New SPN fic - Sam/Dean - the quiet persistence of a dream
So! Who wants to start the year off with some slightly schmoopy, slight melonchly, not really sad but not really happy, futurefic wincest?
*beams*
*facepalms*
This is for
fatale for 
spn_holidays. She asked for schmoopy clichefic and got, uhm, the fic that's under the cut tag. She does love Dean though, and it's a very Dean type fic, and just, give it a shot, ok? It's not SAD sad, just, it's not puppies and rainbows either, so if that's what you're looking for you might want to pass.
The title is snagged from, god, a Lucas Scott monologue in some random season 3 episode of OTH, and yeah, if the saying "start as you mean to go on" applies to my life, apparently 2007 will be a year of NO SHAME as well. \o/
Thanks tostrippedpink for the beta, as usual, and to technosage who saw this in it's early stages on Sat night and told me to keep going. MWAH!!
Title - the quiet persistence of a dream
Pairing - Sam/Dean
Rating - R
Word Count - 1800
Spoilers - none
the quiet persistence of a dream
Dean wakes in bed, under the glowing light of the sun, and stretches, joints popping and cracking. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep. The last thing he remembers was saying goodnight to Sam in the other room when it was full night, Sam’s hand curled around Dean’s wrist to keep him from going.
“Dean, wait. Not yet--”
“I’ll be back soon, Sam. Just gimme a minute.”
It’s daytime now. The light spilling through the blinds covering his bedroom window tell him it’s sometime late in the morning, but what day Dean has no idea.
The stubble on his face itches, and Dean reaches up a hand to scratch, his nails rough and brittle. He sits up. Yawns. The wooden floor is cold under his feet, and his first few steps out of bed are stilted, awkward, as if trying to walk through water moving in the opposite direction.
It’s like this every time he wakes up.
Dean’s chest is bare, and the cracked mirror hanging over his dresser shows more lines etched at the sides of his mouth than the last time. His hair’s gotten long - longer than he remembers ever seeing it – and he takes the scissors from his drawer, metal scratching against metal as he flexes them in his hand.
Every time Dean wakes up, it’s harder than the last time. It takes more time, more effort to get out of bed.
His hand shakes and the scissors fall and clatter. Dean takes a deep breath, curls his fingers around the rough wood, and hopes like hell Sam’s out there. That he didn’t leave yet.
That he’s figured something out this time to stop this.
*
Sixteen years and Dean still remembers how it happened.
“Hey, those are the breaks, Sammy,” Dean had said, rubbing the bite against his neck until his fingers came away, red and sticky with blood. “It’s a dirty job. No one said it’d be easy.”
Sam’s mouth had tightened, and Dean tried to smile. Sam was pissed. Shocker. “If you’d just waited for me like I told you to--“ he started to say, voice tight and clipped.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t.” Dean can remember how even then he felt something different. A thickening to his blood. The way it almost felt like it was moving in a slow hum through his veins. And god, he was tired.
Dean tossed his gun across the clearing and Sam palmed it smoothly, tucking it in the waistband of his jeans and following Dean through the woods, wet branches cracking under the weight of their feet, the night air cool and still, despite the evil still hanging heavy in the air.
“What’s gonna happen now?” Sam’s voice was quiet, coming from just behind Dean’s shoulder.
Dean didn’t know what to say. I don’t know, but I think it’s some kind of spell, so. Just wait and see if I turn into a werewolf then shoot me? If my eyes flash yellow, grab the Colt from the trunk and blow my brains out? What did you tell someone when you had no idea what was going to happen yourself?
The Impala was gleaming under the single streetlight as they finally emerged from the woods. Dean faced Sam over the roof of the car, and met his brother’s gaze head on.
“I don’t know, Sammy,” he told him honestly. “Let’s just head back and go to sleep. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”
Sam nodded and climbed in the car without another word. When Dean went to sleep that night, it was with Sam’s bare shoulder under his lips, his arm thrown over Sam’s waist.
