FIC: Things Are Gonna Get Brighter (Dean/Seamus, R)
Title: Things Are Gonna Get Brighter
Author: katmarajade
Pairing(s): Dean/Seamus
Word Count: 2900
Summary: The war is over, but Dean can't seem to get the horrifying images out of his mind. Seamus always knows what he needs and sets about fixing things in typical Seamus fashion.
Rating: R
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *emo-tastic, post-war, teenage boy aaaaangst*
A/N: Written for eruditefics at hp-porninthesun. Huge thanks to my stellar duo of betas aigooism and tree00faery! All remaining errors are entirely my own.
The scars you can't see are the hardest to heal-Astrid Alauda
Dean wakes to cheerful rays of sunshine beaming into Gryffindor tower. For just a moment he feels like a child again-light-hearted, good, and innocent. But no one is innocent anymore. They've survived a war, seen evil up close, and lived to be haunted forever by images of hateful acts of violence, torture, and murder that are now burned in stark, horrifying clarity onto the scar tissue of their minds.
Blinking awake he sees Seamus curled up next to him. His best mate is still wearing the ash-covered guerrilla version of his Hogwarts uniform, and his dynamic face, which even in sleep does not appear relaxed, is littered with a colourful mess of bruises in various stages of healing. He looks beaten, broken, bruised, and battered. But he is alive. Which is more than many can claim.
Dean sighs and glances across the room where Harry, Ron, and Hermione are curled up together like a litter of puppies. They look peaceful, faces calm and relaxed in a way that Dean hasn't seen on any of them for years.
Unable to fall back asleep, he crawls out of bed and lumbers into the bathroom, still stiff from yesterday. Staring into the mirror, he examines himself carefully, looking for signs that he's fought in a sure-to-be-historic battle the day before, but sees nothing. He doesn't look any different.
There are no bruises, no scars, no blood. The shower he took the night before washed away the sweat and grime and he looks … fine.
How can he appear so unaffected when everyone around him is dead, dying, or covered in marks that show all too clearly what they've done, how they've fought, how they've risen up victorious.
But he looks fine, if a bit gaunt from lack of decent food combined with the stretched out gangliness of eighteen-year-old boys. But how, after everything he's been through, can he possibly be fine?
*** ***
The next morning, Dean goes home to his mother's house; he knows that she's been worried. But he can't stay long. He sits through tea and lets her fuss over him, but it feels wrong to be there. The house has been his home for years, and he suddenly feels like an outsider. Too far gone and no amount of maternal coddling can bring him back.
He feels like the horrors that are branded onto his mind might be contagious. As if, somehow, if he gets too close, they might contaminate his little sisters. They smile the bright smiles of people who've never seen someone die in front of them, laugh the carefree giggles of people who've never listened to a friend scream while being tortured. And, as he looks at their sweet, still-innocent faces, he can't bear it.
*** ***
Subletting a place in London is easier than he expects, and he doesn't have the energy to feel guilty about transfiguring pub napkins into Pound notes to pay the deposit. When Seamus shows up at his door three days later with a half-hearted smile and a knapsack, Dean simply opens the door, letting him inside the flat, back into his world. They're broken and hurting, but at least now they can flounder together.
At first it's a lot of staying up late and getting pissed, because unless they're either too exhausted to move or too plastered to think, the nightmares creep in, slow and malignant. Dean can cast Silencing Charms to keep his neighbours from hearing his terrified cries, and he can cast Glamours to make himself appear healthy, not haunted and sleep-deprived. But there's no charm in the world that can silence the gut-wrenching screams that he hears in his head, over and over, and no Glamour that can wipe away the pictures in his mind, some real and some merely dreamed, of familiar eyes fading to lifelessness, the last moments of confusion and fear, pain and accusation frozen for eternity.
He hears Hermione's agonised shrieks. He hears Lavender's quiet whimpers of pain. He sees the startled, desperate look on Ted's face as he stepped without hesitation in front of Dean, taking the killing curse and dropping in slow motion to the forest ground, dead leaves floating up around him as he hit the earth, a single tear slipping down the motionless face of a man who was more of a father to Dean in those three months than anyone Dean has ever known.
