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Untitled
by whereupon
Sam/Dean. PG-13, vague season two spoilers, 2,273 words.
Or, how to tell your brother you love him, while driving across the country, by Sam Winchester, age 23.
Ask to drive. You know that he'll turn you down, and that doesn't matter; you won't mind. The sky will be streaked pink with sunrise and he will be half-asleep behind the wheel. You will remind him that you can drive, too, and that it would probably be preferable to him falling asleep and killing you both. He will remind you about the time you ran the car off the road when you were fourteen, and you will point out that he was meant to be teaching you and that he wasn't born knowing how to drive, either. He will say that he was born knowing how to drive better than you, and this is when you will have to give up, because if you keep arguing, he'll see that you're grinning, unreasonably happy, happier than you have any right to be, and it's because of him. You would never live that down. He would never let you. He will be smirking, when you look back at him, though he won't know that you are watching, and you will think that he already knows.
Argue. Argue about music, or demonology, or sports scores, which aren't something either of you care about. It doesn't matter; the argument's the thing. You will know that it's stupid, that you shouldn't get angry about this, but this is what he always does, the effect he always has on you. Neither of you will back down. The waitress will look worried when she comes back with the check. You'll get up, leaving him to pay. You will not be leaving for good, but for a moment, you'll wish that you were. He'll catch up with you in the parking lot, where you will be standing next to the car and considering, for a fleeting moment, busting a window to get your stuff. You could hitch a ride to the bus stop and leave him here. You would never look back and you would never miss him; for an instant, you will almost be able to believe this. He will look at you across the roof of the car, squinting against the sunlight, and he won't acknowledge the argument at all. Instead, he will answer a question you asked him the night before, one about which you were not serious. This will be so random, so unrelated and unexpected, that you won't have a choice but to laugh at him. He will unlock the car and you will get inside. Neither of you will apologize; that would be extraneous.
Take the first shower, take the cleanest bed, take everything else he offers you. Don't ask for anything more. You know he'd give it to you without thinking. It won't be night, when you stop at the motel, but it won't yet be morning, either. It will be liminal, late enough that you will have lost track of time, and you will be roadsick. You will think that the world is wrong when it is not viewed through the windows of the car, and he will be standing in the open doorway, backlit faintly by moonlight and the pale blue of the motel sign. He will ask if you are okay, and over his shoulder will be the last of the bags you should have helped him carry. When you get to your feet and put your hand on his shoulder, you will see that his eyes are raw around the edges, bloodshot. You will feel him shift his weight beneath your palm, as though he's fighting to keep his balance, trying not to sway, and he will ask what you need. You will swallow, and you will lie. You will tell him that you don't need anything, that you need only sleep, and he will believe you. Your boots will fall heavily to the floor beside your bed, and the impact will dislodge the mud caked onto the soles. You will shed your jeans and your jacket and your flannel, and you will climb into bed. You will lie awake, shivering, and you will not know whether it is with cold or with exhaustion. You will think that he is already asleep, and you will envy him. You will close your eyes and wait.
When he lets you drive in the morning, try not to act like it's the best thing that's happened to you all week. You know that it is, and he knows, and that's enough. You won't have any warning; he will say your name and toss the keys at you. You will catch them easily, all the same, because you have your father's reflexes and a lifetime of training, and, you sometimes think, because you are at all times aware of him, at least on a subconscious level. You share blood and history, motel rooms and diner booths and the front seat of the car; when you don't know where he is, you are unsettled, on edge. You will have to adjust the rearview mirror, and the sideview, and this will surprise you a little, because you're so used to seeing him, to taking him for granted, that sometimes you forget that he sees the world differently. He will pointedly ignore this; he will pretend to be distracted until you start the engine, and then he will crack open the glove compartment and dig through rosaries and fake IDs and fast-food napkins to find his sunglasses. He will fall asleep a few minutes later, and you will drive, and you will find yourself looking over at him repeatedly. Each time, you will catch yourself, and you will stop yourself, as though you are doing something illicit, as though you should feel guilty. You will feel guilty. You will feel seared, exposed, unholy in the light of morning. You will tell yourself you have no reason to do so. You will tell yourself this, but it won't change anything; this will not make it go away.
