fic: The Forces Ranged Within Us and Against Us (Supernatural; Dean/Sam)
The Forces Ranged Within Us and Against Us
Supernatural; Dean/Sam; vague spoilers through Born Under a Bad Sign; adult; 2,635 words
This we were, this is how we tried to love, / and these are the forces we had ranged within us / within us and against us, against us and within us.
Thanks as always to luzdeestrellas and mousapelli for giving it a quick once-over. All errors are mine.
~*~
The Forces Ranged Within Us and Against Us
1.
Sometimes, these days, Dean really is ready to pack it all in, to drive until the land ends, get out of the car and keep walking, out into the water. He's a strong swimmer but he'd let it take him, relentless pull of the undertow at his ankles, knees, thighs, until the waves closed over his head and he sank to the bottom like a stone. But he knows the Atlantic is gray and cold, and the Pacific is just as unforgiving.
He forces himself to smile, make some lame joke that gets Sam smiling, too, and the feeling passes.
*
2.
Dean doesn't dream often.
Sam always argues, says, Everybody dreams, Dean. You just don't remember.
Dean waves a dismissive hand. Same thing.
The things he fears don't translate well into lurid dreams; real life makes nightmares pale in comparison.
So when he wakes up and says, "I dreamt of you," Sam sits up and listens.
"Oh?"
"Yeah." He doesn't say, The sun was up and you were smiling. "It was a good dream. You brought me coffee. You should get on that."
Sam laughs and throws a pillow at him, and Dean wishes all good dreams came true so easily.
*
3.
Dean thinks of the years Sam spent at Stanford as a blind spot, a huge blank space full of things he doesn't know about Sam, when he used to know everything--first step, first tooth, first day of school.
Now it seems like what he doesn't know about Sam could get them both killed. He knows he promised, and he's not welshing on that, but they'd both forgotten that Dad also said he could save Sam, and now Dean remembers. He can do this. He's been saving Sam since he was four years old. He's not going to stop now.
*
4.
Dean knows there's probably some word, some diagnosis, something between mentally healthy and totally psycho, for people like him, who find outlet in violence, relief in fire. Sam probably even knows it, has probably taken Psych 101 and dissected his family traumas in a paper he pretended was a lie from start to finish.
Dean doesn't care, though, because when he drops lit matches into an open grave, he feels satisfied, useful, calm. Another job well done, another family safe.
He knows it's crazy to think he can fix his own family by saving everyone else's. He keeps trying anyway.
*
5.
There are still girls, and Dean is still interested, but he's a lot more careful now than he used to be, avoids the ones who look like they watch the news, the ones who ask questions, seem interested and interesting. He's not looking for conversation, so he doesn't find it. He has Sam for that. When he thinks about maybe someday having someone else, he remembers Cassie. Remembers Jess.
He calls Ellen, because she understands. If, when they talk, he wonders sometimes what she'd feel like hot and wet beneath his fingers, around his dick, he never lets her know.
*
6.
Sam slumps over the books, asleep for the first time in days, fingers splayed over tiny, dark letters that scatter like ants across the page, thin strand of drool leaking from his lips.
Dean uncaps the sharpie, contemplates drawing a moustache, a beard, maybe just the word freak in bold letters across Sam's forehead, large enough that even his ridiculous bangs can't hide it completely.
Sam stirs, mutters, five more minutes, Jess.
Dean's fingers tighten on the marker.
He draws by heart, a few quick strokes--the safety of a devil's trap on Sam's hand, to keep the demons out.
*
7.
They reread Dad's journal, though they've both got it memorized. Sam jokes about making up some ridiculous name and writing novels about the adventures of Dick Remington, Ghost Hunter, selling the rights to Spielberg to make movies of their lives.
Dean thinks about it, some peaceful future where he fixes cars and Sam writes books for a living, and though he hasn't got a psychic bone in his body, he knows it'll never happen.
"You get started on that, Sammy, so you can support me in the style I'd like to become accustomed to."
Sam ducks his head and laughs.
*
8.
