original by marishna
Remix Title: Can't Get This Pressure Point Out Of My Head
Remix Author: lissa_bear
Original Story: Like You Never Have Known
Original Author: marishna
Rating: R
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: He combs through Dad's journal and Bobby's books, marks time backwards in how much they don't have, hyper aware of start and finish, but unable to differentiate one day from another-like it even makes a difference.
Warnings: Takes place after AHBL2. Contains references to events in the ep.
It's like water pressure. Trying not to think about it is diving too deep without an equalizer.
Dean drives, but the road is a blur of asphalt and yellow paint. His lungs contract and when Sam's hand settles on his shoulder, it's like squeeze damage.
They pull off at a rest stop and push their way into the men's room. It's dirty and dim-the incandescent bulb above the sink tinged orange and flickering without rhythm. Dean pushes Sam against the wall, face first, and drops to his knees. He works Sam's shirt up, presses his lips into marred flesh at the middle of his back. It's ascension and it's too quick, but Dean doesn't care, just whispers worth it along Sam's spine, too low for him to hear.
He turns Sam around and swallows him down, pulling little noises from the back of his throat and his fingers in Dean's hair ease him through the bends.
At the surface, he starts counting-tiny sixty-second validations, each minute another minute away from any kind of death that matters.
---
Sam counts, too, like it's all there is, and every day is a step in the wrong direction, like a time bomb ticking down until the world blows apart.
He combs through Dad's journal and Bobby's books, marks time backwards in how much they don't have, hyper aware of start and finish, but unable to differentiate one day from another-like it even makes a difference. Twenty-four hours is twenty-four hours, just the same on Wednesday as it is on Friday. Not enough time.
---
Three months in and Sam hardly speaks. His shoulders slump and he looks too small, spends all his time buried in research, asks to go to Bobby's every chance they get.
Dean overcompensates, talks too much, tries to pull Sam out of find a way and into living, being, let it come.
They live for different things, even though they live for each other.
--
Dean sits on the floor, his back against the bed frame. They've been at Bobby's for two weeks this round and he's been antsy since day one.
Sam's at a scarred wood desk, compiling notes with a wild intensity and it's like watching heat lightning. The storm is visible, but Dean can't hear the thunder, can't hear the crack.
He watches and waits, sharpens a knife to busy his hands, and Sam's fingers on the keyboard keep time like a metronome--staccato beats that drive Dean crazy. The blade on whetstone drowns them out for a while, but Dean's fingers itch and the blade slips, makes him curse a blue streak.
Sam doesn't notice.
Dean gets up, paces the room. He's buzzing to do, to be while he still can, but they're stuck in a rut and Sam won't budge, just marches in place out of Dean's reach.
---
"How much time do we have?" Dean asks, stopping to stand behind Sam's chair, reaching out, touching, willing Sam to touch back.
Sam makes a typing mistake and Dean feels his body tense beneath his hand, sees him clench his jaw like he thinks the error is going to cost him something-like there's not enough time to hit the backspace.
"Two hundred and seventy-four days." His eyes never leave the computer screen.
Dean lets his hand fall away, huffs out a breath. "I meant until Bobby and Ellen get back."
"They left?" Sam asks, not bothering to sound like he cares and Dean wants to grab him, shake him, scream Look at me! Be with me! You're wasting time!"
But he doesn't scream. "Let's take a break, huh?" he asks, easy, like nothing's wrong, like normal lately.
Sam abandons the computer, but doesn't look back, flips through handwritten pages in a spiral notebook, worn and tattered even though it's nearly brand new. "Why?" he asks, like Dean's just suggested they hop off a bridge.
"Because we're alone, the two of us. Nowhere to be, no one to save."
"No one but you."
Dean reaches forward, pulls the notebook from Sam's fingers. "Give it a rest, Sammy. At least for a little while."
"Fuck, Dean..."
"My thoughts exactly."
Sam makes a grab for his lifeline, but Dean steps back, out of reach, wants to goad Sam into a reaction, any reaction. It doesn't work. Sam turns around, gives Dean his back and picks up a book, says, "No."
And Dean can't idle any longer.
"Plenty of time to screw around when I'm dead, right?" he grits through his teeth, tosses Sam's notebook and makes sure to step on it on his way to the bathroom.
When he comes out a few minutes later, Sam is sitting on the bed, balling and un-balling his fists in the sheets.
"You don't even give a shit, do you?" he asks, eyes glued to the wall.
