Crowd (Sam/Dean, pg-rated, 990 words)
Just to prove that I haven't stopped writing. *g*
Crowd
(Sam/Dean, pg-rated, 993 words)
This is dark-fic with a potential squick factor.
There's nothing in Dean's stomach but that doesn't stop it twisting in upon itself, heavy and hollow all at once. His throat works convulsively, retching up nothing but strings of bile. He hasn't eaten properly in months, unable to keep anything substantial down. Even when the nausea subsides, the queasy flutterings going through Dean leave him shaky. He sags back against the wall and tries to breathe without setting off another wave of vomiting.
Eventually, he manages to drag himself up the wall to get to his feet. He stumbles back into the motel room, where the air still smells stale with sickness. The quality of the light is bleak and grey. It's an unwelcoming room, with its unmade bed and mess of old newspapers. But it's safe.
Dean spreads a map out over the desk and rubs at his sleep-scratchy eyes until his vision clears enough for him to be able to properly track the roads. He traces an unsteady finger along his journey for the next day. It'll be a long drive, seven hours if Dean can make it. He'll need rest first, needs to conserve his strength. There's still most of a pizza in the box on the sideboard. Dean flips the lid open and swallows hard as he looks at it. It looks cold and greasy, and Dean's stomach gives a warning lurch.
He backs away and sits down heavily on the end of the bed. Sleep then. Please God don't let him dream. Please God…
There's a bang outside, then a scream, cut off sharp and wet. And Dean starts trembling, the breath punched out of him. He's run so far and it's just not enough.
His hands are shaking as he reaches for his gun, fingers clammy on the cold metal. He's going to be leaving behind most of his stuff but he can't risk taking the time to shove it into his duffel. There's no time for anything but escape.
Clicking the door open almost silently, Dean peers into the corridor, down the line of anonymous motel room doors. It's quiet. He's not fooled. His heart quivers in his chest, erratic and painful, and Dean forces himself to pull it together, forces his body to be strong and capable. Keeping his breathing low and even as he can, Dean steps out into the passage and moves towards the rear exit.
There's another scream, a garbled Please! and Dean stops.
Eight people have died, that he knows about, because of him, because of him running. There will have been more. Everywhere he's been these past months, there will be corpses, people who tried to help him or just were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he's so sorry, so fucking sorry, but he can't. He can't.
He takes in a short, high breath, and resolves himself to another murder on his conscience.
The rear exit is just around the corner and Dean hurries his pace. His back aches and his stomach is drawing in tight and uncomfortable. There's no time to feel it. No time to be in pain. The door's just in front of him and Dean almost falls into it in his hurry to reach it. He wrenches at the handle but it's locked or stuck and he can't get out. He's trapped.
He throws a glance over his shoulder, panicked, desperate, and then throws his weight against the door. It doesn't budge. Dean snarls and hisses under his breath, his heartbeat louder and faster, aching.
Everything hurts as Dean slams his shoulder into the door, but it doesn't stop him trying it again. He needs to get out.
"Oh thank God."
It's all over. Dean goes cold, so cold it must be like being dead.
He turns around.
Sam is covered in blood. It won't be his. It never is anymore. There's a smudge of it over his cheekbone, another on his upper lip - at odds with the liquid concern in his eyes. He moves slowly towards Dean.
"Do you have any idea how worried I've been? I've been looking for you everywhere. I've been going out of my mind."
A stuttered laugh pushes past Dean's lips, and he swings his gun up to point at Sam's chest. Can he pull the trigger? Will it make any damn difference? Doesn't matter. Sam doesn't stop moving. His hand closes around the gun and he slips it free from Dean's suddenly slack grip.
"Don't," Sam says, drawing closer still. "Don't do that. You know too much stress is bad for the baby." He lays his hand over Dean's unnaturally swollen belly, gentle and reverential. "Wow, you've gotten so big!" He looks down at where his hand is settled, splays his bloody fingers wider. So much love. "Have you felt… is it kicking yet?"
Dean doesn't answer. Sam doesn't seem to notice. He eases Dean closer, apparently oblivious to the empty quiescence with which Dean lets him. When Sam tilts Dean's face up to him, he doesn't seem to care when Dean won't let his eyes meet Sam's. He kisses Dean tenderly. There's desperation in the way he kisses him, obvious restraint in the way he touches him. Like Dean's fragile.
When he draws away, he smiles shakily.
"You had me so worried," he whispers. His hand comes down on Dean's belly again. "But it's okay. We're gonna have a family, just like you always wanted. You, me and our baby. I'm gonna make you both so happy. Gonna give you both the world."
Dean's eyes slam shut. Tears slide unheeded down his cheeks. A broken sob chokes him and then Sam's arms are around him again, tucking him in against his chest, hand still on the bump of their baby. Sam's laugh is a warm, amused rumble.
"S'just hormones," he says, kissing Dean's temple. "It's just hormones making you crazy. Don't worry. I'll take care of you. Take care of you both."
