Supernatural Fic: i am, i am, i am
i am, i am, i am
sam/dean; sam- r
2368 words
no spoilers; au
for ephemerall.
Sam is age _______ when Dean leaves, when John says time to work a little harder, son and when suddenly, the world swallows him in yellow and gray.
In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street.
David Markson| Wittgenstein's Mistress
-
Sam is age _______ when Dean leaves, when John says time to work a little harder, son and when suddenly, the world swallows him in yellow and gray.
“Are you angry?”
John’s voice is thick with dust in his lungs from the road as he reacquaints himself with Jack, the spill of desperation painted to his lips. Sam just spends a lot time staring at his hands, scars scrapped against his palms because he really never got the hand of a shot gun- really, it’s just easier to bleed Latin on cue.
His hair’s too long, in his eyes, and it’s been awhile since they’ve stopped and Sam misses stopping, breathing even for a second.
“Nah,” he lingers, barely looking at Dad. John, he reminds himself. Dad is for Dean, Dean is gone, and Sam has to stop, again, to remind himself that Dean had to leave. If anything, Dean deserved to have the space. “I’m okay.”
John’s stopped trying, even unfocused, but everybody knows when a Winchester lies, there’s just things you don’t talk about.
-
With dust on his boots, Sam slices some girl’s throat open.
“Nothin’ you could’ve done, Sammy,” John mutters, his hand on his back like it’s going to do something. And Sam’s fourteen, somehow, out of the haze and remembering what it’s like to really miss Dean.
“Right,” he mutters back, dropping his head back.
It’s all the same to him these days, stunted growth equates symptoms that range from the classic, apathetic rage of being left behind and the understanding that there’s nothing that he can do.
But there’s the girl.
She’s sixteen. A day and a year younger with long blonde hair in waves- driver’s licenses smears his memory with Jessica and she’ll be another one, another memory that tattoos blame across his chest.
“Let it go, Sammy.”
And here’s the thing, here’s what Sam knows.
Dad’s waiting for it, craving the moment where Sam opens his mouth and fuck you slips with laced blame.
Sam already knows that he can’t give him the satisfaction.
-
Tucked in the glove compartment of the truck, there’s a note:
- dad’s probably read this, but don’t be a stupid fuck.
-
Years still become years and for Sam, there are habits that seemingly intensify.
A hotel in Chicago, two separate rooms, and Sam hears John (Dad) through paper-thin walls, over and over again, a reckoning of mary, mary, mary as salvation continues to disappear.
Sam’s eyes screw shut because the volume’s busted on his television and it’s only the first night, and they still haven’t found him. In his head, he turns incantations into faces, memories of the people that he keeps with him.
There’s that girl, Jessica, who in another life would be someone that he could’ve loved. He knows it and she sings a laugh here and there. Sam, she grins, Sam, I would’ve made you cookies. But seeing that, understand that- it’s a story for no one but himself. It’s something he can’t afford.
There’s Mom, of course, but Mom has no voice. Mom sits at the edge of his bed, in each city, her hands folded in her lap and nodding. Maybe, she says go to sleep. Maybe, she says someone’s still here. But Sam’s old enough and world-weary to know that there’s nothing to say.
And then there’s Dean.
He doesn’t see Dean, doesn’t hear Dean, but he’s waiting. He’s waiting for the laugh, the husky slur of words when they steal bottles of scotch from the mini-bar- just a kid, okay, but in theory, you should understand.
Dean isn’t here and it sounds kinda nice in his head, ready to be taken and shoved back into memories. That would be taking control, moving on, so on and so on. It’s about the apologetic excuses, but really, there’s also something else.
There’s always something else.
In the dark, Sam pretends to close his eyes and waits for the bed to sink.
-
In Salem, he takes a back road.
There’s a voicemail: You’re old enough. I’ll call you.
He doesn’t know where he’s going and maybe that’s a good thing. Sam’s craved leaving before, but reminds himself, and again, that if there was anyone who deserved leaving that it was his brother.
But he doesn’t know how to stop thinking I miss you.
