Supernatural Drabble: the summer where i knew you pressed between pages
the summer where i knew you pressed between pages
supernatural, sam/dean, r, 404 words, follow_midnight, spoilers for everybody loves a clown.
If you want lies I can tell them
If you want lies I got 'em
All the pennies in the Thames
Will not make it how it was
bloc party, always new depths
*
For days, they’re not ready. And Sam smells the fire like it’s home.
*
Dean’s eyes are hollow when they get back to the motel, his bag at his feet, and Sam thinks about dad’s eyes- he always remembered them dying.
He swallows and moves to the bed, sitting and watching helplessly. There are things that he’s going to keep to himself, selfish (it was the first right decision that he made in a long time) and daunting.
Dean drops to his bed, back turned and maybe, maybe his eyes are closed. Sam just can’t tell right now.
“Want,” he pauses, his throat burning, “Want something from the vending machine?”
There’s no answer. And he pretends Dean’s asleep.
*
“We have to get rid of the truck,” Dean says, the next day, flexing his hand. He’s barely touched his eggs. “I’m thinkin’ the place near the park, back by the water.”
He nods absently. And almost feels six again with the secrets he can’t touch.
*
It’s his decision, that night, to stand and drop into Dean’s bed.
He rests on his back and Dean’s on his stomach, like they’re kids again, reminiscing. (Maybe it’ll make sense.) He keeps his gaze to the ceiling, breathing slowly because, for once, he doesn’t know where to start. And he’s got to do something.
“Sleep’s overrated, Sammy.”
He snorts and eases at the mixing of dryness and affection (rare) in his voice, closing his eyes and just hoping craving for the moment.
“So what do we do?” It slips.
There’s no answer, but Dean’s hand is on his thigh, creeping with ease. Sam breathes once, then twice, and then, maybe, once more.
He gets it.
*
They fuck twice, the memory, the night before they make the decision to burn the body instead of drowning it all.
The truck’s gone. And Sam’s started to mourn too well, even though Dean’s hand is around his cock, his fingers curled as his strokes increase with not until I tell you, Sammy.
His fingers stay curled in Dean’s hair and he mews when his mouth, wet slides his cock and he breathes jesus christ like he really, truly means it all.
They’ll leave tomorrow. And start again.
*
Sam says something like we’re never going to bury dad’s white whale like it matters, the fucking metaphor.
Dean breathes, turns away, and mourns. All they know is ashes anyway.
*
end
supernatural, sam/dean, r, 404 words, follow_midnight, spoilers for everybody loves a clown.
If you want lies I can tell them
If you want lies I got 'em
All the pennies in the Thames
Will not make it how it was
bloc party, always new depths
*
For days, they’re not ready. And Sam smells the fire like it’s home.
*
Dean’s eyes are hollow when they get back to the motel, his bag at his feet, and Sam thinks about dad’s eyes- he always remembered them dying.
He swallows and moves to the bed, sitting and watching helplessly. There are things that he’s going to keep to himself, selfish (it was the first right decision that he made in a long time) and daunting.
Dean drops to his bed, back turned and maybe, maybe his eyes are closed. Sam just can’t tell right now.
“Want,” he pauses, his throat burning, “Want something from the vending machine?”
There’s no answer. And he pretends Dean’s asleep.
*
“We have to get rid of the truck,” Dean says, the next day, flexing his hand. He’s barely touched his eggs. “I’m thinkin’ the place near the park, back by the water.”
He nods absently. And almost feels six again with the secrets he can’t touch.
*
It’s his decision, that night, to stand and drop into Dean’s bed.
He rests on his back and Dean’s on his stomach, like they’re kids again, reminiscing. (Maybe it’ll make sense.) He keeps his gaze to the ceiling, breathing slowly because, for once, he doesn’t know where to start. And he’s got to do something.
“Sleep’s overrated, Sammy.”
He snorts and eases at the mixing of dryness and affection (rare) in his voice, closing his eyes and just hoping craving for the moment.
“So what do we do?” It slips.
There’s no answer, but Dean’s hand is on his thigh, creeping with ease. Sam breathes once, then twice, and then, maybe, once more.
He gets it.
*
They fuck twice, the memory, the night before they make the decision to burn the body instead of drowning it all.
The truck’s gone. And Sam’s started to mourn too well, even though Dean’s hand is around his cock, his fingers curled as his strokes increase with not until I tell you, Sammy.
His fingers stay curled in Dean’s hair and he mews when his mouth, wet slides his cock and he breathes jesus christ like he really, truly means it all.
They’ll leave tomorrow. And start again.
*
Sam says something like we’re never going to bury dad’s white whale like it matters, the fucking metaphor.
Dean breathes, turns away, and mourns. All they know is ashes anyway.
*
end