[fic] Fog
Autho ofolivesnginger
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG13
Words: ~1350
Summary: Dean stands there, he doesn’t know how long, wondering how he could have fucked up again, this thing that’d torn their family apart.
Notes: Tumblr prompt.
Dean wakes before Sam in the morning.
There’s a dribbling outside, above his head, going just short of a drop a second. Dean blinks, squints his eyes out the window, meets a glare like a blank map from outside. His legs kick in the sheets, untangling. He’s got a mild headache, so he just lies there a minute, counting the dribbling outside, registering every discrepancy between the speed of one droplet and the next in its systematic sequence.
He gets up before it lulls him to sleep again, swings his legs off the bed and pops his spine. He gets a glance of Sam beside him and swallows, Sam’s shoulders rising with every breath, sheet draped over his naked waist, and Dean moistens his lips. His mouth feels dry, his own breath tasting sour, whole night of bacteria brewing on his tongue. He tries to remember the last time he went to bed without brushing his teeth and can’t.
The floorboards creak from his weight. The wood’s cool on the soles of his feet, damp from the morning mist. Dean picks his boxers off the ground with the hand not crusted in come, twists into it with his butt turned to the sunlight. Then he pulls on his jeans as well, zips it up half way and gives up when it catches the fabric of his boxers.
Sam’s v-neck lies like a rag on the floor, so Dean walks around it, walks into the bathroom and leaves the door open. He pumps a palm full of hand soap and washes the come off his fingers, digging under his nails to get the crevices. Shuts off the tap and turns to wipe his hand on a cherry pink towel, but knocks Sam’s electric razor off the counter. It clatters into the sink and Dean bites “Shit” under his breath, head snapping to the bed’s direction. Sam doesn’t wake, though, out like he’s dead, and Dean lets out his breath, sets the thing on the counter again.
He doesn’t look at himself yet.
It’s a quarter past six, his watch tells him. The light outside’s diluted, a milky, indigo tinged white, an atmospheric filter bright enough to light with no focus. A fog fell during the night, must have fallen after the rain stopped, and Dean squints out the window but can’t trace the lines of his Impala parked twenty feet from the door. He makes his way out the bedroom, shuffles into the kitchen. There’s a black tee strewn atop the hallway’s cabinet and he picks that up, puts it on. The kitchen’s bright, the most eastward segment of the cabin, and the beam of light penetrating through the window lights the dust, catches off the mouth of one of their unfinished beers.
Last night, he’d fucked around with his brother.
He kinda remembers now, in detail. The beer, the game, flipping channels afterwards until the screen was static, until Sam turned to him with the same expression so many years ago when he’d fucked up the first time, and it was down right cruel of Sam but he hadn’t cared. Then there was the wrestling, pushing away and pressing close and closer all the same, the shirt lost in the hallway, the socks in the threshold, pants on the floor and they were falling backwards all over again.
“Dean.”
He hears his brother and doesn’t look up, knows how he’s standing, leaning against the door frame. Thinks about what to do in the next few seconds, searches in his empty head for something to do to fix this, gotta fix this. He’s kind of out of it when Sam walks up and lays a hand on his shoulder.
“Damn it!”
Dean jerks away, rounds the table so he’s got some space, grips the back of a dining room chair like it could fall apart into cinder in his hands. He can’t meet Sam’s eyes, but he catches the shade of Sam’s bare skin, naked from the waist up in the goddamn six AM cold, and he wants to tell him to put on a shirt, you’ll get sick, are you out of your mind? It’s stuff like that that does it for him, fact that he wants to wrap his arms around his baby brother like they’re kids again. Sam shows up in the middle of a crisis and first thing Dean wants to do is tell him C’mon, little brother, you’ll get cold.
The fog’s so heavy when he breaks through the back door he almost slips on his laces, still untied around bared feet he’d jammed into his boots. For a second Dean considers booking it out of there in his car, grabbed the keys already, just driving straight out and never coming back but he knows Sam would kill him for real, honest to God beat him dead the next time he saw him, so he doesn’t. The forest behind is still nebulous, but the fog’s dissipated enough he can see the lake and that’s all he needs.