Drawing is his usual release, but it's failing him now. He tries to expunge the images from his mind, tries to put them down on paper where they become concrete, unchanging, where they can't hurt him. But the images won't let themselves be drawn. They dance around his brain, clamouring ever harder with every failed attempt. Soon there are balled-up pieces of paper tossed in corners and filling the rubbish bins everywhere in the flat.
It doesn't take long for Seamus to put it together. Seamus has always been sharply attuned to Dean's moods, which Dean finds strangely comforting. He missed Seamus for all those months they'd spent apart, missed the bawdy humour and ridiculous cursing and how he always knew how to pull Dean out of the funkiest of funks.
Stubborn as ever, Dean stands his ground and refuses to talk about it. Seamus takes on the cause with the gusto that only those who are desperately trying to forget their own pain can muster.
Seamus throws himself into things with everything that he has. It's all or nothing with him and he refuses to give up until he's seen whatever harebrained scheme he's decided on through to completion. Dean usually finds this single-minded obsession entertaining, but now that it's turned on him in full force he begins to realise just how dangerous Seamus Finnigan with a cause is. Clearly, the year spent freedom fighting throughout the halls of their former safe haven has only intensified this zeal.
The bruises have faded from Seamus' face and now the shadows behind his hardened hazel eyes begin to soften as Seamus cheerfully asks Dean to sketch him ridiculous things-orange elephants, Flitwick in a football kit, Madam Rosmerta topless … Dean refuses but can't help the hint of a smile that plays at the corner of his mouth at some of the more extreme requests.
Seamus seems to realise that he needs to step up his game, and he begins to bring home absolutely horrid artwork from pawn shops. Dean isn't entirely sure whether Seamus really has so little artistic judgement or if it's some kind of game, taunting Dean to prove that he can create something better.
Once Dean comes home to find Seamus finger painting on Dean's easel, the paper hung improperly and blue paint everywhere. He shouts at Seamus in exasperation, but can't help the feeling of longing when he sees the paint oozing between Seamus' fingers, and his hand reaches out to touch before he can stop it. Stormy-faced, he retreats to his room and tries not to let Seamus see how much the feeling of paint on his skin affects him or how much the disappointed expression on Seamus' face makes his stomach twist.
Undeterred, Seamus drags him to an art gallery the following day, pointing out sculptures, paintings, and other bits of art at random. Dean tries not to focus on how his hands twitch when he sees a line in a sketch that echoes his own work or when he notices colours that juxtapose just so and set off flares of inspiration in his mind. He tries not to let Seamus' enthusiasm worm its way inside him, but it's contagious and it makes him edgier and pricklier than ever.
In a fit of pique, Dean storms out of the gallery, Seamus following readily if a bit warily. Dean says nothing the entire way home and Seamus doesn't even comment on how Dean chooses to take the Tube and walk, Muggle means that Dean reverts to when frustrated.
Seamus tries to hand him his old sketchbook once they get home-Seamus must have been searching for it because Dean's sure that he shoved it far underneath his bed. That's the final straw and Dean explodes, shouting at Seamus, who, with uncharacteristic patience, waits out Dean's entire rant before hurling the sketchbook at Dean's head. Seamus stomps away, muttering furiously underneath his breath about daft artists and their bloody eccentricities and rotten tempers.
Dean falls onto the sofa and tries to keep up his annoyed act, but with Seamus out of sight, he can't find the energy. Seamus doesn't realise just how much Dean wants to draw-needs to draw. He needs the memories that are poisoning his mind out onto paper, where they become real and solid, where they can't hurt him anymore. But he can't make his hands and mind cooperate.
He flips through the sketchbook. Old drawings from the year before stare back at him, testimonies to his former innocence. Silly cartoons, detailed landscapes, a few portraits of Ginny and what he'd imagined she'd look like naked. Those are followed by several villainised caricatures of her that he remembers scribbling out after their break-up; Seamus had sat next to him on his bed goading him on and offering suggestions on how to make her even more hideous, telling Dean how he was too good for a hero-worshipping, scrawny, Quaffle-hogging, ginger priss like Ginny Weasley.
There are quick sketches of Seamus trying to juggle with Parvati and Lavender's crystal balls and another of Seamus tearing through the corridor, tie flapping behind him as two furious girls chased after him, wands a loft. Dean starts, recalling too clearly a darker echo of that scene-Seamus running through that same hallway, face hard and battered, two Death Eaters chasing after him.