-
Dad finds him in Austin.
“He’s okay,” he greets, tossing a paper across the table.
Sam grunts, looks away, and hides a copy of Finnegan’s Wake underneath incantations and a menu. He’s been around for days, not quite a week, but close enough to scout the area.
What he knows by know is that Dad was actually looking for someone other than the obvious, persistent choice. He sits up straighter, studying his father with dark eyes. Why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he tell him that he-
“How is he?”
John swallows coffee as he dips into the menu and Sam’s hands clench into fists. Is he okay? Is he happy? Is he- It’s been awhile and they’ve really never talked about it. Sometimes John looks at him like he should’ve been the one to leave and Sam resents him for starting this all in the first place.
The silence between them is thick but John swallows and nods slowly and Sam’s tired enough to recognize the rise of the drinking cravings.
“Fuck,” he mutters, hands pressing against the table. “Fuck.”
Sam tosses a wad of cash on the table and stands. Dad’ll find him eventually, but this conversation is never going to happen. So why bother anyway?
-
A hunter named Gordon fucks up in Wisconsin, a general stretch of road splitting him and Dad apart.
Sam’s bleeding- his hands and his mouth are both stained and he’s tied to a chair with no idea of what to do. The rope is at his feet and he slides to the floor, dirt and piss scrapping against his jeans as his eyes close.
He fumbles for his phone, the number spinning in his head. It’s dead, but god, what the hell, he’s going to burst. He hears a ring and then another and it’s almost empty, hoping, but really, all he wants to do is talk to someone who really understands how chaotic all of this is.
There’s beep.
And he can’t find his voice. One, two, three, four-
“Hi.”
He coughs and shifts, wincing when there’s a crack in his leg. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Hey. I just wanted to- I don’t know if- It’s really bad now, Dean. It’s really bad and I don’t know what to do because Dad’s uncontrollable. I-”
This is crazy, he thinks. The need, him and Dad and the object of codependency is thick with maddening suffocation, pulling, tugging, and he understands. He always told himself that he understands.
His eyes close.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.”
-
Dad doesn’t look for him.
And Sam doesn’t look for him.
John is on rotation again, few and far between, the recognition is starting to fade and from now on, John will be John and Dad stays lost in a fire, in Kansas as promised like before.
Sam hunts because he knows how to. He knows how to pray and crave eyes out for even the most peculiar incantations. Scent and movement and weather patterns are internal clocks now, nothing better to do because he knows nothing else- school, the recollection, is too distant to touch anyway.
His hands are aching and there’s a bit of a secret, but he’s not worried. It’s just as long as he doesn’t fuck up.
In Denver, he starts to slip.
In Vegas, there’s a wrong corner, a girl that sees him instead of what she’s supposed to remember.
In New York, he waits too long for the crowd to swallow him and he remembers, around eight, Dean’s gaze stern.
You can’t stop, Sammy, quiet at just a bunch of years older than him. His eyes close and he can ever remember being tucked into his side, having someone there that understands. Because really, isn’t this what it’s truly about? The inclination of human nature, withstanding a few days.
Sam doesn’t know where to begin anymore.
-
It’s a diner, down the road, a nameless town outside the city limits.
Sam stops because he doesn’t need to, picks a booth in the front because he’s restless and weary and why not add careless to the list?
“Coffee,” he mumbles.
“Nah. Get him eggs. And bacon.”
Sam doesn’t look up, keeps his gaze glued to the window, but he can make out the lines of his brother in the glass. It’s almost too much, the recognition, the fierceness in Dean’s gaze is still there, different reasons, and he just wants to drop.
“You look like shit, Sammy,” Dean says. The booth moans when he sits next to him, not across and Sam ignores common curiosity. He almost looks up to see his eyes. Almost.
“Fuck off.”- These are his first words, long and drawn, craved into the air with a stake at hand. He’s angrier than he remembers being.
Dean leans back, the booth moaning again, and suddenly, there’s coffee in front of him anyway. Sam turns his gaze and smiles at the older woman with the hi i’m betty! name tag that spins halfway to the side.
