SPN: and the war he saw lives inside him still (Sam/Dean) PG13
Title: and the war he saw lives inside him still
Author: technosage, originally posted Jan 2007.
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 992
Spoilers/Warnings: vague episode spoilers for Hunted; meta thoughts that follow the story include spoilers for Playthings.
Disclaimer: I should only be that lucky?
Summary: After they deal with Gordon, Sam can't get clean, and Dean can't hold it together.
Notes: for crazyjoyfulgirl who asked for Sam/Dean, following Hunted, filled with love and need. Hope this suits, beautiful girl.
His hand never seems to heal, but his cheek aches more.
Iron-heavy water beats against his torn muscles, the shower blessedly hot, and the spray surprisingly strong for a tacky motel outside Peoria. Blood, sweat, grime sluice out of his hair, sting his smoke-burnt eyes. Better that than closing them and seeing need you/can't lose you written in green-gold and black. Better that than drowning in callused fingers too soft on his face.
No matter how many times he washes, motel soap never does the job. Now, not even the anise-scented hunter's soap they carry with them gets him clean. Not even bleach or lye will wash away the can't be trusted/not quite human.
Scrubbed pink, and bruised purple, yellow, green, he feels human when he steps out of the shower. Feels human and vulnerable when the bolt tumbles on the motel room door while he, naked, towel dries his hair. He looks human - freakishly tall, Dean's voice in his head supplies - when he slings a dry towel around his hips at an inquisitive "Sam?" from the bedroom.
Feels like demon-spawn when he steps out of the bathroom to Dean's fear-blown eyes, strong shoulders hunched to protect a vulnerable middle.
His head tilts, wet bangs slide across his face, not hiding the soft eyebrow raise. "Hey. You get it?" I'm here.
Brown-paper bags rustle in Dean's hand; it is not shaking, but it is a near thing.
He did this. His fault Dean curls in on himself like a war-wife afraid of the phone. It doesn't matter he'd needed to move, to learn, to find his bearings. Doesn't matter he meant, still means, to protect Dean from ever having to face the choice Gordon made.
For Dean who just wants them to be family, wants to be together, wants, oh god, to fly with him to Amsterdam, his going to LaFayette alone had been the first bullet. Reopened the old wounds of Stanford, presaged the new of turning into what they hunt.
Neither says anything. Dean's tongue isn't working for once, and Sam hasn't the first clue how to say I don't want to leave you. No words, just anguish worn like funeral shrouds, and Sam knows if he doesn't find the right ones, do the right thing, he'll be looking into eyes dead-cold and devoid somewhere down the road.
He might be Lenore, but he will not let Dean become Gordon. Simply will not let his caretaker, nurturer, brother, best friend, lover become a soul-dead killer.
Broken hand out, Sam takes their dinner from Dean's white-knuckled fingers. Dean lets it go, looks away but doesn't move away. He stays, stands like a shamed child between the beds and the dresser, his ache embracing Sam, bruising his bare arms with the need to hold, piercing the backs of his eyelids with the need to weep.
Sam sets the bags - spaghetti, garlic bread, salad, probably tiramisu because Dean loves him - on the thin cherry-veneered nightstand-cum-entertainment center without breaking the gaze Dean won't meet. It's so unlike his brother to be still this long without exercising his tongue to deflect and evade.
Feels longer than it is, his brain running in quick-time though it seems slow with Dean all wrong. Still, even a minute with no movement but Dean's tongue rolling in his mouth like it's trying to form words or swallow them, even a minute is way too long.
Sam ends it. Wrapping his good hand around the back of Dean's neck, he reels him in. Leans his forehead against his brother's and breathes, "Dean," over pressed-tight lips.
Still nothing. Nothing but the tension snaking up Dean's arms and back, and his neck stiff under Sam's hand.
Sam's chest tightens, gut burns along with his eyes. But Dean doesn't call him a stubborn asshole for nothing, and it can't be easy for Dean, only a towel separating him from the body he craves. The brother he's afraid he'll lose forever. "C'mon, Dean. I'm right here." Reach for me.
Finally, Dean cocks his head to glance up at him, eyes bright-hurt, too shiny. "For how long?"
Unfair question, especially in that tone, laced with accusation, guilt, and you could've died.
Sam won't take off again, not without warning, but he can't promise he won't have to go away to protect Dean. And he can't promise the Demon isn't going to get him. But he's here now and he's Dean's, and Dean is his, and…
"You know what? Fuck it," he growls, rough, before slanting his head to seize Dean's mouth.