Sam used to like staying in one place, used to beg Dad to spend more than a month or two in any given town, didn't matter where, as long as they stayed. Sam never had trouble fitting in; all those years as the new kid taught him how to blend. Dean's never learned, never wanted to, until now, when standing out is only going to get them caught.
Now, Sam's itching to move, to hunt, to face his destiny, whatever the fuck that means, and Dean wants to stay, to blend, to hide.
They go, of course. Dean won't stay if Sam needs to move.
*
9.
Dean knows Sam wants to talk, maybe even needs to, but he can't do it, not the way Sam means, with clinical detachment and fucking self-aware self-deprecation. When Dean talks, the words are torn from him raw and bleeding, all the shit he hides from daylight rising in the darkness, his own army of undead regrets come out to play, and they take no prisoners, leave no survivors.
Dean feels weak, and he hates that, hates that Sam thinks he needs protecting, that his armor isn't strong. Sam doesn't seem to realize he's the only one who sees the chinks anymore, the only one Dean can't guard against.
*
10.
Sam threatens to leave sometimes, says it's for Dean's own safety. It always ends in a fight. They're evenly matched--Sam's got the advantages of height and reach, but Dean was there for every step of Sam's training, knows where his foot's going to land before Sam picks it up to step. Or he used to, and he's learning again, like the words of a song he hasn't heard in years coming back when he's not paying attention.
They end up wrestling like overexcited puppies. With every yank of Sam's hair, Dean says, don't go, and with every grip and twist of Sam's fingers on Dean's skin, Sam promises, I won't.
*
11.
There are good days, too, even now. They save a little girl in Chattanooga, a mother and two kids in Cincinnati.
They see a kick-ass Doors cover band in Pensacola, and Sam wins a shitload of cash at darts.
They take a few days off when the weather turns warm, and Dean drags Sam down to the local creek. Boots off and jeans rolled up, they wade in, water like ice against their winter-pale feet, silver bodies of fish flashing by, startled by their invasion.
The circles beneath Sam's eyes fade, and for a little while, Dean lets himself relax.
*
12.
The motel doesn't have a double available. They fight over who gets which side of the bed, mostly because Sam is tired and cranky, and Dean is fed up with listening to him whine. They get into bed and jostle for position, the frame creaking and groaning, the mattress sagging in the middle.
Sam steals the blankets and Dean knees him in the kidneys, and for a few minutes, Dean thinks sleeping in the bathtub would be preferable, but Sam finally settles into sleep, breathing soft and even, familiar in the darkness.
Dean doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes up more rested than he's been in weeks.
*
13.
"I don't get lost," Dean insists, taking another left, thinking, please let this lead back to the Expressway.
Sam rolls his eyes and sucks his teeth. "I told you we should have written the directions down, Dean."
"If you were so sure we were gonna need 'em, why didn't you do it yourself, college boy?"
"Don't call me that." Sam's voice has gone from whiny to serious, vehement.
Dean glances over at him, startled. "Whatever."
The street loops back on itself, still no LIE in sight, and Dean curses the people who built this development with its curving tree-lined streets and million dollar homes. Fucking North Shore.
"I mean it, Dean. That's not who I am anymore." Sam sounds earnest, pleading.
Dean shakes his head. "You went to college, you're a college boy, Sam. You hunt, you're a hunter. That doesn't change."
"I'm not--I can't--"
"You are, and you can, and I swear to God, Sam, if you don't dig out that map and get us back to the Expressway in the next five minutes, I'm gonna kick your ass all the way out to Montauk."
Sam mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, fucking moron, but Dean lets it go, because Sam's got the atlas open on his lap and his flashlight shining on it.
The only way to deal with Sam's existential crises, Dean has learned, is to tell him to shut the fuck up and give him a job to do.
Dean tries not to think about the day that stops working.
*
14.
Dean isn't fast enough to keep Sam from going to his knees from the force of the vision. Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, grunts and groans in pain, and Dean can't do anything but sit on the floor and cradle Sam between his knees, holding hard to Sam's arms, to remind Sam he's not alone.