“So.”
Sam shakes his head. “Don’t.”
He wonders if John’s trying to prove a point. If he sees Dean, sees how life’s just taken him, he’d leave it alone, go back, and they’d trade guns in roulette, just to keep it interesting. But Sam closes his eyes.
“Here?”
Dean’s fingers start to tap against the table. “Nope,” he says slowly. Breathes, “Three or four cities over. And a right to make it interesting.”
Sam snorts. The truth is simple: Dad’s taught them how to hide well.
“You should really eat,” Dean murmurs, pushing his plate to him when it comes. “You look like you’re a friggin’ kid still, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes close. “Fuck you.”
Everybody’s a teenager, but Sam’s got the rights to the monopoly. But he finally shifts and shifts back, his gaze dipping next to him. He takes Dean in, Dean in the Stones t-shirt, faded jeans, and probably still with the car that purrs for the girls.
Okay, for a second, maybe it’ll be okay.
He almost smiles.
-
Sam doesn’t want to fuck him.
Understand. Sam doesn’t want to fuck him because this is nowhere near what everything’s been about.
They buy a bottle of Jack, for old time’s sake, but leave it in the trunk of Sam’s car as they head silently to his room. Sam’s got the scenarios covered already and each ends with Dean gone in the morning, the air laughing about figments in his imagination.
It can spare a night.
So Sam thinks what the hell and slams his mouth against Dean’s, sinking his teeth into his lip and sucking until his brother pushes him against the door. They stumble and there’s a moan and don’t forget Sam’s learned how to love two types of people, ghosts and memories, and Dean owns both categories.
There’s a pop and Sam grunts as his jeans start to slide down his legs, the elastic of his boxers snapping against his hip as they follow.
“You should fuckin’ take care of yourself, Sam,” Dean slurs against his mouth, his hand curling around his shaft. His fingers drag too slow, one long stroke causing his hips to buck forward. “Really.”
Sam growls and hates himself for being too awkward still, watching Dean with hazy gaze. He drops his eyes to Dean’s hand, following his fingers against his cock. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as Dean’s thumb circles the tip of his cock and he just doesn’t know how to breathe.
Again, he thinks, again.
It’s something for the rooms, the cold Motel Six in your state of choice, and the memories of the last person who really touched him-
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because Dean presses forward, his mouth against Sam’s throat like they’ve done this before and they should’ve because then there would’ve been something to hold onto.
Years later, it seems hollow and overdue.
-
“Does it bother you?”
The early into the morning after, Dean’s mouth is settled against his throat as a habit and Sam’s eyes are too wide to be consciously aware.
He tries to swallow, but his hand brushes over his brother’s stomach for something: condolences to the road, it never knew the two of them like this before and Sam’s pretty sure it’s going to stay that way.
“You happy?”
Sam thinks back to the day, the one moment where he could’ve said something, and rewinds to the gravity of Dean’s final yes, sir. He almost laughs and leans forward, scrapping a nail against Dean’s hip.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says finally, slowly. The set of humor is thick, ripe for suffocation and he’s not interested today. “Does it?”
The bed moans. There’s a round of laughter upstairs. Sam thinks of John, pieces of articles pasted to walls, his mary, mary, mary in sets of seven, three each night. Little parts- there’s just not enough room, not in the extensions of any of them.
Dean sighs, as if he knew even before. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter.”
Sam nods, closing his eyes and stilling. It’s an homage to memory, if needed be, but it’s also the one thing that he understand. Dean’s found out how to stay still, how submit to steadiness, and his jealousy is just exhausted with the thought.
He’s confined to motion.
“Want my number?” Dean’s question is evasive, but honest and there’s a tentative understanding here, between them. An unnecessary offer follows as well, but Sam does his best to ignore it.
He can’t stay.
“Later,” he lies, closing his eyes. He shifts to his side. “Later. We’ll talk about it then.”
Dean breathes.
-
Several state lines and a city or two, Sam picks a Six on the highway, next to the airport, so that he can take a shower.