Dean didn’t wake up for six months.
*
The TV is playing the morning news quietly, and Sam is sprawled out on the couch, drooling a little and snoring. Dean stands and breathes a sigh of relief.
Sam didn’t leave. Not yet, anyway. Dean’s half-convinced that one day he’s going to wake up to an empty apartment, nothing but a note on the counter in Sam’s spiky scrawl telling Dean that he’s sorry, but he can’t do this anymore. How he wishes it was different, but now Sam needs to leave and try to have a normal life. Some happiness of his own. Dean always expects that, but it’s never happened, not yet.
His palms are damp with sweat, and Dean wipes them on his flannel pants and crosses the room, the floor creaking under the weight of his footsteps. Sam sits up quick as a shot, eyes wide awake and alert as soon as Dean starts to move. He has to smile a little at Sam’s quick reflexes. I did that, Dean thinks proudly. He learned that from me.
When Sam sees Dean standing there, his face shifts, eyes widening slightly, before he grins wide and bright and jumps up off the couch. “Dean,” he breathes, and Dean feels himself smile in response.
“Hey, Sam.”
*
Sam makes coffee and they eat blueberry muffins straight from the supermarket package, chairs pulled up so close to each other that their knees and elbows constantly touch. Dean can feel the heat of Sam all along his side, blood warm and smelling like soap and pine. He wants to touch his brother so badly his fingers itch, his hands shake. He looks away when he feels Sam watching him and busies himself by stuffing another muffin in his mouth.
They don’t talk during breakfast. Dean has a thousand questions, but they can all wait. For now all he needs is something to eat, drink, and to be able to touch and see and smell Sam. Dean doesn’t think it’s much to ask for, considering.
The creak of Sam’s chair pushing back has Dean standing up after him. Being awake is great. Drinking coffee and eating is terrific. But he’s done with the bullshit now, and he wants his brother.
“Sammy.” Dean’s hand looks pale and thin against Sam’s broad chest. Sam’s skin is smooth, a healthy tan and gold, and Dean shakes because he can’t remember the last time he felt like this. He can’t remember much of anything, really. “How long was I—“
“Ten months this time,” Sam answers softly. Dean’s head whips up. He can see the shine of Sam’s eyes as his brother blinks and looks away. Jesus. Ten months?
When Sam speaks again his voice is gravelly and rough. “I tried everything. I really thought I had the answers this time and I just—“ One strong shoulder lifts in a shrug and Sam rubs a hand over his face and eyes. When he looks back at Dean he’s smiling sadly. “I didn’t get it yet, but I’m closer now. I talked to Ash again and he thinks he found someone who broke a spell like this back in the seventeen hundreds. I just have to research a little more and—“
“Sam. Sam. Sam.” Dean can’t stand to see him like this. Stressed out and guilty for not being able to help Dean. Not being able to fix him. “Calm down, man. You’ll figure something out.”
Neither of them says what they’re both thinking. How it’s been sixteen years and Sam hasn’t figured it out yet. About how they’re both getting older, Sam not as able to do this anymore, and if they haven’t broken the spell yet, who knows if they’re ever going to. They don’t say it because neither of them wants to hear the words. Maybe if it’s never said aloud, it won’t ever come true.
Instead, Dean curls his fingers around Sam’s wrist and pulls him closer. He threads his other hand into Sam’s hair - and god, how is it still so soft after all these years? - and tugs his head down until their lips meet and cling, huffing a soft breath between their mouths.
“Come on,” Dean whispers. “Quit talking and come to bed, man.”
Sam nods and follows.
*
No matter how long they’re apart, the feel of Sam under his hands is something that Dean never forgets. His fingers know Sam’s shape, his outline, and every time they’re together, he retraces the curves and angles he knows, while learning everything about Sam that’s new from the last time.
“What’s this?” Dean’s mouth touches Sam’s shoulder lightly, a raised line of pink skin tickling his lips.
