Supernatural Fic: stitching throats
stitching throats
supernatural, sam/dean, r, 1387 words, spoilers up to heart; this is the unintentional sequel to dry skin cracks. also dedicated to ephemerall.
“I told you to pick a spot,” he says tiredly- strange, how his voice never brushes frantic anymore. “I told you.”
There is a wall that runs right through me
Just like this city I will never be joined
bloc party| KREUZBERG
-
There’s a gas station in Rio.
Sam goes down instead of up, alone and nothing else to do. You see he’s fucked up with a conscience and if it’s going to end, it’s going to end- without him, if the son-of-a-bitch finds his way.
The bell rings as he kicks the glass door open, his boots scrapping against the pavement. He lost his cell phone in Mexico, but that was a long time ago. There’s still dirt under his nails too and he’s pissed about the Fritos.
He leans against his car for a second, his hands swallowing the carton of cigarettes that he bought, priceless in his head. He doesn’t smoke, but it reminds him of a lot of things: Dad and Jack, college bars with Jess laughing, and Dean and their first time all in a neat row.
Sam buried Dean, Ave Maria, in Baja instead of right there, in that alley. Baja’s close enough to be far away.
You know, his finger still curls absently.
-
He finds a cheap motel by the water.
He goes to the beach, thinks about drowning, but christ, this isn’t the Winchester way. Arms under his head, he casts his gaze up to the sky, gray, and the memory of his dreams come back.
I’ll find you- pretty little Meg with dying eyes and soft hair is now another girl, waiting for a chance. A redhead this time, but that’s besides the point, changing faces.
One thing is the same: he always wakes up with a so come.
-
“Dad says hey.”
Dean, Dean’s at the foot of his bed this morning with his hands shoved in his pockets and amusement in his eyes. Sam’s gaze is sleepy or lazy, depending on how he drifts, and it traces the outline of a hole against his brother’s skin.
It’s curious, the memory, Sam’s still got that coppery taste in his mouth, brushing gunpowder in nostalgia. It took him awhile to bleed out, he remembers. And he counted Dean’s seconds.
Red, with dirt, his cock is almost hard- “So you’re in hell?”
Dean chuckles, baring his teeth. “Nah,” he drawls, “You put a bullet in my heart, Sam.”
Sam shrugs. He never did like listening to cracking skulls.
-
For a while, he grasps rationality.
He’s alive with a strange awareness- this leads him to the bathroom, a Sunday morning, four o’clock peaking across the sky. His forehead drops against the glass of the mirror and he’s tired, you know, tired of wandering.
His eyes close. “I told you to pick a spot,” he says tiredly- strange, how his voice never brushes frantic anymore. “I told you.”
There’s a soft laugh. “You’re crazy, dude.”
-
Sam sits outside church, against the car- a Toyota, he frowns.
It’s the lessons he learned as kid, Mom gone and Dad there- instinct is funny, passed around through stories about the shadows in the dark. Never had a nightmare as kid, he thinks back, but it counted for something.
He thinks about going in.
Remember thought, it’s Pastor Jim (remember Jim?) who used to tell him: sammy, this is important with those kind eyes.
Again, it was Dean who skirted church like Dad and the irony is here, Sam standing with his hands in his pocket and wondering whether salvation is really worth it at this point. And really, since the beginning.
“We’re all pretty screwed.”
Dean, Dean on the stairs, leaning back and there’s no jacket this time. Sam’s eyes trace the wound again, one shot to the heart and all in the spirit of the lore.
Sam leans against the car. “Probably.”
Dean’s boots scuff against the stairs, but he doesn’t move- a ghost? Probably, but he’s done with distinctions. What he knows is on instinct anyway.
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Dean says lazily, turning his palms. Sam’s eyes skim over dirt and gravel and god, that corner. What a way to go.
But there’s nothing to say.
“Should’ve pulled the trigger,” he finishes.
-
It doesn’t occur to him that there’s nothing he can do.
From Rio, in circles, and then Buenos Aires, Sam remembers that it was Jess that spoke Spanish and almost conned him to Costa Rica. He loved her laugh, he remembers, breathless against his throat and Sunday mornings.
“I saw her.”
“Fuck you.”
He drops easily now, scattered, and here’s the thing: he doesn’t really know if the demon’s going to find him. Visions have died, the momentum stilled, and it’s like there’s a satisfaction in having him like this.
No expectation.
“I saw her,” Dean says again, same moment, different beach and motel. “She’s cute. ‘course, there’s no smurfs.”
He groans, dropping back onto the bed. His keys press into his leg, his arm skewed across his eyes, and it almost tries to block him.
“This is messed up,” he mutters finally.
He hears Dean laugh huskily, a chair squeaks, and did he mention- it’s surreal, sticking to the momentum of this. But he’s still here, across in a ratty chair with springs pushing out of the arms.
(and here’s a secret too: he’s counting on Dean’s appearances)
“You shot me.”
Sam rubs his eyes. “You should have killed me, first.”
