Plus ça change (Sam/Dean, pg-ish, 1k)
I had to wait forty minutes at work today while my boss faffed around, so I wrote this, then I tidied it up a bit when I got home. It's not ameripicked or beta'd, and please don't expect too much thought-out plot. It's just some Sam and Dean.
Plus ça change
Sam/Dean, pg-ish, 1k, set post 6.11
The details of the dream aren't there when Sam wakes.
There's just Dean.
He's got one hand on Sam's shoulder and he's leaning in close, his face right there. His t-shirt leaves his neck and collarbone unfamiliarly naked to Sam.
He looks young. Like he hasn't yet grown into the prettiness he's almost grown out of. For a moment, Sam is fourteen again, woken in the wild hours before dawn to hunt or pack, hastily mothered through a breakfast Dean throws together of twinkie and apple and a glass of milk, while, in another room, John has a map spread out over the table and is plotting a course out of newspaper obituaries.
Then Sam remembers. Just, not all of it.
"You were thrashing around, moaning," says Dean. His voice is a whisper, rough as sandpaper against the no-tell motel's thin walls. "Didn't sound like a fun dream."
Sam pushes up onto his elbows in his bed. The sensation of the dream is still sitting on him, sick and wrong, scaring him like nothing he hunts can anymore. His heart hurts in his chest from beating too hard; his ribs vibrate with the echo.
"It was a nightmare," he says. He works his mouth wet. "I was… in a room. There was a door, but there was no handle." He weighs each image after he's said it, to see if it feels true to the hazy memory of his nightmare. None of them do. He's not doing the nightmare justice but it's escaping him already and he has to catch it in the only words he has. "I tried to get out but-"
Dean shakes his head and Sam's voice obeys, even if the impulse to speak is still there.
"Don't try to remember it," Dean says. "Let it go, Sam. Let it go."
:::
Sam's thinking about it again. Dean's left him alone in the car while he pays for gas, and Sam is worrying the buttonhole at his cuff while he stares sightlessly at the point where the road touches the washed out sky, content to be slowly blinded by the the sun as he thinks about last night's nightmare.
It's been with him all day, if he reaches for it, like a blank piece of paper slipped in his pocket he knows is supposed to remind him of something.
The car engine ticks over in the sunshine, and Sam follows a strand of an idea until he finds something new. When Dean climbs in the car, Sam reports back to him without thinking it through.
"There was screaming in the room."
Dean looks at him, aggrieved. There are wrinkles at the corners of Dean's eyes that weren't there when Sam was fourteen, and freckles on the bridge of Dean's nose that were.
"What are you talking about?" Dean demands.
These days, Dean smolders with a resentful hopelessness that's deep enough for them both. Sam has disappointed him. It's a parental failure, more than John's seething rage built on confusion. It's on the scale of God patiently suffering on His cross for unworthy humanity. Dean blames Sam some, and himself more.
Sam's fuck-ups and misfortunes will never belong solely to himself. He's given up trying to defend his territory; it never sticks.
"In my nightmare," says Sam. He regrets mentioning it but he knows he won't be allowed to drop it until Dean has made his displeasure at the nightmare, and Sam remembering it, absolutely clear. "There was screaming."
"Jesus, Sam, what part of 'let it go' is giving you trouble? Why do you always do this? Why can't you just-"
He cuts off, sighing and shaking his head and laying his hands deliberately on the steering wheel, because they're either there or around Sam's throat. There's no contradiction for Dean in loving Sam and beating the crap out of Sam. Violence predates the written word in Dean's schooling.
Sam sits and waits.
"Why can't you just leave it alone?" says Dean finally.
Sam shrugs. "I can't."
Dean's lips tighten in a funny little smile. He shakes his head, stares out at the road ahead like he hates it, hates it, and starts the engine.
:::
"It wasn't screaming. It was just how their voices sounded."
Dean has waited all evening for this. Sam knows it. He's seen it in his brother's tense body language, in the wary looks he thinks Sam doesn't notice, heard it in Dean's deepening silences as it grows dark outside.
Sam says it because there's no point not saying it.
"You and your goddamned mouth," says Dean. He sits down heavily on the bed across from Sam's, and their knees almost touch, bodies mirrored like gemini twins. "Never know when to shut the fuck up, do you?"
