New SPN fic - Sam/Dean - the life between heaven and hell
I've always wanted to write a "Sam is in love with Dean" fic, and this might be as close as I get. Thanks to 
monkiedude for the beta!!
Title - the life between heaven and hell
Pairing - Sam/Dean
Rating - adult, not graphic
Word Count - 2500
Spoilers - for nightshifter
the life between heaven and hell
"And you're sure you haven't seen either of these men." Henriksen's voice is flat, nearly toneless. He isn't asking, he's telling, and if there's something Ellen hates more than some piece-of-shit lawman putting words in her mouth, she'd be hard pressed to think of what it is.
Two glossy eight-by-tens slide from the folder in his hand and fan across the top of the bar. Ellen glances down at the surveillance photos of Sam and Dean and purses her lip in a tight line.
Goddammit, boys.
"Can't say as I have." She looks up. Cocks her head and smiles, pretty as you please. Henriksen frowns and scoops up his pictures along with his folder, hat and keys, and nods as if he knows she's full of it.
"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd ask you to give me a call if they happen to stumble in here," he says, flicking a business card in her direction. Ellen takes the card without looking and slips it into the back pocket of her jeans.
"Absolutely."
Henriksen watches her, dark eyes flat and unflinching. Ellen's palms are damp but she holds his eyes until he backs away, body backlit by the sun streaming in through the windows and hiding his face in shadows. The creepy bastard.
She stands there watching until the police cruiser backs up and pulls down the dirt road, dust and grime rising up in clouds behind it. When she's good and sure he's gone, she grabs her phone from the top of the cooler and punches in the numbers as quick as her fingers will allow.
"Goddamit, Sam," she says when he answers. "What in the hell did you and your fool brother get yourselves into this time?"
*
They've been driving straight through for days when Ellen calls, barely taking breaks long enough to piss in rest stops and pass out for a few hours on the side of deserted back roads. Sam had been thinking they were good, they had to be, how far were they supposed to run? But then Ellen called and put everything in perspective. No matter what, they couldn't run far enough. Not this time.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks, Ellen." Sam can feel Dean watching him. He snaps the phone closed and drops his head against his balled up fist, banging lightly against his skull. Dean's not going to be happy.
"What'd she say?" Dean's looked away; back out the windshield to act like he doesn't care about the answer, but Sam can hear the tightness of his voice. He wants to tell Dean that nothing happened, it's fine, but he's never lied to his brother and he's not going to start now.
Sam leans back and closes his eyes. He makes a concentrated effort to unclench his hands, to listen to the familiar sounds of the road rushing outside the windows. To feel the bump and glide of the Impala rolling down the highway. Everything is going to change; Sam knows that. He might as well take as many small comforts as he can while they last.
"Sam."
"Henriksen was there." Sam could add in the rest of the details, sure. That he was passing around pictures and thank god the only one in the bar at the time was Ellen and not some down on his luck hunter who could be bought for a pint of Miller and a pack of Lucky Strikes. That when he left he was heading in the same direction Dean had driven, before Dean decided to loop back around to head further south after two days of having the law hot on their trail.
Henriksen is off their scent, but not for long, and if it's not him, it'll be someone else. Sam and Dean are in it now. In it so far that there's really no way out.
Sam could add all that in but he doesn't have to. Dean knows it without being told, and for once, Sam is grateful for the silence.
"Shit," his brother murmurs, and Sam sighs, and nods his head, because at this point there's nothing else to say.
*
They stop just after midnight at a motel with hot pink neon seashells flickering on the sign.
Sam blinks as they pull into the lot. "The Clam Bake Inn? Really?" he blinks again, but the sign stays the same, the lights of the clamshell giving the illusion that it's opening and closing every few seconds. He knows he hasn't slept for a few for days, but he didn't think he was at the point of hallucinating just yet.
"It's the only vacancy I've seen in a hundred miles." Dean's voice is sleepy and thick, and Sam realizes just how tired Dean has to be for him to stop given how long they've been running. "I just gotta lie down for a while," he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes and yawning. "Recharge. Then I'll be good as new and we can hit the road again."
Sam's chest goes hot and tight with a protectiveness so fierce his hands shake. Just seeing Dean sitting there, tired, worn down, holding everything in, all of it together for the two of them, just like always, and Sam realizes that he's doing it again. Trying to take care of Sam like he did when they were kids. Like he's always done.
Dean's leaning his head back, and Sam stares at the glow of the pink lights against the dark stubble of his throat. He wants to touch Dean. Lie him down and bring him food and let him sleep and take care of him, but Dean would punch Sam in the face and tell him that starting that shit up again isn't going to help anything, Sammy, so fucking cut it out. Dean's been pushing Sam away for months now, and as much as Sam wants this, wants Dean, he knows that this isn't the time.