He turns the last page and there is a tiny drawing that he's never seen before. Looking closely, it is obviously not his work. There are two stick figures, and the short one is hugging the tall one fiercely. In the corner in Seamus' tiny, messy scrawl it says: Things are gonna get brighter. And there is a silly sun with a smiley face on it.
Dean chokes back the tears that threaten to spill out. The memories of the last year pound into every inch of his brain, even more vicious than usual.
With a groan, he grabs a pencil from the table next to the sofa and somehow, finally, the pictures come.
He draws furiously for hours, going through four pencils. The ground is covered with sketches of faces and bodies, dead, dying, and tortured. It's painful and terrible, and Dean sobs in a combination of pain and relief as the horrible dreams and realities are exorcised onto paper. It's cathartic and he needs this, has needed this for so long.
*** ***
Seamus walks into the living room the next morning, rubbing his eyes tiredly and scratching at his belly. He stops short when he sees Dean sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by paper.
Dean has finally stopped drawing, finally exhausted after six straight hours of pent-up scribbling.
Seamus crouches down to peer closer at the drawings. He examines each of them, face deadly serious for once as he takes in the horrifying images. Ted's expression as he died; images of runaways and gaunt goblins; Ron's face as he pounded helplessly against a huge door, Luna in tattered pyjamas, her dirty face drawn and tired; Hermione after her encounter with Bellatrix Lestrange; Harry's expression as he took in the sights of death and agony; Colin Creevey's broken body at the bottom of the moving staircase; Ted Tonks' daughter, who looked eerily like her father with her eyes closed and face still; Ted's wife clutching a blue-haired baby and gazing at the rows of dead in blank shock.
They are painful and heartbreaking and altogether too real, but Dean feels relief and exhaustion flood through him. Seeing them outside his head, concrete and fixed instead of living and breathing inside his head, is soothing. He looks up at Seamus who is studying a picture intently.
"This never happened, Dean," Seamus murmurs, touching the pencil lines of his own face, eyes blank with the sightless stare of the dead.
"I know …" Dean says quietly, "But I see it happen over and over. Saw it in dreams when I was on the run and then after the battle I still see it every night. I lose you every night, Shay. I can't sleep, because I don't want to see …"
"You daft, gobless prick. You should have said so." Seamus' face is sad and solemn and soft, all sweetly out of place on his usually either grinning or scowling face.
Dean lets Seamus pull him up and drag him to bed, too tired to argue like he usually would. Seamus bustles him back to Dean's room and pushes him onto the bed, the sheets still tossed aside, because Dean can never be arsed to make his bed.
"I can Floo Hermione and get some Dreamless Sleep Draught if you need it," Seamus offers, brushing his hand across Dean's forehead, as if perhaps Dean's emotional distress has inexplicably resulted in a fever.
"No, makes me nervous … I might not wake up if something happened or I dunno," Dean mumbles, reaching out and grabbing Seamus' hand when it starts to retreat. "Will you stay here? With me. It's just … if you're here then I think maybe you won't be dead." He knows that he's making no sense and Seamus' gives him a half-hearted smirk that falls a bit short.
"That's exactly the kind of stupid logic I expect from you, mate. No fucking sense at all." But Seamus is already climbing into the bed with him, pulling the blanket across them both, and wrapping Dean in pale, freckle-covered arms. Seamus is warm and a little sweaty and so very alive; Dean can feel Seamus' heart pounding, slow and steady, and he tries to burn this image, this feeling, this moment into his brain forever. Wants to make this moment of Seamus the one that comes to him in wandering, unregulated thoughts and dreams.
He falls asleep faster than he would ever have thought, drifting off to the metronome of Seamus' heartbeat and the slow, constant, barely-audible whispering song in his ear, I'm here, I'm here, I'm right here.
He wakes up hours later, feeling rested for the first time in weeks. Seamus has not moved, but is absently stroking Dean's hair. Noticing the change in Dean's breathing, Seamus shifts and begins his slow, nearly inaudible cadence of lilting reassurances, and it breaks something inside of Dean. Twisting around to look at Seamus, Dean pushes up, breaking off Seamus' almost-lullaby with a desperate kiss.
