The final coup de grace
Title: One More Day Up in the Canyon
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating:PG
Summary: Two orphans growing up. Sometimes there's an entire state between them, sometimes it's less. Sam foots the call charges and Dean pays for the gas, and they get by mostly okay. Timestamp of sorts for Mow Them Lawns (it turns me on)
Timestamp #1
Just One More Day up in the Canyon
Dean thinks of train wrecks and mythical creatures rising from the depths of the ocean breathing fire the first time Sam kisses him.
Days, months, years, of this suffocating tension between them, Dean's skin prickling like a fever when he feels the brush of Sam's slanted eyes, scratchy under his collar when Sam stretches and his shirt rides up exposing untouched pale skin.
So yeah. Dean's not stupid. He knows what it means at this point, and is mostly used to the knowledge, usually crammed up in a box and shoved to a corner of his mind where he wouldn't trip over it. He almost makes it sound unremarkable: so he's in love with his kid brother. Big fucking deal.
Here, now, against the fence of some white collar family home far enough off from where Sam's staying not to attract immediate suspicion, Dean Winchester's kissing his brother and all he can think about is the end of the world. If Sam has his way, Armageddon will be an explosion of color and noise, fireworks against the sky and people clapping in wonder just before they died. Dean thinks that that would be a good way to go.
Sam makes a noise in his throat, half-whine, and his hands come up to cup Dean's face. Big hands, grown-up in a way Sam still mostly isn't.
Sam kisses like he does every other thing, single-minded with a determination that borders on desperation. He kisses like this is the only way he can get oxygen in his lungs, by snatching it out of Dean's.
Dean's mostly dazed, mind stuck on a loop that made little to no sense, that bone-deep knowledge of all of Sam's triggers coming into play when he threads his fingers through Sam's hair and Sam makes a high, keening moan that sounds like he's in pain.
Confetti around them, toilet paper hanging off trees and swaying gently in the breeze. Dean had told Sam no, how cliché can you get, toilet paper, Sammy, seriously. But Sam had gotten that stubborn half-pleading, half-challenging look that's fucking lethal as far as Dean's concerned, and that was that.
Sam's got this new coping mechanism, sort of, for being apart now, and the asshole gangster kids in the 'hood are happy to oblige. Sam's got a stack of complaints against him, and is nearly always bandaged when Dean sees him. He always has to force himself not to kick the shit out of Sam all over again for being so fucking stupid, has to make sure the damage isn't too bad before cuffing him upside the head and saying, you've gotta cut this shit out, man, you're smarter than this.
Sam always sneers at him, this bitter cruel twist of his mouth and Dean gets so scared sometimes, looking for signs of his baby brother in this malicious stranger and finding none. It's like Sammy, his Sammy, of the sweet face and dimples and trusting eyes has been replaced by a jaded man with an expression of perpetual fury and hatred. At fifteen, Sam couldn't look further away from the five year-old he'd been, the kid who crawled into Dean's bed at night and asked him about their parents. Dean hadn't been able to tell him much, and had made up some of the details Sam had pressed him for, but it remains one of the best things about his life, the fact that he'd once known a kid like that.
Sam freely admits that Dean is the only good thing in this piss-poor excuse for a life, and whenever he goes on the offensive against Dean, he's got this nervous glimmer in his eyes he's obviously aware of and hates utterly. Dean never quite gives up, which is why when Sam says stupid shit like, come paper towel the neighbors' front yard with me, Dean agrees. Heaven help him, he agrees.
Sam breaks away, breathing like he's run ten miles. He looks unreal like that, tall and beautiful and washed something perfect by the moonlight. It makes Dean's chest ache, and he tries to look away but that's about as effective as trying to look away from a train wreck.
Sam watches him, guarded, as Dean raises a hand to his lips experimentally. His mind's a mess of neon colors and superhero comics, the memory of Sam smiling at him over pancakes and cereal, you're the best big brother in the whole wide world, Dean. The baby brother he's always looked out for, the one who, the first time they got adopted separately, cried and wouldn't eat until they got Dean on the phone.
He has a moment of pure panic, exhilarating adrenaline rush and he's briefly so certain that this is it, this is what fucks Sam up for good. This would mutate the last good thing about him and Dean would have to get in his car and leave town to avoid looking at this brother-stranger. And it would be, undeniably, devastatingly, Dean's own damn fault.
