fic: a climate we can't leave
a climate we can't leave
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; nc-17; vague spoilers through 5.14; 2,479 words
In which Sam and Dean have the suburban apocalypse blues.
Written for neros_violin for samdeanexchange. Thanks to familiardevil for looking it over and to coyotesuspect and lavendergaia for betaing. Originally posted here.
~*~
They find a house at the edge of the city--one that wasn't destroyed in the explosion, or in the fire; one that hasn't been looted for its food and valuables already. Dean wants to get the hell out as soon as they can; Sam, being contrary as ever, thinks they should stay. It shouldn't surprise Dean; Sam's always wanted to stay.
"We're sitting targets for Lucifer like this, and you know it, Sam," Dean says. "And we don't know what it's like here, if it's even safe. We'll stay for a day or two and stock up, but we have to keep moving."
"And when we run out of gas? What if there's no place else to stay? What are we gonna do then? If we stay here, we'll be prepared. There's food, and we have enough ammo to fight whoever comes up against us. Home-court advantage, Dean," he points out, even though he knows Dean loves baseball, but thinks basketball is boring. "We can set the house up with salt lines, draw a devil's trap around the town--"
"We'll stay. For now." Dean's tone is commanding, firm, like staying was his idea all along, and Sam snorts, but lets it slide, happy that he won out this time. It's a small victory, but it's the last one he'll have for who knows how long.
*
For an abandoned house, it's stocked pretty well. The perishables (milk, ground beef, the basket of tomatoes on the counter) have all gone bad, of course--left to rot in the stifling heat of the summer, and they throw them all into the trash can outside, though there's obviously no collection. Dean's happy with the food they do have--all kinds of crackers and breadsticks, tons of snacks and candy; when Sam sees the cupboards, he grumbles, but there's not much he can do.
When their mom was alive, baby Sammy would always get fed first, and Dean has a vague recollection of eating Dad's dinners--always undercooked or burnt--while Sam nursed; when they were older, during tough times or when Dad couldn't hustle, Dean had to see how long he could make a box of macaroni last, easily giving up the canned vegetables because "Sam needs them." It had never been for long, but memorizing Latin and creature lore was hard to do with his empty stomach growling loudly.
He wonders when the food will run out this time, and what they'll do (if they're not dead already, the voice in his head reminds him) when it does. At the end of the world, no one's there to restock the supermarkets.
*
The first night is weird. Sam doesn't sleep well in new houses (he never has) and even though there's a clean, soft king-size bed and nine hundred channels and as much food as either of them could want, he still feels weird. He knows no one's died here, knows the residents abandoned while they still could, but he feels like there are spirits still lingering.
"Dean," he says, rolling onto his side and propping his chin up on his hand. "Are you sure--"
"We already went through the house with the EMF," Dean says exasperatedly. "No signs of spirits or anything. Go to sleep."
"I can't."
"Then shut up and pretend."
Sam tries all the tricks he used as a kid--counting sheep, listing herbs in reverse alphabetical order, conjugating Latin verbs--but it only gets him more worked up.
"Stop mumbling shit under your breath," Dean snaps. "I can hear you, y'know, and don't you need your beauty rest, Samantha?"
Sam elbows him in the ribs, and Dean kicks him in the shins in return. He rolls over, looking to avoid another blow to his legs (or worse), but Dean just slings an arm over Sam's chest.
"Stop squirming," he says. "I can't fuckin' sleep with you tossing and turning like that."
Dean's breath is humid in Sam's ear, chest rising and falling like the waves of the ocean. He feels warm and safe and protected, like nothing bad can happen, even now, and drifts into deep, dreamless sleep.
*
Sam carves Latin into the woodwork after eating breakfast (dry Cheerios, after he saw Dean try the condensed milk and then spit it right back out, and dried fruit), fingers curled sure and steady around the black handle of a peeling knife, murmuring the words as he works. His voice is soft and soothing, lulling Dean into a calmness as he pores over old newspapers, searching for information.
