Find Me in the Dark [Supernatural, Sam/Dean, PG-13]
What is this, me posting SPN in Who Day? *gasp* But it is for a good reason! Because today is SPECIAL, people.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY crooked!!!
You're one of my oldest, best lj friends, and you've no idea how
awesome and wonderful and important you are for me. HAVE A WONDERFUL
DAY, DARLING! ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
And here, have a present. :3 I sneakily tried for YOU to give me
the prompt, but you didn't catch on. TSK TSK, GIRL.
Title: Find Me in the Dark
Word Count: 1800
Summary: Amnesia fic, baby.
Author Notes: Written for the awesomecakes crooked in honor of her birthday. ♥ I posted somewhat of a survey asking what was my flist's favorite spn cliche. Bodyswap won, so I wrote amnesia fic. Because I'm weird like that. Um.
Find Me in the Dark
You forget who you are on a Tuesday.
It’s always Tuesdays with you two.
----
When you wake up, you have a name stuck on your throat. Dean, you say out loud, while lying on a bed you don’t recognize and staring up at a moldy ceiling you can’t place, and then you realize that that word is just about all you remember.
Dean, you say again, and someone answers What, and you startle so hard you end up falling off the bed.
Turns out, the other guy doesn’t know who he is either. You both sit on your beds, staring at each other, trying to figure something out. You end up fighting over the ownership of the name you remember. You claim that you’re the one that remembers it, so it should be yours, logically. The other guy says that he was the one that answered to it, so it should be his. You bicker over it, end up wrestling on the floor, and it feels so familiar it hurts.
You win the name. The other guy says that, in that case, he’s going to be called Ozzy, thank you very much. You can’t remember your birthday but know who Ozzy is, and the memory is tainted with mockery, so you agree, and say that it’s fitting, how both of them are basically idiots. Ozzy gets pissed, and you end up fighting again.
The motel room doesn’t tell you anything other than someone being a great fan of flower motifs. In the room, there are:
1 computer
2 pairs of shoes (plus one extra shoe)
2 duffels filled with appropriate and fitting clothing for each of you
2 toothbrushes
1 bottle of shampoo
1 discarded pair of jeans covered in something resembling blood
4 pages of research about something that involves squiggly signs and Latin, which you surprisingly can understand
3 diaries detailing paranormal activity written in varying degrees of seriousness (Two of those match each of your handwritings, the other one makes you anxious just from touching it)
1 set of keys
41 potentially lethal weapons in an assortment of handguns, shotguns, and knives
You especially try not to think of the last item on the list.
You two stand in front of the bathroom’s mirror, side by side, for a long time. You’re tall and have a decent enough build, but somehow, you feel smaller than the other guy, feel like it should be the other way around. Ozzy comments on that as well, says you’ve no right to look like the fucking Jolly Green Giant, and you smile despite yourself. You have floppy hair and dimples. Ozzy has freckles everywhere, and little creases around his eyes. You feel like smoothing them with your fingertips, practically ache for it.
You recognize the car the minute you go out the door. She is beautiful, all sleek and black and shiny under the morning sun, and Ozzy - God, it doesn’t suit him at all - whistles and says, Oh yeah. Definitely, this is my baby, and you mock him a bit but it has no bite behind it; you feel safer, calmer, the minute you slide into the passenger seat.
You eat at a diner two blocks over, pick at your pancakes. “You think we’re some sort of criminals, then?” you say after a while, and he finally stops wolfing down on bacon and looks you in the eye.
“I memorized the fastest exit route the minute we walked in here, I know for a fact that the guy sitting at the edge of the bar - no, you moron, don’t look at him - has a gun hidden in his jacket but has never used it. I know three ways to steal a car and I’m pretty sure I could pick the entrance lock in under a minute. You tell me if you think we’re criminals.”
You sigh, rub at your nose. Your knees bump with his under the table, and it feels oddly reassuring.
Three days later, you’re no closer to find out who you are, but you’ve found out the hard way that ghosts are real. You have the bruises to prove it. You have nightmares at night, fire and screams and him being dragged away by a pack of dogs. He has nightmares too, mouths a three lettered name but never says it out loud. You take turns waking each other up, and then you sit on the same bed, against the headboard, and watch infomercials, joke around. It’s a little messed up, the way this feels perfectly normal and the way you panic if you don’t know where he is and the way he went crazy when that ghost hurt you, and the way you want to inch your fingers down his stomach and then lower lower lower.
