Ahaha, first Sam/Dean ever, I APOLOGIZE.bittersplendorFebruary 7 2009, 07:34:41 UTC
Sam/Dean: Sam dealing with the guilt of what he said.
The thing about words, Sam thinks, is that they’re dense. They hang heavy in the air long after they roll out of mouths, and they stay there, some clinging to your jacket, your hair, your skin.
You’re too weak-- those, in particular, are still hot on Sam’s lips. Two days after the siren thing and Dean is acting like everything’s okay, but Sam- he still can’t look at Dean without thinking of how much he’s hurt his brother, can’t say anything to fix what he’s done. Whatever comes out of his mouth now seems obsolete, like a lie that knows it’s a lie, and lets everyone in the room know it’s a lie. New words mingle with those already said, tainting, and it’s all pointless.
Everything seems so futile, now, and Sam doesn’t know what the fuck to do-everything he boasted about having: his strength, his intelligence, his fucking powers, none of that means anything if he can’t fix this.
Sam watches Dean sleeping on the other bed, and licks at his lips, tastes bitterness and wants to cry.
He pushes his own covers away and walks to Dean’s bed, and can’t help falling to his knees-how did things get this fucked up? He’s breathing heavily and wishes he could make Dean understand that he never wanted any of this, and he’s sorry, he’s so so sorry.
He says as much, voice rasping because the words aren’t meant to be said at all, and they scrape against his throat in protest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, clearer this time, and feels his chest swell with something like relief at being able to say it, finally, and not have Dean look at him with wary disbelief. Dean is sleeping, now, not judging, not even listening, and Sam will take what he can.
“I’m sorry, I just- I don’t want you to get hurt anymore, Dean,” he whispers, clutching at the sheets and staring at Dean’s resting face. Then he can’t stand to look at Dean being so still, so he buries his face in the covers and keeps on talking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m the way I am, I’m sorry for lying to you, I never- I never wanted this for us, I’m sorry for dying, I’m sorry for letting you stay dead and for letting you down and I’m sorry-I just, really-I love you so much, Dean,” he’s choking on the vastness of the words, now, and Sam sobs in frustration because they’re flying in the air, careless, like mosquitoes with nothing to bite, nothing to hang on to, just roaming aimlessly with no real purpose.
Then he feels Dean’s hand on his head, and Sam starts. He jerks his head up and comes face to face with a very awake Dean, hair sticking up every which way, and all Sam can say is, “Um.”
Dean just looks at him, silent, calm. Then he brings his hands to Sam’s cheeks and wipes away the wetness that Sam didn’t even know was there.
Then he says, “It’s okay, Sammy,” and Sam wonders how Dean does it- how he manages to make those words pure, free from any of the malice that draped itself so thickly around them.
Sam is still sort of staring at him in awe when Dean catches his face in his hands and leans in to kiss his forehead, softly. Sam breathes out and closes his eyes, and can’t help tilting his face up to catch his brother’s lips in his own. Dean gasps in surprise but doesn’t pull back, and once he melts into it he only pulls Sam so he’s on the bed, too, and Sam is kissing like he wants to pour all his apologies into Dean’s mouth, because it still doesn’t feel like enough.
Dean sighs and pulls away, and Sam chases after him, but Dean only laughs and says, “You need to sleep. You’ve been watching me for two nights now, I don’t know how you’re still functioning, man.”
Sam looks at him, confused, and says intelligently, “Wha?”
Dean just smiles and settles his head on Sam’s shoulder, closing his eyes. Then he opens one like he’s peeking at Sam’s face, and says, “What? I’m really good at this pretend-sleeping thing.”
Sam shakes his head, smiling, and punches Dean on the shoulder before closing his own eyes. The air is not completely cleared, but it feels a lot less heavy, and Sam sleeps.
Re: Ahaha, first Sam/Dean ever, I APOLOGIZE.rejenerationFebruary 7 2009, 20:48:58 UTC
HOLY CRIPES. What's to apologize for here??? GOD, I LOVE THIS! -smiling- The comfort, the forgiveness. The sweet and covert Dean. -grin- MMMMMM. SO MUCH LOVE! THANK YOU!
