a figment, surely.
Upon Black Earth
by whereupon
Sam/Dean, PG-13, no spoilers, 960 words.
Of the sea and jealousy.
For paxlux, in slightly early celebration.
The door opened and Dean stepped inside, bringing with him a breath of chill air that smelled faintly of brine. Sam looked up when he closed the door. "Took you long enough," Sam said, rising from the wooden chair. It creaked at his movement. "What'd you find out?"
The lighthouse on the rocky spit of land protruding from the coast cast a circling light across the dark water and Sam drew the curtains against it as he waited for Dean's response. The warning light hadn't bothered him before, but now it seemed, if not an intrusion, a distraction at the very least.
"All in good time, Sammy." Dean's jacket was rainslick, glistening when he shrugged out of it and tossed it aside. The leather caught on the edge of the bed and slid off to crumple on the floor. Sam narrowed his eyes. The room was lamp-lit, and badly at that; he'd had to strain to make out the faded black text of the books now piled high on the desk. Now, he strained to get a better look at his brother.
He took a step closer, putting himself in arm's reach of Dean. Dean shifted his weight, but he didn't move otherwise, and Sam was aware of the rise and fall of his own chest, his heartbeat as ceaseless as the tides beyond their window. Sam broke first, leaning in to cup his brother's chin, to press his mouth to his brother's. Dean's mouth was warm and pliant. He kissed Sam back without hesitation and his palm was still cold when he rested it on the back of Sam's neck.
Sam tasted whiskey and faint spices when he drew back. His eyes ached from the hours spent attempting to read in the poor light and the room was too hot, suddenly. "You're drunk," he said. "Did you at least get what we need from her?"
"No, I'm not," Dean said. One corner of his mouth lifted. It was closer to a smirk than a smile, but it wasn't really either one. "You're jealous."
"You didn't answer my question," Sam said.
"You didn't answer mine."
"Yours was a statement."
Dean tilted his head. Amusement, not acquiescence. "What do you think I am, an amateur?" he said. "Of course I did."
"Good," Sam said. He turned away.
"I knew it," Dean said. "You're jealous."
Sam didn't give him the satisfaction of turning back. "I'm not," he said. The chair creaked again when he sank back into it. The lamp closest to him guttered like a candle. For a moment he thought it would go out, but the light held.
He heard Dean approaching, but he didn't bother to turn around. He kept his eyes on the pages open before him, though the words seemed meaningless. When Dean touched his shoulder, he sighed, though he'd told himself he wouldn't.
There was no reason to be jealous, he knew, and so he told himself that the hollow feeling in his stomach wasn't jealousy.
Dean's thumb brushed against his neck, slipping beneath the collar of his shirt.
"You know you got nothing to worry about," Dean said.
"Yeah, I know," Sam said. The words tasted bitter in his mouth, even as they were true, and the bitterness must have bled into his voice, because Dean swallowed and drew in a breath to speak.
"It was passage," Dean said. Sam glanced back and up at his brother. The movement caused Dean's hand to slip away. Dean's head was bowed. The curve of his neck was lost to shadow and the curve of his cheek was blue-black, stubbled. He needed to shave, but so did Sam.
"What?" Sam asked.
Dean lifted his head. "I got what we need, but I couldn't get back to you without, if I didn't--" He stopped. "The sea gives nothing away," he said, and from the choice of words and the tone of his voice, Sam knew that he was quoting someone, or something.
"Dean," Sam said. He stood, pushing the chair back. It made a soft rasping noise as it slid across the cheap carpet.
Dean was shaking and Sam knew that he'd been lying about not being drunk.
"It was nothing," Dean said. "It wasn't anything that mattered, it wasn't even close to what you, what we." His hands shaped a question, his palms turned out as his voice trailed off.
"I know," Sam said. "It's okay."
Dean looked down. He closed his eyes and was still, frozen as though in contemplation or prayer. Sam didn't dare reach out; the slightest touch might have shattered them both.
Dean's eyes opened and he lifted his chin defiantly. His eyes glittered, but his voice was steady. "So you got nothing to be jealous about."
"I know," Sam said again. When he kissed Dean this time, he drew back only for breath, and the kiss lingered and deepened. Sam tasted the gunmetal of rain in the hollow of Dean's throat and he imagined he could hear Dean's heartbeat over the rasp of both of their breathing. The bed squeaked when they went down onto it, but neither of them paid any attention to the noise. Sam tasted salt on the pads of Dean's fingers and imagined that it was the last of the ocean releasing its hold, as though the chill weren't worked bone-deep.
"Stop thinking about it," Dean said roughly. He pushed a hand through Sam's hair, tugging Sam up and making Sam meet his eyes. "We do what we gotta do."
"And we shut up about it," Sam finished. Dean tilted his head, this time in agreement. "So shut up," Sam said, his hand insistent against Dean's chest, and Dean's smile, small and fleeting as it was, seemed for a moment as bright as the beam from the lighthouse.
