New SPN story: A Brief History of Falling
Every now and then I try to go to bed, and find that there's some writing in me that needs to be let out before I can sleep. This is one of those times. =) Many thanks to terrio for midnight beta duty.
~
A Brief History of Falling | by Merry
Sam and Dean. Gen (ish? maybe I should just say G-rated)
Wherein the Winchester brothers pick their battles.
1,152 words
A Brief History of Falling | by Merry
~
Sam lands a punch, lands it hard, and gets one back for his trouble that nearly cracks a rib. Recognition hits him while he's spinning, confusion to understanding with no transition in between -- maybe it's that nearly, the blow pulled just before it might have done real damage, or maybe it's the flash of white, straight teeth in the dark, the inverse of a grin that he remembers. More likely it's the smell: gasoline and gun oil, deodorant over sweat, days in a car living off road food in cellophane wrappers. Whatever it is, it makes Sam's heart trip over itself and take off like a racehorse.
His next shot slides under Dean's right arm, always a little too high on the follow through. It knocks Dean back and sets him up for another. He takes Sam's first hit on a turn, but there's no other hit to be had, just empty air and a rustle by Sam's ear that lands in a blossom of pain across his cheek. He reels back, nearly falls over the coffee table, nearly splits his lip from grinning. He takes a breath to get his balance and Dean gives it to him, a split second of inaction that lets Sam rejoin the dance.
Sam's apartment is dark except for the dim blue glow from the windows, but that's not what he sees. He sees tall ivory grass in the field back behind that old Markham rental house, a line of trees off to the east where the land slopes down toward the river. He sees a blue sky above them, so intense it hurts his eyes to look at it. The sun picks up the gold in Dean's hair and shines on the sweat pouring down his face, gets in his eyes and makes him squint, crinkles the corners into the crow's feet he'll get when he's older. The ones he may already have now. Wouldn't that be something to see, Sam thinks as Dean's arm comes up to knock away a punch, and he almost asks if they can stop to turn on a light. But he remembers enough: Dean's white t-shirt soaked transparent, Dean's wiry body tough as rebar when Sam hits it and swift as a blink when Sam doesn't.
It gets faster, blurs; picks up a rhythm like a drumbeat that rolls through Sam's muscles and his blood. More blocks than blows now, more turns than falls, and that white smile flashes in the dark again. Here, now, Sam knows every step -- where to put his feet, where to shift his weight, where his arms go to hold off every hit that comes when he knows it'll come. In that Markham field there's a bag with a bus ticket in it and all Sam's worldly goods, but between Sam and the bag there's Dean and this dance, this fight, this argument Sam knows he's not gonna win.
He can feel the breeze on his neck, chilled with the first hint of fall and gritty with the dust they've kicked up; he can feel his edge slipping, his arms thick and heavy, his legs starting to tremble. He can feel the backseat of that fucking car reaching out to swallow him up, tangle him up in highways and hotel sheets till he forgets how to breathe, till he can't even remember why he wants to. He stands there, shaking, eyes stinging with sweat or tears, whatever; his fists are clenched at his sides, knuckles white; he's swaying, or the ground is shifting, or the world is.
Dean swings, and his arm's too high, just a little too high. Sam strikes out with the heel of his hand just like Dean and Dad taught him, surprising himself. His body is still in the fight his will has given up. He shoves, as hard as he can, the last shove he's got in him. Dean goes down on his ass in the dirt, the grass flattened under and around him, arms splayed back behind him to break his fall. He stays down, says nothing, does nothing; he just stays down. Still shaking, Sam steps over him and doesn't say a word, doesn't look back. He grabs his ticket and his bag and he runs, for three long brittle years in bubble wrap he runs until he arrives here in his living room right now, with Dean's body flush with heat and bad intentions just out of reach.
Dean breaks through his block, hits, pulls back, eyes flashing in the pale light from the windows. His arm is high, again, ridiculously high, and it makes Sam angry, because doesn't Dean ever learn, for God's sake? He's going to get himself killed with that someday, he's going to run into some son of a bitch who's tougher and faster than his kid brother, something with claws or fangs or a knife instead of a fist, and he's going to go down again, just like he always does, just like he did in that late Indiana summer when he let Sam walk away.
Sam hits harder than he means to. Dean gives up a low grunt of pain, brings his arm back down with a snap and traps Sam's fist against his ribs. He spins so fast and hard Sam's arm nearly comes out of its socket. Dean's free hand flashes up and hits once hard enough to show Sam some stars, then again, just a tap against his temple. Just a little fuck you, kid, a little gotcha sealed with a bright, smug flash of a grin.
Three years and two thousand miles from a field in Markham, Indiana, Sam completes his education. He should have looked back at his brother, at least once; he might have seen. A lot of quiet, empty California nights would have gone down sweeter with the memory of that smile.
Dean's open, idiotically open, mockingly open, so Sam strikes and misses. He strikes again and misses again and leaves his arm up too long, leans back on his heels. He flinches a little from the acid blast of what Dad would say, and just barely stalls his instincts; losing is a lot harder than it looks. He lets Dean's last casual shove tip him over and lands on his back, Dean's hands warm and familiar against his chest, Dean's breath hot against his mouth.
The light from the window hits Dean full in the face and that's the final blow, that's what knocks Sam's breath out of him. Dean's got the road in his eyes and in the tired, coiled lines of his body, but it's led him here, and he's beautiful. He's Sam's brother, blood and bone. He let Sam run, once; and now, he's letting him stop.
"Easy, tiger," Dean says, his voice soft and deep in the quiet.