He kisses like they fight and hunt - smart, brutal. Holds Dean captive, while savaging his lips. Bearing down on lips forced apart, he slams his tongue against closed teeth. Demands access to the too-soft too-raw that Dean's trying but failing to shield.
His hands come up to push at Sam, push him away, but they skate over his still-damp chest. Or maybe Dean just needs the slip and lost balance as an excuse to grab for what he needs.
Whatever. The reason doesn't signify for Sam. Because as soon as Dean's hands close over his shoulders, they are clutching, bruising tight can't lose you/don't leave me, and that's what Sam wants.
His jaw unclenches next, lets Sam into his wet soft inside. Lets Sam's tongue sweep over his, again and again, soothing. Loving.
Their mouths slow, and the kiss settles into gentle, thorough, love you so much. Dean tastes like the beer he pounded on his way out, the cigarettes he chain-smoked on the way for food so Sam wouldn't bitchface at him. Hops, tobacco and ash...
Bitter salt.
A choked sob against Sam's mouth, then Dean's hand steals up, tangles in Sam's wet hair, tight. Sam's hand slips low, pulls him close. His other…
His other curls against Dean's cheek, callused fingers impossibly gentle. Shhh, baby, I'm here.
The wounds never really seem to heal, but this, right here, will wash them clean.
Additional notes: Mad mad love to poisontaster who held my hand and bopped me over the head when I wouldn't listen to Sam. So much love for keepaofthecheez for audiencing and beta-ing and being my girl, no matter what. And shout out wild thanks and new love for way2busymom for stepping in to give poor, sick Lindsay a hand with beta duties. \o/
The title, as well as some of the imagery, comes from Paula Cole's "I Don't Want to Wait" off the album This Fire.
ETA:
Meta thoughts: In tonight's episode, Sam makes Dean promise he'll kill him if. I've been thinking about that since I posted this story and wondering if I miscued Sam's determination to keep Dean from having to make that choice. I think not. A month later, Sam's been holding it together too long. The promise is both a) Sam breaking down and needing his brother to reassure him he won't let him become a monster and b) Sam's way of alleviating Dean's guilt if it ever comes to that. By making him promise, he hopes to spare Dean the guilt of it, because he's doing it for Sam, doing what Sam asked. It won't work, but I think it's in keeping with the Sam I tried to put into words here.
Author: technosage, originally posted Jan 2007.
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 992
Spoilers/Warnings: vague episode spoilers for Hunted; meta thoughts that follow the story include spoilers for Playthings.
Disclaimer: I should only be that lucky?
Summary: After they deal with Gordon, Sam can't get clean, and Dean can't hold it together.
Notes: for crazyjoyfulgirl who asked for Sam/Dean, following Hunted, filled with love and need. Hope this suits, beautiful girl.
His hand never seems to heal, but his cheek aches more.
Iron-heavy water beats against his torn muscles, the shower blessedly hot, and the spray surprisingly strong for a tacky motel outside Peoria. Blood, sweat, grime sluice out of his hair, sting his smoke-burnt eyes. Better that than closing them and seeing need you/can't lose you written in green-gold and black. Better that than drowning in callused fingers too soft on his face.
No matter how many times he washes, motel soap never does the job. Now, not even the anise-scented hunter's soap they carry with them gets him clean. Not even bleach or lye will wash away the can't be trusted/not quite human.
Scrubbed pink, and bruised purple, yellow, green, he feels human when he steps out of the shower. Feels human and vulnerable when the bolt tumbles on the motel room door while he, naked, towel dries his hair. He looks human - freakishly tall, Dean's voice in his head supplies - when he slings a dry towel around his hips at an inquisitive "Sam?" from the bedroom.
Feels like demon-spawn when he steps out of the bathroom to Dean's fear-blown eyes, strong shoulders hunched to protect a vulnerable middle.
His head tilts, wet bangs slide across his face, not hiding the soft eyebrow raise. "Hey. You get it?" I'm here.
Brown-paper bags rustle in Dean's hand; it is not shaking, but it is a near thing.
He did this. His fault Dean curls in on himself like a war-wife afraid of the phone. It doesn't matter he'd needed to move, to learn, to find his bearings. Doesn't matter he meant, still means, to protect Dean from ever having to face the choice Gordon made.
For Dean who just wants them to be family, wants to be together, wants, oh god, to fly with him to Amsterdam, his going to LaFayette alone had been the first bullet. Reopened the old wounds of Stanford, presaged the new of turning into what they hunt.
