You First
Title: You First
Pairing/characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Er…sadness?
Word count: 1,000
Summary: It’s the last night of a world that isn’t going to end.
Notes: Based on the song “Samson” by Regina Spektor which in general, was basically written about Sam and Dean, but I think it’s especially perfect for um. this. More notes at the end.
He’d said a thing or two to Sam about making their own future, but Dean can’t think about the future. Not now and not ever again. So there’s the past, school and tests but not his own. Late nights helping Sam study after Sam’d said “Can’t, Dad, I have a test tomorrow” and their dad had been silent in response, except for the slam of the door on his way out. Dean had held Sam’s flashcards backwards and upside down, then turned them around and quizzed him until Sam said “forget it Dean, I’ll never learn this”. And Dean, for all he’d thought it didn’t matter said “But it’ll be okay."
+
“Y’need a haircut, Sammy.” He watches Sam stare at him.
“Uh, Dean.” Like Sam’s waiting for the punch line. They sit there, legs crossed and facing each other and it’s dark but Dean can see alright. He sees Sam reach up to grab a handful of hair and he doesn’t have to reach too far because it’s longer than it’s been in maybe his life. Sam sighs deep.
“What you… want me to look all pretty for Lucifer?”
Dean pulls him close by the shoulder.
“No, Sam, for me.”
Sam’s still got strands of hair between his fingers but drops them and huffs out a defeated breath. Says, “Do we gotta get out of bed?” And Dean pulls at his shoulder more.
“Come on, I got scissors in the bathroom.” He swings his legs around and stands up, he doesn’t have to look back to know Sam is following him. Like he’s been doing his whole life, Sam’d said once. But Dean doesn’t think about that. The light flickers when he turns it on and it doesn’t go out but it’s barely enough. One bulb and one burnt out long ago.
Dean slides up onto the counter. Taps his knee, “C’mere, Sam.”
He spreads his legs apart and tugs at Sam’s shirt until he’s standing between them. Sam is facing the wrong way, forehead pressed against the air inches from Dean’s face, and he holds onto Dean’s arms.
“Can’t cut your hair like that.” and so Sam spins around. Dean’s got his hands on Sam’s waist, he pulls him closer and presses his mouth and nose against Sam’s shoulder. Tries not to think, but does anyway, about how long it’ll be before Sam’s clothes and seat in the car stop smelling like him.
Sam says “Dean” quiet and hollow. And Dean lets him go but not completely, and snips away at chunks of his hair, pretending they’re years of Sam’s life and he could turn back time this way.
“Don’t move, Sam.” He reaches to tilt Sam’s chin up but leaves his fingers there seconds too long and then more seconds.
“Dean, come on,” Sam says. “Wanted an excuse to put your hands and… mouth all over me, coulda just said.”
“Shut up, let me finish.” Hair falls in his lap and if he were any kind of sentimental, he’d pick up every last one and keep them in a plastic bag in the back of his car. But he brushes them off and doesn’t watch them fall away.
Careful not to cut to much or it’ll be just one last thing he’ll never forgive himself for.
He says “Done,” but doesn’t think he wants to be. He turns Sam around and hops off the counter.
“Looks good, don’t it?”
Stands behind him while Sam runs a hand through his hair.
“Yeah,” he says too soft. “Not bad, Dean.” His eyes in the mirror are on Dean’s, then on Dean’s lips as he turns around. But objects in the mirror are closer than they appear so their chests are touching and all the way down to their knees. Sam breathes Dean’s name out a couple times.
“I’m right here, Sam. Right here,” The feel of Sams lips against his sinks into the empty spaces between his bones where Sam’s never been. He doesn’t think there’s anywhere else.
Dean finds the light switch and flicks it off blindly. They make it to the bed, somehow. He thinks of twelve years of falling into bed with his brother and how it’s too dark to see now but the bedspread is the same color as that rose Lucifer’d cradled in a hand that had always been too delicate for Dean’s overgrown little brother.
And of being thirteen and the way Sam had looked at him then and knowing they would always end up here.
Sam sits up and then Dean. Dean grabs one of Sam’s hands and runs his fingers over twenty-seven years of rough lines and soft scars. Sam presses a thumb to the corner of Dean’s eye.
“Hey, Dean, don’t. Not you, man, don’t… cry… you….”
Dean tugs away from him.
“Not fucking crying.”
Sam cups his cheek hand and pulls him close enough to press their lips together. Dean leans back on his elbows and opens his mouth wide for his brother. He slides his lips down Sam’s chin and opens them against his neck. Wishes he could mark up that pretty skin because Sam might be Lucifer’s vessel, sure. Born and raised to walk around with the devil under his skin. But he was Dean’s brother first. If he could press against Sam’s arms and make him singe with the feel of his hands, he thinks it’d be enough to-
-He thinks it’d be enough.
Sam grips the back of Dean’s neck and then kisses him and Dean squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, which he is, and Sam says “but it’ll be alright” and Dean lies back against the bedspread that’s the color Sam’s blood had been when Dean’d buried his face in Sam’s hair and let Sam’s blood pool in his hand, and Dean pulls Sam down on top of him and holds his lips against Sam’s for a couple seconds but he looks at the clock and it’s been an hour and then sickeningly pale light drowns them both and it’s hard to breathe and then Dean can’t hold back the light anymore and so it’s morning, somehow.
And Sam’s going to save the world today.
a/n: I think probably the night Sam said yes to Lucifer was the same day Dean told him he was on board with that plan but maybe there was a whole day in between and it happened exactly like this, clearly. Crying and chick flick moments and socially awkward last day on earth and all.