Seamus responds as if they've always done this. And somehow it feels that way: familiar, comforting, and perfectly ordinary. Their kisses are slow and deliberate, as if they're infusing each other with some unnamed source of strength and power with every twisting dance of tongues and every clash of teeth. Their hands, desperate and needy, seek out skin and contact without any of the laziness that their mouths are showing. Dean's hands run over Seamus' bare chest, over freckles and the barely-there chest hair and dark nipples, his hands clench around Seamus' arms, his brain noting with a bit of surprise how much Seamus has grown and filled out over the course of the last year.
Seamus yanks at Dean's shirt, pulling it off impatiently and breaking off the kiss in order to let his mouth wander down Dean's chest. Stubby, callused fingers fumble with Dean's belt, and Dean lets himself go, every muddled, worried, death-filled thought trailing away. Right now there is only this, only Seamus, only life.
He feels Seamus push down his trousers and pants and feels the warm, wet heat engulf him. And, even though Seamus' mouth is well-occupied, Dean can hear the whispered, lilting, sing-song, I'm here, I'm here, I'm right here, and that's all it takes. It's a combination of the receding stress and being eighteen and Seamus, but Dean certainly doesn't care. He manages to lift up his knee a bit, feeling Seamus, just as hard and desperate, rubbing frantically against his thigh until they're both a sticky, sated mess.
Lying back, they don't speak; words aren't necessary. They both know. They've always known. Dean traces random patterns on Seamus' stomach and can hear the now-familiar litany of I'm here, I'm here, I'm right here, though he's not really sure if Seamus is actually saying it or if it's just his mind. It doesn't really matter. What matters is it's real and that Seamus is alive and here and lying in Dean's bed, as if they've always been this way and always will be. And perhaps they will.
Dean meets Seamus' hazel eyes, quiet, solemn eyes that have seen too much. The bright-eyed, innocent mischief of youth has been replaced with something harder, more real, more perceptive. Grown up. They all have, too soon and too harshly. But how could they not? They never should have seen such things, but things seen can't be unseen. Lost innocence and youthful joy can't be restored, not the way they were, at least.
Seamus quirks a smile and Dean knows that he understands. Things are going to get brighter. The past will haunt their dreams forever, but eventually it will lose its power.
Together they're stronger, together they can face down the darkness, overwhelm it with light.
Author: katmarajade
Pairing(s): Dean/Seamus
Word Count: 2900
Summary: The war is over, but Dean can't seem to get the horrifying images out of his mind. Seamus always knows what he needs and sets about fixing things in typical Seamus fashion.
Rating: R
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *emo-tastic, post-war, teenage boy aaaaangst*
A/N: Written for eruditefics at hp-porninthesun. Huge thanks to my stellar duo of betas aigooism and tree00faery! All remaining errors are entirely my own.
The scars you can't see are the hardest to heal-Astrid Alauda
Dean wakes to cheerful rays of sunshine beaming into Gryffindor tower. For just a moment he feels like a child again-light-hearted, good, and innocent. But no one is innocent anymore. They've survived a war, seen evil up close, and lived to be haunted forever by images of hateful acts of violence, torture, and murder that are now burned in stark, horrifying clarity onto the scar tissue of their minds.
Blinking awake he sees Seamus curled up next to him. His best mate is still wearing the ash-covered guerrilla version of his Hogwarts uniform, and his dynamic face, which even in sleep does not appear relaxed, is littered with a colourful mess of bruises in various stages of healing. He looks beaten, broken, bruised, and battered. But he is alive. Which is more than many can claim.
Dean sighs and glances across the room where Harry, Ron, and Hermione are curled up together like a litter of puppies. They look peaceful, faces calm and relaxed in a way that Dean hasn't seen on any of them for years.
Unable to fall back asleep, he crawls out of bed and lumbers into the bathroom, still stiff from yesterday. Staring into the mirror, he examines himself carefully, looking for signs that he's fought in a sure-to-be-historic battle the day before, but sees nothing. He doesn't look any different.
There are no bruises, no scars, no blood. The shower he took the night before washed away the sweat and grime and he looks … fine.
How can he appear so unaffected when everyone around him is dead, dying, or covered in marks that show all too clearly what they've done, how they've fought, how they've risen up victorious.
But he looks fine, if a bit gaunt from lack of decent food combined with the stretched out gangliness of eighteen-year-old boys. But how, after everything he's been through, can he possibly be fine?