He forgot a goodbye.
end.
sam/dean; sam- r
2368 words
no spoilers; au
for ephemerall.
Sam is age _______ when Dean leaves, when John says time to work a little harder, son and when suddenly, the world swallows him in yellow and gray.
In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street.
David Markson| Wittgenstein's Mistress
-
Sam is age _______ when Dean leaves, when John says time to work a little harder, son and when suddenly, the world swallows him in yellow and gray.
“Are you angry?”
John’s voice is thick with dust in his lungs from the road as he reacquaints himself with Jack, the spill of desperation painted to his lips. Sam just spends a lot time staring at his hands, scars scrapped against his palms because he really never got the hand of a shot gun- really, it’s just easier to bleed Latin on cue.
His hair’s too long, in his eyes, and it’s been awhile since they’ve stopped and Sam misses stopping, breathing even for a second.
“Nah,” he lingers, barely looking at Dad. John, he reminds himself. Dad is for Dean, Dean is gone, and Sam has to stop, again, to remind himself that Dean had to leave. If anything, Dean deserved to have the space. “I’m okay.”
John’s stopped trying, even unfocused, but everybody knows when a Winchester lies, there’s just things you don’t talk about.
-
With dust on his boots, Sam slices some girl’s throat open.
“Nothin’ you could’ve done, Sammy,” John mutters, his hand on his back like it’s going to do something. And Sam’s fourteen, somehow, out of the haze and remembering what it’s like to really miss Dean.
“Right,” he mutters back, dropping his head back.
It’s all the same to him these days, stunted growth equates symptoms that range from the classic, apathetic rage of being left behind and the understanding that there’s nothing that he can do.
But there’s the girl.
She’s sixteen. A day and a year younger with long blonde hair in waves- driver’s licenses smears his memory with Jessica and she’ll be another one, another memory that tattoos blame across his chest.
“Let it go, Sammy.”
And here’s the thing, here’s what Sam knows.
Dad’s waiting for it, craving the moment where Sam opens his mouth and fuck you slips with laced blame.
Sam already knows that he can’t give him the satisfaction.
-
Tucked in the glove compartment of the truck, there’s a note:
- dad’s probably read this, but don’t be a stupid fuck.
-
Years still become years and for Sam, there are habits that seemingly intensify.
A hotel in Chicago, two separate rooms, and Sam hears John (Dad) through paper-thin walls, over and over again, a reckoning of mary, mary, mary as salvation continues to disappear.
Sam’s eyes screw shut because the volume’s busted on his television and it’s only the first night, and they still haven’t found him. In his head, he turns incantations into faces, memories of the people that he keeps with him.
There’s that girl, Jessica, who in another life would be someone that he could’ve loved. He knows it and she sings a laugh here and there. Sam, she grins, Sam, I would’ve made you cookies. But seeing that, understand that- it’s a story for no one but himself. It’s something he can’t afford.
There’s Mom, of course, but Mom has no voice. Mom sits at the edge of his bed, in each city, her hands folded in her lap and nodding. Maybe, she says go to sleep. Maybe, she says someone’s still here. But Sam’s old enough and world-weary to know that there’s nothing to say.
And then there’s Dean.
He doesn’t see Dean, doesn’t hear Dean, but he’s waiting. He’s waiting for the laugh, the husky slur of words when they steal bottles of scotch from the mini-bar- just a kid, okay, but in theory, you should understand.
Dean isn’t here and it sounds kinda nice in his head, ready to be taken and shoved back into memories. That would be taking control, moving on, so on and so on. It’s about the apologetic excuses, but really, there’s also something else.
There’s always something else.
In the dark, Sam pretends to close his eyes and waits for the bed to sink.
-
In Salem, he takes a back road.
There’s a voicemail: You’re old enough. I’ll call you.
He doesn’t know where he’s going and maybe that’s a good thing. Sam’s craved leaving before, but reminds himself, and again, that if there was anyone who deserved leaving that it was his brother.
But he doesn’t know how to stop thinking I miss you.
-
Dad finds him in Austin.
