[Fic] sevenfists: Life As We Know It
[ Sam/Dean ]
Title: Life As We Know It
Writer: sevenfists
Status of work: Complete
Characters and/or pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings, kinks & contents:
[Click to read]none
Length: 13,500 words
Summary: Our boys buy curtains and fall in love.
Reccer's notes: So I hemmed and hawed about reccing this fic, because it was once well-known and I'm not sure how far it has faded into obscurity. But in the end I had to, because this is still, years later, my favorite story ever in Supernatural fandom and quite possibly the greatest curtainfic to ever live.
Written late in Season Two, this is the story of the six months Sam and Dean spend in a small town while Sam recovers from an injury and Dean's heart is healing along with him. Sevenfists shows us the slow, sweet, subtle course of surviving, and of being in love with your brother and coming to terms with that. Told with a great feel for the humor and fondness of Dean's inner voice, this is a story with an impeccable grasp of not just the characters but also their issues from canon and Dean's baggage about his family. So much more than a fic about just getting them to sleep together, this is a story that will heal your soul along with theirs.
[Short excerpt]On the morning that Sam woke up, Dean ran five red lights on the way to the hospital, his half-empty coffee cup sloshing in the holder. Everything was moving too slowly: there was an accident on Marshall; in the parking deck, he got stuck behind an old lady in a Cadillac who couldn't decide which stall to turn into; the elevator lights blinked obediently down to the third floor and then stopped there for an eternity, unmoving.
The doors peeled open, finally, the steel interior beckoning. Dean realized he was clutching his cup in his left hand and his keys in his right. He put his keys in his pocket and punched Door Close.
Sam's room was on the eighth floor, overlooking the freeway, the passing cars with snow crusted on their roofs. Dean paused in the doorway, his hand clenching on his coffee cup and warping the styrofoam. He hated the smell of hospitals, and their sterility, the way the fluorescent lights made everything seem not quite real.
A nurse passed behind him in the hallway and touched his shoulder. "You can go in," she said gently.
"Yeah," Dean said. "Thanks."
Sam's eyes were closed, but he opened them when Dean settled himself in the chair next to the bed, its cheap plastic seat creaking in dismay. He looked-he looked fine, he looked like nothing had happened; even the long suture on his chest was fading from its original lurid red, the few inches Dean could see of it before it vanished beneath Sam's hospital-issue shirt.