Sam shifts and groans, his hand digging deep into Dean’s hair and pulling him closer until Dean’s teeth press against Sam’s skin. “Werecat. It’s fine though,” he adds when Dean startles. “I got him before any real damage was done and we've had a half and a full moon since then.”
Dean’s not around to protect Sam anymore. That fact alone is enough to make him want to hunt down whatever cursed him all those years ago and rip its evil fucking throat out. If anything ever happens to Sam because Dean’s not there, because he doesn’t have backup, Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do.
“I thought we weren’t talking anymore though.” Sam’s voice is falsely light and teasing. His hands are rough and scarred with callouses, but when he spreads his legs and pulls Dean so he’s covering Sam’s body, pressing down on him, pushing him into the mattress, Dean decides not to call him on it. They can talk later. Now it’s time for this.
Dean smirks and slants his mouth over Sam’s, tongue swiping over Sam’s lips, swallowing his gasps and moans. “You’re right,” Dean says. He straddles Sam’s thigh and takes his brother’s cock in his hand, curling his fingers around him and jacking slowly. “No more talking.”
*
The sun is falling and fading. Dusk filters in through the blinds, and Sam’s wrapped around Dean so tightly Dean thinks he’s trying to ward off sleep by the strength of his will alone. He traces his fingers up and down Sam’s back, feeling the slide of skin under his hands, Sam’s warmth against him, under him, his breath hot and damp against Dean’s throat.
Dean’s chest is tight, his throat burns. He’s starting to feel tired already, his limbs going heavy with sleep, his eyelids burning and gritty.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice is young and small. Dean can feel the press of Sam’s fingers, each one distinct and hot against his side. “I’ll--“ he says, then clears his throat and starts again. “I’ll figure it out by next time. Promise.”
“I know you will.”
Sam kisses the skin under Dean’s ear and whispers, “Don’t fall asleep yet, okay?”
“I won’t, Sammy.” Dean’s already falling though. The words are thick and clumsy around his tongue. “I’ll…”
Dean can feel Sam move against him, his arm tightening around Dean’s chest and pulling him closer as Dean falls asleep.
-end-
*beams*
*facepalms*
This is for
fatale for spn_holidays. She asked for schmoopy clichefic and got, uhm, the fic that's under the cut tag. She does love Dean though, and it's a very Dean type fic, and just, give it a shot, ok? It's not SAD sad, just, it's not puppies and rainbows either, so if that's what you're looking for you might want to pass. The title is snagged from, god, a Lucas Scott monologue in some random season 3 episode of OTH, and yeah, if the saying "start as you mean to go on" applies to my life, apparently 2007 will be a year of NO SHAME as well. \o/
Thanks to
strippedpink for the beta, as usual, and to technosage who saw this in it's early stages on Sat night and told me to keep going. MWAH!!Title - the quiet persistence of a dream
Pairing - Sam/Dean
Rating - R
Word Count - 1800
Spoilers - none
the quiet persistence of a dream
Dean wakes in bed, under the glowing light of the sun, and stretches, joints popping and cracking. He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep. The last thing he remembers was saying goodnight to Sam in the other room when it was full night, Sam’s hand curled around Dean’s wrist to keep him from going.
“Dean, wait. Not yet--”
“I’ll be back soon, Sam. Just gimme a minute.”
It’s daytime now. The light spilling through the blinds covering his bedroom window tell him it’s sometime late in the morning, but what day Dean has no idea.
The stubble on his face itches, and Dean reaches up a hand to scratch, his nails rough and brittle. He sits up. Yawns. The wooden floor is cold under his feet, and his first few steps out of bed are stilted, awkward, as if trying to walk through water moving in the opposite direction.
It’s like this every time he wakes up.
Dean’s chest is bare, and the cracked mirror hanging over his dresser shows more lines etched at the sides of his mouth than the last time. His hair’s gotten long - longer than he remembers ever seeing it – and he takes the scissors from his drawer, metal scratching against metal as he flexes them in his hand.