Sam's body goes rigid, then collapses, his forehead against Dean's chest, and Dean holds him close, rubs his back, mutters the same comforting nonsense he says every time: I got you, Sammy and everything's gonna be all right.
Luckily, Sam still believes him.
*
[The Floating Poem, Unnumbered]
Even Sam doesn't want to talk about this, what they do sometimes in the dark, sweat-slick glide of skin on skin, the taste of salt and desperation, the rough friction of Sam's hand on his dick, his on Sam's, stroking with the same grim efficiency, the reckless intensity only the truly hopeful, the truly desperate, know. It's hard and fast and it makes all Dean's broken places feel whole for those few minutes, before he breaks again, under the knowing stroke of Sam's hand, right and wrong left behind in favor of need and want, and their silent agreement to pretend it never happened when they're done.
*
15.
They maxed out the latest credit cards on the hunt in Cold Spring Harbor, and Dean's pretty sure the feds are watching their nearest PO box. They spend a few nights in the car, one driving while the other sleeps, heading west into Pennsylvania, trying to disappear.
Dean wakes to the sound of screeching tires and the sick feeling of skidding in his stomach, as Sam nearly puts them into a ditch somewhere east of Titusville. Sam's all horrified apology, but Dean doesn't want to hear it, makes him switch places, and pulls the car off onto the shoulder gently so they both can sleep.
In the morning, he finds the nearest pawnshop, sells a couple of his guns, and rents a room at the next Econolodge they pass.
Sam doesn't ask where the money came from, but the next time they're flush, he comes back with a glint in his eye, and a shiny new nine millimeter for Dean's collection.
*
16.
Dean doesn't like to separate these days, doesn't like to remember the feeling of Sam disappearing for a week, coming back covered in blood. Doesn't like to picture Sam having a vision somewhere public, getting rushed to the hospital, recognized, arrested, while Dean's standing in line at Wal-Mart buying Cheetos and socks.
They still do it--better use of resources, and this way if one gets caught the other is still free--but he doesn't like it.
Sam, of course, takes it personally. "Is it that you don't trust me? Is that it?"
"No, dumbass, that's not it. It's that I don't trust everyone else."
Sam calls him a paranoid freak, but there's no anger in it, and Dean can see the tension in his shoulders ease.
*
17.
The ghost isn't angry, isn't vengeful. She just wants someone to understand, to know the truth. Dean sympathizes, lets himself get drawn into the story she's trying to tell, about a pair of lovers separated by prejudice, by murder.
When he sets the bones on fire, he thinks of her solemn gray-white face, always just out of focus, moonlight bending oddly around her, unnatural phenomenon ignoring the laws of physics. He's never really bought into the mystical side of the job, but he believes there's something good in what they do, something respectful of the people whose ghosts they lay to rest.
He can't say any of this to Sam, of course, can't even admit to thinking it, but he's pretty sure Sam already knows.
*
18.
As a kid, Dean was always fascinated by outlaws--Frank and Jesse James, Butch and Sundance, even Bonnie and Clyde. He'd thought it'd be cool to be famous like that, to have everyone know their names and what they'd done, how many people they'd saved and monsters they'd killed.
As he got older, he'd realized Dad was right--flying under the radar is the smartest, safest way to hunt. He might be an adrenaline junkie, but he's not stupid.
Now it's his and Sam's faces on the post office wall, and he thinks he wouldn't mind as much if Henriksen had his facts straight, if they were wanted for something they'd actually done, but he's not carrying the weight for those shapeshifting freaks, and he's not going to let Sam take any of it at all.
During a rainy night in Billings, Sam sprawled out and snoring in the other bed, Dean starts thinking of ways to get the feds off their backs, and wonders if the truth would work.
*
19.
