(no subject)
So, fic - this is for luvsabitch for spn_holidays. It was meant to be up a little sooner, but I've had really limited internet access and there were some communication errors - sorry it's slightly belated!
Motel 6, Sam/Dean, R, 1850 words. Vaguely the equivalent of the vignettes-in-the-Impala thing, only this time it's vignettes-in-hotel-rooms.
It's two in the morning, seventy miles outside of Dallas, and by the time Dean pulls into the Best Western parking lot - the only motel he's seen for the past hour - Sam's asleep in the passenger seat, face pressed up against the window, fingers still wrapped around the journal.
He starts waking up about the time Dean comes back from the lobby, but Dean gets the engine running and he doesn't really come out of it, just settles back in against the glass, eyes closing. Dean leaves the car on while he unloads the trunk - clothes, guns, knives, holy water, salt - and Sam stays down for the count.
Neither of them is a heavy sleeper, a hazard of their line of work, so Dean's kind of surprised that Sam doesn't wake up until he leans in from the driver's side and puts a hand on his shoulder, steady through the warmth of Sam's skin and t-shirt.
"Hey," he says, and it's starting to snow, drops of water against the windshield, dark shadows all across Sam's face as his eyes flutter open. "Ready to go inside?"
"Yeah," Sam says, rough with sleep, and lets Dean keep his hand where it's at for a minute before he opens the car door, climbing out.
The room's not perfect, but it's warm and dry and Sam just pulls off his jeans and climbs into bed, safe as Dean's going to be able to keep him, and under two extra blankets with Sam asleep in the bed beside him, he almost thinks it could be okay.
-
Sam's used to fucking himself up. Broken bones and bruises are par for the course, worse is standard, and Sam's gotten pretty good at navigating emergency rooms and doctor's offices with a fake ID and forged insurance cards. This deep into Alabama, however, the nearest emergency room is at least fifty miles away, which is why Dean's stitching Sam's side up with scotch for an anesthetic, using a needle sterilized in gin and a clean shirt to clean up the blood.
"Motherfucker," Dean manages. Sam's fingers are white where he's holding on to Dean's sleeve, and Dean holds him down against the bed and pulls the needle through, steady.
"Promise me," Dean says, through gritted teeth, "promise me you're not going to do this alone," and Sam doesn't bother to answer, just watches Dean pull the sides of the cut in together and guide the needle through.
-
Dean's never understood faith.
He puts his trust in the things he can touch, the things he knows will come through - the steady click of a handgun, his brother at his back, the highway spread out before him. Dean's seen a lot of things that would be a hell of an excuse for prayer, evil that comes knocking in the middle of the night, and so he gets the edges of it, the bones and breath of what devotion means, but he's never been fighting for that. Dean believes in sunrise over the Mississippi and in Sam's steady hands, in the fact that his mother loved him and the smell of ozone out in the plains, and he's never wanted anything more, never wanted anything less.
So when the first hellhound comes, Dean doesn't start praying. He doesn't reach for the bible in the bedside table, and he doesn't touch the holy water. He looks to Sam, and Sam comes through. A single blast of rock salt and it's done with, even if Dean knows better than to think it's going to last.
"You've got to," Dean says, finally, "let go," and Sam doesn't say anything, just climbs in with Dean, tight against his side, and wraps a hand around his wrist.
"Thank you," Sam says, finally, quiet, voice breaking, and Dean doesn't push him away.
Sam falls asleep past midnight, out cold from the pills Dean slipped him, but she doesn't come until one. It's not the demon he knows, but she's beautiful anyway, strong curves and delicate shadows.
"Well, Dean," she says, and Dean presses his hand up just beneath Sam's ribcage, heartbeat steady against his palm, and gives in.
He feels his whole body jerk, like he's a puppet on a string, and it hurts like hell, like every thought is being ripped out of his head, but when it passes, he's still next to Sam on the bed. Still breathing. She pulls again, and again, until Dean loses count and lets it wash over him, crests and waves, feeling himself slide in and out of consciousness like the tide, and when he opens his eyes, he thinks she has her hand wrapped around his neck, but it's not, just the amulet, and when she jerks it off him, he feels the burn against his skin.
"Try to refrain from making deals you can't keep, Winchester," she says, cold, "because it really pisses us off."
When she kisses him, her mouth comes away bloody, but Dean can't see the hellhounds lingering around the edges of the room anymore, and when he passes out, after, Sam's breath is still warm against his cheek.
Dean's shaken awake, brutal, furious, and Sam's right up in his space, close and warm and still alive.