Don't talk about the things you left behind. Don't talk about the things he lost, either. Some things take time. Some things can never be spoken about during the daylight. Some things can never be spoken aloud. You have both known loss. Your lives are rooted in it, assembled by it, constructed around it; your lives are that which you have salvaged. He will go quiet and still, when he thinks you aren't paying attention, and he will fold his hands as though in supplication, but since he does not pray, he will only rest his chin upon them. His shoulders will slump with the grief he pretends he does not feel, and with the weight of the impossible, unfair burden that you share. You will not tell him that it will get easier. You will not tell him that you understand, or that you'll get through it together. You will not lie to him. You will clear your throat, turn a page in your book, rattle your silverware. You will ask a question, the answer to which you already know. You will tell him that you do not believe him when he says he is all right. You will fear silences. You will learn again to be afraid of the dark, because the dark is night and the night is quiet, is the silence of the motel room in which both of you will be freezing and neither of you will be able to sleep. Your heart will ache for him, but you'll be used to that. This will not be yours to make easier, to make better, no matter how badly you need it to be.
Pretend not to notice when he tries to get you drunk. You might wonder why he does it, if it's for your sake or for his, but don't ask him to tell you. It might be for both of you, and in any case, he wouldn't tell the truth, and perhaps it doesn't matter. Drink what he buys for you, what he presses into your hand. Your throat will burn; your body will become warm. He will smile more easily, as the night grows deeper, and he will tell you a story that you do not remember, though he will swear that you were there at the time. You will end up playing pool with him, and though you will be thoroughly defeated, you'll count it as a victory because of the way he will lean against your shoulder when he offers his condolences. You will lick your lips and you will taste whiskey, and as you look at him, you will imagine that it is his mouth that made it warm. You will realize what you are doing and you will stumble into the men's room. You will wash your hands and you will not let yourself move, you will not trust yourself to move, until he comes in to find you. He will call you a lightweight, and you will be relieved, and you will keep each other upright all the way back to the car. You will remember the night as a haze of warmth and the golden-orange glow of the bar and the way you felt electrocuted when he looked at you. You will sleep in the car, and you will awaken with an ache in your neck and an ache in your head. When you cross your arms over your chest, you will remember the flush of heat that was his body against yours. You will blush and look away. He will not notice.
Fall asleep in the shotgun seat with your head against the window. When you wake up, wait until he stops looking at you before opening your eyes. It will be midday, and the sunlight will dapple through your eyelids and create fireworks against the muddy black. You will know, with the certainty that you always have, that he is watching you. Your breath will catch. You will feel every shift of the car, every reverberation, every rock over which the tires pass. You will want to tell him to keep his eyes on the road, but you will remember that when you fell asleep, it was on a straight cut of road, endless windtossed prairie on either side, and your brother has always been an excellent driver. You will hold your breath; you will dare not breathe. You will feel as though your heart might take flight, though you have been pinioned by the weight of his gaze. He will look away, and you will open your eyes, and you will blink. He will be looking straight ahead, his gaze on the road, and he will run a hand across his face when you look at him. He will not meet your eyes when he asks how you slept, but he will look at you when you answer.
Don't ask where you're headed. You don't need to know: right now is fine with you. You will have crumpled the map rather than folding it, and you will have shoved it into the space between the windshield and the glove compartment. He won't have said anything about that, not yet, but as soon as he notices, he'll complain. You might be heading north; there will have been reports of what might be a ghoul residing on the edge of those tangled fairytale woods. You might be heading east; some six hundred miles in that direction, a murdered man's ghost will be wandering. You might be heading somewhere else entirely. He will know where you're going, and that will be good enough for you. You will know that you have everything you need to deal with whatever supernatural evil that you will find. There will be an arsenal of salt and metal in the trunk, and your mind will crackle with Latin, the occult, arcane and forgotten spells and superstitions. The road will curve into nightfall and his hands will be as sure and steady when he pulls the trigger as they will have been on the steering wheel. You will do this together. Together, you will save the world.
Push him against the wall, or lean across the seat, or merely turn to look at him. He will look back at you. You will be terrified. Your heart might stop. There is always a cost. You will see this as though it is the last moment of your life, as though your life is passing before your eyes. His heartbeat will be the startled flight of a bird, his pulse small and fragile in the hollow of his throat. He will need to shave; his jawline will be rough. Neither of you will have slept well the night before, and both of you will be hungry, your stomachs empty and your wallets bare. You will have fought two nights previous, though not with him, and your knuckles will be bruised when they twist in the soft timeworn cotton of his shirt. He will not move to stop you. You will panic, even as you will know exactly what you are going to do, and exactly what might happen. You will feel ruinous, and you will feel omnipotent; you will know that nothing in the world will be able to stop what happens next, will be able to stop you from doing this. You will know this with a sickening, desperate feeling, because you will know, too, that you have no way of knowing how this will turn out, what he will do. Your breath will hitch. Both of you could die right here, you will think. The world as you know it will end.
Risk everything.