"Nothing's gonna get us," Dean says, a promise he shouldn't be making, but the words are like muscle memory. They act for him before he can do it for himself.
Sam smiles a little, nods, and Dean's regrets are wiped away. He knows they'll need to leave the house sooner or later, see what's out there and if there's any way to stock up on supplies, but not knowing is always scarier than knowing. Facing a chupacabra or a wendigo is easier than trying to explore the undiscovered country.
*
The house has the heights of three kids marked on the kitchen door--Duncan, Kacie, and Peter--and Dean thinks absently about the kids neither of them will ever have. He's had the chance more times than he can count, thinks about Ben sometimes and wonders if Lisa was telling the truth, but it doesn't matter now. If they're alive, he won't be able to contact them.
He bets Sam wanted a house with Jess, a white picket fence and a neat yard with a little garden, two point five kids and a dog, but destiny's been fucking up their plans for a while now. That's how it's always been, and nothing, not even the apocalypse, is going to change that. There's no bringing a kid into this world now, and he knows it must suck to be young right now--if they make it, they're the ones who'll be stuck with the mess.
*
Toiletries--soap, shampoo, toothpaste--are stockpiled like the future version of Chuck said Dean needed to do with toilet paper; the thought makes him laugh a little. They won't run out, even with Sam's freakishly huge body and the need to scrub every inch of himself twice. Containers are stacked neatly on the shelves, and he almost doesn't care that the only kinds are baby shampoo and something girly because it's there, and he won't stink. (Almost because it smells like fucking apples and peaches.)
He strips, turning the water up as hot as it'll go, steam rising and fogging up the mirror right across from the shower stall. His skin reddens a little as it gets used to the heat, and he takes his time soaping up.
Sam slips into the bathroom, already naked, presses Dean against the tiled wall of the shower--it's clean, and bigger than most (almost big enough for both of them)--kissing hot and open-mouthed along Dean's jaw before going to his knees and anchoring Dean to the wall with those freakishly large hands of his. Sam's mouth is warm and wet, and Dean drops his head forward to see Sam's lips, wide and pink, stretched around Dean's dick, watching himself move in and out of Sam's mouth while Sam works a hand roughly around his own cock. He comes, fingers digging into the muscles of Sam's shoulders so he won't push up too much as Sam swallows down everything he can.
The tiles are cool against his skin, and if it weren't for them, and Sam's hand on Dean's hip, holding him up, Dean would be sprawled on the floor. The orgasm and the hot water have made him drowsy, but Sam's thrusting against Dean's hip and grunting oh, fuck and yeah, Dean, yeah, into his neck; Dean closes a hand around him and uses slow, lazy strokes to make Sam shudder and gasp. The sounds is as familiar to Dean as a gunshot, as an exorcism, but it never fails to make his blood run hot under his skin and his heart beat faster.
Dean wraps a towel--so thick and plush that it wicks away the water almost instantly--around his waist, and climbs into bed. Sam follows a moment later, and his stupidly long hair drips water all over the pillows, but Dean's too far gone to bitch him out. Even damp, Sam's like a fucking space heater, and it's a lot better than having cold feet. He falls asleep like that, all wrapped up in Sam, feeling Sam's chest rise and fall, listening to the beat of his heart.
*
Once the Impala's squeaky-clean--Dean even waxed the hood--tuned up and everything, he entertains himself with board games. Monopoly, Clue, Life, Scrabble are stacked up neatly on a shelf in the basement, with at least a dozen more lined up next to the first set of boxes. With nothing else to do, Sam gives in to Dean's requests (first polite, and then a little more insistent--"You're not getting laid unless you do. And you're being Miss Scarlet." 'The better side of the bed' and 'first shower' are the only things they've got to barter with, as usual, though Dean finds a pound of M&Ms to use as chips for poker. Sam beats Dean's ass at Scrabble, anyway, with words like inutile and asphyxy, lets Dean amend the game to Strip Scrabble after they've had a few beers.
