Fic: "Covering the Miles" (Sam/Dean, R)
Title: "Covering the Miles"
Author: littlewings04
Prompt: Sam/Dean, first snow, mittens, diner food.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R, for sexual situations and language.
snow can wait
i forgot my mittens
wipe my nose
get my new boots on
Tori Amos, "Winter"
The room smells vaguely like stale urine and moth balls, that general odor of old bodily fluids that he doesn’t like to analyze, but Sam’s used to that. It’s one of those scents he doesn’t even notice anymore, like grease and onions, like salt and gun oil, like gasoline and gunpowder. It’s subliminal, the fabric of every day reality, the things he thought he could escape. But his freshman dorms had that stale smell, and he came to miss the rest of it, the faded carpets and peeling wallpaper and the comforting presence of his brother, right there with him, every second, every step, every heartbeat.
It’s why now that they’re doing something Sam knows is firmly lodged in the category of mortal sin that he doesn’t hesitate. He can’t. Sometimes, getting his brother off is almost like getting himself off. It’s sex with a mirror. They look nothing alike and Dean has a kink about getting bitten that Sam doesn’t enjoy half as much and Sam’s skin is unmarked where his brother has scars and Dean always smells like Old Spice when Sam can’t even remember the last time he wore cologne, but none of that matters. They’re this one thing that’s meshed together--therefore shall you cleave together and be of one flesh--and it hurts more to pull apart than it could possibly hurt to be together, so they stay together. It’s better to whisper in the night promises like “not leaving” than to watch Dean sleep across the room and an ocean away. It’s warmer, safer, better. It’s not hurting anyone. It’s the most right thing Sam’s felt in a long, long, long time.
Tonight, it’s northern New Jersey, some town that’s just a bedroom community for New York and whose only claim to fame was some huge carpet mill from the Revolutionary War that’s now condominiums or something. That’s progress, Dean had said, dripping with sarcasm as they ate blue plate specials in a diner off of Route 3, the snow falling steadily outside the windows. The waitresses had kept them plied with coffee and cherry pie--Dean’s favourite--as they worked out the details of taking down the spirit hell-bent on revenge for some slight from two hundred years ago. It was normal. Nondescript for them. So’s the motel room, and the sounds of Dean’s soft snores and the shadows of the shotgun by the night stand and the lingering smell of salt in the air, like they’re closer to the sea than the dingy Passaic River. It’s familiar and banal and this time last year, Sam would’ve taken it for granted. But not anymore. He made a New Year’s resolution this year. Dean had pronounced the tradition “fucking weak” and then, regardless of his routinely expressed opinions about such things, downed some cocktail called a Wooly Mitten that the cute, busty bartender had cooked up for him with a side of flirting and innuendo for good measure. It hadn’t deterred Sam, however. He made his New Year’s resolution to pay attention, to be aware, to notice the little things. He’s starting to lose the little things about Jessica, about Dad, and Sam’s convinced that as long as he pays attention now, notices them now, he won’t lose them if he loses Dean. But he doesn’t often think about that. He can’t. He’s not ready. There’s time for that later--a time to keep and a time to cast away--because for now, Dean’s here and safe and sound and his. Dean told him right before Dad died that he’d do anything for the family and it scared him. Sam knows that he’d do the same for Dean, absolutely anything at all, and it’s not frightening, it’s oddly reassuring, somehow. This is his constant. This is the only thing that matters sometimes, and he’s okay with that.
The snow stopped falling sometime around midnight, maybe one, and now the lights of nighttime life reflect against it, refracting and intensifying. It gives a certain luster to the room, but more than that, to Dean’s skin as he lays sprawled on his stomach, sound asleep, the blankets wadded up somewhere around his hips. It catches on the white scars over his ribs, casts shadows in the divots and hollows that mark almosts and near-misses. He’s fragile, somehow, Sam thinks. He’s fragile and vulnerable and his to protect. For his whole life, Sam’s been protected, sheltered, shielded from the storm. But the accident changed things. It changed everything. It put Dean in his care for the first time, and he’s not about to let anyone else down. It’s not even an option, not anymore. So he’ll hunt and fight and try, because if he doesn’t, he doesn’t know how to be what Dean needs. Sometimes, he’s not even sure what Dean needs, and it doesn’t surprise him, because he’s certain Dean doesn’t really know, either. But they make do. They’re good at making do.
