fic: MMOM #17: What Jail is Like (Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel)
Title: What Jail is Like
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Sam, Dean and Castiel are not belong to me.
Word Count: 1400 (I keep trying for drabbles! Not happening!)
Notes: Post-Season 4. Songficcy? Lyrics and title from the Afghan Whigs song “What Jail is Like” (which is going to be my depressing Sam summer song, I know it): download the song
Request: A part of me does want to apologize for posting non-beta’d fics on a daily basis. Because of time constraints, my own peace of mind, and general avoidance of reality, I knew that was bound to happen with this challenge in particular. But if you are reading these stories and thinking, “These would be so much better if they only had ____________ or _____________, or if she would only fix ______________,” and you are willing to beta read in the future, please let me know. Thank you!
They were halfway through New Mexico, heading east for Texas.
I’ll warn you, if cornered, I’ll scratch my way out of the pen
Wired, an animal, the claustrophobia begins
For five hours, Sam had been staring at nothing while driving down the highway with the windows open.
He couldn’t help but see nothing out there. If the world ends, it will be his fault. If all this was worth saving, they will have to be the ones to do it. All that was important to him, and all that he despised, was sitting in this car.
Sam, his brother Dean, and the angel Castiel.
You think I’m scared of girls, well maybe
But I’m not afraid of you
You want to scare me then you’ll cling to me no matter what I do…
Dean had stuck with him, though the coldness never left. Sam rarely spoke, but Dean didn’t notice. He had other distractions, sitting in the car with his guardian angel.
Dean was sitting on the seat behind him; Sam figured it was because he couldn’t look him in the eye that way unless Dean wanted him to. Sam tried to make eye contact with him every time he spoke, but his brother wasn’t having it. Dean withheld his eyes when he wanted to punish; he used them ruthlessly when he wanted anything else. Sam knew that; he knew it better than anyone.
So when Dean spoke to Castiel in soft tones, when he opened his eyes the widest and stood inches from Castiel, never looking away, when he moved his irises under his eyelashes, changed the tilt of his head, the warmth of his gaze… Sam knew exactly what it meant.
He’d seen it before. No. He’d experienced it before. It had all been for him. And Sam knew what it meant.
It meant the world, Dean’s world, and it had all been for him.
Not anymore, after what he’d done.
You think I’m proud of this, well maybe
But the shame you never lose
Infatuated with a lunatic and cornered by the muse
Sam knew lust, and desperation, and the kind of need that had no answer. The kind that would make Dean do exactly what he’s doing now.
Sam kept the windows down at full blast so he wouldn’t hear the low constant rumble of Castiel’s voice. He’d thought Castiel was laconic, stoic, terse and cold. He’d been wrong about all of it.
Castiel never stopped talking. Usually about prophecies, and Heaven, and thousands of years of history. Biblical gossip. He talked about Dean too, and the life he’d seen. Memories from his childhood, and memories about Mom.
Sam could still hear the tones if not the words. Soft tones. Wondrous tones. Serious and curious and praising. It drove him crazy.
All of it for Dean, his brother.
So Sam watched the road before him, and sometimes glanced in the rearview mirror to see the top of Dean’s head, his arm over the backseat, his leg propped up on the cushions next to him. If he allowed himself to hear it, he could discern the rumble of Castiel’s voice from where he was resting his head on Dean’s thigh.
He imagined his brother’s hand caressing the angel’s hair as he spoke, the feel of his calloused hands against his cheek, the firm touch of comfort and acceptance and family. If he allowed himself to, he could remember that feeling, very well.
And it goes down every night
This must be what jail is really like
And I will scratch my way out of this pen, again…
Sam had never felt jealously before. Before Castiel, he’d had no reason to. In their whole life together, Sam had never seen Dean care about anyone to rival himself. Nothing like love.
What Sam had felt for Ruby was not love. He didn’t believe in it anymore. He thought Dean didn’t either; he never searched for it, he never talked about it, had never expressed a desire for anything beyond a one-night stand. Sam saw the sitcom images in Dean’s dreams - picnics and playgrounds and birthday parties. That wasn’t Dean.
And Ruby wasn’t Sam. Jessica wasn’t Sam either. He knew that now. Dean had always been for Sam, but the monster in Sam had twisted everything around, had wanted so badly to be rid of Dean’s gaze forever, to never have to live up to it again, to deceive it and beat it down and strangle it until it was gone.
So he had.
If what you’re shoveling is company
Then I’d rather be alone
It’s just is always goes much further than it was supposed to go
But Dean will never leave. Sam knew that. He may not talk to Sam for days, may not even look him in the eye. But Dean was never leaving.
Well, neither was Sam. Where else was he supposed to go? They knew the results now of their indiscretions, their false hopes. Sam couldn’t take back what he had done, and as bad as it had looked at the time, hindsight was worse. Time would heal nothing. If they were successful, the best he could hope for was a way to make this right, to where the apocalypse wouldn’t come to this shitty hellhole of a world, to where they just might be able to survive. Barely.
He would never be as good as he was. He would never know that certainly. He would never have Dean’s love again. He believed that.
