fic: your new failed necromancy
Fandom: SPN: Dean, Sam or Dean/Sam
Spoilers: 2x21
Rating: You won't see anything you don't already know. PG.
Notes: Keri, one day I'll extract these 379 words from your hide. I swear to god you will not enjoy it.
Summary: I kept my promise: I didn't write a mouldering corpse fic.
Dean woke again at 3am. His sheets were hot and his stomach tight with something painful and nameless. It took him long minutes to recognize it. Then, agonized, he crept out of bed. Inched his way through the dark to the motel room door.
Bobby's breathing in the other bed was long and slow, but Dean knew from experience that the man woke easy, so he cracked the deadbolt with unheard-of patience. Eased the door open, slipped out to the Impala.
Sammy was in the back seat, still under the drop sheet, seated and curled against the door. Dean had insisted - I am not screwing around goddammit Bobby, take that fucking sheet off him - that he was still breathing through the long drive from Cold Oak. Maybe still warm, but definitely not breathing by the time they reached the motel. So no hospital. Just the drop sheet.
Dean opened the back door, crawled along the seat among the food wrappers and empty bottles. He pulled the sheet off, stuffed it down between their feet. Leaning his head against the seat, he touched his brother's sleeve at the elbow, and left his hand there.
Sammy was faced away from him, his hair fallen across his eyes, looking like he maybe needed a spoon stuck into his mouth or balls-and-cock drawn onto his cheek in sharpie. Like he needed a shove in the ribs and some cash to go grab a pair of coffees cause it'd be his turn to drive soon.
Dean felt his breath hitch again: he clenched his jaw, and pulled himself closer. Knees behind bent knees, his shoulder tucked against Sam's broad back. He pushed his hand around further and held it there at Sam's stomach. Dean willed his claustrophobic, steam-engine heart to heat up both of their bodies, push life back into his brother's stubborn stillness. He opened his mouth against Sammy's jacket, breathed, smelled the wet dirt and diner grease. And sulphur. And blood.
In the morning, Bobby opened the door and repeated himself: they should burn him.
Dean, blinking against the grey dawn, ignored the suggestion. Eventually, he crawled out of the car, and then stood, silent and blank, without any idea as to what to do next.
Spoilers: 2x21
Rating: You won't see anything you don't already know. PG.
Notes: Keri, one day I'll extract these 379 words from your hide. I swear to god you will not enjoy it.
Summary: I kept my promise: I didn't write a mouldering corpse fic.
Dean woke again at 3am. His sheets were hot and his stomach tight with something painful and nameless. It took him long minutes to recognize it. Then, agonized, he crept out of bed. Inched his way through the dark to the motel room door.
Bobby's breathing in the other bed was long and slow, but Dean knew from experience that the man woke easy, so he cracked the deadbolt with unheard-of patience. Eased the door open, slipped out to the Impala.
Sammy was in the back seat, still under the drop sheet, seated and curled against the door. Dean had insisted - I am not screwing around goddammit Bobby, take that fucking sheet off him - that he was still breathing through the long drive from Cold Oak. Maybe still warm, but definitely not breathing by the time they reached the motel. So no hospital. Just the drop sheet.
Dean opened the back door, crawled along the seat among the food wrappers and empty bottles. He pulled the sheet off, stuffed it down between their feet. Leaning his head against the seat, he touched his brother's sleeve at the elbow, and left his hand there.
Sammy was faced away from him, his hair fallen across his eyes, looking like he maybe needed a spoon stuck into his mouth or balls-and-cock drawn onto his cheek in sharpie. Like he needed a shove in the ribs and some cash to go grab a pair of coffees cause it'd be his turn to drive soon.
Dean felt his breath hitch again: he clenched his jaw, and pulled himself closer. Knees behind bent knees, his shoulder tucked against Sam's broad back. He pushed his hand around further and held it there at Sam's stomach. Dean willed his claustrophobic, steam-engine heart to heat up both of their bodies, push life back into his brother's stubborn stillness. He opened his mouth against Sammy's jacket, breathed, smelled the wet dirt and diner grease. And sulphur. And blood.
In the morning, Bobby opened the door and repeated himself: they should burn him.
Dean, blinking against the grey dawn, ignored the suggestion. Eventually, he crawled out of the car, and then stood, silent and blank, without any idea as to what to do next.