Breathe To Make Me Breathe [Sam/Dean, R]
So. I hereby officially award myself ten points for writing tonight and negative a million for not writing the damn deadline fic. Let's not do the math on that one; it's not pretty.
Breathe To Make Me Breathe [Sam/Dean, R]
Sam's got ten thousand dollars, the New Jersey page of the atlas, and a brother who's apparently quite content to drop dead.
Also, I suck at writing summaries.
This is a coda to 3.06 ("Red Sky at Morning") which I started in November, worked on in May, and finished now. The title is from the song "Breathe" by Midge Ure. madame_meretrix was kind enough to beta the May version for me.
Breathe To Make Me Breathe
Dean’s flushed, pressed up against the side of the table and laughing. He’s winning. Not in the grand scheme of things, but here, now, in this moment.
He gets what he can out of this life. Makes the little things count, always has, and Sam knows it’s got more to do with the fact that there are no big things, no untarnished victories, than anything else, but for tonight he just wants to push that aside-push everything aside-and watch his brother smile.
Technically, they’re fighting.
That’s why Sam’s at the other end of the table, watching, trying to blend. He throws a bet down occasionally, red to Dean’s black, keeps them close to even.
Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, and in a world where souls are bought and sold, well-Sam’s not ruling anything out.
They prowl the casino later, twenty feet of empty air an invisible lifeline between them.
“If you’re done looking at my ass…” Dean calls over his shoulder, eventually. He stops, hovers on the balls of his feet like he’s gonna play it off as a pause, keep on walking if Sam doesn’t close the gap.
It’s been a long time since Sam’s been willing to walk away from Dean and not look back. He’s still holding out hope that Dean’ll figure that out, one of these days. For now, there’s not much he can do besides proving it over and over again, coming back in every door he goes out.
Dean eyes the counterfeit sky overhead, the lights flashing in the distance, everything but Sam’s approach.
Anger sparks deep in Sam’s chest at that, reignites the hostility he’s been holding at bay all night, and he fights to keep it buried, invisible. This is Dean’s apology, his real apology, marked by contrition rather than words, but it’s not what Sam wants.
“Look, I know you’re pissed,” he says when Sam’s close enough to touch, “but you got this not-talking-to-me shit down, man.”
“Mastered it in college,” Sam answers, and Dean snorts out a huff of air that could be agreement, could be fuck you, too.
It’s just salt in an old wound, though; soothes as much as it stings, somehow, and when Sam walks on ahead, he doesn’t have to look back to know Dean will follow.
He knows why Dean wanted to come here, and there’s no hidden motive, no secret agenda. It’s a night off, a temporary escape, a little thrill to collect and eventually heap by the fistful into the empty space where someone else’s milestone might go. He would’ve made the same beeline six months ago, or even six years ago, and that’s the problem.
Sam leads them onto an escalator and the relentless thrum of life fades to background noise as the gaming floor falls away below them. The balcony level is nearly deserted, and in the dim timelessness of the casino, perpetual night sky low overhead, it feels like maybe they’ve already lost.
He follows the curve of the railing, watches the meaningless ebb and flow of bodies below until he hears Dean’s footsteps stutter behind him. Their rhythm disintegrates, every third step in unison, then every fourth, then none at all, and it sounds like giving up.
He rounds on Dean quickly, precisely.
“I want you to care,” he says.
The words fall away from his lips like empty air, like he hasn’t spoken at all, so he says it again with his hands, one on Dean’s chest and one on his hip, dull thud as the railing connects with his lower back.
It’s like a whisper pressed to a deaf man’s ear; Dean’s heartbeat doesn’t race under Sam’s palm, his face doesn’t change. They know each other too well.
His palms itch against Dean’s shirt, against his jeans. He wants to pull back an inch, put the space back between them; pull back a day or a year or a lifetime, start over from scratch, find a path that doesn’t lead them here.
More than anything, he wants to press in close and never let go.
Dean doesn’t flinch when Sam’s fists tighten against him, and it’s so easy to spin him around, thump the heel of his palm against Dean’s back to steal his breath, shove him forward until he’s unbalanced, bent dangerously over the railing.