"'Course I do," Dean answers, doesn't move closer. He's almost happy for the fight he knows is coming.
Sam gets up, walks to the desk, grips the back of his chair, says, "Coulda fooled me."
"You want me to be sorry?" Dean asks gruffly. "Why don't you get it? My life for yours? Easy trade."
Sam doesn't speak, doesn't look, doesn't acknowledge when Dean grabs his arm. He holds tight to the chair and the legs scrape loudly across the floor when Dean pulls him forward.
"I'm not sorry. Live with it."
"I'm gonna fucking have to," Sam says, and his voice is even, calm, but his knuckles are pulled white around the chair.
Dean waits for it, sees the moment when the lightning breaks the sky and touches ground.
Sam pushes off of the chair with so much force that it topples over, gets right up in Dean's space and yells. "If you die, I'm going to have to live with the fact that it was all because of me. How do you think that's going to make me feel? Like sunshine and roses?"
"Fuck you," Dean yells back. "I know exactly how it's gonna make you feel. Dad did it to me, remember? You'll survive."
"Like you're surviving?"
Dean takes a step forward and Sam shoves him away, keeps shoving until Dean hits a wall and when Dean opens his mouth to say something, Sam cuts him off.
"You can't fucking do this to me," he whispers. "You can't just sit back and wait to die."
"You're not giving me much of a choice." Dean pushes a knee between Sam's legs, pulls him forward by the back of his neck.
Sam tries to pull away when Dean kisses him, but Dean holds on, runs his tongue along Sam's lips until they open for him, waits until Sam's grappling for skin before he loosens his grip.
When he steps back, Sam chases his mouth, digs fingers into his hips.
"I'm here now. Don't make me go it alone."
---
Later, when Sam's spread out on his stomach, Dean lets his hands and eyes roam over exposed skin. His lips trail down Sam's spine, but he stops short of the deep scar at the middle, scrapes teeth down Sam's rib cage and moves on, doesn't think about death or devastation, crossroads or sacrifice.
It's like water pressure. Diving too deep, oxygen's not enough, but it's dark down here under the waves and Dean likes it better than up above.
Time stands still, if only for a little while. No one's counting. It's what Dean lives for.
And so they sink-down, down, down.
Remix Author: lissa_bear
Original Story: Like You Never Have Known
Original Author: marishna
Rating: R
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: He combs through Dad's journal and Bobby's books, marks time backwards in how much they don't have, hyper aware of start and finish, but unable to differentiate one day from another-like it even makes a difference.
Warnings: Takes place after AHBL2. Contains references to events in the ep.
It's like water pressure. Trying not to think about it is diving too deep without an equalizer.
Dean drives, but the road is a blur of asphalt and yellow paint. His lungs contract and when Sam's hand settles on his shoulder, it's like squeeze damage.
They pull off at a rest stop and push their way into the men's room. It's dirty and dim-the incandescent bulb above the sink tinged orange and flickering without rhythm. Dean pushes Sam against the wall, face first, and drops to his knees. He works Sam's shirt up, presses his lips into marred flesh at the middle of his back. It's ascension and it's too quick, but Dean doesn't care, just whispers worth it along Sam's spine, too low for him to hear.
He turns Sam around and swallows him down, pulling little noises from the back of his throat and his fingers in Dean's hair ease him through the bends.
At the surface, he starts counting-tiny sixty-second validations, each minute another minute away from any kind of death that matters.
---
Sam counts, too, like it's all there is, and every day is a step in the wrong direction, like a time bomb ticking down until the world blows apart.
He combs through Dad's journal and Bobby's books, marks time backwards in how much they don't have, hyper aware of start and finish, but unable to differentiate one day from another-like it even makes a difference. Twenty-four hours is twenty-four hours, just the same on Wednesday as it is on Friday. Not enough time.
---
Three months in and Sam hardly speaks. His shoulders slump and he looks too small, spends all his time buried in research, asks to go to Bobby's every chance they get.
Dean overcompensates, talks too much, tries to pull Sam out of find a way and into living, being, let it come.
They live for different things, even though they live for each other.
--
Dean sits on the floor, his back against the bed frame. They've been at Bobby's for two weeks this round and he's been antsy since day one.
Sam's at a scarred wood desk, compiling notes with a wild intensity and it's like watching heat lightning. The storm is visible, but Dean can't hear the thunder, can't hear the crack.
