Tea, Dean/Sam, [1/1]
Title: Tea
Author: orange_rotted
Rating: R
Word count: 2376
Pairings: Dean/Sam - Supernatural
Disclaimer: don't own. don't sue. the end.
Warnings: boys love, INCEST, so much angst
Summary: Sometimes mundane tasks invite us to lose ourselves in memories we thought we'd forgotten. Sam is no exception.
Tea
It had been such a cold winter so far.
Sam clicked the switch on the kettle, waiting patiently for the sound of the water beginning to bubble slowly as the heat passed through the base. He could still see the frost sitting indifferently upon the overgrown grass, the stark, bare trees facing the morning chill as best they could.
Sam was doing his best too.
He reached for the cupboard above his head, his fingers searching for the worn out black mug that had, once upon a time, been Dean's favourite. Sam always told himself that he never quite understood what Dean had loved so much about the mug. Even back then it was already chipped along the rim and at the base, the colour had long since faded and only a portion of the rather naked lady had remained printed on its surface. It was so ordinary, so average. In fact, Sam knew perfectly well that there was no appeal in the provocative image, despite how often Dean had crudely asserted his views on the joys of a woman's curves. Sam later learned that there was only one pair of lips that Dean had ever wanted to kiss, one body which used to drive Dean wild as he'd dream of it, aroused and sweaty in his sheets at night.
Sam hadn't known this though, at the time. He'd been so young, so self involved, he didn't have the time to wonder why his brother would look at him a little strangely sometimes. Sam hadn't noticed that Dean stared - at least, not then. Dean had spent so many years of his life in between a state of ecstasy and a guilt that made his bones heavy, that made his spine bow under the weight. He'd spent so much of his early twenties touching himself silently, dirty thoughts of his baby brother pervading his every sense and, after completion, he'd berate himself so harshly, promise himself he'd never think of Sam that way again.
He lost count of how many times he'd made that promise to himself, and broken it.
The mug had actually been meant as a bit of a joke. A tongue in cheek gift that Sam had bought. When you were fourteen, you always thought everything you did was just so damn clever. He knew now that it was a bit lame, a lot unoriginal and so phenomenally off the mark. But Dean had always seemed to treasure it. He'd even thrown out a perfectly nice jacket to make sure there was space in his duffel for his mug. Sam had tried to reason with Dean about that decision, pointing out how much more useful that jacket would prove over a commonplace mug. Dean had just shrugged the comment off, zipping his bag shut firmly. He seemed to think that that was a good enough response. Sam remembered how it had felt, how a part of himself fluttered violently somewhere beneath his ribcage.
Sam knew Dean had kept the mug because of him.
These days that thought brought about a different flutter, a pain that had moved south, his gut unstable as the feeling of nausea would prickle at the edges of his consciousness. So he pretended he didn't understand why it had been Dean's favourite mug, would chuckle good naturedly to the silence as he'd think of reasons why.
It made things easier somehow.
The mug sat waiting on the kitchen bench, tea at the ready. The noise of the kettle permeated the tiny space. Sam stood hunched over the bench, his pale frame was just so tired. His muscles, once well defined, were deflated and stringy on his bones. His skin, once tan, sat wrinkled and worn all over his body. It had been so very long.
His house was so very small, tucked away from the rest of the world. It stood precariously along a winding cliff face that spanned around three hundred miles along the coast. He hadn't wanted anything. Sam had worked for so long, he had grown so frustrated by the questions. So instead he moved here, this speck along a coast side that stretched till eternity. The isolation suited him, the cramped spaces of his small cottage seemed to be enough - for what was left of him. It was sparsely decorated, what little furniture there was, had gone saggy and ragged with age. Nothing was new, but it was clean. A vast collection of books crowded the entire front wall of the house, it was the only part that suggested that somebody lived here. Ate here. Breathed here at all times of the day and night. The rust coloured walls of the living room were bare but for the lamps that illuminated it.
Sam considered things carefully as the kettle continued to chug along towards boiling point.
The bedroom was really the only room in the house that looked as though it was occupied, it was the only room that could tell you the story of the Winchester brothers. Sam had taken the time to repaint the walls of the bedroom yellow, hoping the colour's brightness would instil some semblance of optimism - it hadn't worked. Adorning the walls was a single framed photograph. It was grainy, the edges curling in, yellowed with age. Smiling back were the youthful faces of his parents, the white of Mary's dress betraying the occasion. You only ever saw that kind of hopeful expression on the faces of those who were far too young and naïve to know better, who were so deeply lost in their love that the future was this abstract and wonderful place that never seemed to end or hurt.