Dean shifts in his sleep, smacking his lips and mumbling about cocoa with cinnamon in it and he scoots towards Sam unconsciously, looking for closeness, able to do things like cuddling when he’s not thinking about it. At least, that’s what it seems like to Sam, and he strokes his hand down his brother’s spine, feeling him settle under the caress. It’s an amazing thing, the contrast between the hunter and the man that’s laying here, face open and slack in sleep. Sam smiles, stretching out luxuriously, pulling the covers up in defense against the chill in the room. He kisses Dean’s cheek, settling himself, comfortable, secure. This is, he thinks, what love feels like. It’s warmth in a cold February room. It’s skin pressed to skin between the sheets. It’s the roughness of stubble and the familiar, welcome burn. It’s the smell of soap and cologne and sweat under his nose. It’s this need to protect and claim and have, a need for together. He needs together, and, Sam thinks, Dean needs it, too. They don’t say “I love you.” Sam can’t remember when they stopped, maybe grade school sometime, and it doesn’t matter now. “Together” is more to him than “I love you”. Together covers the miles and the hurts. Together gets them through tonight and into tomorrow, and in their world, that can be the sum total of ‘til death do us part. It’s enough, Sam thinks.
“Dude, you’re snuggling,” Dean says, voice heavy and rough with sleep.
Sam laughs softly, having totally missed the transition from mumbling about cocoa to being remotely awake. “Yeah, I know. You like it, anyway.”
Dean grunts a noise that’s something like assent, turning over to wrap his arms around his brother before dropping back off to sleep and Sam snuggles up a bit more, just because he can, smiling. This is more than good enough, so much more, and eventually, he falls asleep, safe and loved, together.
Author: littlewings04
Prompt: Sam/Dean, first snow, mittens, diner food.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R, for sexual situations and language.
snow can wait
i forgot my mittens
wipe my nose
get my new boots on
Tori Amos, "Winter"
The room smells vaguely like stale urine and moth balls, that general odor of old bodily fluids that he doesn’t like to analyze, but Sam’s used to that. It’s one of those scents he doesn’t even notice anymore, like grease and onions, like salt and gun oil, like gasoline and gunpowder. It’s subliminal, the fabric of every day reality, the things he thought he could escape. But his freshman dorms had that stale smell, and he came to miss the rest of it, the faded carpets and peeling wallpaper and the comforting presence of his brother, right there with him, every second, every step, every heartbeat.
It’s why now that they’re doing something Sam knows is firmly lodged in the category of mortal sin that he doesn’t hesitate. He can’t. Sometimes, getting his brother off is almost like getting himself off. It’s sex with a mirror. They look nothing alike and Dean has a kink about getting bitten that Sam doesn’t enjoy half as much and Sam’s skin is unmarked where his brother has scars and Dean always smells like Old Spice when Sam can’t even remember the last time he wore cologne, but none of that matters. They’re this one thing that’s meshed together--therefore shall you cleave together and be of one flesh--and it hurts more to pull apart than it could possibly hurt to be together, so they stay together. It’s better to whisper in the night promises like “not leaving” than to watch Dean sleep across the room and an ocean away. It’s warmer, safer, better. It’s not hurting anyone. It’s the most right thing Sam’s felt in a long, long, long time.
