like the rifle...
There are now 54 wonderful ficlets at tvm's hurt/comfort comment meme - Sam and Dean, Jensen and Jared. Go and roll around in them!
. I'm saving the couple I did here for my own reference. I haven't cleaned them up, they're rough, but there's also a rawness in them I like. One of my difficulties in writing is getting emotion across, I tend to over-intellectualise things (which is why I do crack mostly).
1. Written: Scars mark the place of pain. One day i might tell you about mine. But for now you can have Sam and Dean's.
Written.
Dean doesn't talk about what happened to him in Hell but he doesn't need to; the story is written on his body.
At first it's not only facts and feelings he keeps from Sam. He hides himself, emerging from the bathroom fully clothed, not undressing for bed and not touching, never touching Sam.
Sam aches to feel Dean's skin against his, the weight of his body, solid and real and oh god alive. He wants Dean to engulf him, take him inside, and let him replace whatever dark horrors are there with life and hope. But he doesn’t push, doesn't ask; it's Dean's story to tell when he's ready.
One night Dean disappears into the bathroom for a long time, and when the door opens he walks out clad only in a towel, clutching his clothes to his chest. He looks at Sam as he drops the clothes to the floor and stands, exposed and his arms spread slightly as if to say "This is what happened Sam. This is my story."
There is barely an inch of Dean's body that doesn't bear an account of pain and torment, written in an ivory calligraphy of scars across his skin. Some of it is spidery thin, like an old man’s cursive script, while others are bold and thick like graffiti.
Sam reaches out, tentatively at first, to read as if in Braille. His fingertips touch a short thick scar at the base of Dean's neck and traces the sweeping curve of another that sweeps down to his belly. He presses his lips to a pucker that punctuates the tale across Dean's chest. But as Sam's tongue traces the narrative, he feels like he’s reading a foreign language because he can't comprehend the story being told.
"Do they...does it hurt?" Sam whispers.
"Yes," says Dean. "But don't stop."
Sam undresses and they lie on the bed, Sam reading Dean's story, in an echo of how Dean would read to Sam as a child. And soon fingertips and lips are not enough, and Sam presses his body against Dean's, trying to rewrite the terrible tale, trying to erase it with his love. And Dean doesn't speak but wraps his legs around Sam's hips as they move together in a story of their own that they started writing together so long ago. And when they come Sam smears it across Dean's body, whitewashing the chronicle of Dean's time in Hell.
Sam has scars too. They're on his heart where Dean can't see them, but he kisses them better just the same.
2. Osmosis: I actually had this idea ages ago - that while Dean was in Hell, each day there would be a moment they could sense each other. (yes, i know, very "Ladyhawke")Anyway I couldn't quite get it to work - so I was thrilled when i saw memphis86's prompt, so I could do something with the idea. The fic was a lot darker than this. Can be read as Sam/Dean or gen.
Osmosis
Death, a wise man once said, okay it was Kripke but go with me here, is a permeable membrane. What passes through it may come back to the mortal realm -- as pissed-off poltergeist or ghost or sometimes just a really bad smell. Death can echoes across the divide because make no mistake death is not peaceful. It's the worst pain there is and if you weren't dying it would kill you. Although if you end up in Hell, even that pain will seem as soft and gentle as a really fluffy kitten in comparison.
Things bleed through from the land of the living too. It is well known that gay love can pierce through the veil of death, but it holds true for all varieties of love because death doesn’t discriminate. So the love of the living passes over and those that are dead can smell it like the sweet scent of snowbells on a summer breeze.
Sam doesn't think about Dean. Okay, that's wrong. He thinks about him every minute of every day. What Would Dean Do? Sam thinks he should get it on a t-shirt because he asks himself that every time he's on a hunt, or ordering lunch or trying to work out why the Impala is making a strange sound. He looks for Dean as he fires rocksalt at a ghost, or reaches to change the radio, or turns over in bed in the morning. But he shuts down those thoughts, moves on, and moves past them.
It's in the small hours of the night that Sam goes back and remembers every moment of the day when he thought if Dean. Turning them over, examining them, like he did as a kid with stones he collected. He takes each thought of Dean and polishes it with his love, and his pain.
He imagines he can feel Dean with him sometimes. Maybe its just wishful thinking, but Sam's seen enough to know, to hope, that just maybe it's more. Then, and only then, he can cry because Dean is there as he's always been to comfort his little brother. And somewhere in the pits of the eternal flames of damnation, Sam's tears soothe Dean's torment and wounds.
