Ficlet | Clear (AntiChristmas)
Title: Clear
Author: egotists
Gift recipient: keerawa
Characters/Pairing : Sam&(/)Dean (However you choose), Bobby
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: Angst
Summary: Dean's tired of the painful rhythm.
Note: Dear Keerawa, I'm incredibly sorry I'm late with this. I feel absolutely awful that it's not more but I wanted to give you at least something so I hope you like it and if you'd like I can write you something else or more or even the fic in Sam's POV. Whatever you want :)
Also thank you to noted for looking this over for me <3
Dean doesn't remember the last time he could see Sam clearly. It doesn't matter how many hours or days they spend together, there's always a wall, like some kind of brick fog glazing the outline of Sam's half awake stare. There's days, like this one, where it's especially hard. Standing on the edge of the apocalypse, barely an inch from choices that could make or break the rest of their lives, the world's lives.
They fight, too often, about these things. It's always the same old battle of wills, a debate about what they're fighting for, who they're fighting for. Bobby's there, a quiet presence until the time calls, and when he finally speaks up it's like a booming thunder reminding them that yeah - they're both self destructive fucks with a hero complex.
Different day, same thing, the same song on repeat that's getting really old. It's hard to recall the time when they existed beyond this, beyond the world that they live in. When Dean does, when he closes his eyes and sees little Sam with his sweet smile, long lashes kissing the round red of his cheeks, it's more like a dream then what comes when he sleeps at night.
The walls to this reality are building higher and Dean's tired, so very tired. When he looks in the mirror he sees the way he's aged, the lines under his eyes and the creases in his constant worried skin, his forehead like wrinkled paper that's been used and disposed. The next time Sam yells, raises his liquor warm voice to something more poison Dean lets him, sits on the bed, body folded forward with distinct surrender.
He can barely hear Sam, the echo a bullet just grazing his senses. He knows though when Sam's gone quiet, and by the time Dean's lifted his head to look Sam's only just managed to school the confused look on his face, close the gape of his mouth.
"Dean?" It's a whisper in the too still room.
"I can't make you do anything, Sammy." Dean licks his lips, the sharp edges of the chapped skin feeling like a comfort to the chaos in his mind of trying to make words, trying to make it all just make sense. "But I can't do it without you."
He doesn't say what it is, doesn't clarify if it means the whole hunting demons battle against the end of the world or if it means going on being Dean Winchester, kick ass and so fearless he can take on anything.
It's the first time in almost a year that Sam's looked at him, the fog melted away into the smooth brown of his eyes, and he's looking right into Dean. He's been naked in front of his brother before, a little kid streaking around the house like he's king of the jungle - but now, fully clothed and all grown up, he's never felt so exposed.
They still fight, still exchange the usual bitch, jerk jabs. They're still Dean and Sam, maybe even more themselves then that painful space of before. As the time winds closer to the end (or the beginning) of forever, they still fight the never ending battle, the hero complex that's ingrained so deep in their souls, all the way through their bones, and Bobby's still there to correct them when they lose their way. Life goes on, and so does Dean, Sam crystal clear at his side.
Author: egotists
Gift recipient: keerawa
Characters/Pairing : Sam&(/)Dean (However you choose), Bobby
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: Angst
Summary: Dean's tired of the painful rhythm.
Note: Dear Keerawa, I'm incredibly sorry I'm late with this. I feel absolutely awful that it's not more but I wanted to give you at least something so I hope you like it and if you'd like I can write you something else or more or even the fic in Sam's POV. Whatever you want :)
Also thank you to noted for looking this over for me <3
Dean doesn't remember the last time he could see Sam clearly. It doesn't matter how many hours or days they spend together, there's always a wall, like some kind of brick fog glazing the outline of Sam's half awake stare. There's days, like this one, where it's especially hard. Standing on the edge of the apocalypse, barely an inch from choices that could make or break the rest of their lives, the world's lives.
They fight, too often, about these things. It's always the same old battle of wills, a debate about what they're fighting for, who they're fighting for. Bobby's there, a quiet presence until the time calls, and when he finally speaks up it's like a booming thunder reminding them that yeah - they're both self destructive fucks with a hero complex.
Different day, same thing, the same song on repeat that's getting really old. It's hard to recall the time when they existed beyond this, beyond the world that they live in. When Dean does, when he closes his eyes and sees little Sam with his sweet smile, long lashes kissing the round red of his cheeks, it's more like a dream then what comes when he sleeps at night.
The walls to this reality are building higher and Dean's tired, so very tired. When he looks in the mirror he sees the way he's aged, the lines under his eyes and the creases in his constant worried skin, his forehead like wrinkled paper that's been used and disposed. The next time Sam yells, raises his liquor warm voice to something more poison Dean lets him, sits on the bed, body folded forward with distinct surrender.
He can barely hear Sam, the echo a bullet just grazing his senses. He knows though when Sam's gone quiet, and by the time Dean's lifted his head to look Sam's only just managed to school the confused look on his face, close the gape of his mouth.
"Dean?" It's a whisper in the too still room.
"I can't make you do anything, Sammy." Dean licks his lips, the sharp edges of the chapped skin feeling like a comfort to the chaos in his mind of trying to make words, trying to make it all just make sense. "But I can't do it without you."
He doesn't say what it is, doesn't clarify if it means the whole hunting demons battle against the end of the world or if it means going on being Dean Winchester, kick ass and so fearless he can take on anything.
It's the first time in almost a year that Sam's looked at him, the fog melted away into the smooth brown of his eyes, and he's looking right into Dean. He's been naked in front of his brother before, a little kid streaking around the house like he's king of the jungle - but now, fully clothed and all grown up, he's never felt so exposed.
They still fight, still exchange the usual bitch, jerk jabs. They're still Dean and Sam, maybe even more themselves then that painful space of before. As the time winds closer to the end (or the beginning) of forever, they still fight the never ending battle, the hero complex that's ingrained so deep in their souls, all the way through their bones, and Bobby's still there to correct them when they lose their way. Life goes on, and so does Dean, Sam crystal clear at his side.