Vereor [1/1]
I love motel rooms. I really do. (Especially if I don't have to share.) They make me want to break out charts and maps and start drawing crazy symbols in order to protect myself.
I'm also a bit geeky, in case you haven't noticed. ^_^
So, just because I feel like it/ don't feel like writing 800 words on early American photography, here's a fic I finished a while back. I'm stole the title from somewhere else, I'm pretty sure it was Sam's safeword in flinchflower 's fics. Pretty sure. Please correct me if I got it wrong.
Title: Vereor
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: I'd say teen. It's not very graphic.
Disclaimer: Still just playing.
Warnings: AU, wincest, underage, parental violence, general violence, character death, dark, angst. Partly wee!chesters, teen!chesters.
Summary: In a different universe, John puts his son's psychic abilities to use.
Word Count: ~2000
~
They finally catch up with him at Dean’s grave, gather around him, weapons drawn, eyes wary, like wolves around the lamb. Sam doesn’t look up. He can see them, shades of grey at the edges of his vision, some lighter, some darker. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop staring at the bleak headstone, the unkempt patch of grass. He doesn’t even blink when Henrikson appears at his side, makes a snide remark, orders someone to cuff him.
Dean Winchester, the headstone reads, just that. No beloved son, no beloved brother, though Sam knows that he was. Dean was the light.
Sam is dust and darkness.
Dean is gone, buried. Sam can no longer see the light surrounding him, and for the first time in his life, he can look at Dean and actually see.
+++
The first time Sammy does it, Dean drags him into his lap. Sammy stiffens, because he wants Dean to know he’s a big boy now, six already. He wants Dean proud. But Dean tugs him closer, brings his lips close to Sammy’s ear, whispers to be quiet and be good and be strong, to settle. So Sammy does, watches as Daddy drags the man into the dusty back room they’re in.
Sammy doesn’t know him. He’s never seen him before. The man shimmers grey, dark shade of grey. Sammy can’t see well, tries to turn his head, but Daddy holds his chin tightly.
The man begs and bleeds, sobs. Then Daddy leans in close to whisper in Dean’s ear, and Dean leans in close to whisper in Sammy’s ear. Whispers to focus, can Sammy look at him? Really look? See his light?
Sammy does. He doesn’t like it, the man isn’t beautiful to look at. He’s not like Dean, not warm and safe and like a candle when all Sammy can see is shadows. But he does it. Stares and sees and doesn’t look away until the screaming stops and Dean promises him chocolate and ice cream.
Sammy doesn’t care about the chocolate, and only a little about the ice cream.
What matters is Dean’s quiet voice telling him he’s done good. He’s made him proud.
+++
The agents are a rough bunch, have trouble controlling their bodies. Often, elbows catch Sam in the sides, once the barrel of a rifle even hits him in the side of his head. His vision blurs for a moment, and he stumbles as he’s dragged forward. But it’s okay. The people in Sam’s world are always a little blurred around the edges.
Henrikson looks around, snaps at the man with the rifle.
The guy shrugs, says something, but he backs off a little. Sam can’t help thinking that maybe Dean would have told him to look at him, to see him, really see, even if the man is a little too dark for Sam’s taste. Too much shadow.
No one shines anymore, because Dean was the brightest of them all. And Dean is dead, so Sam supposes what Dean would have said doesn’t matter anymore.
+++
Looking became easier the more he did it. He didn’t look away from shadows, not anymore. He still wanted to, but it would have disappointed Dean, made Daddy angry. He knew which was worse, but he didn’t like either, liked them less than the screams, the headaches from concentrating. They became less bad after a while, or maybe he just got used to them. Because he did get used to it, to the procedure. Dad whispered to Dean who pulled Sam closer (he always held his hand, always) and Dean would hold him in his lap and whisper encouragement and glow brighter than the sun. Sammy knew that Dean was perfect. Tried not to look until one day, the temptation was too much. He wanted to see it all, all of him, take in all the beauty that was his brother. He had to squint a little, but Dean began to swim into focus, glowing more and more brightly. Breathtaking.
