A quick snippet for my own archiving purposes...
...because I like to have all of my stuff in the same place.
title. close enough to share breath
rating. pg-13
pairing. sam/dean
word count. 630
notes. written for wanttobeatree's how the Winchesters got their groove back commentfic meme, more specifically for the prompt, "Crowley tells them where to go to get Sam's soul back but Sam's isn't the only soul there." And because I think Sam being resouled is going to be messy and epic. Hee.
Sam reaches out for the next soul, and right away, he knows something is different. His hands begin shaking; he can't breathe. He touches the small, sputtering, dying ball of light, and his lungs are torn out of his chest--he feels blood, viscera, and nerves fly everywhere. It should be everywhere, but when he pats himself down, there's nothing but the dry whisper of his clothing against his fingertips.
"No," he breathes. "Please, god, not this one."
He looks up at Dean--he's on his knees, how did he get to his knees--and Dean's face above him is twisting, contorting. He looks as anguished as Sam feels, and Sam finds himself reaching out without a second thought.
"Please," he begs. He's not sure what he's asking for.
He can't think about it. He can't comprehend anything but the lack of air in his lungs. He struggles for breath, and then Dean is on top of him, knocking him down and grabbing at his hands. A grip is impossible: Sam's muscles spasm in his arms, his legs, all the way down to his fingertips and toes, all the way up to pull at his forehead, his eyes. He can feel stupid, uncontrollable tears running down his cheeks, and he can hear Dean muttering in his ear, a frantic repetitive line, "Not like this--oh god, Sam, put it back, put it back--"
--and Sam laughs hysterically, his howling escaping into the open air. The room echos his voice back at him in quick, devastating strikes, and if the sound is like screaming, it doesn't matter next to the tears still dripping down his neck and over his collarbones, next to Dean struggling in his arms. It doesn't matter, because everything, everything hurts. It's all too much, it's all too familiar.
"Not worth it," Dean says then, and Sam is finally on the same page. He gets it, and he has to stop it--the urge is instinctive in a way it hasn't been in a year. His laugh seizes in his throat, and he knows he has words again--he's found he can be steady enough for this.
"You are," Sam chokes out, and he grips Dean's wrists harshly. His hands are too tight, but they keep Dean still, and he makes Dean stop trying to grab Sam's soul away from him. "Worth it," he pants, and he laughs again, because it's the sad, sorry truth. "My soul, you can't--I want it, Dean. Even like this."
"I'm a fucking moron," Dean says shakily, and Sam knows the words for an apology. Dean has always brought him back for the wrong reasons. Sam closes his eyes against the wry, complicated amusement the thought brings him, but he opens them again quickly, because even after everything, he can't stand to stop looking at Dean.
"Just so you know," Sam tells him, forcing down the hysteria, "I don't feel better. Having a soul isn't better," and Dean jerks away, Sam realizing belatedly that he's been trained into honesty. Sam reaches out, dragging Dean back against him. It's stupid and he shouldn't, because he's got nothing good to think, nothing good to say, but he's kissing Dean along the line of his brows. He's kissing Dean's eyelids.
"It feels like Hell," Sam tells him weakly. He can't seem to shut up. "I'm sorry. It feels like dying, like before--"
Dean lets out a low, wounded noise--Sam bites down on his own wagging tongue--but he doesn't try to move away. He only stares at Sam, his eyes stricken, and Sam can't help but drag him closer. Then he's biting along his brother's mouth, and Dean opens for him, panting, accepting whatever Sam wants to give him.
"But you can't be the only one," Sam finally says. He inhales deeply, needing Dean's breath in his lungs. "Having a soul--I won't let you do this alone."
...
title. close enough to share breath
rating. pg-13
pairing. sam/dean
word count. 630
notes. written for wanttobeatree's how the Winchesters got their groove back commentfic meme, more specifically for the prompt, "Crowley tells them where to go to get Sam's soul back but Sam's isn't the only soul there." And because I think Sam being resouled is going to be messy and epic. Hee.
Sam reaches out for the next soul, and right away, he knows something is different. His hands begin shaking; he can't breathe. He touches the small, sputtering, dying ball of light, and his lungs are torn out of his chest--he feels blood, viscera, and nerves fly everywhere. It should be everywhere, but when he pats himself down, there's nothing but the dry whisper of his clothing against his fingertips.
"No," he breathes. "Please, god, not this one."
He looks up at Dean--he's on his knees, how did he get to his knees--and Dean's face above him is twisting, contorting. He looks as anguished as Sam feels, and Sam finds himself reaching out without a second thought.
"Please," he begs. He's not sure what he's asking for.
He can't think about it. He can't comprehend anything but the lack of air in his lungs. He struggles for breath, and then Dean is on top of him, knocking him down and grabbing at his hands. A grip is impossible: Sam's muscles spasm in his arms, his legs, all the way down to his fingertips and toes, all the way up to pull at his forehead, his eyes. He can feel stupid, uncontrollable tears running down his cheeks, and he can hear Dean muttering in his ear, a frantic repetitive line, "Not like this--oh god, Sam, put it back, put it back--"
--and Sam laughs hysterically, his howling escaping into the open air. The room echos his voice back at him in quick, devastating strikes, and if the sound is like screaming, it doesn't matter next to the tears still dripping down his neck and over his collarbones, next to Dean struggling in his arms. It doesn't matter, because everything, everything hurts. It's all too much, it's all too familiar.
"Not worth it," Dean says then, and Sam is finally on the same page. He gets it, and he has to stop it--the urge is instinctive in a way it hasn't been in a year. His laugh seizes in his throat, and he knows he has words again--he's found he can be steady enough for this.
"You are," Sam chokes out, and he grips Dean's wrists harshly. His hands are too tight, but they keep Dean still, and he makes Dean stop trying to grab Sam's soul away from him. "Worth it," he pants, and he laughs again, because it's the sad, sorry truth. "My soul, you can't--I want it, Dean. Even like this."
"I'm a fucking moron," Dean says shakily, and Sam knows the words for an apology. Dean has always brought him back for the wrong reasons. Sam closes his eyes against the wry, complicated amusement the thought brings him, but he opens them again quickly, because even after everything, he can't stand to stop looking at Dean.
"Just so you know," Sam tells him, forcing down the hysteria, "I don't feel better. Having a soul isn't better," and Dean jerks away, Sam realizing belatedly that he's been trained into honesty. Sam reaches out, dragging Dean back against him. It's stupid and he shouldn't, because he's got nothing good to think, nothing good to say, but he's kissing Dean along the line of his brows. He's kissing Dean's eyelids.
"It feels like Hell," Sam tells him weakly. He can't seem to shut up. "I'm sorry. It feels like dying, like before--"
Dean lets out a low, wounded noise--Sam bites down on his own wagging tongue--but he doesn't try to move away. He only stares at Sam, his eyes stricken, and Sam can't help but drag him closer. Then he's biting along his brother's mouth, and Dean opens for him, panting, accepting whatever Sam wants to give him.
"But you can't be the only one," Sam finally says. He inhales deeply, needing Dean's breath in his lungs. "Having a soul--I won't let you do this alone."
...