Drabble dump, October edition
Only three...
Dean looks at Sam across the two beds and the nightstand that separate them. There's nothing different about tonight, nothing different about this hunt or this motel or this moment, but right now he can't look away. Sam's standing there, looking at their dad's notebook, no doubt trying to decipher some mystical incantation or interpret the clues hastily scratched down in thick black pen. His brow is furrowed, and his lip twitches. Something about him grabs Dean and wrenches him out of shape. He wants. He doesn't know what, but he wants.
He sits on the bed and faces the blank wall, breathing shallow, eyes open and dark.
"Dean? Is something wrong?" The voice that floats across the beds to him is honey-rich, gold and gleaming. Dean feels like he could pluck it out of the air and taste it.
"Nothing," he forces out. "I'm fine, Sammy."
Somewhere in his mind he knows it isn't Sammy he's talking to. Sammy is his brother, but Sam is this man, this big, commanding, intense man whose eyes take him to faraway places. Maybe if he keeps calling him that, maybe he'll return to just being his brother again.
And maybe Poison will make a triumphant return after twenty years, he thinks with a sardonic laugh.
Sam's misunderstanding. "What is it now?" he says, an edge of frustration in his voice. "C'mon, Dean, what did I do wrong this time?" Dean hears the leather slap of the notebook against the table, hears the footsteps. Feels the shadow fall over him. "What do you want from me, Dean?"
He's right there. Dean can't not look up.
"I don't know," he says. Though Sam's face is shadowed, Dean's squinting like he's looking at the sun. "Don't know what I want from you. Whatever it is, I'm not getting it." The truth slithers from his mouth and dies in the air between them.
He's cornered between bed and wall and Sam, but he stands as though to retreat. Sam closes in on him, and they're face to face against the wall in the corner of the room.
And there, with Sam's breath on him, Dean realizes exactly what he wants. And it's more than he ever knew to ask.
--
"I've fallen in love with you," Mohinder said. His clothes were dusty from hours of long research and longer travel, and Matt stared at him, shocked as much by his appearance as by the words. But Mohinder had a glint of fire in his eyes, and as much as Matt wanted to move or speak, those eyes steeled him in place as sure as any mind control.
"I know it's not fair," Mohinder said. "Just when you've gotten your family back. But I was out there, I was alone for so long and I realized it was you I wanted to talk to, you I kept thinking about. It took me twelve hours to drive here, please, Matt, stop looking at me like that and say something."
Matt tried. He tried to open his jaw, he tried to step forward. He tried to do anything. He couldn't.
Alone, in the dark, frightened and helpless, he watched his own body step forward. Felt his lips brush Mohinder's, heard his voice say, "I've always loved you, Mohinder."
And could do nothing.
--
"I've fallen in love with you," Buffy said. Her voice was loud, and it echoed in the empty alley.
Angel turned. The shadows in his stare were fathoms deep.
"I know," Buffy went on, "you're, like, a kajillion years older than I am, and probably if you dated a grandma she wouldn't be mature enough for you, but I can't help how I feel. No," she added, with a fierce little shake of her head, "I don't want to help it. I should-- but I don't."
His hands moved slightly at his waist, then stopped. "What do you want me to do, Buffy?" he asked. He was wavering on the edge of movement, half his body eager to plunge toward her, half paralyzed with fear.
So she moved for him, advancing swiftly -- too swiftly -- and wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning her head on the broad chest and nuzzling the hollow of his neck. "Let me in," she whispered. "Just give me a chance."
One hand found her hair, stroked its blonde sheen down toward her back and found purchase across its warmth. "I don't know if I can," he whispered.
What he was thinking, though, was, I don't know if I can't.
Dean looks at Sam across the two beds and the nightstand that separate them. There's nothing different about tonight, nothing different about this hunt or this motel or this moment, but right now he can't look away. Sam's standing there, looking at their dad's notebook, no doubt trying to decipher some mystical incantation or interpret the clues hastily scratched down in thick black pen. His brow is furrowed, and his lip twitches. Something about him grabs Dean and wrenches him out of shape. He wants. He doesn't know what, but he wants.
He sits on the bed and faces the blank wall, breathing shallow, eyes open and dark.
"Dean? Is something wrong?" The voice that floats across the beds to him is honey-rich, gold and gleaming. Dean feels like he could pluck it out of the air and taste it.
"Nothing," he forces out. "I'm fine, Sammy."
Somewhere in his mind he knows it isn't Sammy he's talking to. Sammy is his brother, but Sam is this man, this big, commanding, intense man whose eyes take him to faraway places. Maybe if he keeps calling him that, maybe he'll return to just being his brother again.
And maybe Poison will make a triumphant return after twenty years, he thinks with a sardonic laugh.
Sam's misunderstanding. "What is it now?" he says, an edge of frustration in his voice. "C'mon, Dean, what did I do wrong this time?" Dean hears the leather slap of the notebook against the table, hears the footsteps. Feels the shadow fall over him. "What do you want from me, Dean?"
He's right there. Dean can't not look up.
"I don't know," he says. Though Sam's face is shadowed, Dean's squinting like he's looking at the sun. "Don't know what I want from you. Whatever it is, I'm not getting it." The truth slithers from his mouth and dies in the air between them.
He's cornered between bed and wall and Sam, but he stands as though to retreat. Sam closes in on him, and they're face to face against the wall in the corner of the room.
And there, with Sam's breath on him, Dean realizes exactly what he wants. And it's more than he ever knew to ask.
--
"I've fallen in love with you," Mohinder said. His clothes were dusty from hours of long research and longer travel, and Matt stared at him, shocked as much by his appearance as by the words. But Mohinder had a glint of fire in his eyes, and as much as Matt wanted to move or speak, those eyes steeled him in place as sure as any mind control.
"I know it's not fair," Mohinder said. "Just when you've gotten your family back. But I was out there, I was alone for so long and I realized it was you I wanted to talk to, you I kept thinking about. It took me twelve hours to drive here, please, Matt, stop looking at me like that and say something."
Matt tried. He tried to open his jaw, he tried to step forward. He tried to do anything. He couldn't.
Alone, in the dark, frightened and helpless, he watched his own body step forward. Felt his lips brush Mohinder's, heard his voice say, "I've always loved you, Mohinder."
And could do nothing.
--
"I've fallen in love with you," Buffy said. Her voice was loud, and it echoed in the empty alley.
Angel turned. The shadows in his stare were fathoms deep.
"I know," Buffy went on, "you're, like, a kajillion years older than I am, and probably if you dated a grandma she wouldn't be mature enough for you, but I can't help how I feel. No," she added, with a fierce little shake of her head, "I don't want to help it. I should-- but I don't."
His hands moved slightly at his waist, then stopped. "What do you want me to do, Buffy?" he asked. He was wavering on the edge of movement, half his body eager to plunge toward her, half paralyzed with fear.
So she moved for him, advancing swiftly -- too swiftly -- and wrapping her arms around his waist, leaning her head on the broad chest and nuzzling the hollow of his neck. "Let me in," she whispered. "Just give me a chance."
One hand found her hair, stroked its blonde sheen down toward her back and found purchase across its warmth. "I don't know if I can," he whispered.
What he was thinking, though, was, I don't know if I can't.