SPN fic 'Sanguine 1/1 - recs and various...
*waves*
Hallo, flist. Man, oh man. Struck low! I got some sort of...something. Dunno. Sore throat, cough, lungs like ancient, crackling bellows. Sheesh. Easing off now, thank gods. I almost never get that kind of 'winter cold' kind of thing - what a pain!
And my gods, you people - so much *stuff*! I still have way too many bookmarks.
It's flurrying outside, hissing down into the heaps of broken limbs and mess still left by the Ice!Storm! What fun it'll be to cut our lawn this spring!
Wanted to rec a couple things. The first is an SPN trio of stories, and i must say - just lovely. Gorgeous prose, emotional without being over the top *or* ooc. The kind of stuff that makes you grin like a fool and sniffle, too. Three parts, by hansbekhart: The Miner's Lamp, Ruddy with the Light and I See You Better in the Dark. Worth the read, people.
Now, you all know sweptawaybayou. She doesn't write long, tangled, chaptered fics. She writes *slices*. Moments. Little bits of lives that we might never see, otherwise. Moments of introspection, of despair, of joy and sorrow and loss. And lust. Oh, yis. :) This particular bit of life - this moment of 'after' - is just...sublime. It hurts - it's beautiful. It made me cry. So go and read. Pardon of the Soul.
And then, i'm posting the bit of SPN fic here in my journal. Mostly 'cause i'm twitchy that way, but omg - it literally took me fifteen or more mintues to find it over at supernaturalfic! I almost lost it! Heh. So, better that it goes here where i can keep an eye on it.
*cough*
*yis, i'm weird*
It was like that time in Tennessee when Sam was ten and the motel they were staying at didn't have a kitchenette. So Dean was making grilled cheese sandwiches with the clothes iron. The first one was soggy 'cause Dean'd forgotten to turn the steam function off, but Sam ate it anyway.
The crappy TV only got five channels so it was a toss-up between reruns of Beverly Hills 90210 or The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Dean thought Hillary was hotter than any of the 90210 chicks, so it was Will Smith all afternoon. Sam giggled at the corny jokes - ate another grilled cheese and watched Dean fussily iron the next one, making sure he got the corners good and toasted.
*Dean knows how to do everything,* Sam had thought, and at that moment it was true.
Or it was like that time in Arizona. Little town called Morenci, where the hills were stripped back in layers, mined to their bones for copper. Sam was sixteen and he got hurt - got jumped - by a bunch of kids. Immigrants' sons pretending they were a gang, gunning for the skinny white gringo who spent too much time alone.
Broken hand, broken ribs, two shallow knife-cuts across his back that made sleeping impossible. Loose tooth and a broken cheekbone. Sense of stifled shame because Sam knew how to fight, but there had been five of them, and the broken cheekbone had come by way of a stone thrown with deadly accuracy, taking him by complete surprise. The doctor gave him codeine and Sam ended up stealing half the doc's prescription pad and forging three extra refills because that stuff... That stuff made the ugly little mining town and the run-down shotgun house and the obituaries and horror stories pinned all over the walls just...go away.
Sam was liking that a lot until the day Dean figured it out. Found the pills and flushed them and locked them both up in that crappy house with ten gallons of water, three loaves of bread and a big green can of government peanut butter from the commodities line down near the reservation. Sam doesn't remember where Dad was, only that he never found out.
Withdrawal didn't kick in for almost a day and then Sam spent what felt like forever throwing up. Shaking and fevered and dizzy and so mad at Dean he actually attacked him. Dean just knocked him down and rolled him up in a sheet - held him so tight Sam thought he might suffocate.
When he was finally clean of it he was thinner, paler and weak as a kitten. Ashamed of himself and horrified at the marks of his knuckles on Dean's face. Dean just sat down on the floor with him and slung an arm around Sam's shoulders - pulled him in close, smell of sweat and dust and peanut butter. Held him in silence, twilight coming through the windows. All the shadows like blue and purple velvet, the sky through the uncurtained windows like old, sand-etched glass. Dean's arm warm and heavy - solid anchor that Sam willingly roped himself to.