Every time Dean wakes up, it’s harder than the last time. It takes more time, more effort to get out of bed.
His hand shakes and the scissors fall and clatter. Dean takes a deep breath, curls his fingers around the rough wood, and hopes like hell Sam’s out there. That he didn’t leave yet.
That he’s figured something out this time to stop this.
*
Sixteen years and Dean still remembers how it happened.
“Hey, those are the breaks, Sammy,” Dean had said, rubbing the bite against his neck until his fingers came away, red and sticky with blood. “It’s a dirty job. No one said it’d be easy.”
Sam’s mouth had tightened, and Dean tried to smile. Sam was pissed. Shocker. “If you’d just waited for me like I told you to--“ he started to say, voice tight and clipped.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t.” Dean can remember how even then he felt something different. A thickening to his blood. The way it almost felt like it was moving in a slow hum through his veins. And god, he was tired.
Dean tossed his gun across the clearing and Sam palmed it smoothly, tucking it in the waistband of his jeans and following Dean through the woods, wet branches cracking under the weight of their feet, the night air cool and still, despite the evil still hanging heavy in the air.
“What’s gonna happen now?” Sam’s voice was quiet, coming from just behind Dean’s shoulder.
Dean didn’t know what to say. I don’t know, but I think it’s some kind of spell, so. Just wait and see if I turn into a werewolf then shoot me? If my eyes flash yellow, grab the Colt from the trunk and blow my brains out? What did you tell someone when you had no idea what was going to happen yourself?
The Impala was gleaming under the single streetlight as they finally emerged from the woods. Dean faced Sam over the roof of the car, and met his brother’s gaze head on.
“I don’t know, Sammy,” he told him honestly. “Let’s just head back and go to sleep. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”
Sam nodded and climbed in the car without another word. When Dean went to sleep that night, it was with Sam’s bare shoulder under his lips, his arm thrown over Sam’s waist.
Dean didn’t wake up for six months.
*
The TV is playing the morning news quietly, and Sam is sprawled out on the couch, drooling a little and snoring. Dean stands and breathes a sigh of relief.
Sam didn’t leave. Not yet, anyway. Dean’s half-convinced that one day he’s going to wake up to an empty apartment, nothing but a note on the counter in Sam’s spiky scrawl telling Dean that he’s sorry, but he can’t do this anymore. How he wishes it was different, but now Sam needs to leave and try to have a normal life. Some happiness of his own. Dean always expects that, but it’s never happened, not yet.
His palms are damp with sweat, and Dean wipes them on his flannel pants and crosses the room, the floor creaking under the weight of his footsteps. Sam sits up quick as a shot, eyes wide awake and alert as soon as Dean starts to move. He has to smile a little at Sam’s quick reflexes. I did that, Dean thinks proudly. He learned that from me.
When Sam sees Dean standing there, his face shifts, eyes widening slightly, before he grins wide and bright and jumps up off the couch. “Dean,” he breathes, and Dean feels himself smile in response.
“Hey, Sam.”
*
Sam makes coffee and they eat blueberry muffins straight from the supermarket package, chairs pulled up so close to each other that their knees and elbows constantly touch. Dean can feel the heat of Sam all along his side, blood warm and smelling like soap and pine. He wants to touch his brother so badly his fingers itch, his hands shake. He looks away when he feels Sam watching him and busies himself by stuffing another muffin in his mouth.
They don’t talk during breakfast. Dean has a thousand questions, but they can all wait. For now all he needs is something to eat, drink, and to be able to touch and see and smell Sam. Dean doesn’t think it’s much to ask for, considering.
The creak of Sam’s chair pushing back has Dean standing up after him. Being awake is great. Drinking coffee and eating is terrific. But he’s done with the bullshit now, and he wants his brother.
“Sammy.” Dean’s hand looks pale and thin against Sam’s broad chest. Sam’s skin is smooth, a healthy tan and gold, and Dean shakes because he can’t remember the last time he felt like this. He can’t remember much of anything, really. “How long was I—“
“Ten months this time,” Sam answers softly. Dean’s head whips up. He can see the shine of Sam’s eyes as his brother blinks and looks away. Jesus. Ten months?