Then he’s running, took off down the dock with his soles drumming against the wooden planks. Sam follows, but doesn’t chase, stops where the dock begins ‘cause he knows it’s a dead end, but Dean’s still walking away like he’s got somewhere else to run, somewhere else to go now that Dad’s dead. His footsteps are thunder, echoing off the hollow of this desolate place out in the middle of fucking nowhere, and he’s run out of planks to step on. Dean halts at the edge, looks down into the black water, sees himself for the first time all morning.
He brings a hand to wipe across his mouth, but that curls into a fist and he keeps it there. A moment later, and Dean looks up and lets out a shuddering breath.
Dean stands there, he doesn’t know how long, wondering how he could have fucked up again, this thing that’d torn their family apart. Wondered how he could have put his hands on his kid brother once more like one whole summer of it wasn’t enough. One whole summer back when they didn’t know shit, pressing into each other in the dark, grappling and rolling in the dust, kissing with blood on their cracked lips. One whole summer until John came home to find his youngest naked in his oldest’s lap, and it was just so fucking cold that day, remember, Dean? That day was raining, too. And there’s no more John now, no more John to tell Sam to get the fuck out and ship him off to college because he’d gotten himself killed. Dean wondered how he could come to talk about funeral plans and end up waking up in Sam’s bed, how Sam could smile like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them and how Dean’s fist, how the fuck could he, how his fist opened to thread in Sam’s hair instead. John’d sent Sam away so they’d get better, they were supposed to get better, what the fuck was the point of the last eight years if they can’t get better.
He looks into the water. The sun’s coming up now, and it scatters the fog enough he can see himself, see his face. The lake looks cold, looks lifeless, endless. Then he takes a step forward, toes of his boot peeking beyond the dock and he thinks about jumping in with his shoes on. Thinks about treading the water until Sam comes. Thinks about going for a swim in it, butt naked in the chill, but he’s too chicken. Always been a coward.
Dean walks back the length of the dock, arms pulled tight around his parka. Sam’s already gone back inside, and Dean lets the door swing shut by itself. There’s a sandwich on the table, the bottles no longer there, so he takes a seat, and waits for the tap in the washroom to shut off.
It’s all gotta start somewhere now, he supposes.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG13
Words: ~1350
Summary: Dean stands there, he doesn’t know how long, wondering how he could have fucked up again, this thing that’d torn their family apart.
Notes: Tumblr prompt.
Dean wakes before Sam in the morning.
There’s a dribbling outside, above his head, going just short of a drop a second. Dean blinks, squints his eyes out the window, meets a glare like a blank map from outside. His legs kick in the sheets, untangling. He’s got a mild headache, so he just lies there a minute, counting the dribbling outside, registering every discrepancy between the speed of one droplet and the next in its systematic sequence.
He gets up before it lulls him to sleep again, swings his legs off the bed and pops his spine. He gets a glance of Sam beside him and swallows, Sam’s shoulders rising with every breath, sheet draped over his naked waist, and Dean moistens his lips. His mouth feels dry, his own breath tasting sour, whole night of bacteria brewing on his tongue. He tries to remember the last time he went to bed without brushing his teeth and can’t.
The floorboards creak from his weight. The wood’s cool on the soles of his feet, damp from the morning mist. Dean picks his boxers off the ground with the hand not crusted in come, twists into it with his butt turned to the sunlight. Then he pulls on his jeans as well, zips it up half way and gives up when it catches the fabric of his boxers.
Sam’s v-neck lies like a rag on the floor, so Dean walks around it, walks into the bathroom and leaves the door open. He pumps a palm full of hand soap and washes the come off his fingers, digging under his nails to get the crevices. Shuts off the tap and turns to wipe his hand on a cherry pink towel, but knocks Sam’s electric razor off the counter. It clatters into the sink and Dean bites “Shit” under his breath, head snapping to the bed’s direction. Sam doesn’t wake, though, out like he’s dead, and Dean lets out his breath, sets the thing on the counter again.
He doesn’t look at himself yet.