"How was I supposed to protect you," he yells, and Dean pulls him down and shuts him up the only way that makes sense, because Sam is the only person who's ever going to have any goddamned claims on his soul.
He tastes like aspirin and water, clear and uncertain, and Dean wraps a hand around the back of his neck, drawing him down. "It's over," he says, and "Sam," and when Sam opens his eyes and kisses back, Dean starts to understand.
-
After, they don't leave the room for a couple days, long enough that Sam starts to lose track of time. He's happy to stay wrapped up in Dean's breathing, in the warmth of his skin, and it's all right for the first time in as long as he can remember. They come out of it eventually, and Sam knows better than to talk about it when they're back on the road, but there's an easy sort of peace in the silence.
The first night, just outside of Omaha, Dean puts down the credit card and asks for a king, and Sam brushes his teeth and sleeps for twelve hours. Dean steals all the blankets, but Sam doesn't mind.
They don't go back to things, not exactly, because Sam understands that the past year has worn down every reserve they have, that they're both running on empty. Hauntings are easy, the sort of muscle memory habit that Sam doesn't protest, but they're not doing demons, not doing vampires, not doing gods, and he knows when to stop.
They're on the Pennsylvania turnpike, not that far outside of Philadelphia, when Dean starts to look flushed, and a hundred miles later, he's coughing. Sam pulls off at the nearest exit, even though it's only a little after four, and lets him sleep it off for the next couple of days. It's the first time Sam can remember where Dean doesn't try to work through a cold, and it's good, to stay in bed and watch godawful holiday movies and reruns of Law and Order on TNT, with Dean's head against his stomach, an arm wrapped around his waist, like he's worried Sam's thinking of going somewhere other than to the nearest Wendy's. By the time Dean's no longer sleeping sixteen hours a day, Sam's found a case - ten suicides, one every year on the seventh of November - and the grave is marked and obvious. Dean heads to the local morgue after, just to tie up loose ends with the latest victim, and Sam's got nothing to do and the car, which is about when he remembers that it's a quarter after five and their motel room has a kitchenette.
Dean gets back a little after seven, looking exhausted, but Sam's got spaghetti and garlic bread and an actual salad. Sam figures it isn't going to matter if the bread's a little burned and the pasta isn't exactly al dente; it's been a couple years since he's cooked anything, but Dean's not picky.
"There's beer in the fridge," Sam offers, cutting up the bread, and he's not exactly expecting it when Dean takes the knife out of his hands, turns him around, and presses him against the counter.
They haven't talked about what happened, because Dean doesn’t talk and Sam hasn't wanted to push, but this isn't the same as the first time - it's deliberate, open, and there's nothing in Dean's face but what he wants, what they both want. When they kiss, there's no denial, just the steady press of Dean's mouth over his, a warm hand against his hip.
"Jesus, spaghetti," Dean says, reverent, a couple of minutes later, and lets go of Sam to swipe a piece of garlic bread.
"Wash your hands," Sam says, swiping it right back, and goes to put the salad dressing on the table.
-
The governor's mansion in Missouri has seventeen bedrooms and two poltergeists, one of which nearly kills the governor's granddaughter before Sam smashes his way through a wall and frees her. It's not anything out of the ordinary, just another day's work, and they're half way to Indiana by the time Dean realizes, in the middle of a shower, that the governor of Missouri probably had a pretty goddamned good idea of who they were.
-
Special Agent Victor Henriksen wakes up at 6:16 AM in room 216 at the Hampton Inn Moline to twelve voicemails, fifteen missed calls, and three increasingly desperate text messages. His blackberry rings while he's holding it, mobile command headquarters, and when he answers, there's a moment of dead silence on the other end of the line.
"They're gone, sir," his second in command says. "The files, the warrants, the prints, they're just - there's nothing there."
"Hold on," Henriksen says, call waiting, a number he doesn't recognize, Jesus fucking Christ.
"I think it's time we called off this little witch hunt," he hears, cold and vaguely distant. "Wouldn't you say, Victor?"
There's not much even the fucking FBI can do against a full governor's pardon. The blackberry crunches sickeningly as it hits the wall.
-
The first Christmas, after, Sam doesn't bother with a tree.
They paint the kitchen on Christmas Eve instead, but Dean finds a few boxes of holiday lights in the garage. When Sam wakes up the next morning, they're strung across the living room, illuminating two or three boxes and the couch Sam found on craigslist. There are only a couple presents, spread out across the kitchen table, but Sam doesn't need to open them to know that this is the best Christmas he's ever going to have.
