SPN Fic: I will bring you where no shadow stays
Title: I will bring you where no shadow stays
Author: xaara
Rating: R, mostly for language, gen
Timeline: post-series, no spoilers, really.
Characters: Sam & Dean
Summary: After they killed it, Sam didn’t see Dean for three months. He was sitting in an IHOP when Dean came back to him, pulled him together and apart and didn’t even say anything, just stole Sam’s hash browns.
A/N: Title kind of inspired by Paradise Lost (I will bring thee where no shadow staies), but the meaning is completely different out of context and out of the time period. So. Mostly I just stole the words.
I will bring you where no shadow stays
First couple weeks, Sam doesn’t say anything. Thinks maybe Dean doesn’t ever look in a mirror long enough to notice the whisper of grey at his temples.
So you ever gonna lose the thing that died on your head? Dean asks, making a flapping hand gesture.
Sam snaps back with, What, grandpa, grey at twenty-eight? Job too much stress for you? We can go slower.
Dean frowns, shuts up, and Sam doesn’t apologize.
--
After they killed it, Sam didn’t see Dean for three months. He was sitting in an IHOP when Dean came back to him, pulled him together and apart and didn’t even say anything, just stole Sam’s hash browns. When the waitress swung around, all hips and hair, Dean ordered pancakes and smiled at her. Her eyes softened, but it was different, and she didn’t want to fuck him or love him or even mother him.
It was pity, and Sam watched her watch Dean and thought maybe Dean was nursing a wound, like that one time south of Chicago when he’d broken three ribs. Where were you? he asked after the waitress left.
I went to Cassie, said Dean. He shrugged, looked down at his folded hands, and didn’t fidget.
Sam didn’t say anything because you’re supposed to go home, after it’s over, yeah? Home is where the heart is, ain’t noplace like home.
World fucking sucks sometimes, Sam thought. Stop eating my hash browns, bitch, he said to his brother, but left his defenses open. Dean swooped in for the kill and made off with a forkful, dripping syrup across the vinyl tabletop.
--
You can’t even use your freakboy mind powers to play pinball? asks Dean after he beats Sam’s ass for the eighth consecutive time and they’re out of quarters and beer. What kinda shitty-ass gift is that?
They’re the only ones older than ten, two of them like kids in the darkness and all Sam wants is to say, Shit, man, you don’t have to do this for me, you don’t have to. It’s not gonna be all right, figured that one out two thousand miles back.
Gloating, glowing, Dean’s body flows into the strobe haze of the arcade, each movement premeditated and accounted for. Sam feeds the change machine another five, gathers a handful of metal cool as well water. Maybe I was letting you win, he says.
Bullshit, says Dean. He grins, his teeth flashing pink, red, green, crazy. I’m just that good.
Sam ducks his head to slotting the coins so Dean can’t see his eyes. Again, he says. What, you scared?
--
A hitchhiker, pretty girl seventy miles north of Wichita. She climbs into the backseat and sets her bag on the floor, between combat boots and frayed jean cuffs. Her hair rebels against its braid. Not going anywhere, she says when Sam asks. Figure I’ll just keep on moving, know when I get there.
No way Sam sneaks a sideways glance at Dean. He just doesn’t.
Turns out, girl’s name is Chris. Short for Christina? Dean inquires.
Turns out, girl’s full name is Chrysanthemum. What? asks Dean after she tells them icily to leave her at the next rest stop. Her parents probably did hate her.
Sam shrinks into his seat and tries to arrange his knees around the bruises on them. Whatever, man, he says. Look at us: Sam and Dean? What are we, the Heartland on parade?
Hey, says Dean, Dean’s a good name.
Sam snorts. Dean’s a fratboy name.
Least it’s not Sammy.
No one else calls me Sammy.
‘s cause they feel sorry for you. Sides, you out-emo Bright Eyes, nobody wants to see you slit your wrists over it.
Sam doesn’t ask how the hell Dean knows who Bright Eyes is. He doesn’t ask whether it was because he’d mentioned his music in one of the three phone calls they exchanged after he’d left for Stanford.
He doesn’t tell Dean that once, for a family tree project, he’d looked up the meanings of their names and discovered that Dean means instrument, means from the valley. Means leader, and fuck if that wasn’t a moment of epiphany, especially when he looked up his own and found out it meant things having to do with God and hearing and asking questions no one knows how to answer.
(Don’t you want something more than this? You gotta want something more.
