Supernatural fic: dry skin cracks
dry skin cracks
supernatural, sam/dean, r, 1847 words, spoilers up to heart, this is for the we_take_five ficathon and my prompt, amusingly enough, can be found here. this is also dedicated to vartanluvva because michelle’s pretty much responsible for introducing me to the fandom.
“I’m going to pick a place.”
Our house caught on fire
And I'll never forget the look on my father's face
As he gathered me in his arms and raced to the burning building out on the pavement.
And I stood there shivering and watched the whole world go up in flames.
PJ Harvey| Is that all there is?
-
“I’m going to pick a place.”
Dean swallows, in the car, his knuckles turning white as he shifts into a right, down the intersection. LA driving, Sam remembers dryly. But the words still settle and he means it.
This time. He really does.
“I’m going to pick a place,” he says again, watching his brother’s hands. They tighten, slide into three and nine, and fall to one hand with a sigh. A strange smile fits across Sam’s lips, tired. “Seriously, dude.”
But Dean says nothing.
-
They have an emergency bottle of tequila.
It’s an homage to when we were kids, among other things, but it’s the first item Sam watches him grab as he settles against the frame of the door.
“Why not Mexico?”- For the third time, Dean’s voice is thick, slow, and Sam almost flinches because there’s a calm expectation settling. And that, that always belonged to dad.
He hides himself in a shrug, stepping back and turning into the room. There’s a buzzing of a fly, swallowed into the bathroom and lost to vacancy!. Sam drops back onto the bed, his eyes closing as it groans under his weight. On his back, his hand falls to his stomach with his palm flat against his shirt.
“Bed?”
Sam sighs, “Nah.”
His eyes close, but he knows the routine- Dean kicks a chair close to his side, gun on the night table. He drops and the chair squeaks and Sam (almost always) thinks about turning to watch him, but doesn’t move.
The bottle of tequila goes on the floor, tucked against the side, the leg of the chair or Dean’s boot. It doesn’t matter. Some details slip.
But they stick to silence and Sam wonders why Mexico, again, stopping- it isn’t home and it isn’t a place with a memory (although, Jess laughed a we should get married in Tijuana one year like she was serious) so it makes sense, right? No attachment.
“I don’t-”
“Don’t,” Dean’s quick, quiet, and the chair squeaks again. “Not tonight.”
He already knows. Dean’s got a method since that night.
-
The streetlights paint Dean’s figure at the pay phone.
His hands have stopped shaking since a random gas station in San Francisco, months ago, but it’s nice to remind himself, Sam thinks.
“Hey,” he calls, “we should head back.”
Dean’s hand rises in the air, his palm facing him as the phone drops into place with a loud click. Sam rubs his eyes, leaning against the car and then watching as Dean moves to him.
“Bobby thinks,” Dean pauses, looking away, “- that a break is kinda good.”
Sam nods, but says nothing and holds Dean’s gaze for a moment. They watch each other, carefully, as if they were outweighing the momentary applications they were stepping into. Reason. Reason is good- it was Dad’s shelter, thick and true, something to fall back on. It was the best excuse for obsession and posterity.
“Okay,” he says. But there wasn’t a need to.
Dean mimics a nod and leans forward. He doesn’t touch him and Sam, Sam feels his throat start to turn and dry. His gaze returns to Dean’s after blinking and Bowie, after awhile, reminds Sam that they left the keys in the ignition.
“Fuck Ziggy Stardust.”
Sam’s laugh is dry, his lips turning as Dean’s hand extends and his palm presses against the back of his neck. He shivers when his brother’s fingers curl into his hair and their foreheads drop against each other.
“You know you’re a secret fan, dude,” he breathes, nerves rising.
And the truth starts to surface, close moments, but here it’s finally becoming more than that. Sam’s hand rises and curls around Dean’s shirt as there’s a scuffle and dirt stirs between the two of them.
Understand this: there will never be i can’t do this because promises, the kind that string on from beginning to end, have always been here for everything but show. They can say what they want, but the outcome stays. Once it’s been said, it’s done.
