(no subject)
middle ground
Supernatural
Dean-Sam (gen); PG
549 words
A/N: This thing has been through so many drafts and incarnations I'd almost given up hope it would ever see the light of day. Thanks to mcee for beta, and to everyone who humored me by reading earlier drafts and telling me they didn't suck.
♥
Fifteen miles from the West Virginia border, the darkness is thick with the sticky scent of pine, the stars bright pinpricks through the treetops. Sam rolls down the window and the second verse of "Radar Love" gets swallowed whole by the rush of wind.
Dean glances over. Sam's got his face turned to the humid air, his hand stretched out, and he's so Sammy just then that Dean can't help the smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth, can't help his hand reaching across the seat. It's a strange habit he's gotten into lately, touching Sam's hair--not ruffling it, just letting it slide and settle between his fingers, as though to remind himself that Sam's real, he's here, he's okay. He does it on his way to the shower or to get another cup of coffee, in the car while Sam's asleep or nearly so; he does it now, and Sam tilts his head into Dean's hand, closing his eyes.
"What's up?" Dean asks carefully. His thumb slips under the shaggy hair at Sam's temple and finds the pulse there, strong and steady. His hair’s too long again already, and Dean remembers perpetually crooked childhood haircuts from Dad, how Sam and everything about him grew like a weed.
Sam turns his palm to the wind and laughs, humorlessly and slightly embarrassed. "Nothing." He ducks out from under Dean's hand, and Dean sees the pink in Sam's cheeks as they pass under a streetlight. "It's cool, man. I'm fine."
Dean almost calls him on it, his lips parting on a you're a shitty liar that's halfway past his teeth when Sam starts chewing his thumbnail. Dean decides to let it go; he knows that Sam will talk eventually, will tell Dean more than he'll ever ask and maybe more than he even wanted to know, and still not answer his question. Sam’s always been better at keeping secrets than Dean is at getting them out of him.
Even when they were kids, when Dean would tackle Sam to the ground and threaten to kick his ass all over creation if he didn’t start talking about why Dean’s favorite shirt had a giant hole in it, or why his Black Sabbath cassette smelled like cat piss, or that one time, what exactly had happened to his car, Sam would take a punch before spilling something he didn't want to tell. But he almost always fessed up later, once Dean had calmed down.
"Hey, you wanna drive for a while?" It's not much, but it's something, at least. It makes Dean a little sad to think how much of their lives has been a series of compromises.
Sam looks up, surprised. There's a pause, just a half a beat, and then, "Yeah, actually, I do."
Dean eases the car to a stop on the side of the highway littered with cigarette butts and the leftover shreds of someone's blown tire. They meet in front of the hood, and this time Dean does ruffle Sam's hair. Sam swats at him, and Dean squeezes his shoulder.
"Y'all right?"
"Yeah." Sam shrugs, shuffling his feet. In the glare of the headlights his smile is almost more truth than just a show of teeth, and Dean nods; it’s enough for him, for now.
Supernatural
Dean-Sam (gen); PG
549 words
A/N: This thing has been through so many drafts and incarnations I'd almost given up hope it would ever see the light of day. Thanks to mcee for beta, and to everyone who humored me by reading earlier drafts and telling me they didn't suck.
♥
Fifteen miles from the West Virginia border, the darkness is thick with the sticky scent of pine, the stars bright pinpricks through the treetops. Sam rolls down the window and the second verse of "Radar Love" gets swallowed whole by the rush of wind.
Dean glances over. Sam's got his face turned to the humid air, his hand stretched out, and he's so Sammy just then that Dean can't help the smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth, can't help his hand reaching across the seat. It's a strange habit he's gotten into lately, touching Sam's hair--not ruffling it, just letting it slide and settle between his fingers, as though to remind himself that Sam's real, he's here, he's okay. He does it on his way to the shower or to get another cup of coffee, in the car while Sam's asleep or nearly so; he does it now, and Sam tilts his head into Dean's hand, closing his eyes.
"What's up?" Dean asks carefully. His thumb slips under the shaggy hair at Sam's temple and finds the pulse there, strong and steady. His hair’s too long again already, and Dean remembers perpetually crooked childhood haircuts from Dad, how Sam and everything about him grew like a weed.
Sam turns his palm to the wind and laughs, humorlessly and slightly embarrassed. "Nothing." He ducks out from under Dean's hand, and Dean sees the pink in Sam's cheeks as they pass under a streetlight. "It's cool, man. I'm fine."
Dean almost calls him on it, his lips parting on a you're a shitty liar that's halfway past his teeth when Sam starts chewing his thumbnail. Dean decides to let it go; he knows that Sam will talk eventually, will tell Dean more than he'll ever ask and maybe more than he even wanted to know, and still not answer his question. Sam’s always been better at keeping secrets than Dean is at getting them out of him.
Even when they were kids, when Dean would tackle Sam to the ground and threaten to kick his ass all over creation if he didn’t start talking about why Dean’s favorite shirt had a giant hole in it, or why his Black Sabbath cassette smelled like cat piss, or that one time, what exactly had happened to his car, Sam would take a punch before spilling something he didn't want to tell. But he almost always fessed up later, once Dean had calmed down.
"Hey, you wanna drive for a while?" It's not much, but it's something, at least. It makes Dean a little sad to think how much of their lives has been a series of compromises.
Sam looks up, surprised. There's a pause, just a half a beat, and then, "Yeah, actually, I do."
Dean eases the car to a stop on the side of the highway littered with cigarette butts and the leftover shreds of someone's blown tire. They meet in front of the hood, and this time Dean does ruffle Sam's hair. Sam swats at him, and Dean squeezes his shoulder.
"Y'all right?"
"Yeah." Sam shrugs, shuffling his feet. In the glare of the headlights his smile is almost more truth than just a show of teeth, and Dean nods; it’s enough for him, for now.