Instead he opens the glove compartment and takes out his wallet, letting Dean rest in the car while he gets them a room. He can do that, at least.
"I'll be right back," Sam says, and closes the car door behind him.
*
Room 14A is the last one on the strip at the end of the parking lot. Dean noses the car as far back as he can, tucked around the side of the building and under a huge tree with heavy hanging branches.
There's a small dirt area off to the side with a green picnic table and a swing set with three swings. The paint is flaking off the table in chunks; the swings hang crooked and uneven. When they get out of the car the wind whips by with a howl, and Dean grins at him crookedly over the hood of the car.
"I don't know about you, Sammy, but I sure don't see any clam shells."
He's trying to sound normal, like this is fine, like every other cheesy motel they've ever stayed in. Only this time there's a damn good chance of flipping on the TV and seeing their faces staring back at them from behind a grainy thirteen-inch screen. Dean's giving it his best shot, though, so Sam forces a smile and says, "Yeah. The name's a little misleading," with a wink and a low laugh.
They grab their gear and bags from the trunk and sidle up to the door, blending in with the shadows. Dean scans the parking lot one last time as Sam jiggles the key - goddamn door is stuck closed - until finally the lock tumbles and they slip inside.
Sam flicks on the light and drops his bags in horror as his eyes catch the three-dimensional shells glued to the wallpaper and the clock radio shaped to look like a broken down lighthouse. Weird, muted ocean sounds warble from the tiny speakers tucked up high in the corner of the room. They've stayed in a bunch of winners before, but this one might take the cake. Christ, that might even be a statue of a crab on the dresser.
Dean's hand is warm as it claps against his shoulder, his laughter low and bordering on hysterical. "Nice. At least we know where the clam shells are now."
*
Sam gets granola bars and dried fruit pouches from the vending machine for dinner, and when he gets back to the room Dean is mixing cheap scotch with faucet water in the plastic wrapped bathroom cups.
"Dinner of champions," he says with a smirk, handing Sam a cup and tapping the edge against his own. Sam makes a face as he kills half the drink on one swallow. He's going to need a hell of a lot more booze before this starts going down easy.
And that's a laugh right there. As if anything in their life has gone down easy. Him and Dean should be used to shit like this by now, but every once in a while something comes along - Sam's visions, dad dying, the two of them wanted by the goddamn FBI - that throws everything out of whack, out of sync. Makes even gassing the car up and finding a safe place to take a leak twice as hard and take three times as long.
Not to mention Sam wanting to get back in his brother's pants and Dean wanting nothing to do with it. Which also sucks.
"Hey." Sam's not sure how long he spaced out for before he feels Dean's hand, warm and strong on the back of his neck. Dean presses against Sam's throat with his thumb, and when Sam looks up, his brother's eyes are nearly black. "You okay?"
Sam nods. Dean's got enough on his mind and Sam's not going to push him about this, not yet. "I'm good," he says, before kicking off his sneakers and flopping back on the closest bed. "Think you're right. Just need some sleep and we'll be fine."
Dean looks down and away. Sam wants to touch him, just his shoulder or his back, something to show that he's here. That he's in this too, but just as he works up the nerve, Dean's stepping back and turning away.
*
Sam can't sleep. They'd finished their drinks and turned off the lights before crawling into bed, but while Sam could hear Dean snoring from the minute his head hit the sheets, Sam's done nothing but toss and turn, his body tired as shit but his mind racing too fast to turn off.
When he starts counting the shells glued to the wall, Sam knows he's got a problem.
"Dude." Dean's voice is low and Sam jumps. He didn't realize he'd woken Dean up, and knowing he's keeping his brother from sleeping when he's so obviously tired makes Sam feel like scum.
"Sorry, Dean." Dean grunts and rolls over, but he's up now, and Sam can't not say it. He's been trying to think of a way to tell Dean for days, but it was never the right time, never the right place. Not that Sam's going to tell Dean all of it, but fuck it. He's saying some of it now.
"Dean, listen." Sam hears Dean mutter "Oh, god," under his breath, but when Sam's quiet for another minute, Dean finally rolls over so he's facing Sam across the short distance between their beds.
Sam wants to crawl in next to him. Wants to curl up against Dean's side, run his hand under the bottom of Dean's shirt until he's touching warm skin, pull Dean closer against his body. He wants to lick the sweat from the back of Dean's neck, press his thumbs against Dean's jaw and hold his mouth open while he fucks Dean's mouth with his tongue, gasping and moaning and fighting for air. He wants to touch Dean like he used to, like he's no longer allowed, and ask Dean why. Why doesn't Dean want this anymore?
