SPN fic: Erosion, Sam/Dean Adult
Feb. 16th, 2007 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lunabee34Many, many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
suki_blue for my Valentine's Rose! You are such a doll, sweetie. *big grin*
I wrote a wee SPN ficlet, Sam/Dean, so Wincest alerts. It's rated Adult, mostly for language and contains spoilers through the Feb 15 episode.
Erosion
1
Dean swallows, then drags his knuckles across his mouth. The bar is noisy, the deep thrum of bass a solid heartbeat in his chest and he’s drinking whiskey, its slow brown sugar burn laid over smoke and pretzel salt on the back of his tongue. Dean stares at a woman in a tank top and skinny jeans as she slides her hip against the loser next to her on the dance floor. She’s way too hot for him, her smile a little too predatory, her fingers possessive on the waistband of Loser’s pants—and Dean wants her to be a vampire. Wants her to be so he can throw her into the bricks in the alley behind the bar, crush her jaw under his fists, and bruise under hers. But then it all slams back into him—Gordon and Lenore—and that scenario’s jacked to hell now. He lights a cigarette and watches her pull Dorkwad to a table. Maybe she’s a Succubus instead.
When he creaks open the hotel door, Sam doesn’t wake, doesn’t even stir, just goes on breathing way too freaking loud into the dark, the TV remote clutched to his chest.
Dean’s suddenly furious with him. For sleeping so sound anyone could sneak right in and knife him in his sleep. For being able to sleep at all.
2
Dean’s underwater. At the bottom of a pool, he realizes. The water’s clear and threaded through with light and he can see his family sitting on the edge. Mom’s dangling her legs in the water, baby Sammy resting on her knees, and Dad a waterlogged blur in a lounge chair. Dean can hear them talking, but the sound’s distorted, twisted into something sweet and faint that he can’t understand. He should be a kid for this. But he’s not. He’s twenty seven and in his boots and jacket even, for fuck’s sake. His mother’s toes are painted a bright pink and Sammy’s legs are fat and buoyant when she dips him in, but they’re both about three feet out of reach. Dean strains, almost throws his shoulder out stretching, but he’s stuck fast, listening to them laugh and waiting for the vague shape of his father to resolve into something more clearly defined. It’s all too far to reach, so Dean just treads water.
3
“I think about it all the time,” Sam says. “The look on your face when you wasted that vampire.” He shakes his head. “Dean, man, you’re scaring me.”
Sam’s hogging the mirror and Dean shoves him over, starts flattening out Crest onto his toothbrush. “Let it go, Sam.”
“No! No. I’m sure as hell not letting it go.” He snatches Dean’s toothbrush and throws it in the sink. “I’m not letting go.”
And Dean knows there’s a you missing in that last bit, so he steps forward and leans his head on Sam’s shoulder, pushes his forehead into the soft cotton of Sam’s shirt so he doesn’t have to look at his face—all raw and laid open with desperation. Sam’s arms circle his waist, pulling him closer, and Dean can feel Sam’s chin digging into the top of his head. Something comes unstringed in Dean’s chest then, an ache wound up so tight he didn’t realize he’d been barely breathing all these weeks.
“Dean,” Sam says as one hand soothes up and down Dean’s back. “I think we should visit Mom’s grave.” Of course, the fucker has to ruin it.
4
Dean wonders what would come barreling out if Sam hit him with some rock salt, wonders what taint that yellow-eyed son of a bitch left inside when he healed him. If Sam tied him to a chair and said the words, would he throw back his head and spew out a black cloud, slick filth roiling around his head in dark ribbons?
Dean looks out over the horizon, the hood of the Impala warming his jeans, and he hates that he’s crying, hates it, but he wants Sam to understand. What’s dead should stay dead.
“So tell me, what can you possibly say to make that alright?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing.”
Then Sam yanks him over, kisses him hard, and Dean’s got his hands twisted in Sam’s shirt, just holding on, just barely holding on. When Sam lets up, brushing his lips across Dean’s and pressing kisses down his jaw, Dean breaks just a little bit more.
He wonders sometimes what Dad sold his soul for—to keep Dean alive or to make sure Sam has an executioner. If Dad had a weakness, it was Sammy, and maybe he knew that if it came right down to it, moment of truth, he couldn’t kill his son. Why he thought Dean could, Dean doesn’t know.