He doesn’t want to watch him shrug because that’s what’s going to happen. Dean shrugging like before, reminding him of everything else, of what he lost in the second his finger curled around the trigger. He’s never been one for drama, but the space that the picture of that second and what it does to him- understand, replay hurts.
You don’t understand what it’s been like, each day, to wake up in bed alone. There are sticky sheets some mornings, Sam’s hand fitted around his cock and dean, dean, dean in the aftermath. Maybe, it’s mourning. It’s just one of those things.
The chair squeaks.
“Yeah. Probably.”
-
It’s May again.
Maybe it’s been a year. Maybe not. But he stays, wherever this is, maybe to try again. He never knows with himself.
But so the routine is clear:
There’s a liquor shop by a gallery, thick in the city. He passes with a tired buenos noche and stumbles over por favor and me encanta because he’s eternally rusty. He’d like to think Jess would’ve been proud.
It’s a bottle of Jack, not tequila- this year, it’s an homage to dad because, out loud, Dean hurts more. There’s a whisper, in his head, hooker, but he responds in kind with a fuck you and a trip to the beach.
Always, like before, it’s one last time with his hands curled in the sand, the bottle against his leg, and he tries to recreate absolution. The water’s probably cold enough.
“I miss you,” he says lightly, to the sky. And then again, slower: “I miss you.”
His arms spread out against the sand, listening to it scratch against his jacket. He follows to listen to the bottle fall, imagines the stain, and sighs. Sam can’t remember the last time he’s touched someone, wanted to, and it’s unnerving because there’s nothing to feel.
But this is probably it. He was too slow- coming to terms with this notion steadies him sometimes. Although, here’s the truth, he never goes very far. It’s what both Dean and Dad knew about him: he saw Mom in Dad’s eyes, the accusation (should’ve known), and then there was Dean’s that sometimes followed.
It sounds obtuse, he thinks with a curl of his lips and another drifting gaze, but set to wander for however long, you think about these things. Squares and sides and promises: Dean never replaced Jess and Jess never replaced Dean, get that clear, but the distinction always belonged to his brother.
He was the one that stayed.
“Gonna do it this time?” Sam keeps his eyes closed, listening to the steps by his head. There’s a snort. “I know, I know. Fuck you.”
Sam sighs. Wandering, again, surfaces as appropriate. He took the classes, Dante to the search for endlessness and enlightenment. Hated every second of it, but that stuff is always too applicable. Funny, even now.
His eyes open.
“Can’t do this forever.”
And he doesn’t want to- Sam’s already touched this, but he understands the course too. He made the decision.
So he shrugs. “You’re still here.”
end.
supernatural, sam/dean, r, 1387 words, spoilers up to heart; this is the unintentional sequel to dry skin cracks. also dedicated to ephemerall.
“I told you to pick a spot,” he says tiredly- strange, how his voice never brushes frantic anymore. “I told you.”
There is a wall that runs right through me
Just like this city I will never be joined
bloc party| KREUZBERG
-
There’s a gas station in Rio.
Sam goes down instead of up, alone and nothing else to do. You see he’s fucked up with a conscience and if it’s going to end, it’s going to end- without him, if the son-of-a-bitch finds his way.
The bell rings as he kicks the glass door open, his boots scrapping against the pavement. He lost his cell phone in Mexico, but that was a long time ago. There’s still dirt under his nails too and he’s pissed about the Fritos.
He leans against his car for a second, his hands swallowing the carton of cigarettes that he bought, priceless in his head. He doesn’t smoke, but it reminds him of a lot of things: Dad and Jack, college bars with Jess laughing, and Dean and their first time all in a neat row.
Sam buried Dean, Ave Maria, in Baja instead of right there, in that alley. Baja’s close enough to be far away.
You know, his finger still curls absently.
-
He finds a cheap motel by the water.
He goes to the beach, thinks about drowning, but christ, this isn’t the Winchester way. Arms under his head, he casts his gaze up to the sky, gray, and the memory of his dreams come back.
I’ll find you- pretty little Meg with dying eyes and soft hair is now another girl, waiting for a chance. A redhead this time, but that’s besides the point, changing faces.
One thing is the same: he always wakes up with a so come.
-
“Dad says hey.”
Dean, Dean’s at the foot of his bed this morning with his hands shoved in his pockets and amusement in his eyes. Sam’s gaze is sleepy or lazy, depending on how he drifts, and it traces the outline of a hole against his brother’s skin.
It’s curious, the memory, Sam’s still got that coppery taste in his mouth, brushing gunpowder in nostalgia. It took him awhile to bleed out, he remembers. And he counted Dean’s seconds.
Red, with dirt, his cock is almost hard- “So you’re in hell?”
Dean chuckles, baring his teeth. “Nah,” he drawls, “You put a bullet in my heart, Sam.”
Sam shrugs. He never did like listening to cracking skulls.
-
For a while, he grasps rationality.
He’s alive with a strange awareness- this leads him to the bathroom, a Sunday morning, four o’clock peaking across the sky. His forehead drops against the glass of the mirror and he’s tired, you know, tired of wandering.