"Eggnog for breakfast, Sammy," Dean says, leaning across the counter with a grin, and Sam laughs and walks through to the kitchen, home.
Motel 6, Sam/Dean, R, 1850 words. Vaguely the equivalent of the vignettes-in-the-Impala thing, only this time it's vignettes-in-hotel-rooms.
It's two in the morning, seventy miles outside of Dallas, and by the time Dean pulls into the Best Western parking lot - the only motel he's seen for the past hour - Sam's asleep in the passenger seat, face pressed up against the window, fingers still wrapped around the journal.
He starts waking up about the time Dean comes back from the lobby, but Dean gets the engine running and he doesn't really come out of it, just settles back in against the glass, eyes closing. Dean leaves the car on while he unloads the trunk - clothes, guns, knives, holy water, salt - and Sam stays down for the count.
Neither of them is a heavy sleeper, a hazard of their line of work, so Dean's kind of surprised that Sam doesn't wake up until he leans in from the driver's side and puts a hand on his shoulder, steady through the warmth of Sam's skin and t-shirt.
"Hey," he says, and it's starting to snow, drops of water against the windshield, dark shadows all across Sam's face as his eyes flutter open. "Ready to go inside?"
"Yeah," Sam says, rough with sleep, and lets Dean keep his hand where it's at for a minute before he opens the car door, climbing out.
The room's not perfect, but it's warm and dry and Sam just pulls off his jeans and climbs into bed, safe as Dean's going to be able to keep him, and under two extra blankets with Sam asleep in the bed beside him, he almost thinks it could be okay.
-
Sam's used to fucking himself up. Broken bones and bruises are par for the course, worse is standard, and Sam's gotten pretty good at navigating emergency rooms and doctor's offices with a fake ID and forged insurance cards. This deep into Alabama, however, the nearest emergency room is at least fifty miles away, which is why Dean's stitching Sam's side up with scotch for an anesthetic, using a needle sterilized in gin and a clean shirt to clean up the blood.
"Motherfucker," Dean manages. Sam's fingers are white where he's holding on to Dean's sleeve, and Dean holds him down against the bed and pulls the needle through, steady.
"Promise me," Dean says, through gritted teeth, "promise me you're not going to do this alone," and Sam doesn't bother to answer, just watches Dean pull the sides of the cut in together and guide the needle through.
-
Dean's never understood faith.
He puts his trust in the things he can touch, the things he knows will come through - the steady click of a handgun, his brother at his back, the highway spread out before him. Dean's seen a lot of things that would be a hell of an excuse for prayer, evil that comes knocking in the middle of the night, and so he gets the edges of it, the bones and breath of what devotion means, but he's never been fighting for that. Dean believes in sunrise over the Mississippi and in Sam's steady hands, in the fact that his mother loved him and the smell of ozone out in the plains, and he's never wanted anything more, never wanted anything less.
So when the first hellhound comes, Dean doesn't start praying. He doesn't reach for the bible in the bedside table, and he doesn't touch the holy water. He looks to Sam, and Sam comes through. A single blast of rock salt and it's done with, even if Dean knows better than to think it's going to last.
"You've got to," Dean says, finally, "let go," and Sam doesn't say anything, just climbs in with Dean, tight against his side, and wraps a hand around his wrist.
"Thank you," Sam says, finally, quiet, voice breaking, and Dean doesn't push him away.
Sam falls asleep past midnight, out cold from the pills Dean slipped him, but she doesn't come until one. It's not the demon he knows, but she's beautiful anyway, strong curves and delicate shadows.
"Well, Dean," she says, and Dean presses his hand up just beneath Sam's ribcage, heartbeat steady against his palm, and gives in.
He feels his whole body jerk, like he's a puppet on a string, and it hurts like hell, like every thought is being ripped out of his head, but when it passes, he's still next to Sam on the bed. Still breathing. She pulls again, and again, until Dean loses count and lets it wash over him, crests and waves, feeling himself slide in and out of consciousness like the tide, and when he opens his eyes, he thinks she has her hand wrapped around his neck, but it's not, just the amulet, and when she jerks it off him, he feels the burn against his skin.
"Try to refrain from making deals you can't keep, Winchester," she says, cold, "because it really pisses us off."
When she kisses him, her mouth comes away bloody, but Dean can't see the hellhounds lingering around the edges of the room anymore, and when he passes out, after, Sam's breath is still warm against his cheek.
Dean's shaken awake, brutal, furious, and Sam's right up in his space, close and warm and still alive.
"How was I supposed to protect you," he yells, and Dean pulls him down and shuts him up the only way that makes sense, because Sam is the only person who's ever going to have any goddamned claims on his soul.