His fingers twitch under the blanket, and Sam curls them in a fist to keep from reaching out and pressing them against Dean's mouth.
"I'm not sorry," Sam finally says. Dean flinches, looks away, and Sam does reach out then but he lets his hand drop back before he does something stupid. "I know everything's fucked, and we're on the run now on top of everything else, but I don't care, Dean."
"Yeah, well, I think it sucks." Dean rolls onto his back and rubs his eyes. The sheet is pulled down to his waist, and Sam can't help himself from staring, watching the breath move in and out of his brother's body, his chest rising and falling.
"I'm not going anywhere, Dean, and-"
"And that's the fucking problem, Sam. They didn't have anything on you. Back after Baltimore, they only had me, not you, but I did it again. Got us both so fucking stuck in something-"
"And I'd do it again in a minute," Sam says quietly. And he would, is the thing. If he had the choice between going back to normal, going to school, getting a job, having a regular, average life, but having to trade Dean to get it? To know Dean was out there alone, on the run, always looking over his shoulder and with no one to lean on if he needed? Sam would rather stab himself in the eye than do that to his brother. One day, maybe Dean would realize that. "I would never choose anything over this."
Dean's quiet so long that Sam thinks he's not going to say anything, and then, "I just hate that it was even a choice. That you could have had something else and…" He trails off, shakes his head. "I'm never gonna not hate it."
"Well tough. You don't have to like it." Sam rolls over with his back to Dean before he really does do something stupid. Dean's having a hard enough time dealing with Sam being okay with being on the run; Sam thinks he'll maybe wait a while before he tries to get in bed with him again. Before he convinces Dean that this, them, just the two of them against everyone else, is the only way they can live, and that Sam wants that. He wants that more than anything.
Not that Sam's going to wait forever, but maybe he'll wait until their faces slip off the FBI's ten most wanted. Until he can touch Dean without Dean looking at him like he corrupted Sam into this life; hunting demons, running from the law, loving Dean. Until Dean looks at him like he used to, before dad died and Dean appointed himself as Sam's sole protector. Back when Dean wanted to touch Sam as much as Sam wanted Dean to do it.
It'll take time, but Sam has a feeling it won't be too much longer. And when he hears Dean whisper, "'Night, Sammy," he's finally able to fall asleep.
-end-
monkiedude for the beta!!Title - the life between heaven and hell
Pairing - Sam/Dean
Rating - adult, not graphic
Word Count - 2500
Spoilers - for nightshifter
the life between heaven and hell
"And you're sure you haven't seen either of these men." Henriksen's voice is flat, nearly toneless. He isn't asking, he's telling, and if there's something Ellen hates more than some piece-of-shit lawman putting words in her mouth, she'd be hard pressed to think of what it is.
Two glossy eight-by-tens slide from the folder in his hand and fan across the top of the bar. Ellen glances down at the surveillance photos of Sam and Dean and purses her lip in a tight line.
Goddammit, boys.
"Can't say as I have." She looks up. Cocks her head and smiles, pretty as you please. Henriksen frowns and scoops up his pictures along with his folder, hat and keys, and nods as if he knows she's full of it.
"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd ask you to give me a call if they happen to stumble in here," he says, flicking a business card in her direction. Ellen takes the card without looking and slips it into the back pocket of her jeans.
"Absolutely."
Henriksen watches her, dark eyes flat and unflinching. Ellen's palms are damp but she holds his eyes until he backs away, body backlit by the sun streaming in through the windows and hiding his face in shadows. The creepy bastard.
She stands there watching until the police cruiser backs up and pulls down the dirt road, dust and grime rising up in clouds behind it. When she's good and sure he's gone, she grabs her phone from the top of the cooler and punches in the numbers as quick as her fingers will allow.
"Goddamit, Sam," she says when he answers. "What in the hell did you and your fool brother get yourselves into this time?"
*
They've been driving straight through for days when Ellen calls, barely taking breaks long enough to piss in rest stops and pass out for a few hours on the side of deserted back roads. Sam had been thinking they were good, they had to be, how far were they supposed to run? But then Ellen called and put everything in perspective. No matter what, they couldn't run far enough. Not this time.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks, Ellen." Sam can feel Dean watching him. He snaps the phone closed and drops his head against his balled up fist, banging lightly against his skull. Dean's not going to be happy.
"What'd she say?" Dean's looked away; back out the windshield to act like he doesn't care about the answer, but Sam can hear the tightness of his voice. He wants to tell Dean that nothing happened, it's fine, but he's never lied to his brother and he's not going to start now.
