Fic: Together with a roof right over our heads (we'll share the shelter of my single bed)
Title: Together with a roof right over our heads (we'll share the shelter of my single bed)
Author: Britomart_is
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Dean overtones.
Words: 1650
Notes: For dev_earl, on the occasion of her being awesome. Apologies to Robert Frost, and to my high school classmates in Vermont: I kid because I love.
The year Sam is seventeen, they spend a summer in backwoods Vermont while Dad is dealing with the angry ghost of Robert Frost (and earning the undying enmity of the local historical society in the process.) Dean's just been thoroughly chewed out for getting arrested in their last town (you shoulda seen the other guy), so he manages to limit his delinquency to the usual rural pursuits: stealing maple sap from the sugarbush next door, spending two days sick as a dog after overindulging in whatever the hell came out of Mike Hardy's still, and getting chigger bites on his ass from having sex with Angela Preston in the fire pond. Sam, on the other hand. Well. Sam is going through a phase.
"Sam! Get your ass down here." Dean shades his eyes, squinting into the sun as he cranes his neck to look up at the neighbors' barn roof.
There's the clatter of movement on the roof, and a shaggy head pops over the side. "Dean, you have a lot of anger."
Oh yeah, they've been in this town long enough. "No, Dad has a lot of anger. Want me to go get him, or are you coming down?"
Sam sighs heavily and disappears back onto the roof. Dean scuffs the dirt with a boot as he listens to Sam conferring quietly with friends, and then hears bare feet hitting the rungs of the wooden ladder. It still makes him wince. Dean has these visions of a black dog chasing a barefoot Sam into the woods, and it doesn't end pretty.
When Sam's standing before Dean, Dean gives him a careful once-over. Dirty bare feet. Raggedy sweatshirt that Dean's positive Sam hasn't washed all summer. The messy stubble that results from three months of Sam trying to grow a beard. Hair covering his eyes, flecked with hay, and growing perilously close to his shoulders. And don't even get Dean started on the Bob Marley. Or the Phish. Or the patchouli smell that follows Sam around with no apparent source.
"What." Sam's petulant eyebrow raise kinda torpedoes his whole peace-on-earth mellow stoner vibe.
"Time to head home. Come on." Dean descends the hill and knows that Sam will follow. A mild sigh and yeah, sure enough. Sam's at his elbow. Dean's pretty sure that Sam's oblivious to just how much weed his big brother's smoked, 'cause otherwise Sam'd probably go all Just Say No, just to be contrary. So Dean milks his moral superiority for all it's worth. "Y'know, potheads don't become astrophysicists."
"Except for Carl Sagan." Dean has no fucking idea who that is, but Sammy sounds pretty smug.
"Yeah, well. Dad would kick your ass."
"Like he needs an excuse," Sam mumbles, hair in his eyes hiding his expression from Dean. "Anyway," he says louder. "I want to be a public defender."
"Oh yeah?" Dean grins. "I like it. You could spring us next time we get picked up for B&E." Dean ruffles Sam's ridiculous hair and Sam ducks away. He almost wishes Sam could just go become a lawyer, because damn, Sammy knows how to argue. Why not go pro, right?
When they get to the house, Sam stops in the doorframe, looking at the duffels with their mouths gaping open, at the shelves and drawers already in disarray.
Dean braces himself and comes up behind Sam. "Heading to Detroit. Dad'll be in tomorrow morning, so try to not be smelling like a Deadhead by then." He smacks Sam's shoulder. "Get packing."
And to Dean's surprise, Sam does.
Dean's all geared up to convince Sam that being mistaken for a homeless guy is a lousy way to start your senior year of high school, but Sam beats him to the punch, silently presenting Dean with the scissors, kept sharp as a hunting knife.
Sam straddles a kitchen chair in the yard, his bare back dappled with maple-shadows, cloud-shadows, bird-shadows. Dean lingers behind Sam, watching the light moving over Sam's skin, takes his time lining up scissors, comb, water, towel. Runs a hand through Sam's hair, then grabs the scissors. "You gonna let me buzz it this time?"
Sam's back shakes when he laughs. "No."
Dean doesn't know what he'd do if Sam ever said yes. He squints at Sam's hair, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, and makes a snip.
--
Sam rests his face on crossed arms on the back of the chair, watches wind whiffling the tall weeds by the road. Soon he sees tufts of hair caught in the breeze, falling from Dean's busy scissors and tumbling and shining over the grass. Lazy and sun-warm, he listens to the snip-snip-snick, feels Dean brush fallen hair from his shoulders. A beetle crawls over his foot.