“We should go.”- Dean’s gruff, tired, and his mouth drops to Sam’s jaw, his teeth scraping against his skin.
Sam inhales sharply somewhere between one of Dean’s legs between his and the door pressing against his back. But he says nothing, words lost in Dean’s mouth, his tongue sliding inside his and his hand curling tightly in his hair.
There’s no movement, mouth to mouth, Sam simply breathes out of memory into Dean’s mouth, lips chapped and dry. His cock strains against his jeans because oh, come on, he’s thought about it before. And inevitability, face the fact- it’s eternally more than this.
It’s a serious truth.
Maybe it’s Dean that pulls away, but he can taste blood and there’s a wetness against his chin. Sam doesn’t move.
And Dean’s mouth is at his throat.
-
On the seventh day, Sam feels himself start to slip.
He leaves Dean for the bathroom, turning once to watch him. It’s romantic, the need for memory, but Sam’s more aware that even that won’t stay. So he casts his gaze against the dips and planes of Dean’s back, the sheets winding around his legs- call it an indulgence, one of the things he has left. But those scars are his too, a memory or more, something else he can claim.
The bathroom door closes quietly. And the creaks to open with a peek.
Sam presses his palms against the sink, his eyes pasted around the drain. There’s blood, last night, because vacation and a week off is a load of crap even with this over their heads. He lets his gaze shift to the mirror, painting his reflection in scars and other curiosities.
“Soon, right?” He breathes to no one. And he can only imagine.
Will he feel it?- he wonders. Is the change that certain, a question, giving into impulses and urges that he can’t remember happening.
But there’s nothing, no swings of turning, no moment, no course. He wonders if it’ll be like possession, locked away, tight, or if he’ll know. If the inclination will be his or rather, has always been his, he’s just chosen to ignore the growing obviousness.
And will Dean know?
Will Dean know? Of course, Sam snaps at himself. Because isn’t this why they’re here? Mexico, over the border, a place always far away and easier to cope in memory. It’s in the way Dean touches him now, a goodbye, with his mouth against his throat, his stomach, come on sammy is less and less- but goodddd, his mouth wrapped around his cock, and Sam knows Dean likes it when he arches. It’s a strange moment to cling to, almost desperate, and they both-
Sam’s eyes close.
But few and far, those things are going to be gone soon. It’s a broken record, sure, but the lines are starting to straighten. Dad always smiled sadly at the reality, he remembers, even after half a bottle of Jack.
“You gonna shower, genius?”
Sam jumps because he didn’t hear the door, growls, and turns his gaze to Dean. His brother’s sleepy half-smile hides the sharpness in his eyes and he swallows.
There’s a moment, a chance, but he steps away from it.
“Yeah,” he says finally.
-
The corner is empty.
Sam tries to breathe as his gaze is swallowed by the turn. He counts sections of the buildings, interconnected and gray, spots a cross at the beginning of another turn, pasted against the wall. The Day of the Dead was last week, months and months ago, but dirty skulls still crack the occasional corner of a window pane. He feels himself flinch when Dean shuffles still at his side- or maybe it’s the cross- but he looks away, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“There’s a car,” Dean grunts.
Sam shrugs, watching a dog limp across the dirt. It stills, whimpers, and scurries through an open door.
“It’s dead,” he shoots back, shifting from foot to foot, “there’s a tire missing off to the side. Checked.”
No one’s here.
There’s no response and Dean drops off to the side. Sam catches the glint of the revolver, his hands trembling as his fingers curl around the fabric of his pockets. It’s nameless, he reminds himself, and the memory can get lost.
He’ll disappear.
“Picked a spot?”
“In a sec.”
Sam starts to pace, his gaze falling to the electric lines. He swears again, to himself, that there’s no one here. The neighborhood is dead and it’s going to storm- ironically, he snorts, but he can appreciate it.
“Sammy.”
“Shut up,” he says tiredly. His gaze softens, drops, and he spots another corner, dipping off to the side. He doesn’t want to hear there’s always tomorrow and fights to swallow as he steps forward.
