fic: Of Recklessness and Water (Supernatural; Sam and Dean)
Of Recklessness and Water
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; pg; 1,215 words
As if there were ever a chance he wasn't going to follow Dean into the water, the way he's followed Dean nearly everywhere since he learned to crawl.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for handholding and betaing.
~*~
Of Recklessness and Water
They're covered in sand and inky black slime that eats through cloth--it's starting to make Sam's skin tingle in bad ways where it's burning through his t-shirt and his flannel--and the smell of burning sewage fills the air. The mollusk-thing they've just destroyed is still smoldering about thirty yards away, greasy black smoke, darker than the night sky, rising in plumes from it.
It'll be a while before he can face a plate of mussels, or even some linguine with clam sauce, with any kind of appetite.
"Not exactly the early bird special at Red Lobster, huh?" Dean says, as if he's the one who's psychic, and Sam wonders if it's genetics or training that leads them to think along parallel tracks so often, even as different as they are.
He's still wondering when Dean jerks his t-shirt over his head and drops it to the sand. He gleams in the moonlight like a marble statue, though Dean's more Dionysus than Apollo (Dean would say, "I am the Lizard King," and just thinking it makes Sam laugh). Either way, Sam can't help staring at him--the darkness hides his scars and the moonlight clings to him. Dean has always attracted and reflected light like a mirror.
Sam shakes his head and wonders if the fumes from the mollusk-thing (and really, he should look into that when they get back to the motel; he can only imagine Dad's raised eyebrows if he writes down "mollusk-thing" in the journal) are narcotic, or possibly hallucinogenic.
Dean's boots and socks are on the sand next to his shirt and he's unzipping his jeans when Sam finally asks, "What are you doing?"
The grin Dean flashes him is wicked and sharp around the edges, like the scimitar he'd used earlier against the monster. "Going for a swim."
"That thing came out of there," Sam says, gesturing towards the water. "There could be more of them."
Dean kicks off his jeans and boxer-briefs, completely unselfconscious. And why shouldn't he be? He's all hard muscle, strong bone, and supple skin, the planes and angles of his body the architecture of beauty.
It's taken Sam years to find the easy confidence in his body that Dean was born with.
"Scared, Sammy?"
Even though he knows exactly what Dean's doing, part of him wants to rise to the bait, blurt that he's not scared and he'll show Dean, but he doesn't, because that would mean letting Dean win. He takes a deep breath, chokes on the smoke and the stench, and wishes he hadn't. "Cautious," he says when the coughing stops.
"Yeah, well, I don't feel like getting this slime all over my upholstery. I don't think the smell will come out."
Trust Dean to be more worried about the Impala than the possibility of more killer mollusks lying in wait in the ocean.
Dean's knee-deep in the surf when he looks back over his shoulder and says, "Dude, you're not getting in the car covered in that shit, so stop being a pussy and strip."
"Fine." He huffs and rolls his eyes, as if there were ever a chance he wasn't going to follow Dean into the water, the way he's followed Dean nearly everywhere since he learned to crawl. When he isn't following Dean, he's running from him, caught in his orbit and trying to break free.
He bends down to untie his boots, fumbling a little over the knots now that the adrenaline rush of killing things has passed. He finally gets them undone, and when he looks up, he can't see Dean. His heart clenches and he takes an involuntary step towards the water, and then Dean pops up between the waves and whoops like he's having the time of his life.
Sam leaves his clothes in a heap next to Dean's and tries not to feel weird being naked in such a public place, even if there aren't any people around at the moment. He doesn't even want to think about the fact that, technically, he's going skinny-dipping with his brother. They're washing off acidic slime after defeating an evil mollusk-thing. That's his story and he's sticking to it. Sand fleas swarm around his ankles, and he rushes into the water to get away from them before they eat him alive, secretly thankful for the excuse to not-think about what they're doing.
The first splash of water against his sweaty skin is a shock. "Shit." He's louder than he means to be, because Dean hears, even over the crash of the waves, and says, "It's not that cold, you big baby." Then he slips away again, flowing into the water like he's a seal or a dolphin, sleek and strong, at home at sea. Dean would probably scowl and say he was a shark, but Sam knows better.