Sam takes his first breath in years and says, "Dean."
~
Feedback is always welcome. =)
~
A Brief History of Falling | by Merry
Sam and Dean. Gen (ish? maybe I should just say G-rated)
Wherein the Winchester brothers pick their battles.
1,152 words
A Brief History of Falling | by Merry
~
Sam lands a punch, lands it hard, and gets one back for his trouble that nearly cracks a rib. Recognition hits him while he's spinning, confusion to understanding with no transition in between -- maybe it's that nearly, the blow pulled just before it might have done real damage, or maybe it's the flash of white, straight teeth in the dark, the inverse of a grin that he remembers. More likely it's the smell: gasoline and gun oil, deodorant over sweat, days in a car living off road food in cellophane wrappers. Whatever it is, it makes Sam's heart trip over itself and take off like a racehorse.
His next shot slides under Dean's right arm, always a little too high on the follow through. It knocks Dean back and sets him up for another. He takes Sam's first hit on a turn, but there's no other hit to be had, just empty air and a rustle by Sam's ear that lands in a blossom of pain across his cheek. He reels back, nearly falls over the coffee table, nearly splits his lip from grinning. He takes a breath to get his balance and Dean gives it to him, a split second of inaction that lets Sam rejoin the dance.
Sam's apartment is dark except for the dim blue glow from the windows, but that's not what he sees. He sees tall ivory grass in the field back behind that old Markham rental house, a line of trees off to the east where the land slopes down toward the river. He sees a blue sky above them, so intense it hurts his eyes to look at it. The sun picks up the gold in Dean's hair and shines on the sweat pouring down his face, gets in his eyes and makes him squint, crinkles the corners into the crow's feet he'll get when he's older. The ones he may already have now. Wouldn't that be something to see, Sam thinks as Dean's arm comes up to knock away a punch, and he almost asks if they can stop to turn on a light. But he remembers enough: Dean's white t-shirt soaked transparent, Dean's wiry body tough as rebar when Sam hits it and swift as a blink when Sam doesn't.
It gets faster, blurs; picks up a rhythm like a drumbeat that rolls through Sam's muscles and his blood. More blocks than blows now, more turns than falls, and that white smile flashes in the dark again. Here, now, Sam knows every step -- where to put his feet, where to shift his weight, where his arms go to hold off every hit that comes when he knows it'll come. In that Markham field there's a bag with a bus ticket in it and all Sam's worldly goods, but between Sam and the bag there's Dean and this dance, this fight, this argument Sam knows he's not gonna win.
He can feel the breeze on his neck, chilled with the first hint of fall and gritty with the dust they've kicked up; he can feel his edge slipping, his arms thick and heavy, his legs starting to tremble. He can feel the backseat of that fucking car reaching out to swallow him up, tangle him up in highways and hotel sheets till he forgets how to breathe, till he can't even remember why he wants to. He stands there, shaking, eyes stinging with sweat or tears, whatever; his fists are clenched at his sides, knuckles white; he's swaying, or the ground is shifting, or the world is.
Dean swings, and his arm's too high, just a little too high. Sam strikes out with the heel of his hand just like Dean and Dad taught him, surprising himself. His body is still in the fight his will has given up. He shoves, as hard as he can, the last shove he's got in him. Dean goes down on his ass in the dirt, the grass flattened under and around him, arms splayed back behind him to break his fall. He stays down, says nothing, does nothing; he just stays down. Still shaking, Sam steps over him and doesn't say a word, doesn't look back. He grabs his ticket and his bag and he runs, for three long brittle years in bubble wrap he runs until he arrives here in his living room right now, with Dean's body flush with heat and bad intentions just out of reach.
Dean breaks through his block, hits, pulls back, eyes flashing in the pale light from the windows. His arm is high, again, ridiculously high, and it makes Sam angry, because doesn't Dean ever learn, for God's sake? He's going to get himself killed with that someday, he's going to run into some son of a bitch who's tougher and faster than his kid brother, something with claws or fangs or a knife instead of a fist, and he's going to go down again, just like he always does, just like he did in that late Indiana summer when he let Sam walk away.
Sam hits harder than he means to. Dean gives up a low grunt of pain, brings his arm back down with a snap and traps Sam's fist against his ribs. He spins so fast and hard Sam's arm nearly comes out of its socket. Dean's free hand flashes up and hits once hard enough to show Sam some stars, then again, just a tap against his temple. Just a little fuck you, kid, a little gotcha sealed with a bright, smug flash of a grin.
Three years and two thousand miles from a field in Markham, Indiana, Sam completes his education. He should have looked back at his brother, at least once; he might have seen. A lot of quiet, empty California nights would have gone down sweeter with the memory of that smile.
Dean's open, idiotically open, mockingly open, so Sam strikes and misses. He strikes again and misses again and leaves his arm up too long, leans back on his heels. He flinches a little from the acid blast of what Dad would say, and just barely stalls his instincts; losing is a lot harder than it looks. He lets Dean's last casual shove tip him over and lands on his back, Dean's hands warm and familiar against his chest, Dean's breath hot against his mouth.
The light from the window hits Dean full in the face and that's the final blow, that's what knocks Sam's breath out of him. Dean's got the road in his eyes and in the tired, coiled lines of his body, but it's led him here, and he's beautiful. He's Sam's brother, blood and bone. He let Sam run, once; and now, he's letting him stop.
"Easy, tiger," Dean says, his voice soft and deep in the quiet.
Sam takes his first breath in years and says, "Dean."
~
Feedback is always welcome. =)