"All right." Dean's dragging a chair around to Sam's front, settling in with supplies at his head. "Chin up."
Sam lifts his head, tilts his chin up and tries not to screw up his face when Dean slathers him with shaving cream. Chemical-clean smell in his nose tamed by the feeling of Dean's fingers smoothing over his neck.
"K. Now don't move." Dean picks up the razor and his hand hovers over Sam's face. Sam's seen him with the same focus when there's a sniper rifle in his hands. Sam breathes easy and slow, tries not to move as Dean makes the first careful swipe, scratch-scrape of blade over stubble. Water sloshes in the bowl when Dean dunks the razor between strokes. "Why're you hanging out with those kids anyway?"
"As opposed to my other rich and varied social options in this town?" Sam says, dry as a motherfucking desert, but smiling. He schools his features to neutrality when Dean's hand comes back to his face. Scratch-scrape.
"Think they'd appreciate that you're a crack shot with a Desert Eagle? Or that you color-code your homework?" Dean furrows his brow as he painstakingly angles the razor over Sam's chin, gentle pressure cutting close but not drawing blood.
"I know I don't fit in," Sam says. He knows. But they didn't. Sam doesn't know how to explain his experiment to Dean, and he's pretty sure he shouldn't, anyway. But Sam needs to know. That he can be someone other than Sam Winchester, Ghost-Hunter-Geekboy. Or that he can pass for it, anyway. The breeze blows a cool touch over the exposed back of his neck, newly-shorn hair making him feel all fresh and vulnerable, all wobbly-newborn-colt. "I know who I am."
Dean makes the frowny-grimace and Sam imitates it, giving Dean room to maneuver on Sam's upper lip, short precise strokes, then a thumb to wipe the excess shaving cream away. A strong thumb and forefinger grasp Sam's chin and tip up. Sam bares his throat to Dean and lets his eyes fall shut, sunlight on his face. Dean's careful ministrations strip the scratchy beard away, leaving tingling naked skin behind.
--
"All right." Dean splashes away the stray white foam, pats Sam down with the towel. "Congratulations, you've rejoined the human race."
Sam's grin comes out to shine, and he stands, shaking a wisp of cut hair from his shoulder. And Dean can't help but look as Sam looms over him, body long and brown and strong. Dean gets uncomfortable with sitting at waist-level to Sam so he stands, takes Sam's face in his hands and turns it one way, then the other. Ruffles Sam's hair back from his face, and is suddenly, inexplicably happy-sad, the feeling of leaving, of packing up and saying goodbye to a peaceful summer crashing into Dean's realization that somewhere along the line, Sam grew up. Tall and handsome, strong angled jaw and confidence in the line of his back and shoulders. Nothing's changing, nothing that matters, but it feels like it is.
The sun breaks through the trees and Dean's melancholy burns off in time for him to realize that the moment has stretched out too long. His hand is resting on Sam's bare shoulder as he smiles stupidly at Sam's cleaned-up face. Dean clears his throat. "Look who was hiding under there," he says, and steps back.
Dean starts gathering his tools to go inside, busy his hands with packing and repacking until Dad gets back. Sam stops him, arm across Dean's chest. "Let's stay out here. We're done packing. Let's just-" Sam looks around the green-and-gold, home to their rare sun-dappled summer. "Enjoy it while we can."
Dean rolls his eyes and mutters, but he follows Sam to the barely-strung-together hammock suspended between the oak trees. Dean falls into it, causing an ominous creak, and Sam falls beside him, elbow digging into Dean's solar plexus. "Ow. Ow fucking ow."
Sam grins and wriggles further up the hammock, long legs slung across Dean's lap. He tips his face up to the sky, little smile on his face, and Dean's eyes wander over the smooth skin of Sam's neck.
"Hey Sammy," Dean says, hand on Sam's foot. "I don't want anything to change."
"Everything's going to change," Sam says. Gravity is slowly pulling them both into the dip in the middle of the hammock, too-big bodies jostling for space there. They're not really young enough to share space like this anymore. They lie side-by-side, feet on the ground, elbows poking into ribs. Sam leans his head on Dean's shoulder. "That's just how it works."
Dean's stupid beautiful grown-up brother is warm against his side. "Yeah, I guess." But the sun's still up, and the breeze smells like cut grass and shaving cream. They've got today. "Enjoy it while we can."