It really isn't that cold--it's been a hot summer and the water is probably the same temperature as the air around them. He gets used to it pretty quickly, though the salt stings in the cuts and burns he has on his arms. He pushes his way out past the breakers, getting into the rhythm of the waves, wishing he'd learned to surf while he was in California. It had been on his to-do list, but he'd never gotten around to it. He'd worked all summer every summer he was in Palo Alto, two jobs sometimes, to keep food in his stomach and a roof over his head. Just another stop on the way to being normal, wage-slave jobs he was too smart for and too poor to refuse, but satisfying in a way credit card fraud never was, buying things that were his, even if Palo Alto never did feel like home.
He opens his mouth to ask Dean if he's ever been surfing when a hand wraps around his ankle and pulls. He goes under gasping and kicking out--even though he knows it has to be Dean (he can feel fingers, and the smooth cool metal of Dean's ring against his skin), the tentacles of the mollusk-thing are fresh in his memory, and he doesn't want to meet one in nothing but his skin, no weapons to be had.
He connects with something solid and thrusts upward, breaking the surface and gulping down air, arms wheeling to keep himself afloat until he can get his feet solidly on the bottom again.
Dean pops up next to him, laughing, teeth gleaming white in the moonlight, hair slicked back by the water. Definitely a seal, Sam thinks, listening to his laughter.
"God, Dean," he says, still breathing heavily, trying not to laugh and give himself away.
"What? Did you think I was the killer clam? Were you gonna fight it with nothing but your teeth and your dick?"
Sam takes another deep breath while Dean's snarking at him, and then launches his counterattack, using his greater height and reach to dunk Dean and hold him under.
They wrestle for a bit, laughter and curses echoing out over the water, and it feels more like home than anything has in a long time. There's nothing else in sight for miles, as if they're the only two people in the world, and for once, Sam's okay with that.
fin
*
September 10, 2006
*
Title and cut-tag text from "Nightswimming" by REM.
***
Feedback is adored.
*
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; pg; 1,215 words
As if there were ever a chance he wasn't going to follow Dean into the water, the way he's followed Dean nearly everywhere since he learned to crawl.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for handholding and betaing.
~*~
Of Recklessness and Water
They're covered in sand and inky black slime that eats through cloth--it's starting to make Sam's skin tingle in bad ways where it's burning through his t-shirt and his flannel--and the smell of burning sewage fills the air. The mollusk-thing they've just destroyed is still smoldering about thirty yards away, greasy black smoke, darker than the night sky, rising in plumes from it.
It'll be a while before he can face a plate of mussels, or even some linguine with clam sauce, with any kind of appetite.
"Not exactly the early bird special at Red Lobster, huh?" Dean says, as if he's the one who's psychic, and Sam wonders if it's genetics or training that leads them to think along parallel tracks so often, even as different as they are.
He's still wondering when Dean jerks his t-shirt over his head and drops it to the sand. He gleams in the moonlight like a marble statue, though Dean's more Dionysus than Apollo (Dean would say, "I am the Lizard King," and just thinking it makes Sam laugh). Either way, Sam can't help staring at him--the darkness hides his scars and the moonlight clings to him. Dean has always attracted and reflected light like a mirror.
Sam shakes his head and wonders if the fumes from the mollusk-thing (and really, he should look into that when they get back to the motel; he can only imagine Dad's raised eyebrows if he writes down "mollusk-thing" in the journal) are narcotic, or possibly hallucinogenic.
Dean's boots and socks are on the sand next to his shirt and he's unzipping his jeans when Sam finally asks, "What are you doing?"
The grin Dean flashes him is wicked and sharp around the edges, like the scimitar he'd used earlier against the monster. "Going for a swim."
"That thing came out of there," Sam says, gesturing towards the water. "There could be more of them."
Dean kicks off his jeans and boxer-briefs, completely unselfconscious. And why shouldn't he be? He's all hard muscle, strong bone, and supple skin, the planes and angles of his body the architecture of beauty.