*** ***
The next morning, Dean goes home to his mother's house; he knows that she's been worried. But he can't stay long. He sits through tea and lets her fuss over him, but it feels wrong to be there. The house has been his home for years, and he suddenly feels like an outsider. Too far gone and no amount of maternal coddling can bring him back.
He feels like the horrors that are branded onto his mind might be contagious. As if, somehow, if he gets too close, they might contaminate his little sisters. They smile the bright smiles of people who've never seen someone die in front of them, laugh the carefree giggles of people who've never listened to a friend scream while being tortured. And, as he looks at their sweet, still-innocent faces, he can't bear it.
*** ***
Subletting a place in London is easier than he expects, and he doesn't have the energy to feel guilty about transfiguring pub napkins into Pound notes to pay the deposit. When Seamus shows up at his door three days later with a half-hearted smile and a knapsack, Dean simply opens the door, letting him inside the flat, back into his world. They're broken and hurting, but at least now they can flounder together.
At first it's a lot of staying up late and getting pissed, because unless they're either too exhausted to move or too plastered to think, the nightmares creep in, slow and malignant. Dean can cast Silencing Charms to keep his neighbours from hearing his terrified cries, and he can cast Glamours to make himself appear healthy, not haunted and sleep-deprived. But there's no charm in the world that can silence the gut-wrenching screams that he hears in his head, over and over, and no Glamour that can wipe away the pictures in his mind, some real and some merely dreamed, of familiar eyes fading to lifelessness, the last moments of confusion and fear, pain and accusation frozen for eternity.
He hears Hermione's agonised shrieks. He hears Lavender's quiet whimpers of pain. He sees the startled, desperate look on Ted's face as he stepped without hesitation in front of Dean, taking the killing curse and dropping in slow motion to the forest ground, dead leaves floating up around him as he hit the earth, a single tear slipping down the motionless face of a man who was more of a father to Dean in those three months than anyone Dean has ever known.
Drawing is his usual release, but it's failing him now. He tries to expunge the images from his mind, tries to put them down on paper where they become concrete, unchanging, where they can't hurt him. But the images won't let themselves be drawn. They dance around his brain, clamouring ever harder with every failed attempt. Soon there are balled-up pieces of paper tossed in corners and filling the rubbish bins everywhere in the flat.
It doesn't take long for Seamus to put it together. Seamus has always been sharply attuned to Dean's moods, which Dean finds strangely comforting. He missed Seamus for all those months they'd spent apart, missed the bawdy humour and ridiculous cursing and how he always knew how to pull Dean out of the funkiest of funks.
Stubborn as ever, Dean stands his ground and refuses to talk about it. Seamus takes on the cause with the gusto that only those who are desperately trying to forget their own pain can muster.
Seamus throws himself into things with everything that he has. It's all or nothing with him and he refuses to give up until he's seen whatever harebrained scheme he's decided on through to completion. Dean usually finds this single-minded obsession entertaining, but now that it's turned on him in full force he begins to realise just how dangerous Seamus Finnigan with a cause is. Clearly, the year spent freedom fighting throughout the halls of their former safe haven has only intensified this zeal.
The bruises have faded from Seamus' face and now the shadows behind his hardened hazel eyes begin to soften as Seamus cheerfully asks Dean to sketch him ridiculous things-orange elephants, Flitwick in a football kit, Madam Rosmerta topless … Dean refuses but can't help the hint of a smile that plays at the corner of his mouth at some of the more extreme requests.
Seamus seems to realise that he needs to step up his game, and he begins to bring home absolutely horrid artwork from pawn shops. Dean isn't entirely sure whether Seamus really has so little artistic judgement or if it's some kind of game, taunting Dean to prove that he can create something better.
Once Dean comes home to find Seamus finger painting on Dean's easel, the paper hung improperly and blue paint everywhere. He shouts at Seamus in exasperation, but can't help the feeling of longing when he sees the paint oozing between Seamus' fingers, and his hand reaches out to touch before he can stop it. Stormy-faced, he retreats to his room and tries not to let Seamus see how much the feeling of paint on his skin affects him or how much the disappointed expression on Seamus' face makes his stomach twist.