Author: Britomart_is
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Dean overtones.
Words: 1650
Notes: For dev_earl, on the occasion of her being awesome. Apologies to Robert Frost, and to my high school classmates in Vermont: I kid because I love.
The year Sam is seventeen, they spend a summer in backwoods Vermont while Dad is dealing with the angry ghost of Robert Frost (and earning the undying enmity of the local historical society in the process.) Dean's just been thoroughly chewed out for getting arrested in their last town (you shoulda seen the other guy), so he manages to limit his delinquency to the usual rural pursuits: stealing maple sap from the sugarbush next door, spending two days sick as a dog after overindulging in whatever the hell came out of Mike Hardy's still, and getting chigger bites on his ass from having sex with Angela Preston in the fire pond. Sam, on the other hand. Well. Sam is going through a phase.
"Sam! Get your ass down here." Dean shades his eyes, squinting into the sun as he cranes his neck to look up at the neighbors' barn roof.
There's the clatter of movement on the roof, and a shaggy head pops over the side. "Dean, you have a lot of anger."
Oh yeah, they've been in this town long enough. "No, Dad has a lot of anger. Want me to go get him, or are you coming down?"
Sam sighs heavily and disappears back onto the roof. Dean scuffs the dirt with a boot as he listens to Sam conferring quietly with friends, and then hears bare feet hitting the rungs of the wooden ladder. It still makes him wince. Dean has these visions of a black dog chasing a barefoot Sam into the woods, and it doesn't end pretty.
When Sam's standing before Dean, Dean gives him a careful once-over. Dirty bare feet. Raggedy sweatshirt that Dean's positive Sam hasn't washed all summer. The messy stubble that results from three months of Sam trying to grow a beard. Hair covering his eyes, flecked with hay, and growing perilously close to his shoulders. And don't even get Dean started on the Bob Marley. Or the Phish. Or the patchouli smell that follows Sam around with no apparent source.
"What." Sam's petulant eyebrow raise kinda torpedoes his whole peace-on-earth mellow stoner vibe.
"Time to head home. Come on." Dean descends the hill and knows that Sam will follow. A mild sigh and yeah, sure enough. Sam's at his elbow. Dean's pretty sure that Sam's oblivious to just how much weed his big brother's smoked, 'cause otherwise Sam'd probably go all Just Say No, just to be contrary. So Dean milks his moral superiority for all it's worth. "Y'know, potheads don't become astrophysicists."
"Except for Carl Sagan." Dean has no fucking idea who that is, but Sammy sounds pretty smug.
"Yeah, well. Dad would kick your ass."
"Like he needs an excuse," Sam mumbles, hair in his eyes hiding his expression from Dean. "Anyway," he says louder. "I want to be a public defender."
"Oh yeah?" Dean grins. "I like it. You could spring us next time we get picked up for B&E." Dean ruffles Sam's ridiculous hair and Sam ducks away. He almost wishes Sam could just go become a lawyer, because damn, Sammy knows how to argue. Why not go pro, right?
When they get to the house, Sam stops in the doorframe, looking at the duffels with their mouths gaping open, at the shelves and drawers already in disarray.
Dean braces himself and comes up behind Sam. "Heading to Detroit. Dad'll be in tomorrow morning, so try to not be smelling like a Deadhead by then." He smacks Sam's shoulder. "Get packing."
And to Dean's surprise, Sam does.
Dean's all geared up to convince Sam that being mistaken for a homeless guy is a lousy way to start your senior year of high school, but Sam beats him to the punch, silently presenting Dean with the scissors, kept sharp as a hunting knife.
Sam straddles a kitchen chair in the yard, his bare back dappled with maple-shadows, cloud-shadows, bird-shadows. Dean lingers behind Sam, watching the light moving over Sam's skin, takes his time lining up scissors, comb, water, towel. Runs a hand through Sam's hair, then grabs the scissors. "You gonna let me buzz it this time?"
Sam's back shakes when he laughs. "No."
Dean doesn't know what he'd do if Sam ever said yes. He squints at Sam's hair, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, and makes a snip.
--
Sam rests his face on crossed arms on the back of the chair, watches wind whiffling the tall weeds by the road. Soon he sees tufts of hair caught in the breeze, falling from Dean's busy scissors and tumbling and shining over the grass. Lazy and sun-warm, he listens to the snip-snip-snick, feels Dean brush fallen hair from his shoulders. A beetle crawls over his foot.