"Never could keep your clothes on around me, Sammy," Dean growls, tugging at the zipper of his jeans when Sam stalls.
*
At Sam's insistence (funny how he's the one who wanted to stay because it's "safe", and now he calls all the shots: "Are we just going to stay inside forever, Dean?") they brave the outdoors, see what's left of the world. It reminds Dean of what he saw in 2014: cars tipped on their sides, littering the streets like trash; grocery stores looted by people who ran out of food; schools turned into attack bases (and that reminds him of the demon clusterfuck in River Pass). Most people don't know what happened, think other survivors are evil or alien or superhuman, and have picked up Dad's old rule of "shoot first, ask questions later." He can't blame them, makes sure to check out anyone he sees--black eyes or the stink of sulfur in the air, but there's nothing unusual, just huddled masses of scared people. He doesn't know if it'd be worse to tell them about everything: demons, hell, the whole nine yards, or if he should just let them die in peace.
*
Dean always gets antsy if they stay in one place for too long, and it's no different now, even when their options of where to live next are limited. He likes to have the Impala in front of him and the wind at his back, Sam riding shotgun and the music blasting loud over the sound of tires against the blacktop.
Sam, on the other hand, is content to stay holed up in one place, familiar and safe. He does hate the lack of internet, and with the phone lines down, they have no way of reaching Bobby. Part of Dean hopes that he didn't make it, that he doesn't have to see the world go halfway to Hell while people survive it. He's been through enough already. They all have, but Dean can drink his problems away, at least for a little bit; Sam can get angry enough that everything else goes away, but Bobby's stuck with a constant reminder.
What Sam doesn't have to deal with is the police, though not being constantly feels weird. Even at Stanford, he was careful--he paid in cash as often has he could, while his friends racked up bills on their credit cards (paid for by their parents, of course) and rarely used his debit card, always worried that it'd catch up to him somehow. But there's no need for scammed credit cards and fake IDs, no reason to hide from the cops or the Feds. They're either sitting on their asses, drinking beer, or trying to put their communities back together.
He doesn't know if Lucifer still wants him, or if he's safe because the world ended. Either way, he's on alert, but he wonders if there are any bodies left that Lucifer could use. There probably aren't--Nick was barely doing the job, and there can't have been many suitable for it, even before. He does know Dean will do anything he can to keep that from happening, and if Sam does go down, it'll be with a hell of a fight, and with Dean at his side, like always.
*
Cold snaps start in early October, bringing frost when the leaves are normally still unchanged on their trees, making everything feel more eerie than it already does.
It snows for the first time since the world ended, pure, white snowflakes falling from the grey sky, and onto the bleak earth. They stay inside where it's warm, build a fire in the fireplace and drink Swiss Miss hot chocolate. Dean's tongue tastes like sugar and whipped cream when Sam kisses him.
There's no heat, so they wear more layers than usual, and clutch blankets around them at night. Now, though, the fire warms Sam's skin, and he tries not to think about how badly it's hurt them. He lets Dean undress him, lay him out bare on the rug, slide slick fingers into him, slow and teasing. He ends up with carpet burn on his palms, knees, and shins, and hickeys all down his neck.
*
Despite Sam's attempts to ration the food, it runs out sooner than he'd hoped (he mentioned this to Dean, who promptly downed the last of his soda, belched, and said, "'m a growing boy, Sammy," before opening a bag of chips,") so they start to pack up. Some cars are left in the neighborhood, and they siphon all the gas they can from them, and take the house's few valuables. Sam's not sure if they'll help at all, or be worth anything, but they should have something to offer when they find a new town--if they find a new town. They siphon all the gas they can from the few cars left in town, pack up what little they've got, plus anything that could be valuable--salt, silver, and iron, really--and leave.
They trade weapons and ammo for information, though Dean always makes sure to snag some silver so they don't run out of bullets. It's what they've always done, and it's not going to be easy, but they survive, always, and that's not changing now.
Dean slides Zeppelin into the tape deck, familiar lyrics and chords comforting Sam. They'll be alright.