But then, Sam asks, soft like he's scared, soft like he's thinking of running, "Okay?"
Dean looks at him. Sam's got a black eye from the fight he got into at school; his fingers are stained with blue ink. The glittery, razor-sharp look in his eyes has been washed away and smoothed out by the moonlight and he looks like something out of an old story, some spirit that appears only at midnight of a full moon, Romeo at the balcony. His gaze tracks the slump of Sam's shoulders and the hopeful shine of his eyes half-obscured by too-long hair, and thinks, clearly, there you are.
"Okay," he says.
Sam grins so bright it hurts to look at. He lets the roll of toilet paper he's still holding on to fly, and it streaks across the night sky like a path, a sign, and Sam looks at Dean like he's his favorite superhero again.
Dean's kinda overwhelmed. He thinks again, okay, and feels himself begin to believe it.
*
Timestamp #2
Title: Underage Psychopath, Juvenile Delinquent (love of my life)
Sam keeps trailing off mid-sentence, breathless and so excited Dean practically sees the energy running just under his skin. He sorta stops in the middle of his elaborate plans for the future, the ones with sunshine and rainbows and gay pride parades, and just stares at Dean, his eyes shining and so big it's like seeing all the potential for happiness he's talking about right there in his slanted hazel eyes. It makes Dean's mind go to all sorts of strange, uncharted places, wondering vaguely whether if he touches Sam right now, he'd get burned with the fire in his bloodstream.
Sam leans in unconsciously when Dean's fingers graze his forearm, and he doesn't stop talking. Dean watches his own finger go up and down Sam's arm with a sense of muted wonder. He really can feel it, the sparks running under the delicate skin over Sam's wrists.
Without really thinking, he leans down and presses his mouth to the place he's touching, and Sam freezes.
Clean soft taste of Sam, and Dean licks almost hungrily, absorbing. It's something he feels he needs for the road, the knowledge of what the unmarked skin over Sam's veins taste like. He already knows everything that's theoretically the important stuff: the way Sam's breath hitches on every third or fourth breath when he's about to wake up from a dreamless sleep, the way he dunks cookies in milk until they're soggy and gross before eating them, the way he looks when he's about to come with his dick deep, deep inside Dean. Day-to-day stuff that make epic poetry, and Dean just needs to know this one last thing.
"Dean," Sam says, in a choked voice.
Dean looks up, mouth still fastened to Sam's wrist. He smirks when he sees the dark-eyed look in Sam's eyes.
He straightens, leaning into Sam in the same movement. Their foreheads come to rest against each other gently. He thinks about how he's going to have to take off in less than two hours if he's going to make it before the guy he's rooming with locks him out, how it's only marginally better than those years he was still underage and living with resentful foster parents. The only thing that's changed, really, is that now he gets to live closer to where Sam is, pick him up from school occasionally.
He mentally gives a shrug. Sucky roommates and faulty pipes in the apartment they're renting is a small price to pay to have Sam close, he knows. Sam's so much better than he used to be: he doesn't get in as many fights, doesn't have that wrecked, desperate look about him that makes something in Dean's chest crack and splinter apart.
"Sammy?" Dean says, quiet in the protective cover of the car.
Sam hmm's.
"We're gonna have it so good one of these days." Dean feels kinda ridiculous saying it, all these stupid slip-ups his mouth makes when his mind's all focused on Sam.
Sam's quiet for the longest time. Dean's eyes are semi-closed, but he doesn't have to see to know he's smiling, that hundred-watt grin of his that makes him look kinda stupid, but mostly kinda like something straight out of a fairytale. It scares Dean sometimes, the capacity for perfection he sees so clearly in Sam like a neon sign; judging from the number of fights he gets into, other folks see it too.
Strange, perfect little brother. Dean can see the future like the golden brick road to a place of magic and good things happening to good people, and sincerely hopes he's with Sam when he gets there. Twenty years old and all he wants from life is the opportunity to stick around to see his brother happy. It makes Dean twitchy at times, the thought that all his happiness is basically pinned on the skinny sixteen-year-old shoulders of a kid almost too bright for his own good, but he's mostly okay with it. Dean's never been the kind of guy to deny the kind of thing he has here with Sam.
"You really think so?" Sam asks, in a whisper.
