fic: The real green thing will come (Supernatural; Sam/Dean)
The real green thing will come
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; pg; spoilers for Houses of the Holy; 1,015 words
He'd like to blame the whiskey, but he thinks it's more than that, this whatever-it-is between them that's been there for years.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas and amberlynne for looking it over.
~*~
The real green thing will come
The whiskey in the flask has a cheap metallic flavor, and Sam's pretty sure that's the whiskey Dean's chosen and not the flask itself (wouldn't they make it so that didn't happen? He's pretty sure they would.), but he drinks anyway, because Dean offers and they've had a long day, a long week, a pretty long fucking life, and the alcohol won't make it go away, but it takes the edge off, makes everything hurt a little less, seem a little further away than it does when he's sober.
The bed sags under his weight, and he thinks he can count each individual spring as it digs into his back, and he is just so damn tired of crappy motel beds in ugly motel rooms that he doesn't even ask, he just gets up and moves to Dean's bed.
Dean stares at him for a second, then elbows him in the ribs. Sam elbows him back, and soon they're wrestling like they used to when they were kids. The bed's not really up to it, squeaks and groans like it's going to fall apart at any minute, and Sam can imagine what the people in the next room--if there are any--are thinking, but they don't let it stop them.
They're both breathing heavily when Sam finally pins Dean to the bed. With his arms stretched over his head, he looks vulnerable; with his eyes heavy-lidded from whiskey and exertion, he looks seductive, reminds Sam of ancient Greek statuary--Adonis or Apollo--or a medieval painting of the angels he wants so badly to believe exist.
Dean shifts a little, jolting Sam out of his reverie and into awareness of the body beneath him, his brother's body, hard and lean and--Sam shifts his hips and Dean sucks in a shocked breath, eyes wide open now, his gaze meeting Sam's and then skittering away quickly--yeah, hard. Dean's not the only one.
The sound of their breathing is loud, and now that the bed has quit its complaining, the heater has started clanking and groaning like Marley's ghost, and the room smells musty and damp and sweaty, like all the dirty laundry in their bags has been simmering just a little too long.
Sam thinks he could play it off as a joke--it's been a while since either of them has gotten laid--but he knows it's more than just a standard biological response. He thinks he could acknowledge it, lean forward and kiss Dean, and--that's where he stops, lets go of Dean's wrists, and rolls off him.
He stares up at the watermarked ceiling, waiting for Dean to say something, to break the tension, make a remark about needing to get laid, or kick Sam out of his bed, but he just lies there, breathing loud and panicked in Sam's ear.
Finally, Sam says, "It's okay."
He doesn't expect an answer, or even an acknowledgement from Dean, so it's a surprise when Dean says, "It's not even in the same fucking state as okay," his voice a sandpaper rasp.
"It's not like I didn't--I mean, I did--I mean, I am--" He trails off, and he'd like to blame the whiskey, but he thinks it's more than that, this whatever-it-is between them that's been there for years.
"Sam." Dean's voice is sharp now, but not mocking.
"I--Dean--Okay." He can do this, has learned the Winchester code of silence as well as Dean--learned it from Dean--can talk around a subject until the opportunity to strike at the heart of it arrives, usually at the worst possible moment, and in the way that'll hurt the most. "Okay." He pushes himself up, prepares to slink back into the saggy second bed, and Dean elbows his arm out from under him.
Okay, then.
Sam lets himself fall back onto the flat pillow and goes back to contemplating the ceiling.
Dean shifts onto his side, lays the flask on the night table, and turns out the light.
Sam thinks it's going to take him a long time to fall asleep, because he hasn't slept with someone else since Jess, but he wiggles a little in the space Dean's left him, and Dean curls up against him--Dean has always been a secret snuggler, and Sam has always pretended not to notice, because they spent so much of their childhood like this, alone and scared and huddled underneath ugly, polyester motel comforters, waiting for Dad to come home, Sam needing to be held as much as Dean needed to hold him--and he's drifting off almost as soon as they both stop moving, the whisper-soft whoosh of their breathing and the steady beat of Dean's heart better than a lullaby.
It's still dark when he wakes up, and there's not enough room for them to sleep back to back, so he turns when Dean does, still half-asleep, and wraps himself around his brother. Sam counts the knobs of Dean's spine with curious fingers, traces the jut and splay of his shoulders, thinking, Wings would be here, because maybe there isn't any such thing as angels, but he has Dean, which is almost the same thing. Warriors for good, fierce and vigilant, and it's so easy to see Dean's face illuminated by a halo, Dean's hands gripping the hilt of a flaming sword, smiting the demons and powers of darkness.
Maybe he's drunker than he'd thought.
"Stop thinking so loud," Dean murmurs, pressing back against him, and that shouldn't feel so good, should it? "And go back to sleep."
Sam sighs against the warm, sweaty skin of Dean's neck, and feels him shiver a little before he settles into sleep again, lashes leaving delicate spider-leg shadows on his cheeks when passing cars spill light into the room. Next time, he's going to remind Dean to get a room that doesn't face the parking lot.
For now, he lets his hand rest on the jut of Dean's hip, fingers slipping beneath the t-shirt to splay against the warm skin of his belly, and falls asleep.
end
***
Title from Admonitions to a Special Person by Anne Sexton
2/3/07
~*~
Feedback would be awesome.
