Atlantic Ocean - Team Schmoop
Title: Seaward
Author: lemmealone
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: G
Wordcount: 832
Genre: SHMOOP, baby.
Spoilers: To the end of season 2
Notes: For prompt 'Atlantic Ocean', beta read by queencria and elucreh.
Summary: Sam and Dean and waves and sand and stars.
Seaward
No matter the season, Dean was always winter-pale; Sam was both endlessly amused and utterly merciless. After the third time Dean was forced to flee the sun rather than wear the enormous floppy hat his brother had smirkingly bought for him, he restricted his beach-going to the evenings.
Sam found him there once the light started drifting down, sitting barefoot in the sand and watching tiny waves flirt back and forth across the shoreline. The frayed ends of his jeans were soaked and heavy-looking and his hair was damp as well; stiff and spiky with salt water and sand.
Sam sat down beside him without a word, following his gaze out to sea. In the periphery of his vision he watched Dean turn a shell across the backs of his fingers, like a poker chip or a bullet.
"Been building sandcastles?” Sam asked finally, watching Dean's shoulders twitch with amused indignation.
"Nah." He flicked the shell out into the waves and wiped his sandy hands on his knees. "Buried a couple of kids, but they got away before the tide started coming in."
Sam felt his face stretch in a grin; he could picture Dean doing it, and he could picture kids letting him, screaming in delight and trusting his brother absolutely the way kids always did.
"I buried you once," Dean told him, a reminiscent fondness in his voice. "You were about six - Dad was chasing a kelpie and he let us play on the beach while he was busy." He frowned, poking in annoyance at the lingering sunburn on his nose. "I never burned back then."
"Freckled, though," Sam reminded him, helpfully.
"Shut up," Dean shot back, and dug his toes contentedly into the wet sand, dislodging shells and seaweed and one tiny, disgruntled crab.
They sat in silence for a while and listened to the sea.
"Bobby wanted to bury you," Dean said suddenly. His voice sounded weird; full of sea air and far away.
Sam cleared his throat. "When I was dead?" he asked carefully. They had taken this break to decompress and get their feet back under them, but so far neither of them had tried to talk about what had happened.
He found himself almost scared to, now, exposed here with nothing but the shifting sand behind them and the sea stretched out before them, but Dean was still and solid beside him, anchoring them both.
"When you were dead," Dean repeated. He didn't take his gaze away from the horizon; his eyelashes were crusted with salt and tiny crystals of it were spread across the line of his jaw, caught in stubble and the sand-scoured roughness of his skin. "Bobby said we had to bury you, and I wouldn't let him. You weren't gone until I said you were gone."
"I'm not gone," Sam reminded him. "You brought me back."
And buried yourself.
He didn't say the words, but Dean seemed to hear them anyway. He turned his head to look at Sam, and he was smiling.
"You're such an idiot," he said, and then he looked up at the darkening sky and laughed like Sam hadn't heard him laugh since they were kids: free and delighted and alive.
"You don't get it - I know you don't," he said, and there was a kind of fierce joy in his face that Sam had never seen, ever. Not when the demon had died or when the Impala had opened up on the highway for the first time after the crash or when Sam had first kissed him with intent, back in some seedy motel room with butterfly-patterned wallpaper and a smell like expensive cheese.
"It's okay," Dean told him. "It's all I ever wanted."
To save you.
Again, unsaid and heard anyway.
"Besides," Dean continued, nudging Sam's shoulder with his own, bare and winter-pale and freckled and strong. "It'll work out. You'll fix this."
Sam stared at him, his vision blurring with anger and fear and stinging brine. "How do you know that?" he demanded hoarsely. "How do you know I can save you?"
Dean just looked at him, and his eyes were bright with faith and happiness and love. "Because you're Sam," he said, and it was enough.
Sam flopped down onto his back in the sand and laughed helplessly, feeling Dean still smiling down at him. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cold, clean air, and looked up at the sky.