There's always downtime, days of sitting on their asses, scouring the papers and the 'net for possible jobs, nothing to do but clean the car, clean the guns, and get on each other's nerves. They fight and fuck and fight some more, over everything from who got their subscription to X-Men cancelled when they were kids ("All your fault, Sammy, with your, 'I'm reading, I'll be out in a minute,' crap." "You would say that. I know you cancelled it just to spite me. You always liked Batman better." "Duh.") to how to get the feds and the rest of the hunting community off their backs ("I was thinking we could tell 'em the truth," Dean says, and Sam nods, unsurprised).
*
20.
They don't talk about the yellow-eyed demon, Sam's destiny, or what they do in the dark.
Dean's sick of hearing about the first two; he knows there's a way to kill that evil son of a bitch, and eventually, he'll find it. He knows there's a way to save Sam, and he'll figure that out, too. Every day, every breath, is another opportunity.
He doesn't want to talk about the other thing, because talking about it means they can't pretend it doesn't happen--they'd either have to deal with what it means (Dean can just hear Sam's earnest pleas to discuss their feelings) or stop altogether. Dean's not ready to do either, and he hasn't yet figured out if there's some middle ground. He doesn't know if he ever will.
*
21.
Even with the twin shadows of the FBI and the demon hanging over them, even with the uncertainty of Sam's destiny (fuck destiny, Dean thinks every time Sam brings it up), it's a pretty good life. He wants to be here, has chosen it, and now, Sam's chosen it, too. He knows--he's always known--that when they're together, nothing can beat them. He slides behind the wheel in the mid-morning sunshine, hands Sam a cup of coffee--"Half-caf vanilla latte, no foam. Pussy."--and slips his sunglasses on. With his car, his gun, and his brother, he's ready to face whatever the day brings.
end
*
February 26, 2007
*
Inspired by and based on "Twenty-One Love Poems" by Adrienne Rich - title, summary and cut-tag text are all from various poems in that sequence. The plan was for 22 drabbles, but I kind of got less rigorous on the word count as the story went on, so numerous sections are far more than 100 words, but a number of the earlier sections are exactly 100 each. Also, I wasn't really planning on any Wincest, but then I hit that unnumbered floating poem, and it's kinda porny, and there the story went.
~*~
Feedback makes the best LJ-versary present.
~*~
Supernatural; Dean/Sam; vague spoilers through Born Under a Bad Sign; adult; 2,635 words
This we were, this is how we tried to love, / and these are the forces we had ranged within us / within us and against us, against us and within us.
Thanks as always to luzdeestrellas and mousapelli for giving it a quick once-over. All errors are mine.
~*~
The Forces Ranged Within Us and Against Us
1.
Sometimes, these days, Dean really is ready to pack it all in, to drive until the land ends, get out of the car and keep walking, out into the water. He's a strong swimmer but he'd let it take him, relentless pull of the undertow at his ankles, knees, thighs, until the waves closed over his head and he sank to the bottom like a stone. But he knows the Atlantic is gray and cold, and the Pacific is just as unforgiving.
He forces himself to smile, make some lame joke that gets Sam smiling, too, and the feeling passes.
*
2.
Dean doesn't dream often.
Sam always argues, says, Everybody dreams, Dean. You just don't remember.
Dean waves a dismissive hand. Same thing.
The things he fears don't translate well into lurid dreams; real life makes nightmares pale in comparison.
So when he wakes up and says, "I dreamt of you," Sam sits up and listens.
"Oh?"
"Yeah." He doesn't say, The sun was up and you were smiling. "It was a good dream. You brought me coffee. You should get on that."
Sam laughs and throws a pillow at him, and Dean wishes all good dreams came true so easily.
*
3.
Dean thinks of the years Sam spent at Stanford as a blind spot, a huge blank space full of things he doesn't know about Sam, when he used to know everything--first step, first tooth, first day of school.
Now it seems like what he doesn't know about Sam could get them both killed. He knows he promised, and he's not welshing on that, but they'd both forgotten that Dad also said he could save Sam, and now Dean remembers. He can do this. He's been saving Sam since he was four years old. He's not going to stop now.
*
4.