He tastes like aspirin and water, clear and uncertain, and Dean wraps a hand around the back of his neck, drawing him down. "It's over," he says, and "Sam," and when Sam opens his eyes and kisses back, Dean starts to understand.
-
After, they don't leave the room for a couple days, long enough that Sam starts to lose track of time. He's happy to stay wrapped up in Dean's breathing, in the warmth of his skin, and it's all right for the first time in as long as he can remember. They come out of it eventually, and Sam knows better than to talk about it when they're back on the road, but there's an easy sort of peace in the silence.
The first night, just outside of Omaha, Dean puts down the credit card and asks for a king, and Sam brushes his teeth and sleeps for twelve hours. Dean steals all the blankets, but Sam doesn't mind.
They don't go back to things, not exactly, because Sam understands that the past year has worn down every reserve they have, that they're both running on empty. Hauntings are easy, the sort of muscle memory habit that Sam doesn't protest, but they're not doing demons, not doing vampires, not doing gods, and he knows when to stop.
They're on the Pennsylvania turnpike, not that far outside of Philadelphia, when Dean starts to look flushed, and a hundred miles later, he's coughing. Sam pulls off at the nearest exit, even though it's only a little after four, and lets him sleep it off for the next couple of days. It's the first time Sam can remember where Dean doesn't try to work through a cold, and it's good, to stay in bed and watch godawful holiday movies and reruns of Law and Order on TNT, with Dean's head against his stomach, an arm wrapped around his waist, like he's worried Sam's thinking of going somewhere other than to the nearest Wendy's. By the time Dean's no longer sleeping sixteen hours a day, Sam's found a case - ten suicides, one every year on the seventh of November - and the grave is marked and obvious. Dean heads to the local morgue after, just to tie up loose ends with the latest victim, and Sam's got nothing to do and the car, which is about when he remembers that it's a quarter after five and their motel room has a kitchenette.
Dean gets back a little after seven, looking exhausted, but Sam's got spaghetti and garlic bread and an actual salad. Sam figures it isn't going to matter if the bread's a little burned and the pasta isn't exactly al dente; it's been a couple years since he's cooked anything, but Dean's not picky.
"There's beer in the fridge," Sam offers, cutting up the bread, and he's not exactly expecting it when Dean takes the knife out of his hands, turns him around, and presses him against the counter.
They haven't talked about what happened, because Dean doesn’t talk and Sam hasn't wanted to push, but this isn't the same as the first time - it's deliberate, open, and there's nothing in Dean's face but what he wants, what they both want. When they kiss, there's no denial, just the steady press of Dean's mouth over his, a warm hand against his hip.
"Jesus, spaghetti," Dean says, reverent, a couple of minutes later, and lets go of Sam to swipe a piece of garlic bread.
"Wash your hands," Sam says, swiping it right back, and goes to put the salad dressing on the table.
-
The governor's mansion in Missouri has seventeen bedrooms and two poltergeists, one of which nearly kills the governor's granddaughter before Sam smashes his way through a wall and frees her. It's not anything out of the ordinary, just another day's work, and they're half way to Indiana by the time Dean realizes, in the middle of a shower, that the governor of Missouri probably had a pretty goddamned good idea of who they were.
-
Special Agent Victor Henriksen wakes up at 6:16 AM in room 216 at the Hampton Inn Moline to twelve voicemails, fifteen missed calls, and three increasingly desperate text messages. His blackberry rings while he's holding it, mobile command headquarters, and when he answers, there's a moment of dead silence on the other end of the line.
"They're gone, sir," his second in command says. "The files, the warrants, the prints, they're just - there's nothing there."
"Hold on," Henriksen says, call waiting, a number he doesn't recognize, Jesus fucking Christ.
"I think it's time we called off this little witch hunt," he hears, cold and vaguely distant. "Wouldn't you say, Victor?"
There's not much even the fucking FBI can do against a full governor's pardon. The blackberry crunches sickeningly as it hits the wall.
-
The first Christmas, after, Sam doesn't bother with a tree.
They paint the kitchen on Christmas Eve instead, but Dean finds a few boxes of holiday lights in the garage. When Sam wakes up the next morning, they're strung across the living room, illuminating two or three boxes and the couch Sam found on craigslist. There are only a couple presents, spread out across the kitchen table, but Sam doesn't need to open them to know that this is the best Christmas he's ever going to have.
"Eggnog for breakfast, Sammy," Dean says, leaning across the counter with a grin, and Sam laughs and walks through to the kitchen, home.