Ficlet coda for 10x15
You know sometimes you see something in an episode and it makes you think "I need to write a fic to get this straight in my mind?"
Yeah, this was one of those. A ficlet (430 words) for 10x15. (Also, thanks to caranfindel for reccing it before I even had it up here! WHAT A BRO.)
Dean looks at Sam, crammed into the corner of the front seat, cheekbones thrown into relief by the light of his phone. Sam’s thumb skids down the screen like he’s soothing it, like if he strokes it just right the thing might do like a woman, lose itself under his hands and give up its secrets in pleasure.
"I know what you’re doing," Dean says. Sam slides his eyes sideways, opens and closes his mouth. He drops his hand and his phone down into his lap. Hunching his shoulders, he shifts infinitesimally further away.
Dean breathes deep through his nose, keeps his punching hand gripped tight on the wheel. “There’s no point, man,” he says. He thinks about that last encounter with Cain, about the crazy glint in the dude’s blue eyes as he told Dean, “It ends with you murdering Sam.” Dean has yet to mention this little fact to his brother. He’s meant to, on several occasions: but somehow it’s never worked out.
Watching Sam flinch away from him now, Dean realises that there’s no excuse. Convincing Sam not to waste his time on the same old lore is one thing. Keeping him and his naked throat easy-access at Dean’s side is another.
Yeah, Dean thinks. Time to warn Sam away.
"You know on a case," he says, "that the moment always comes when you’ve done all you can."
Sam looks at him, misery clear on his face.
"This is like that," Dean says. He lifts his forearm into the air. The Mark seems to know that it’s centre stage. It throbs. Little tendrils of tension coil out of it into Dean’s core.
"I’m stuck with this," Dean says. "And don’t think I like it. But… I gotta keep going."
He opens his mouth to say, “But you, Sammy? You need to get out.” He wants to say, “Come on, Sam, you know how this goes; you’ve read the Cain and Abel myth a few hundred times by now.” He wants to say to Sam, “Stop acting like I can be saved.”
Dean absolutely does not want to have Sam die under his hand. He doesn’t want to feel the warm wet splash of his brother’s blood, want to scent the iron tang of it in the air. He does not want to watch that spot in Sam’s throat flutter its frantic last. Nope. He doesn’t want that.
And yet. And yet.
'You've got to get out of here, Sam,' Dean thinks.
"I want you right there beside me, Sam," says his mouth.
On his arm, the Mark hums its approval, warm and pleased.
Yeah, this was one of those. A ficlet (430 words) for 10x15. (Also, thanks to caranfindel for reccing it before I even had it up here! WHAT A BRO.)
Dean looks at Sam, crammed into the corner of the front seat, cheekbones thrown into relief by the light of his phone. Sam’s thumb skids down the screen like he’s soothing it, like if he strokes it just right the thing might do like a woman, lose itself under his hands and give up its secrets in pleasure.
"I know what you’re doing," Dean says. Sam slides his eyes sideways, opens and closes his mouth. He drops his hand and his phone down into his lap. Hunching his shoulders, he shifts infinitesimally further away.
Dean breathes deep through his nose, keeps his punching hand gripped tight on the wheel. “There’s no point, man,” he says. He thinks about that last encounter with Cain, about the crazy glint in the dude’s blue eyes as he told Dean, “It ends with you murdering Sam.” Dean has yet to mention this little fact to his brother. He’s meant to, on several occasions: but somehow it’s never worked out.
Watching Sam flinch away from him now, Dean realises that there’s no excuse. Convincing Sam not to waste his time on the same old lore is one thing. Keeping him and his naked throat easy-access at Dean’s side is another.
Yeah, Dean thinks. Time to warn Sam away.
"You know on a case," he says, "that the moment always comes when you’ve done all you can."
Sam looks at him, misery clear on his face.
"This is like that," Dean says. He lifts his forearm into the air. The Mark seems to know that it’s centre stage. It throbs. Little tendrils of tension coil out of it into Dean’s core.
"I’m stuck with this," Dean says. "And don’t think I like it. But… I gotta keep going."
He opens his mouth to say, “But you, Sammy? You need to get out.” He wants to say, “Come on, Sam, you know how this goes; you’ve read the Cain and Abel myth a few hundred times by now.” He wants to say to Sam, “Stop acting like I can be saved.”
Dean absolutely does not want to have Sam die under his hand. He doesn’t want to feel the warm wet splash of his brother’s blood, want to scent the iron tang of it in the air. He does not want to watch that spot in Sam’s throat flutter its frantic last. Nope. He doesn’t want that.
And yet. And yet.
'You've got to get out of here, Sam,' Dean thinks.
"I want you right there beside me, Sam," says his mouth.
On his arm, the Mark hums its approval, warm and pleased.