Oh god, Sam so desperately wished he could go back to a time where his face formed the same expression.
The photo was small, it had been the only one he could find. He had hoped it would instil a sense of nostalgia - it hadn't worked. He tried not to look at it, loss was such a pervasive enemy, you could never hope to escape it. Beside his bed, Sam kept a photo that had been taken on a case when Dean was 38. They had been after information about a vengeful spirit of a woman who had been raped and murdered just outside of Colorado. They hadn't been aware of it, but they had visited this postage stamp of a town just in the middle of one of its many festive celebrations. They had decided that posing as tourists was the easiest way to weasel information out of the locals, so they'd taken a camera and posed for shots together as part of their cover. Dean had kept the photos. Their dusty skin and crinkled features awkwardly blurred and just not quite central in the frame, Sam could never seem to stop picking it up.
The hinge in the frame was bent out of shape.
Even then, after fifteen years seemed to have slipped so thoughtlessly by, the fake circumstances did little to hide the sincerity of their smiles. They had been happy. Sam didn't even remember that case all too well, everyday that passed seemed to make the memories all the more that indistinguishable. Old age had become such a rotten disease. Sam couldn't help the bitterness that continued to grow when his sharp and agile mind continued to degenerate. Only the various trinkets that lay strewn across the bedroom helped to remind him of the times he'd spent together with Dean. The times they'd gotten too drunk, the times they'd fought viciously with each other, the countless fucks they'd had in random numbered rooms in no name motels in anonymous towns. Sam sorely missed the way Dean would nip lazily at his lips in the morning, the way Dean's stubble sometimes rubbed against his thighs when he forgot to shave. He missed the way they made love. He'd bought magazines a long time ago, tried half heartedly to jerk off to them. They left him feeling empty, numb. The magazines were still in the drawer next to his bed, next to an age old box of condoms. The door was stiff, it hadn't been opened in a long time.
Sam hadn't kept a lot of Dean's stuff. He told himself it was because he needed the money. He knew it was because it was too painful to come into contact with on a day to day basis, not to mention most of it had become superfluous. He kept the Impala though. He left it in the garage. He hadn't driven it since he'd moved in, dust had collected atop the plastic cover. It was the first place they'd ever had sex, Sam had been 17. Dean had given Sam the silent treatment for weeks after having discovered that Sam was not as innocent as he'd imagined, that Sam had lost his virginity to a doe eyed classmate after gym class. Sam hadn't understood why Dean was so angry, he thought he'd be proud of him.
The fight they had after Dean had pulled over in the mud on the way into school had ended brutally, the kiss had been messy, blood and saliva spreading between them, across their faces. They couldn't seem to stop kissing, Dean had accidentally scratched Sam's neck in his haste to grab hold onto Sam. Dean had manhandled him to the back, their limbs strained and tangled, their foreheads bumping awkwardly as they tried too quickly to move onto the back seat. The moment Dean had penetrated Sam, he'd cried. It was too painful, Sam couldn't even look Dean in the eyes as Dean had grunted on top of him, his body tearing as Dean moved inside him. Sam hadn't even come the first time they'd made love. Dean had had to move down and suck him after it was over, Sam sobbing through his orgasm. They'd kissed for hours afterwards, Sam couldn't bring himself to regret it, and it seemed to somehow get better every time afterwards. He quickly became addicted.
The whistle of the kettle echoed against the tiled kitchen walls. His hand going through the motions of pouring the water into the mugs, the tea bags squelching against the sides as he mixed the tea through. The colour slowly seeping through till the liquid was just the right shade of brown. The smell of the drink tickled at his nostrils.
He brought them into the bedroom, the brightly coloured walls sat in steady contrast to the colourless husk of his brother that lay quietly on the bed. The vacant eyes moving to Sam, Dean's rattling breath could only just be heard over the low hum of the radio next to his bed. Dean hadn't recognised him a long time. He was surprisingly docile today as Sam gave him his tea, sometimes he got violent, other times he cried in frustration. But he never remembered. His legs had atrophied after the first year.
Sam should have known that the statistics were against them, that sooner or later they would injure themselves so badly that a bandage and a magic kiss would not be able to heal them. But they were young, they were hopeful, and they were in love. So they didn't think about it.
And now it was too late.
Authors Notes:
Wrote this all in one go, quite late at night. I'm sorry if it's a bit rough.
I actually came up with this vague idea together with one of my english students, and liked it so much that I'm compelled now, however many months later, to adapt it to Sam and Dean.
