Why is I Think I Love You stuck in my head?
We had fun at the dinner last night, Larry got to be seen by his new colleagues, funds were raised, although not by me. An autographed Mario Lemieux hockey sweater went for $1500 in the after dinner auction. Tiffany contributed a $2500 dollar necklace, which I bought a ticket for but didn't win. I got a lot of comments on my dress, because it wasn't black, which in Pittsburgh is pretty much what everyone wears to formal occasions. I made the mistake of having coffee with dinner, and so I was awake until 3. You'd think I'd quit doing that.
I've never seen so much deer poop in my life as there is in our yard. The other day, TWENTY of them wandered through in the middle of the afternoon. I counted them. That's like a whole herd.
Story ratings annoy me. I know, I know, I know why they're supposedly necessary. But I never look at 'em on stories I read and I hate trying to decide on a rating for stories I write. I feel the same way about summaries and headers, but that's probably a leftover from popslash. It's just all so rigid, you know?
And that mini-rant was brought on by the fact that I just posted a story to spnflashfic for the "five things" challenge. :)
Your Kiss Left Me a Bloody Mess
Sam/Dean, NO RATING. Okay, it's PG 13ish.
Five times Dean kisses Sam.
Your Kiss Left Me a Bloody Mess
It’s been a week since the scary fire, since Mommy went to heaven, and Daddy’s face is always dark and sad. Dean watches Sammy all day, keeps an eye on the lady in the house they’re staying in. She does things different from Mommy, and Dean doesn’t like it, but Sammy smiles happily up at her, so Dean guesses it’s okay.
Every night Daddy tucks Dean into bed and says, “Hey, Dean, you gonna kiss Sammy goodnight?” And Dean shakes his head no. The last time he kissed Sammy goodnight, Mommy was there, and she talked about angels and then she burned up. He can’t. He won’t.
But Daddy looks so sad, and Sammy is gurgling on the bed next to him, playing with his toes, and Dean almost smiles. He closes his eyes and sees his mother’s face, hears her voice. Come on, let’s say goodnight to your brother.
He bends slowly, hesitantly forward, and his lips barely brush Sammy’s forehead before he pulls back, almost getting clunked in the nose by Sammy’s waving fist.
And then he really does smile, and for just a second, Daddy does, too.
*
Sammy’s trying not to cry, Dean can tell, but he’s just a little kid and his hands are all scraped up, tiny pieces of gravel stuck in the meaty part of his palm.
Dean holds his brother’s hands over the sink, watching blood swirl down the drain. He lets the water run cold to numb the pain some while he picks gravel out with the tweezers from the first aid kit.
Sammy sniffs when Dean pats his hands dry with the scratchy motel towel. Dean doesn’t know which is rougher, the towel or the parking lot where Sam tripped and fell.
“There, Sammy, all better,” Dean says, standing back to blow on Sam’s palms, drying the Bactine he’d squirted all over them.
“Aren’t you going to kiss it better?” Sammy asks, looking up at Dean with pleading eyes.
Dean heaves a long-suffering sigh. He doesn’t even wanna think about where Sammy got such a dumb idea. Probably at some dorky kid’s house where he’d gone to play after school in one of the stupid little towns they’re always stuck in. Some kid with a mom who could kiss away the pain.
“Dean?”
“Oh, for - ” Dean grabs Sammy’s hands and holds them palms up, rolls his eyes, takes a deep breath, and plants a quick peck on each one.
Sammy beams up at him. “Thanks, Dean,” he says.
“Sure, dork,” Dean says, waiting until Sam’s run off to play before he rolls his eyes again.
*
Dean’s so fucking sick to death of being caught in the middle, and then it occurs to him that with Sam gone, he won’t even have the middle anymore.
He knows John is already sorry for the things he shouted at the back of Sam’s head as Sam stomped out the door, all his worldly possessions in one duffle bag and a backpack. But Dean also knows Sammy’s not at all sorry for the crap he yelled back, and besides, they’re both too goddamn stubborn for any kind of détente.
So, it’s left to him to make sure Sam gets safely on the bus to California, and then make sure his father gets safely to bed without shooting anyone, whether they’re bartenders, motel desk clerks, or monsters.
He puts one foot in front of the other like he always does, at least metaphorically, since he’s actually driving right now, but the point is, he gets on with things. Does what he has to do without bitching about it. Somebody has to around here.
Glancing over at Sammy’s rigid profile, Dean says, “Dude. Don’t change your phone number, okay?” He’s only half kidding. He’s terrified Sam’s going to just drop out of their lives and Dean doesn’t think he could bear that. Letting Sam go doesn’t mean letting him disappear.
“Tell him - ” Sam stops and Dean watches as a muscle in his jaw twitches.
That’s exactly what John said when he handed the keys to the Impala to Dean. “Tell him - ”
Dean guesses there’s always going to be a middle, after all.