Another day and you fight in an empty parking lot, test your abilities and limits and it starts light, joking and teasing and punches that don’t connect, and an hour later you’re fighting each other in earnest, drawing blood, acting out on some forgotten anger/resentment/fear/want/something. You have issues, you two, and it scares you not knowing what they are, that and the urge to punch his pretty face and then kiss it better.
Later, back in the motel room you’re still staying in, you share a bag of frozen peas to make the swelling go down.
You leave town the next day, point at a map with your eyes closed and go in that direction, aimlessly. The road looks endless in the bright April morning, some leftover cold from winter still making you shudder at the air going in through the open window, but you smile anyway, feel like you left a weight behind in that stupid motel room. He looks alive behind the wheel, bright smile and easy laugh and moving his head along to the greatest hits of mullet rock.
You stop at around ten, eat a donut each while resting against the car, stretch your legs, indulge in the small talk you’ve been doing since you first woke up not knowing who you are, just naming random things you do remember. So far, you know you like ketchup on your fries, but like them better when they’re not yours; you know you can tolerate Zeppelin but Motörhead is out of the question and that you have the entire Constitution memorized. So far, Ozzy knows he likes pie, that he wanted to be a pirate when he was four, that he has abandonment issues and that he’s wary of organized religion.
“I’m pretty sure I must be fantastic in bed,” he says out of the blue, and you laugh until your eyes tear up. “What? I’m just stating a fact, dude,” he continues, but he’s laughing as well, lips curving up, and it steals your breath away.
You laugh together for a moment longer, and then you’re pulling him close, breathing into his mouth. He presses your foreheads together, grabs at your neck with a degree of devotion that probably hurts him, and then you’re kissing him, wet and hot and messy and so right. You press him against the car, taste the sweet in his mouth, catch his own taste under the donut’s flavor, and when he pulls slightly at your hair you moan.
“Dean,” he mutters against your lips, and then you both stop, because he’s been calling you that all week long but now, now it just feels wrong, and you stare at each other for a long moment, in silence, before you say Just shut up already, and kiss him again, deeper, and there’s a sense of dread on the back of your mind that you choose to ignore.
For a moment, there’s only the road and an unknown destination and both of you in the road, together, and complete freedom.
You kiss until your lips are sore.
----
You wake up on Sunday lying too close to each other in the same bed, clinging to one another’s shirts.
You remember everything.
----
Dean locks himself in the bathroom for four hours. After the first “Oh for Christ’s sake stop being such a fucking drama queen, Dean,” you say nothing else, and just sit on the floor with your back against the door. You fall asleep like that, and when Dean finally comes out, you fall backwards into the tiled bathroom floor, look up into Dean’s wide eyes.
You start calling out his name, but he just walks over you, says, Time for lunch, Sammy, I’m starving, and you let him get away with it, because something in his voice sounds so weary.
You avoid the issue, pretend last week never happened and you would be lying if you said it was no big deal, if you said you weren’t just the littlest bit terrified, but the temptation to bring it up is always in the back of your head. The evidence is there for everyone to see, though, the way you touch each other more often now, all casual arm brushes and tangled legs under tables and a hand on the neck when the other one is just waking up from a nightmare. It makes your toes curl, makes you go tight in the chest every time Dean smiles.
Dean is jumpy, focuses on the job with an intensity that scares you. In turn, you focus on research to get him out of his deal with an intensity that you know scares him. You figure it’s only fair.
So life goes on, and if it hurts a bit, well, you’re already used to wanting more than you can have.
----
It’s a Tuesday again when you get the phone call.
“Well hey there, Sammy boy, long time no see, huh?” says the trickster on the side of the line, and your hands curl into fists. “Hope you enjoyed that little vacation from being Boy King extraordinaire, the one and only Sam Winchester - it was my pleasure, really, no need to thank me.”
You can still hear him laughing when you hang up the phone.
----
It’s a week later when you finally kiss him again, quiet and exhausted after a hunt, and you’re both trembling, scared.
Dean moves back when you first press him against the door, pushes you away only for you to chase his mouth, look him in the eye and curl your fingers around the hem of his shirt. You stay like that for a moment, breathing together in the darkness, Dean’s hands flat against your shoulders and mouths almost touching, but never quite so. In the end, it’s Dean the one that caves, the one that drags you in and licks into your mouth with the same quiet determination he uses for hunting, for saving people, for saving you.