Dad’s hand hard against his cheek caught him off-guard just a few seconds before he could see Dean. Sammy was on the floor and crying and Dean was shouting and Dad was pulling him against his chest, pressing Sam’s face into his shirt. Kissing his hair in between whispered promises that if he ever tried to look at Dean again, Daddy would personally make sure Sammy didn’t see another day.
+++
The interrogation room is cold and filled with people, and Sam craves Dean like a stranded man craves water. Henrikson stands over him, asks questions that Sam doesn’t answer. He can’t help but see his Dean before him, and the headstone, and how the cold dead stone has nothing to do with his beautiful brother.
Henrikson brings his fist down on the table with a crash, and several people cringe.
Sam finally blinks, flicks a glance at him. Sees him.
Herikson is a beautiful man, a good man. Sam can see the anger and the frustration, but Henrikson is good. Pure. Not as bright as Dean, but he, too, is light. Sam likes him.
He falls apart under his gaze. Sam looks back at the wall, but he knows the other agents and police men suddenly don’t want to touch him anymore.
He doesn’t move yet, he doesn’t have to. He isn’t sure, but he thinks he might have smiled.
+++
When Sammy was fourteen and already a little taller than Dean, Dad started to leave them alone more. Said something about not being able to baby them forever and Sam had watched Dean’s expression cloud over and not known what to do except take his hand and hold it tight. But Dean didn’t want Sammy then, he wanted Dad, and it was all Sam’s fault.
Of course Dean never said that. He just hugged Sammy closer whenever Dad walked away, when he disappeared into some big building with pillars and stone stairs and came back sometimes hours later, either grim and satisfied or grim and bitter.
Sammy never let them know how much he liked it, how much he liked sitting on cold steps under grey skies, cushioned against Dean’s chest, just watching the quad. He could do it then, look at the people milling by as long as he didn’t try to focus. Them, he could watch, shades of grey across his vision, sitting still and idle while Dean pressed tiny kisses against his temple.
Once, there was a man coming out of Dad’s building, tall and dark and not-light as he stopped and towered over them, saying something Sammy didn’t bother to hear. He could feel Dean tense, though, as the man walked away.
Sam frowned at Dean, and there was an expression on his brother’s face that he couldn’t read, he couldn’t place. It frightened him a little, so when Dean took Sammy’s hands in his, brought his lips close to his ear and whispered “Him,” against his skin, Sam was more than happy to oblige.
+++
When he finally does get up, there is a flurry of movement. There are whispers and nudges and looks, and Sam draws himself up to his full height. He doesn’t, usually, stands slightly slouched because Dean has told him many times to be more invisible, to blend in. To not attract attention.
Here, all eyes are on him already, and Dean is not there to scold him. He squares his shoulders, lets his chair scrape back, and turns to the door.
+++
Sammy didn’t know what to make of it when he first started to follow girls with his eyes. Some of them seemed brighter, lighter, not like Dean but close, and he would walk slower and slower until Dean gave his hand a warning tug.
He tried not to look at them too much, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. If he was lucky Dad caught him in time. Then Sam hid his burning cheeks in Dean’s shirt, let his brother brush his thumbs over Sam’s wet lashes. Tried to be still until Dad pressed his rough lips to Sammy’s forehead.
He knew he would never be forgiven.
Sometimes Dad didn’t, and then people would scream and rush forward and Sammy would duck under Dad’s glare and Dean’s disapproval and wish to crawl up into himself.
But girls were never as bright as Dean was; never. Dean would hug him and gently kiss and radiate warmth and love and be everything Sammy needed him to be. Sometimes they horsed around, pushing and shoving until Dad told them off sternly because he needed to focus.
Sometimes he was gentle when he spoke, still a warning but less dangerous, like one day when Sammy was seventeen and Dad told them to please keep it down, he had work to do.
Dean laughed, tugged Sammy into his lap, and Sammy tilted his head so their lips meet.
Sammy didn’t notice Dad had gone still behind them until his chair scraped backwards sharply, until Dad took his coat, cleared his throat. He was going out for food, did they want anything?
