Just a Hole in Arizona: 26 and 30
Just a Hole in Arizona
Header post | 8 and 12 | 15 and 19 | 18 and 22 | 20 and 24 | 26 and 30
They finally got to the Grand Canyon.
Sam laid down on his belly to look over the edge, his head and one arm dangling down. There was a twisted, stubby pine growing out over the edge next to him, knotted and warped and hardly recognizable as a tree. It had none of that austere beauty Dean had recognized sometimes, in pictures of bonsai; instead, it just looked defeated by the constant stresses of wind and rock. Dean wondered vaguely whether it could ever grow straight again, if you replanted it now.
Geek-boy was talking excitedly about strata and erosion patterns and fossil evidence and Hualapai creation myths. All Dean could see was the curve of his ass under his jeans and the way the pervasive red dust stuck to the small of his back.
Sam rolled over, sitting up awkwardly and looking up at him. "What is it? I thought this was what you wanted. I mean, Dean, we finally got here-"
The only thing to do, obviously, was to drop to the dirt and cover Sam's mouth with his own. Dean kissed him like they hadn't kissed in months, and the worry lines on Sam's face smoothed like magic. Dean finally broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to Sam's and cupping the back of his neck roughly.
"Yeah. Yeah, we finally got here."
---------------------------------------------------------------
They spread out their sleeping bags that evening, while the vast emptiness beside them glowed gold and rose and dusky purple under the slanting sunlight. Sam shoved a rolled-up blanket under Dean's hips and covered Dean's body with his own, rocking gently and lacing their fingers together on the dirt above Dean's head.
Sam gasped quietly as he entered Dean, mouthing at the back of his neck. His muscles quivered with the strain of maintaining that same slow, steady rocking, implacable even as Dean bucked back against him with needy noises. When Sam finally reached down to wrap his palm around Dean's cock and thumb the tip roughly, Dean felt his fingers scrabbling desperately at the scrubby grass and weeds. There were no sheets to fist his hands in, nothing to hang on to as he felt himself come apart and Sam's voice shook in his ear, "I've got you. It's okay, I've got you."
Afterwards, Dean rolled onto his side and inspected the dry, pale dirt under his fingernails. Sam made a questioning noise, and Dean looked back at him.
"It really exists."
"What, Dean, the Grand Canyon? Yeah, it does. Dork."
Not the Grand Canyon. The end of the war. The rest of their lives. What now?
The sun had set and the color show was gone. The canyon loomed next to him, an unimaginable, unfathomable blankness. They had spread out on perfectly flat ground 50 yards from any kind of drop, but still Dean felt a sudden, terrifying attack of vertigo and pressed his face into the sleeping bag. There was nothing to grab onto, nothing to hold him against the dust, and Dean was just about to start berating himself for the stupidest, wussiest panic attack of all time when Sam rolled over with a grunt, threw one Sasquatch arm heavily across his back and buried his face against Dean's neck.
------------------------------------------------------------
They were taking one last long look the next morning when a dusty Winnebago rolled up. A couple got out, all dolled up in bright Hawaiian shirts and sunhats, the husband clutching a camera and guidebook.
Dean got them arranged properly, flashed a bright, brittle smile and said, "Say cheese!"
They hung around, ooh-ing and aah-ing as the brothers rolled up their sleeping bags. The guy, name of Richard, even offered them breakfast- scrambled eggs brought out from the tiny camper kitchen on bright blue plastic plates. They ate facing the edge, Richard and Barbara on little folding picnic chairs and Sam and Dean on their bedrolls. Barbara waved off their help with the dishes, so Dean sat there with Richard trying to orchestrate a friendly goodbye before the subject of grandkids came up.
"It's just so far down," Richard exclaimed suddenly.
Dean bit back a "Duh."
"I mean, it's so deep. How can anything go that far down? It's like looking down into the mouth of hell or something."
Out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Sam go suddenly, frighteningly still. He didn't move again from his spot by the twisted pine until Dean and Richard did their goodbyes, handshakes, jokes about the romance of the open road. As the RV grumbled to life and pulled away, he finally spoke.