He finds his way to the middle of the alley, a few feet away from the dead car, a taxi cab- he’s closer, what do you expect?- and then stops. His gaze drops to his feet, the dust clinging to his boots and the ends of his jeans tapering over his laces.
“Here,” he calls. “Right here.”
This makes sense, he tells himself, an agreement executed between the two of them. It can’t be anyone else, for Sam (months ago, this foil would’ve been pretty fucking ironic), and even though it’s unsaid- he knows that Dean’s convinced himself it’s going to be him.
A fine (he thinks) is swallowed by a distant distraction of a siren, further into a city that he can’t remember seeing, but there’s a joke- Dean’s- about a hooker with a heart of gold named Candy-baby. He just can’t remember the rest.
“Sam?”
His hands curl into fists, pressed against his sides as his eyes drift shut. Wait for it, wait for it, and please, spare the goodbyes. There’s a click and his throat dries.
“Yeah?”- it’s a little shaky, quiet, but there. He feels a burn, but tries valiantly to ignore it, the echo of we were kids once spinning in his head.
There’s a sigh. “I-”
His hands are shaking again, his knuckles stinging to white. “I know.”
Maybe, it’ll burn.
-
On his knees, his hand brushes over his eyes.
Dean’s eyes are closed. And Sam’s satisfied, his lips pressing against his forehead with closed eyes as well- it’s like an art piece, he thinks.
There’s a dry chuckle, his, but his ears are still ringing. The dog, from before, steps out curiously and drifts around the taxi. The smell of smoke is lost to everything else, a rotting city and echoing laughter.
“In nomine Patris,” he murmurs, casting his gaze to the sky, gray again, “et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
His lips curl and he pockets the revolver, sliding it into the back of his jeans. He straightens Dean’s jacket, brushing his thumb over his chest, the hole in his heart. Blood sticks to his skin and he licks it off, shaking his head.
“Amen.”
This is what happens when you wait too long, Dad used to say.
end.
[1.] “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”- the sign of the cross.
supernatural, sam/dean, r, 1847 words, spoilers up to heart, this is for the we_take_five ficathon and my prompt, amusingly enough, can be found here. this is also dedicated to vartanluvva because michelle’s pretty much responsible for introducing me to the fandom.
“I’m going to pick a place.”
Our house caught on fire
And I'll never forget the look on my father's face
As he gathered me in his arms and raced to the burning building out on the pavement.
And I stood there shivering and watched the whole world go up in flames.
PJ Harvey| Is that all there is?
-
“I’m going to pick a place.”
Dean swallows, in the car, his knuckles turning white as he shifts into a right, down the intersection. LA driving, Sam remembers dryly. But the words still settle and he means it.
This time. He really does.
“I’m going to pick a place,” he says again, watching his brother’s hands. They tighten, slide into three and nine, and fall to one hand with a sigh. A strange smile fits across Sam’s lips, tired. “Seriously, dude.”
But Dean says nothing.
-
They have an emergency bottle of tequila.
It’s an homage to when we were kids, among other things, but it’s the first item Sam watches him grab as he settles against the frame of the door.
“Why not Mexico?”- For the third time, Dean’s voice is thick, slow, and Sam almost flinches because there’s a calm expectation settling. And that, that always belonged to dad.
He hides himself in a shrug, stepping back and turning into the room. There’s a buzzing of a fly, swallowed into the bathroom and lost to vacancy!. Sam drops back onto the bed, his eyes closing as it groans under his weight. On his back, his hand falls to his stomach with his palm flat against his shirt.
“Bed?”
Sam sighs, “Nah.”
His eyes close, but he knows the routine- Dean kicks a chair close to his side, gun on the night table. He drops and the chair squeaks and Sam (almost always) thinks about turning to watch him, but doesn’t move.
The bottle of tequila goes on the floor, tucked against the side, the leg of the chair or Dean’s boot. It doesn’t matter. Some details slip.