It’s a quarter past six, his watch tells him. The light outside’s diluted, a milky, indigo tinged white, an atmospheric filter bright enough to light with no focus. A fog fell during the night, must have fallen after the rain stopped, and Dean squints out the window but can’t trace the lines of his Impala parked twenty feet from the door. He makes his way out the bedroom, shuffles into the kitchen. There’s a black tee strewn atop the hallway’s cabinet and he picks that up, puts it on. The kitchen’s bright, the most eastward segment of the cabin, and the beam of light penetrating through the window lights the dust, catches off the mouth of one of their unfinished beers.
Last night, he’d fucked around with his brother.
He kinda remembers now, in detail. The beer, the game, flipping channels afterwards until the screen was static, until Sam turned to him with the same expression so many years ago when he’d fucked up the first time, and it was down right cruel of Sam but he hadn’t cared. Then there was the wrestling, pushing away and pressing close and closer all the same, the shirt lost in the hallway, the socks in the threshold, pants on the floor and they were falling backwards all over again.
“Dean.”
He hears his brother and doesn’t look up, knows how he’s standing, leaning against the door frame. Thinks about what to do in the next few seconds, searches in his empty head for something to do to fix this, gotta fix this. He’s kind of out of it when Sam walks up and lays a hand on his shoulder.
“Damn it!”
Dean jerks away, rounds the table so he’s got some space, grips the back of a dining room chair like it could fall apart into cinder in his hands. He can’t meet Sam’s eyes, but he catches the shade of Sam’s bare skin, naked from the waist up in the goddamn six AM cold, and he wants to tell him to put on a shirt, you’ll get sick, are you out of your mind? It’s stuff like that that does it for him, fact that he wants to wrap his arms around his baby brother like they’re kids again. Sam shows up in the middle of a crisis and first thing Dean wants to do is tell him C’mon, little brother, you’ll get cold.
The fog’s so heavy when he breaks through the back door he almost slips on his laces, still untied around bared feet he’d jammed into his boots. For a second Dean considers booking it out of there in his car, grabbed the keys already, just driving straight out and never coming back but he knows Sam would kill him for real, honest to God beat him dead the next time he saw him, so he doesn’t. The forest behind is still nebulous, but the fog’s dissipated enough he can see the lake and that’s all he needs.
Then he’s running, took off down the dock with his soles drumming against the wooden planks. Sam follows, but doesn’t chase, stops where the dock begins ‘cause he knows it’s a dead end, but Dean’s still walking away like he’s got somewhere else to run, somewhere else to go now that Dad’s dead. His footsteps are thunder, echoing off the hollow of this desolate place out in the middle of fucking nowhere, and he’s run out of planks to step on. Dean halts at the edge, looks down into the black water, sees himself for the first time all morning.
He brings a hand to wipe across his mouth, but that curls into a fist and he keeps it there. A moment later, and Dean looks up and lets out a shuddering breath.
Dean stands there, he doesn’t know how long, wondering how he could have fucked up again, this thing that’d torn their family apart. Wondered how he could have put his hands on his kid brother once more like one whole summer of it wasn’t enough. One whole summer back when they didn’t know shit, pressing into each other in the dark, grappling and rolling in the dust, kissing with blood on their cracked lips. One whole summer until John came home to find his youngest naked in his oldest’s lap, and it was just so fucking cold that day, remember, Dean? That day was raining, too. And there’s no more John now, no more John to tell Sam to get the fuck out and ship him off to college because he’d gotten himself killed. Dean wondered how he could come to talk about funeral plans and end up waking up in Sam’s bed, how Sam could smile like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them and how Dean’s fist, how the fuck could he, how his fist opened to thread in Sam’s hair instead. John’d sent Sam away so they’d get better, they were supposed to get better, what the fuck was the point of the last eight years if they can’t get better.
He looks into the water. The sun’s coming up now, and it scatters the fog enough he can see himself, see his face. The lake looks cold, looks lifeless, endless. Then he takes a step forward, toes of his boot peeking beyond the dock and he thinks about jumping in with his shoes on. Thinks about treading the water until Sam comes. Thinks about going for a swim in it, butt naked in the chill, but he’s too chicken. Always been a coward.
Dean walks back the length of the dock, arms pulled tight around his parka. Sam’s already gone back inside, and Dean lets the door swing shut by itself. There’s a sandwich on the table, the bottles no longer there, so he takes a seat, and waits for the tap in the washroom to shut off.
It’s all gotta start somewhere now, he supposes.