Sam wants to point out that he does, that he's perfectly capable of keeping secrets, demon-sized secrets that taste of demon blood. No point bringing up past transgressions when he knows Dean never forgets them anyway, despite all his easy forgiveness.
"You keep trying to remember, like you wanna fuck this all up," says Dean. "Why can't you just leave it alone? We got your soul back, didn't we? Why can't you just be okay?"
Sam blinks at him. "Because I'm not."
He turns out the light and rolls over on the bed, lays his head on the pillow. Eyes wide open in the darkness, he listens to Dean's stillness, to the faint hitching in his breath.
He could be fourteen again, raw from another fight with John about why they're not like everyone else, injured further by Dean's refusal to take his side. It mattered then, the different school every term and the constant introduction of new kids to alienate Sam. It mattered that Sam's clothes were a hand-me-downs from Dean and that John worked deadbeat jobs.
That part of his memory works well enough, opens the doors on a closet full of antique upsets.
The bed dips as Dean climbs on behind him, and Sam realizes, as he half-wakes, how close he was to sleep. He tries to turn to face Dean, but Dean's arm comes up over his chest and grips his shoulder.
"Don't," says Dean roughly.
Dean's mouth brushes his neck, warm and wet and surprisingly soft, and Sam goes still. Dean's chest is pressed against his spine, and it feels strong, through Sam knows he's been bigger than Dean for years. When they were kids, Dean was tall enough to tuck Sam into his body, flattening himself to Sam like water. But Dean's chin digs into the crook of Sam's neck now. They don't fit together like they used to. There's too much of Sam for Dean to cover.
"Dean," Sam whispers.
Dean kisses him on the throat again. It's a hard kiss from such a soft mouth. His hand brushes back the hair from Sam's temple.
"Don't think about that," says Dean. "Just think about this," he says, and kisses him a third time.
Dean loves Sam too much and he doesn't know how to satisfy that love. He's ruled by it, and it's an unruly child, traipsing muddy footprints across the floor as it goes where it wants, incapable of considering context or consequence. Dean will do whatever that love tells him to.
Just like always.
Sam closes his eyes. Dean's arm flexes around him, tighter still, squeezing the breath out of him as his own breath shudders over the back of Sam's neck. And when Sam sleeps, he's fourteen again.
~end
Plus ça change
Sam/Dean, pg-ish, 1k, set post 6.11
The details of the dream aren't there when Sam wakes.
There's just Dean.
He's got one hand on Sam's shoulder and he's leaning in close, his face right there. His t-shirt leaves his neck and collarbone unfamiliarly naked to Sam.
He looks young. Like he hasn't yet grown into the prettiness he's almost grown out of. For a moment, Sam is fourteen again, woken in the wild hours before dawn to hunt or pack, hastily mothered through a breakfast Dean throws together of twinkie and apple and a glass of milk, while, in another room, John has a map spread out over the table and is plotting a course out of newspaper obituaries.
Then Sam remembers. Just, not all of it.
"You were thrashing around, moaning," says Dean. His voice is a whisper, rough as sandpaper against the no-tell motel's thin walls. "Didn't sound like a fun dream."
Sam pushes up onto his elbows in his bed. The sensation of the dream is still sitting on him, sick and wrong, scaring him like nothing he hunts can anymore. His heart hurts in his chest from beating too hard; his ribs vibrate with the echo.
"It was a nightmare," he says. He works his mouth wet. "I was… in a room. There was a door, but there was no handle." He weighs each image after he's said it, to see if it feels true to the hazy memory of his nightmare. None of them do. He's not doing the nightmare justice but it's escaping him already and he has to catch it in the only words he has. "I tried to get out but-"
Dean shakes his head and Sam's voice obeys, even if the impulse to speak is still there.
"Don't try to remember it," Dean says. "Let it go, Sam. Let it go."
:::
Sam's thinking about it again. Dean's left him alone in the car while he pays for gas, and Sam is worrying the buttonhole at his cuff while he stares sightlessly at the point where the road touches the washed out sky, content to be slowly blinded by the the sun as he thinks about last night's nightmare.
It's been with him all day, if he reaches for it, like a blank piece of paper slipped in his pocket he knows is supposed to remind him of something.