Dean, you whisper against his lips, and this time, it’s feels right.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY crooked!!!
You're one of my oldest, best lj friends, and you've no idea how
awesome and wonderful and important you are for me. HAVE A WONDERFUL
DAY, DARLING! ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
And here, have a present. :3 I sneakily tried for YOU to give me
the prompt, but you didn't catch on. TSK TSK, GIRL.
Title: Find Me in the Dark
Word Count: 1800
Summary: Amnesia fic, baby.
Author Notes: Written for the awesomecakes crooked in honor of her birthday. ♥ I posted somewhat of a survey asking what was my flist's favorite spn cliche. Bodyswap won, so I wrote amnesia fic. Because I'm weird like that. Um.
Find Me in the Dark
You forget who you are on a Tuesday.
It’s always Tuesdays with you two.
----
When you wake up, you have a name stuck on your throat. Dean, you say out loud, while lying on a bed you don’t recognize and staring up at a moldy ceiling you can’t place, and then you realize that that word is just about all you remember.
Dean, you say again, and someone answers What, and you startle so hard you end up falling off the bed.
Turns out, the other guy doesn’t know who he is either. You both sit on your beds, staring at each other, trying to figure something out. You end up fighting over the ownership of the name you remember. You claim that you’re the one that remembers it, so it should be yours, logically. The other guy says that he was the one that answered to it, so it should be his. You bicker over it, end up wrestling on the floor, and it feels so familiar it hurts.
You win the name. The other guy says that, in that case, he’s going to be called Ozzy, thank you very much. You can’t remember your birthday but know who Ozzy is, and the memory is tainted with mockery, so you agree, and say that it’s fitting, how both of them are basically idiots. Ozzy gets pissed, and you end up fighting again.
The motel room doesn’t tell you anything other than someone being a great fan of flower motifs. In the room, there are:
1 computer
2 pairs of shoes (plus one extra shoe)
2 duffels filled with appropriate and fitting clothing for each of you
2 toothbrushes
1 bottle of shampoo
1 discarded pair of jeans covered in something resembling blood
4 pages of research about something that involves squiggly signs and Latin, which you surprisingly can understand
3 diaries detailing paranormal activity written in varying degrees of seriousness (Two of those match each of your handwritings, the other one makes you anxious just from touching it)
1 set of keys
41 potentially lethal weapons in an assortment of handguns, shotguns, and knives
You especially try not to think of the last item on the list.
You two stand in front of the bathroom’s mirror, side by side, for a long time. You’re tall and have a decent enough build, but somehow, you feel smaller than the other guy, feel like it should be the other way around. Ozzy comments on that as well, says you’ve no right to look like the fucking Jolly Green Giant, and you smile despite yourself. You have floppy hair and dimples. Ozzy has freckles everywhere, and little creases around his eyes. You feel like smoothing them with your fingertips, practically ache for it.
You recognize the car the minute you go out the door. She is beautiful, all sleek and black and shiny under the morning sun, and Ozzy - God, it doesn’t suit him at all - whistles and says, Oh yeah. Definitely, this is my baby, and you mock him a bit but it has no bite behind it; you feel safer, calmer, the minute you slide into the passenger seat.
You eat at a diner two blocks over, pick at your pancakes. “You think we’re some sort of criminals, then?” you say after a while, and he finally stops wolfing down on bacon and looks you in the eye.
“I memorized the fastest exit route the minute we walked in here, I know for a fact that the guy sitting at the edge of the bar - no, you moron, don’t look at him - has a gun hidden in his jacket but has never used it. I know three ways to steal a car and I’m pretty sure I could pick the entrance lock in under a minute. You tell me if you think we’re criminals.”
You sigh, rub at your nose. Your knees bump with his under the table, and it feels oddly reassuring.
Three days later, you’re no closer to find out who you are, but you’ve found out the hard way that ghosts are real. You have the bruises to prove it. You have nightmares at night, fire and screams and him being dragged away by a pack of dogs. He has nightmares too, mouths a three lettered name but never says it out loud. You take turns waking each other up, and then you sit on the same bed, against the headboard, and watch infomercials, joke around. It’s a little messed up, the way this feels perfectly normal and the way you panic if you don’t know where he is and the way he went crazy when that ghost hurt you, and the way you want to inch your fingers down his stomach and then lower lower lower.
