the bering strait
title. the bering strait
pairing. Sam/Dean
rating. 14A / R
notes/summary. 1000wc. For vitamin_fic and spn_apocasmut. Apparently, a drop of ten degrees celsius in average temperature is really catastrophic.
music. Stan Rogers, "Northwest Passage."
thanks. brynwulf + rejeneration = ♥♥♥
"Love is the final end of the world's history, the Amen of the universe."
- Novalis -
+
The snow is foot-deep and powder-loose on the Impala; not usual for August in Texas. Not unusual at all. Dean grits his teeth and goes easy with the brush, doesn't want to fuck up what's left of the paint job. Sam stomps out of the motel room, the snow that had been shoveled up against the sides of the building swirls in the wind, blows inside. Dean can hear Sam mutter shit before shutting the door firmly behind him.
They burned through tanks of fuel just to keep warm, cut their way east and west on endless cycles. Gas was easier to find the further they got, best of all in mid-California and the Carolinas, even up into Minnesota where summer lasted about half a day and the risk of freezing was too high for anything but scouting or checking stashes and reserves.
Sam opens the passenger side door and slides inside easily; Dean had left the car idling to get it warmed up and nobody gave a motherfucking goddamn about pollution anymore. Sam had forgone his hoodies and jacket for parkas and Gore-Tex, Dean had done the same and there wasn't a whole lot left in their duffle bags; everything was on their bodies or pressed against weak spots of the car's insulation.
Dean breathes; Sam can see the vapor from it. The car door opens. Dean fits himself inside and manages to fog up the rearview mirror in the same motion.
The Impala's back doors are shut now, permanently, insulated against the cold and the trunk is full of gas containers instead of guns - fewer guns. The backseat of the car had been turned into a makeshift bed; the wheel-wells filled up with supplies and then covered over, made firm then soft with blankets, found pillows and a bear hide they'd stolen from a lodge in the hills outside Laurel Canyon.
Sam breathes a little, keeps his hands tucked into the armpits of his shirt, then in the space underneath the hot air vent. Dean huffs a breath and shifts the Impala into Drive. Sam's lips are red and cracked. He reaches into his pockets to dig out chapstick and Dean doesn't even bother making fun of him anymore: the jokes were too tired and Dean reached over for it more than half the time, anyway.
They drive west for a while and don't see anybody at all.
+
Night finds them as far south as they can manage. Most everyone's gone, found themselves in Mexico or farther south, and masses of suburbia are dead, abandoned for the taking. Dean chooses a house and Sam chafes his hands together before breaking out the lockpicks; running to the front door and getting them inside, getting the Impala inside an actual garage. Dean hits the barely-working shower while Sam roots through the pantries, stocking up on whatever's left.
The cycle repeats itself endlessly, back and forth, so much that the snow squalls are familiar, old patches of black ice even more.
+
It's not as if excuses are required anymore; whether they would have been necessary at all is a toss-up now, a hypothetical, as hypothetical as the thought of Dean's mouth at the nape of Sam's neck would have been, before, or the idea of Sam's hands coiled in sheets, thin layers of sweat as he fights to hold on, to not let go.
+
Dean runs out to grab the portable generator from the Impala's trunk; he siphons gas anywhere he can and runs back inside. They get a fire going on the hard tiles of an upstairs bathroom, just a little one, just to warm up. Sam cooks over a camp stove and manages to make beans and rice. He piles the food onto hastily-washed plates and sets up the radio, voice crackling, "WEATHER LOOKS STABLE AND HOLDING; AVERAGE TEMPERATURE NEGATIVE TWENTY, WILL DROP TO NEGATIVE THIRTY OVERNIGHT - DO NOT STAY OUTSIDE, REMAIN INDOORS. ENSURE ADEQUATE VENTILATION AND DO WHAT YOU CAN."
The voice loops; they've heard it hundred of times before and they've both had it near memorized for practically years. The bed in the master bedroom is a California King, appropriately, and the Pacific looks like somebody could skate on it, like someone has and gone out too far.
+
The day after the temperature dropped, Sam crawled into his brother's bed for warmth, the chill of being alone too much even more than usual. Dean hadn't said anything then, hadn't said anything for the weeks after when squeezing into the Impala's backseat had become norm, the car left idling for hours and snow carefully directed away from the exhaust.
There's nothing much to fight anymore and not much to fight for; ghosts and demons give it up without even trying or much coaxing at all. Or maybe it's too cold to stay when hell's waiting.
+
Not so long after, Sam had woken up with his hand on Dean's heart, the faint scars of past battles lying thin and stark white under his palm. Dean breathed slowly and Sam tracked it with his eyes, the steady rise and fall of simply being alive. Dean cracked an eye open and didn't flinch away from Sam so close; he shifted a little and pressed his mouth against Sam's like it was the next reasonable step in the world, like shivering after coming was the next step after shivering because of the cold.
+
Dean noticed, sometimes, when Sam would look up and not see anything at all, like all the white had blinded him to color. That's when they'd pull over early, stake out a house and burn half the antiques for the sheer fun, for the warmth of old wood. Dean would tug Sam down in front of the fire, watch it shine off spitslick skin and feel Sam's hands on his back, Sam's legs around his hips; almost as good as the flamelight on Sam's smile.
+
Dean sees frost on Sam's eyelashes; he sees the sun glinting off snow reaching past the horizon. Dean's hand is on the shifter and Sam reaches over and squeezes, doesn't meet Dean's eyes. They fog up the inside of the Impala's windshield and windows.
"Let's go north," Sam says, finally, and when Dean nods Sam breathes like it's his very last.
Dean opens up the throttle and in front of them the road is clear.
