(no subject)
Just a quick repost - I wrote a spnspringfling story for rhythmsextion!
Lonely Winter, PG, Sam/Dean, 700 words. A coda for the finale.
After, Dean's okay. Cas's betrayal hurts like hell, sucker punch pain that leaves him bent over rest stop toilets and crouched by the side of the road, but in the end, it feels a little inevitable. Dean was raised not to trust in things unseen, to pour down the salt lines and shoot dead through the heart. He's played enough poker to have instincts; Sam's the one who falls in love with monsters. These days, angels and demons aren't any different than ghosts, just things with too much juice for the bodies they're occupying, too bright around the edges like foxfire. They're a flashbang for your better instincts, a hollow point through common sense. Somehow, the knowledge that he should have known better is comforting instead of painful.
The truth is, Dean's almost grateful, because for the first time since twenty-two, he's got breathing room. Sam's not whole but he's alive, and Dean knows how to put together the pieces better than anyone else, like taping together a road map he's been using for thirty years, all the landmarks and tears familiar underneath his hands. Sometimes Sam blacks out, sometimes he wakes up screaming, but it's better than checking the next bed to make sure he's breathing, better than a whole year of not feeling anything but the slow burn of whiskey. He misses Ben and Lisa, misses Cas and Jo and, some days, he misses his father, but Dean's not sorry about any of it. He'd make every goddamned deal over again just to get to where he is, with Sam asleep in Bobby's upstairs bedroom and all bets off the table.
It's been a long winter and a longer spring, with snow into May and so much goddamned rain even Dean's tired of driving in it. When the first real day of summer rolls around, ninety degrees and so humid Dean's shirt is stuck between his shoulder blades before nine, Dean stands in the junkyard and lets it burn orange behind his eyelids, soaking up the heat. When he comes back in the house, Sam's got their duffle and a copy of the Des Moines Register.
"I was thinking," Sam says, and Dean's hands are up for the keys before Sam tosses them, because he wants the open road, too.
They should probably be dealing with bigger problems than a poltergeist in Iowa, but Cas has been lying low. And these days, Dean feels like his life can be tracked out in things that go bump in the night, Yellow Eyes and Lilith and Lucifer and Eve. He's not anxious to add a friend to that list, and the truth is that he's tired of saving the world.
Dean takes the back roads instead of the interstate, doing eighty on small town highways and through long stretches of newly planted fields, and Sam rolls the windows down to let the heat in, closing his eyes with a hand wrapped around the window frame. The air tastes like road dust and summer, clean and gritty all at once, and a hundred miles in, Dean looks over to find Sam asleep. He's sprawled out in the passenger seat in a way that reminds Dean of when Sam was seventeen, still growing into his height, but there's no tension anywhere in him. An hour later, Dean finds an old diner along the highway. He parks in the shade of an old oak tree, so big its branches span half the parking lot, and leans over to kiss Sam awake. Dean cups his face in his palms, thumbs in close against his temples as they kiss, and grins when Sam laughs against his mouth, eyes still closed.
"Burgers?" Dean says.
"How did I know?" Sam says, stretching out into Dean's space and pulling him down for another long minute before they go inside, and right there - things might be all right, after all.
Lonely Winter, PG, Sam/Dean, 700 words. A coda for the finale.
After, Dean's okay. Cas's betrayal hurts like hell, sucker punch pain that leaves him bent over rest stop toilets and crouched by the side of the road, but in the end, it feels a little inevitable. Dean was raised not to trust in things unseen, to pour down the salt lines and shoot dead through the heart. He's played enough poker to have instincts; Sam's the one who falls in love with monsters. These days, angels and demons aren't any different than ghosts, just things with too much juice for the bodies they're occupying, too bright around the edges like foxfire. They're a flashbang for your better instincts, a hollow point through common sense. Somehow, the knowledge that he should have known better is comforting instead of painful.
The truth is, Dean's almost grateful, because for the first time since twenty-two, he's got breathing room. Sam's not whole but he's alive, and Dean knows how to put together the pieces better than anyone else, like taping together a road map he's been using for thirty years, all the landmarks and tears familiar underneath his hands. Sometimes Sam blacks out, sometimes he wakes up screaming, but it's better than checking the next bed to make sure he's breathing, better than a whole year of not feeling anything but the slow burn of whiskey. He misses Ben and Lisa, misses Cas and Jo and, some days, he misses his father, but Dean's not sorry about any of it. He'd make every goddamned deal over again just to get to where he is, with Sam asleep in Bobby's upstairs bedroom and all bets off the table.
It's been a long winter and a longer spring, with snow into May and so much goddamned rain even Dean's tired of driving in it. When the first real day of summer rolls around, ninety degrees and so humid Dean's shirt is stuck between his shoulder blades before nine, Dean stands in the junkyard and lets it burn orange behind his eyelids, soaking up the heat. When he comes back in the house, Sam's got their duffle and a copy of the Des Moines Register.
"I was thinking," Sam says, and Dean's hands are up for the keys before Sam tosses them, because he wants the open road, too.
They should probably be dealing with bigger problems than a poltergeist in Iowa, but Cas has been lying low. And these days, Dean feels like his life can be tracked out in things that go bump in the night, Yellow Eyes and Lilith and Lucifer and Eve. He's not anxious to add a friend to that list, and the truth is that he's tired of saving the world.
Dean takes the back roads instead of the interstate, doing eighty on small town highways and through long stretches of newly planted fields, and Sam rolls the windows down to let the heat in, closing his eyes with a hand wrapped around the window frame. The air tastes like road dust and summer, clean and gritty all at once, and a hundred miles in, Dean looks over to find Sam asleep. He's sprawled out in the passenger seat in a way that reminds Dean of when Sam was seventeen, still growing into his height, but there's no tension anywhere in him. An hour later, Dean finds an old diner along the highway. He parks in the shade of an old oak tree, so big its branches span half the parking lot, and leans over to kiss Sam awake. Dean cups his face in his palms, thumbs in close against his temples as they kiss, and grins when Sam laughs against his mouth, eyes still closed.
"Burgers?" Dean says.
"How did I know?" Sam says, stretching out into Dean's space and pulling him down for another long minute before they go inside, and right there - things might be all right, after all.