“I want you,” he says, and it comes out lower, rougher than he intended, “to fucking care.”
He’s desperate to turn it into a question, but he can’t bring himself to ask.
A shudder rocks through him; his hands shake against Dean’s body, and he can’t tell if he’s absorbing the motion or creating it, seizing with the aftershocks of the fear he needs Dean to be feeling right now.
There’s no struggle, though.
Dean doesn’t make promises or apologies, doesn’t look scared. He doesn’t say a word when Sam hauls him back onto solid ground, shoves him away from the edge.
Sam almost laughs, swallows it down and comes out with a grunt instead, strangled and desperate. He knows this like a fragment of a half-remembered dream; the details are missing, but he knows that Dean won’t break, won’t even bend because Sam can’t scare him. Not with force. Not even when there’s someone else driving his body.
That’s the worst part.
That Sam’s the only one who can save him, who can make Dean want to save himself, and there’s nothing more he can do.
It’s frustration that drives him up against Dean, pinning him to the wall, and desperation that urges him even closer. He can feel the hot echo of his breath against Dean’s neck, can feel his leg locked against Dean’s like they’re fused somehow, inseparable.
Dean doesn’t recoil when Sam kisses him, a rough, biting clash, like teeth and tongue might scare him into caring about his life in a way that words and vacant threats never could.
He steals Dean’s breath, replaces it with his own as though it’s just that simple, as though he can breathe Dean’s life back into him before it’s even gone.
Sam doesn’t move, afterward, doesn’t speak.
In the stillness, he listens for the hushed rhythm of air entering and leaving Dean’s lungs, aligns his own breathing to match, takes in each breath slowly, deliberately, as though it counts for Dean, too.
“C’mon, I want to hit the buffet,” Dean says, after a minute. “I never tried sushi. You think they have sushi here?” He starts toward the escalator and then turns, waits for Sam to follow. When Sam starts walking, he says, “Or we could wait. I mean, we passed that steakhouse and, uh. Sushi’s not going anywhere, right?”
###
Breathe To Make Me Breathe [Sam/Dean, R]
Sam's got ten thousand dollars, the New Jersey page of the atlas, and a brother who's apparently quite content to drop dead.
Also, I suck at writing summaries.
This is a coda to 3.06 ("Red Sky at Morning") which I started in November, worked on in May, and finished now. The title is from the song "Breathe" by Midge Ure. madame_meretrix was kind enough to beta the May version for me.
Breathe To Make Me Breathe
Dean’s flushed, pressed up against the side of the table and laughing. He’s winning. Not in the grand scheme of things, but here, now, in this moment.
He gets what he can out of this life. Makes the little things count, always has, and Sam knows it’s got more to do with the fact that there are no big things, no untarnished victories, than anything else, but for tonight he just wants to push that aside-push everything aside-and watch his brother smile.
Technically, they’re fighting.
That’s why Sam’s at the other end of the table, watching, trying to blend. He throws a bet down occasionally, red to Dean’s black, keeps them close to even.
Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, and in a world where souls are bought and sold, well-Sam’s not ruling anything out.
They prowl the casino later, twenty feet of empty air an invisible lifeline between them.
“If you’re done looking at my ass…” Dean calls over his shoulder, eventually. He stops, hovers on the balls of his feet like he’s gonna play it off as a pause, keep on walking if Sam doesn’t close the gap.
It’s been a long time since Sam’s been willing to walk away from Dean and not look back. He’s still holding out hope that Dean’ll figure that out, one of these days. For now, there’s not much he can do besides proving it over and over again, coming back in every door he goes out.
Dean eyes the counterfeit sky overhead, the lights flashing in the distance, everything but Sam’s approach.
Anger sparks deep in Sam’s chest at that, reignites the hostility he’s been holding at bay all night, and he fights to keep it buried, invisible. This is Dean’s apology, his real apology, marked by contrition rather than words, but it’s not what Sam wants.