+
pairing. Sam/Dean
rating. 14A / R
notes/summary. 1000wc. For vitamin_fic and spn_apocasmut. Apparently, a drop of ten degrees celsius in average temperature is really catastrophic.
music. Stan Rogers, "Northwest Passage."
thanks. brynwulf + rejeneration = ♥♥♥
"Love is the final end of the world's history, the Amen of the universe."
- Novalis -
+
The snow is foot-deep and powder-loose on the Impala; not usual for August in Texas. Not unusual at all. Dean grits his teeth and goes easy with the brush, doesn't want to fuck up what's left of the paint job. Sam stomps out of the motel room, the snow that had been shoveled up against the sides of the building swirls in the wind, blows inside. Dean can hear Sam mutter shit before shutting the door firmly behind him.
They burned through tanks of fuel just to keep warm, cut their way east and west on endless cycles. Gas was easier to find the further they got, best of all in mid-California and the Carolinas, even up into Minnesota where summer lasted about half a day and the risk of freezing was too high for anything but scouting or checking stashes and reserves.
Sam opens the passenger side door and slides inside easily; Dean had left the car idling to get it warmed up and nobody gave a motherfucking goddamn about pollution anymore. Sam had forgone his hoodies and jacket for parkas and Gore-Tex, Dean had done the same and there wasn't a whole lot left in their duffle bags; everything was on their bodies or pressed against weak spots of the car's insulation.
Dean breathes; Sam can see the vapor from it. The car door opens. Dean fits himself inside and manages to fog up the rearview mirror in the same motion.
The Impala's back doors are shut now, permanently, insulated against the cold and the trunk is full of gas containers instead of guns - fewer guns. The backseat of the car had been turned into a makeshift bed; the wheel-wells filled up with supplies and then covered over, made firm then soft with blankets, found pillows and a bear hide they'd stolen from a lodge in the hills outside Laurel Canyon.
Sam breathes a little, keeps his hands tucked into the armpits of his shirt, then in the space underneath the hot air vent. Dean huffs a breath and shifts the Impala into Drive. Sam's lips are red and cracked. He reaches into his pockets to dig out chapstick and Dean doesn't even bother making fun of him anymore: the jokes were too tired and Dean reached over for it more than half the time, anyway.
They drive west for a while and don't see anybody at all.
+
Night finds them as far south as they can manage. Most everyone's gone, found themselves in Mexico or farther south, and masses of suburbia are dead, abandoned for the taking. Dean chooses a house and Sam chafes his hands together before breaking out the lockpicks; running to the front door and getting them inside, getting the Impala inside an actual garage. Dean hits the barely-working shower while Sam roots through the pantries, stocking up on whatever's left.
The cycle repeats itself endlessly, back and forth, so much that the snow squalls are familiar, old patches of black ice even more.
+
It's not as if excuses are required anymore; whether they would have been necessary at all is a toss-up now, a hypothetical, as hypothetical as the thought of Dean's mouth at the nape of Sam's neck would have been, before, or the idea of Sam's hands coiled in sheets, thin layers of sweat as he fights to hold on, to not let go.
+
Dean runs out to grab the portable generator from the Impala's trunk; he siphons gas anywhere he can and runs back inside. They get a fire going on the hard tiles of an upstairs bathroom, just a little one, just to warm up. Sam cooks over a camp stove and manages to make beans and rice. He piles the food onto hastily-washed plates and sets up the radio, voice crackling, "WEATHER LOOKS STABLE AND HOLDING; AVERAGE TEMPERATURE NEGATIVE TWENTY, WILL DROP TO NEGATIVE THIRTY OVERNIGHT - DO NOT STAY OUTSIDE, REMAIN INDOORS. ENSURE ADEQUATE VENTILATION AND DO WHAT YOU CAN."
The voice loops; they've heard it hundred of times before and they've both had it near memorized for practically years. The bed in the master bedroom is a California King, appropriately, and the Pacific looks like somebody could skate on it, like someone has and gone out too far.
+
The day after the temperature dropped, Sam crawled into his brother's bed for warmth, the chill of being alone too much even more than usual. Dean hadn't said anything then, hadn't said anything for the weeks after when squeezing into the Impala's backseat had become norm, the car left idling for hours and snow carefully directed away from the exhaust.
There's nothing much to fight anymore and not much to fight for; ghosts and demons give it up without even trying or much coaxing at all. Or maybe it's too cold to stay when hell's waiting.
+
Not so long after, Sam had woken up with his hand on Dean's heart, the faint scars of past battles lying thin and stark white under his palm. Dean breathed slowly and Sam tracked it with his eyes, the steady rise and fall of simply being alive. Dean cracked an eye open and didn't flinch away from Sam so close; he shifted a little and pressed his mouth against Sam's like it was the next reasonable step in the world, like shivering after coming was the next step after shivering because of the cold.
+
Dean noticed, sometimes, when Sam would look up and not see anything at all, like all the white had blinded him to color. That's when they'd pull over early, stake out a house and burn half the antiques for the sheer fun, for the warmth of old wood. Dean would tug Sam down in front of the fire, watch it shine off spitslick skin and feel Sam's hands on his back, Sam's legs around his hips; almost as good as the flamelight on Sam's smile.
+
Dean sees frost on Sam's eyelashes; he sees the sun glinting off snow reaching past the horizon. Dean's hand is on the shifter and Sam reaches over and squeezes, doesn't meet Dean's eyes. They fog up the inside of the Impala's windshield and windows.
"Let's go north," Sam says, finally, and when Dean nods Sam breathes like it's his very last.
Dean opens up the throttle and in front of them the road is clear.
+