*Dean will always be able to fix me,* Sam thought, never imagining a time when he might be beyond fixing of any kind.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was like that time in Oregon. Two months after Jess and Sam was just...hanging on. Twenty-two going on eighty and barely making it most days. Some days not at all. Dreams that morphed into nightmares and nightmares that followed him into the daylight and he just...couldn't. Couldn't let go, couldn't stop remembering, couldn't stop blaming himself.
So while Dean was hustling a game or three of pool, getting cash for supplies and rooms and diner food, Sam was drinking. Bourbon on the rocks, because wouldn't that piss Dean off? Halfway watching some football game and making snide remarks when the favored team screwed up. Ignoring the muttering and the sideways looks when he got a little loud - got a little obnoxious.
Couldn't ignore the hand on his shoulder, though, or the two guys standing there, murder in their eyes. Sam kinda remembered saying something crude to the bartender, who looked like somebody's mom. Hell, maybe she was their mom, but right then, Sam didn't give a fuck. He said so, too.
They did, though, and a minute or so later Sam was reeling back, dazed, into grasping, pushing hands and he barely managed to duck the fist that would have broken his nose. Didn't duck the one that split his lip or knocked the air out of him, or the knee that drove up into his ribs, sharp stab of pain that brought him to his knees.
Then the looming shadows of the men were breaking up - moving back - and Dean was there. Pushing and shoving and cussing - getting a shoulder under Sam's arm and hoisting him up. Dragging him out into the cold, wet air.
And Sam just lost it. Again. Shoved Dean away and then shoved harder when Dean wouldn't let go. Balled up his fists and just - went for it. He felt his knuckles connect. One, two - almost three but then Dean hit him back. Hit him right where it counted, point of his chin, and Sam was on the ground. Wet soaking into the ass of his jeans, legs splayed out. Head ringing and hands hurting and blood in his mouth.
After a minute Dean crouched down next to him - wrapped his hand around the back of Sam's neck and tilted his face up, turning it this way and that in the sodium-white of the streetlight. Blood on Dean's mouth and a raw looking spot on his cheekbone and Sam....
Couldn't. He didn't even know he was crying until the scalding tears hit the scrapes on his face and stung and then he was doubling over, sobbing so hard it hurt. So hard he was all but gagging, gasping for air and holding his bruised ribs. He felt Dean sit down beside him - felt Dean's arms come around him, tucking him close and holding on tight. Making little shushing noises like Sam was a baby or a hurt animal and Sam twisted his fists in the back of Dean's shirt and shoved his face deeper into the tear-wet heat of Dean's neck and let it happen.
Later - fifteen minutes, maybe - Sam was cried out. Wrung out and aching, jeans clinging wetly to the backs of his thighs and his nose stopped up - his throat raw. Dean pushed his hand back through Sam's hair and got them both up and walking and Sam leaned into him, dizzy. Feeling light - so light. Like a breeze could lift him and waft him away.
*Dean will always...always be there...* Sam thought, and for the first time in a long time, that felt like solid bedrock under his feet instead of a millstone around his neck.
Sam waited, blood in his mouth and a broken bone in his leg like a knife. Cold and dirty and his hands numb from the rope. Watching the others, the ones that had broken and the ones that were breaking. Making himself smaller and smaller; so small he almost wasn't there. Little shadow-shape, slipping down and down - fish diving for the very bottom of the pitch-black sea. Last-ditch effort, last trick he had. Last hope but one of escaping the demon that grinned across at him, long fingers stained with Sam's blood.
