5.
where the sunsets are all breathtaking (5/?)
PG-13, eventual wincest, AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
five
The Mountain Goats- Going to Georgia
Dawn comes in early morning greyscale, light filtering through the room like deep water. Dean’s cell phone, propped up in display against the bedside table-lamp, flashes out 05:00 as he stares across at it, numbers merging together into green until he blinks them back into focus again. It was 04:17 when he started watching them; he’s not sure how long he’d been awake before that. He can feel the pillow creases imprinted on his cheek, and the prickling of sweat between his shoulder blades in this musty, stuffy room. You don’t get air-con in a place like this.
05:01, and a car backfires in the distance, cracks like a gunshot. Not really. In this light, his skin is corpse-white as he reaches out for his cell phone with one sleep-heavy hand. He doesn’t bother looking as he dials; the number he needs is the first on speed dial, and he could make that call in his sleep, never mind half-asleep.
Sam picks up on the first ring.
“So,” Dean says. “I’m guessin’ you’re lurking in the shadows of the parking lot like some creepy stalker, yeah?”
“There’s a bench,” Sam admits, after a pause. “It’s not in the shadows.”
“Close enough.” He sighs, shifting onto his back. The mattress springs dig into his spine. “We’ve got nowhere to go, Sam. I’m not moving until they fetch the goddamn crowbar and prise me out. The door-- the door’s unlocked. You can come, I dunno, be crowbarred with me. If you wanna.”
Sam hangs up in response, which twists tightly in Dean’s gut for the second it takes before the doorknob turns. Light spills eagerly through the cracks as Sam pushes the door further open, a ridiculous hulking shadow against the silvery backdrop of dawn, and then he snaps it shut behind him. The room is warmer, somehow, with Sam inside it; and if that isn’t the stupidest, fucking girliest thing Dean’s ever thought, he doesn’t know what is.
“Hi,” says Sam.
“You were sat right outside my door, weren’t you,” Dean says. He snorts, dropping his cell back onto the bedside table, and he doesn’t bother sitting up; just closes his eyes and waits for the distressed creak of the mattress springs as Sam sits down on the end of the bed. “Fuckin’ stalker.”
“Sorry,” Sam says, fingers brushing against the bare sole of Dean’s foot. It’s probably accidental, or maybe not, but the last time they touched each other, two days ago, was when he punched Sam in the face. Dean pulls his foot away, knuckles throbbing.
“We’ve got nowhere to go,” he says. “I don’t know about you, but I spent my last dollar on a candy bar ten hours ago. We’ve got no car, no network, no friends. We’re out of work. We have no home. We’ve got nothing, Sam.”
Sam just sighs in response. Seconds drag into minutes. When Dean cracks his eyes open, Sam’s hunched in the darkness at the foot of the bed, too big to exist in this room- this universe- as he stares down at his clasped hands and says, “We’ve got each other. That’s-- something?”
And the thing is-- Without his powers, or his destiny, or the shadow of Azazel’s blood, Sam is just Sam. And the last time Dean knew that guy-- really knew that guy, was when he was eighteen years old, before that bigass surprise, that Stanford card, came exploding out of his sleeve. When he was just a stupid kid, with big eyes and a lost expression, staring down at his hands in the dark.
“Yeah,” Dean says, eventually. “It’s something.”
PG-13, eventual wincest, AU.
Spoilers for s3 finale.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.
five
The Mountain Goats- Going to Georgia
Dawn comes in early morning greyscale, light filtering through the room like deep water. Dean’s cell phone, propped up in display against the bedside table-lamp, flashes out 05:00 as he stares across at it, numbers merging together into green until he blinks them back into focus again. It was 04:17 when he started watching them; he’s not sure how long he’d been awake before that. He can feel the pillow creases imprinted on his cheek, and the prickling of sweat between his shoulder blades in this musty, stuffy room. You don’t get air-con in a place like this.
05:01, and a car backfires in the distance, cracks like a gunshot. Not really. In this light, his skin is corpse-white as he reaches out for his cell phone with one sleep-heavy hand. He doesn’t bother looking as he dials; the number he needs is the first on speed dial, and he could make that call in his sleep, never mind half-asleep.
Sam picks up on the first ring.
“So,” Dean says. “I’m guessin’ you’re lurking in the shadows of the parking lot like some creepy stalker, yeah?”
“There’s a bench,” Sam admits, after a pause. “It’s not in the shadows.”
“Close enough.” He sighs, shifting onto his back. The mattress springs dig into his spine. “We’ve got nowhere to go, Sam. I’m not moving until they fetch the goddamn crowbar and prise me out. The door-- the door’s unlocked. You can come, I dunno, be crowbarred with me. If you wanna.”
Sam hangs up in response, which twists tightly in Dean’s gut for the second it takes before the doorknob turns. Light spills eagerly through the cracks as Sam pushes the door further open, a ridiculous hulking shadow against the silvery backdrop of dawn, and then he snaps it shut behind him. The room is warmer, somehow, with Sam inside it; and if that isn’t the stupidest, fucking girliest thing Dean’s ever thought, he doesn’t know what is.
“Hi,” says Sam.
“You were sat right outside my door, weren’t you,” Dean says. He snorts, dropping his cell back onto the bedside table, and he doesn’t bother sitting up; just closes his eyes and waits for the distressed creak of the mattress springs as Sam sits down on the end of the bed. “Fuckin’ stalker.”
“Sorry,” Sam says, fingers brushing against the bare sole of Dean’s foot. It’s probably accidental, or maybe not, but the last time they touched each other, two days ago, was when he punched Sam in the face. Dean pulls his foot away, knuckles throbbing.
“We’ve got nowhere to go,” he says. “I don’t know about you, but I spent my last dollar on a candy bar ten hours ago. We’ve got no car, no network, no friends. We’re out of work. We have no home. We’ve got nothing, Sam.”
Sam just sighs in response. Seconds drag into minutes. When Dean cracks his eyes open, Sam’s hunched in the darkness at the foot of the bed, too big to exist in this room- this universe- as he stares down at his clasped hands and says, “We’ve got each other. That’s-- something?”
And the thing is-- Without his powers, or his destiny, or the shadow of Azazel’s blood, Sam is just Sam. And the last time Dean knew that guy-- really knew that guy, was when he was eighteen years old, before that bigass surprise, that Stanford card, came exploding out of his sleeve. When he was just a stupid kid, with big eyes and a lost expression, staring down at his hands in the dark.
“Yeah,” Dean says, eventually. “It’s something.”