[SUPERNATURAL] One shot: Up in our bedroom, after the war {slash}
Title: Up in our bedroom, after the war
Author: frayen
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 983
Spoilers: None really
Summary: They’d been living in Bobby’s house for six months, Bobby had been gone for seven but it still felt like his house, it always would. They slept in the largest of Bobby’s two guest rooms, it was still Bobby’s house and they couldn’t bring themselves to take his room, even if it did have the bigger bed.
Notes/Warnings: The title of this fic (that actually neatly sums up the fic) comes from the song In our bed room after the war By Stars. This is unbeta'd and typed up late at night, so uh..yeah and contains incest.
Disclaimer: It's fiction of the most fictiony kind. Characters belong to Kripke.
Up in our bedroom, after the war
I.
They’d been living in Bobby’s house for six months, Bobby had been gone for seven but it still felt like his house, it always would. They slept in the largest of Bobby’s two guest rooms, it was still Bobby’s house and they couldn’t bring themselves to take his room, even if it did have the bigger bed. They let Ellen have it instead; they didn’t need space, just each other. So they slept in a too small bed, slept pressed close together, feet hanging over the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around each other.
For the first five days after - oh god after, Sam swore he was never going to get used to that - they didn’t come down from their (guest) room. For three of those days they just slept, pressed close together, feet hanging over the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around each other. On the forth day they lay in a deep, awed silence, aware of the activity ensuing in the house around them, below them, but kept themselves apart from it. The others left them alone for the most part, Ellen would ask them if they were alright, yelling at them through the door as she left food for them. Sometimes they would answer in the affirmative, other times they would be sleeping, god they were tired.
On the fifth day they made acquaintance with the ugly faded purple wallpaper that adorned the wall around the headboard, while they relearned the lines of each other’s bodies. The bed was too small for anything but slow and gentle, they were too mindful of each other’s injuries for anything more than heartfelt but half-hearted fumbles.
On the sixth day they slumped out of their sanctuary and joined the celebrations and the mournings because ding dong the witch is dead, the wicked witch is dead.
II.
The thing with wars is they never really end. The fighting never stops; there are only brief respites between bouts of bloodshed. But this, this is sixth months after and after will never stop being a magic word. It’s hope and glory and sadness and loss all smashed into one, it’s after. They know they’re not really finished, there will always be one more evil thing lurking in the dark, but for right now, right here, they’re done and it’s after.
They know they are only staying at Bobby’s house while they recuperate, until they get strong, get well. But it was easier than they thought to fall into a routine. They sleep in their too small bed in Bobby’s largest guest room, sleep pressed close together, feet hanging over the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around each other. They get up, they eat, Ellen fusses, Jo frets and Missouri has completely taken over Bobby’s library, lovingly cataloguing each book. Sam helps, but Dean isn’t allowed in if he has beverage in his hand.
They train everyday, pushing themselves just that little bit further each time. Dean’s grip on his gun is surer now and Sam hits the target when he throws his knives and not other things - like the hem of Father Aled’s robes. They push themselves because they need to make themselves keep going, they need to get on and get gone because standing still will never be their style, even now, even in this after.
Bobby’s house has been turned into a command centre by this rag tag crew of misfits, these people who won this war. Ellen and Jo have Bobby’s room, Sam and Dean have the largest guest room, Missouri has the other. Father Aled, Joshua and Joshua’s friend Rudolph - “Call me Rudy” - have set up camp in the dining room. The dining room table and most other wooden bits of furniture long since hacked up for stakes and kindling. But it’s still Bobby’s house, Bobby’s gone but somehow he’s still here in Bobby’s house, command centre and part time way station.
Other Hunters filter in, come and go, bringing news of what’s going on outside Bobby’s sanctuary. Even now, six months after, they were still hearing tales of devastation wrought by the war.
III.
Dean has a scar that bisects the protection charm tattooed on his chest. The flesh of it is raised, still slightly pink and very tender. Sam likes to lick it. Sam remembers that in the adrenaline rush of battle, Dean didn’t blink when claws slashed at him, opening old wounds and creating new ones, but he whimpered all through the getting of the tattoo. Made pitiful, half-put on mewling sounds until Sam kissed his boo boo better.
On the seventh day after, when the noise of the world carrying on had driven them back to their too small bed. They spent hours tracing fingers and tongues over new scars and old scars, over other designs inked and etched and carved into their skin. They memorized the way their bodies looked now because time would lay more scars and (hopefully) lines of age over the unmarred patches.
IV.
And now it’s six months after and everything is the same. They look the same, they feel the same - still slightly bemused that the world didn’t end when it threatened to. The unsteady peace that gripped the world after this war, the first of many, is holding - just - and their bodies are scarred but healing.
Six months after this six months after is still a little too much for them to contemplate right now, it’s six months too far in the future. They know that soon they’ll have to rip off the band aid and carry on; the world is only temporarily fixed. But right now they are content to sleep in the too small bed in Bobby’s largest guest room, sleep pressed close together, feet hanging off the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around each other.