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; nc-17; vague spoilers through 5.14; 2,479 words
In which Sam and Dean have the suburban apocalypse blues.
Written for neros_violin for samdeanexchange. Thanks to familiardevil for looking it over and to coyotesuspect and lavendergaia for betaing. Originally posted here.
~*~
They find a house at the edge of the city--one that wasn't destroyed in the explosion, or in the fire; one that hasn't been looted for its food and valuables already. Dean wants to get the hell out as soon as they can; Sam, being contrary as ever, thinks they should stay. It shouldn't surprise Dean; Sam's always wanted to stay.
"We're sitting targets for Lucifer like this, and you know it, Sam," Dean says. "And we don't know what it's like here, if it's even safe. We'll stay for a day or two and stock up, but we have to keep moving."
"And when we run out of gas? What if there's no place else to stay? What are we gonna do then? If we stay here, we'll be prepared. There's food, and we have enough ammo to fight whoever comes up against us. Home-court advantage, Dean," he points out, even though he knows Dean loves baseball, but thinks basketball is boring. "We can set the house up with salt lines, draw a devil's trap around the town--"
"We'll stay. For now." Dean's tone is commanding, firm, like staying was his idea all along, and Sam snorts, but lets it slide, happy that he won out this time. It's a small victory, but it's the last one he'll have for who knows how long.
*
For an abandoned house, it's stocked pretty well. The perishables (milk, ground beef, the basket of tomatoes on the counter) have all gone bad, of course--left to rot in the stifling heat of the summer, and they throw them all into the trash can outside, though there's obviously no collection. Dean's happy with the food they do have--all kinds of crackers and breadsticks, tons of snacks and candy; when Sam sees the cupboards, he grumbles, but there's not much he can do.
When their mom was alive, baby Sammy would always get fed first, and Dean has a vague recollection of eating Dad's dinners--always undercooked or burnt--while Sam nursed; when they were older, during tough times or when Dad couldn't hustle, Dean had to see how long he could make a box of macaroni last, easily giving up the canned vegetables because "Sam needs them." It had never been for long, but memorizing Latin and creature lore was hard to do with his empty stomach growling loudly.
He wonders when the food will run out this time, and what they'll do (if they're not dead already, the voice in his head reminds him) when it does. At the end of the world, no one's there to restock the supermarkets.
*
The first night is weird. Sam doesn't sleep well in new houses (he never has) and even though there's a clean, soft king-size bed and nine hundred channels and as much food as either of them could want, he still feels weird. He knows no one's died here, knows the residents abandoned while they still could, but he feels like there are spirits still lingering.
"Dean," he says, rolling onto his side and propping his chin up on his hand. "Are you sure--"
"We already went through the house with the EMF," Dean says exasperatedly. "No signs of spirits or anything. Go to sleep."
"I can't."
"Then shut up and pretend."
Sam tries all the tricks he used as a kid--counting sheep, listing herbs in reverse alphabetical order, conjugating Latin verbs--but it only gets him more worked up.
"Stop mumbling shit under your breath," Dean snaps. "I can hear you, y'know, and don't you need your beauty rest, Samantha?"
Sam elbows him in the ribs, and Dean kicks him in the shins in return. He rolls over, looking to avoid another blow to his legs (or worse), but Dean just slings an arm over Sam's chest.
"Stop squirming," he says. "I can't fuckin' sleep with you tossing and turning like that."
Dean's breath is humid in Sam's ear, chest rising and falling like the waves of the ocean. He feels warm and safe and protected, like nothing bad can happen, even now, and drifts into deep, dreamless sleep.
*
Sam carves Latin into the woodwork after eating breakfast (dry Cheerios, after he saw Dean try the condensed milk and then spit it right back out, and dried fruit), fingers curled sure and steady around the black handle of a peeling knife, murmuring the words as he works. His voice is soft and soothing, lulling Dean into a calmness as he pores over old newspapers, searching for information.