Shut the fuck up, Sammy, seriously. Just shut. The fuck. Up.)
Dean twists a knob, lightning-fast, and Sam’s eardrums inform him that no, Hole in the Sky actually doesn’t improve with volume.
--
Been two months, six days since Dean last fought something and Sam can see the restlessness writhing under his palms. Come on, Sam says, let’s just keep moving, keep driving. We can hit Arizona by daybreak.
Nah, says Dean. He’s quiet, his smile thin as a papercut you don’t notice until you’ve dropped a half-gallon of blood on the upholstery. I’m thirsty, he says.
Oh, thinks Sam. Oh, shit, man. You wanna hit something, just hit me, just do it. Just fucking do it, but Dean’s already inside, sidling up to the bartender, extra flip in his step.
You boys look worn, man says, eyeing them. He’s big, dark, probably Mexican. His shirt stretches tight across the width of his shoulders, the heft of his chest, and he’s wearing an expression that would probably make his mama cringe. His fingers twitch a little, dark hair curling between the knuckles. Rough drive? he asks.
Ain’t none a your fuckin business, Dean says and Sam thinks Shit again, because Dean wants a brawl and Dean always gets what he wants.
Oh-kay, says the bartender, just makin conversation, sheeyit. Ain’t often we see new faces round here, just makin conversation.
Beer, Sammy? Dean asks, ignoring him. Or straight for the good stuff? Sam shrugs because he doesn’t want to get drunk, not now, not here in this backwoods bar with men staring at him from the shadows and a brother who’s all quicksilver and shivering edges. Dean slides closer, makes the natural eye contact uncomfortable. Come on, Sammy, he says, his hand warm through the denim on Sam’s thigh.
Whatever, Sam says, scooting away. Whatever you’re getting.
It’s three shots later that Dean finally finds what he came for, walks up to the first man who stares at them too long and says, Hey, what’re you lookin at? and the man hawks and spits and says Fuckin faggot and rises and Sam thinks Shit I called it goddamnit Dean, before all hell breaks loose.
Bartender’s even bigger in front of the bar, and he wades in, half-lifts Dean by the back of his jacket and drags him to the door while Sam follows, juggling his cell phone, making sure none of the rest of the patrons jump him on the way. Outside, their breath puffs in the desert chill.
Get your two punk asses outta here, fore I call the police, says the bartender. Ain’t nobody comes into my bar and fucks with mine. Yeah, you, get the fuck outta here, don’t wanna see you again, you got me?
I got you, cabrón.
What’d you call me? You, kid, fuck just came outta your mouth?
You heard me.
What he means, Sam says, is that we’re leaving. And. Um, sorry. He steps between his brother and the rest of the world and smiles like there’s not a fucking thing wrong with this. The bartender turns around and goes back in, muttering, and Sam marches Dean back to the car, knees him into the passenger seat. I’m driving, he says. I’m not as drunk as you.
What’s the worst that could happen? Dean asks. What, we die? Seen worse, man.
What the fuck’s worse than dying? Sam says. Come on, tell me what the fuck you could do worse than die.
Dean just shakes his head, closes his eyes. Sam has never felt so sober in his life. Tell me, he whispers. Tell me. Dean.
Fuckin hate this state, sometimes, Dean says. You still think we can make Arizona?
--
They make Arizona. They make Nevada and Idaho and a corner of Wyoming, a huge sweeping arc. Sam thinks about hero journeys and parentheses. Dean talks about deep-fried cheese curds and heading east to Minnesota.
You’re disgusting, says Sam.
Deep-fried cheese curds, dude, says Dean. Have some respect.
--
You ever think about settling down somewhere? Sam asks. His arm throbs; he thinks he probably pulled something on their last job. Run-of-the-mill poltergeist got the drop on him and flung him into a bookcase that rained bricks of enlightenment on his head. Not that he’s thinking about it like that; shit’s way too literal for his tastes. Still, he’s twenty-seven, Dean thirty-one, the pair of them like old geezers in this life.
Where? Dean says, and there’s the problem with it, right there. Because Sam has nothing like a clue about where.
Dunno, says Sam. I just wondered, you know, whether you ever thought about it.
Dean shrugs. Nah, not really.
Oh, says Sam. Well, okay. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
Doesn’t mean I won’t, someday, Dean says, a challenge in his words, what, Sam, you don’t think I can do normal?