Dean didn’t want to kiss after Dad had left, but he pulled Sammy closer when he started to cry, hugged him and squeezed his hand and when Dad crashed through the door late that night, smelling like alcohol and smoke and his knuckles bloody, none of them said a word.
+++
One of the agents gets in his way as he reaches for the door handle. He is grayish - not bright enough for Sam to want to look at him, but not really dark enough to not want to. He’s normal, Sam figures. Not the kind of person Dean would point to. Maybe Dad, though.
He sinks into himself like all the others, and Sam has to jerk the door a little to get him away. Nobody raises a hand to stop him anymore.
+++
Dad simply disappeared one day. Dean was frantic, calling numbers and shivering and crying while Sammy clung to his hand and did not raise his head. He wanted Dad back, too, because Dean was the candle in the night but Dad was fire. Dad was absolution denied. He kept Sammy grounded, helped him remember what a failure he was without ever saying it aloud.
But Dad was gone and he never came back to fetch his sons, abandoned by the side of the road. Dean was angry for a long time, swallowed his tears until he had none left. But he still held Sammy’s hand and as long as Dean still whispered names into Sammy’s ear, then the line of command wasn’t broken.
Then, one day, it was. It was torn apart, just like Sammy was torn apart, and all he could do was stare at a headstone and want his brother.
+++
The night sky is clear above him, and a cool wind blows, but he’s okay as long as he turns his collar up against the breeze. He’s alone now, he figures, all alone. There is no Dad to keep him on the right track, to scream and rage and hold him close, to whisper promises of an absolution that he knows he’ll never have.
And there is no Dean anymore. No soft fingers in his hair. No midnight kisses curled up together in the darkness. No fingers trailing pleasure into his body. No more eternity and us, because Dean is dead and his vows of forever lie broken in the dust.
Sam pries his fingers into the hairline cracks in his heart, because Sam without Dean isn’t Sam anymore, just like a brother without a brother isn’t a brother anymore. Because there was never Sam and Dean, there was only SamAndDean, and if being Sam means being without Dean, then Sam doesn’t want to be Sam anymore.
He was always Sammy anyway.
~
Feedback makes my day. :)
I'm also a bit geeky, in case you haven't noticed. ^_^
So, just because I feel like it/ don't feel like writing 800 words on early American photography, here's a fic I finished a while back. I'm stole the title from somewhere else, I'm pretty sure it was Sam's safeword in flinchflower 's fics. Pretty sure. Please correct me if I got it wrong.
Title: Vereor
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: I'd say teen. It's not very graphic.
Disclaimer: Still just playing.
Warnings: AU, wincest, underage, parental violence, general violence, character death, dark, angst. Partly wee!chesters, teen!chesters.
Summary: In a different universe, John puts his son's psychic abilities to use.
Word Count: ~2000
~
They finally catch up with him at Dean’s grave, gather around him, weapons drawn, eyes wary, like wolves around the lamb. Sam doesn’t look up. He can see them, shades of grey at the edges of his vision, some lighter, some darker. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop staring at the bleak headstone, the unkempt patch of grass. He doesn’t even blink when Henrikson appears at his side, makes a snide remark, orders someone to cuff him.
Dean Winchester, the headstone reads, just that. No beloved son, no beloved brother, though Sam knows that he was. Dean was the light.
Sam is dust and darkness.
Dean is gone, buried. Sam can no longer see the light surrounding him, and for the first time in his life, he can look at Dean and actually see.
+++
The first time Sammy does it, Dean drags him into his lap. Sammy stiffens, because he wants Dean to know he’s a big boy now, six already. He wants Dean proud. But Dean tugs him closer, brings his lips close to Sammy’s ear, whispers to be quiet and be good and be strong, to settle. So Sammy does, watches as Daddy drags the man into the dusty back room they’re in.
Sammy doesn’t know him. He’s never seen him before. The man shimmers grey, dark shade of grey. Sammy can’t see well, tries to turn his head, but Daddy holds his chin tightly.
The man begs and bleeds, sobs. Then Daddy leans in close to whisper in Dean’s ear, and Dean leans in close to whisper in Sammy’s ear. Whispers to focus, can Sammy look at him? Really look? See his light?