He should tell Sam all of it, he thinks. Now’s the time, but Sam hooks his thumbs in Dean’s belt loops as they kiss again and the sun’s coming up in the distance, painting everything over in yellow and gold.
suki_blue for my Valentine's Rose! You are such a doll, sweetie. *big grin*I wrote a wee SPN ficlet, Sam/Dean, so Wincest alerts. It's rated Adult, mostly for language and contains spoilers through the Feb 15 episode.
Erosion
1
Dean swallows, then drags his knuckles across his mouth. The bar is noisy, the deep thrum of bass a solid heartbeat in his chest and he’s drinking whiskey, its slow brown sugar burn laid over smoke and pretzel salt on the back of his tongue. Dean stares at a woman in a tank top and skinny jeans as she slides her hip against the loser next to her on the dance floor. She’s way too hot for him, her smile a little too predatory, her fingers possessive on the waistband of Loser’s pants—and Dean wants her to be a vampire. Wants her to be so he can throw her into the bricks in the alley behind the bar, crush her jaw under his fists, and bruise under hers. But then it all slams back into him—Gordon and Lenore—and that scenario’s jacked to hell now. He lights a cigarette and watches her pull Dorkwad to a table. Maybe she’s a Succubus instead.
When he creaks open the hotel door, Sam doesn’t wake, doesn’t even stir, just goes on breathing way too freaking loud into the dark, the TV remote clutched to his chest.
Dean’s suddenly furious with him. For sleeping so sound anyone could sneak right in and knife him in his sleep. For being able to sleep at all.
2
Dean’s underwater. At the bottom of a pool, he realizes. The water’s clear and threaded through with light and he can see his family sitting on the edge. Mom’s dangling her legs in the water, baby Sammy resting on her knees, and Dad a waterlogged blur in a lounge chair. Dean can hear them talking, but the sound’s distorted, twisted into something sweet and faint that he can’t understand. He should be a kid for this. But he’s not. He’s twenty seven and in his boots and jacket even, for fuck’s sake. His mother’s toes are painted a bright pink and Sammy’s legs are fat and buoyant when she dips him in, but they’re both about three feet out of reach. Dean strains, almost throws his shoulder out stretching, but he’s stuck fast, listening to them laugh and waiting for the vague shape of his father to resolve into something more clearly defined. It’s all too far to reach, so Dean just treads water.
3
“I think about it all the time,” Sam says. “The look on your face when you wasted that vampire.” He shakes his head. “Dean, man, you’re scaring me.”
Sam’s hogging the mirror and Dean shoves him over, starts flattening out Crest onto his toothbrush. “Let it go, Sam.”
“No! No. I’m sure as hell not letting it go.” He snatches Dean’s toothbrush and throws it in the sink. “I’m not letting go.”
And Dean knows there’s a you missing in that last bit, so he steps forward and leans his head on Sam’s shoulder, pushes his forehead into the soft cotton of Sam’s shirt so he doesn’t have to look at his face—all raw and laid open with desperation. Sam’s arms circle his waist, pulling him closer, and Dean can feel Sam’s chin digging into the top of his head. Something comes unstringed in Dean’s chest then, an ache wound up so tight he didn’t realize he’d been barely breathing all these weeks.
“Dean,” Sam says as one hand soothes up and down Dean’s back. “I think we should visit Mom’s grave.” Of course, the fucker has to ruin it.
4
Dean wonders what would come barreling out if Sam hit him with some rock salt, wonders what taint that yellow-eyed son of a bitch left inside when he healed him. If Sam tied him to a chair and said the words, would he throw back his head and spew out a black cloud, slick filth roiling around his head in dark ribbons?
Dean looks out over the horizon, the hood of the Impala warming his jeans, and he hates that he’s crying, hates it, but he wants Sam to understand. What’s dead should stay dead.
“So tell me, what can you possibly say to make that alright?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing.”
Then Sam yanks him over, kisses him hard, and Dean’s got his hands twisted in Sam’s shirt, just holding on, just barely holding on. When Sam lets up, brushing his lips across Dean’s and pressing kisses down his jaw, Dean breaks just a little bit more.
He wonders sometimes what Dad sold his soul for—to keep Dean alive or to make sure Sam has an executioner. If Dad had a weakness, it was Sammy, and maybe he knew that if it came right down to it, moment of truth, he couldn’t kill his son. Why he thought Dean could, Dean doesn’t know.
He should tell Sam all of it, he thinks. Now’s the time, but Sam hooks his thumbs in Dean’s belt loops as they kiss again and the sun’s coming up in the distance, painting everything over in yellow and gold.
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Date: 2007-02-20 12:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-21 02:16 am (UTC)