Sam leans back and closes his eyes. He makes a concentrated effort to unclench his hands, to listen to the familiar sounds of the road rushing outside the windows. To feel the bump and glide of the Impala rolling down the highway. Everything is going to change; Sam knows that. He might as well take as many small comforts as he can while they last.
"Sam."
"Henriksen was there." Sam could add in the rest of the details, sure. That he was passing around pictures and thank god the only one in the bar at the time was Ellen and not some down on his luck hunter who could be bought for a pint of Miller and a pack of Lucky Strikes. That when he left he was heading in the same direction Dean had driven, before Dean decided to loop back around to head further south after two days of having the law hot on their trail.
Henriksen is off their scent, but not for long, and if it's not him, it'll be someone else. Sam and Dean are in it now. In it so far that there's really no way out.
Sam could add all that in but he doesn't have to. Dean knows it without being told, and for once, Sam is grateful for the silence.
"Shit," his brother murmurs, and Sam sighs, and nods his head, because at this point there's nothing else to say.
*
They stop just after midnight at a motel with hot pink neon seashells flickering on the sign.
Sam blinks as they pull into the lot. "The Clam Bake Inn? Really?" he blinks again, but the sign stays the same, the lights of the clamshell giving the illusion that it's opening and closing every few seconds. He knows he hasn't slept for a few for days, but he didn't think he was at the point of hallucinating just yet.
"It's the only vacancy I've seen in a hundred miles." Dean's voice is sleepy and thick, and Sam realizes just how tired Dean has to be for him to stop given how long they've been running. "I just gotta lie down for a while," he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes and yawning. "Recharge. Then I'll be good as new and we can hit the road again."
Sam's chest goes hot and tight with a protectiveness so fierce his hands shake. Just seeing Dean sitting there, tired, worn down, holding everything in, all of it together for the two of them, just like always, and Sam realizes that he's doing it again. Trying to take care of Sam like he did when they were kids. Like he's always done.
Dean's leaning his head back, and Sam stares at the glow of the pink lights against the dark stubble of his throat. He wants to touch Dean. Lie him down and bring him food and let him sleep and take care of him, but Dean would punch Sam in the face and tell him that starting that shit up again isn't going to help anything, Sammy, so fucking cut it out. Dean's been pushing Sam away for months now, and as much as Sam wants this, wants Dean, he knows that this isn't the time.
Instead he opens the glove compartment and takes out his wallet, letting Dean rest in the car while he gets them a room. He can do that, at least.
"I'll be right back," Sam says, and closes the car door behind him.
*
Room 14A is the last one on the strip at the end of the parking lot. Dean noses the car as far back as he can, tucked around the side of the building and under a huge tree with heavy hanging branches.
There's a small dirt area off to the side with a green picnic table and a swing set with three swings. The paint is flaking off the table in chunks; the swings hang crooked and uneven. When they get out of the car the wind whips by with a howl, and Dean grins at him crookedly over the hood of the car.
"I don't know about you, Sammy, but I sure don't see any clam shells."
He's trying to sound normal, like this is fine, like every other cheesy motel they've ever stayed in. Only this time there's a damn good chance of flipping on the TV and seeing their faces staring back at them from behind a grainy thirteen-inch screen. Dean's giving it his best shot, though, so Sam forces a smile and says, "Yeah. The name's a little misleading," with a wink and a low laugh.
They grab their gear and bags from the trunk and sidle up to the door, blending in with the shadows. Dean scans the parking lot one last time as Sam jiggles the key - goddamn door is stuck closed - until finally the lock tumbles and they slip inside.
Sam flicks on the light and drops his bags in horror as his eyes catch the three-dimensional shells glued to the wallpaper and the clock radio shaped to look like a broken down lighthouse. Weird, muted ocean sounds warble from the tiny speakers tucked up high in the corner of the room. They've stayed in a bunch of winners before, but this one might take the cake. Christ, that might even be a statue of a crab on the dresser.
Dean's hand is warm as it claps against his shoulder, his laughter low and bordering on hysterical. "Nice. At least we know where the clam shells are now."
*
Sam gets granola bars and dried fruit pouches from the vending machine for dinner, and when he gets back to the room Dean is mixing cheap scotch with faucet water in the plastic wrapped bathroom cups.
"Dinner of champions," he says with a smirk, handing Sam a cup and tapping the edge against his own. Sam makes a face as he kills half the drink on one swallow. He's going to need a hell of a lot more booze before this starts going down easy.