Another day and you fight in an empty parking lot, test your abilities and limits and it starts light, joking and teasing and punches that don’t connect, and an hour later you’re fighting each other in earnest, drawing blood, acting out on some forgotten anger/resentment/fear/want/something. You have issues, you two, and it scares you not knowing what they are, that and the urge to punch his pretty face and then kiss it better.
Later, back in the motel room you’re still staying in, you share a bag of frozen peas to make the swelling go down.
You leave town the next day, point at a map with your eyes closed and go in that direction, aimlessly. The road looks endless in the bright April morning, some leftover cold from winter still making you shudder at the air going in through the open window, but you smile anyway, feel like you left a weight behind in that stupid motel room. He looks alive behind the wheel, bright smile and easy laugh and moving his head along to the greatest hits of mullet rock.
You stop at around ten, eat a donut each while resting against the car, stretch your legs, indulge in the small talk you’ve been doing since you first woke up not knowing who you are, just naming random things you do remember. So far, you know you like ketchup on your fries, but like them better when they’re not yours; you know you can tolerate Zeppelin but Motörhead is out of the question and that you have the entire Constitution memorized. So far, Ozzy knows he likes pie, that he wanted to be a pirate when he was four, that he has abandonment issues and that he’s wary of organized religion.
“I’m pretty sure I must be fantastic in bed,” he says out of the blue, and you laugh until your eyes tear up. “What? I’m just stating a fact, dude,” he continues, but he’s laughing as well, lips curving up, and it steals your breath away.
You laugh together for a moment longer, and then you’re pulling him close, breathing into his mouth. He presses your foreheads together, grabs at your neck with a degree of devotion that probably hurts him, and then you’re kissing him, wet and hot and messy and so right. You press him against the car, taste the sweet in his mouth, catch his own taste under the donut’s flavor, and when he pulls slightly at your hair you moan.
“Dean,” he mutters against your lips, and then you both stop, because he’s been calling you that all week long but now, now it just feels wrong, and you stare at each other for a long moment, in silence, before you say Just shut up already, and kiss him again, deeper, and there’s a sense of dread on the back of your mind that you choose to ignore.
For a moment, there’s only the road and an unknown destination and both of you in the road, together, and complete freedom.
You kiss until your lips are sore.
----
You wake up on Sunday lying too close to each other in the same bed, clinging to one another’s shirts.
You remember everything.
----
Dean locks himself in the bathroom for four hours. After the first “Oh for Christ’s sake stop being such a fucking drama queen, Dean,” you say nothing else, and just sit on the floor with your back against the door. You fall asleep like that, and when Dean finally comes out, you fall backwards into the tiled bathroom floor, look up into Dean’s wide eyes.
You start calling out his name, but he just walks over you, says, Time for lunch, Sammy, I’m starving, and you let him get away with it, because something in his voice sounds so weary.
You avoid the issue, pretend last week never happened and you would be lying if you said it was no big deal, if you said you weren’t just the littlest bit terrified, but the temptation to bring it up is always in the back of your head. The evidence is there for everyone to see, though, the way you touch each other more often now, all casual arm brushes and tangled legs under tables and a hand on the neck when the other one is just waking up from a nightmare. It makes your toes curl, makes you go tight in the chest every time Dean smiles.
Dean is jumpy, focuses on the job with an intensity that scares you. In turn, you focus on research to get him out of his deal with an intensity that you know scares him. You figure it’s only fair.
So life goes on, and if it hurts a bit, well, you’re already used to wanting more than you can have.
----
It’s a Tuesday again when you get the phone call.
“Well hey there, Sammy boy, long time no see, huh?” says the trickster on the side of the line, and your hands curl into fists. “Hope you enjoyed that little vacation from being Boy King extraordinaire, the one and only Sam Winchester - it was my pleasure, really, no need to thank me.”
You can still hear him laughing when you hang up the phone.
----
It’s a week later when you finally kiss him again, quiet and exhausted after a hunt, and you’re both trembling, scared.
Dean moves back when you first press him against the door, pushes you away only for you to chase his mouth, look him in the eye and curl your fingers around the hem of his shirt. You stay like that for a moment, breathing together in the darkness, Dean’s hands flat against your shoulders and mouths almost touching, but never quite so. In the end, it’s Dean the one that caves, the one that drags you in and licks into your mouth with the same quiet determination he uses for hunting, for saving people, for saving you.
Dean, you whisper against his lips, and this time, it’s feels right.