Undeterred, Seamus drags him to an art gallery the following day, pointing out sculptures, paintings, and other bits of art at random. Dean tries not to focus on how his hands twitch when he sees a line in a sketch that echoes his own work or when he notices colours that juxtapose just so and set off flares of inspiration in his mind. He tries not to let Seamus' enthusiasm worm its way inside him, but it's contagious and it makes him edgier and pricklier than ever.
In a fit of pique, Dean storms out of the gallery, Seamus following readily if a bit warily. Dean says nothing the entire way home and Seamus doesn't even comment on how Dean chooses to take the Tube and walk, Muggle means that Dean reverts to when frustrated.
Seamus tries to hand him his old sketchbook once they get home-Seamus must have been searching for it because Dean's sure that he shoved it far underneath his bed. That's the final straw and Dean explodes, shouting at Seamus, who, with uncharacteristic patience, waits out Dean's entire rant before hurling the sketchbook at Dean's head. Seamus stomps away, muttering furiously underneath his breath about daft artists and their bloody eccentricities and rotten tempers.
Dean falls onto the sofa and tries to keep up his annoyed act, but with Seamus out of sight, he can't find the energy. Seamus doesn't realise just how much Dean wants to draw-needs to draw. He needs the memories that are poisoning his mind out onto paper, where they become real and solid, where they can't hurt him anymore. But he can't make his hands and mind cooperate.
He flips through the sketchbook. Old drawings from the year before stare back at him, testimonies to his former innocence. Silly cartoons, detailed landscapes, a few portraits of Ginny and what he'd imagined she'd look like naked. Those are followed by several villainised caricatures of her that he remembers scribbling out after their break-up; Seamus had sat next to him on his bed goading him on and offering suggestions on how to make her even more hideous, telling Dean how he was too good for a hero-worshipping, scrawny, Quaffle-hogging, ginger priss like Ginny Weasley.
There are quick sketches of Seamus trying to juggle with Parvati and Lavender's crystal balls and another of Seamus tearing through the corridor, tie flapping behind him as two furious girls chased after him, wands a loft. Dean starts, recalling too clearly a darker echo of that scene-Seamus running through that same hallway, face hard and battered, two Death Eaters chasing after him.
He turns the last page and there is a tiny drawing that he's never seen before. Looking closely, it is obviously not his work. There are two stick figures, and the short one is hugging the tall one fiercely. In the corner in Seamus' tiny, messy scrawl it says: Things are gonna get brighter. And there is a silly sun with a smiley face on it.
Dean chokes back the tears that threaten to spill out. The memories of the last year pound into every inch of his brain, even more vicious than usual.
With a groan, he grabs a pencil from the table next to the sofa and somehow, finally, the pictures come.
He draws furiously for hours, going through four pencils. The ground is covered with sketches of faces and bodies, dead, dying, and tortured. It's painful and terrible, and Dean sobs in a combination of pain and relief as the horrible dreams and realities are exorcised onto paper. It's cathartic and he needs this, has needed this for so long.
*** ***
Seamus walks into the living room the next morning, rubbing his eyes tiredly and scratching at his belly. He stops short when he sees Dean sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by paper.
Dean has finally stopped drawing, finally exhausted after six straight hours of pent-up scribbling.
Seamus crouches down to peer closer at the drawings. He examines each of them, face deadly serious for once as he takes in the horrifying images. Ted's expression as he died; images of runaways and gaunt goblins; Ron's face as he pounded helplessly against a huge door, Luna in tattered pyjamas, her dirty face drawn and tired; Hermione after her encounter with Bellatrix Lestrange; Harry's expression as he took in the sights of death and agony; Colin Creevey's broken body at the bottom of the moving staircase; Ted Tonks' daughter, who looked eerily like her father with her eyes closed and face still; Ted's wife clutching a blue-haired baby and gazing at the rows of dead in blank shock.
They are painful and heartbreaking and altogether too real, but Dean feels relief and exhaustion flood through him. Seeing them outside his head, concrete and fixed instead of living and breathing inside his head, is soothing. He looks up at Seamus who is studying a picture intently.
"This never happened, Dean," Seamus murmurs, touching the pencil lines of his own face, eyes blank with the sightless stare of the dead.
"I know …" Dean says quietly, "But I see it happen over and over. Saw it in dreams when I was on the run and then after the battle I still see it every night. I lose you every night, Shay. I can't sleep, because I don't want to see …"
"You daft, gobless prick. You should have said so." Seamus' face is sad and solemn and soft, all sweetly out of place on his usually either grinning or scowling face.
