing he knows how to do now, and delves into the shade. Runs his hands over Dean’s sleeping body until he’s purring, until purring turns to dark little gasps, something more than comfort lying beneath them. Replaces his hands with his lips, peppering soft kisses across exposed skin. Dean moans, one sleep-lagged word.
“Sam.”
And with that, the light concentrates and the ice starts to melt at a disquieting pace.
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Rating: Um, yeah. PG. I fail.
Notes: For slytherinblack on her birthday! (happy birthday, here's some crap! hee.)
Sam’s life started with fire, but it is ice that preoccupies him.
This sheen of ice, whether real or imagined, surrounds him. He is Midas, although nothing he touches turns to gold; it turns to crystalline, crackling glass, frozen mirrors.
The first, is his mother. Long before he can remember, shortly after the life is breathed into him. She is the unknown, the can’t know; smoke and mirrors. Now, he might say that it was something like providence. That they were meant to take this path, to be so alone and so divergent. Icebergs exist in fleets, but they exist alone within them. And inevitably, they sink ships.
It is heat that claims her. That engulfs everyone but him. He is protected by the layer of frozen water, a barrier against the pain and the burning fury.
.
At twenty-two, that barrier is permeated. The second, Jessica. She is the sunshine, albeit here it is too weak to burn through the nightfall. Inevitably, it manages to throw some light. She goes, in the night. Irony at it’s finest.
Under the flicker of the firelight, his ice starts to crackle.
.
He is darkness. Work-rough hands, voice of grit, facade of danger. The third, is Dean. Sam is still frozen ice, a statuette deflecting the sun’s rays without her.
They spend infinite nights together, forever encapsulated in winter. Here, it is always nighttime and frigidly cold. They pass unaware of each other, Dean shrouded in night’s mourning colours and Sam in her best preservative. They try to coexist, feeling but not knowing the sun that burns around them.
The darkness knows no discretion. Ice is from the same jurisdiction of shade, and when everything is clouded by night it’s so hard to see.
He finds Sam’s bed, still half asleep. Curls up next to him like when they were younger, just shadows and shards of who they are now. Dean is still shivering; it’s so cold here. He tries to warm his body against Sam’s, unseen in the depths of this dusk. He can hear Sam’s shallow, icicle-ridden breaths, the cold gasps in the night. He does not know that Sam dreams of spring, of the sunshine competing with the fog. When Sam whimpers, Dean is overcome by the overwhelming need for daylight and presses their lips together, not knowing any other way to charge the energy. Starlight lips meet frozen blue, and Sam stirs.
“No, Dean.” Still mostly asleep, but shrewd anyhow. “It’s too cold.”
.
Dean is the unattainable, the ungraspable. The shadow is what keeps him alive, this ability to slip away, out of reach, to be incorporeal. Sam learns to adapt, to be curtained windows and dry ice.
It’s eight months to Jess’ death now, and he hardly even thinks of it. Wouldn’t have time to, if the demon they’re exorcising (freaky ass little boy, he thinks) hadn’t brought it up. Always expect polite conversation with demons, he can hear Dean’s voice taunting in the back corners of his mind. He pushes the thought back, into the shadows, where he keeps all hope of a ‘normal’ life, Stanford, a wife. His pipedreams and pipememories.
When they’ve got a normal kid back (Sam still can’t help his distaste for little Billy, even though he knows that he’s being irrational), they head out to the Impala. Worn out, tired, bodies dragging. Finally home - home being a Manhattan Motor Inn this week that is fascinatingly far from New York - they collapse together on the nearest bed, a habit comfortingly familiar and left over from childhood. As sleep pulls Dean under like the hand of Hades, Sam curls in next to him.
Dean murmurs, in his sleep. “Sammy, ‘s cold.”
He does the only thing he knows how to do now, and delves into the shade. Runs his hands over Dean’s sleeping body until he’s purring, until purring turns to dark little gasps, something more than comfort lying beneath them. Replaces his hands with his lips, peppering soft kisses across exposed skin. Dean moans, one sleep-lagged word.
“Sam.”
And with that, the light concentrates and the ice starts to melt at a disquieting pace.