Fic: Panopticon
Title: Panopticon
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: unrequited Dean/Sam
Rating: PG
Summary: Dean feels like he's being watched. 300 words.
Early in his childhood, Dean learned that the gooseflesh-cold-sweat-paranoiac feeling that someone was watching probably meant that someone, or something, was.
The older he grew, the more constant the feeling became, warming and spiking according to the actual presence or non-presence of an observer or the degree of wrongdoing in which he was engaged. Every corner turned, every lie breathed through a smile, every last word that died sighing on the arid trek across his tongue was accompanied by the persistent, stabbing sense that his secrets were not and that somehow someone was looking right through him.
What annoyed and terrified him most was that the feeling became overwhelming whenever he thought of Sam. Even careless catches, like trying to remember whether his brother preferred Nutter Butters or Kit-Kats, brought down the faintest prickling, as though his very awareness of Sam was under surveillance.
When his cognitions were less innocent, the unseen gaze burned down his spine and spread a dark flush across his shoulders. He would stumble over the briefest sight of skin, Sam’s T-shirt riding up his back, or listen to the soft breathing from the other bed, let it hum him quietly to sleep. The feeling blazed white-hot, paralyzing, as he watched bright eyes and straining arms, all righteous fire in the middle of a hunt, and he shouted over the creeping knowledge that, one day, his baby brother really would die in his arms.
Someone was watching. Someone knew. So Dean turned up the music and shoved his hands in his pockets. If some demonic pervert, or whatever it was, wanted to listen to his thoughts and watch the porno in his head, it was welcome. But he’d be damned if he was going to give it any more of a show.
:shadowen:
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: unrequited Dean/Sam
Rating: PG
Summary: Dean feels like he's being watched. 300 words.
Early in his childhood, Dean learned that the gooseflesh-cold-sweat-paranoiac feeling that someone was watching probably meant that someone, or something, was.
The older he grew, the more constant the feeling became, warming and spiking according to the actual presence or non-presence of an observer or the degree of wrongdoing in which he was engaged. Every corner turned, every lie breathed through a smile, every last word that died sighing on the arid trek across his tongue was accompanied by the persistent, stabbing sense that his secrets were not and that somehow someone was looking right through him.
What annoyed and terrified him most was that the feeling became overwhelming whenever he thought of Sam. Even careless catches, like trying to remember whether his brother preferred Nutter Butters or Kit-Kats, brought down the faintest prickling, as though his very awareness of Sam was under surveillance.
When his cognitions were less innocent, the unseen gaze burned down his spine and spread a dark flush across his shoulders. He would stumble over the briefest sight of skin, Sam’s T-shirt riding up his back, or listen to the soft breathing from the other bed, let it hum him quietly to sleep. The feeling blazed white-hot, paralyzing, as he watched bright eyes and straining arms, all righteous fire in the middle of a hunt, and he shouted over the creeping knowledge that, one day, his baby brother really would die in his arms.
Someone was watching. Someone knew. So Dean turned up the music and shoved his hands in his pockets. If some demonic pervert, or whatever it was, wanted to listen to his thoughts and watch the porno in his head, it was welcome. But he’d be damned if he was going to give it any more of a show.
:shadowen: