Fic: "Vigil" (pre-slash Sam/Dean, PG)
Title: "Vigil"
Author: thehighwaywoman
Pairing: pre-Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,055
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through the end of S2
Feedback: Will earn you cookies. Lots of them. Freshly baked chocolate chip.
Warnings: Angst
Inspired by: dreamlittleyo's awesome art, "Gotta Know How It Feels"
Super-speedy beta by way2busymom; any and all mistakes remaining are my own.
He hasn't slept yet and doesn't think he'll be able to tonight. Maybe not for several nights to come.
Besides, he's just risen from the dead. The thought of sleeping forever kind of makes a guy wary when it comes to willingly surrendering consciousness.
Which brings him right back around to why he's been watching Dean sleep, not even bothering, himself, to get under the scratchy cheap motel blankets. Dean's out cold, so deep it sounds like he's hardly breathing. The non-sound makes Sam twitchy. One year. One fucking year.
He's going to find that crossroads bitch and twist her neck. Chant Latin at her until she gives up the fight.
Yeah. That's gonna happen.
Sam wonders, idly, what the odds are of finding another demon-killing gunsmith. He can just hear what Dean would say to that.
Maybe he should try to get some rest after all.
But no… no, he can't. He can't turn away from the man who sold his soul to save his brother's life, even if he's tempted to shake Dean awake and yell at him until his throat's raw. Tempted. Not committed. He's still seeing Dean's expression when he told Sam not to do that.
It doesn't sit well with Sam, but he'll let it be for now. Just for now.
He doesn't want to understand why someone would do what Dean did, but he knows Dean pretty damn well and it's all too easy to recreate his thought process.
So what do I do with you, man? How do I take care of you? Where do I start?
Sam watches Dean sleep for a few more minutes, feeling an urge build to go and sit by his brother. Put a hand on his chest to feel Dean's heart beating and reassure himself that it's okay, it's still okay, they have a year minus a day left and as long as Dean's alive they have a chance. Where there's life, there's hope, right?
That's what he has to cling to, and Sam inherited his stubbornness from a heavyweight champion of muleheadedness.
Watching Dean breathe, Sam argues the need for touch. Dean would flip, even now. Maybe especially now.
Tough, Sam decides. Dean's going to have to get used to a lot more than this. No way he's letting a single day go by without showing Dean, in at least one small way, that Sam's taking the taking care of his brother seriously.
Sam's on the left of the two double beds in their motel; Dean's on the right. The gap between the two beds is three, maybe four feet wide. He slips off the bed on which he's been lying, not resting, and carefully approaches Dean. His sock feet scuff softly over the worn carpet, and although he sounds painfully loud in his ears he knows it's not enough noise to wake Dean.
He sits on Dean's bed, taking up so much space without thinking that he bumps Dean, hip to hip.
In his sleep, Dean mumbles something that's not exactly words, not happy and not sad.
Sam gazes at his brother, lost for words. Words don't really fit the moment, anyway, so he's not bothered. And because in for a penny and all that crap, he allows his urges to lead him into smoothing his hand down Dean's arm, feeling the strong, steady pulse at his wrist.
He laces his fingers tight in Dean's and squeezes them without stopping for why and should I.
Dean sighs and turns his sleeping head toward Sam. "Don't go 'nowhere," he breathes, though he's still out to the world. "No. Sam. Don't."
I'm right here. Sam presses the pad of his forefinger to Dean's soft lips.
God, he has a pretty mouth.
Sam watches himself, thinking he should be amazed but genuinely isn't. What he's doing just feels natural, running his hand lightly up the part of Dean's solid chest unhidden by the blankets. He took off his shirt before falling into bed, and his bare skin is taut, resilient, marked by battle scars. Dean's a survivor. Dean can do this. He has to believe that.
His thumb brushes Dean's nipple. Dean inhales sharply, his hands twitching.
Sam holds his breath.
Dean settles, frowning. Sam moves carefully until his fingers rest in the tight divot between Dean's sinewy pectoral muscles, feeling for that heartbeat again. The lub-dub, lub-dub calms him at the same time that a small wave of something he can't identify rushes through his own veins.
He's startled when Dean flinches and babbles, broken like Sam's never heard him before: "I told you to quit asking… you don't wanna know… show your face, you bitch… one year…" He stiffens and howls: "No!", a desperate roar of denial that echoes darkly off the shabby walls.
Sam knows, just certain for some reason, that this is what Dean would have screamed while Jake did his nasty knife-work, when Dean couldn't get to him in time and...
Sam's not a crier, not usually, so his eyes stay dry. They stay open, too, as he thumbs the pulse at the base of Dean's throat and leans forward. His focus narrows to Dean's twitching eyelids and unhappy mouth until the mouth is all he sees. When Sam's close enough to breathe Dean's breath, Dean ceases his frantic muttering and falls still.
"Shh." Sam rubs small circles on Dean's chest. "Shh." I've got you. I'm not going anywhere.
And neither are you, he adds as he carefully arranges his bulk so he can lean over Dean on the bed but not smother him. He lowers his head until he's at the right angle and places his lips on Dean's. He doesn't mean for the touch to be a kiss, but it is, and once their mouths have connected, Sam knows he's not letting go. It's weird in so many ways, but it doesn't feel wrong.
He'll worry about figuring out what the hell this is later. Later.
He tastes the flavor of Dean's lips, and he kisses the unhappy thoughts away until Dean subsides with a quiet murmur, slipping back into dreamless peace.
Sam spends the rest of the night there, not moving no matter how much he needs to kiss his brother again. He waits, counting heartbeats and breaths and making promises until the morning breaks.
Author: thehighwaywoman
Pairing: pre-Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,055
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through the end of S2
Feedback: Will earn you cookies. Lots of them. Freshly baked chocolate chip.
Warnings: Angst
Inspired by: dreamlittleyo's awesome art, "Gotta Know How It Feels"
Super-speedy beta by way2busymom; any and all mistakes remaining are my own.
He hasn't slept yet and doesn't think he'll be able to tonight. Maybe not for several nights to come.
Besides, he's just risen from the dead. The thought of sleeping forever kind of makes a guy wary when it comes to willingly surrendering consciousness.
Which brings him right back around to why he's been watching Dean sleep, not even bothering, himself, to get under the scratchy cheap motel blankets. Dean's out cold, so deep it sounds like he's hardly breathing. The non-sound makes Sam twitchy. One year. One fucking year.
He's going to find that crossroads bitch and twist her neck. Chant Latin at her until she gives up the fight.
Yeah. That's gonna happen.
Sam wonders, idly, what the odds are of finding another demon-killing gunsmith. He can just hear what Dean would say to that.
Maybe he should try to get some rest after all.
But no… no, he can't. He can't turn away from the man who sold his soul to save his brother's life, even if he's tempted to shake Dean awake and yell at him until his throat's raw. Tempted. Not committed. He's still seeing Dean's expression when he told Sam not to do that.
It doesn't sit well with Sam, but he'll let it be for now. Just for now.
He doesn't want to understand why someone would do what Dean did, but he knows Dean pretty damn well and it's all too easy to recreate his thought process.
So what do I do with you, man? How do I take care of you? Where do I start?
Sam watches Dean sleep for a few more minutes, feeling an urge build to go and sit by his brother. Put a hand on his chest to feel Dean's heart beating and reassure himself that it's okay, it's still okay, they have a year minus a day left and as long as Dean's alive they have a chance. Where there's life, there's hope, right?
That's what he has to cling to, and Sam inherited his stubbornness from a heavyweight champion of muleheadedness.
Watching Dean breathe, Sam argues the need for touch. Dean would flip, even now. Maybe especially now.
Tough, Sam decides. Dean's going to have to get used to a lot more than this. No way he's letting a single day go by without showing Dean, in at least one small way, that Sam's taking the taking care of his brother seriously.
Sam's on the left of the two double beds in their motel; Dean's on the right. The gap between the two beds is three, maybe four feet wide. He slips off the bed on which he's been lying, not resting, and carefully approaches Dean. His sock feet scuff softly over the worn carpet, and although he sounds painfully loud in his ears he knows it's not enough noise to wake Dean.
He sits on Dean's bed, taking up so much space without thinking that he bumps Dean, hip to hip.
In his sleep, Dean mumbles something that's not exactly words, not happy and not sad.
Sam gazes at his brother, lost for words. Words don't really fit the moment, anyway, so he's not bothered. And because in for a penny and all that crap, he allows his urges to lead him into smoothing his hand down Dean's arm, feeling the strong, steady pulse at his wrist.
He laces his fingers tight in Dean's and squeezes them without stopping for why and should I.
Dean sighs and turns his sleeping head toward Sam. "Don't go 'nowhere," he breathes, though he's still out to the world. "No. Sam. Don't."
I'm right here. Sam presses the pad of his forefinger to Dean's soft lips.
God, he has a pretty mouth.
Sam watches himself, thinking he should be amazed but genuinely isn't. What he's doing just feels natural, running his hand lightly up the part of Dean's solid chest unhidden by the blankets. He took off his shirt before falling into bed, and his bare skin is taut, resilient, marked by battle scars. Dean's a survivor. Dean can do this. He has to believe that.
His thumb brushes Dean's nipple. Dean inhales sharply, his hands twitching.
Sam holds his breath.
Dean settles, frowning. Sam moves carefully until his fingers rest in the tight divot between Dean's sinewy pectoral muscles, feeling for that heartbeat again. The lub-dub, lub-dub calms him at the same time that a small wave of something he can't identify rushes through his own veins.
He's startled when Dean flinches and babbles, broken like Sam's never heard him before: "I told you to quit asking… you don't wanna know… show your face, you bitch… one year…" He stiffens and howls: "No!", a desperate roar of denial that echoes darkly off the shabby walls.
Sam knows, just certain for some reason, that this is what Dean would have screamed while Jake did his nasty knife-work, when Dean couldn't get to him in time and...
Sam's not a crier, not usually, so his eyes stay dry. They stay open, too, as he thumbs the pulse at the base of Dean's throat and leans forward. His focus narrows to Dean's twitching eyelids and unhappy mouth until the mouth is all he sees. When Sam's close enough to breathe Dean's breath, Dean ceases his frantic muttering and falls still.
"Shh." Sam rubs small circles on Dean's chest. "Shh." I've got you. I'm not going anywhere.
And neither are you, he adds as he carefully arranges his bulk so he can lean over Dean on the bed but not smother him. He lowers his head until he's at the right angle and places his lips on Dean's. He doesn't mean for the touch to be a kiss, but it is, and once their mouths have connected, Sam knows he's not letting go. It's weird in so many ways, but it doesn't feel wrong.
He'll worry about figuring out what the hell this is later. Later.
He tastes the flavor of Dean's lips, and he kisses the unhappy thoughts away until Dean subsides with a quiet murmur, slipping back into dreamless peace.
Sam spends the rest of the night there, not moving no matter how much he needs to kiss his brother again. He waits, counting heartbeats and breaths and making promises until the morning breaks.