The darker it got, the more he could see the stars.
Author: lemmealone
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: G
Wordcount: 832
Genre: SHMOOP, baby.
Spoilers: To the end of season 2
Notes: For prompt 'Atlantic Ocean', beta read by queencria and elucreh.
Summary: Sam and Dean and waves and sand and stars.
Seaward
No matter the season, Dean was always winter-pale; Sam was both endlessly amused and utterly merciless. After the third time Dean was forced to flee the sun rather than wear the enormous floppy hat his brother had smirkingly bought for him, he restricted his beach-going to the evenings.
Sam found him there once the light started drifting down, sitting barefoot in the sand and watching tiny waves flirt back and forth across the shoreline. The frayed ends of his jeans were soaked and heavy-looking and his hair was damp as well; stiff and spiky with salt water and sand.
Sam sat down beside him without a word, following his gaze out to sea. In the periphery of his vision he watched Dean turn a shell across the backs of his fingers, like a poker chip or a bullet.
"Been building sandcastles?” Sam asked finally, watching Dean's shoulders twitch with amused indignation.
"Nah." He flicked the shell out into the waves and wiped his sandy hands on his knees. "Buried a couple of kids, but they got away before the tide started coming in."
Sam felt his face stretch in a grin; he could picture Dean doing it, and he could picture kids letting him, screaming in delight and trusting his brother absolutely the way kids always did.
"I buried you once," Dean told him, a reminiscent fondness in his voice. "You were about six - Dad was chasing a kelpie and he let us play on the beach while he was busy." He frowned, poking in annoyance at the lingering sunburn on his nose. "I never burned back then."
"Freckled, though," Sam reminded him, helpfully.
"Shut up," Dean shot back, and dug his toes contentedly into the wet sand, dislodging shells and seaweed and one tiny, disgruntled crab.
They sat in silence for a while and listened to the sea.
"Bobby wanted to bury you," Dean said suddenly. His voice sounded weird; full of sea air and far away.
Sam cleared his throat. "When I was dead?" he asked carefully. They had taken this break to decompress and get their feet back under them, but so far neither of them had tried to talk about what had happened.
He found himself almost scared to, now, exposed here with nothing but the shifting sand behind them and the sea stretched out before them, but Dean was still and solid beside him, anchoring them both.
"When you were dead," Dean repeated. He didn't take his gaze away from the horizon; his eyelashes were crusted with salt and tiny crystals of it were spread across the line of his jaw, caught in stubble and the sand-scoured roughness of his skin. "Bobby said we had to bury you, and I wouldn't let him. You weren't gone until I said you were gone."
"I'm not gone," Sam reminded him. "You brought me back."
And buried yourself.
He didn't say the words, but Dean seemed to hear them anyway. He turned his head to look at Sam, and he was smiling.
"You're such an idiot," he said, and then he looked up at the darkening sky and laughed like Sam hadn't heard him laugh since they were kids: free and delighted and alive.
"You don't get it - I know you don't," he said, and there was a kind of fierce joy in his face that Sam had never seen, ever. Not when the demon had died or when the Impala had opened up on the highway for the first time after the crash or when Sam had first kissed him with intent, back in some seedy motel room with butterfly-patterned wallpaper and a smell like expensive cheese.
"It's okay," Dean told him. "It's all I ever wanted."
To save you.
Again, unsaid and heard anyway.
"Besides," Dean continued, nudging Sam's shoulder with his own, bare and winter-pale and freckled and strong. "It'll work out. You'll fix this."
Sam stared at him, his vision blurring with anger and fear and stinging brine. "How do you know that?" he demanded hoarsely. "How do you know I can save you?"
Dean just looked at him, and his eyes were bright with faith and happiness and love. "Because you're Sam," he said, and it was enough.
Sam flopped down onto his back in the sand and laughed helplessly, feeling Dean still smiling down at him. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cold, clean air, and looked up at the sky.
The darker it got, the more he could see the stars.