“He’s okay,” he greets, tossing a paper across the table.
Sam grunts, looks away, and hides a copy of Finnegan’s Wake underneath incantations and a menu. He’s been around for days, not quite a week, but close enough to scout the area.
What he knows by know is that Dad was actually looking for someone other than the obvious, persistent choice. He sits up straighter, studying his father with dark eyes. Why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he tell him that he-
“How is he?”
John swallows coffee as he dips into the menu and Sam’s hands clench into fists. Is he okay? Is he happy? Is he- It’s been awhile and they’ve really never talked about it. Sometimes John looks at him like he should’ve been the one to leave and Sam resents him for starting this all in the first place.
The silence between them is thick but John swallows and nods slowly and Sam’s tired enough to recognize the rise of the drinking cravings.
“Fuck,” he mutters, hands pressing against the table. “Fuck.”
Sam tosses a wad of cash on the table and stands. Dad’ll find him eventually, but this conversation is never going to happen. So why bother anyway?
-
A hunter named Gordon fucks up in Wisconsin, a general stretch of road splitting him and Dad apart.
Sam’s bleeding- his hands and his mouth are both stained and he’s tied to a chair with no idea of what to do. The rope is at his feet and he slides to the floor, dirt and piss scrapping against his jeans as his eyes close.
He fumbles for his phone, the number spinning in his head. It’s dead, but god, what the hell, he’s going to burst. He hears a ring and then another and it’s almost empty, hoping, but really, all he wants to do is talk to someone who really understands how chaotic all of this is.
There’s beep.
And he can’t find his voice. One, two, three, four-
“Hi.”
He coughs and shifts, wincing when there’s a crack in his leg. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Hey. I just wanted to- I don’t know if- It’s really bad now, Dean. It’s really bad and I don’t know what to do because Dad’s uncontrollable. I-”
This is crazy, he thinks. The need, him and Dad and the object of codependency is thick with maddening suffocation, pulling, tugging, and he understands. He always told himself that he understands.
His eyes close.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.”
-
Dad doesn’t look for him.
And Sam doesn’t look for him.
John is on rotation again, few and far between, the recognition is starting to fade and from now on, John will be John and Dad stays lost in a fire, in Kansas as promised like before.
Sam hunts because he knows how to. He knows how to pray and crave eyes out for even the most peculiar incantations. Scent and movement and weather patterns are internal clocks now, nothing better to do because he knows nothing else- school, the recollection, is too distant to touch anyway.
His hands are aching and there’s a bit of a secret, but he’s not worried. It’s just as long as he doesn’t fuck up.
In Denver, he starts to slip.
In Vegas, there’s a wrong corner, a girl that sees him instead of what she’s supposed to remember.
In New York, he waits too long for the crowd to swallow him and he remembers, around eight, Dean’s gaze stern.
You can’t stop, Sammy, quiet at just a bunch of years older than him. His eyes close and he can ever remember being tucked into his side, having someone there that understands. Because really, isn’t this what it’s truly about? The inclination of human nature, withstanding a few days.
Sam doesn’t know where to begin anymore.
-
It’s a diner, down the road, a nameless town outside the city limits.
Sam stops because he doesn’t need to, picks a booth in the front because he’s restless and weary and why not add careless to the list?
“Coffee,” he mumbles.
“Nah. Get him eggs. And bacon.”
Sam doesn’t look up, keeps his gaze glued to the window, but he can make out the lines of his brother in the glass. It’s almost too much, the recognition, the fierceness in Dean’s gaze is still there, different reasons, and he just wants to drop.
“You look like shit, Sammy,” Dean says. The booth moans when he sits next to him, not across and Sam ignores common curiosity. He almost looks up to see his eyes. Almost.
“Fuck off.”- These are his first words, long and drawn, craved into the air with a stake at hand. He’s angrier than he remembers being.
Dean leans back, the booth moaning again, and suddenly, there’s coffee in front of him anyway. Sam turns his gaze and smiles at the older woman with the hi i’m betty! name tag that spins halfway to the side.
