These Things, They Go Away [Gen, PG]
Sweet Charity fic for counteragent. Thank you for waiting so patiently!
These Things, They Go Away [Gen, PG, 1150 words]
West goes Sam.
The urge to explain the hell out of this is strong, but instead, I'll offer the song that provided both title and inspiration: R.E.M.'s "Nightswimming". Beta by the ever amazing electricalgwen.
These Things, They Go Away
Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse.
-R.E.M., “Nightswimming”
There’s a red circle on his door, the product of construction paper and scissors and too much time on someone’s hands, and he reads it like a pin on a map, you are here.
It says SAM, and he feels rechristened, somehow.
“You’re allowed to go in, you know.”
She’s got his ID, a key, some papers.
He’s surprised to see her again so soon, and he’s suddenly sure it was her-her scissors, her excess time. When she sits, her hair falls in pale waves that remind him of the picture Dean calls Mom.
“Or we can just sit out here,” she says.
It’s much later when she asks, “So did you find what you were looking for?” and years later, long after she’s gone, when he finds a way to answer.
*
It takes him minutes to get there and hours to leave.
“You wanna see a lake,” some guy says, “come back in the spring.”
He sits on the shore and looks out over the grassy lakebed, tries to figure out whether it’s the questions that sink and the answers that float away, or the other way around.
It doesn’t matter whether he’s got a right to feel betrayed because he does, and the feeling turns his chest to stone, thick marble that he can carve into any shape he chooses, maybe chiseled lapels and tiny stone buttons, worlds away from the pliable weight of generations old leather.
*
There’s a line in front of the building, a girl at a makeshift desk.
“Name and ID,” she says, and he gives them away easily; he’s gotten along with so much less.
She shuffles lists around, and Sam tracks her search as it narrows; Student, Freshman, N-Z, he’s all these things before he’s a Winchester.
“Where’s the lake?” he asks; flash of blonde, blue accompanies her directions, and he doesn’t listen to anything that follows the brief series of turns, rights and lefts that burn themselves so easily into his memory he’s not sure he didn’t know them already.
*
He wants to sleep, wants to lose himself in the familiar rhythm of wheels on the highway, but his eyes won’t close on any image but Dean.
The bus rocks, and Sam turns the worn pages of his Stanford viewbook. There’s coffee on page three; undulating blotches bleeding out in the middle of the book, a careless bottle of water. There’s real blood near the end; Dean’s, in the smudged shape of Sam’s thumbprint. Kitchen knife, not a monster, four stitches under fluorescent bathroom lights. Under the blood, there’s a picture of a lake, moon over still water.
*
Dean parks on an unlabeled patch of old blacktop, graying, cracked in places where grass could grow through but doesn’t. Sam sinks back, sits as though he’s a part of the car, sewn into it like any other piece of vinyl or leather, while Dean hauls his duffle out onto the pavement and pulls opens the passenger side door.
He’s not sure how long Dean leans up against the car, grasps the edge of the chrome-trimmed hole, waits for Sam to discover a way out.
When both of his feet are on the ground, Dean’s arm locks around his neck, half headlock, half hug; one handed, too tight. Dean’s lips land hard at his temple, and then Dean pushes him out toward the building in the distance.
Halfway there, he’s surprised to find his bag slung over his shoulder, wad of cash in his hand, not surprised to find Dean still leaning back against the car, leather baking on metal, making it personal-making Sam walk away from him, not just away.
*
Sam pretends to sleep, eyes closed, head tilted, back and forth volley of shallow breath between his nose and lungs.
After he says, “You could visit?”
After he looks at Dean, after Dean says, “Sammy,” then, “Don’t you get it?”
Sam pretends to sleep, pretends he was right when he thought he was ready to lose Dad, pretends he knew he was going to lose Dean all along.
*
When Dean pulls over, it’s in a sandy alcove, moon shining cold light over warm summer water. There’s a dock; Dean strips his way down it, bare to the waist, and Sam follows.
“Show me what you’ve got, Sammy,” Dean says, arms out, skin shining silver, and Sam knows this by heart, when to duck and when to lunge, easy twist of ingrained choreography. He spins out of Dean’s reach, waits, spring-loaded, for the next attack.
