the stars will tell our story; Supernatural; Sam/Dean; g, incest [Heh, I read this as "Sam/Dean" instead of "Sam & Dean." So. Sorry.]
It's late. It's past the time where anything they could do would be of any help. Dean can feel the age in his bones, thinks about the rings in trees and wonders whether the patchwork of scars that makes up his skin would get in the way of someone trying to determine his age. It's been a long life, and he's been broken and forced back together more times than he can count.
It's late and the sky is full of stars, the quiet kind that sit and keep watch, night after night, as Sam Winchester says the prayers he's had memorized since he was eight and realized that Dean and Dad never had to know. Dad's gone, has been for a while, and the people who took his place are gone too. And now it's just Dean, as if it's not always just been Dean, as if there's ever been, could ever be, anyone else in his life when Dean is standing there shining like the sun that will rise in too few hours. Sam should sleep.
It's late and ten years ago Dean Winchester would have been out this time of night, steering himself away from the cliffs, clinging to the dregs of sanity, of normalcy; ten years ago Dean wouldn't have been in this motel room, wouldn't have been waiting quietly for his brother to return with dinner that should have been eaten hours ago. Five years ago, he would have been pretending he wanted to be somewhere else. But all of that is gone now, and in the place of muttered curses and hesitant denials is the understanding that when Sammy gets back, they will eat quietly before curling into one of the beds, softening muscle pressed together, shared body heat. A brother is a treasure, they've learned. Better not to waste it.
It's late, later than they'd ever imagined it would be. It's a dangerous profession. The sun is long gone, and in its place are a thousand stars, burning too brightly to be anything but heavenly. It's been a while since Dean thought of heaven. He doesn't devote much of his thought to death any more, not when it's long since stopped being something he even played at being scared of. He thinks about the thousands of slaughtered angels, the worlds he knows to be up there. He thinks of the friends (it's been a while since he thought that word too) they'd made and lost, one by one. Friend means Sam, these days. Friend and brother and lover and life, the only thing that matters anymore. So sometimes his voice breaks on his brother's name. Wouldn't yours?
It's late, and Sam takes his big brother's hand in his, staring at a sky that's seen them through their entire lives, thinking of all the nights they've spent, like this, beneath the stars. It's a miracle, he thinks, a real one, that they're still here, the way they always have been. It's a miracle that they're still sitting together, beneath a sky they never managed to escape, watching the fading tail of the comet that's been following them for a few days. It's left them behind now, like so much else in their lives, left them behind, and all that's left is the two of them, warm palms pressed together, heads tilted back as they try to remember how they got here.
Don't worry, I asked for Sam & Dean but I'm totally cool with Sam/Dean too. And this is beautiful. Honestly, heart-breakingly beautiful. I really love it, so thank you. ♥
[Heh, I read this as "Sam/Dean" instead of "Sam & Dean." So. Sorry.]
It's late. It's past the time where anything they could do would be of any help. Dean can feel the age in his bones, thinks about the rings in trees and wonders whether the patchwork of scars that makes up his skin would get in the way of someone trying to determine his age. It's been a long life, and he's been broken and forced back together more times than he can count.
It's late and the sky is full of stars, the quiet kind that sit and keep watch, night after night, as Sam Winchester says the prayers he's had memorized since he was eight and realized that Dean and Dad never had to know. Dad's gone, has been for a while, and the people who took his place are gone too. And now it's just Dean, as if it's not always just been Dean, as if there's ever been, could ever be, anyone else in his life when Dean is standing there shining like the sun that will rise in too few hours. Sam should sleep.
It's late and ten years ago Dean Winchester would have been out this time of night, steering himself away from the cliffs, clinging to the dregs of sanity, of normalcy; ten years ago Dean wouldn't have been in this motel room, wouldn't have been waiting quietly for his brother to return with dinner that should have been eaten hours ago. Five years ago, he would have been pretending he wanted to be somewhere else. But all of that is gone now, and in the place of muttered curses and hesitant denials is the understanding that when Sammy gets back, they will eat quietly before curling into one of the beds, softening muscle pressed together, shared body heat. A brother is a treasure, they've learned. Better not to waste it.
It's late, later than they'd ever imagined it would be. It's a dangerous profession. The sun is long gone, and in its place are a thousand stars, burning too brightly to be anything but heavenly. It's been a while since Dean thought of heaven. He doesn't devote much of his thought to death any more, not when it's long since stopped being something he even played at being scared of. He thinks about the thousands of slaughtered angels, the worlds he knows to be up there. He thinks of the friends (it's been a while since he thought that word too) they'd made and lost, one by one. Friend means Sam, these days. Friend and brother and lover and life, the only thing that matters anymore. So sometimes his voice breaks on his brother's name. Wouldn't yours?
It's late, and Sam takes his big brother's hand in his, staring at a sky that's seen them through their entire lives, thinking of all the nights they've spent, like this, beneath the stars. It's a miracle, he thinks, a real one, that they're still here, the way they always have been. It's a miracle that they're still sitting together, beneath a sky they never managed to escape, watching the fading tail of the comet that's been following them for a few days. It's left them behind now, like so much else in their lives, left them behind, and all that's left is the two of them, warm palms pressed together, heads tilted back as they try to remember how they got here.
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