Pairing/characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Er…sadness?
Word count: 1,000
Summary: It’s the last night of a world that isn’t going to end.
Notes: Based on the song “Samson” by Regina Spektor which in general, was basically written about Sam and Dean, but I think it’s especially perfect for um. this. More notes at the end.
He’d said a thing or two to Sam about making their own future, but Dean can’t think about the future. Not now and not ever again. So there’s the past, school and tests but not his own. Late nights helping Sam study after Sam’d said “Can’t, Dad, I have a test tomorrow” and their dad had been silent in response, except for the slam of the door on his way out. Dean had held Sam’s flashcards backwards and upside down, then turned them around and quizzed him until Sam said “forget it Dean, I’ll never learn this”. And Dean, for all he’d thought it didn’t matter said “But it’ll be okay."
+
“Y’need a haircut, Sammy.” He watches Sam stare at him.
“Uh, Dean.” Like Sam’s waiting for the punch line. They sit there, legs crossed and facing each other and it’s dark but Dean can see alright. He sees Sam reach up to grab a handful of hair and he doesn’t have to reach too far because it’s longer than it’s been in maybe his life. Sam sighs deep.
“What you… want me to look all pretty for Lucifer?”
Dean pulls him close by the shoulder.
“No, Sam, for me.”
Sam’s still got strands of hair between his fingers but drops them and huffs out a defeated breath. Says, “Do we gotta get out of bed?” And Dean pulls at his shoulder more.
“Come on, I got scissors in the bathroom.” He swings his legs around and stands up, he doesn’t have to look back to know Sam is following him. Like he’s been doing his whole life, Sam’d said once. But Dean doesn’t think about that. The light flickers when he turns it on and it doesn’t go out but it’s barely enough. One bulb and one burnt out long ago.
Dean slides up onto the counter. Taps his knee, “C’mere, Sam.”
He spreads his legs apart and tugs at Sam’s shirt until he’s standing between them. Sam is facing the wrong way, forehead pressed against the air inches from Dean’s face, and he holds onto Dean’s arms.
“Can’t cut your hair like that.” and so Sam spins around. Dean’s got his hands on Sam’s waist, he pulls him closer and presses his mouth and nose against Sam’s shoulder. Tries not to think, but does anyway, about how long it’ll be before Sam’s clothes and seat in the car stop smelling like him.
Sam says “Dean” quiet and hollow. And Dean lets him go but not completely, and snips away at chunks of his hair, pretending they’re years of Sam’s life and he could turn back time this way.
“Don’t move, Sam.” He reaches to tilt Sam’s chin up but leaves his fingers there seconds too long and then more seconds.
“Dean, come on,” Sam says. “Wanted an excuse to put your hands and… mouth all over me, coulda just said.”
“Shut up, let me finish.” Hair falls in his lap and if he were any kind of sentimental, he’d pick up every last one and keep them in a plastic bag in the back of his car. But he brushes them off and doesn’t watch them fall away.
Careful not to cut to much or it’ll be just one last thing he’ll never forgive himself for.
He says “Done,” but doesn’t think he wants to be. He turns Sam around and hops off the counter.
“Looks good, don’t it?”
Stands behind him while Sam runs a hand through his hair.
“Yeah,” he says too soft. “Not bad, Dean.” His eyes in the mirror are on Dean’s, then on Dean’s lips as he turns around. But objects in the mirror are closer than they appear so their chests are touching and all the way down to their knees. Sam breathes Dean’s name out a couple times.
“I’m right here, Sam. Right here,” The feel of Sams lips against his sinks into the empty spaces between his bones where Sam’s never been. He doesn’t think there’s anywhere else.
Dean finds the light switch and flicks it off blindly. They make it to the bed, somehow. He thinks of twelve years of falling into bed with his brother and how it’s too dark to see now but the bedspread is the same color as that rose Lucifer’d cradled in a hand that had always been too delicate for Dean’s overgrown little brother.
And of being thirteen and the way Sam had looked at him then and knowing they would always end up here.
Sam sits up and then Dean. Dean grabs one of Sam’s hands and runs his fingers over twenty-seven years of rough lines and soft scars. Sam presses a thumb to the corner of Dean’s eye.
“Hey, Dean, don’t. Not you, man, don’t… cry… you….”
Dean tugs away from him.
“Not fucking crying.”
Sam cups his cheek hand and pulls him close enough to press their lips together. Dean leans back on his elbows and opens his mouth wide for his brother. He slides his lips down Sam’s chin and opens them against his neck. Wishes he could mark up that pretty skin because Sam might be Lucifer’s vessel, sure. Born and raised to walk around with the devil under his skin. But he was Dean’s brother first. If he could press against Sam’s arms and make him singe with the feel of his hands, he thinks it’d be enough to-
-He thinks it’d be enough.
Sam grips the back of Dean’s neck and then kisses him and Dean squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, which he is, and Sam says “but it’ll be alright” and Dean lies back against the bedspread that’s the color Sam’s blood had been when Dean’d buried his face in Sam’s hair and let Sam’s blood pool in his hand, and Dean pulls Sam down on top of him and holds his lips against Sam’s for a couple seconds but he looks at the clock and it’s been an hour and then sickeningly pale light drowns them both and it’s hard to breathe and then Dean can’t hold back the light anymore and so it’s morning, somehow.
And Sam’s going to save the world today.
a/n: I think probably the night Sam said yes to Lucifer was the same day Dean told him he was on board with that plan but maybe there was a whole day in between and it happened exactly like this, clearly. Crying and chick flick moments and socially awkward last day on earth and all.