Sorry it's so angst-y, that happens when you listen to lots of sad music. haha
Author: orange_rotted
Rating: R
Word count: 2376
Pairings: Dean/Sam - Supernatural
Disclaimer: don't own. don't sue. the end.
Warnings: boys love, INCEST, so much angst
Summary: Sometimes mundane tasks invite us to lose ourselves in memories we thought we'd forgotten. Sam is no exception.
Tea
It had been such a cold winter so far.
Sam clicked the switch on the kettle, waiting patiently for the sound of the water beginning to bubble slowly as the heat passed through the base. He could still see the frost sitting indifferently upon the overgrown grass, the stark, bare trees facing the morning chill as best they could.
Sam was doing his best too.
He reached for the cupboard above his head, his fingers searching for the worn out black mug that had, once upon a time, been Dean's favourite. Sam always told himself that he never quite understood what Dean had loved so much about the mug. Even back then it was already chipped along the rim and at the base, the colour had long since faded and only a portion of the rather naked lady had remained printed on its surface. It was so ordinary, so average. In fact, Sam knew perfectly well that there was no appeal in the provocative image, despite how often Dean had crudely asserted his views on the joys of a woman's curves. Sam later learned that there was only one pair of lips that Dean had ever wanted to kiss, one body which used to drive Dean wild as he'd dream of it, aroused and sweaty in his sheets at night.
Sam hadn't known this though, at the time. He'd been so young, so self involved, he didn't have the time to wonder why his brother would look at him a little strangely sometimes. Sam hadn't noticed that Dean stared - at least, not then. Dean had spent so many years of his life in between a state of ecstasy and a guilt that made his bones heavy, that made his spine bow under the weight. He'd spent so much of his early twenties touching himself silently, dirty thoughts of his baby brother pervading his every sense and, after completion, he'd berate himself so harshly, promise himself he'd never think of Sam that way again.
He lost count of how many times he'd made that promise to himself, and broken it.
The mug had actually been meant as a bit of a joke. A tongue in cheek gift that Sam had bought. When you were fourteen, you always thought everything you did was just so damn clever. He knew now that it was a bit lame, a lot unoriginal and so phenomenally off the mark. But Dean had always seemed to treasure it. He'd even thrown out a perfectly nice jacket to make sure there was space in his duffel for his mug. Sam had tried to reason with Dean about that decision, pointing out how much more useful that jacket would prove over a commonplace mug. Dean had just shrugged the comment off, zipping his bag shut firmly. He seemed to think that that was a good enough response. Sam remembered how it had felt, how a part of himself fluttered violently somewhere beneath his ribcage.
Sam knew Dean had kept the mug because of him.
These days that thought brought about a different flutter, a pain that had moved south, his gut unstable as the feeling of nausea would prickle at the edges of his consciousness. So he pretended he didn't understand why it had been Dean's favourite mug, would chuckle good naturedly to the silence as he'd think of reasons why.
It made things easier somehow.
The mug sat waiting on the kitchen bench, tea at the ready. The noise of the kettle permeated the tiny space. Sam stood hunched over the bench, his pale frame was just so tired. His muscles, once well defined, were deflated and stringy on his bones. His skin, once tan, sat wrinkled and worn all over his body. It had been so very long.
His house was so very small, tucked away from the rest of the world. It stood precariously along a winding cliff face that spanned around three hundred miles along the coast. He hadn't wanted anything. Sam had worked for so long, he had grown so frustrated by the questions. So instead he moved here, this speck along a coast side that stretched till eternity. The isolation suited him, the cramped spaces of his small cottage seemed to be enough - for what was left of him. It was sparsely decorated, what little furniture there was, had gone saggy and ragged with age. Nothing was new, but it was clean. A vast collection of books crowded the entire front wall of the house, it was the only part that suggested that somebody lived here. Ate here. Breathed here at all times of the day and night. The rust coloured walls of the living room were bare but for the lamps that illuminated it.
Sam considered things carefully as the kettle continued to chug along towards boiling point.
The bedroom was really the only room in the house that looked as though it was occupied, it was the only room that could tell you the story of the Winchester brothers. Sam had taken the time to repaint the walls of the bedroom yellow, hoping the colour's brightness would instil some semblance of optimism - it hadn't worked. Adorning the walls was a single framed photograph. It was grainy, the edges curling in, yellowed with age. Smiling back were the youthful faces of his parents, the white of Mary's dress betraying the occasion. You only ever saw that kind of hopeful expression on the faces of those who were far too young and naïve to know better, who were so deeply lost in their love that the future was this abstract and wonderful place that never seemed to end or hurt.
