fic: at the end of all your lines (1/1, spoilers)
title: at the end of all your lines
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
rating: pg
warnings: spoilers for 4x01, 4x02.
characters: Dean, Sam
word count: 563
notes: follow-up to where you left off (i pick up the pieces). more playing around with pov. lyrics from people in planes.
you've no time to reconcile me,
there's no time left at all,
and i'll take my share, and then i'll vanish,
i want my share, that's all.
Dean doesn't remember falling asleep, but the next thing he knows he's coming to in the bathroom. Cold tiles under his hands and against his back. His face pressed hard into the corner where the wall meets the tub. He doesn't know how he got there.
It's too much like digging himself out of his own grave. Dean shivers and can't stop.
There's a hollow space in his head, full of white noise; it gets easier and easier to slip into and just let everything go. Dean thinks maybe he should fight harder. His teeth clack together hard enough to hurt.
A warm hand closes around his arm. Sam. Dean doesn't have to open his eyes to know it's his brother.
"Dean, Dean."
Sam's voice is loud in the small bathroom. It beats against Dean's ears and makes him want to curl farther into the corner. Sam grabs him by the shoulders and that gets Dean's attention. The scar from Castiel flares to life under Sam's hand and he squints in the harsh fluorescent light. For a second Dean sees Sam's face half torn away, the white glisten of bone through skin. Dean remembers. He saw that once. Sammy all torn up and deaddeaddead.
"Damnit Dean, talk to me!"
His brother shakes him and Dean thinks he can hear his brain rattling around between his ears. He blinks and Sam's in front of him, whole and leaving fingerprint bruises along Dean's arms. He wants to -- wants to tell Sammy it's okay, he's okay, but nothing comes out except a mangled croak. His throat burns. He closes his eyes.
Sam's hands disappear and Dean flinches at the loss of contact. He has to fight the fear creeping up his throat, thick like bile: Alone in the dark with the screams and the pain. Sam’s not coming. Sammy’s gone.
Dean clenches his fist, lets his nails bite into his palms. He's not alone this time. He found Sam. He’s alive. No matter how fucked up things have gotten - angels and God and ghosts that won’t stay buried. Being dragged out of Hell. Victor and Ron and Meg. He’s not dreaming. He’s not still in Hell. This is real. It has to be.
But Dean hovers on the edge of panic until Sam comes back and pulls him off the floor. He lets himself be manhandled back into the bedroom. Sam forces him down onto the mattress. Piles all the blankets from the bed, Sam's bed, on top of him, then adds the ones from what was Dean's. Sam crawls in behind him, wraps the two of them up in a cocoon even though it's only September.
"I got you, man." Sam whispers. "I'm not going to lose you again."
He curls around Dean like he used to as a kid. Dean’s too tired to fight it, doesn’t really want to. He breathes. Sam keeps talking, quiet things that both of them want to believe:
"We’re gonna figure this out. I swear, nothing’s going to happen to me. We can fight this. We can win. I don’t care why he brought you back."
To Dean, the only thing that matters is Sam in the bed next to him. He’s not alone. This is real.
He drifts off to the sound of Sam's voice and the weight of his brother’s hand over his heart.
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
rating: pg
warnings: spoilers for 4x01, 4x02.
characters: Dean, Sam
word count: 563
notes: follow-up to where you left off (i pick up the pieces). more playing around with pov. lyrics from people in planes.
you've no time to reconcile me,
there's no time left at all,
and i'll take my share, and then i'll vanish,
i want my share, that's all.
Dean doesn't remember falling asleep, but the next thing he knows he's coming to in the bathroom. Cold tiles under his hands and against his back. His face pressed hard into the corner where the wall meets the tub. He doesn't know how he got there.
It's too much like digging himself out of his own grave. Dean shivers and can't stop.
There's a hollow space in his head, full of white noise; it gets easier and easier to slip into and just let everything go. Dean thinks maybe he should fight harder. His teeth clack together hard enough to hurt.
A warm hand closes around his arm. Sam. Dean doesn't have to open his eyes to know it's his brother.
"Dean, Dean."
Sam's voice is loud in the small bathroom. It beats against Dean's ears and makes him want to curl farther into the corner. Sam grabs him by the shoulders and that gets Dean's attention. The scar from Castiel flares to life under Sam's hand and he squints in the harsh fluorescent light. For a second Dean sees Sam's face half torn away, the white glisten of bone through skin. Dean remembers. He saw that once. Sammy all torn up and deaddeaddead.
"Damnit Dean, talk to me!"
His brother shakes him and Dean thinks he can hear his brain rattling around between his ears. He blinks and Sam's in front of him, whole and leaving fingerprint bruises along Dean's arms. He wants to -- wants to tell Sammy it's okay, he's okay, but nothing comes out except a mangled croak. His throat burns. He closes his eyes.
Sam's hands disappear and Dean flinches at the loss of contact. He has to fight the fear creeping up his throat, thick like bile: Alone in the dark with the screams and the pain. Sam’s not coming. Sammy’s gone.
Dean clenches his fist, lets his nails bite into his palms. He's not alone this time. He found Sam. He’s alive. No matter how fucked up things have gotten - angels and God and ghosts that won’t stay buried. Being dragged out of Hell. Victor and Ron and Meg. He’s not dreaming. He’s not still in Hell. This is real. It has to be.
But Dean hovers on the edge of panic until Sam comes back and pulls him off the floor. He lets himself be manhandled back into the bedroom. Sam forces him down onto the mattress. Piles all the blankets from the bed, Sam's bed, on top of him, then adds the ones from what was Dean's. Sam crawls in behind him, wraps the two of them up in a cocoon even though it's only September.
"I got you, man." Sam whispers. "I'm not going to lose you again."
He curls around Dean like he used to as a kid. Dean’s too tired to fight it, doesn’t really want to. He breathes. Sam keeps talking, quiet things that both of them want to believe:
"We’re gonna figure this out. I swear, nothing’s going to happen to me. We can fight this. We can win. I don’t care why he brought you back."
To Dean, the only thing that matters is Sam in the bed next to him. He’s not alone. This is real.
He drifts off to the sound of Sam's voice and the weight of his brother’s hand over his heart.