Dean knows there's probably some word, some diagnosis, something between mentally healthy and totally psycho, for people like him, who find outlet in violence, relief in fire. Sam probably even knows it, has probably taken Psych 101 and dissected his family traumas in a paper he pretended was a lie from start to finish.
Dean doesn't care, though, because when he drops lit matches into an open grave, he feels satisfied, useful, calm. Another job well done, another family safe.
He knows it's crazy to think he can fix his own family by saving everyone else's. He keeps trying anyway.
*
5.
There are still girls, and Dean is still interested, but he's a lot more careful now than he used to be, avoids the ones who look like they watch the news, the ones who ask questions, seem interested and interesting. He's not looking for conversation, so he doesn't find it. He has Sam for that. When he thinks about maybe someday having someone else, he remembers Cassie. Remembers Jess.
He calls Ellen, because she understands. If, when they talk, he wonders sometimes what she'd feel like hot and wet beneath his fingers, around his dick, he never lets her know.
*
6.
Sam slumps over the books, asleep for the first time in days, fingers splayed over tiny, dark letters that scatter like ants across the page, thin strand of drool leaking from his lips.
Dean uncaps the sharpie, contemplates drawing a moustache, a beard, maybe just the word freak in bold letters across Sam's forehead, large enough that even his ridiculous bangs can't hide it completely.
Sam stirs, mutters, five more minutes, Jess.
Dean's fingers tighten on the marker.
He draws by heart, a few quick strokes--the safety of a devil's trap on Sam's hand, to keep the demons out.
*
7.
They reread Dad's journal, though they've both got it memorized. Sam jokes about making up some ridiculous name and writing novels about the adventures of Dick Remington, Ghost Hunter, selling the rights to Spielberg to make movies of their lives.
Dean thinks about it, some peaceful future where he fixes cars and Sam writes books for a living, and though he hasn't got a psychic bone in his body, he knows it'll never happen.
"You get started on that, Sammy, so you can support me in the style I'd like to become accustomed to."
Sam ducks his head and laughs.
*
8.
Sam used to like staying in one place, used to beg Dad to spend more than a month or two in any given town, didn't matter where, as long as they stayed. Sam never had trouble fitting in; all those years as the new kid taught him how to blend. Dean's never learned, never wanted to, until now, when standing out is only going to get them caught.
Now, Sam's itching to move, to hunt, to face his destiny, whatever the fuck that means, and Dean wants to stay, to blend, to hide.
They go, of course. Dean won't stay if Sam needs to move.
*
9.
Dean knows Sam wants to talk, maybe even needs to, but he can't do it, not the way Sam means, with clinical detachment and fucking self-aware self-deprecation. When Dean talks, the words are torn from him raw and bleeding, all the shit he hides from daylight rising in the darkness, his own army of undead regrets come out to play, and they take no prisoners, leave no survivors.
Dean feels weak, and he hates that, hates that Sam thinks he needs protecting, that his armor isn't strong. Sam doesn't seem to realize he's the only one who sees the chinks anymore, the only one Dean can't guard against.
*
10.
Sam threatens to leave sometimes, says it's for Dean's own safety. It always ends in a fight. They're evenly matched--Sam's got the advantages of height and reach, but Dean was there for every step of Sam's training, knows where his foot's going to land before Sam picks it up to step. Or he used to, and he's learning again, like the words of a song he hasn't heard in years coming back when he's not paying attention.
They end up wrestling like overexcited puppies. With every yank of Sam's hair, Dean says, don't go, and with every grip and twist of Sam's fingers on Dean's skin, Sam promises, I won't.
*
11.
There are good days, too, even now. They save a little girl in Chattanooga, a mother and two kids in Cincinnati.
They see a kick-ass Doors cover band in Pensacola, and Sam wins a shitload of cash at darts.
They take a few days off when the weather turns warm, and Dean drags Sam down to the local creek. Boots off and jeans rolled up, they wade in, water like ice against their winter-pale feet, silver bodies of fish flashing by, startled by their invasion.
The circles beneath Sam's eyes fade, and for a little while, Dean lets himself relax.
*
12.