Oh god, Sam so desperately wished he could go back to a time where his face formed the same expression.
The photo was small, it had been the only one he could find. He had hoped it would instil a sense of nostalgia - it hadn't worked. He tried not to look at it, loss was such a pervasive enemy, you could never hope to escape it. Beside his bed, Sam kept a photo that had been taken on a case when Dean was 38. They had been after information about a vengeful spirit of a woman who had been raped and murdered just outside of Colorado. They hadn't been aware of it, but they had visited this postage stamp of a town just in the middle of one of its many festive celebrations. They had decided that posing as tourists was the easiest way to weasel information out of the locals, so they'd taken a camera and posed for shots together as part of their cover. Dean had kept the photos. Their dusty skin and crinkled features awkwardly blurred and just not quite central in the frame, Sam could never seem to stop picking it up.
The hinge in the frame was bent out of shape.
Even then, after fifteen years seemed to have slipped so thoughtlessly by, the fake circumstances did little to hide the sincerity of their smiles. They had been happy. Sam didn't even remember that case all too well, everyday that passed seemed to make the memories all the more that indistinguishable. Old age had become such a rotten disease. Sam couldn't help the bitterness that continued to grow when his sharp and agile mind continued to degenerate. Only the various trinkets that lay strewn across the bedroom helped to remind him of the times he'd spent together with Dean. The times they'd gotten too drunk, the times they'd fought viciously with each other, the countless fucks they'd had in random numbered rooms in no name motels in anonymous towns. Sam sorely missed the way Dean would nip lazily at his lips in the morning, the way Dean's stubble sometimes rubbed against his thighs when he forgot to shave. He missed the way they made love. He'd bought magazines a long time ago, tried half heartedly to jerk off to them. They left him feeling empty, numb. The magazines were still in the drawer next to his bed, next to an age old box of condoms. The door was stiff, it hadn't been opened in a long time.
Sam hadn't kept a lot of Dean's stuff. He told himself it was because he needed the money. He knew it was because it was too painful to come into contact with on a day to day basis, not to mention most of it had become superfluous. He kept the Impala though. He left it in the garage. He hadn't driven it since he'd moved in, dust had collected atop the plastic cover. It was the first place they'd ever had sex, Sam had been 17. Dean had given Sam the silent treatment for weeks after having discovered that Sam was not as innocent as he'd imagined, that Sam had lost his virginity to a doe eyed classmate after gym class. Sam hadn't understood why Dean was so angry, he thought he'd be proud of him.
The fight they had after Dean had pulled over in the mud on the way into school had ended brutally, the kiss had been messy, blood and saliva spreading between them, across their faces. They couldn't seem to stop kissing, Dean had accidentally scratched Sam's neck in his haste to grab hold onto Sam. Dean had manhandled him to the back, their limbs strained and tangled, their foreheads bumping awkwardly as they tried too quickly to move onto the back seat. The moment Dean had penetrated Sam, he'd cried. It was too painful, Sam couldn't even look Dean in the eyes as Dean had grunted on top of him, his body tearing as Dean moved inside him. Sam hadn't even come the first time they'd made love. Dean had had to move down and suck him after it was over, Sam sobbing through his orgasm. They'd kissed for hours afterwards, Sam couldn't bring himself to regret it, and it seemed to somehow get better every time afterwards. He quickly became addicted.
The whistle of the kettle echoed against the tiled kitchen walls. His hand going through the motions of pouring the water into the mugs, the tea bags squelching against the sides as he mixed the tea through. The colour slowly seeping through till the liquid was just the right shade of brown. The smell of the drink tickled at his nostrils.
He brought them into the bedroom, the brightly coloured walls sat in steady contrast to the colourless husk of his brother that lay quietly on the bed. The vacant eyes moving to Sam, Dean's rattling breath could only just be heard over the low hum of the radio next to his bed. Dean hadn't recognised him a long time. He was surprisingly docile today as Sam gave him his tea, sometimes he got violent, other times he cried in frustration. But he never remembered. His legs had atrophied after the first year.
Sam should have known that the statistics were against them, that sooner or later they would injure themselves so badly that a bandage and a magic kiss would not be able to heal them. But they were young, they were hopeful, and they were in love. So they didn't think about it.
And now it was too late.
Authors Notes:
Wrote this all in one go, quite late at night. I'm sorry if it's a bit rough.
I actually came up with this vague idea together with one of my english students, and liked it so much that I'm compelled now, however many months later, to adapt it to Sam and Dean.
Sorry it's so angst-y, that happens when you listen to lots of sad music. haha