~end
Crowd
(Sam/Dean, pg-rated, 993 words)
This is dark-fic with a potential squick factor.
There's nothing in Dean's stomach but that doesn't stop it twisting in upon itself, heavy and hollow all at once. His throat works convulsively, retching up nothing but strings of bile. He hasn't eaten properly in months, unable to keep anything substantial down. Even when the nausea subsides, the queasy flutterings going through Dean leave him shaky. He sags back against the wall and tries to breathe without setting off another wave of vomiting.
Eventually, he manages to drag himself up the wall to get to his feet. He stumbles back into the motel room, where the air still smells stale with sickness. The quality of the light is bleak and grey. It's an unwelcoming room, with its unmade bed and mess of old newspapers. But it's safe.
Dean spreads a map out over the desk and rubs at his sleep-scratchy eyes until his vision clears enough for him to be able to properly track the roads. He traces an unsteady finger along his journey for the next day. It'll be a long drive, seven hours if Dean can make it. He'll need rest first, needs to conserve his strength. There's still most of a pizza in the box on the sideboard. Dean flips the lid open and swallows hard as he looks at it. It looks cold and greasy, and Dean's stomach gives a warning lurch.
He backs away and sits down heavily on the end of the bed. Sleep then. Please God don't let him dream. Please God…
There's a bang outside, then a scream, cut off sharp and wet. And Dean starts trembling, the breath punched out of him. He's run so far and it's just not enough.
His hands are shaking as he reaches for his gun, fingers clammy on the cold metal. He's going to be leaving behind most of his stuff but he can't risk taking the time to shove it into his duffel. There's no time for anything but escape.
Clicking the door open almost silently, Dean peers into the corridor, down the line of anonymous motel room doors. It's quiet. He's not fooled. His heart quivers in his chest, erratic and painful, and Dean forces himself to pull it together, forces his body to be strong and capable. Keeping his breathing low and even as he can, Dean steps out into the passage and moves towards the rear exit.
There's another scream, a garbled Please! and Dean stops.
Eight people have died, that he knows about, because of him, because of him running. There will have been more. Everywhere he's been these past months, there will be corpses, people who tried to help him or just were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he's so sorry, so fucking sorry, but he can't. He can't.
He takes in a short, high breath, and resolves himself to another murder on his conscience.
The rear exit is just around the corner and Dean hurries his pace. His back aches and his stomach is drawing in tight and uncomfortable. There's no time to feel it. No time to be in pain. The door's just in front of him and Dean almost falls into it in his hurry to reach it. He wrenches at the handle but it's locked or stuck and he can't get out. He's trapped.
He throws a glance over his shoulder, panicked, desperate, and then throws his weight against the door. It doesn't budge. Dean snarls and hisses under his breath, his heartbeat louder and faster, aching.
Everything hurts as Dean slams his shoulder into the door, but it doesn't stop him trying it again. He needs to get out.
"Oh thank God."
It's all over. Dean goes cold, so cold it must be like being dead.
He turns around.
Sam is covered in blood. It won't be his. It never is anymore. There's a smudge of it over his cheekbone, another on his upper lip - at odds with the liquid concern in his eyes. He moves slowly towards Dean.
"Do you have any idea how worried I've been? I've been looking for you everywhere. I've been going out of my mind."
A stuttered laugh pushes past Dean's lips, and he swings his gun up to point at Sam's chest. Can he pull the trigger? Will it make any damn difference? Doesn't matter. Sam doesn't stop moving. His hand closes around the gun and he slips it free from Dean's suddenly slack grip.
"Don't," Sam says, drawing closer still. "Don't do that. You know too much stress is bad for the baby." He lays his hand over Dean's unnaturally swollen belly, gentle and reverential. "Wow, you've gotten so big!" He looks down at where his hand is settled, splays his bloody fingers wider. So much love. "Have you felt… is it kicking yet?"
Dean doesn't answer. Sam doesn't seem to notice. He eases Dean closer, apparently oblivious to the empty quiescence with which Dean lets him. When Sam tilts Dean's face up to him, he doesn't seem to care when Dean won't let his eyes meet Sam's. He kisses Dean tenderly. There's desperation in the way he kisses him, obvious restraint in the way he touches him. Like Dean's fragile.
When he draws away, he smiles shakily.
"You had me so worried," he whispers. His hand comes down on Dean's belly again. "But it's okay. We're gonna have a family, just like you always wanted. You, me and our baby. I'm gonna make you both so happy. Gonna give you both the world."
Dean's eyes slam shut. Tears slide unheeded down his cheeks. A broken sob chokes him and then Sam's arms are around him again, tucking him in against his chest, hand still on the bump of their baby. Sam's laugh is a warm, amused rumble.
"S'just hormones," he says, kissing Dean's temple. "It's just hormones making you crazy. Don't worry. I'll take care of you. Take care of you both."
~end