The car engine ticks over in the sunshine, and Sam follows a strand of an idea until he finds something new. When Dean climbs in the car, Sam reports back to him without thinking it through.
"There was screaming in the room."
Dean looks at him, aggrieved. There are wrinkles at the corners of Dean's eyes that weren't there when Sam was fourteen, and freckles on the bridge of Dean's nose that were.
"What are you talking about?" Dean demands.
These days, Dean smolders with a resentful hopelessness that's deep enough for them both. Sam has disappointed him. It's a parental failure, more than John's seething rage built on confusion. It's on the scale of God patiently suffering on His cross for unworthy humanity. Dean blames Sam some, and himself more.
Sam's fuck-ups and misfortunes will never belong solely to himself. He's given up trying to defend his territory; it never sticks.
"In my nightmare," says Sam. He regrets mentioning it but he knows he won't be allowed to drop it until Dean has made his displeasure at the nightmare, and Sam remembering it, absolutely clear. "There was screaming."
"Jesus, Sam, what part of 'let it go' is giving you trouble? Why do you always do this? Why can't you just-"
He cuts off, sighing and shaking his head and laying his hands deliberately on the steering wheel, because they're either there or around Sam's throat. There's no contradiction for Dean in loving Sam and beating the crap out of Sam. Violence predates the written word in Dean's schooling.
Sam sits and waits.
"Why can't you just leave it alone?" says Dean finally.
Sam shrugs. "I can't."
Dean's lips tighten in a funny little smile. He shakes his head, stares out at the road ahead like he hates it, hates it, and starts the engine.
:::
"It wasn't screaming. It was just how their voices sounded."
Dean has waited all evening for this. Sam knows it. He's seen it in his brother's tense body language, in the wary looks he thinks Sam doesn't notice, heard it in Dean's deepening silences as it grows dark outside.
Sam says it because there's no point not saying it.
"You and your goddamned mouth," says Dean. He sits down heavily on the bed across from Sam's, and their knees almost touch, bodies mirrored like gemini twins. "Never know when to shut the fuck up, do you?"
Sam wants to point out that he does, that he's perfectly capable of keeping secrets, demon-sized secrets that taste of demon blood. No point bringing up past transgressions when he knows Dean never forgets them anyway, despite all his easy forgiveness.
"You keep trying to remember, like you wanna fuck this all up," says Dean. "Why can't you just leave it alone? We got your soul back, didn't we? Why can't you just be okay?"
Sam blinks at him. "Because I'm not."
He turns out the light and rolls over on the bed, lays his head on the pillow. Eyes wide open in the darkness, he listens to Dean's stillness, to the faint hitching in his breath.
He could be fourteen again, raw from another fight with John about why they're not like everyone else, injured further by Dean's refusal to take his side. It mattered then, the different school every term and the constant introduction of new kids to alienate Sam. It mattered that Sam's clothes were a hand-me-downs from Dean and that John worked deadbeat jobs.
That part of his memory works well enough, opens the doors on a closet full of antique upsets.
The bed dips as Dean climbs on behind him, and Sam realizes, as he half-wakes, how close he was to sleep. He tries to turn to face Dean, but Dean's arm comes up over his chest and grips his shoulder.
"Don't," says Dean roughly.
Dean's mouth brushes his neck, warm and wet and surprisingly soft, and Sam goes still. Dean's chest is pressed against his spine, and it feels strong, through Sam knows he's been bigger than Dean for years. When they were kids, Dean was tall enough to tuck Sam into his body, flattening himself to Sam like water. But Dean's chin digs into the crook of Sam's neck now. They don't fit together like they used to. There's too much of Sam for Dean to cover.
"Dean," Sam whispers.
Dean kisses him on the throat again. It's a hard kiss from such a soft mouth. His hand brushes back the hair from Sam's temple.
"Don't think about that," says Dean. "Just think about this," he says, and kisses him a third time.
Dean loves Sam too much and he doesn't know how to satisfy that love. He's ruled by it, and it's an unruly child, traipsing muddy footprints across the floor as it goes where it wants, incapable of considering context or consequence. Dean will do whatever that love tells him to.
Just like always.
Sam closes his eyes. Dean's arm flexes around him, tighter still, squeezing the breath out of him as his own breath shudders over the back of Sam's neck. And when Sam sleeps, he's fourteen again.
~end