Re: Ahaha, first Sam/Dean ever, I APOLOGIZE.clubintheskyFebruary 8 2009, 21:03:47 UTC
Oh no apologies!!, this was gorgeous and I loved the emotion, comfort and the feel of the story. You should write more Sam/Dean, you're good! *pokes* ♥
The thing about words, Sam thinks, is that they’re dense. They hang heavy in the air long after they roll out of mouths, and they stay there, some clinging to your jacket, your hair, your skin.
You’re too weak-- those, in particular, are still hot on Sam’s lips. Two days after the siren thing and Dean is acting like everything’s okay, but Sam- he still can’t look at Dean without thinking of how much he’s hurt his brother, can’t say anything to fix what he’s done. Whatever comes out of his mouth now seems obsolete, like a lie that knows it’s a lie, and lets everyone in the room know it’s a lie. New words mingle with those already said, tainting, and it’s all pointless.
Everything seems so futile, now, and Sam doesn’t know what the fuck to do-everything he boasted about having: his strength, his intelligence, his fucking powers, none of that means anything if he can’t fix this.
Sam watches Dean sleeping on the other bed, and licks at his lips, tastes bitterness and wants to cry.
He pushes his own covers away and walks to Dean’s bed, and can’t help falling to his knees-how did things get this fucked up? He’s breathing heavily and wishes he could make Dean understand that he never wanted any of this, and he’s sorry, he’s so so sorry.
He says as much, voice rasping because the words aren’t meant to be said at all, and they scrape against his throat in protest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, clearer this time, and feels his chest swell with something like relief at being able to say it, finally, and not have Dean look at him with wary disbelief. Dean is sleeping, now, not judging, not even listening, and Sam will take what he can.
“I’m sorry, I just- I don’t want you to get hurt anymore, Dean,” he whispers, clutching at the sheets and staring at Dean’s resting face. Then he can’t stand to look at Dean being so still, so he buries his face in the covers and keeps on talking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m the way I am, I’m sorry for lying to you, I never- I never wanted this for us, I’m sorry for dying, I’m sorry for letting you stay dead and for letting you down and I’m sorry-I just, really-I love you so much, Dean,” he’s choking on the vastness of the words, now, and Sam sobs in frustration because they’re flying in the air, careless, like mosquitoes with nothing to bite, nothing to hang on to, just roaming aimlessly with no real purpose.
Then he feels Dean’s hand on his head, and Sam starts. He jerks his head up and comes face to face with a very awake Dean, hair sticking up every which way, and all Sam can say is, “Um.”
Dean just looks at him, silent, calm. Then he brings his hands to Sam’s cheeks and wipes away the wetness that Sam didn’t even know was there.
Then he says, “It’s okay, Sammy,” and Sam wonders how Dean does it- how he manages to make those words pure, free from any of the malice that draped itself so thickly around them.
Sam is still sort of staring at him in awe when Dean catches his face in his hands and leans in to kiss his forehead, softly. Sam breathes out and closes his eyes, and can’t help tilting his face up to catch his brother’s lips in his own. Dean gasps in surprise but doesn’t pull back, and once he melts into it he only pulls Sam so he’s on the bed, too, and Sam is kissing like he wants to pour all his apologies into Dean’s mouth, because it still doesn’t feel like enough.
Dean sighs and pulls away, and Sam chases after him, but Dean only laughs and says, “You need to sleep. You’ve been watching me for two nights now, I don’t know how you’re still functioning, man.”
Sam looks at him, confused, and says intelligently, “Wha?”
Dean just smiles and settles his head on Sam’s shoulder, closing his eyes. Then he opens one like he’s peeking at Sam’s face, and says, “What? I’m really good at this pretend-sleeping thing.”
Sam shakes his head, smiling, and punches Dean on the shoulder before closing his own eyes. The air is not completely cleared, but it feels a lot less heavy, and Sam sleeps.
--
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I quite like this bit:
everything he boasted about having: his strength, his intelligence, his fucking powers, none of that means anything if he can’t fix this.
Sam watches Dean sleeping on the other bed, and licks at his lips, tastes bitterness and wants to cry.
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oh god poor boys, they need to straighten themselves out, make it okay with each other.
You really should write more Sam/Dean. I love your J2 but this is wonderful.
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Oh, that's so nice of you to say! Thank you so much! :D
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Because that would be a shame!
This is lovely. So much feeling and emotion coming from Sam in such a short ficlet. ♥
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