--
end
by whereupon
Sam/Dean. PG-13, vague season two spoilers, 2,273 words.
Or, how to tell your brother you love him, while driving across the country, by Sam Winchester, age 23.
Ask to drive. You know that he'll turn you down, and that doesn't matter; you won't mind. The sky will be streaked pink with sunrise and he will be half-asleep behind the wheel. You will remind him that you can drive, too, and that it would probably be preferable to him falling asleep and killing you both. He will remind you about the time you ran the car off the road when you were fourteen, and you will point out that he was meant to be teaching you and that he wasn't born knowing how to drive, either. He will say that he was born knowing how to drive better than you, and this is when you will have to give up, because if you keep arguing, he'll see that you're grinning, unreasonably happy, happier than you have any right to be, and it's because of him. You would never live that down. He would never let you. He will be smirking, when you look back at him, though he won't know that you are watching, and you will think that he already knows.
Argue. Argue about music, or demonology, or sports scores, which aren't something either of you care about. It doesn't matter; the argument's the thing. You will know that it's stupid, that you shouldn't get angry about this, but this is what he always does, the effect he always has on you. Neither of you will back down. The waitress will look worried when she comes back with the check. You'll get up, leaving him to pay. You will not be leaving for good, but for a moment, you'll wish that you were. He'll catch up with you in the parking lot, where you will be standing next to the car and considering, for a fleeting moment, busting a window to get your stuff. You could hitch a ride to the bus stop and leave him here. You would never look back and you would never miss him; for an instant, you will almost be able to believe this. He will look at you across the roof of the car, squinting against the sunlight, and he won't acknowledge the argument at all. Instead, he will answer a question you asked him the night before, one about which you were not serious. This will be so random, so unrelated and unexpected, that you won't have a choice but to laugh at him. He will unlock the car and you will get inside. Neither of you will apologize; that would be extraneous.
Take the first shower, take the cleanest bed, take everything else he offers you. Don't ask for anything more. You know he'd give it to you without thinking. It won't be night, when you stop at the motel, but it won't yet be morning, either. It will be liminal, late enough that you will have lost track of time, and you will be roadsick. You will think that the world is wrong when it is not viewed through the windows of the car, and he will be standing in the open doorway, backlit faintly by moonlight and the pale blue of the motel sign. He will ask if you are okay, and over his shoulder will be the last of the bags you should have helped him carry. When you get to your feet and put your hand on his shoulder, you will see that his eyes are raw around the edges, bloodshot. You will feel him shift his weight beneath your palm, as though he's fighting to keep his balance, trying not to sway, and he will ask what you need. You will swallow, and you will lie. You will tell him that you don't need anything, that you need only sleep, and he will believe you. Your boots will fall heavily to the floor beside your bed, and the impact will dislodge the mud caked onto the soles. You will shed your jeans and your jacket and your flannel, and you will climb into bed. You will lie awake, shivering, and you will not know whether it is with cold or with exhaustion. You will think that he is already asleep, and you will envy him. You will close your eyes and wait.
When he lets you drive in the morning, try not to act like it's the best thing that's happened to you all week. You know that it is, and he knows, and that's enough. You won't have any warning; he will say your name and toss the keys at you. You will catch them easily, all the same, because you have your father's reflexes and a lifetime of training, and, you sometimes think, because you are at all times aware of him, at least on a subconscious level. You share blood and history, motel rooms and diner booths and the front seat of the car; when you don't know where he is, you are unsettled, on edge. You will have to adjust the rearview mirror, and the sideview, and this will surprise you a little, because you're so used to seeing him, to taking him for granted, that sometimes you forget that he sees the world differently. He will pointedly ignore this; he will pretend to be distracted until you start the engine, and then he will crack open the glove compartment and dig through rosaries and fake IDs and fast-food napkins to find his sunglasses. He will fall asleep a few minutes later, and you will drive, and you will find yourself looking over at him repeatedly. Each time, you will catch yourself, and you will stop yourself, as though you are doing something illicit, as though you should feel guilty. You will feel guilty. You will feel seared, exposed, unholy in the light of morning. You will tell yourself you have no reason to do so. You will tell yourself this, but it won't change anything; this will not make it go away.