Supernatural; Sam/Dean; pg; spoilers for Houses of the Holy; 1,015 words
He'd like to blame the whiskey, but he thinks it's more than that, this whatever-it-is between them that's been there for years.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas and amberlynne for looking it over.
~*~
The real green thing will come
The whiskey in the flask has a cheap metallic flavor, and Sam's pretty sure that's the whiskey Dean's chosen and not the flask itself (wouldn't they make it so that didn't happen? He's pretty sure they would.), but he drinks anyway, because Dean offers and they've had a long day, a long week, a pretty long fucking life, and the alcohol won't make it go away, but it takes the edge off, makes everything hurt a little less, seem a little further away than it does when he's sober.
The bed sags under his weight, and he thinks he can count each individual spring as it digs into his back, and he is just so damn tired of crappy motel beds in ugly motel rooms that he doesn't even ask, he just gets up and moves to Dean's bed.
Dean stares at him for a second, then elbows him in the ribs. Sam elbows him back, and soon they're wrestling like they used to when they were kids. The bed's not really up to it, squeaks and groans like it's going to fall apart at any minute, and Sam can imagine what the people in the next room--if there are any--are thinking, but they don't let it stop them.
They're both breathing heavily when Sam finally pins Dean to the bed. With his arms stretched over his head, he looks vulnerable; with his eyes heavy-lidded from whiskey and exertion, he looks seductive, reminds Sam of ancient Greek statuary--Adonis or Apollo--or a medieval painting of the angels he wants so badly to believe exist.
Dean shifts a little, jolting Sam out of his reverie and into awareness of the body beneath him, his brother's body, hard and lean and--Sam shifts his hips and Dean sucks in a shocked breath, eyes wide open now, his gaze meeting Sam's and then skittering away quickly--yeah, hard. Dean's not the only one.
The sound of their breathing is loud, and now that the bed has quit its complaining, the heater has started clanking and groaning like Marley's ghost, and the room smells musty and damp and sweaty, like all the dirty laundry in their bags has been simmering just a little too long.
Sam thinks he could play it off as a joke--it's been a while since either of them has gotten laid--but he knows it's more than just a standard biological response. He thinks he could acknowledge it, lean forward and kiss Dean, and--that's where he stops, lets go of Dean's wrists, and rolls off him.
He stares up at the watermarked ceiling, waiting for Dean to say something, to break the tension, make a remark about needing to get laid, or kick Sam out of his bed, but he just lies there, breathing loud and panicked in Sam's ear.
Finally, Sam says, "It's okay."
He doesn't expect an answer, or even an acknowledgement from Dean, so it's a surprise when Dean says, "It's not even in the same fucking state as okay," his voice a sandpaper rasp.
"It's not like I didn't--I mean, I did--I mean, I am--" He trails off, and he'd like to blame the whiskey, but he thinks it's more than that, this whatever-it-is between them that's been there for years.
"Sam." Dean's voice is sharp now, but not mocking.
"I--Dean--Okay." He can do this, has learned the Winchester code of silence as well as Dean--learned it from Dean--can talk around a subject until the opportunity to strike at the heart of it arrives, usually at the worst possible moment, and in the way that'll hurt the most. "Okay." He pushes himself up, prepares to slink back into the saggy second bed, and Dean elbows his arm out from under him.
Okay, then.
Sam lets himself fall back onto the flat pillow and goes back to contemplating the ceiling.
Dean shifts onto his side, lays the flask on the night table, and turns out the light.
Sam thinks it's going to take him a long time to fall asleep, because he hasn't slept with someone else since Jess, but he wiggles a little in the space Dean's left him, and Dean curls up against him--Dean has always been a secret snuggler, and Sam has always pretended not to notice, because they spent so much of their childhood like this, alone and scared and huddled underneath ugly, polyester motel comforters, waiting for Dad to come home, Sam needing to be held as much as Dean needed to hold him--and he's drifting off almost as soon as they both stop moving, the whisper-soft whoosh of their breathing and the steady beat of Dean's heart better than a lullaby.
It's still dark when he wakes up, and there's not enough room for them to sleep back to back, so he turns when Dean does, still half-asleep, and wraps himself around his brother. Sam counts the knobs of Dean's spine with curious fingers, traces the jut and splay of his shoulders, thinking, Wings would be here, because maybe there isn't any such thing as angels, but he has Dean, which is almost the same thing. Warriors for good, fierce and vigilant, and it's so easy to see Dean's face illuminated by a halo, Dean's hands gripping the hilt of a flaming sword, smiting the demons and powers of darkness.
Maybe he's drunker than he'd thought.
"Stop thinking so loud," Dean murmurs, pressing back against him, and that shouldn't feel so good, should it? "And go back to sleep."
Sam sighs against the warm, sweaty skin of Dean's neck, and feels him shiver a little before he settles into sleep again, lashes leaving delicate spider-leg shadows on his cheeks when passing cars spill light into the room. Next time, he's going to remind Dean to get a room that doesn't face the parking lot.
For now, he lets his hand rest on the jut of Dean's hip, fingers slipping beneath the t-shirt to splay against the warm skin of his belly, and falls asleep.
end
***
Title from Admonitions to a Special Person by Anne Sexton
2/3/07
~*~
Feedback would be awesome.