Dean lets Seamus pull him up and drag him to bed, too tired to argue like he usually would. Seamus bustles him back to Dean's room and pushes him onto the bed, the sheets still tossed aside, because Dean can never be arsed to make his bed.
"I can Floo Hermione and get some Dreamless Sleep Draught if you need it," Seamus offers, brushing his hand across Dean's forehead, as if perhaps Dean's emotional distress has inexplicably resulted in a fever.
"No, makes me nervous … I might not wake up if something happened or I dunno," Dean mumbles, reaching out and grabbing Seamus' hand when it starts to retreat. "Will you stay here? With me. It's just … if you're here then I think maybe you won't be dead." He knows that he's making no sense and Seamus' gives him a half-hearted smirk that falls a bit short.
"That's exactly the kind of stupid logic I expect from you, mate. No fucking sense at all." But Seamus is already climbing into the bed with him, pulling the blanket across them both, and wrapping Dean in pale, freckle-covered arms. Seamus is warm and a little sweaty and so very alive; Dean can feel Seamus' heart pounding, slow and steady, and he tries to burn this image, this feeling, this moment into his brain forever. Wants to make this moment of Seamus the one that comes to him in wandering, unregulated thoughts and dreams.
He falls asleep faster than he would ever have thought, drifting off to the metronome of Seamus' heartbeat and the slow, constant, barely-audible whispering song in his ear, I'm here, I'm here, I'm right here.
He wakes up hours later, feeling rested for the first time in weeks. Seamus has not moved, but is absently stroking Dean's hair. Noticing the change in Dean's breathing, Seamus shifts and begins his slow, nearly inaudible cadence of lilting reassurances, and it breaks something inside of Dean. Twisting around to look at Seamus, Dean pushes up, breaking off Seamus' almost-lullaby with a desperate kiss.
Seamus responds as if they've always done this. And somehow it feels that way: familiar, comforting, and perfectly ordinary. Their kisses are slow and deliberate, as if they're infusing each other with some unnamed source of strength and power with every twisting dance of tongues and every clash of teeth. Their hands, desperate and needy, seek out skin and contact without any of the laziness that their mouths are showing. Dean's hands run over Seamus' bare chest, over freckles and the barely-there chest hair and dark nipples, his hands clench around Seamus' arms, his brain noting with a bit of surprise how much Seamus has grown and filled out over the course of the last year.
Seamus yanks at Dean's shirt, pulling it off impatiently and breaking off the kiss in order to let his mouth wander down Dean's chest. Stubby, callused fingers fumble with Dean's belt, and Dean lets himself go, every muddled, worried, death-filled thought trailing away. Right now there is only this, only Seamus, only life.
He feels Seamus push down his trousers and pants and feels the warm, wet heat engulf him. And, even though Seamus' mouth is well-occupied, Dean can hear the whispered, lilting, sing-song, I'm here, I'm here, I'm right here, and that's all it takes. It's a combination of the receding stress and being eighteen and Seamus, but Dean certainly doesn't care. He manages to lift up his knee a bit, feeling Seamus, just as hard and desperate, rubbing frantically against his thigh until they're both a sticky, sated mess.
Lying back, they don't speak; words aren't necessary. They both know. They've always known. Dean traces random patterns on Seamus' stomach and can hear the now-familiar litany of I'm here, I'm here, I'm right here, though he's not really sure if Seamus is actually saying it or if it's just his mind. It doesn't really matter. What matters is it's real and that Seamus is alive and here and lying in Dean's bed, as if they've always been this way and always will be. And perhaps they will.
Dean meets Seamus' hazel eyes, quiet, solemn eyes that have seen too much. The bright-eyed, innocent mischief of youth has been replaced with something harder, more real, more perceptive. Grown up. They all have, too soon and too harshly. But how could they not? They never should have seen such things, but things seen can't be unseen. Lost innocence and youthful joy can't be restored, not the way they were, at least.
Seamus quirks a smile and Dean knows that he understands. Things are going to get brighter. The past will haunt their dreams forever, but eventually it will lose its power.
Together they're stronger, together they can face down the darkness, overwhelm it with light.