Maybe school, or something. Sam doesn’t know. After almost three decades of living with his brother, this is what he’s got:
-278 near-death experiences
-523 experiences in which he and death have gotten within a few blocks of each other
-1 experience with actual Death, guy wasn’t that bad
-$72.57 in a checking account in California
-2 romance novels that Dean picked up at a bus stop to read out loud while Sam was driving until Sam said Fuck, fine, okay, we can listen to something else, Jesus
-4 cans of Red Bull left over from when he and Dean tried to stay up for three days out of sheer boredom
-0 idea what’s going through Dean’s head about 98.2 percent of the time.
He wonders what would happen if he pulled over, some podunk town on the Mississippi, just pulled over and got out and said, Here, this is where the road ends.
--
He stops wondering when the car stops in Alliance, Nebraska. So you wanna see Carhenge? Dean asks, his fists full of brochures from the motel lobby. He hates leaving the Impala in anyone else’s care, Sam knows. As a result, he’d been antsy all morning, pacing the room until Sam finally pulled the pillow from over his head, said Dude, could you find somewhere else to have a meltdown over the fucking car? and sighed when Dean shot him a look and left.
Maybe, Sam thinks. Maybe here?
He follows Dean around all afternoon as he walks from one scrap sculpture to the next. When the sun encounters the horizon, they start back towards town, meandering along the old country road, shadows long and thin in the twilight.
A mile and a half later, Dean stops. Sam takes three strides before he registers this and pauses, turns with a question on his lips.
I’m not ready, says Dean. For a second, Sam doesn’t get it, and he almost asks not ready for what? before it sinks in.
Okay, he says.
I’m sorry, says Dean. I know you want--I know you want a lot of things.
It’s okay.
You don’t have to wait for me, says Dean.
The sun burnishes the wheatfields golden and copper. Sam doesn’t say: I would wait for you through pretty much anything I can imagine or I’ll never leave you or I’ll be ready when you want to stop.
He says: I know.
Okay, says Dean. Just so we’re good.
You’re good, Sam thinks. Better than me.
We’re good, he says. Looks away, clears his throat. Squints into the sunset. So, you thinking more along the lines of burgers or you wanna try that Thai place we passed coming in.
I dunno, Dean says, grinning. He starts walking again, steps slow and even, easy. Surprise me.
Author: xaara
Rating: R, mostly for language, gen
Timeline: post-series, no spoilers, really.
Characters: Sam & Dean
Summary: After they killed it, Sam didn’t see Dean for three months. He was sitting in an IHOP when Dean came back to him, pulled him together and apart and didn’t even say anything, just stole Sam’s hash browns.
A/N: Title kind of inspired by Paradise Lost (I will bring thee where no shadow staies), but the meaning is completely different out of context and out of the time period. So. Mostly I just stole the words.
I will bring you where no shadow stays
First couple weeks, Sam doesn’t say anything. Thinks maybe Dean doesn’t ever look in a mirror long enough to notice the whisper of grey at his temples.
So you ever gonna lose the thing that died on your head? Dean asks, making a flapping hand gesture.
Sam snaps back with, What, grandpa, grey at twenty-eight? Job too much stress for you? We can go slower.
Dean frowns, shuts up, and Sam doesn’t apologize.
--
After they killed it, Sam didn’t see Dean for three months. He was sitting in an IHOP when Dean came back to him, pulled him together and apart and didn’t even say anything, just stole Sam’s hash browns. When the waitress swung around, all hips and hair, Dean ordered pancakes and smiled at her. Her eyes softened, but it was different, and she didn’t want to fuck him or love him or even mother him.
It was pity, and Sam watched her watch Dean and thought maybe Dean was nursing a wound, like that one time south of Chicago when he’d broken three ribs. Where were you? he asked after the waitress left.
I went to Cassie, said Dean. He shrugged, looked down at his folded hands, and didn’t fidget.
Sam didn’t say anything because you’re supposed to go home, after it’s over, yeah? Home is where the heart is, ain’t noplace like home.
World fucking sucks sometimes, Sam thought. Stop eating my hash browns, bitch, he said to his brother, but left his defenses open. Dean swooped in for the kill and made off with a forkful, dripping syrup across the vinyl tabletop.
--
You can’t even use your freakboy mind powers to play pinball? asks Dean after he beats Sam’s ass for the eighth consecutive time and they’re out of quarters and beer. What kinda shitty-ass gift is that?