And that's a laugh right there. As if anything in their life has gone down easy. Him and Dean should be used to shit like this by now, but every once in a while something comes along - Sam's visions, dad dying, the two of them wanted by the goddamn FBI - that throws everything out of whack, out of sync. Makes even gassing the car up and finding a safe place to take a leak twice as hard and take three times as long.
Not to mention Sam wanting to get back in his brother's pants and Dean wanting nothing to do with it. Which also sucks.
"Hey." Sam's not sure how long he spaced out for before he feels Dean's hand, warm and strong on the back of his neck. Dean presses against Sam's throat with his thumb, and when Sam looks up, his brother's eyes are nearly black. "You okay?"
Sam nods. Dean's got enough on his mind and Sam's not going to push him about this, not yet. "I'm good," he says, before kicking off his sneakers and flopping back on the closest bed. "Think you're right. Just need some sleep and we'll be fine."
Dean looks down and away. Sam wants to touch him, just his shoulder or his back, something to show that he's here. That he's in this too, but just as he works up the nerve, Dean's stepping back and turning away.
*
Sam can't sleep. They'd finished their drinks and turned off the lights before crawling into bed, but while Sam could hear Dean snoring from the minute his head hit the sheets, Sam's done nothing but toss and turn, his body tired as shit but his mind racing too fast to turn off.
When he starts counting the shells glued to the wall, Sam knows he's got a problem.
"Dude." Dean's voice is low and Sam jumps. He didn't realize he'd woken Dean up, and knowing he's keeping his brother from sleeping when he's so obviously tired makes Sam feel like scum.
"Sorry, Dean." Dean grunts and rolls over, but he's up now, and Sam can't not say it. He's been trying to think of a way to tell Dean for days, but it was never the right time, never the right place. Not that Sam's going to tell Dean all of it, but fuck it. He's saying some of it now.
"Dean, listen." Sam hears Dean mutter "Oh, god," under his breath, but when Sam's quiet for another minute, Dean finally rolls over so he's facing Sam across the short distance between their beds.
Sam wants to crawl in next to him. Wants to curl up against Dean's side, run his hand under the bottom of Dean's shirt until he's touching warm skin, pull Dean closer against his body. He wants to lick the sweat from the back of Dean's neck, press his thumbs against Dean's jaw and hold his mouth open while he fucks Dean's mouth with his tongue, gasping and moaning and fighting for air. He wants to touch Dean like he used to, like he's no longer allowed, and ask Dean why. Why doesn't Dean want this anymore?
His fingers twitch under the blanket, and Sam curls them in a fist to keep from reaching out and pressing them against Dean's mouth.
"I'm not sorry," Sam finally says. Dean flinches, looks away, and Sam does reach out then but he lets his hand drop back before he does something stupid. "I know everything's fucked, and we're on the run now on top of everything else, but I don't care, Dean."
"Yeah, well, I think it sucks." Dean rolls onto his back and rubs his eyes. The sheet is pulled down to his waist, and Sam can't help himself from staring, watching the breath move in and out of his brother's body, his chest rising and falling.
"I'm not going anywhere, Dean, and-"
"And that's the fucking problem, Sam. They didn't have anything on you. Back after Baltimore, they only had me, not you, but I did it again. Got us both so fucking stuck in something-"
"And I'd do it again in a minute," Sam says quietly. And he would, is the thing. If he had the choice between going back to normal, going to school, getting a job, having a regular, average life, but having to trade Dean to get it? To know Dean was out there alone, on the run, always looking over his shoulder and with no one to lean on if he needed? Sam would rather stab himself in the eye than do that to his brother. One day, maybe Dean would realize that. "I would never choose anything over this."
Dean's quiet so long that Sam thinks he's not going to say anything, and then, "I just hate that it was even a choice. That you could have had something else and…" He trails off, shakes his head. "I'm never gonna not hate it."
"Well tough. You don't have to like it." Sam rolls over with his back to Dean before he really does do something stupid. Dean's having a hard enough time dealing with Sam being okay with being on the run; Sam thinks he'll maybe wait a while before he tries to get in bed with him again. Before he convinces Dean that this, them, just the two of them against everyone else, is the only way they can live, and that Sam wants that. He wants that more than anything.
Not that Sam's going to wait forever, but maybe he'll wait until their faces slip off the FBI's ten most wanted. Until he can touch Dean without Dean looking at him like he corrupted Sam into this life; hunting demons, running from the law, loving Dean. Until Dean looks at him like he used to, before dad died and Dean appointed himself as Sam's sole protector. Back when Dean wanted to touch Sam as much as Sam wanted Dean to do it.
It'll take time, but Sam has a feeling it won't be too much longer. And when he hears Dean whisper, "'Night, Sammy," he's finally able to fall asleep.
-end-
