fear of retreat
Fucking Nats. Fucking Mets' bullpen. Can't hold a freaking lead. *growls*
Ooh, but the Mets just took the lead again. Sigh.
***
Bones had some good moments tonight, but it wasn't one of their best efforts.
***
So here are some wsip I will probably never finish. Sometimes, you just have to know when to bail, I guess.
The break finally comes, just like he's always known it would, has been waiting for since the moment Sam got back into the car with him that first night in Palo Alto. What he didn't know then, still can't quite believe now, is that he's the one doing the leaving.
He hasn't left Sam since--hell, he hasn't ever left Sam, not really, though that night in Fort Douglas he almost lost him, and he lost him again to Stanford for three years, but Dean has never walked away, and he tells himself he isn't now. What he's doing now is what's best for Sam, leaving before things between them get even more fucked up than they already have been, giving Sam another shot at the normal he's always craved and never had, the freedom he wants as much as Dean wants to keep him close and safe.
It shouldn't be so hard--he's slipped out of more beds and apartments and motel rooms than he can remember now, disentangled himself from so many people over the years (but not from Sam; never from Sam, as much as Sam might have wanted it sometimes) and disappeared into the darkness without a trace--but it still feels wrong to stuff his crap into a bag and sneak out while Sam's still sprawled on the bed, sleeping the sleep of the innocent.
Dean wants to laugh at that, because there's nothing innocent about Sam, not anymore, and that's his fault. Of all the things he's protected his brother from over the years, he'd never thought Sam would need protection from him. He'd been wrong. So very wrong.
He stops at the door, thinks about leaving a note, something, so Sam doesn't think he got snatched by some kind of evil creature or something, but he doesn't. What can he possibly say?
Hey, Sam, Sorry things got weird. I had to leave because fucking your brother is fucked up even by Winchester standards, and I don't want to drag you down any more than I already have. I'd like to think it's a phase, but I'm pretty sure it's not, so I'll just go away and let you get back to normal, like you've always wanted. Maybe in twenty years we can look back at this and laugh. Take care of yourself. Dean. PS: You've been dropping your shoulder lately, telegraphing your punches. You might want to stop that, now that I won't be around to watch your lazy ass.
Yeah, not exactly covered in the family field guide to hunting evil.
He closes the door, eases out to the car, and hopes Sam stays asleep while the engine rumbles to life.
*
Dean's on line in the minimart attached to the Mobile station when Sam finds him. The back of his neck prickles, and he half-turns, unsure of what it is that's set his radar off, and Sam's there, looming large, using every inch of his height to intimidate. Before Dean can get any words out, because he honestly hadn't expected Sam to catch up with him for at least another twenty-four hours, Sam's fist crashes into his face.
The guy behind the counter is yelling and threatening to call 911, but Dean, hand clapped over the side of his face where Sam's freakishly large fist made impact, says, "No, no cops! It's okay. We were just leaving."
"You bastard!" Sam yells when they get outside, angrier than Dean's seen him in months, maybe since that time in Rockville, even. "You snuck off in the middle of the night and left me in stranded in fucking Utah!"
***
Zoe made her way to the restroom, a little dizzy from the sake, but still far from drunk--someone had to keep their wits, or they'd all end up staring at the insides of the local jail and she didn't want to count on Simon to rescue them. Jayne was already eyeing a girl who'd come in with someone else, and Mal would just egg him on, looking for a fight, 'cause god forbid the captain pick up a girl his own self. Man needed to get laid worse than the rest of them combined, but he never would.
When she was done with her business, she stopped to tighten the clip in her hair. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of red-blonde hair, a familiar face, on a woman slipping out of a stall.
Zoe moved to the door, blocking the way.
"Get out of the--oh, it's you," Saffron said.
"Puts a bit of a crimp in your plan, huh?"
***
Mal doesn't pay close enough attention to have a favorite shirt--they're all pretty much the same, soft and faded from being washed so often, only difference is the color and the location of the patches over the holes from his various wounds. And he's not superstitious enough to have a lucky shirt--he's been unlucky in all of 'em, and don't expect that to change any time soon. So he's not sure which one it is that's gone missing, but he knows it has, 'cause he sent out six shirts with the laundry, and now he's only got five.