They’re the only ones older than ten, two of them like kids in the darkness and all Sam wants is to say, Shit, man, you don’t have to do this for me, you don’t have to. It’s not gonna be all right, figured that one out two thousand miles back.
Gloating, glowing, Dean’s body flows into the strobe haze of the arcade, each movement premeditated and accounted for. Sam feeds the change machine another five, gathers a handful of metal cool as well water. Maybe I was letting you win, he says.
Bullshit, says Dean. He grins, his teeth flashing pink, red, green, crazy. I’m just that good.
Sam ducks his head to slotting the coins so Dean can’t see his eyes. Again, he says. What, you scared?
--
A hitchhiker, pretty girl seventy miles north of Wichita. She climbs into the backseat and sets her bag on the floor, between combat boots and frayed jean cuffs. Her hair rebels against its braid. Not going anywhere, she says when Sam asks. Figure I’ll just keep on moving, know when I get there.
No way Sam sneaks a sideways glance at Dean. He just doesn’t.
Turns out, girl’s name is Chris. Short for Christina? Dean inquires.
Turns out, girl’s full name is Chrysanthemum. What? asks Dean after she tells them icily to leave her at the next rest stop. Her parents probably did hate her.
Sam shrinks into his seat and tries to arrange his knees around the bruises on them. Whatever, man, he says. Look at us: Sam and Dean? What are we, the Heartland on parade?
Hey, says Dean, Dean’s a good name.
Sam snorts. Dean’s a fratboy name.
Least it’s not Sammy.
No one else calls me Sammy.
‘s cause they feel sorry for you. Sides, you out-emo Bright Eyes, nobody wants to see you slit your wrists over it.
Sam doesn’t ask how the hell Dean knows who Bright Eyes is. He doesn’t ask whether it was because he’d mentioned his music in one of the three phone calls they exchanged after he’d left for Stanford.
He doesn’t tell Dean that once, for a family tree project, he’d looked up the meanings of their names and discovered that Dean means instrument, means from the valley. Means leader, and fuck if that wasn’t a moment of epiphany, especially when he looked up his own and found out it meant things having to do with God and hearing and asking questions no one knows how to answer.
(Don’t you want something more than this? You gotta want something more.
Shut the fuck up, Sammy, seriously. Just shut. The fuck. Up.)
Dean twists a knob, lightning-fast, and Sam’s eardrums inform him that no, Hole in the Sky actually doesn’t improve with volume.
--
Been two months, six days since Dean last fought something and Sam can see the restlessness writhing under his palms. Come on, Sam says, let’s just keep moving, keep driving. We can hit Arizona by daybreak.
Nah, says Dean. He’s quiet, his smile thin as a papercut you don’t notice until you’ve dropped a half-gallon of blood on the upholstery. I’m thirsty, he says.
Oh, thinks Sam. Oh, shit, man. You wanna hit something, just hit me, just do it. Just fucking do it, but Dean’s already inside, sidling up to the bartender, extra flip in his step.
You boys look worn, man says, eyeing them. He’s big, dark, probably Mexican. His shirt stretches tight across the width of his shoulders, the heft of his chest, and he’s wearing an expression that would probably make his mama cringe. His fingers twitch a little, dark hair curling between the knuckles. Rough drive? he asks.
Ain’t none a your fuckin business, Dean says and Sam thinks Shit again, because Dean wants a brawl and Dean always gets what he wants.
Oh-kay, says the bartender, just makin conversation, sheeyit. Ain’t often we see new faces round here, just makin conversation.
Beer, Sammy? Dean asks, ignoring him. Or straight for the good stuff? Sam shrugs because he doesn’t want to get drunk, not now, not here in this backwoods bar with men staring at him from the shadows and a brother who’s all quicksilver and shivering edges. Dean slides closer, makes the natural eye contact uncomfortable. Come on, Sammy, he says, his hand warm through the denim on Sam’s thigh.
Whatever, Sam says, scooting away. Whatever you’re getting.
It’s three shots later that Dean finally finds what he came for, walks up to the first man who stares at them too long and says, Hey, what’re you lookin at? and the man hawks and spits and says Fuckin faggot and rises and Sam thinks Shit I called it goddamnit Dean, before all hell breaks loose.
Bartender’s even bigger in front of the bar, and he wades in, half-lifts Dean by the back of his jacket and drags him to the door while Sam follows, juggling his cell phone, making sure none of the rest of the patrons jump him on the way. Outside, their breath puffs in the desert chill.