There's a moment before dawn when the world of the living and the world of the dead pass through each other. When those that were torn apart are together again for an instant.
Forever
. I'm saving the couple I did here for my own reference. I haven't cleaned them up, they're rough, but there's also a rawness in them I like. One of my difficulties in writing is getting emotion across, I tend to over-intellectualise things (which is why I do crack mostly).
1. Written: Scars mark the place of pain. One day i might tell you about mine. But for now you can have Sam and Dean's.
Written.
Dean doesn't talk about what happened to him in Hell but he doesn't need to; the story is written on his body.
At first it's not only facts and feelings he keeps from Sam. He hides himself, emerging from the bathroom fully clothed, not undressing for bed and not touching, never touching Sam.
Sam aches to feel Dean's skin against his, the weight of his body, solid and real and oh god alive. He wants Dean to engulf him, take him inside, and let him replace whatever dark horrors are there with life and hope. But he doesn’t push, doesn't ask; it's Dean's story to tell when he's ready.
One night Dean disappears into the bathroom for a long time, and when the door opens he walks out clad only in a towel, clutching his clothes to his chest. He looks at Sam as he drops the clothes to the floor and stands, exposed and his arms spread slightly as if to say "This is what happened Sam. This is my story."
There is barely an inch of Dean's body that doesn't bear an account of pain and torment, written in an ivory calligraphy of scars across his skin. Some of it is spidery thin, like an old man’s cursive script, while others are bold and thick like graffiti.
Sam reaches out, tentatively at first, to read as if in Braille. His fingertips touch a short thick scar at the base of Dean's neck and traces the sweeping curve of another that sweeps down to his belly. He presses his lips to a pucker that punctuates the tale across Dean's chest. But as Sam's tongue traces the narrative, he feels like he’s reading a foreign language because he can't comprehend the story being told.
"Do they...does it hurt?" Sam whispers.
"Yes," says Dean. "But don't stop."
Sam undresses and they lie on the bed, Sam reading Dean's story, in an echo of how Dean would read to Sam as a child. And soon fingertips and lips are not enough, and Sam presses his body against Dean's, trying to rewrite the terrible tale, trying to erase it with his love. And Dean doesn't speak but wraps his legs around Sam's hips as they move together in a story of their own that they started writing together so long ago. And when they come Sam smears it across Dean's body, whitewashing the chronicle of Dean's time in Hell.
Sam has scars too. They're on his heart where Dean can't see them, but he kisses them better just the same.
2. Osmosis: I actually had this idea ages ago - that while Dean was in Hell, each day there would be a moment they could sense each other. (yes, i know, very "Ladyhawke")Anyway I couldn't quite get it to work - so I was thrilled when i saw memphis86's prompt, so I could do something with the idea. The fic was a lot darker than this. Can be read as Sam/Dean or gen.
Osmosis
Death, a wise man once said, okay it was Kripke but go with me here, is a permeable membrane. What passes through it may come back to the mortal realm -- as pissed-off poltergeist or ghost or sometimes just a really bad smell. Death can echoes across the divide because make no mistake death is not peaceful. It's the worst pain there is and if you weren't dying it would kill you. Although if you end up in Hell, even that pain will seem as soft and gentle as a really fluffy kitten in comparison.
Things bleed through from the land of the living too. It is well known that gay love can pierce through the veil of death, but it holds true for all varieties of love because death doesn’t discriminate. So the love of the living passes over and those that are dead can smell it like the sweet scent of snowbells on a summer breeze.
Sam doesn't think about Dean. Okay, that's wrong. He thinks about him every minute of every day. What Would Dean Do? Sam thinks he should get it on a t-shirt because he asks himself that every time he's on a hunt, or ordering lunch or trying to work out why the Impala is making a strange sound. He looks for Dean as he fires rocksalt at a ghost, or reaches to change the radio, or turns over in bed in the morning. But he shuts down those thoughts, moves on, and moves past them.
It's in the small hours of the night that Sam goes back and remembers every moment of the day when he thought if Dean. Turning them over, examining them, like he did as a kid with stones he collected. He takes each thought of Dean and polishes it with his love, and his pain.
He imagines he can feel Dean with him sometimes. Maybe its just wishful thinking, but Sam's seen enough to know, to hope, that just maybe it's more. Then, and only then, he can cry because Dean is there as he's always been to comfort his little brother. And somewhere in the pits of the eternal flames of damnation, Sam's tears soothe Dean's torment and wounds.
There's a moment before dawn when the world of the living and the world of the dead pass through each other. When those that were torn apart are together again for an instant.
Forever