Sammy does. He doesn’t like it, the man isn’t beautiful to look at. He’s not like Dean, not warm and safe and like a candle when all Sammy can see is shadows. But he does it. Stares and sees and doesn’t look away until the screaming stops and Dean promises him chocolate and ice cream.
Sammy doesn’t care about the chocolate, and only a little about the ice cream.
What matters is Dean’s quiet voice telling him he’s done good. He’s made him proud.
+++
The agents are a rough bunch, have trouble controlling their bodies. Often, elbows catch Sam in the sides, once the barrel of a rifle even hits him in the side of his head. His vision blurs for a moment, and he stumbles as he’s dragged forward. But it’s okay. The people in Sam’s world are always a little blurred around the edges.
Henrikson looks around, snaps at the man with the rifle.
The guy shrugs, says something, but he backs off a little. Sam can’t help thinking that maybe Dean would have told him to look at him, to see him, really see, even if the man is a little too dark for Sam’s taste. Too much shadow.
No one shines anymore, because Dean was the brightest of them all. And Dean is dead, so Sam supposes what Dean would have said doesn’t matter anymore.
+++
Looking became easier the more he did it. He didn’t look away from shadows, not anymore. He still wanted to, but it would have disappointed Dean, made Daddy angry. He knew which was worse, but he didn’t like either, liked them less than the screams, the headaches from concentrating. They became less bad after a while, or maybe he just got used to them. Because he did get used to it, to the procedure. Dad whispered to Dean who pulled Sam closer (he always held his hand, always) and Dean would hold him in his lap and whisper encouragement and glow brighter than the sun. Sammy knew that Dean was perfect. Tried not to look until one day, the temptation was too much. He wanted to see it all, all of him, take in all the beauty that was his brother. He had to squint a little, but Dean began to swim into focus, glowing more and more brightly. Breathtaking.
Dad’s hand hard against his cheek caught him off-guard just a few seconds before he could see Dean. Sammy was on the floor and crying and Dean was shouting and Dad was pulling him against his chest, pressing Sam’s face into his shirt. Kissing his hair in between whispered promises that if he ever tried to look at Dean again, Daddy would personally make sure Sammy didn’t see another day.
+++
The interrogation room is cold and filled with people, and Sam craves Dean like a stranded man craves water. Henrikson stands over him, asks questions that Sam doesn’t answer. He can’t help but see his Dean before him, and the headstone, and how the cold dead stone has nothing to do with his beautiful brother.
Henrikson brings his fist down on the table with a crash, and several people cringe.
Sam finally blinks, flicks a glance at him. Sees him.
Herikson is a beautiful man, a good man. Sam can see the anger and the frustration, but Henrikson is good. Pure. Not as bright as Dean, but he, too, is light. Sam likes him.
He falls apart under his gaze. Sam looks back at the wall, but he knows the other agents and police men suddenly don’t want to touch him anymore.
He doesn’t move yet, he doesn’t have to. He isn’t sure, but he thinks he might have smiled.
+++
When Sammy was fourteen and already a little taller than Dean, Dad started to leave them alone more. Said something about not being able to baby them forever and Sam had watched Dean’s expression cloud over and not known what to do except take his hand and hold it tight. But Dean didn’t want Sammy then, he wanted Dad, and it was all Sam’s fault.
Of course Dean never said that. He just hugged Sammy closer whenever Dad walked away, when he disappeared into some big building with pillars and stone stairs and came back sometimes hours later, either grim and satisfied or grim and bitter.
Sammy never let them know how much he liked it, how much he liked sitting on cold steps under grey skies, cushioned against Dean’s chest, just watching the quad. He could do it then, look at the people milling by as long as he didn’t try to focus. Them, he could watch, shades of grey across his vision, sitting still and idle while Dean pressed tiny kisses against his temple.
Once, there was a man coming out of Dad’s building, tall and dark and not-light as he stopped and towered over them, saying something Sammy didn’t bother to hear. He could feel Dean tense, though, as the man walked away.