“Okay,” Dean says, “for real now.” His approach isn’t tango and finesse, it’s force, impetus and exertion, shoulder to hip, and the moon spins as they fall, tangle of limbs under hazy, surface-bright water.
Sam comes up laughing; Dean pulls himself back onto the dock.
“Keep yourself balanced,” he says, leg dragging ripples through the water, wake that laps at Sam’s mouth. “You’re big enough that most people won’t be able to take you down like that.”
Dean’s looking out on the lake, mirroring its glassy flatness, and Sam ducks back under, like the fullness in his chest is just air, slow stream of bubbles he can release beneath the surface. When he comes back up, Dean’s already back at the car.
*
“How far’re we going?” Sam asks, when the sun’s dug six feet under the horizon, pink edged blackness inking the sky, and they haven’t stopped.
Dean shrugs, careless and easy, just one shoulder like he’s split down the middle.
“I don’t know,” he answers. “Far enough.”
*
“Bag’s already in the car,” Dean says when Sam gets back.
The truck’s gone-long gone, maybe, and Sam’s not sure he hasn’t seen it for the last time. He opens his mouth like he’s trying to speak, or maybe taste the scent of abandonment like burnt rubber on the air, left instead of leaving. Disowned, maybe; he tests the word, tries to feel it gunshot-deep, in the places where his bone and muscle meet, but mostly all he feels is cold and tired.
“Come on, Sammy. Let’s go.”
Miles later, he wakes warm and groggy, feels small, cradled in leather and chrome, rubber on road like a lullaby. He’s wrapped up in Dad’s old coat, warmth and weight and spice, and he forces himself back down into sleep before he remembers that it’s Dean’s, now-that he’s Dean’s now, in the same way he’s always been, only now he’s Dean’s alone.
*
There’s a red dot on the map, people dead in west Texas. Dad’s barking orders, and Sam’s packing forever up in a duffle bag again, waiting for the right moment-a moment-to break the news.
It’s a stupid expression, he thinks, hoists his bag up onto his naked bed, yells to let Dean know he’s done.
It’s never the news that breaks.
###
(Random, helpful information: the Stanford campus has a lake-Lake Lagunita-which fills over the winter and dries up in the summer.)
These Things, They Go Away [Gen, PG, 1150 words]
West goes Sam.
The urge to explain the hell out of this is strong, but instead, I'll offer the song that provided both title and inspiration: R.E.M.'s "Nightswimming". Beta by the ever amazing electricalgwen.
These Things, They Go Away
Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse.
-R.E.M., “Nightswimming”
There’s a red circle on his door, the product of construction paper and scissors and too much time on someone’s hands, and he reads it like a pin on a map, you are here.
It says SAM, and he feels rechristened, somehow.
“You’re allowed to go in, you know.”
She’s got his ID, a key, some papers.
He’s surprised to see her again so soon, and he’s suddenly sure it was her-her scissors, her excess time. When she sits, her hair falls in pale waves that remind him of the picture Dean calls Mom.
“Or we can just sit out here,” she says.
It’s much later when she asks, “So did you find what you were looking for?” and years later, long after she’s gone, when he finds a way to answer.
*
It takes him minutes to get there and hours to leave.
“You wanna see a lake,” some guy says, “come back in the spring.”
He sits on the shore and looks out over the grassy lakebed, tries to figure out whether it’s the questions that sink and the answers that float away, or the other way around.
It doesn’t matter whether he’s got a right to feel betrayed because he does, and the feeling turns his chest to stone, thick marble that he can carve into any shape he chooses, maybe chiseled lapels and tiny stone buttons, worlds away from the pliable weight of generations old leather.
*
There’s a line in front of the building, a girl at a makeshift desk.
“Name and ID,” she says, and he gives them away easily; he’s gotten along with so much less.
She shuffles lists around, and Sam tracks her search as it narrows; Student, Freshman, N-Z, he’s all these things before he’s a Winchester.
“Where’s the lake?” he asks; flash of blonde, blue accompanies her directions, and he doesn’t listen to anything that follows the brief series of turns, rights and lefts that burn themselves so easily into his memory he’s not sure he didn’t know them already.
*
He wants to sleep, wants to lose himself in the familiar rhythm of wheels on the highway, but his eyes won’t close on any image but Dean.