Waiting for Dean. Holding out, for Dean. Because Dean... *Dean knows...everything, and he can fix this. Fix me...fix this mess I made. Dean...will always be there...always...* The distant crack crack crack of gunfire was like a benediction and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath and gathered up all the fraying, fading remnants of his strength. *Time to go home.*
Hallo, flist. Man, oh man. Struck low! I got some sort of...something. Dunno. Sore throat, cough, lungs like ancient, crackling bellows. Sheesh. Easing off now, thank gods. I almost never get that kind of 'winter cold' kind of thing - what a pain!
And my gods, you people - so much *stuff*! I still have way too many bookmarks.
It's flurrying outside, hissing down into the heaps of broken limbs and mess still left by the Ice!Storm! What fun it'll be to cut our lawn this spring!
Wanted to rec a couple things. The first is an SPN trio of stories, and i must say - just lovely. Gorgeous prose, emotional without being over the top *or* ooc. The kind of stuff that makes you grin like a fool and sniffle, too. Three parts, by hansbekhart: The Miner's Lamp, Ruddy with the Light and I See You Better in the Dark. Worth the read, people.
Now, you all know sweptawaybayou. She doesn't write long, tangled, chaptered fics. She writes *slices*. Moments. Little bits of lives that we might never see, otherwise. Moments of introspection, of despair, of joy and sorrow and loss. And lust. Oh, yis. :) This particular bit of life - this moment of 'after' - is just...sublime. It hurts - it's beautiful. It made me cry. So go and read. Pardon of the Soul.
And then, i'm posting the bit of SPN fic here in my journal. Mostly 'cause i'm twitchy that way, but omg - it literally took me fifteen or more mintues to find it over at supernaturalfic! I almost lost it! Heh. So, better that it goes here where i can keep an eye on it.
*cough*
*yis, i'm weird*
It was like that time in Tennessee when Sam was ten and the motel they were staying at didn't have a kitchenette. So Dean was making grilled cheese sandwiches with the clothes iron. The first one was soggy 'cause Dean'd forgotten to turn the steam function off, but Sam ate it anyway.
The crappy TV only got five channels so it was a toss-up between reruns of Beverly Hills 90210 or The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Dean thought Hillary was hotter than any of the 90210 chicks, so it was Will Smith all afternoon. Sam giggled at the corny jokes - ate another grilled cheese and watched Dean fussily iron the next one, making sure he got the corners good and toasted.
*Dean knows how to do everything,* Sam had thought, and at that moment it was true.
Or it was like that time in Arizona. Little town called Morenci, where the hills were stripped back in layers, mined to their bones for copper. Sam was sixteen and he got hurt - got jumped - by a bunch of kids. Immigrants' sons pretending they were a gang, gunning for the skinny white gringo who spent too much time alone.
Broken hand, broken ribs, two shallow knife-cuts across his back that made sleeping impossible. Loose tooth and a broken cheekbone. Sense of stifled shame because Sam knew how to fight, but there had been five of them, and the broken cheekbone had come by way of a stone thrown with deadly accuracy, taking him by complete surprise. The doctor gave him codeine and Sam ended up stealing half the doc's prescription pad and forging three extra refills because that stuff... That stuff made the ugly little mining town and the run-down shotgun house and the obituaries and horror stories pinned all over the walls just...go away.
Sam was liking that a lot until the day Dean figured it out. Found the pills and flushed them and locked them both up in that crappy house with ten gallons of water, three loaves of bread and a big green can of government peanut butter from the commodities line down near the reservation. Sam doesn't remember where Dad was, only that he never found out.
Withdrawal didn't kick in for almost a day and then Sam spent what felt like forever throwing up. Shaking and fevered and dizzy and so mad at Dean he actually attacked him. Dean just knocked him down and rolled him up in a sheet - held him so tight Sam thought he might suffocate.
When he was finally clean of it he was thinner, paler and weak as a kitten. Ashamed of himself and horrified at the marks of his knuckles on Dean's face. Dean just sat down on the floor with him and slung an arm around Sam's shoulders - pulled him in close, smell of sweat and dust and peanut butter. Held him in silence, twilight coming through the windows. All the shadows like blue and purple velvet, the sky through the uncurtained windows like old, sand-etched glass. Dean's arm warm and heavy - solid anchor that Sam willingly roped himself to.