“So.”
Sam shakes his head. “Don’t.”
He wonders if John’s trying to prove a point. If he sees Dean, sees how life’s just taken him, he’d leave it alone, go back, and they’d trade guns in roulette, just to keep it interesting. But Sam closes his eyes.
“Here?”
Dean’s fingers start to tap against the table. “Nope,” he says slowly. Breathes, “Three or four cities over. And a right to make it interesting.”
Sam snorts. The truth is simple: Dad’s taught them how to hide well.
“You should really eat,” Dean murmurs, pushing his plate to him when it comes. “You look like you’re a friggin’ kid still, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes close. “Fuck you.”
Everybody’s a teenager, but Sam’s got the rights to the monopoly. But he finally shifts and shifts back, his gaze dipping next to him. He takes Dean in, Dean in the Stones t-shirt, faded jeans, and probably still with the car that purrs for the girls.
Okay, for a second, maybe it’ll be okay.
He almost smiles.
-
Sam doesn’t want to fuck him.
Understand. Sam doesn’t want to fuck him because this is nowhere near what everything’s been about.
They buy a bottle of Jack, for old time’s sake, but leave it in the trunk of Sam’s car as they head silently to his room. Sam’s got the scenarios covered already and each ends with Dean gone in the morning, the air laughing about figments in his imagination.
It can spare a night.
So Sam thinks what the hell and slams his mouth against Dean’s, sinking his teeth into his lip and sucking until his brother pushes him against the door. They stumble and there’s a moan and don’t forget Sam’s learned how to love two types of people, ghosts and memories, and Dean owns both categories.
There’s a pop and Sam grunts as his jeans start to slide down his legs, the elastic of his boxers snapping against his hip as they follow.
“You should fuckin’ take care of yourself, Sam,” Dean slurs against his mouth, his hand curling around his shaft. His fingers drag too slow, one long stroke causing his hips to buck forward. “Really.”
Sam growls and hates himself for being too awkward still, watching Dean with hazy gaze. He drops his eyes to Dean’s hand, following his fingers against his cock. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as Dean’s thumb circles the tip of his cock and he just doesn’t know how to breathe.
Again, he thinks, again.
It’s something for the rooms, the cold Motel Six in your state of choice, and the memories of the last person who really touched him-
It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because Dean presses forward, his mouth against Sam’s throat like they’ve done this before and they should’ve because then there would’ve been something to hold onto.
Years later, it seems hollow and overdue.
-
“Does it bother you?”
The early into the morning after, Dean’s mouth is settled against his throat as a habit and Sam’s eyes are too wide to be consciously aware.
He tries to swallow, but his hand brushes over his brother’s stomach for something: condolences to the road, it never knew the two of them like this before and Sam’s pretty sure it’s going to stay that way.
“You happy?”
Sam thinks back to the day, the one moment where he could’ve said something, and rewinds to the gravity of Dean’s final yes, sir. He almost laughs and leans forward, scrapping a nail against Dean’s hip.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says finally, slowly. The set of humor is thick, ripe for suffocation and he’s not interested today. “Does it?”
The bed moans. There’s a round of laughter upstairs. Sam thinks of John, pieces of articles pasted to walls, his mary, mary, mary in sets of seven, three each night. Little parts- there’s just not enough room, not in the extensions of any of them.
Dean sighs, as if he knew even before. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter.”
Sam nods, closing his eyes and stilling. It’s an homage to memory, if needed be, but it’s also the one thing that he understand. Dean’s found out how to stay still, how submit to steadiness, and his jealousy is just exhausted with the thought.
He’s confined to motion.
“Want my number?” Dean’s question is evasive, but honest and there’s a tentative understanding here, between them. An unnecessary offer follows as well, but Sam does his best to ignore it.
He can’t stay.
“Later,” he lies, closing his eyes. He shifts to his side. “Later. We’ll talk about it then.”
Dean breathes.
-
Several state lines and a city or two, Sam picks a Six on the highway, next to the airport, so that he can take a shower.
He forgot a goodbye.
end.