Sam frowned at Dean, and there was an expression on his brother’s face that he couldn’t read, he couldn’t place. It frightened him a little, so when Dean took Sammy’s hands in his, brought his lips close to his ear and whispered “Him,” against his skin, Sam was more than happy to oblige.
+++
When he finally does get up, there is a flurry of movement. There are whispers and nudges and looks, and Sam draws himself up to his full height. He doesn’t, usually, stands slightly slouched because Dean has told him many times to be more invisible, to blend in. To not attract attention.
Here, all eyes are on him already, and Dean is not there to scold him. He squares his shoulders, lets his chair scrape back, and turns to the door.
+++
Sammy didn’t know what to make of it when he first started to follow girls with his eyes. Some of them seemed brighter, lighter, not like Dean but close, and he would walk slower and slower until Dean gave his hand a warning tug.
He tried not to look at them too much, but sometimes he couldn’t help it. If he was lucky Dad caught him in time. Then Sam hid his burning cheeks in Dean’s shirt, let his brother brush his thumbs over Sam’s wet lashes. Tried to be still until Dad pressed his rough lips to Sammy’s forehead.
He knew he would never be forgiven.
Sometimes Dad didn’t, and then people would scream and rush forward and Sammy would duck under Dad’s glare and Dean’s disapproval and wish to crawl up into himself.
But girls were never as bright as Dean was; never. Dean would hug him and gently kiss and radiate warmth and love and be everything Sammy needed him to be. Sometimes they horsed around, pushing and shoving until Dad told them off sternly because he needed to focus.
Sometimes he was gentle when he spoke, still a warning but less dangerous, like one day when Sammy was seventeen and Dad told them to please keep it down, he had work to do.
Dean laughed, tugged Sammy into his lap, and Sammy tilted his head so their lips meet.
Sammy didn’t notice Dad had gone still behind them until his chair scraped backwards sharply, until Dad took his coat, cleared his throat. He was going out for food, did they want anything?
Dean didn’t want to kiss after Dad had left, but he pulled Sammy closer when he started to cry, hugged him and squeezed his hand and when Dad crashed through the door late that night, smelling like alcohol and smoke and his knuckles bloody, none of them said a word.
+++
One of the agents gets in his way as he reaches for the door handle. He is grayish - not bright enough for Sam to want to look at him, but not really dark enough to not want to. He’s normal, Sam figures. Not the kind of person Dean would point to. Maybe Dad, though.
He sinks into himself like all the others, and Sam has to jerk the door a little to get him away. Nobody raises a hand to stop him anymore.
+++
Dad simply disappeared one day. Dean was frantic, calling numbers and shivering and crying while Sammy clung to his hand and did not raise his head. He wanted Dad back, too, because Dean was the candle in the night but Dad was fire. Dad was absolution denied. He kept Sammy grounded, helped him remember what a failure he was without ever saying it aloud.
But Dad was gone and he never came back to fetch his sons, abandoned by the side of the road. Dean was angry for a long time, swallowed his tears until he had none left. But he still held Sammy’s hand and as long as Dean still whispered names into Sammy’s ear, then the line of command wasn’t broken.
Then, one day, it was. It was torn apart, just like Sammy was torn apart, and all he could do was stare at a headstone and want his brother.
+++
The night sky is clear above him, and a cool wind blows, but he’s okay as long as he turns his collar up against the breeze. He’s alone now, he figures, all alone. There is no Dad to keep him on the right track, to scream and rage and hold him close, to whisper promises of an absolution that he knows he’ll never have.
And there is no Dean anymore. No soft fingers in his hair. No midnight kisses curled up together in the darkness. No fingers trailing pleasure into his body. No more eternity and us, because Dean is dead and his vows of forever lie broken in the dust.
Sam pries his fingers into the hairline cracks in his heart, because Sam without Dean isn’t Sam anymore, just like a brother without a brother isn’t a brother anymore. Because there was never Sam and Dean, there was only SamAndDean, and if being Sam means being without Dean, then Sam doesn’t want to be Sam anymore.
He was always Sammy anyway.
~
Feedback makes my day. :)