Dean says nothing. There's nothing left to be said.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating:PG
Summary: Two orphans growing up. Sometimes there's an entire state between them, sometimes it's less. Sam foots the call charges and Dean pays for the gas, and they get by mostly okay. Timestamp of sorts for Mow Them Lawns (it turns me on)
Timestamp #1
Just One More Day up in the Canyon
Dean thinks of train wrecks and mythical creatures rising from the depths of the ocean breathing fire the first time Sam kisses him.
Days, months, years, of this suffocating tension between them, Dean's skin prickling like a fever when he feels the brush of Sam's slanted eyes, scratchy under his collar when Sam stretches and his shirt rides up exposing untouched pale skin.
So yeah. Dean's not stupid. He knows what it means at this point, and is mostly used to the knowledge, usually crammed up in a box and shoved to a corner of his mind where he wouldn't trip over it. He almost makes it sound unremarkable: so he's in love with his kid brother. Big fucking deal.
Here, now, against the fence of some white collar family home far enough off from where Sam's staying not to attract immediate suspicion, Dean Winchester's kissing his brother and all he can think about is the end of the world. If Sam has his way, Armageddon will be an explosion of color and noise, fireworks against the sky and people clapping in wonder just before they died. Dean thinks that that would be a good way to go.
Sam makes a noise in his throat, half-whine, and his hands come up to cup Dean's face. Big hands, grown-up in a way Sam still mostly isn't.
Sam kisses like he does every other thing, single-minded with a determination that borders on desperation. He kisses like this is the only way he can get oxygen in his lungs, by snatching it out of Dean's.
Dean's mostly dazed, mind stuck on a loop that made little to no sense, that bone-deep knowledge of all of Sam's triggers coming into play when he threads his fingers through Sam's hair and Sam makes a high, keening moan that sounds like he's in pain.
Confetti around them, toilet paper hanging off trees and swaying gently in the breeze. Dean had told Sam no, how cliché can you get, toilet paper, Sammy, seriously. But Sam had gotten that stubborn half-pleading, half-challenging look that's fucking lethal as far as Dean's concerned, and that was that.
Sam's got this new coping mechanism, sort of, for being apart now, and the asshole gangster kids in the 'hood are happy to oblige. Sam's got a stack of complaints against him, and is nearly always bandaged when Dean sees him. He always has to force himself not to kick the shit out of Sam all over again for being so fucking stupid, has to make sure the damage isn't too bad before cuffing him upside the head and saying, you've gotta cut this shit out, man, you're smarter than this.
Sam always sneers at him, this bitter cruel twist of his mouth and Dean gets so scared sometimes, looking for signs of his baby brother in this malicious stranger and finding none. It's like Sammy, his Sammy, of the sweet face and dimples and trusting eyes has been replaced by a jaded man with an expression of perpetual fury and hatred. At fifteen, Sam couldn't look further away from the five year-old he'd been, the kid who crawled into Dean's bed at night and asked him about their parents. Dean hadn't been able to tell him much, and had made up some of the details Sam had pressed him for, but it remains one of the best things about his life, the fact that he'd once known a kid like that.
Sam freely admits that Dean is the only good thing in this piss-poor excuse for a life, and whenever he goes on the offensive against Dean, he's got this nervous glimmer in his eyes he's obviously aware of and hates utterly. Dean never quite gives up, which is why when Sam says stupid shit like, come paper towel the neighbors' front yard with me, Dean agrees. Heaven help him, he agrees.
Sam breaks away, breathing like he's run ten miles. He looks unreal like that, tall and beautiful and washed something perfect by the moonlight. It makes Dean's chest ache, and he tries to look away but that's about as effective as trying to look away from a train wreck.
Sam watches him, guarded, as Dean raises a hand to his lips experimentally. His mind's a mess of neon colors and superhero comics, the memory of Sam smiling at him over pancakes and cereal, you're the best big brother in the whole wide world, Dean. The baby brother he's always looked out for, the one who, the first time they got adopted separately, cried and wouldn't eat until they got Dean on the phone.
He has a moment of pure panic, exhilarating adrenaline rush and he's briefly so certain that this is it, this is what fucks Sam up for good. This would mutate the last good thing about him and Dean would have to get in his car and leave town to avoid looking at this brother-stranger. And it would be, undeniably, devastatingly, Dean's own damn fault.