Still, Sam had memories, a lifetime of them. They comforted him, teased him, visited him -- hard and needy and yearning - in the night. They were of Dean, always Dean.
And it goes down every night
This must be what jail is really like
And I will scratch my way out of this pen, again…
Sam couldn’t think of a past when Dean was as close as this. He tried to think of anything else than what was going on in the back seat. It wouldn’t work though. As certain as the road before him, he would be thinking of the image in his rearview mirror tonight, cursing his fate, brutally touching himself and whining high in his throat like a kicked dog…
Dean’s hand gripped the backseat until his knuckles were white. Sam couldn’t hear Castiel’s voice anymore, only the shifting of clothes and bodies on vinyl, the sounds of wetness. He couldn’t see the angel at all, probably at his brother’s feet, where he liked to be.
All Sam really cared about was the look on Dean’s face, eyes shut, head thrown back in ecstasy, knuckles between his teeth, his whole body lifting off the seat and back down again, down into Castiel’s oh-so-willing mouth.
It was always Castiel’s mouth. As far as Sam knew, they limited their encounters to acts which wouldn’t go against god’s law. As long as Castiel kept his clothes on and didn’t defile any other part of his body, they would be safe. Sam, for his part, had to live with a constant stream of make-out marathons and heavenly blow-jobs; nights where Castiel would order Dean to do just about anything in the hotel room next door, while he listened through the walls as Dean obeyed…
Before Dean’s death, he would have been so happy… If Dean had found a girl, had wanted a normal life, had tried to make it work, Sam would have done anything for him.
But the angel was anything but normal. He was dangerous, and powerful, and inhuman. His kind had started everything down this path, as much as Dean and Sam ever did. Dean either didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. Sam wondered, not for the first time, if he had been the one with wings, or grace, or platitudes, if Dean would have chosen him again, looked at him again. If he had saved Dean from Hell instead of Castiel, if all of this would have been different.
He had saved Dean from Alastair, from Samhain, from Lilith, and more stunt demons than he could count… He had even saved Castiel once or twice. Didn’t that matter? Didn’t that count for something too?
But Sam knew it didn’t. Castiel was an angel of the lord, and he was a monster. Nothing would change that. They didn’t even care that he was there, sitting inches away from them in the front seat.
Ignored, he looked in the rearview mirror. He watched Dean come, head tilted completely back, chin extended, his cry echoing against the back window. It was loud to his ears, and endlessly cruel.
Then Sam turned back to the wheel as he drove east, looking at nothing but never-ending road and desert.
The End
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/Castiel
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Sam, Dean and Castiel are not belong to me.
Word Count: 1400 (I keep trying for drabbles! Not happening!)
Notes: Post-Season 4. Songficcy? Lyrics and title from the Afghan Whigs song “What Jail is Like” (which is going to be my depressing Sam summer song, I know it): download the song
Request: A part of me does want to apologize for posting non-beta’d fics on a daily basis. Because of time constraints, my own peace of mind, and general avoidance of reality, I knew that was bound to happen with this challenge in particular. But if you are reading these stories and thinking, “These would be so much better if they only had ____________ or _____________, or if she would only fix ______________,” and you are willing to beta read in the future, please let me know. Thank you!
They were halfway through New Mexico, heading east for Texas.
I’ll warn you, if cornered, I’ll scratch my way out of the pen
Wired, an animal, the claustrophobia begins
For five hours, Sam had been staring at nothing while driving down the highway with the windows open.
He couldn’t help but see nothing out there. If the world ends, it will be his fault. If all this was worth saving, they will have to be the ones to do it. All that was important to him, and all that he despised, was sitting in this car.
Sam, his brother Dean, and the angel Castiel.
You think I’m scared of girls, well maybe
But I’m not afraid of you
You want to scare me then you’ll cling to me no matter what I do…
Dean had stuck with him, though the coldness never left. Sam rarely spoke, but Dean didn’t notice. He had other distractions, sitting in the car with his guardian angel.
Dean was sitting on the seat behind him; Sam figured it was because he couldn’t look him in the eye that way unless Dean wanted him to. Sam tried to make eye contact with him every time he spoke, but his brother wasn’t having it. Dean withheld his eyes when he wanted to punish; he used them ruthlessly when he wanted anything else. Sam knew that; he knew it better than anyone.
So when Dean spoke to Castiel in soft tones, when he opened his eyes the widest and stood inches from Castiel, never looking away, when he moved his irises under his eyelashes, changed the tilt of his head, the warmth of his gaze… Sam knew exactly what it meant.
He’d seen it before. No. He’d experienced it before. It had all been for him. And Sam knew what it meant.
It meant the world, Dean’s world, and it had all been for him.
Not anymore, after what he’d done.
You think I’m proud of this, well maybe
But the shame you never lose
Infatuated with a lunatic and cornered by the muse
Sam knew lust, and desperation, and the kind of need that had no answer. The kind that would make Dean do exactly what he’s doing now.
