fic: A Pocketful of Mumbles, Such Are Promises (Supernatural; Dean/Sam)
A Pocketful of Mumbles, Such Are Promises
Supernatural; Dean/Sam; pg; no spoilers; title and cut-tag text from "The Boxer"; 860 words
All that matters is right here.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing.
~*~
A Pocketful of Mumbles, Such Are Promises
When it's all over, even the shouting, you shag ass, hell for leather, just because you can, one eye on the rearview mirror, one on the road up ahead, free in a way you never were before. When you're far away from the personal apocalypse you've just unleashed (How far? Sam asks, his voice slurred with exhaustion and trembling with disbelief, and you say, Far enough, as steadily as you can, hands tight on the wheel), you stumble out of the car and into some anonymous motel in the middle of nowhere--it could be anywhere because it's everywhere you've ever been, so it feels just like home--and strip out of sweaty, bloodstained clothes, overcome with relief. You tumble into the bed together, still unwilling to be more than an arm's-length apart, still not sure it's really over, and you're really still alive.
"Safe," Sam whispers in your ear, clutching you close like the teddy bear you gave him when he was having night terrors--at six, you made believe you were too old for it, pretended until you believed it was true--only you still have both eyes and most of your stuffing intact. "You're safe now," he says. "I've got you." And you wonder when the world turned upside down, because aren't those your lines? But the heat of his body surrounding yours blows that thought away like the fluff on a dandelion, like the only wishes you ever made, in secret desperation (please bring Mommy back, and please let Dad be all right, and please keep Sammy safe, and you figure one out of three ain't bad).
He curls around you, still whispering wordless promises, and you shiver, his breath moving over your skin like hot wind in the desert, the same promises you made to him every night when you were growing up, broken now, like every other damn thing in your lives, taken by the demon, given up in the quest for vengeance, sacrificed on the altar of your father's rare approval.
Taken, given, what the fuck does it even matter? It's all gone now, one way or the other, and none of it mattered in the end anyway. You won, the demon lost, game over, who's got next? You can't bring yourself to care at the moment. All that matters is right here, in this bed. You know you should push him away, get up, make a joke. Go out and celebrate another stunning Winchester victory snatched from the jaws of defeat--find a girl to fuck, to work off the energy that's skittering through your blood like lightning over water.
Instead, you press forward, your chest against his, burying your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in--sweat, soap, Sam. He threads his fingers through your hair, massages your scalp, and you shiver again, lips moving now, painting over old lies and promises with new ones, your tongue slick against warm, firm skin, mouthing the only prayer you've ever had true faith in, the salt taste of his skin on your tongue finer than holy wine and no protection against the more personal kind of demon possessing you now.
I'm here, Sammy. I'll protect you. Nothing's gonna get you while I'm around.
He believed then and he believes now--he doesn't stop you, doesn't pull away in disgust like he should. Doesn't ask who's going to protect him from you. Like he couldn't take you out if he wanted to, now, power flowing in him like blood--it hums beneath his skin and you imagine you can taste it, ozone and sulphur like every dark thing you've been trained to fight, but not in him. Not in Sam.
His hands tighten on your shoulders as you lick your way across his chest, pausing to listen to his heart, which drums in your ear as wildly as any John Bonham solo, your own heart beating in time. His fingers curl up into your hair again, pulling your head back so you have to look him in the eye.
"Say the word, Sammy, and I'll stop." Your voice is hoarse, low, like it's coming from someplace deep inside, and you don't know how you'll keep it together if he tells you to stop, but you'll do it if you have to, for him.
"Please," he says, and it feels like a knife to your heart, and you wonder if you've broken him, if after everything, it's not the demon but you that makes him fall apart, and you swear you'll put him back together if he breaks, another old promise made anew. But he throws one leg over yours, hooks his foot around your calf so you're skin to skin all the way down, and you can tell he feels it too, his body fever-hot to the touch as you move together, in sync even here. You know it's wrong but it feels so, so good, so you'll worry about the wrongness later (maybe), and he says, "Dean," and he says, "please," and then he cups your face, impossibly gentle even with those huge hands, and hauls you in for a kiss.
end
~*~
Notes: Written under the influence of too little sleep, many technology woes, "Gimme Shelter," and "Furnace Room Lullaby."