But they stick to silence and Sam wonders why Mexico, again, stopping- it isn’t home and it isn’t a place with a memory (although, Jess laughed a we should get married in Tijuana one year like she was serious) so it makes sense, right? No attachment.
“I don’t-”
“Don’t,” Dean’s quick, quiet, and the chair squeaks again. “Not tonight.”
He already knows. Dean’s got a method since that night.
-
The streetlights paint Dean’s figure at the pay phone.
His hands have stopped shaking since a random gas station in San Francisco, months ago, but it’s nice to remind himself, Sam thinks.
“Hey,” he calls, “we should head back.”
Dean’s hand rises in the air, his palm facing him as the phone drops into place with a loud click. Sam rubs his eyes, leaning against the car and then watching as Dean moves to him.
“Bobby thinks,” Dean pauses, looking away, “- that a break is kinda good.”
Sam nods, but says nothing and holds Dean’s gaze for a moment. They watch each other, carefully, as if they were outweighing the momentary applications they were stepping into. Reason. Reason is good- it was Dad’s shelter, thick and true, something to fall back on. It was the best excuse for obsession and posterity.
“Okay,” he says. But there wasn’t a need to.
Dean mimics a nod and leans forward. He doesn’t touch him and Sam, Sam feels his throat start to turn and dry. His gaze returns to Dean’s after blinking and Bowie, after awhile, reminds Sam that they left the keys in the ignition.
“Fuck Ziggy Stardust.”
Sam’s laugh is dry, his lips turning as Dean’s hand extends and his palm presses against the back of his neck. He shivers when his brother’s fingers curl into his hair and their foreheads drop against each other.
“You know you’re a secret fan, dude,” he breathes, nerves rising.
And the truth starts to surface, close moments, but here it’s finally becoming more than that. Sam’s hand rises and curls around Dean’s shirt as there’s a scuffle and dirt stirs between the two of them.
Understand this: there will never be i can’t do this because promises, the kind that string on from beginning to end, have always been here for everything but show. They can say what they want, but the outcome stays. Once it’s been said, it’s done.
“We should go.”- Dean’s gruff, tired, and his mouth drops to Sam’s jaw, his teeth scraping against his skin.
Sam inhales sharply somewhere between one of Dean’s legs between his and the door pressing against his back. But he says nothing, words lost in Dean’s mouth, his tongue sliding inside his and his hand curling tightly in his hair.
There’s no movement, mouth to mouth, Sam simply breathes out of memory into Dean’s mouth, lips chapped and dry. His cock strains against his jeans because oh, come on, he’s thought about it before. And inevitability, face the fact- it’s eternally more than this.
It’s a serious truth.
Maybe it’s Dean that pulls away, but he can taste blood and there’s a wetness against his chin. Sam doesn’t move.
And Dean’s mouth is at his throat.
-
On the seventh day, Sam feels himself start to slip.
He leaves Dean for the bathroom, turning once to watch him. It’s romantic, the need for memory, but Sam’s more aware that even that won’t stay. So he casts his gaze against the dips and planes of Dean’s back, the sheets winding around his legs- call it an indulgence, one of the things he has left. But those scars are his too, a memory or more, something else he can claim.
The bathroom door closes quietly. And the creaks to open with a peek.
Sam presses his palms against the sink, his eyes pasted around the drain. There’s blood, last night, because vacation and a week off is a load of crap even with this over their heads. He lets his gaze shift to the mirror, painting his reflection in scars and other curiosities.
“Soon, right?” He breathes to no one. And he can only imagine.
Will he feel it?- he wonders. Is the change that certain, a question, giving into impulses and urges that he can’t remember happening.
But there’s nothing, no swings of turning, no moment, no course. He wonders if it’ll be like possession, locked away, tight, or if he’ll know. If the inclination will be his or rather, has always been his, he’s just chosen to ignore the growing obviousness.
And will Dean know?
