Fic: Pieces (Sam/Dean)
Title: Pieces.
Verse: SPN.
Rating: PG-13.
Characters: Sam, Dean; super-brief mention of Bobby.
Warnings/Enticements: Preslash. Language. Ish.
Summary: A different take on 4x01.
Wordcount: 776.
Disclaimer: Believe me, I'm lying. The boys belong to Kripke. And Gamble. Kind of.
Author's Note: This is over 2 years old, and the only even vaguely wincest-y thing I have written so far. Title stolen from RED. Enjoy.
He can feel it coming. It's in the way Sam wouldn't look at him more than direly necessary while Bobby was around, the way that he's a ball of coiled tension now-Sam's so tense that it shows even in the little amount of movement that it takes him to close the door behind their departed friend. It's in the way that Sam still won't look at Dean, hasn't yet turned away from the door just for the sake of momentarily putting off doing so.
Maybe it's because Dean's gaze hasn't lifted from him since he walked in the door.
Deciding to give him a sort of reprieve, Dean tears his gaze away from his little brother's form, taking in the environment Sam's been settled in for-however long he's been here. Dean doesn't even know. Hopefully it hasn't been a ton of time; the place is a mess. Newspaper clippings and other miscellaneous papers are scattered throughout a living area consisting of little else other than an unmade bed, a sprinkling of furniture here and there, and empty food cartons. This room has absolutely nothing to suggest his level-headed clean-freak of a brother has been living in it.
Dean's just now coming out of the tunnel vision he'd been in ever since finding out where the last of his blood had ben hiding. It's a wonder he had even managed driving, in spite of how well he handles his baby: all he could think-all he could see-had been Sam and God, four months, and what did you do, little brother?
Sam's break is over. As Dean finally allows his gaze to go back to where it belongs, he feels the weight of another pair of eyes bearing down heavily upon him. His brother has turned around, and is looking at him with more sorrow than should be allowed in a man of only 25 years.
"Dude, you brood anymore and you might start thinkin' out loud," Dean barks. "Then we're really screwed."
The snark escapes him purely out of reflex, but it beats a lot of the other things that he could have blurted out. Like how the way Sam is looking at him is making him feel like falling into a thousand pieces.
"Dean." Sam's voice is strangled, and it's then that Dean sees the tears, wonders how long they've been there, how he didn't see them before. "Dean. I-"
It's then that Dean suddenly realizes something else: that no matter how much he may feel like breaking, Sam's already shattered. The lump in his own throat is suddenly impossible to ignore, but he tries to swallow it down anyway.
"Sammy-" He cuts himself off. He doesn't know what to say. But that fucking look is unbearable, so vulnerable and wrong on his brother's face, and before he knows it he's across the room, pulling Sam into his arms tighter than he had when he first saw him, if that's even possible.
Sam buries his face in Dean's neck, grip just as strong. Dean is still wrestling with tears, and his throat feels like it's millimeters from closing forever, but he manages to hold down the wave of emotion. But then he becomes aware of the dampness on his neck, hears Sam's breath hitch, just once, and he feels a part of himself die all over again.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," comes his ghost of a whisper, and forget strangled-this voice doesn't even sound like his own. "I'm so sorry."
After a moment, Sam retreats and pulls himself to his full height. He looks down at Dean until it appears he can no longer handle what he sees, and then drops his gaze to rest around Dean's collar.
Dean needs words for this, a way to convey some sort of solace to Sam-that and ease the feeling that's gnawing at himself. But he's got nothing, and so he just does the best he can, raising a hand to cup Sam's cheek and wipe away his tears. Every brush of his thumb is another I'm sorry and I'm not leaving you again and please don't cry. And when he raises his other hand to Sam's face and Sam takes a step closer, next to no space between them as he finally meets Dean's eyes again, their proximity isn't why Dean drops his hands (lets go of the only thing that matters anymore, the only thing that has for a while). It doesn't occur to him that lines could be being crossed, that this may be too much.
