Putting the slash fiction back in Slash Fiction
So! lazy_daze said she wished it could be hiatus, so we could all write lots of schmoopy making up fic, and I of course wish that too.
Sadly, the universe is still strangely resistant to bending to my will, but here is the next best thing. The 706 Reunionating Comment-Fic Meme!
A place full of post-706 reunionation and schmoop (gen or wincest, as you ( Read more... )
Sadly, the universe is still strangely resistant to bending to my will, but here is the next best thing. The 706 Reunionating Comment-Fic Meme!
A place full of post-706 reunionation and schmoop (gen or wincest, as you ( Read more... )
***
San's driving. 110 in the dark, lights just a step up from useless, windscreen wipers not much better against the rain. It's been coming down like the sky intends to be all out of water within the hour; it sounds more like hail against the car's roof, a relentless rapid-fire of noise, and Sam barely hears it. He doesn't hear Lucifer, either; it should be a relief and it isn't, because all he can hear is Frank, saying, "Way I understand it, he's not going to be moving around at all," offhand and casual, like someone used to talking to an empty room.
He'd tried to be comforting, after, explained that he didn't know the whole story, that he heard a million things every day that were nothing but bullshit. He'd tried to be kind, and that was nearly the most terrifying thing, only the distance between nearly most terrifying thing and most terrifying thing is kind of like the distance between being in hell and out. Because of course Sam's been tracking Dean, and Dean's been at Bobby's for days now, longest he's been in one place since Sam took off. And of course Bobby would call if something was wrong, except Bobby's hunting down in Texas, might not even know if Dean needed them. He'd left orders not to call him, not until they'd stopped being eejits, but Sam's been calling him, over and over and over for the last few hours, only quitting long enough to try Dean again. Dean's phone clicks right over to voicemail (the most Sam's heard his voice in weeks), and Bobby's just rings and rings, and Sam feels the rattle of it in his teeth when he pushes this crapheap of a car to 120. This is what he gets, he thinks, for ever bitching about the Impala, and the next time Dean asks him to leave a message, he says, "I'm sorry I talked shit about your car," in a voice that's as steady as a drunk on a three day bender.
He stops leaving messages after that; he just drives. He prays to a god that isn't there, to angels who've only ever fucked him up, to a universe that's never given a shit. Finally, to Dean, though that's really just a litany of orders, given with all the little brother entitlement that's ever made him believe Dean would be okay because Sam needed him to be. That was stone number one, long before Dean gave it a name, and if Dean thinks he can take it away now, Sam's going to beat the shit out of him.
He's clinging to that as he shoulders his way through Bobby's door. He's got keys, somewhere, in the pocket of the pair of jeans with the ghoul blood on them maybe; he doesn't know, doesn't care. Inside, it's cold, and it's quiet, the way places never are when Dean's around. For a second, Sam can't catch his breath, and then he's yelling for him, hardly listening for an answer as he makes his way through the cabin. The living room he checks out of reflex, still hoping to find him with the tV on mute, a beer in his hand. He doesn't let himself freak out over how clean the place is, how free of dishes in the sink and beer bottles on the side. He just keeps moving, up the stairs two at a time, turning right, and then half pushing, half falling through the door to the room they've started sleeping in when they're here.
"Dean," he says, and it would be really good that Dean isn't awake to hear how little-kid scared Sam sounds, but for how Sam just thundered up the stairs, threw open a door, and Dean, who has been known to wake up because Sam breathed in a way he didn't like, hasn't twitched. Even when Sam's snapped the light on, is right beside him, leaning over him, he just goes on lying there. "Dean," Sam says again, pushing the fear away, aiming for Dad's voice, the one that said Dean better wake up right the fuck now.
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Sam says, "Hey, hey, Dean," and Dean blinks at him a lot. "You're burning up," Sam says, and Dean nods, and says, "That's what happens when you fall in a lake and catch the flu," in a voice that sounds like something might have ripped half his throat out.
He closes his eyes again, and Sam stares down at him, shaky and bewildered, and maybe a little outraged. "You--you have a cold?" Because no way does Dean ever have the flu when he says he does. it's a certainty as immutable as their shitty luck.
Dean opens his eyes again, and looks unhappily up at Sam. "Hallucination you isn't all that smart, huh."
His skin is flushed and his nose is beetroot, and he really does look kind of terrible. Not to mention that he's probably infectious. But Sam hasn't taken his hand away from Dean's face, and he doesn't think he can. He doesn't think he can do much of anything right now. Standing is certainly beyond him; his knees give out, and he's on the floor by Dean's bed before he's even aware of it, grabbing for any part of Dean he can get ahold of with his other hand..
"If you're alive, you answer the phone," he says, and then he lays his head down on the mattress, ignoring the spring digging into his cheek, and laughs. Maybe a bit hysterically. whatever. It's possible he's not very stable.
Eventually he becomes aware of Dean's hand on his head, Dean's fingers stroking through his hair -- and no matter what Dean claims later, that's what he's doing. When Sam looks up, Dean's looking back at him. His eyes are bloodshot and muzzy with fever, like important parts of his brain aren't functioning, and he still looks so fucking happy to have Sam right in front of him, like Sam showing up to poke him and quote TV shows he hates and generally be crazy in the middle of the night is the best thing that could've happened to him.
"I'm still pissed," Sam says, because he is; it's just that he's also relieved and possibly really, really happy Dean's not dead or dying. And, yeah, maybe he missed Dean's stupid face, and his stupid hair, and that stupid look that's only ever been Sam's. He's a smart guy; he can multitask. "We're going to do a lot of talking," he says, very seriously, just to prove to himself that he can.
"I know," Dean says, in that ridiculous, shredded voice of his. "I'm sorry."
Sam butts his head against Dean's shoulder, breathes in the gross smell of unwashed, sick Dean. Dean's hand curls around the back of his neck, and Sam wraps an arm across his chest, for just a second. "Bet you haven't taken anything," he says.
"I took aspirin," Dean says. Sam lifts his head to glare at him, and Dean grins back a little. "Some time this morning," he says. "Or yesterday. It's all very--" he waves the hand not still holding onto Sam around, in a way that's supposed to indicate confusing because I have a stupidly high fever I haven't taken care of.
Sam rolls his eyes. "Stay here," he says. "I'll be right back."
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You are a wonderful thing.
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I want to take a BATH in this story. *twirls you*
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