When Sam speaks again his voice is gravelly and rough. “I tried everything. I really thought I had the answers this time and I just—“ One strong shoulder lifts in a shrug and Sam rubs a hand over his face and eyes. When he looks back at Dean he’s smiling sadly. “I didn’t get it yet, but I’m closer now. I talked to Ash again and he thinks he found someone who broke a spell like this back in the seventeen hundreds. I just have to research a little more and—“
“Sam. Sam. Sam.” Dean can’t stand to see him like this. Stressed out and guilty for not being able to help Dean. Not being able to fix him. “Calm down, man. You’ll figure something out.”
Neither of them says what they’re both thinking. How it’s been sixteen years and Sam hasn’t figured it out yet. About how they’re both getting older, Sam not as able to do this anymore, and if they haven’t broken the spell yet, who knows if they’re ever going to. They don’t say it because neither of them wants to hear the words. Maybe if it’s never said aloud, it won’t ever come true.
Instead, Dean curls his fingers around Sam’s wrist and pulls him closer. He threads his other hand into Sam’s hair - and god, how is it still so soft after all these years? - and tugs his head down until their lips meet and cling, huffing a soft breath between their mouths.
“Come on,” Dean whispers. “Quit talking and come to bed, man.”
Sam nods and follows.
*
No matter how long they’re apart, the feel of Sam under his hands is something that Dean never forgets. His fingers know Sam’s shape, his outline, and every time they’re together, he retraces the curves and angles he knows, while learning everything about Sam that’s new from the last time.
“What’s this?” Dean’s mouth touches Sam’s shoulder lightly, a raised line of pink skin tickling his lips.
Sam shifts and groans, his hand digging deep into Dean’s hair and pulling him closer until Dean’s teeth press against Sam’s skin. “Werecat. It’s fine though,” he adds when Dean startles. “I got him before any real damage was done and we've had a half and a full moon since then.”
Dean’s not around to protect Sam anymore. That fact alone is enough to make him want to hunt down whatever cursed him all those years ago and rip its evil fucking throat out. If anything ever happens to Sam because Dean’s not there, because he doesn’t have backup, Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do.
“I thought we weren’t talking anymore though.” Sam’s voice is falsely light and teasing. His hands are rough and scarred with callouses, but when he spreads his legs and pulls Dean so he’s covering Sam’s body, pressing down on him, pushing him into the mattress, Dean decides not to call him on it. They can talk later. Now it’s time for this.
Dean smirks and slants his mouth over Sam’s, tongue swiping over Sam’s lips, swallowing his gasps and moans. “You’re right,” Dean says. He straddles Sam’s thigh and takes his brother’s cock in his hand, curling his fingers around him and jacking slowly. “No more talking.”
*
The sun is falling and fading. Dusk filters in through the blinds, and Sam’s wrapped around Dean so tightly Dean thinks he’s trying to ward off sleep by the strength of his will alone. He traces his fingers up and down Sam’s back, feeling the slide of skin under his hands, Sam’s warmth against him, under him, his breath hot and damp against Dean’s throat.
Dean’s chest is tight, his throat burns. He’s starting to feel tired already, his limbs going heavy with sleep, his eyelids burning and gritty.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice is young and small. Dean can feel the press of Sam’s fingers, each one distinct and hot against his side. “I’ll--“ he says, then clears his throat and starts again. “I’ll figure it out by next time. Promise.”
“I know you will.”
Sam kisses the skin under Dean’s ear and whispers, “Don’t fall asleep yet, okay?”
“I won’t, Sammy.” Dean’s already falling though. The words are thick and clumsy around his tongue. “I’ll…”
Dean can feel Sam move against him, his arm tightening around Dean’s chest and pulling him closer as Dean falls asleep.
-end-