The motel doesn't have a double available. They fight over who gets which side of the bed, mostly because Sam is tired and cranky, and Dean is fed up with listening to him whine. They get into bed and jostle for position, the frame creaking and groaning, the mattress sagging in the middle.
Sam steals the blankets and Dean knees him in the kidneys, and for a few minutes, Dean thinks sleeping in the bathtub would be preferable, but Sam finally settles into sleep, breathing soft and even, familiar in the darkness.
Dean doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes up more rested than he's been in weeks.
*
13.
"I don't get lost," Dean insists, taking another left, thinking, please let this lead back to the Expressway.
Sam rolls his eyes and sucks his teeth. "I told you we should have written the directions down, Dean."
"If you were so sure we were gonna need 'em, why didn't you do it yourself, college boy?"
"Don't call me that." Sam's voice has gone from whiny to serious, vehement.
Dean glances over at him, startled. "Whatever."
The street loops back on itself, still no LIE in sight, and Dean curses the people who built this development with its curving tree-lined streets and million dollar homes. Fucking North Shore.
"I mean it, Dean. That's not who I am anymore." Sam sounds earnest, pleading.
Dean shakes his head. "You went to college, you're a college boy, Sam. You hunt, you're a hunter. That doesn't change."
"I'm not--I can't--"
"You are, and you can, and I swear to God, Sam, if you don't dig out that map and get us back to the Expressway in the next five minutes, I'm gonna kick your ass all the way out to Montauk."
Sam mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, fucking moron, but Dean lets it go, because Sam's got the atlas open on his lap and his flashlight shining on it.
The only way to deal with Sam's existential crises, Dean has learned, is to tell him to shut the fuck up and give him a job to do.
Dean tries not to think about the day that stops working.
*
14.
Dean isn't fast enough to keep Sam from going to his knees from the force of the vision. Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, grunts and groans in pain, and Dean can't do anything but sit on the floor and cradle Sam between his knees, holding hard to Sam's arms, to remind Sam he's not alone.
Sam's body goes rigid, then collapses, his forehead against Dean's chest, and Dean holds him close, rubs his back, mutters the same comforting nonsense he says every time: I got you, Sammy and everything's gonna be all right.
Luckily, Sam still believes him.
*
[The Floating Poem, Unnumbered]
Even Sam doesn't want to talk about this, what they do sometimes in the dark, sweat-slick glide of skin on skin, the taste of salt and desperation, the rough friction of Sam's hand on his dick, his on Sam's, stroking with the same grim efficiency, the reckless intensity only the truly hopeful, the truly desperate, know. It's hard and fast and it makes all Dean's broken places feel whole for those few minutes, before he breaks again, under the knowing stroke of Sam's hand, right and wrong left behind in favor of need and want, and their silent agreement to pretend it never happened when they're done.
*
15.
They maxed out the latest credit cards on the hunt in Cold Spring Harbor, and Dean's pretty sure the feds are watching their nearest PO box. They spend a few nights in the car, one driving while the other sleeps, heading west into Pennsylvania, trying to disappear.
Dean wakes to the sound of screeching tires and the sick feeling of skidding in his stomach, as Sam nearly puts them into a ditch somewhere east of Titusville. Sam's all horrified apology, but Dean doesn't want to hear it, makes him switch places, and pulls the car off onto the shoulder gently so they both can sleep.
In the morning, he finds the nearest pawnshop, sells a couple of his guns, and rents a room at the next Econolodge they pass.
Sam doesn't ask where the money came from, but the next time they're flush, he comes back with a glint in his eye, and a shiny new nine millimeter for Dean's collection.
*
16.
Dean doesn't like to separate these days, doesn't like to remember the feeling of Sam disappearing for a week, coming back covered in blood. Doesn't like to picture Sam having a vision somewhere public, getting rushed to the hospital, recognized, arrested, while Dean's standing in line at Wal-Mart buying Cheetos and socks.
They still do it--better use of resources, and this way if one gets caught the other is still free--but he doesn't like it.
