Ficlet: Lift Me Down
Genre: gen, speculative ficlet-thing
Characters: Sam, Dean
Warnings/Spoilers: S11
Word Count: 230
Summary: “Is this the place,” Sam says, shifts in shotgun.
Sam & Dean and the Empty, for laughablelament.
"Is this the place," Sam says, shifts in shotgun.
He's nervous, Dean knows, sure as the pollen and the promise.
Dean pops the lid of the cooler, looks fond on the longnecks sun-splitting like tigereye. Snag two, drop the lid.
"Want me to--"
"I got it," Sam says, levers his trunk from the seat, the frame, tall and swaying on his shy bones.
"Whoa," Dean's arms go out, flush to horizon, but he doesn’t catch, don’t carry as he might have once done, in his best vows.
Sam puts his weight down wrong, kicks up dust, winces quick at the dryline.
Dean spreads the blanket in the wheat, waits.
It's been some time, could be. If this is Empty, you wouldn't know; it's America, amber and heaven, spacious and wave, weather. A car; a canyon. All here.
"This is the place," Dean says.
Sam goes slow, lips thinning as he stops, stoops, goes down all the way in the summer grain, redwings stripping back into sky. Goes all the way down in the bowl of his brother’s lap, a hollow.
Dean drops his head. Bends it. Kisses his brother on the brow, again.
This is the place, fronts-meet, crosshair, memory, dead-center of the edge, vast; this is the place. Here they're stalk, shoot, leave; germs, whatever comes. Two hurts worth mending, sowing.
Space two-souls-wide for an oak to grow down in; home.
On AO3
Characters: Sam, Dean
Warnings/Spoilers: S11
Word Count: 230
Summary: “Is this the place,” Sam says, shifts in shotgun.
Sam & Dean and the Empty, for laughablelament.
"Is this the place," Sam says, shifts in shotgun.
He's nervous, Dean knows, sure as the pollen and the promise.
Dean pops the lid of the cooler, looks fond on the longnecks sun-splitting like tigereye. Snag two, drop the lid.
"Want me to--"
"I got it," Sam says, levers his trunk from the seat, the frame, tall and swaying on his shy bones.
"Whoa," Dean's arms go out, flush to horizon, but he doesn’t catch, don’t carry as he might have once done, in his best vows.
Sam puts his weight down wrong, kicks up dust, winces quick at the dryline.
Dean spreads the blanket in the wheat, waits.
It's been some time, could be. If this is Empty, you wouldn't know; it's America, amber and heaven, spacious and wave, weather. A car; a canyon. All here.
"This is the place," Dean says.
Sam goes slow, lips thinning as he stops, stoops, goes down all the way in the summer grain, redwings stripping back into sky. Goes all the way down in the bowl of his brother’s lap, a hollow.
Dean drops his head. Bends it. Kisses his brother on the brow, again.
This is the place, fronts-meet, crosshair, memory, dead-center of the edge, vast; this is the place. Here they're stalk, shoot, leave; germs, whatever comes. Two hurts worth mending, sowing.
Space two-souls-wide for an oak to grow down in; home.
On AO3