His eyes close. “I told you to pick a spot,” he says tiredly- strange, how his voice never brushes frantic anymore. “I told you.”
There’s a soft laugh. “You’re crazy, dude.”
-
Sam sits outside church, against the car- a Toyota, he frowns.
It’s the lessons he learned as kid, Mom gone and Dad there- instinct is funny, passed around through stories about the shadows in the dark. Never had a nightmare as kid, he thinks back, but it counted for something.
He thinks about going in.
Remember thought, it’s Pastor Jim (remember Jim?) who used to tell him: sammy, this is important with those kind eyes.
Again, it was Dean who skirted church like Dad and the irony is here, Sam standing with his hands in his pocket and wondering whether salvation is really worth it at this point. And really, since the beginning.
“We’re all pretty screwed.”
Dean, Dean on the stairs, leaning back and there’s no jacket this time. Sam’s eyes trace the wound again, one shot to the heart and all in the spirit of the lore.
Sam leans against the car. “Probably.”
Dean’s boots scuff against the stairs, but he doesn’t move- a ghost? Probably, but he’s done with distinctions. What he knows is on instinct anyway.
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” Dean says lazily, turning his palms. Sam’s eyes skim over dirt and gravel and god, that corner. What a way to go.
But there’s nothing to say.
“Should’ve pulled the trigger,” he finishes.
-
It doesn’t occur to him that there’s nothing he can do.
From Rio, in circles, and then Buenos Aires, Sam remembers that it was Jess that spoke Spanish and almost conned him to Costa Rica. He loved her laugh, he remembers, breathless against his throat and Sunday mornings.
“I saw her.”
“Fuck you.”
He drops easily now, scattered, and here’s the thing: he doesn’t really know if the demon’s going to find him. Visions have died, the momentum stilled, and it’s like there’s a satisfaction in having him like this.
No expectation.
“I saw her,” Dean says again, same moment, different beach and motel. “She’s cute. ‘course, there’s no smurfs.”
He groans, dropping back onto the bed. His keys press into his leg, his arm skewed across his eyes, and it almost tries to block him.
“This is messed up,” he mutters finally.
He hears Dean laugh huskily, a chair squeaks, and did he mention- it’s surreal, sticking to the momentum of this. But he’s still here, across in a ratty chair with springs pushing out of the arms.
(and here’s a secret too: he’s counting on Dean’s appearances)
“You shot me.”
Sam rubs his eyes. “You should have killed me, first.”
He doesn’t want to watch him shrug because that’s what’s going to happen. Dean shrugging like before, reminding him of everything else, of what he lost in the second his finger curled around the trigger. He’s never been one for drama, but the space that the picture of that second and what it does to him- understand, replay hurts.
You don’t understand what it’s been like, each day, to wake up in bed alone. There are sticky sheets some mornings, Sam’s hand fitted around his cock and dean, dean, dean in the aftermath. Maybe, it’s mourning. It’s just one of those things.
The chair squeaks.
“Yeah. Probably.”
-
It’s May again.
Maybe it’s been a year. Maybe not. But he stays, wherever this is, maybe to try again. He never knows with himself.
But so the routine is clear:
There’s a liquor shop by a gallery, thick in the city. He passes with a tired buenos noche and stumbles over por favor and me encanta because he’s eternally rusty. He’d like to think Jess would’ve been proud.
It’s a bottle of Jack, not tequila- this year, it’s an homage to dad because, out loud, Dean hurts more. There’s a whisper, in his head, hooker, but he responds in kind with a fuck you and a trip to the beach.
Always, like before, it’s one last time with his hands curled in the sand, the bottle against his leg, and he tries to recreate absolution. The water’s probably cold enough.
“I miss you,” he says lightly, to the sky. And then again, slower: “I miss you.”
His arms spread out against the sand, listening to it scratch against his jacket. He follows to listen to the bottle fall, imagines the stain, and sighs. Sam can’t remember the last time he’s touched someone, wanted to, and it’s unnerving because there’s nothing to feel.
But this is probably it. He was too slow- coming to terms with this notion steadies him sometimes. Although, here’s the truth, he never goes very far. It’s what both Dean and Dad knew about him: he saw Mom in Dad’s eyes, the accusation (should’ve known), and then there was Dean’s that sometimes followed.
It sounds obtuse, he thinks with a curl of his lips and another drifting gaze, but set to wander for however long, you think about these things. Squares and sides and promises: Dean never replaced Jess and Jess never replaced Dean, get that clear, but the distinction always belonged to his brother.
He was the one that stayed.
“Gonna do it this time?” Sam keeps his eyes closed, listening to the steps by his head. There’s a snort. “I know, I know. Fuck you.”
Sam sighs. Wandering, again, surfaces as appropriate. He took the classes, Dante to the search for endlessness and enlightenment. Hated every second of it, but that stuff is always too applicable. Funny, even now.
His eyes open.
“Can’t do this forever.”
And he doesn’t want to- Sam’s already touched this, but he understands the course too. He made the decision.
So he shrugs. “You’re still here.”
end.