Neither says anything. Dean's tongue isn't working for once, and Sam hasn't the first clue how to say I don't want to leave you. No words, just anguish worn like funeral shrouds, and Sam knows if he doesn't find the right ones, do the right thing, he'll be looking into eyes dead-cold and devoid somewhere down the road.
He might be Lenore, but he will not let Dean become Gordon. Simply will not let his caretaker, nurturer, brother, best friend, lover become a soul-dead killer.
Broken hand out, Sam takes their dinner from Dean's white-knuckled fingers. Dean lets it go, looks away but doesn't move away. He stays, stands like a shamed child between the beds and the dresser, his ache embracing Sam, bruising his bare arms with the need to hold, piercing the backs of his eyelids with the need to weep.
Sam sets the bags - spaghetti, garlic bread, salad, probably tiramisu because Dean loves him - on the thin cherry-veneered nightstand-cum-entertainment center without breaking the gaze Dean won't meet. It's so unlike his brother to be still this long without exercising his tongue to deflect and evade.
Feels longer than it is, his brain running in quick-time though it seems slow with Dean all wrong. Still, even a minute with no movement but Dean's tongue rolling in his mouth like it's trying to form words or swallow them, even a minute is way too long.
Sam ends it. Wrapping his good hand around the back of Dean's neck, he reels him in. Leans his forehead against his brother's and breathes, "Dean," over pressed-tight lips.
Still nothing. Nothing but the tension snaking up Dean's arms and back, and his neck stiff under Sam's hand.
Sam's chest tightens, gut burns along with his eyes. But Dean doesn't call him a stubborn asshole for nothing, and it can't be easy for Dean, only a towel separating him from the body he craves. The brother he's afraid he'll lose forever. "C'mon, Dean. I'm right here." Reach for me.
Finally, Dean cocks his head to glance up at him, eyes bright-hurt, too shiny. "For how long?"
Unfair question, especially in that tone, laced with accusation, guilt, and you could've died.
Sam won't take off again, not without warning, but he can't promise he won't have to go away to protect Dean. And he can't promise the Demon isn't going to get him. But he's here now and he's Dean's, and Dean is his, and…
"You know what? Fuck it," he growls, rough, before slanting his head to seize Dean's mouth.
He kisses like they fight and hunt - smart, brutal. Holds Dean captive, while savaging his lips. Bearing down on lips forced apart, he slams his tongue against closed teeth. Demands access to the too-soft too-raw that Dean's trying but failing to shield.
His hands come up to push at Sam, push him away, but they skate over his still-damp chest. Or maybe Dean just needs the slip and lost balance as an excuse to grab for what he needs.
Whatever. The reason doesn't signify for Sam. Because as soon as Dean's hands close over his shoulders, they are clutching, bruising tight can't lose you/don't leave me, and that's what Sam wants.
His jaw unclenches next, lets Sam into his wet soft inside. Lets Sam's tongue sweep over his, again and again, soothing. Loving.
Their mouths slow, and the kiss settles into gentle, thorough, love you so much. Dean tastes like the beer he pounded on his way out, the cigarettes he chain-smoked on the way for food so Sam wouldn't bitchface at him. Hops, tobacco and ash...
Bitter salt.
A choked sob against Sam's mouth, then Dean's hand steals up, tangles in Sam's wet hair, tight. Sam's hand slips low, pulls him close. His other…
His other curls against Dean's cheek, callused fingers impossibly gentle. Shhh, baby, I'm here.
The wounds never really seem to heal, but this, right here, will wash them clean.
Additional notes: Mad mad love to poisontaster who held my hand and bopped me over the head when I wouldn't listen to Sam. So much love for keepaofthecheez for audiencing and beta-ing and being my girl, no matter what. And shout out wild thanks and new love for way2busymom for stepping in to give poor, sick Lindsay a hand with beta duties. \o/
The title, as well as some of the imagery, comes from Paula Cole's "I Don't Want to Wait" off the album This Fire.
ETA:
Meta thoughts: In tonight's episode, Sam makes Dean promise he'll kill him if. I've been thinking about that since I posted this story and wondering if I miscued Sam's determination to keep Dean from having to make that choice. I think not. A month later, Sam's been holding it together too long. The promise is both a) Sam breaking down and needing his brother to reassure him he won't let him become a monster and b) Sam's way of alleviating Dean's guilt if it ever comes to that. By making him promise, he hopes to spare Dean the guilt of it, because he's doing it for Sam, doing what Sam asked. It won't work, but I think it's in keeping with the Sam I tried to put into words here.