He sniffs at the one he wore yesterday and figures he can get away with wearing it again--nobody'll be getting close enough to get a whiff, even if he did smell, which, he assures himself, he doesn't.
*
Lately, River's taken to helping Kaylee do the laundry. She likes the logic of it--dirty clothes in, clean clothes out, soft and warm and smelling of soap. No surprises in it, though there is the mystery of Jayne's missing socks to be solved someday when she's bored.
Inara's voice comes over the comm, calling Kaylee to the shuttle to fix something, and Kaylee hurries off, smiling in apology for leaving River with her chore.
River doesn't mind. She sorts through the clothes methodically, separating whites from colors, and tries to calm the nervous flutter in her belly when she runs her hands over one of the captain's shirts. No one's around to see, so she brings it to her face, inhaling the scent of sweat and leather and gun smoke. The material is worn soft, washed and mended and well-cared-for, like everything he owns. It's red like blood against her fingers, and warm from being packed in with the rest of the laundry, but she imagines the warmth is from his skin, wonders what it would be like to touch him, to rub against him the way this shirt does. Quickly, while nobody's around, she tucks the shirt into her sweater and takes it back to her room.
--
[Simon finding River wearing the shirt and taking it back to Mal and yelling at him for taking advantage of River while Mal's like, "I ain't done anything! She keeps stealing my clothes! I find that more than a mite creepifying, I don't mind telling you" until, of course, he actually sees her in one of his shirts. then he's like, "you need to go away now and never do that again"]
***
When Dean gets back to the motel, there's a girl standing in the middle of the room, wearing one of Sam's shirts and nothing else.
He gives her a good long once-over, because her legs go on for days, and says, "Attaboy, Sammy," before heading back outside.
"Dean, wait." She grabs the doorknob, pulls the door back open. "It's me."
He turns and looks again--long legs, slim hips, Sam's bracelet on her wrist, and Sam's eyes peering out from beneath messy bangs.
"Son of a bitch."
"How do you think I feel?" Sam answers, shrill and panicked, and slams the door.
*
"One full cycle of the moon," Dean says. "All the sources agree, and Bobby confirmed it."
Sam flings himself into the chair and slouches, sulking. "Great." The pout is bad enough when he's a guy; as a girl, it's lethal. Dean looks away, uncomfortable, and then looks back, inevitably drawn to the long, lean line of his legs. Sam's still half-naked--none of his jeans fit now that he's six inches shorter and curved in places he wasn't before. "Stop staring at my legs, Dean."
"Put some damn clothes on, then."
"Fine."
"Fine."
He grabs a pair of jeans off the floor and yanks them on, but not before giving Dean an eyeful.
"Hey, maybe some underwear too, huh, Samantha?"
"Don't call me that."
"If the shoe fits..."
Sam flings a sneaker at him, and he ducks it easily, lets it hit the wall and fall to the floor. "The shoe doesn't fit, Dean. Nothing fits. And I'm going to be stuck like this for a month."
"Yeah, I got that." Dean rubs his chin, disturbed and trying not to show it. "Hey, look on the bright side--how many people get to experience how the other half lives?" Sam flings the other sneaker at him, and he deflects it without thinking. "You should find out if all that stuff about multiple orgasms is true," he continues. "In the name of science."
"Fuck you."
"That's what all the girls say, Sammy. You're gonna have to work a little harder on your lines."
Sam buries his face in his hands, and Dean can't help but laugh a little in triumph.
*
They go shopping, and fifteen minutes in, Dean wants to strangle Sam, the witch who laid this curse on him, and every manufacturer of women's clothing in existence for their whacked-out sizing, plus the salesgirl at Wal-Mart, who keeps flirting with him instead of finding Sam clothes.
Mostly, he wishes his brother was still his brother, instead of this girl who looks and sounds like Sam, but has distracting legs and small high tits with nipples that are visible through his t-shirt because they didn't have a bra for him to wear.
Another fifteen minutes, and Dean just grabs the two pairs of jeans and one pair of boots that fit from the rapidly growing pile of stuff Sam's tried on and discarded, and a six-pack of panties because he doesn't want another accidental eyeful of Sam's... condition, and heads to the check-out, leaving Sam squawking behind him about inconsistent sizing across brands, and that he better make sure none of the clothes were manufactured in sweatshops in Indonesia by seven-year-olds or something.
When they're finally free of the hell that is Wal-Mart, Dean drops Sam off at the motel to commune with his purchases and hits a nearby bar. They're running low on cash, and women's clothes are expensive, and the new credit cards haven't arrived yet. And to be honest, it's just too fucking weird, even for them, and Dean needs a chance to regain his equilibrium.
He's in the process of separating some desk jockey from his hard-earned cash when Sam walks in. His hair is damp and combed back off his face, features rounder and softer now, mouth still set in that distracting pout, and he's a little hunched over, like he's trying to hide his height or the fact that he's a girl, but he attracts attention anyway.
He frowns at Dean, but goes to sit at the bar by himself instead of interrupting while Dean's hustling, though now that Dean's looking at him, he thinks Sam could be a good distraction--put him in a short skirt and a tight t-shirt and no guy would stand a chance. Dean finds himself distracted in ways he shouldn't be, and that's just disturbing on levels he didn't even know existed until now.
I still kind of want to write this one, but I can't think of any way to do it that isn't a retread. Sigh.
***
She slides into the booth across from him while he's sipping his coffee and deciding whether or not he wants bacon on his cheeseburger.
"Sorry I'm late," she says, like he knows her from a hole in the wall, though giving her the once over--dark hair and eyes, full fuck me red lips that'd look hot stretched around his cock, nice tits--he'd like to.
"Don't let it happen again," he says, leaning back and taking another, longer look. Yeah, he'd hit that.
She leans back as well, raises her arms over her head and stretches like a cat. "Like what you see?" It's not a question. Her smile is sharp as a knife.
"Yeah."
"That's what I thought. After we eat, wanna fuck?"
She's not subtle. He digs that.
They don't talk much during dinner, and she pays for her own food, which he didn't expect. "No such thing as a free lunch," she says, and there's meaning behind the cliché, but he doesn't look for it. He doesn't want her looking for meaning behind his.
***
I think that's enough.
I feel lighter already. How about you?
***
Ooh, but the Mets just took the lead again. Sigh.
***
Bones had some good moments tonight, but it wasn't one of their best efforts.
***
So here are some wsip I will probably never finish. Sometimes, you just have to know when to bail, I guess.
The break finally comes, just like he's always known it would, has been waiting for since the moment Sam got back into the car with him that first night in Palo Alto. What he didn't know then, still can't quite believe now, is that he's the one doing the leaving.
He hasn't left Sam since--hell, he hasn't ever left Sam, not really, though that night in Fort Douglas he almost lost him, and he lost him again to Stanford for three years, but Dean has never walked away, and he tells himself he isn't now. What he's doing now is what's best for Sam, leaving before things between them get even more fucked up than they already have been, giving Sam another shot at the normal he's always craved and never had, the freedom he wants as much as Dean wants to keep him close and safe.
It shouldn't be so hard--he's slipped out of more beds and apartments and motel rooms than he can remember now, disentangled himself from so many people over the years (but not from Sam; never from Sam, as much as Sam might have wanted it sometimes) and disappeared into the darkness without a trace--but it still feels wrong to stuff his crap into a bag and sneak out while Sam's still sprawled on the bed, sleeping the sleep of the innocent.
Dean wants to laugh at that, because there's nothing innocent about Sam, not anymore, and that's his fault. Of all the things he's protected his brother from over the years, he'd never thought Sam would need protection from him. He'd been wrong. So very wrong.
He stops at the door, thinks about leaving a note, something, so Sam doesn't think he got snatched by some kind of evil creature or something, but he doesn't. What can he possibly say?
Hey, Sam, Sorry things got weird. I had to leave because fucking your brother is fucked up even by Winchester standards, and I don't want to drag you down any more than I already have. I'd like to think it's a phase, but I'm pretty sure it's not, so I'll just go away and let you get back to normal, like you've always wanted. Maybe in twenty years we can look back at this and laugh. Take care of yourself. Dean. PS: You've been dropping your shoulder lately, telegraphing your punches. You might want to stop that, now that I won't be around to watch your lazy ass.