"Nothing's gonna get us," Dean says, a promise he shouldn't be making, but the words are like muscle memory. They act for him before he can do it for himself.
Sam smiles a little, nods, and Dean's regrets are wiped away. He knows they'll need to leave the house sooner or later, see what's out there and if there's any way to stock up on supplies, but not knowing is always scarier than knowing. Facing a chupacabra or a wendigo is easier than trying to explore the undiscovered country.
*
The house has the heights of three kids marked on the kitchen door--Duncan, Kacie, and Peter--and Dean thinks absently about the kids neither of them will ever have. He's had the chance more times than he can count, thinks about Ben sometimes and wonders if Lisa was telling the truth, but it doesn't matter now. If they're alive, he won't be able to contact them.
He bets Sam wanted a house with Jess, a white picket fence and a neat yard with a little garden, two point five kids and a dog, but destiny's been fucking up their plans for a while now. That's how it's always been, and nothing, not even the apocalypse, is going to change that. There's no bringing a kid into this world now, and he knows it must suck to be young right now--if they make it, they're the ones who'll be stuck with the mess.
*
Toiletries--soap, shampoo, toothpaste--are stockpiled like the future version of Chuck said Dean needed to do with toilet paper; the thought makes him laugh a little. They won't run out, even with Sam's freakishly huge body and the need to scrub every inch of himself twice. Containers are stacked neatly on the shelves, and he almost doesn't care that the only kinds are baby shampoo and something girly because it's there, and he won't stink. (Almost because it smells like fucking apples and peaches.)
He strips, turning the water up as hot as it'll go, steam rising and fogging up the mirror right across from the shower stall. His skin reddens a little as it gets used to the heat, and he takes his time soaping up.
Sam slips into the bathroom, already naked, presses Dean against the tiled wall of the shower--it's clean, and bigger than most (almost big enough for both of them)--kissing hot and open-mouthed along Dean's jaw before going to his knees and anchoring Dean to the wall with those freakishly large hands of his. Sam's mouth is warm and wet, and Dean drops his head forward to see Sam's lips, wide and pink, stretched around Dean's dick, watching himself move in and out of Sam's mouth while Sam works a hand roughly around his own cock. He comes, fingers digging into the muscles of Sam's shoulders so he won't push up too much as Sam swallows down everything he can.
The tiles are cool against his skin, and if it weren't for them, and Sam's hand on Dean's hip, holding him up, Dean would be sprawled on the floor. The orgasm and the hot water have made him drowsy, but Sam's thrusting against Dean's hip and grunting oh, fuck and yeah, Dean, yeah, into his neck; Dean closes a hand around him and uses slow, lazy strokes to make Sam shudder and gasp. The sounds is as familiar to Dean as a gunshot, as an exorcism, but it never fails to make his blood run hot under his skin and his heart beat faster.
Dean wraps a towel--so thick and plush that it wicks away the water almost instantly--around his waist, and climbs into bed. Sam follows a moment later, and his stupidly long hair drips water all over the pillows, but Dean's too far gone to bitch him out. Even damp, Sam's like a fucking space heater, and it's a lot better than having cold feet. He falls asleep like that, all wrapped up in Sam, feeling Sam's chest rise and fall, listening to the beat of his heart.
*
Once the Impala's squeaky-clean--Dean even waxed the hood--tuned up and everything, he entertains himself with board games. Monopoly, Clue, Life, Scrabble are stacked up neatly on a shelf in the basement, with at least a dozen more lined up next to the first set of boxes. With nothing else to do, Sam gives in to Dean's requests (first polite, and then a little more insistent--"You're not getting laid unless you do. And you're being Miss Scarlet." 'The better side of the bed' and 'first shower' are the only things they've got to barter with, as usual, though Dean finds a pound of M&Ms to use as chips for poker. Sam beats Dean's ass at Scrabble, anyway, with words like inutile and asphyxy, lets Dean amend the game to Strip Scrabble after they've had a few beers.
