Just a little something-something:misread_January 31 2007, 11:23:28 UTC
Everything seems pitch black, the only light the faint glow of yellow street lights, filtering in from outside the motel and giving Sam just enough light to make out the angles, shapes and corners of the room. There's a lump in his throat, and his hands clutch the pillow a little tighter, a little closer as he shifts, ending up on his side, knees drawn up to his chest. Pushing his face in the pillow, he takes a deep, shuddering breath, dust tickling his lungs.
It's not helping. The knowledge that he might have not any control over...this, what's happening to him, no matter how many people he saves, no matter how many times he looks in a window as he passes it by, convinces himself the black shimmer he thought he saw in his eyes is just that. A thought, mindtrick, illusion of his own twisted imagination. Every step he takes, or doesn't take, still brings him that much closer to what's bound to happen. It crashes down on him like a wave, the darkness making it seem more menacing, making it difficult to breathe, and suddenly, he feels like he's five years old all over again.
"Dean," he croaks out, not even knowing if Dean's awake, voice shot and small with fearfilled, unshed tears. "I'm scared."
Later, in daylight, it occurs to Dean to think that it’s odd how Sam can get up at the freaking crack of dawn and do his soulsearching ninja practices or what the hell ever it is one does at that ungodly hour, and Dean doesn’t so much as stir in his bed, but all it takes is that note in Sam’s voice, a whispered word, and he’s is torn out of sleep more effectively than by a gunshot.
“Mmhwha’?” Instinct has him closing his hand around the handle of the knife under his pillow before he even has his eyes open, and he pushes groggily upright in bed, throwing a quick glance around the dark room. It’s empty, nothing but the light from the parking lot throwing shadows up the walls, and it’s been a long while since Dean stopped being afraid of darkness when it is no more than that.
“Sam? What - ” He looks over at the other bed and something about the way Sam is huddled under the covers stops the question in his throat. He throws off the cover and crosses the small space between the beds, settling on Sam’s bed, and shakes his brother’s shoulder lightly. “What is it, Sammy?”
Sam startles when he feels his brother's grip on his shoulder, shaken out of the space he shifted and shaped from thoughts and worries, staring up at Dean. There's a moment of confusion, passing over his features as he wonders how and when Dean sat down on the edge of his bed, before he throws it from his mind, face turning back to the side, staring at nothing.
"I'm scared," he repeats, whispering. He turns his face further away from Dean, presses it into the pillow and closes his eyes, tight.
Dean's here, so it's okay.
Dean's too close, he shouldn't be.
Dean promised Dad, take care of Sammy.
Dean promised him, You're the only one who can do it, Dean, promise. You have to promise me.
Sam groans, curling up even more. It's too confusing. Dean needs to stay close, Sam needs him to stay close, always.
It's not helping. The knowledge that he might have not any control over...this, what's happening to him, no matter how many people he saves, no matter how many times he looks in a window as he passes it by, convinces himself the black shimmer he thought he saw in his eyes is just that. A thought, mindtrick, illusion of his own twisted imagination. Every step he takes, or doesn't take, still brings him that much closer to what's bound to happen. It crashes down on him like a wave, the darkness making it seem more menacing, making it difficult to breathe, and suddenly, he feels like he's five years old all over again.
"Dean," he croaks out, not even knowing if Dean's awake, voice shot and small with fearfilled, unshed tears. "I'm scared."
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...
.
*ded*
Dean: *ded*
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Later, in daylight, it occurs to Dean to think that it’s odd how Sam can get up at the freaking crack of dawn and do his soulsearching ninja practices or what the hell ever it is one does at that ungodly hour, and Dean doesn’t so much as stir in his bed, but all it takes is that note in Sam’s voice, a whispered word, and he’s is torn out of sleep more effectively than by a gunshot.
“Mmhwha’?” Instinct has him closing his hand around the handle of the knife under his pillow before he even has his eyes open, and he pushes groggily upright in bed, throwing a quick glance around the dark room. It’s empty, nothing but the light from the parking lot throwing shadows up the walls, and it’s been a long while since Dean stopped being afraid of darkness when it is no more than that.
“Sam? What - ” He looks over at the other bed and something about the way Sam is huddled under the covers stops the question in his throat. He throws off the cover and crosses the small space between the beds, settling on Sam’s bed, and shakes his brother’s shoulder lightly. “What is it, Sammy?”
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"I'm scared," he repeats, whispering. He turns his face further away from Dean, presses it into the pillow and closes his eyes, tight.
Dean's here, so it's okay.
Dean's too close, he shouldn't be.
Dean promised Dad, take care of Sammy.
Dean promised him, You're the only one who can do it, Dean, promise. You have to promise me.
Sam groans, curling up even more. It's too confusing. Dean needs to stay close, Sam needs him to stay close, always.
Needs him to get away as far as he humanly can.
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