He watches and waits, sharpens a knife to busy his hands, and Sam's fingers on the keyboard keep time like a metronome--staccato beats that drive Dean crazy. The blade on whetstone drowns them out for a while, but Dean's fingers itch and the blade slips, makes him curse a blue streak.
Sam doesn't notice.
Dean gets up, paces the room. He's buzzing to do, to be while he still can, but they're stuck in a rut and Sam won't budge, just marches in place out of Dean's reach.
---
"How much time do we have?" Dean asks, stopping to stand behind Sam's chair, reaching out, touching, willing Sam to touch back.
Sam makes a typing mistake and Dean feels his body tense beneath his hand, sees him clench his jaw like he thinks the error is going to cost him something-like there's not enough time to hit the backspace.
"Two hundred and seventy-four days." His eyes never leave the computer screen.
Dean lets his hand fall away, huffs out a breath. "I meant until Bobby and Ellen get back."
"They left?" Sam asks, not bothering to sound like he cares and Dean wants to grab him, shake him, scream Look at me! Be with me! You're wasting time!"
But he doesn't scream. "Let's take a break, huh?" he asks, easy, like nothing's wrong, like normal lately.
Sam abandons the computer, but doesn't look back, flips through handwritten pages in a spiral notebook, worn and tattered even though it's nearly brand new. "Why?" he asks, like Dean's just suggested they hop off a bridge.
"Because we're alone, the two of us. Nowhere to be, no one to save."
"No one but you."
Dean reaches forward, pulls the notebook from Sam's fingers. "Give it a rest, Sammy. At least for a little while."
"Fuck, Dean..."
"My thoughts exactly."
Sam makes a grab for his lifeline, but Dean steps back, out of reach, wants to goad Sam into a reaction, any reaction. It doesn't work. Sam turns around, gives Dean his back and picks up a book, says, "No."
And Dean can't idle any longer.
"Plenty of time to screw around when I'm dead, right?" he grits through his teeth, tosses Sam's notebook and makes sure to step on it on his way to the bathroom.
When he comes out a few minutes later, Sam is sitting on the bed, balling and un-balling his fists in the sheets.
"You don't even give a shit, do you?" he asks, eyes glued to the wall.
"'Course I do," Dean answers, doesn't move closer. He's almost happy for the fight he knows is coming.
Sam gets up, walks to the desk, grips the back of his chair, says, "Coulda fooled me."
"You want me to be sorry?" Dean asks gruffly. "Why don't you get it? My life for yours? Easy trade."
Sam doesn't speak, doesn't look, doesn't acknowledge when Dean grabs his arm. He holds tight to the chair and the legs scrape loudly across the floor when Dean pulls him forward.
"I'm not sorry. Live with it."
"I'm gonna fucking have to," Sam says, and his voice is even, calm, but his knuckles are pulled white around the chair.
Dean waits for it, sees the moment when the lightning breaks the sky and touches ground.
Sam pushes off of the chair with so much force that it topples over, gets right up in Dean's space and yells. "If you die, I'm going to have to live with the fact that it was all because of me. How do you think that's going to make me feel? Like sunshine and roses?"
"Fuck you," Dean yells back. "I know exactly how it's gonna make you feel. Dad did it to me, remember? You'll survive."
"Like you're surviving?"
Dean takes a step forward and Sam shoves him away, keeps shoving until Dean hits a wall and when Dean opens his mouth to say something, Sam cuts him off.
"You can't fucking do this to me," he whispers. "You can't just sit back and wait to die."
"You're not giving me much of a choice." Dean pushes a knee between Sam's legs, pulls him forward by the back of his neck.
Sam tries to pull away when Dean kisses him, but Dean holds on, runs his tongue along Sam's lips until they open for him, waits until Sam's grappling for skin before he loosens his grip.
When he steps back, Sam chases his mouth, digs fingers into his hips.
"I'm here now. Don't make me go it alone."
---
Later, when Sam's spread out on his stomach, Dean lets his hands and eyes roam over exposed skin. His lips trail down Sam's spine, but he stops short of the deep scar at the middle, scrapes teeth down Sam's rib cage and moves on, doesn't think about death or devastation, crossroads or sacrifice.
It's like water pressure. Diving too deep, oxygen's not enough, but it's dark down here under the waves and Dean likes it better than up above.
Time stands still, if only for a little while. No one's counting. It's what Dean lives for.
And so they sink-down, down, down.