"Actually, it's not like that at all."
Header post | 8 and 12 | 15 and 19 | 18 and 22 | 20 and 24 | 26 and 30
They finally got to the Grand Canyon.
Sam laid down on his belly to look over the edge, his head and one arm dangling down. There was a twisted, stubby pine growing out over the edge next to him, knotted and warped and hardly recognizable as a tree. It had none of that austere beauty Dean had recognized sometimes, in pictures of bonsai; instead, it just looked defeated by the constant stresses of wind and rock. Dean wondered vaguely whether it could ever grow straight again, if you replanted it now.
Geek-boy was talking excitedly about strata and erosion patterns and fossil evidence and Hualapai creation myths. All Dean could see was the curve of his ass under his jeans and the way the pervasive red dust stuck to the small of his back.
Sam rolled over, sitting up awkwardly and looking up at him. "What is it? I thought this was what you wanted. I mean, Dean, we finally got here-"
The only thing to do, obviously, was to drop to the dirt and cover Sam's mouth with his own. Dean kissed him like they hadn't kissed in months, and the worry lines on Sam's face smoothed like magic. Dean finally broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to Sam's and cupping the back of his neck roughly.
"Yeah. Yeah, we finally got here."
---------------------------------------------------------------
They spread out their sleeping bags that evening, while the vast emptiness beside them glowed gold and rose and dusky purple under the slanting sunlight. Sam shoved a rolled-up blanket under Dean's hips and covered Dean's body with his own, rocking gently and lacing their fingers together on the dirt above Dean's head.
Sam gasped quietly as he entered Dean, mouthing at the back of his neck. His muscles quivered with the strain of maintaining that same slow, steady rocking, implacable even as Dean bucked back against him with needy noises. When Sam finally reached down to wrap his palm around Dean's cock and thumb the tip roughly, Dean felt his fingers scrabbling desperately at the scrubby grass and weeds. There were no sheets to fist his hands in, nothing to hang on to as he felt himself come apart and Sam's voice shook in his ear, "I've got you. It's okay, I've got you."
Afterwards, Dean rolled onto his side and inspected the dry, pale dirt under his fingernails. Sam made a questioning noise, and Dean looked back at him.
"It really exists."
"What, Dean, the Grand Canyon? Yeah, it does. Dork."
Not the Grand Canyon. The end of the war. The rest of their lives. What now?
The sun had set and the color show was gone. The canyon loomed next to him, an unimaginable, unfathomable blankness. They had spread out on perfectly flat ground 50 yards from any kind of drop, but still Dean felt a sudden, terrifying attack of vertigo and pressed his face into the sleeping bag. There was nothing to grab onto, nothing to hold him against the dust, and Dean was just about to start berating himself for the stupidest, wussiest panic attack of all time when Sam rolled over with a grunt, threw one Sasquatch arm heavily across his back and buried his face against Dean's neck.
------------------------------------------------------------
They were taking one last long look the next morning when a dusty Winnebago rolled up. A couple got out, all dolled up in bright Hawaiian shirts and sunhats, the husband clutching a camera and guidebook.
Dean got them arranged properly, flashed a bright, brittle smile and said, "Say cheese!"
They hung around, ooh-ing and aah-ing as the brothers rolled up their sleeping bags. The guy, name of Richard, even offered them breakfast- scrambled eggs brought out from the tiny camper kitchen on bright blue plastic plates. They ate facing the edge, Richard and Barbara on little folding picnic chairs and Sam and Dean on their bedrolls. Barbara waved off their help with the dishes, so Dean sat there with Richard trying to orchestrate a friendly goodbye before the subject of grandkids came up.
"It's just so far down," Richard exclaimed suddenly.
Dean bit back a "Duh."
"I mean, it's so deep. How can anything go that far down? It's like looking down into the mouth of hell or something."
Out of the corner of his eye Dean saw Sam go suddenly, frighteningly still. He didn't move again from his spot by the twisted pine until Dean and Richard did their goodbyes, handshakes, jokes about the romance of the open road. As the RV grumbled to life and pulled away, he finally spoke.
"Actually, it's not like that at all."