Train-of-Thought Fic - Carry My Name
Random train-of-thought fic. Seriously inspired by the Iron & Wine song "Freedom Hangs Like Heaven". Offer!verse. Sometimes Dean's sleep doesn't bring nightmares.
For nakitamanomiko ; may the second day be better than the first.
Mary, carry my name
[...]
freedom hangs like heaven over everyone
ain't nobody knows what the newborn holds
but a dollar says he'll lick that devil
and do it alone
The nightmares aren't an always. Once, he dreams, and he never understands his shaky memories when he wakes up, peace like an elaborate lie in the early morning hours with Sam's arm over his waist, brother sleeping quiet at his back. It's a little worse, almost, waking like that, because he's convinced it's a lie, a trap, that the grip will tighten and it'll be Hell all over again, Sam's blunt fingernails digging into the muscle on his stomach like it does when he has a nightmare of his own until they tear flesh, make him bleed.
It doesn't happen like that, and he lies very still and tries to remember what the dream was, what it meant because lately all of his dreams have been memories or worse, and he doesn't know what to do with the good one, except hold it in his mind like a favorite pillow, close and comfortable and white, smelling like the lavender his mother wore when he was only just old enough to remember, just small enough to think it smelled like home. He couldn't talk about remembering that, because Sam didn't and Dad was gone and hadn't spoken about Mary to him since he turned five and learned not to ask. It was the only thing he knew, intrinsic sense memory that had nothing to do with hunting or fires, that thought of lavender smelling like home when motor oil conveyed the same idea for a different reason.
Closing his eyes helped, the sleepiness of early morning making it easy to recall the last images behind his eyelids, the white and gold. The unfamiliar feeling of a hand on his forehead, forcing his eyes closed gentle like a nurse to a sick child, and arms around his shoulders like only Sam knew how to hold, just far enough that he didn't feel hemmed in, just close enough that he could move into it if he wanted to. He smelled lavender when she said his name, "Dean," soft like a plea, an apology.
He opened his eyes blurry with tears, and somehow that was worse than the pain.
For nakitamanomiko ; may the second day be better than the first.
Mary, carry my name
[...]
freedom hangs like heaven over everyone
ain't nobody knows what the newborn holds
but a dollar says he'll lick that devil
and do it alone
The nightmares aren't an always. Once, he dreams, and he never understands his shaky memories when he wakes up, peace like an elaborate lie in the early morning hours with Sam's arm over his waist, brother sleeping quiet at his back. It's a little worse, almost, waking like that, because he's convinced it's a lie, a trap, that the grip will tighten and it'll be Hell all over again, Sam's blunt fingernails digging into the muscle on his stomach like it does when he has a nightmare of his own until they tear flesh, make him bleed.
It doesn't happen like that, and he lies very still and tries to remember what the dream was, what it meant because lately all of his dreams have been memories or worse, and he doesn't know what to do with the good one, except hold it in his mind like a favorite pillow, close and comfortable and white, smelling like the lavender his mother wore when he was only just old enough to remember, just small enough to think it smelled like home. He couldn't talk about remembering that, because Sam didn't and Dad was gone and hadn't spoken about Mary to him since he turned five and learned not to ask. It was the only thing he knew, intrinsic sense memory that had nothing to do with hunting or fires, that thought of lavender smelling like home when motor oil conveyed the same idea for a different reason.
Closing his eyes helped, the sleepiness of early morning making it easy to recall the last images behind his eyelids, the white and gold. The unfamiliar feeling of a hand on his forehead, forcing his eyes closed gentle like a nurse to a sick child, and arms around his shoulders like only Sam knew how to hold, just far enough that he didn't feel hemmed in, just close enough that he could move into it if he wanted to. He smelled lavender when she said his name, "Dean," soft like a plea, an apology.
He opened his eyes blurry with tears, and somehow that was worse than the pain.