But then, Sam asks, soft like he's scared, soft like he's thinking of running, "Okay?"
Dean looks at him. Sam's got a black eye from the fight he got into at school; his fingers are stained with blue ink. The glittery, razor-sharp look in his eyes has been washed away and smoothed out by the moonlight and he looks like something out of an old story, some spirit that appears only at midnight of a full moon, Romeo at the balcony. His gaze tracks the slump of Sam's shoulders and the hopeful shine of his eyes half-obscured by too-long hair, and thinks, clearly, there you are.
"Okay," he says.
Sam grins so bright it hurts to look at. He lets the roll of toilet paper he's still holding on to fly, and it streaks across the night sky like a path, a sign, and Sam looks at Dean like he's his favorite superhero again.
Dean's kinda overwhelmed. He thinks again, okay, and feels himself begin to believe it.
*
Timestamp #2
Title: Underage Psychopath, Juvenile Delinquent (love of my life)
Sam keeps trailing off mid-sentence, breathless and so excited Dean practically sees the energy running just under his skin. He sorta stops in the middle of his elaborate plans for the future, the ones with sunshine and rainbows and gay pride parades, and just stares at Dean, his eyes shining and so big it's like seeing all the potential for happiness he's talking about right there in his slanted hazel eyes. It makes Dean's mind go to all sorts of strange, uncharted places, wondering vaguely whether if he touches Sam right now, he'd get burned with the fire in his bloodstream.
Sam leans in unconsciously when Dean's fingers graze his forearm, and he doesn't stop talking. Dean watches his own finger go up and down Sam's arm with a sense of muted wonder. He really can feel it, the sparks running under the delicate skin over Sam's wrists.
Without really thinking, he leans down and presses his mouth to the place he's touching, and Sam freezes.
Clean soft taste of Sam, and Dean licks almost hungrily, absorbing. It's something he feels he needs for the road, the knowledge of what the unmarked skin over Sam's veins taste like. He already knows everything that's theoretically the important stuff: the way Sam's breath hitches on every third or fourth breath when he's about to wake up from a dreamless sleep, the way he dunks cookies in milk until they're soggy and gross before eating them, the way he looks when he's about to come with his dick deep, deep inside Dean. Day-to-day stuff that make epic poetry, and Dean just needs to know this one last thing.
"Dean," Sam says, in a choked voice.
Dean looks up, mouth still fastened to Sam's wrist. He smirks when he sees the dark-eyed look in Sam's eyes.
He straightens, leaning into Sam in the same movement. Their foreheads come to rest against each other gently. He thinks about how he's going to have to take off in less than two hours if he's going to make it before the guy he's rooming with locks him out, how it's only marginally better than those years he was still underage and living with resentful foster parents. The only thing that's changed, really, is that now he gets to live closer to where Sam is, pick him up from school occasionally.
He mentally gives a shrug. Sucky roommates and faulty pipes in the apartment they're renting is a small price to pay to have Sam close, he knows. Sam's so much better than he used to be: he doesn't get in as many fights, doesn't have that wrecked, desperate look about him that makes something in Dean's chest crack and splinter apart.
"Sammy?" Dean says, quiet in the protective cover of the car.
Sam hmm's.
"We're gonna have it so good one of these days." Dean feels kinda ridiculous saying it, all these stupid slip-ups his mouth makes when his mind's all focused on Sam.
Sam's quiet for the longest time. Dean's eyes are semi-closed, but he doesn't have to see to know he's smiling, that hundred-watt grin of his that makes him look kinda stupid, but mostly kinda like something straight out of a fairytale. It scares Dean sometimes, the capacity for perfection he sees so clearly in Sam like a neon sign; judging from the number of fights he gets into, other folks see it too.
Strange, perfect little brother. Dean can see the future like the golden brick road to a place of magic and good things happening to good people, and sincerely hopes he's with Sam when he gets there. Twenty years old and all he wants from life is the opportunity to stick around to see his brother happy. It makes Dean twitchy at times, the thought that all his happiness is basically pinned on the skinny sixteen-year-old shoulders of a kid almost too bright for his own good, but he's mostly okay with it. Dean's never been the kind of guy to deny the kind of thing he has here with Sam.
"You really think so?" Sam asks, in a whisper.
Dean says nothing. There's nothing left to be said.