FIN
Author: frayen
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 983
Spoilers: None really
Summary: They’d been living in Bobby’s house for six months, Bobby had been gone for seven but it still felt like his house, it always would. They slept in the largest of Bobby’s two guest rooms, it was still Bobby’s house and they couldn’t bring themselves to take his room, even if it did have the bigger bed.
Notes/Warnings: The title of this fic (that actually neatly sums up the fic) comes from the song In our bed room after the war By Stars. This is unbeta'd and typed up late at night, so uh..yeah and contains incest.
Disclaimer: It's fiction of the most fictiony kind. Characters belong to Kripke.
Up in our bedroom, after the war
I.
They’d been living in Bobby’s house for six months, Bobby had been gone for seven but it still felt like his house, it always would. They slept in the largest of Bobby’s two guest rooms, it was still Bobby’s house and they couldn’t bring themselves to take his room, even if it did have the bigger bed. They let Ellen have it instead; they didn’t need space, just each other. So they slept in a too small bed, slept pressed close together, feet hanging over the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around each other.
For the first five days after - oh god after, Sam swore he was never going to get used to that - they didn’t come down from their (guest) room. For three of those days they just slept, pressed close together, feet hanging over the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around each other. On the forth day they lay in a deep, awed silence, aware of the activity ensuing in the house around them, below them, but kept themselves apart from it. The others left them alone for the most part, Ellen would ask them if they were alright, yelling at them through the door as she left food for them. Sometimes they would answer in the affirmative, other times they would be sleeping, god they were tired.
On the fifth day they made acquaintance with the ugly faded purple wallpaper that adorned the wall around the headboard, while they relearned the lines of each other’s bodies. The bed was too small for anything but slow and gentle, they were too mindful of each other’s injuries for anything more than heartfelt but half-hearted fumbles.
On the sixth day they slumped out of their sanctuary and joined the celebrations and the mournings because ding dong the witch is dead, the wicked witch is dead.
II.
The thing with wars is they never really end. The fighting never stops; there are only brief respites between bouts of bloodshed. But this, this is sixth months after and after will never stop being a magic word. It’s hope and glory and sadness and loss all smashed into one, it’s after. They know they’re not really finished, there will always be one more evil thing lurking in the dark, but for right now, right here, they’re done and it’s after.
They know they are only staying at Bobby’s house while they recuperate, until they get strong, get well. But it was easier than they thought to fall into a routine. They sleep in their too small bed in Bobby’s largest guest room, sleep pressed close together, feet hanging over the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around each other. They get up, they eat, Ellen fusses, Jo frets and Missouri has completely taken over Bobby’s library, lovingly cataloguing each book. Sam helps, but Dean isn’t allowed in if he has beverage in his hand.
They train everyday, pushing themselves just that little bit further each time. Dean’s grip on his gun is surer now and Sam hits the target when he throws his knives and not other things - like the hem of Father Aled’s robes. They push themselves because they need to make themselves keep going, they need to get on and get gone because standing still will never be their style, even now, even in this after.
Bobby’s house has been turned into a command centre by this rag tag crew of misfits, these people who won this war. Ellen and Jo have Bobby’s room, Sam and Dean have the largest guest room, Missouri has the other. Father Aled, Joshua and Joshua’s friend Rudolph - “Call me Rudy” - have set up camp in the dining room. The dining room table and most other wooden bits of furniture long since hacked up for stakes and kindling. But it’s still Bobby’s house, Bobby’s gone but somehow he’s still here in Bobby’s house, command centre and part time way station.
Other Hunters filter in, come and go, bringing news of what’s going on outside Bobby’s sanctuary. Even now, six months after, they were still hearing tales of devastation wrought by the war.
III.
Dean has a scar that bisects the protection charm tattooed on his chest. The flesh of it is raised, still slightly pink and very tender. Sam likes to lick it. Sam remembers that in the adrenaline rush of battle, Dean didn’t blink when claws slashed at him, opening old wounds and creating new ones, but he whimpered all through the getting of the tattoo. Made pitiful, half-put on mewling sounds until Sam kissed his boo boo better.
On the seventh day after, when the noise of the world carrying on had driven them back to their too small bed. They spent hours tracing fingers and tongues over new scars and old scars, over other designs inked and etched and carved into their skin. They memorized the way their bodies looked now because time would lay more scars and (hopefully) lines of age over the unmarred patches.
IV.
And now it’s six months after and everything is the same. They look the same, they feel the same - still slightly bemused that the world didn’t end when it threatened to. The unsteady peace that gripped the world after this war, the first of many, is holding - just - and their bodies are scarred but healing.
Six months after this six months after is still a little too much for them to contemplate right now, it’s six months too far in the future. They know that soon they’ll have to rip off the band aid and carry on; the world is only temporarily fixed. But right now they are content to sleep in the too small bed in Bobby’s largest guest room, sleep pressed close together, feet hanging off the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around each other.
FIN