Don't talk about the things you left behind. Don't talk about the things he lost, either. Some things take time. Some things can never be spoken about during the daylight. Some things can never be spoken aloud. You have both known loss. Your lives are rooted in it, assembled by it, constructed around it; your lives are that which you have salvaged. He will go quiet and still, when he thinks you aren't paying attention, and he will fold his hands as though in supplication, but since he does not pray, he will only rest his chin upon them. His shoulders will slump with the grief he pretends he does not feel, and with the weight of the impossible, unfair burden that you share. You will not tell him that it will get easier. You will not tell him that you understand, or that you'll get through it together. You will not lie to him. You will clear your throat, turn a page in your book, rattle your silverware. You will ask a question, the answer to which you already know. You will tell him that you do not believe him when he says he is all right. You will fear silences. You will learn again to be afraid of the dark, because the dark is night and the night is quiet, is the silence of the motel room in which both of you will be freezing and neither of you will be able to sleep. Your heart will ache for him, but you'll be used to that. This will not be yours to make easier, to make better, no matter how badly you need it to be.
Pretend not to notice when he tries to get you drunk. You might wonder why he does it, if it's for your sake or for his, but don't ask him to tell you. It might be for both of you, and in any case, he wouldn't tell the truth, and perhaps it doesn't matter. Drink what he buys for you, what he presses into your hand. Your throat will burn; your body will become warm. He will smile more easily, as the night grows deeper, and he will tell you a story that you do not remember, though he will swear that you were there at the time. You will end up playing pool with him, and though you will be thoroughly defeated, you'll count it as a victory because of the way he will lean against your shoulder when he offers his condolences. You will lick your lips and you will taste whiskey, and as you look at him, you will imagine that it is his mouth that made it warm. You will realize what you are doing and you will stumble into the men's room. You will wash your hands and you will not let yourself move, you will not trust yourself to move, until he comes in to find you. He will call you a lightweight, and you will be relieved, and you will keep each other upright all the way back to the car. You will remember the night as a haze of warmth and the golden-orange glow of the bar and the way you felt electrocuted when he looked at you. You will sleep in the car, and you will awaken with an ache in your neck and an ache in your head. When you cross your arms over your chest, you will remember the flush of heat that was his body against yours. You will blush and look away. He will not notice.
Fall asleep in the shotgun seat with your head against the window. When you wake up, wait until he stops looking at you before opening your eyes. It will be midday, and the sunlight will dapple through your eyelids and create fireworks against the muddy black. You will know, with the certainty that you always have, that he is watching you. Your breath will catch. You will feel every shift of the car, every reverberation, every rock over which the tires pass. You will want to tell him to keep his eyes on the road, but you will remember that when you fell asleep, it was on a straight cut of road, endless windtossed prairie on either side, and your brother has always been an excellent driver. You will hold your breath; you will dare not breathe. You will feel as though your heart might take flight, though you have been pinioned by the weight of his gaze. He will look away, and you will open your eyes, and you will blink. He will be looking straight ahead, his gaze on the road, and he will run a hand across his face when you look at him. He will not meet your eyes when he asks how you slept, but he will look at you when you answer.
Don't ask where you're headed. You don't need to know: right now is fine with you. You will have crumpled the map rather than folding it, and you will have shoved it into the space between the windshield and the glove compartment. He won't have said anything about that, not yet, but as soon as he notices, he'll complain. You might be heading north; there will have been reports of what might be a ghoul residing on the edge of those tangled fairytale woods. You might be heading east; some six hundred miles in that direction, a murdered man's ghost will be wandering. You might be heading somewhere else entirely. He will know where you're going, and that will be good enough for you. You will know that you have everything you need to deal with whatever supernatural evil that you will find. There will be an arsenal of salt and metal in the trunk, and your mind will crackle with Latin, the occult, arcane and forgotten spells and superstitions. The road will curve into nightfall and his hands will be as sure and steady when he pulls the trigger as they will have been on the steering wheel. You will do this together. Together, you will save the world.
Push him against the wall, or lean across the seat, or merely turn to look at him. He will look back at you. You will be terrified. Your heart might stop. There is always a cost. You will see this as though it is the last moment of your life, as though your life is passing before your eyes. His heartbeat will be the startled flight of a bird, his pulse small and fragile in the hollow of his throat. He will need to shave; his jawline will be rough. Neither of you will have slept well the night before, and both of you will be hungry, your stomachs empty and your wallets bare. You will have fought two nights previous, though not with him, and your knuckles will be bruised when they twist in the soft timeworn cotton of his shirt. He will not move to stop you. You will panic, even as you will know exactly what you are going to do, and exactly what might happen. You will feel ruinous, and you will feel omnipotent; you will know that nothing in the world will be able to stop what happens next, will be able to stop you from doing this. You will know this with a sickening, desperate feeling, because you will know, too, that you have no way of knowing how this will turn out, what he will do. Your breath will hitch. Both of you could die right here, you will think. The world as you know it will end.
Risk everything.
--
end