Will Dean know? Of course, Sam snaps at himself. Because isn’t this why they’re here? Mexico, over the border, a place always far away and easier to cope in memory. It’s in the way Dean touches him now, a goodbye, with his mouth against his throat, his stomach, come on sammy is less and less- but goodddd, his mouth wrapped around his cock, and Sam knows Dean likes it when he arches. It’s a strange moment to cling to, almost desperate, and they both-
Sam’s eyes close.
But few and far, those things are going to be gone soon. It’s a broken record, sure, but the lines are starting to straighten. Dad always smiled sadly at the reality, he remembers, even after half a bottle of Jack.
“You gonna shower, genius?”
Sam jumps because he didn’t hear the door, growls, and turns his gaze to Dean. His brother’s sleepy half-smile hides the sharpness in his eyes and he swallows.
There’s a moment, a chance, but he steps away from it.
“Yeah,” he says finally.
-
The corner is empty.
Sam tries to breathe as his gaze is swallowed by the turn. He counts sections of the buildings, interconnected and gray, spots a cross at the beginning of another turn, pasted against the wall. The Day of the Dead was last week, months and months ago, but dirty skulls still crack the occasional corner of a window pane. He feels himself flinch when Dean shuffles still at his side- or maybe it’s the cross- but he looks away, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“There’s a car,” Dean grunts.
Sam shrugs, watching a dog limp across the dirt. It stills, whimpers, and scurries through an open door.
“It’s dead,” he shoots back, shifting from foot to foot, “there’s a tire missing off to the side. Checked.”
No one’s here.
There’s no response and Dean drops off to the side. Sam catches the glint of the revolver, his hands trembling as his fingers curl around the fabric of his pockets. It’s nameless, he reminds himself, and the memory can get lost.
He’ll disappear.
“Picked a spot?”
“In a sec.”
Sam starts to pace, his gaze falling to the electric lines. He swears again, to himself, that there’s no one here. The neighborhood is dead and it’s going to storm- ironically, he snorts, but he can appreciate it.
“Sammy.”
“Shut up,” he says tiredly. His gaze softens, drops, and he spots another corner, dipping off to the side. He doesn’t want to hear there’s always tomorrow and fights to swallow as he steps forward.
He finds his way to the middle of the alley, a few feet away from the dead car, a taxi cab- he’s closer, what do you expect?- and then stops. His gaze drops to his feet, the dust clinging to his boots and the ends of his jeans tapering over his laces.
“Here,” he calls. “Right here.”
This makes sense, he tells himself, an agreement executed between the two of them. It can’t be anyone else, for Sam (months ago, this foil would’ve been pretty fucking ironic), and even though it’s unsaid- he knows that Dean’s convinced himself it’s going to be him.
A fine (he thinks) is swallowed by a distant distraction of a siren, further into a city that he can’t remember seeing, but there’s a joke- Dean’s- about a hooker with a heart of gold named Candy-baby. He just can’t remember the rest.
“Sam?”
His hands curl into fists, pressed against his sides as his eyes drift shut. Wait for it, wait for it, and please, spare the goodbyes. There’s a click and his throat dries.
“Yeah?”- it’s a little shaky, quiet, but there. He feels a burn, but tries valiantly to ignore it, the echo of we were kids once spinning in his head.
There’s a sigh. “I-”
His hands are shaking again, his knuckles stinging to white. “I know.”
Maybe, it’ll burn.
-
On his knees, his hand brushes over his eyes.
Dean’s eyes are closed. And Sam’s satisfied, his lips pressing against his forehead with closed eyes as well- it’s like an art piece, he thinks.
There’s a dry chuckle, his, but his ears are still ringing. The dog, from before, steps out curiously and drifts around the taxi. The smell of smoke is lost to everything else, a rotting city and echoing laughter.
“In nomine Patris,” he murmurs, casting his gaze to the sky, gray again, “et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
His lips curl and he pockets the revolver, sliding it into the back of his jeans. He straightens Dean’s jacket, brushing his thumb over his chest, the hole in his heart. Blood sticks to his skin and he licks it off, shaking his head.
“Amen.”
This is what happens when you wait too long, Dad used to say.
end.
[1.] “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”- the sign of the cross.