It's taken Sam years to find the easy confidence in his body that Dean was born with.
"Scared, Sammy?"
Even though he knows exactly what Dean's doing, part of him wants to rise to the bait, blurt that he's not scared and he'll show Dean, but he doesn't, because that would mean letting Dean win. He takes a deep breath, chokes on the smoke and the stench, and wishes he hadn't. "Cautious," he says when the coughing stops.
"Yeah, well, I don't feel like getting this slime all over my upholstery. I don't think the smell will come out."
Trust Dean to be more worried about the Impala than the possibility of more killer mollusks lying in wait in the ocean.
Dean's knee-deep in the surf when he looks back over his shoulder and says, "Dude, you're not getting in the car covered in that shit, so stop being a pussy and strip."
"Fine." He huffs and rolls his eyes, as if there were ever a chance he wasn't going to follow Dean into the water, the way he's followed Dean nearly everywhere since he learned to crawl. When he isn't following Dean, he's running from him, caught in his orbit and trying to break free.
He bends down to untie his boots, fumbling a little over the knots now that the adrenaline rush of killing things has passed. He finally gets them undone, and when he looks up, he can't see Dean. His heart clenches and he takes an involuntary step towards the water, and then Dean pops up between the waves and whoops like he's having the time of his life.
Sam leaves his clothes in a heap next to Dean's and tries not to feel weird being naked in such a public place, even if there aren't any people around at the moment. He doesn't even want to think about the fact that, technically, he's going skinny-dipping with his brother. They're washing off acidic slime after defeating an evil mollusk-thing. That's his story and he's sticking to it. Sand fleas swarm around his ankles, and he rushes into the water to get away from them before they eat him alive, secretly thankful for the excuse to not-think about what they're doing.
The first splash of water against his sweaty skin is a shock. "Shit." He's louder than he means to be, because Dean hears, even over the crash of the waves, and says, "It's not that cold, you big baby." Then he slips away again, flowing into the water like he's a seal or a dolphin, sleek and strong, at home at sea. Dean would probably scowl and say he was a shark, but Sam knows better.
It really isn't that cold--it's been a hot summer and the water is probably the same temperature as the air around them. He gets used to it pretty quickly, though the salt stings in the cuts and burns he has on his arms. He pushes his way out past the breakers, getting into the rhythm of the waves, wishing he'd learned to surf while he was in California. It had been on his to-do list, but he'd never gotten around to it. He'd worked all summer every summer he was in Palo Alto, two jobs sometimes, to keep food in his stomach and a roof over his head. Just another stop on the way to being normal, wage-slave jobs he was too smart for and too poor to refuse, but satisfying in a way credit card fraud never was, buying things that were his, even if Palo Alto never did feel like home.
He opens his mouth to ask Dean if he's ever been surfing when a hand wraps around his ankle and pulls. He goes under gasping and kicking out--even though he knows it has to be Dean (he can feel fingers, and the smooth cool metal of Dean's ring against his skin), the tentacles of the mollusk-thing are fresh in his memory, and he doesn't want to meet one in nothing but his skin, no weapons to be had.
He connects with something solid and thrusts upward, breaking the surface and gulping down air, arms wheeling to keep himself afloat until he can get his feet solidly on the bottom again.
Dean pops up next to him, laughing, teeth gleaming white in the moonlight, hair slicked back by the water. Definitely a seal, Sam thinks, listening to his laughter.
"God, Dean," he says, still breathing heavily, trying not to laugh and give himself away.
"What? Did you think I was the killer clam? Were you gonna fight it with nothing but your teeth and your dick?"
Sam takes another deep breath while Dean's snarking at him, and then launches his counterattack, using his greater height and reach to dunk Dean and hold him under.
They wrestle for a bit, laughter and curses echoing out over the water, and it feels more like home than anything has in a long time. There's nothing else in sight for miles, as if they're the only two people in the world, and for once, Sam's okay with that.
fin
*
September 10, 2006
*
Title and cut-tag text from "Nightswimming" by REM.
***
Feedback is adored.
*