Tonight, it’s northern New Jersey, some town that’s just a bedroom community for New York and whose only claim to fame was some huge carpet mill from the Revolutionary War that’s now condominiums or something. That’s progress, Dean had said, dripping with sarcasm as they ate blue plate specials in a diner off of Route 3, the snow falling steadily outside the windows. The waitresses had kept them plied with coffee and cherry pie--Dean’s favourite--as they worked out the details of taking down the spirit hell-bent on revenge for some slight from two hundred years ago. It was normal. Nondescript for them. So’s the motel room, and the sounds of Dean’s soft snores and the shadows of the shotgun by the night stand and the lingering smell of salt in the air, like they’re closer to the sea than the dingy Passaic River. It’s familiar and banal and this time last year, Sam would’ve taken it for granted. But not anymore. He made a New Year’s resolution this year. Dean had pronounced the tradition “fucking weak” and then, regardless of his routinely expressed opinions about such things, downed some cocktail called a Wooly Mitten that the cute, busty bartender had cooked up for him with a side of flirting and innuendo for good measure. It hadn’t deterred Sam, however. He made his New Year’s resolution to pay attention, to be aware, to notice the little things. He’s starting to lose the little things about Jessica, about Dad, and Sam’s convinced that as long as he pays attention now, notices them now, he won’t lose them if he loses Dean. But he doesn’t often think about that. He can’t. He’s not ready. There’s time for that later--a time to keep and a time to cast away--because for now, Dean’s here and safe and sound and his. Dean told him right before Dad died that he’d do anything for the family and it scared him. Sam knows that he’d do the same for Dean, absolutely anything at all, and it’s not frightening, it’s oddly reassuring, somehow. This is his constant. This is the only thing that matters sometimes, and he’s okay with that.
The snow stopped falling sometime around midnight, maybe one, and now the lights of nighttime life reflect against it, refracting and intensifying. It gives a certain luster to the room, but more than that, to Dean’s skin as he lays sprawled on his stomach, sound asleep, the blankets wadded up somewhere around his hips. It catches on the white scars over his ribs, casts shadows in the divots and hollows that mark almosts and near-misses. He’s fragile, somehow, Sam thinks. He’s fragile and vulnerable and his to protect. For his whole life, Sam’s been protected, sheltered, shielded from the storm. But the accident changed things. It changed everything. It put Dean in his care for the first time, and he’s not about to let anyone else down. It’s not even an option, not anymore. So he’ll hunt and fight and try, because if he doesn’t, he doesn’t know how to be what Dean needs. Sometimes, he’s not even sure what Dean needs, and it doesn’t surprise him, because he’s certain Dean doesn’t really know, either. But they make do. They’re good at making do.
Dean shifts in his sleep, smacking his lips and mumbling about cocoa with cinnamon in it and he scoots towards Sam unconsciously, looking for closeness, able to do things like cuddling when he’s not thinking about it. At least, that’s what it seems like to Sam, and he strokes his hand down his brother’s spine, feeling him settle under the caress. It’s an amazing thing, the contrast between the hunter and the man that’s laying here, face open and slack in sleep. Sam smiles, stretching out luxuriously, pulling the covers up in defense against the chill in the room. He kisses Dean’s cheek, settling himself, comfortable, secure. This is, he thinks, what love feels like. It’s warmth in a cold February room. It’s skin pressed to skin between the sheets. It’s the roughness of stubble and the familiar, welcome burn. It’s the smell of soap and cologne and sweat under his nose. It’s this need to protect and claim and have, a need for together. He needs together, and, Sam thinks, Dean needs it, too. They don’t say “I love you.” Sam can’t remember when they stopped, maybe grade school sometime, and it doesn’t matter now. “Together” is more to him than “I love you”. Together covers the miles and the hurts. Together gets them through tonight and into tomorrow, and in their world, that can be the sum total of ‘til death do us part. It’s enough, Sam thinks.
“Dude, you’re snuggling,” Dean says, voice heavy and rough with sleep.
Sam laughs softly, having totally missed the transition from mumbling about cocoa to being remotely awake. “Yeah, I know. You like it, anyway.”
Dean grunts a noise that’s something like assent, turning over to wrap his arms around his brother before dropping back off to sleep and Sam snuggles up a bit more, just because he can, smiling. This is more than good enough, so much more, and eventually, he falls asleep, safe and loved, together.