Get your two punk asses outta here, fore I call the police, says the bartender. Ain’t nobody comes into my bar and fucks with mine. Yeah, you, get the fuck outta here, don’t wanna see you again, you got me?
I got you, cabrón.
What’d you call me? You, kid, fuck just came outta your mouth?
You heard me.
What he means, Sam says, is that we’re leaving. And. Um, sorry. He steps between his brother and the rest of the world and smiles like there’s not a fucking thing wrong with this. The bartender turns around and goes back in, muttering, and Sam marches Dean back to the car, knees him into the passenger seat. I’m driving, he says. I’m not as drunk as you.
What’s the worst that could happen? Dean asks. What, we die? Seen worse, man.
What the fuck’s worse than dying? Sam says. Come on, tell me what the fuck you could do worse than die.
Dean just shakes his head, closes his eyes. Sam has never felt so sober in his life. Tell me, he whispers. Tell me. Dean.
Fuckin hate this state, sometimes, Dean says. You still think we can make Arizona?
--
They make Arizona. They make Nevada and Idaho and a corner of Wyoming, a huge sweeping arc. Sam thinks about hero journeys and parentheses. Dean talks about deep-fried cheese curds and heading east to Minnesota.
You’re disgusting, says Sam.
Deep-fried cheese curds, dude, says Dean. Have some respect.
--
You ever think about settling down somewhere? Sam asks. His arm throbs; he thinks he probably pulled something on their last job. Run-of-the-mill poltergeist got the drop on him and flung him into a bookcase that rained bricks of enlightenment on his head. Not that he’s thinking about it like that; shit’s way too literal for his tastes. Still, he’s twenty-seven, Dean thirty-one, the pair of them like old geezers in this life.
Where? Dean says, and there’s the problem with it, right there. Because Sam has nothing like a clue about where.
Dunno, says Sam. I just wondered, you know, whether you ever thought about it.
Dean shrugs. Nah, not really.
Oh, says Sam. Well, okay. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
Doesn’t mean I won’t, someday, Dean says, a challenge in his words, what, Sam, you don’t think I can do normal?
Maybe school, or something. Sam doesn’t know. After almost three decades of living with his brother, this is what he’s got:
-278 near-death experiences
-523 experiences in which he and death have gotten within a few blocks of each other
-1 experience with actual Death, guy wasn’t that bad
-$72.57 in a checking account in California
-2 romance novels that Dean picked up at a bus stop to read out loud while Sam was driving until Sam said Fuck, fine, okay, we can listen to something else, Jesus
-4 cans of Red Bull left over from when he and Dean tried to stay up for three days out of sheer boredom
-0 idea what’s going through Dean’s head about 98.2 percent of the time.
He wonders what would happen if he pulled over, some podunk town on the Mississippi, just pulled over and got out and said, Here, this is where the road ends.
--
He stops wondering when the car stops in Alliance, Nebraska. So you wanna see Carhenge? Dean asks, his fists full of brochures from the motel lobby. He hates leaving the Impala in anyone else’s care, Sam knows. As a result, he’d been antsy all morning, pacing the room until Sam finally pulled the pillow from over his head, said Dude, could you find somewhere else to have a meltdown over the fucking car? and sighed when Dean shot him a look and left.
Maybe, Sam thinks. Maybe here?
He follows Dean around all afternoon as he walks from one scrap sculpture to the next. When the sun encounters the horizon, they start back towards town, meandering along the old country road, shadows long and thin in the twilight.
A mile and a half later, Dean stops. Sam takes three strides before he registers this and pauses, turns with a question on his lips.
I’m not ready, says Dean. For a second, Sam doesn’t get it, and he almost asks not ready for what? before it sinks in.
Okay, he says.
I’m sorry, says Dean. I know you want--I know you want a lot of things.
It’s okay.
You don’t have to wait for me, says Dean.
The sun burnishes the wheatfields golden and copper. Sam doesn’t say: I would wait for you through pretty much anything I can imagine or I’ll never leave you or I’ll be ready when you want to stop.
He says: I know.
Okay, says Dean. Just so we’re good.
You’re good, Sam thinks. Better than me.
We’re good, he says. Looks away, clears his throat. Squints into the sunset. So, you thinking more along the lines of burgers or you wanna try that Thai place we passed coming in.
I dunno, Dean says, grinning. He starts walking again, steps slow and even, easy. Surprise me.