"Never could keep your clothes on around me, Sammy," Dean growls, tugging at the zipper of his jeans when Sam stalls.
*
At Sam's insistence (funny how he's the one who wanted to stay because it's "safe", and now he calls all the shots: "Are we just going to stay inside forever, Dean?") they brave the outdoors, see what's left of the world. It reminds Dean of what he saw in 2014: cars tipped on their sides, littering the streets like trash; grocery stores looted by people who ran out of food; schools turned into attack bases (and that reminds him of the demon clusterfuck in River Pass). Most people don't know what happened, think other survivors are evil or alien or superhuman, and have picked up Dad's old rule of "shoot first, ask questions later." He can't blame them, makes sure to check out anyone he sees--black eyes or the stink of sulfur in the air, but there's nothing unusual, just huddled masses of scared people. He doesn't know if it'd be worse to tell them about everything: demons, hell, the whole nine yards, or if he should just let them die in peace.
*
Dean always gets antsy if they stay in one place for too long, and it's no different now, even when their options of where to live next are limited. He likes to have the Impala in front of him and the wind at his back, Sam riding shotgun and the music blasting loud over the sound of tires against the blacktop.
Sam, on the other hand, is content to stay holed up in one place, familiar and safe. He does hate the lack of internet, and with the phone lines down, they have no way of reaching Bobby. Part of Dean hopes that he didn't make it, that he doesn't have to see the world go halfway to Hell while people survive it. He's been through enough already. They all have, but Dean can drink his problems away, at least for a little bit; Sam can get angry enough that everything else goes away, but Bobby's stuck with a constant reminder.
What Sam doesn't have to deal with is the police, though not being constantly feels weird. Even at Stanford, he was careful--he paid in cash as often has he could, while his friends racked up bills on their credit cards (paid for by their parents, of course) and rarely used his debit card, always worried that it'd catch up to him somehow. But there's no need for scammed credit cards and fake IDs, no reason to hide from the cops or the Feds. They're either sitting on their asses, drinking beer, or trying to put their communities back together.
He doesn't know if Lucifer still wants him, or if he's safe because the world ended. Either way, he's on alert, but he wonders if there are any bodies left that Lucifer could use. There probably aren't--Nick was barely doing the job, and there can't have been many suitable for it, even before. He does know Dean will do anything he can to keep that from happening, and if Sam does go down, it'll be with a hell of a fight, and with Dean at his side, like always.
*
Cold snaps start in early October, bringing frost when the leaves are normally still unchanged on their trees, making everything feel more eerie than it already does.
It snows for the first time since the world ended, pure, white snowflakes falling from the grey sky, and onto the bleak earth. They stay inside where it's warm, build a fire in the fireplace and drink Swiss Miss hot chocolate. Dean's tongue tastes like sugar and whipped cream when Sam kisses him.
There's no heat, so they wear more layers than usual, and clutch blankets around them at night. Now, though, the fire warms Sam's skin, and he tries not to think about how badly it's hurt them. He lets Dean undress him, lay him out bare on the rug, slide slick fingers into him, slow and teasing. He ends up with carpet burn on his palms, knees, and shins, and hickeys all down his neck.
*
Despite Sam's attempts to ration the food, it runs out sooner than he'd hoped (he mentioned this to Dean, who promptly downed the last of his soda, belched, and said, "'m a growing boy, Sammy," before opening a bag of chips,") so they start to pack up. Some cars are left in the neighborhood, and they siphon all the gas they can from them, and take the house's few valuables. Sam's not sure if they'll help at all, or be worth anything, but they should have something to offer when they find a new town--if they find a new town. They siphon all the gas they can from the few cars left in town, pack up what little they've got, plus anything that could be valuable--salt, silver, and iron, really--and leave.
They trade weapons and ammo for information, though Dean always makes sure to snag some silver so they don't run out of bullets. It's what they've always done, and it's not going to be easy, but they survive, always, and that's not changing now.
Dean slides Zeppelin into the tape deck, familiar lyrics and chords comforting Sam. They'll be alright.