*Dean will always be able to fix me,* Sam thought, never imagining a time when he might be beyond fixing of any kind.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was like that time in Oregon. Two months after Jess and Sam was just...hanging on. Twenty-two going on eighty and barely making it most days. Some days not at all. Dreams that morphed into nightmares and nightmares that followed him into the daylight and he just...couldn't. Couldn't let go, couldn't stop remembering, couldn't stop blaming himself.
So while Dean was hustling a game or three of pool, getting cash for supplies and rooms and diner food, Sam was drinking. Bourbon on the rocks, because wouldn't that piss Dean off? Halfway watching some football game and making snide remarks when the favored team screwed up. Ignoring the muttering and the sideways looks when he got a little loud - got a little obnoxious.
Couldn't ignore the hand on his shoulder, though, or the two guys standing there, murder in their eyes. Sam kinda remembered saying something crude to the bartender, who looked like somebody's mom. Hell, maybe she was their mom, but right then, Sam didn't give a fuck. He said so, too.
They did, though, and a minute or so later Sam was reeling back, dazed, into grasping, pushing hands and he barely managed to duck the fist that would have broken his nose. Didn't duck the one that split his lip or knocked the air out of him, or the knee that drove up into his ribs, sharp stab of pain that brought him to his knees.
Then the looming shadows of the men were breaking up - moving back - and Dean was there. Pushing and shoving and cussing - getting a shoulder under Sam's arm and hoisting him up. Dragging him out into the cold, wet air.
And Sam just lost it. Again. Shoved Dean away and then shoved harder when Dean wouldn't let go. Balled up his fists and just - went for it. He felt his knuckles connect. One, two - almost three but then Dean hit him back. Hit him right where it counted, point of his chin, and Sam was on the ground. Wet soaking into the ass of his jeans, legs splayed out. Head ringing and hands hurting and blood in his mouth.
After a minute Dean crouched down next to him - wrapped his hand around the back of Sam's neck and tilted his face up, turning it this way and that in the sodium-white of the streetlight. Blood on Dean's mouth and a raw looking spot on his cheekbone and Sam....
Couldn't. He didn't even know he was crying until the scalding tears hit the scrapes on his face and stung and then he was doubling over, sobbing so hard it hurt. So hard he was all but gagging, gasping for air and holding his bruised ribs. He felt Dean sit down beside him - felt Dean's arms come around him, tucking him close and holding on tight. Making little shushing noises like Sam was a baby or a hurt animal and Sam twisted his fists in the back of Dean's shirt and shoved his face deeper into the tear-wet heat of Dean's neck and let it happen.
Later - fifteen minutes, maybe - Sam was cried out. Wrung out and aching, jeans clinging wetly to the backs of his thighs and his nose stopped up - his throat raw. Dean pushed his hand back through Sam's hair and got them both up and walking and Sam leaned into him, dizzy. Feeling light - so light. Like a breeze could lift him and waft him away.
*Dean will always...always be there...* Sam thought, and for the first time in a long time, that felt like solid bedrock under his feet instead of a millstone around his neck.
Sam waited, blood in his mouth and a broken bone in his leg like a knife. Cold and dirty and his hands numb from the rope. Watching the others, the ones that had broken and the ones that were breaking. Making himself smaller and smaller; so small he almost wasn't there. Little shadow-shape, slipping down and down - fish diving for the very bottom of the pitch-black sea. Last-ditch effort, last trick he had. Last hope but one of escaping the demon that grinned across at him, long fingers stained with Sam's blood.
Waiting for Dean. Holding out, for Dean. Because Dean... *Dean knows...everything, and he can fix this. Fix me...fix this mess I made. Dean...will always be there...always...* The distant crack crack crack of gunfire was like a benediction and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath and gathered up all the fraying, fading remnants of his strength. *Time to go home.*