--
end
by whereupon
Sam/Dean, PG-13, no spoilers, 960 words.
Of the sea and jealousy.
For paxlux, in slightly early celebration.
The door opened and Dean stepped inside, bringing with him a breath of chill air that smelled faintly of brine. Sam looked up when he closed the door. "Took you long enough," Sam said, rising from the wooden chair. It creaked at his movement. "What'd you find out?"
The lighthouse on the rocky spit of land protruding from the coast cast a circling light across the dark water and Sam drew the curtains against it as he waited for Dean's response. The warning light hadn't bothered him before, but now it seemed, if not an intrusion, a distraction at the very least.
"All in good time, Sammy." Dean's jacket was rainslick, glistening when he shrugged out of it and tossed it aside. The leather caught on the edge of the bed and slid off to crumple on the floor. Sam narrowed his eyes. The room was lamp-lit, and badly at that; he'd had to strain to make out the faded black text of the books now piled high on the desk. Now, he strained to get a better look at his brother.
He took a step closer, putting himself in arm's reach of Dean. Dean shifted his weight, but he didn't move otherwise, and Sam was aware of the rise and fall of his own chest, his heartbeat as ceaseless as the tides beyond their window. Sam broke first, leaning in to cup his brother's chin, to press his mouth to his brother's. Dean's mouth was warm and pliant. He kissed Sam back without hesitation and his palm was still cold when he rested it on the back of Sam's neck.
Sam tasted whiskey and faint spices when he drew back. His eyes ached from the hours spent attempting to read in the poor light and the room was too hot, suddenly. "You're drunk," he said. "Did you at least get what we need from her?"
"No, I'm not," Dean said. One corner of his mouth lifted. It was closer to a smirk than a smile, but it wasn't really either one. "You're jealous."
"You didn't answer my question," Sam said.
"You didn't answer mine."
"Yours was a statement."
Dean tilted his head. Amusement, not acquiescence. "What do you think I am, an amateur?" he said. "Of course I did."
"Good," Sam said. He turned away.
"I knew it," Dean said. "You're jealous."
Sam didn't give him the satisfaction of turning back. "I'm not," he said. The chair creaked again when he sank back into it. The lamp closest to him guttered like a candle. For a moment he thought it would go out, but the light held.
He heard Dean approaching, but he didn't bother to turn around. He kept his eyes on the pages open before him, though the words seemed meaningless. When Dean touched his shoulder, he sighed, though he'd told himself he wouldn't.
There was no reason to be jealous, he knew, and so he told himself that the hollow feeling in his stomach wasn't jealousy.
Dean's thumb brushed against his neck, slipping beneath the collar of his shirt.
"You know you got nothing to worry about," Dean said.
"Yeah, I know," Sam said. The words tasted bitter in his mouth, even as they were true, and the bitterness must have bled into his voice, because Dean swallowed and drew in a breath to speak.
"It was passage," Dean said. Sam glanced back and up at his brother. The movement caused Dean's hand to slip away. Dean's head was bowed. The curve of his neck was lost to shadow and the curve of his cheek was blue-black, stubbled. He needed to shave, but so did Sam.
"What?" Sam asked.
Dean lifted his head. "I got what we need, but I couldn't get back to you without, if I didn't--" He stopped. "The sea gives nothing away," he said, and from the choice of words and the tone of his voice, Sam knew that he was quoting someone, or something.
"Dean," Sam said. He stood, pushing the chair back. It made a soft rasping noise as it slid across the cheap carpet.
Dean was shaking and Sam knew that he'd been lying about not being drunk.
"It was nothing," Dean said. "It wasn't anything that mattered, it wasn't even close to what you, what we." His hands shaped a question, his palms turned out as his voice trailed off.
"I know," Sam said. "It's okay."
Dean looked down. He closed his eyes and was still, frozen as though in contemplation or prayer. Sam didn't dare reach out; the slightest touch might have shattered them both.
Dean's eyes opened and he lifted his chin defiantly. His eyes glittered, but his voice was steady. "So you got nothing to be jealous about."
"I know," Sam said again. When he kissed Dean this time, he drew back only for breath, and the kiss lingered and deepened. Sam tasted the gunmetal of rain in the hollow of Dean's throat and he imagined he could hear Dean's heartbeat over the rasp of both of their breathing. The bed squeaked when they went down onto it, but neither of them paid any attention to the noise. Sam tasted salt on the pads of Dean's fingers and imagined that it was the last of the ocean releasing its hold, as though the chill weren't worked bone-deep.
"Stop thinking about it," Dean said roughly. He pushed a hand through Sam's hair, tugging Sam up and making Sam meet his eyes. "We do what we gotta do."
"And we shut up about it," Sam finished. Dean tilted his head, this time in agreement. "So shut up," Sam said, his hand insistent against Dean's chest, and Dean's smile, small and fleeting as it was, seemed for a moment as bright as the beam from the lighthouse.
--
end