~*~
10/18/2006
~*~
Feedback is worshipped.
~*~
Supernatural; Dean/Sam; pg; no spoilers; title and cut-tag text from "The Boxer"; 860 words
All that matters is right here.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing.
~*~
A Pocketful of Mumbles, Such Are Promises
When it's all over, even the shouting, you shag ass, hell for leather, just because you can, one eye on the rearview mirror, one on the road up ahead, free in a way you never were before. When you're far away from the personal apocalypse you've just unleashed (How far? Sam asks, his voice slurred with exhaustion and trembling with disbelief, and you say, Far enough, as steadily as you can, hands tight on the wheel), you stumble out of the car and into some anonymous motel in the middle of nowhere--it could be anywhere because it's everywhere you've ever been, so it feels just like home--and strip out of sweaty, bloodstained clothes, overcome with relief. You tumble into the bed together, still unwilling to be more than an arm's-length apart, still not sure it's really over, and you're really still alive.
"Safe," Sam whispers in your ear, clutching you close like the teddy bear you gave him when he was having night terrors--at six, you made believe you were too old for it, pretended until you believed it was true--only you still have both eyes and most of your stuffing intact. "You're safe now," he says. "I've got you." And you wonder when the world turned upside down, because aren't those your lines? But the heat of his body surrounding yours blows that thought away like the fluff on a dandelion, like the only wishes you ever made, in secret desperation (please bring Mommy back, and please let Dad be all right, and please keep Sammy safe, and you figure one out of three ain't bad).
He curls around you, still whispering wordless promises, and you shiver, his breath moving over your skin like hot wind in the desert, the same promises you made to him every night when you were growing up, broken now, like every other damn thing in your lives, taken by the demon, given up in the quest for vengeance, sacrificed on the altar of your father's rare approval.
Taken, given, what the fuck does it even matter? It's all gone now, one way or the other, and none of it mattered in the end anyway. You won, the demon lost, game over, who's got next? You can't bring yourself to care at the moment. All that matters is right here, in this bed. You know you should push him away, get up, make a joke. Go out and celebrate another stunning Winchester victory snatched from the jaws of defeat--find a girl to fuck, to work off the energy that's skittering through your blood like lightning over water.
Instead, you press forward, your chest against his, burying your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in--sweat, soap, Sam. He threads his fingers through your hair, massages your scalp, and you shiver again, lips moving now, painting over old lies and promises with new ones, your tongue slick against warm, firm skin, mouthing the only prayer you've ever had true faith in, the salt taste of his skin on your tongue finer than holy wine and no protection against the more personal kind of demon possessing you now.
I'm here, Sammy. I'll protect you. Nothing's gonna get you while I'm around.
He believed then and he believes now--he doesn't stop you, doesn't pull away in disgust like he should. Doesn't ask who's going to protect him from you. Like he couldn't take you out if he wanted to, now, power flowing in him like blood--it hums beneath his skin and you imagine you can taste it, ozone and sulphur like every dark thing you've been trained to fight, but not in him. Not in Sam.
His hands tighten on your shoulders as you lick your way across his chest, pausing to listen to his heart, which drums in your ear as wildly as any John Bonham solo, your own heart beating in time. His fingers curl up into your hair again, pulling your head back so you have to look him in the eye.
"Say the word, Sammy, and I'll stop." Your voice is hoarse, low, like it's coming from someplace deep inside, and you don't know how you'll keep it together if he tells you to stop, but you'll do it if you have to, for him.
"Please," he says, and it feels like a knife to your heart, and you wonder if you've broken him, if after everything, it's not the demon but you that makes him fall apart, and you swear you'll put him back together if he breaks, another old promise made anew. But he throws one leg over yours, hooks his foot around your calf so you're skin to skin all the way down, and you can tell he feels it too, his body fever-hot to the touch as you move together, in sync even here. You know it's wrong but it feels so, so good, so you'll worry about the wrongness later (maybe), and he says, "Dean," and he says, "please," and then he cups your face, impossibly gentle even with those huge hands, and hauls you in for a kiss.
end
~*~
Notes: Written under the influence of too little sleep, many technology woes, "Gimme Shelter," and "Furnace Room Lullaby."
~*~
10/18/2006
~*~
Feedback is worshipped.
~*~