Sam kept the windows down at full blast so he wouldn’t hear the low constant rumble of Castiel’s voice. He’d thought Castiel was laconic, stoic, terse and cold. He’d been wrong about all of it.
Castiel never stopped talking. Usually about prophecies, and Heaven, and thousands of years of history. Biblical gossip. He talked about Dean too, and the life he’d seen. Memories from his childhood, and memories about Mom.
Sam could still hear the tones if not the words. Soft tones. Wondrous tones. Serious and curious and praising. It drove him crazy.
All of it for Dean, his brother.
So Sam watched the road before him, and sometimes glanced in the rearview mirror to see the top of Dean’s head, his arm over the backseat, his leg propped up on the cushions next to him. If he allowed himself to hear it, he could discern the rumble of Castiel’s voice from where he was resting his head on Dean’s thigh.
He imagined his brother’s hand caressing the angel’s hair as he spoke, the feel of his calloused hands against his cheek, the firm touch of comfort and acceptance and family. If he allowed himself to, he could remember that feeling, very well.
And it goes down every night
This must be what jail is really like
And I will scratch my way out of this pen, again…
Sam had never felt jealously before. Before Castiel, he’d had no reason to. In their whole life together, Sam had never seen Dean care about anyone to rival himself. Nothing like love.
What Sam had felt for Ruby was not love. He didn’t believe in it anymore. He thought Dean didn’t either; he never searched for it, he never talked about it, had never expressed a desire for anything beyond a one-night stand. Sam saw the sitcom images in Dean’s dreams - picnics and playgrounds and birthday parties. That wasn’t Dean.
And Ruby wasn’t Sam. Jessica wasn’t Sam either. He knew that now. Dean had always been for Sam, but the monster in Sam had twisted everything around, had wanted so badly to be rid of Dean’s gaze forever, to never have to live up to it again, to deceive it and beat it down and strangle it until it was gone.
So he had.
If what you’re shoveling is company
Then I’d rather be alone
It’s just is always goes much further than it was supposed to go
But Dean will never leave. Sam knew that. He may not talk to Sam for days, may not even look him in the eye. But Dean was never leaving.
Well, neither was Sam. Where else was he supposed to go? They knew the results now of their indiscretions, their false hopes. Sam couldn’t take back what he had done, and as bad as it had looked at the time, hindsight was worse. Time would heal nothing. If they were successful, the best he could hope for was a way to make this right, to where the apocalypse wouldn’t come to this shitty hellhole of a world, to where they just might be able to survive. Barely.
He would never be as good as he was. He would never know that certainly. He would never have Dean’s love again. He believed that.
Still, Sam had memories, a lifetime of them. They comforted him, teased him, visited him -- hard and needy and yearning - in the night. They were of Dean, always Dean.
And it goes down every night
This must be what jail is really like
And I will scratch my way out of this pen, again…
Sam couldn’t think of a past when Dean was as close as this. He tried to think of anything else than what was going on in the back seat. It wouldn’t work though. As certain as the road before him, he would be thinking of the image in his rearview mirror tonight, cursing his fate, brutally touching himself and whining high in his throat like a kicked dog…
Dean’s hand gripped the backseat until his knuckles were white. Sam couldn’t hear Castiel’s voice anymore, only the shifting of clothes and bodies on vinyl, the sounds of wetness. He couldn’t see the angel at all, probably at his brother’s feet, where he liked to be.
All Sam really cared about was the look on Dean’s face, eyes shut, head thrown back in ecstasy, knuckles between his teeth, his whole body lifting off the seat and back down again, down into Castiel’s oh-so-willing mouth.
It was always Castiel’s mouth. As far as Sam knew, they limited their encounters to acts which wouldn’t go against god’s law. As long as Castiel kept his clothes on and didn’t defile any other part of his body, they would be safe. Sam, for his part, had to live with a constant stream of make-out marathons and heavenly blow-jobs; nights where Castiel would order Dean to do just about anything in the hotel room next door, while he listened through the walls as Dean obeyed…
Before Dean’s death, he would have been so happy… If Dean had found a girl, had wanted a normal life, had tried to make it work, Sam would have done anything for him.
But the angel was anything but normal. He was dangerous, and powerful, and inhuman. His kind had started everything down this path, as much as Dean and Sam ever did. Dean either didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. Sam wondered, not for the first time, if he had been the one with wings, or grace, or platitudes, if Dean would have chosen him again, looked at him again. If he had saved Dean from Hell instead of Castiel, if all of this would have been different.
He had saved Dean from Alastair, from Samhain, from Lilith, and more stunt demons than he could count… He had even saved Castiel once or twice. Didn’t that matter? Didn’t that count for something too?
But Sam knew it didn’t. Castiel was an angel of the lord, and he was a monster. Nothing would change that. They didn’t even care that he was there, sitting inches away from them in the front seat.
Ignored, he looked in the rearview mirror. He watched Dean come, head tilted completely back, chin extended, his cry echoing against the back window. It was loud to his ears, and endlessly cruel.
Then Sam turned back to the wheel as he drove east, looking at nothing but never-ending road and desert.
The End