He doesn’t know why he does it now, when he’s managed not to do it for the past however many years. I was just inches from a clean getaway, he thinks, then scowls in disgust. Terms of Endearment is one movie he won’t be quoting to Sammy, his man Jack Nicholson be damned.
“What?” Sam asks. He’s standing with his duffle at his feet, backpack over his shoulder, glancing at the open bus door with both impatience and nervousness.
Dean shakes his head. He looks at his brother, takes in his much-loved features one last time, and then moves quickly forward, covering Sam’s mouth with his own. He lingers just long enough, then pulls back before Sammy can really react.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Dean says, then turns around and heads to the car, leaving Sam standing there staring after him.
*
Dean can’t help himself. He can’t seem to keep his hands off Sam no matter how many weird looks Sam sends his way.
For two days, when he touched Sam he felt cold skin and unresponsive flesh, and now that Sam’s warm and breathing again, Dean just wants to feel it for himself.
“Dude, do you mind?” Sam says around a mouthful of toothpaste, pushing Dean to the side as they jockey for spitting room at the sink.
Dean spits, narrowly missing Sam’s hand and getting another shove for his trouble. “No, I don’t mind,” he says, grinning. He doesn’t care how pissy Sam gets, he’s alive and that’s all that matters.
He’s practically euphoric with it, which is probably a good thing. It allows him to shove everything else down, to ignore the sense of panic that creeps up on him when he lets his guard down. One year. Hell, a year is a long damn time, and it doesn’t matter anyway, it was worth it. Sam is worth it.
Sam’s rinsing his toothbrush and he’s got toothpaste in the corner of his mouth and Dean leans forward to lick it off. He has no idea what possesses him to do that, but before he can pull back, Sam’s hand is on the back of his neck, holding him in place while Sam kisses him like there’s no tomorrow.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says against Sam’s lips. “Hey, it’s okay.”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says, and he leans his forehead against Dean’s and takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna get you out of this. I promise.”
He sounds sad and determined and Dean doesn’t argue with him. He just nods and says, “I know.”
*
Dean turns away from the window and studies his brother. Sam is asleep, sprawled across the mattress on his back, sheets kicked off in the damp heat of the summer night.
He looks peaceful. Innocent. Dean knows better.
Dean gave up on sleep hours ago. No matter how much he drinks, he can’t keep the nightmares at bay anymore. Hell crowds around him at night, refusing to let him go.
Unrelenting sorrow weighs him down. Angels, demons, heaven and hell. He can barely remember the point of it all.
No, that’s wrong. The point is sleeping peacefully across the room. Sam’s eyelids flicker, his hand twitches, but he sleeps on. Dean pushes heavily to his feet and crosses the room. He pauses by the bed, staring down at his brother.
He sighs and bends to press his lips to Sam’s forehead. “’Night, Sammy,” he whispers.
I've never seen so much deer poop in my life as there is in our yard. The other day, TWENTY of them wandered through in the middle of the afternoon. I counted them. That's like a whole herd.
Story ratings annoy me. I know, I know, I know why they're supposedly necessary. But I never look at 'em on stories I read and I hate trying to decide on a rating for stories I write. I feel the same way about summaries and headers, but that's probably a leftover from popslash. It's just all so rigid, you know?
And that mini-rant was brought on by the fact that I just posted a story to spnflashfic for the "five things" challenge. :)
Your Kiss Left Me a Bloody Mess
Sam/Dean, NO RATING. Okay, it's PG 13ish.
Five times Dean kisses Sam.
Your Kiss Left Me a Bloody Mess
It’s been a week since the scary fire, since Mommy went to heaven, and Daddy’s face is always dark and sad. Dean watches Sammy all day, keeps an eye on the lady in the house they’re staying in. She does things different from Mommy, and Dean doesn’t like it, but Sammy smiles happily up at her, so Dean guesses it’s okay.
Every night Daddy tucks Dean into bed and says, “Hey, Dean, you gonna kiss Sammy goodnight?” And Dean shakes his head no. The last time he kissed Sammy goodnight, Mommy was there, and she talked about angels and then she burned up. He can’t. He won’t.
But Daddy looks so sad, and Sammy is gurgling on the bed next to him, playing with his toes, and Dean almost smiles. He closes his eyes and sees his mother’s face, hears her voice. Come on, let’s say goodnight to your brother.
He bends slowly, hesitantly forward, and his lips barely brush Sammy’s forehead before he pulls back, almost getting clunked in the nose by Sammy’s waving fist.
And then he really does smile, and for just a second, Daddy does, too.
*
Sammy’s trying not to cry, Dean can tell, but he’s just a little kid and his hands are all scraped up, tiny pieces of gravel stuck in the meaty part of his palm.
Dean holds his brother’s hands over the sink, watching blood swirl down the drain. He lets the water run cold to numb the pain some while he picks gravel out with the tweezers from the first aid kit.
Sammy sniffs when Dean pats his hands dry with the scratchy motel towel. Dean doesn’t know which is rougher, the towel or the parking lot where Sam tripped and fell.
