Supernatural: Until Exhausted, Close Our Eyelids
Title: Until Exhausted, Close Our Eyelids
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13 for Excessive Pain, Sexual Content (not explicit), and Language
Word Count: 698
Author’s Note: This is my sick way of celebrating being done with Big Bang. I wrote it to be self-indulgent and I apologize to anyone who reads it. Title lifted from Set the Fire to the Third Bar because I think I accidentally wrote songfic.
Summary: Sam POV, set while Dean's in Hell. Sam Winchester is lying in bed. He is not alone.
Sam Winchester is lying in bed with his brother.
He knows this is true because he can feel the mattress sagging behind him, exactly the way it always sags. There’s an indentation there, and filling it in is the most important person in Sam’s universe.
Sam knows. He knows because he can feel it. He knows because that’s how it always is. He doesn’t have to look.
Stop pretending, Sam. Turn around.
No, he tells the voice in his head. He doesn’t need to. He doesn’t want to see.
Sam doesn’t know how to pretend. He doesn’t see Dean when he’s out in public or even when he’s alone. He doesn’t see Dean during the day and he knows that if he turns around, he won’t see Dean now either. He’s not crazy because he knows that, but he wishes he was. He wishes he could convince himself.
Just give it time. You’ll get there soon at this rate.
Sam waits for Dean to realize he’s hurting. Dean never needs to be told. Soon he’ll put his hand on Sam’s shaking shoulder and he won’t say “I’m here, baby, don’t worry”, but his touch will.
He waits and he waits and no one reaches out for him. There’s no Dean there to tell him it’s okay. If there were, everything really would be. But no, Sam’s alone. Sam should get used to that instead of indulging these fantasies. Sam will always be alone from now on.
Alone except for this awful trick the mattress plays on him. God, but he’s spent too many years memorizing what it feels like to be close to Dean and he’s gotten too good at it. He can’t believe that that’s all this is. A memory.
Sam is sweating from the body heat between them; it’s uncomfortable but somehow soothing as well. Dean knows how to make the most of this, delights in getting Sam even hotter with his touch.
Dean isn’t really responsible for Sam’s discomfort this time, though, and Sam may be worked up and hungry for his brother, but no one is going to kiss and lick these droplets off Sam’s flesh like Dean loves-loved to do. Dean doesn’t give off heat anymore and if Sam kicks away the sheets he’ll stop sweating and he’ll remember that. He draws the blankets in closer.
Sam can make-believe all he wants. This dip in the bed, the voice that he swears he hears singing badly when he’s driving down the highway blasting tapes he never liked-they won’t change what happened, what Dean did, where he is now. Sam thinks it must be almost as bad where Dean is as it is here. Not worse. It’s supposed to be worse, but Sam knows it can’t be. Nothing can.
Dean’s body is cold. His soul is burning. It’s Sam’s fault.
It’s not your fault, Sammy.
Shut up, he wants to tell it. Go away. I know you’re not real. He hates this voice even more than the cold, cruel one that tells him the truth. It’s not Dean, even if it sounds just like him, and Sam gets the idiotic impulse to tell it not to call him Sammy. Dean wouldn’t want him to share that with this ghost, but Sam stays quiet. No, he can’t tell it to stop. It may be fake, but it has the same affection in its tone. Sam has to cherish it because there’s nothing else to care about. Nobody talks to Sam like that or gives him stupid nicknames or throws their life away just for-
Hey, look at me. I made my own decision.
Don’t listen. Don’t look. Don’t fall for it again. It’s real now, you can feel it, but it won’t be if you turn around. Don’t look.
Sam looks. There’s nothing there, just a perfectly made half of a king-sized motel bed. Sam turns back around, presses his face into the wet tearstains on his pillow. He can still feel that fucking weight crushing down on him from the other side of the mattress.
Sam Winchester is lying in bed with his brother, but his brother is not there with him.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG-13 for Excessive Pain, Sexual Content (not explicit), and Language
Word Count: 698
Author’s Note: This is my sick way of celebrating being done with Big Bang. I wrote it to be self-indulgent and I apologize to anyone who reads it. Title lifted from Set the Fire to the Third Bar because I think I accidentally wrote songfic.
Summary: Sam POV, set while Dean's in Hell. Sam Winchester is lying in bed. He is not alone.
Sam Winchester is lying in bed with his brother.
He knows this is true because he can feel the mattress sagging behind him, exactly the way it always sags. There’s an indentation there, and filling it in is the most important person in Sam’s universe.
Sam knows. He knows because he can feel it. He knows because that’s how it always is. He doesn’t have to look.
Stop pretending, Sam. Turn around.
No, he tells the voice in his head. He doesn’t need to. He doesn’t want to see.
Sam doesn’t know how to pretend. He doesn’t see Dean when he’s out in public or even when he’s alone. He doesn’t see Dean during the day and he knows that if he turns around, he won’t see Dean now either. He’s not crazy because he knows that, but he wishes he was. He wishes he could convince himself.
Just give it time. You’ll get there soon at this rate.
Sam waits for Dean to realize he’s hurting. Dean never needs to be told. Soon he’ll put his hand on Sam’s shaking shoulder and he won’t say “I’m here, baby, don’t worry”, but his touch will.
He waits and he waits and no one reaches out for him. There’s no Dean there to tell him it’s okay. If there were, everything really would be. But no, Sam’s alone. Sam should get used to that instead of indulging these fantasies. Sam will always be alone from now on.
Alone except for this awful trick the mattress plays on him. God, but he’s spent too many years memorizing what it feels like to be close to Dean and he’s gotten too good at it. He can’t believe that that’s all this is. A memory.
Sam is sweating from the body heat between them; it’s uncomfortable but somehow soothing as well. Dean knows how to make the most of this, delights in getting Sam even hotter with his touch.
Dean isn’t really responsible for Sam’s discomfort this time, though, and Sam may be worked up and hungry for his brother, but no one is going to kiss and lick these droplets off Sam’s flesh like Dean loves-loved to do. Dean doesn’t give off heat anymore and if Sam kicks away the sheets he’ll stop sweating and he’ll remember that. He draws the blankets in closer.
Sam can make-believe all he wants. This dip in the bed, the voice that he swears he hears singing badly when he’s driving down the highway blasting tapes he never liked-they won’t change what happened, what Dean did, where he is now. Sam thinks it must be almost as bad where Dean is as it is here. Not worse. It’s supposed to be worse, but Sam knows it can’t be. Nothing can.
Dean’s body is cold. His soul is burning. It’s Sam’s fault.
It’s not your fault, Sammy.
Shut up, he wants to tell it. Go away. I know you’re not real. He hates this voice even more than the cold, cruel one that tells him the truth. It’s not Dean, even if it sounds just like him, and Sam gets the idiotic impulse to tell it not to call him Sammy. Dean wouldn’t want him to share that with this ghost, but Sam stays quiet. No, he can’t tell it to stop. It may be fake, but it has the same affection in its tone. Sam has to cherish it because there’s nothing else to care about. Nobody talks to Sam like that or gives him stupid nicknames or throws their life away just for-
Hey, look at me. I made my own decision.
Don’t listen. Don’t look. Don’t fall for it again. It’s real now, you can feel it, but it won’t be if you turn around. Don’t look.
Sam looks. There’s nothing there, just a perfectly made half of a king-sized motel bed. Sam turns back around, presses his face into the wet tearstains on his pillow. He can still feel that fucking weight crushing down on him from the other side of the mattress.
Sam Winchester is lying in bed with his brother, but his brother is not there with him.