"All right." Dean's dragging a chair around to Sam's front, settling in with supplies at his head. "Chin up."
Sam lifts his head, tilts his chin up and tries not to screw up his face when Dean slathers him with shaving cream. Chemical-clean smell in his nose tamed by the feeling of Dean's fingers smoothing over his neck.
"K. Now don't move." Dean picks up the razor and his hand hovers over Sam's face. Sam's seen him with the same focus when there's a sniper rifle in his hands. Sam breathes easy and slow, tries not to move as Dean makes the first careful swipe, scratch-scrape of blade over stubble. Water sloshes in the bowl when Dean dunks the razor between strokes. "Why're you hanging out with those kids anyway?"
"As opposed to my other rich and varied social options in this town?" Sam says, dry as a motherfucking desert, but smiling. He schools his features to neutrality when Dean's hand comes back to his face. Scratch-scrape.
"Think they'd appreciate that you're a crack shot with a Desert Eagle? Or that you color-code your homework?" Dean furrows his brow as he painstakingly angles the razor over Sam's chin, gentle pressure cutting close but not drawing blood.
"I know I don't fit in," Sam says. He knows. But they didn't. Sam doesn't know how to explain his experiment to Dean, and he's pretty sure he shouldn't, anyway. But Sam needs to know. That he can be someone other than Sam Winchester, Ghost-Hunter-Geekboy. Or that he can pass for it, anyway. The breeze blows a cool touch over the exposed back of his neck, newly-shorn hair making him feel all fresh and vulnerable, all wobbly-newborn-colt. "I know who I am."
Dean makes the frowny-grimace and Sam imitates it, giving Dean room to maneuver on Sam's upper lip, short precise strokes, then a thumb to wipe the excess shaving cream away. A strong thumb and forefinger grasp Sam's chin and tip up. Sam bares his throat to Dean and lets his eyes fall shut, sunlight on his face. Dean's careful ministrations strip the scratchy beard away, leaving tingling naked skin behind.
--
"All right." Dean splashes away the stray white foam, pats Sam down with the towel. "Congratulations, you've rejoined the human race."
Sam's grin comes out to shine, and he stands, shaking a wisp of cut hair from his shoulder. And Dean can't help but look as Sam looms over him, body long and brown and strong. Dean gets uncomfortable with sitting at waist-level to Sam so he stands, takes Sam's face in his hands and turns it one way, then the other. Ruffles Sam's hair back from his face, and is suddenly, inexplicably happy-sad, the feeling of leaving, of packing up and saying goodbye to a peaceful summer crashing into Dean's realization that somewhere along the line, Sam grew up. Tall and handsome, strong angled jaw and confidence in the line of his back and shoulders. Nothing's changing, nothing that matters, but it feels like it is.
The sun breaks through the trees and Dean's melancholy burns off in time for him to realize that the moment has stretched out too long. His hand is resting on Sam's bare shoulder as he smiles stupidly at Sam's cleaned-up face. Dean clears his throat. "Look who was hiding under there," he says, and steps back.
Dean starts gathering his tools to go inside, busy his hands with packing and repacking until Dad gets back. Sam stops him, arm across Dean's chest. "Let's stay out here. We're done packing. Let's just-" Sam looks around the green-and-gold, home to their rare sun-dappled summer. "Enjoy it while we can."
Dean rolls his eyes and mutters, but he follows Sam to the barely-strung-together hammock suspended between the oak trees. Dean falls into it, causing an ominous creak, and Sam falls beside him, elbow digging into Dean's solar plexus. "Ow. Ow fucking ow."
Sam grins and wriggles further up the hammock, long legs slung across Dean's lap. He tips his face up to the sky, little smile on his face, and Dean's eyes wander over the smooth skin of Sam's neck.
"Hey Sammy," Dean says, hand on Sam's foot. "I don't want anything to change."
"Everything's going to change," Sam says. Gravity is slowly pulling them both into the dip in the middle of the hammock, too-big bodies jostling for space there. They're not really young enough to share space like this anymore. They lie side-by-side, feet on the ground, elbows poking into ribs. Sam leans his head on Dean's shoulder. "That's just how it works."
Dean's stupid beautiful grown-up brother is warm against his side. "Yeah, I guess." But the sun's still up, and the breeze smells like cut grass and shaving cream. They've got today. "Enjoy it while we can."