“There, Sammy, all better,” Dean says, standing back to blow on Sam’s palms, drying the Bactine he’d squirted all over them.
“Aren’t you going to kiss it better?” Sammy asks, looking up at Dean with pleading eyes.
Dean heaves a long-suffering sigh. He doesn’t even wanna think about where Sammy got such a dumb idea. Probably at some dorky kid’s house where he’d gone to play after school in one of the stupid little towns they’re always stuck in. Some kid with a mom who could kiss away the pain.
“Dean?”
“Oh, for - ” Dean grabs Sammy’s hands and holds them palms up, rolls his eyes, takes a deep breath, and plants a quick peck on each one.
Sammy beams up at him. “Thanks, Dean,” he says.
“Sure, dork,” Dean says, waiting until Sam’s run off to play before he rolls his eyes again.
*
Dean’s so fucking sick to death of being caught in the middle, and then it occurs to him that with Sam gone, he won’t even have the middle anymore.
He knows John is already sorry for the things he shouted at the back of Sam’s head as Sam stomped out the door, all his worldly possessions in one duffle bag and a backpack. But Dean also knows Sammy’s not at all sorry for the crap he yelled back, and besides, they’re both too goddamn stubborn for any kind of détente.
So, it’s left to him to make sure Sam gets safely on the bus to California, and then make sure his father gets safely to bed without shooting anyone, whether they’re bartenders, motel desk clerks, or monsters.
He puts one foot in front of the other like he always does, at least metaphorically, since he’s actually driving right now, but the point is, he gets on with things. Does what he has to do without bitching about it. Somebody has to around here.
Glancing over at Sammy’s rigid profile, Dean says, “Dude. Don’t change your phone number, okay?” He’s only half kidding. He’s terrified Sam’s going to just drop out of their lives and Dean doesn’t think he could bear that. Letting Sam go doesn’t mean letting him disappear.
“Tell him - ” Sam stops and Dean watches as a muscle in his jaw twitches.
That’s exactly what John said when he handed the keys to the Impala to Dean. “Tell him - ”
Dean guesses there’s always going to be a middle, after all.
He doesn’t know why he does it now, when he’s managed not to do it for the past however many years. I was just inches from a clean getaway, he thinks, then scowls in disgust. Terms of Endearment is one movie he won’t be quoting to Sammy, his man Jack Nicholson be damned.
“What?” Sam asks. He’s standing with his duffle at his feet, backpack over his shoulder, glancing at the open bus door with both impatience and nervousness.
Dean shakes his head. He looks at his brother, takes in his much-loved features one last time, and then moves quickly forward, covering Sam’s mouth with his own. He lingers just long enough, then pulls back before Sammy can really react.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Dean says, then turns around and heads to the car, leaving Sam standing there staring after him.
*
Dean can’t help himself. He can’t seem to keep his hands off Sam no matter how many weird looks Sam sends his way.
For two days, when he touched Sam he felt cold skin and unresponsive flesh, and now that Sam’s warm and breathing again, Dean just wants to feel it for himself.
“Dude, do you mind?” Sam says around a mouthful of toothpaste, pushing Dean to the side as they jockey for spitting room at the sink.
Dean spits, narrowly missing Sam’s hand and getting another shove for his trouble. “No, I don’t mind,” he says, grinning. He doesn’t care how pissy Sam gets, he’s alive and that’s all that matters.
He’s practically euphoric with it, which is probably a good thing. It allows him to shove everything else down, to ignore the sense of panic that creeps up on him when he lets his guard down. One year. Hell, a year is a long damn time, and it doesn’t matter anyway, it was worth it. Sam is worth it.
Sam’s rinsing his toothbrush and he’s got toothpaste in the corner of his mouth and Dean leans forward to lick it off. He has no idea what possesses him to do that, but before he can pull back, Sam’s hand is on the back of his neck, holding him in place while Sam kisses him like there’s no tomorrow.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says against Sam’s lips. “Hey, it’s okay.”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says, and he leans his forehead against Dean’s and takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna get you out of this. I promise.”
He sounds sad and determined and Dean doesn’t argue with him. He just nods and says, “I know.”
*
Dean turns away from the window and studies his brother. Sam is asleep, sprawled across the mattress on his back, sheets kicked off in the damp heat of the summer night.
He looks peaceful. Innocent. Dean knows better.
Dean gave up on sleep hours ago. No matter how much he drinks, he can’t keep the nightmares at bay anymore. Hell crowds around him at night, refusing to let him go.
Unrelenting sorrow weighs him down. Angels, demons, heaven and hell. He can barely remember the point of it all.
No, that’s wrong. The point is sleeping peacefully across the room. Sam’s eyelids flicker, his hand twitches, but he sleeps on. Dean pushes heavily to his feet and crosses the room. He pauses by the bed, staring down at his brother.
He sighs and bends to press his lips to Sam’s forehead. “’Night, Sammy,” he whispers.