The bus rocks, and Sam turns the worn pages of his Stanford viewbook. There’s coffee on page three; undulating blotches bleeding out in the middle of the book, a careless bottle of water. There’s real blood near the end; Dean’s, in the smudged shape of Sam’s thumbprint. Kitchen knife, not a monster, four stitches under fluorescent bathroom lights. Under the blood, there’s a picture of a lake, moon over still water.
*
Dean parks on an unlabeled patch of old blacktop, graying, cracked in places where grass could grow through but doesn’t. Sam sinks back, sits as though he’s a part of the car, sewn into it like any other piece of vinyl or leather, while Dean hauls his duffle out onto the pavement and pulls opens the passenger side door.
He’s not sure how long Dean leans up against the car, grasps the edge of the chrome-trimmed hole, waits for Sam to discover a way out.
When both of his feet are on the ground, Dean’s arm locks around his neck, half headlock, half hug; one handed, too tight. Dean’s lips land hard at his temple, and then Dean pushes him out toward the building in the distance.
Halfway there, he’s surprised to find his bag slung over his shoulder, wad of cash in his hand, not surprised to find Dean still leaning back against the car, leather baking on metal, making it personal-making Sam walk away from him, not just away.
*
Sam pretends to sleep, eyes closed, head tilted, back and forth volley of shallow breath between his nose and lungs.
After he says, “You could visit?”
After he looks at Dean, after Dean says, “Sammy,” then, “Don’t you get it?”
Sam pretends to sleep, pretends he was right when he thought he was ready to lose Dad, pretends he knew he was going to lose Dean all along.
*
When Dean pulls over, it’s in a sandy alcove, moon shining cold light over warm summer water. There’s a dock; Dean strips his way down it, bare to the waist, and Sam follows.
“Show me what you’ve got, Sammy,” Dean says, arms out, skin shining silver, and Sam knows this by heart, when to duck and when to lunge, easy twist of ingrained choreography. He spins out of Dean’s reach, waits, spring-loaded, for the next attack.
“Okay,” Dean says, “for real now.” His approach isn’t tango and finesse, it’s force, impetus and exertion, shoulder to hip, and the moon spins as they fall, tangle of limbs under hazy, surface-bright water.
Sam comes up laughing; Dean pulls himself back onto the dock.
“Keep yourself balanced,” he says, leg dragging ripples through the water, wake that laps at Sam’s mouth. “You’re big enough that most people won’t be able to take you down like that.”
Dean’s looking out on the lake, mirroring its glassy flatness, and Sam ducks back under, like the fullness in his chest is just air, slow stream of bubbles he can release beneath the surface. When he comes back up, Dean’s already back at the car.
*
“How far’re we going?” Sam asks, when the sun’s dug six feet under the horizon, pink edged blackness inking the sky, and they haven’t stopped.
Dean shrugs, careless and easy, just one shoulder like he’s split down the middle.
“I don’t know,” he answers. “Far enough.”
*
“Bag’s already in the car,” Dean says when Sam gets back.
The truck’s gone-long gone, maybe, and Sam’s not sure he hasn’t seen it for the last time. He opens his mouth like he’s trying to speak, or maybe taste the scent of abandonment like burnt rubber on the air, left instead of leaving. Disowned, maybe; he tests the word, tries to feel it gunshot-deep, in the places where his bone and muscle meet, but mostly all he feels is cold and tired.
“Come on, Sammy. Let’s go.”
Miles later, he wakes warm and groggy, feels small, cradled in leather and chrome, rubber on road like a lullaby. He’s wrapped up in Dad’s old coat, warmth and weight and spice, and he forces himself back down into sleep before he remembers that it’s Dean’s, now-that he’s Dean’s now, in the same way he’s always been, only now he’s Dean’s alone.
*
There’s a red dot on the map, people dead in west Texas. Dad’s barking orders, and Sam’s packing forever up in a duffle bag again, waiting for the right moment-a moment-to break the news.
It’s a stupid expression, he thinks, hoists his bag up onto his naked bed, yells to let Dean know he’s done.
It’s never the news that breaks.
###
(Random, helpful information: the Stanford campus has a lake-Lake Lagunita-which fills over the winter and dries up in the summer.)