Sam, of course, takes it personally. "Is it that you don't trust me? Is that it?"
"No, dumbass, that's not it. It's that I don't trust everyone else."
Sam calls him a paranoid freak, but there's no anger in it, and Dean can see the tension in his shoulders ease.
*
17.
The ghost isn't angry, isn't vengeful. She just wants someone to understand, to know the truth. Dean sympathizes, lets himself get drawn into the story she's trying to tell, about a pair of lovers separated by prejudice, by murder.
When he sets the bones on fire, he thinks of her solemn gray-white face, always just out of focus, moonlight bending oddly around her, unnatural phenomenon ignoring the laws of physics. He's never really bought into the mystical side of the job, but he believes there's something good in what they do, something respectful of the people whose ghosts they lay to rest.
He can't say any of this to Sam, of course, can't even admit to thinking it, but he's pretty sure Sam already knows.
*
18.
As a kid, Dean was always fascinated by outlaws--Frank and Jesse James, Butch and Sundance, even Bonnie and Clyde. He'd thought it'd be cool to be famous like that, to have everyone know their names and what they'd done, how many people they'd saved and monsters they'd killed.
As he got older, he'd realized Dad was right--flying under the radar is the smartest, safest way to hunt. He might be an adrenaline junkie, but he's not stupid.
Now it's his and Sam's faces on the post office wall, and he thinks he wouldn't mind as much if Henriksen had his facts straight, if they were wanted for something they'd actually done, but he's not carrying the weight for those shapeshifting freaks, and he's not going to let Sam take any of it at all.
During a rainy night in Billings, Sam sprawled out and snoring in the other bed, Dean starts thinking of ways to get the feds off their backs, and wonders if the truth would work.
*
19.
There's always downtime, days of sitting on their asses, scouring the papers and the 'net for possible jobs, nothing to do but clean the car, clean the guns, and get on each other's nerves. They fight and fuck and fight some more, over everything from who got their subscription to X-Men cancelled when they were kids ("All your fault, Sammy, with your, 'I'm reading, I'll be out in a minute,' crap." "You would say that. I know you cancelled it just to spite me. You always liked Batman better." "Duh.") to how to get the feds and the rest of the hunting community off their backs ("I was thinking we could tell 'em the truth," Dean says, and Sam nods, unsurprised).
*
20.
They don't talk about the yellow-eyed demon, Sam's destiny, or what they do in the dark.
Dean's sick of hearing about the first two; he knows there's a way to kill that evil son of a bitch, and eventually, he'll find it. He knows there's a way to save Sam, and he'll figure that out, too. Every day, every breath, is another opportunity.
He doesn't want to talk about the other thing, because talking about it means they can't pretend it doesn't happen--they'd either have to deal with what it means (Dean can just hear Sam's earnest pleas to discuss their feelings) or stop altogether. Dean's not ready to do either, and he hasn't yet figured out if there's some middle ground. He doesn't know if he ever will.
*
21.
Even with the twin shadows of the FBI and the demon hanging over them, even with the uncertainty of Sam's destiny (fuck destiny, Dean thinks every time Sam brings it up), it's a pretty good life. He wants to be here, has chosen it, and now, Sam's chosen it, too. He knows--he's always known--that when they're together, nothing can beat them. He slides behind the wheel in the mid-morning sunshine, hands Sam a cup of coffee--"Half-caf vanilla latte, no foam. Pussy."--and slips his sunglasses on. With his car, his gun, and his brother, he's ready to face whatever the day brings.
end
*
February 26, 2007
*
Inspired by and based on "Twenty-One Love Poems" by Adrienne Rich - title, summary and cut-tag text are all from various poems in that sequence. The plan was for 22 drabbles, but I kind of got less rigorous on the word count as the story went on, so numerous sections are far more than 100 words, but a number of the earlier sections are exactly 100 each. Also, I wasn't really planning on any Wincest, but then I hit that unnumbered floating poem, and it's kinda porny, and there the story went.
~*~
Feedback makes the best LJ-versary present.
~*~