He's suddenly realizing that none of this is enough.
Verse: SPN.
Rating: PG-13.
Characters: Sam, Dean; super-brief mention of Bobby.
Warnings/Enticements: Preslash. Language. Ish.
Summary: A different take on 4x01.
Wordcount: 776.
Disclaimer: Believe me, I'm lying. The boys belong to Kripke. And Gamble. Kind of.
Author's Note: This is over 2 years old, and the only even vaguely wincest-y thing I have written so far. Title stolen from RED. Enjoy.
He can feel it coming. It's in the way Sam wouldn't look at him more than direly necessary while Bobby was around, the way that he's a ball of coiled tension now-Sam's so tense that it shows even in the little amount of movement that it takes him to close the door behind their departed friend. It's in the way that Sam still won't look at Dean, hasn't yet turned away from the door just for the sake of momentarily putting off doing so.
Maybe it's because Dean's gaze hasn't lifted from him since he walked in the door.
Deciding to give him a sort of reprieve, Dean tears his gaze away from his little brother's form, taking in the environment Sam's been settled in for-however long he's been here. Dean doesn't even know. Hopefully it hasn't been a ton of time; the place is a mess. Newspaper clippings and other miscellaneous papers are scattered throughout a living area consisting of little else other than an unmade bed, a sprinkling of furniture here and there, and empty food cartons. This room has absolutely nothing to suggest his level-headed clean-freak of a brother has been living in it.
Dean's just now coming out of the tunnel vision he'd been in ever since finding out where the last of his blood had ben hiding. It's a wonder he had even managed driving, in spite of how well he handles his baby: all he could think-all he could see-had been Sam and God, four months, and what did you do, little brother?
Sam's break is over. As Dean finally allows his gaze to go back to where it belongs, he feels the weight of another pair of eyes bearing down heavily upon him. His brother has turned around, and is looking at him with more sorrow than should be allowed in a man of only 25 years.
"Dude, you brood anymore and you might start thinkin' out loud," Dean barks. "Then we're really screwed."
The snark escapes him purely out of reflex, but it beats a lot of the other things that he could have blurted out. Like how the way Sam is looking at him is making him feel like falling into a thousand pieces.
"Dean." Sam's voice is strangled, and it's then that Dean sees the tears, wonders how long they've been there, how he didn't see them before. "Dean. I-"
It's then that Dean suddenly realizes something else: that no matter how much he may feel like breaking, Sam's already shattered. The lump in his own throat is suddenly impossible to ignore, but he tries to swallow it down anyway.
"Sammy-" He cuts himself off. He doesn't know what to say. But that fucking look is unbearable, so vulnerable and wrong on his brother's face, and before he knows it he's across the room, pulling Sam into his arms tighter than he had when he first saw him, if that's even possible.
Sam buries his face in Dean's neck, grip just as strong. Dean is still wrestling with tears, and his throat feels like it's millimeters from closing forever, but he manages to hold down the wave of emotion. But then he becomes aware of the dampness on his neck, hears Sam's breath hitch, just once, and he feels a part of himself die all over again.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," comes his ghost of a whisper, and forget strangled-this voice doesn't even sound like his own. "I'm so sorry."
After a moment, Sam retreats and pulls himself to his full height. He looks down at Dean until it appears he can no longer handle what he sees, and then drops his gaze to rest around Dean's collar.
Dean needs words for this, a way to convey some sort of solace to Sam-that and ease the feeling that's gnawing at himself. But he's got nothing, and so he just does the best he can, raising a hand to cup Sam's cheek and wipe away his tears. Every brush of his thumb is another I'm sorry and I'm not leaving you again and please don't cry. And when he raises his other hand to Sam's face and Sam takes a step closer, next to no space between them as he finally meets Dean's eyes again, their proximity isn't why Dean drops his hands (lets go of the only thing that matters anymore, the only thing that has for a while). It doesn't occur to him that lines could be being crossed, that this may be too much.
He's suddenly realizing that none of this is enough.