Yeah, not exactly covered in the family field guide to hunting evil.
He closes the door, eases out to the car, and hopes Sam stays asleep while the engine rumbles to life.
*
Dean's on line in the minimart attached to the Mobile station when Sam finds him. The back of his neck prickles, and he half-turns, unsure of what it is that's set his radar off, and Sam's there, looming large, using every inch of his height to intimidate. Before Dean can get any words out, because he honestly hadn't expected Sam to catch up with him for at least another twenty-four hours, Sam's fist crashes into his face.
The guy behind the counter is yelling and threatening to call 911, but Dean, hand clapped over the side of his face where Sam's freakishly large fist made impact, says, "No, no cops! It's okay. We were just leaving."
"You bastard!" Sam yells when they get outside, angrier than Dean's seen him in months, maybe since that time in Rockville, even. "You snuck off in the middle of the night and left me in stranded in fucking Utah!"
***
Zoe made her way to the restroom, a little dizzy from the sake, but still far from drunk--someone had to keep their wits, or they'd all end up staring at the insides of the local jail and she didn't want to count on Simon to rescue them. Jayne was already eyeing a girl who'd come in with someone else, and Mal would just egg him on, looking for a fight, 'cause god forbid the captain pick up a girl his own self. Man needed to get laid worse than the rest of them combined, but he never would.
When she was done with her business, she stopped to tighten the clip in her hair. From the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of red-blonde hair, a familiar face, on a woman slipping out of a stall.
Zoe moved to the door, blocking the way.
"Get out of the--oh, it's you," Saffron said.
"Puts a bit of a crimp in your plan, huh?"
***
Mal doesn't pay close enough attention to have a favorite shirt--they're all pretty much the same, soft and faded from being washed so often, only difference is the color and the location of the patches over the holes from his various wounds. And he's not superstitious enough to have a lucky shirt--he's been unlucky in all of 'em, and don't expect that to change any time soon. So he's not sure which one it is that's gone missing, but he knows it has, 'cause he sent out six shirts with the laundry, and now he's only got five.
He sniffs at the one he wore yesterday and figures he can get away with wearing it again--nobody'll be getting close enough to get a whiff, even if he did smell, which, he assures himself, he doesn't.
*
Lately, River's taken to helping Kaylee do the laundry. She likes the logic of it--dirty clothes in, clean clothes out, soft and warm and smelling of soap. No surprises in it, though there is the mystery of Jayne's missing socks to be solved someday when she's bored.
Inara's voice comes over the comm, calling Kaylee to the shuttle to fix something, and Kaylee hurries off, smiling in apology for leaving River with her chore.
River doesn't mind. She sorts through the clothes methodically, separating whites from colors, and tries to calm the nervous flutter in her belly when she runs her hands over one of the captain's shirts. No one's around to see, so she brings it to her face, inhaling the scent of sweat and leather and gun smoke. The material is worn soft, washed and mended and well-cared-for, like everything he owns. It's red like blood against her fingers, and warm from being packed in with the rest of the laundry, but she imagines the warmth is from his skin, wonders what it would be like to touch him, to rub against him the way this shirt does. Quickly, while nobody's around, she tucks the shirt into her sweater and takes it back to her room.
--
[Simon finding River wearing the shirt and taking it back to Mal and yelling at him for taking advantage of River while Mal's like, "I ain't done anything! She keeps stealing my clothes! I find that more than a mite creepifying, I don't mind telling you" until, of course, he actually sees her in one of his shirts. then he's like, "you need to go away now and never do that again"]
***
When Dean gets back to the motel, there's a girl standing in the middle of the room, wearing one of Sam's shirts and nothing else.
He gives her a good long once-over, because her legs go on for days, and says, "Attaboy, Sammy," before heading back outside.
"Dean, wait." She grabs the doorknob, pulls the door back open. "It's me."
He turns and looks again--long legs, slim hips, Sam's bracelet on her wrist, and Sam's eyes peering out from beneath messy bangs.
"Son of a bitch."
"How do you think I feel?" Sam answers, shrill and panicked, and slams the door.
*
"One full cycle of the moon," Dean says. "All the sources agree, and Bobby confirmed it."