“Look, I know you’re pissed,” he says when Sam’s close enough to touch, “but you got this not-talking-to-me shit down, man.”
“Mastered it in college,” Sam answers, and Dean snorts out a huff of air that could be agreement, could be fuck you, too.
It’s just salt in an old wound, though; soothes as much as it stings, somehow, and when Sam walks on ahead, he doesn’t have to look back to know Dean will follow.
He knows why Dean wanted to come here, and there’s no hidden motive, no secret agenda. It’s a night off, a temporary escape, a little thrill to collect and eventually heap by the fistful into the empty space where someone else’s milestone might go. He would’ve made the same beeline six months ago, or even six years ago, and that’s the problem.
Sam leads them onto an escalator and the relentless thrum of life fades to background noise as the gaming floor falls away below them. The balcony level is nearly deserted, and in the dim timelessness of the casino, perpetual night sky low overhead, it feels like maybe they’ve already lost.
He follows the curve of the railing, watches the meaningless ebb and flow of bodies below until he hears Dean’s footsteps stutter behind him. Their rhythm disintegrates, every third step in unison, then every fourth, then none at all, and it sounds like giving up.
He rounds on Dean quickly, precisely.
“I want you to care,” he says.
The words fall away from his lips like empty air, like he hasn’t spoken at all, so he says it again with his hands, one on Dean’s chest and one on his hip, dull thud as the railing connects with his lower back.
It’s like a whisper pressed to a deaf man’s ear; Dean’s heartbeat doesn’t race under Sam’s palm, his face doesn’t change. They know each other too well.
His palms itch against Dean’s shirt, against his jeans. He wants to pull back an inch, put the space back between them; pull back a day or a year or a lifetime, start over from scratch, find a path that doesn’t lead them here.
More than anything, he wants to press in close and never let go.
Dean doesn’t flinch when Sam’s fists tighten against him, and it’s so easy to spin him around, thump the heel of his palm against Dean’s back to steal his breath, shove him forward until he’s unbalanced, bent dangerously over the railing.
“I want you,” he says, and it comes out lower, rougher than he intended, “to fucking care.”
He’s desperate to turn it into a question, but he can’t bring himself to ask.
A shudder rocks through him; his hands shake against Dean’s body, and he can’t tell if he’s absorbing the motion or creating it, seizing with the aftershocks of the fear he needs Dean to be feeling right now.
There’s no struggle, though.
Dean doesn’t make promises or apologies, doesn’t look scared. He doesn’t say a word when Sam hauls him back onto solid ground, shoves him away from the edge.
Sam almost laughs, swallows it down and comes out with a grunt instead, strangled and desperate. He knows this like a fragment of a half-remembered dream; the details are missing, but he knows that Dean won’t break, won’t even bend because Sam can’t scare him. Not with force. Not even when there’s someone else driving his body.
That’s the worst part.
That Sam’s the only one who can save him, who can make Dean want to save himself, and there’s nothing more he can do.
It’s frustration that drives him up against Dean, pinning him to the wall, and desperation that urges him even closer. He can feel the hot echo of his breath against Dean’s neck, can feel his leg locked against Dean’s like they’re fused somehow, inseparable.
Dean doesn’t recoil when Sam kisses him, a rough, biting clash, like teeth and tongue might scare him into caring about his life in a way that words and vacant threats never could.
He steals Dean’s breath, replaces it with his own as though it’s just that simple, as though he can breathe Dean’s life back into him before it’s even gone.
Sam doesn’t move, afterward, doesn’t speak.
In the stillness, he listens for the hushed rhythm of air entering and leaving Dean’s lungs, aligns his own breathing to match, takes in each breath slowly, deliberately, as though it counts for Dean, too.
“C’mon, I want to hit the buffet,” Dean says, after a minute. “I never tried sushi. You think they have sushi here?” He starts toward the escalator and then turns, waits for Sam to follow. When Sam starts walking, he says, “Or we could wait. I mean, we passed that steakhouse and, uh. Sushi’s not going anywhere, right?”
###