Sam flings himself into the chair and slouches, sulking. "Great." The pout is bad enough when he's a guy; as a girl, it's lethal. Dean looks away, uncomfortable, and then looks back, inevitably drawn to the long, lean line of his legs. Sam's still half-naked--none of his jeans fit now that he's six inches shorter and curved in places he wasn't before. "Stop staring at my legs, Dean."
"Put some damn clothes on, then."
"Fine."
"Fine."
He grabs a pair of jeans off the floor and yanks them on, but not before giving Dean an eyeful.
"Hey, maybe some underwear too, huh, Samantha?"
"Don't call me that."
"If the shoe fits..."
Sam flings a sneaker at him, and he ducks it easily, lets it hit the wall and fall to the floor. "The shoe doesn't fit, Dean. Nothing fits. And I'm going to be stuck like this for a month."
"Yeah, I got that." Dean rubs his chin, disturbed and trying not to show it. "Hey, look on the bright side--how many people get to experience how the other half lives?" Sam flings the other sneaker at him, and he deflects it without thinking. "You should find out if all that stuff about multiple orgasms is true," he continues. "In the name of science."
"Fuck you."
"That's what all the girls say, Sammy. You're gonna have to work a little harder on your lines."
Sam buries his face in his hands, and Dean can't help but laugh a little in triumph.
*
They go shopping, and fifteen minutes in, Dean wants to strangle Sam, the witch who laid this curse on him, and every manufacturer of women's clothing in existence for their whacked-out sizing, plus the salesgirl at Wal-Mart, who keeps flirting with him instead of finding Sam clothes.
Mostly, he wishes his brother was still his brother, instead of this girl who looks and sounds like Sam, but has distracting legs and small high tits with nipples that are visible through his t-shirt because they didn't have a bra for him to wear.
Another fifteen minutes, and Dean just grabs the two pairs of jeans and one pair of boots that fit from the rapidly growing pile of stuff Sam's tried on and discarded, and a six-pack of panties because he doesn't want another accidental eyeful of Sam's... condition, and heads to the check-out, leaving Sam squawking behind him about inconsistent sizing across brands, and that he better make sure none of the clothes were manufactured in sweatshops in Indonesia by seven-year-olds or something.
When they're finally free of the hell that is Wal-Mart, Dean drops Sam off at the motel to commune with his purchases and hits a nearby bar. They're running low on cash, and women's clothes are expensive, and the new credit cards haven't arrived yet. And to be honest, it's just too fucking weird, even for them, and Dean needs a chance to regain his equilibrium.
He's in the process of separating some desk jockey from his hard-earned cash when Sam walks in. His hair is damp and combed back off his face, features rounder and softer now, mouth still set in that distracting pout, and he's a little hunched over, like he's trying to hide his height or the fact that he's a girl, but he attracts attention anyway.
He frowns at Dean, but goes to sit at the bar by himself instead of interrupting while Dean's hustling, though now that Dean's looking at him, he thinks Sam could be a good distraction--put him in a short skirt and a tight t-shirt and no guy would stand a chance. Dean finds himself distracted in ways he shouldn't be, and that's just disturbing on levels he didn't even know existed until now.
I still kind of want to write this one, but I can't think of any way to do it that isn't a retread. Sigh.
***
She slides into the booth across from him while he's sipping his coffee and deciding whether or not he wants bacon on his cheeseburger.
"Sorry I'm late," she says, like he knows her from a hole in the wall, though giving her the once over--dark hair and eyes, full fuck me red lips that'd look hot stretched around his cock, nice tits--he'd like to.
"Don't let it happen again," he says, leaning back and taking another, longer look. Yeah, he'd hit that.
She leans back as well, raises her arms over her head and stretches like a cat. "Like what you see?" It's not a question. Her smile is sharp as a knife.
"Yeah."
"That's what I thought. After we eat, wanna fuck?"
She's not subtle. He digs that.
They don't talk much during dinner, and she pays for her own food, which he didn't expect. "No such thing as a free lunch," she says, and there's meaning behind the cliché, but he doesn't look for it. He doesn't want her looking for meaning behind his.
***
I think that's enough.
I feel lighter already. How about you?
***