|Sometimes you get fulgurites (luzdeestrellas) wrote,|
@ 2007-09-30 20:46:00
|Current music:||The Pretenders - Don't Get Me Wrong|
fic: Supernatural, Unless Continents Collide (Sam/Dean, PG)
Man, I am insanely behind on fb, and if anyone has commented and not received an answer, I will get on that this week. I really do appreciate all the lovely comments you guys have left on the last couple of stories.
Anyway, more fic.
Title: Unless Continents Collide
Summary: Sam knows he didn't choose this life, and he knows he wouldn't give it up, either.
Notes: Written for spn_gleeweek. Thanks to musesfool for the beta. Title from Del Amitri.
Unless Continents Collide
When it comes down to it, Dean still thinks Sam deserves better, that Sam still wants better. He doesn't say it, except sometimes, when he's hurt or he's drunk, half-words whispered into the curve of Sam's neck, but Sam knows, has learned to read every smile and exhalation of air, the way he's learned every scar and smattering of freckles on Dean's body, can interpret every head tilt and touch of Dean's fingers, like he knows how his hand fits around Dean's hip, how the wide sweep of his ribs tastes under his tongue. It all means the same thing and something completely different, all of it Dean and more than Sam ever expected to have, ever expected to need.
"You're an idiot," he says, when he catches Dean looking at college kids with book bags and easy grins, the world at their fingertips, promises laid out in lines in a book and words in a classroom. Sam still feels it sometimes, the loss of the life he almost had wrapped up in the smell of Jess's hair and the sound of her laugh, but he's had his promises made in blood, and he's felt the curve of the road winding out beneath him and known what it's like to come home.
Dean raises his eyebrows, like there's really a chance Sam doesn't know what he's thinking, and Sam smacks his head. "In fact, idiot's too good. Fucking brain dead, is more like it." Dean opens his mouth to retort, his hand already connecting with Sam's shoulder, and Sam leans forward, even though Dean still doesn’t do this in public, and presses his mouth against Dean's, and tells him that he's here and he's staying and he's okay with it.
Sam kissed him the first time, kind of accidental, except in all the ways that kissing your brother couldn't ever be accidental. He doesn't know why then exactly. If he'd been going to kiss Dean before, there had been opportunities numbering like stars, when adrenaline ran so hard in his blood he couldn't catch his breath--Dean bleeding; Sam almost dying; Dean with a bullet wound in his shoulder and Sam's fist marks still on his face, still smiling, dangerous and determined as the night, promising Sam everything; Dean saying, I've got a year, Sammy, the words lifted high on a current of, I'm not sorry, and so fucking glad you're still here. Sam hadn't kissed him then, even when the want of it had hurt like drowning, but he did in a diner some place in Illinois. He can't remember the town, can't remember where they were headed or what they were leaving behind, but he remembers how the corn muffin crumbled in Dean's hands, how there was butter smeared on his mouth, how the diner smelled of cheeseburgers and fries. Dean tasted like all of it, and like the air before a storm, clean and electric and full of waiting. Sam kissed the tail end of his smile, flash of joy he stole for himself, and Dean kissed back, easy friction and need like this was everything there ever was, before he pulled away.
"You're a fucking lunatic," Dean said, defiance and anger in his voice, taste of him still clear and bright at the back of Sam's throat.
"But I'm your fucking lunatic, right?" Sam said, delight bubbling up inside him, stupid and more powerful than the fear, all the more terrifying because of that, and he could only laugh.
It didn't matter that Dean shook his head, said, "We can't do this, Sammy," walked out the door and ran from it for three months, over fourteen states and twelve thousand miles, multiple motel rooms and four identity changes, because at the heart of it, Sam felt it, Dean and Sam, a note of power and strength, singing in his head above all the evil and all the fear he'd ever known, and Dean hadn't said, don't want to.
Sam held onto that and pushed, opening Dean up, increment by increment, like little bits of the future wrapping around his fingers, and Dean said, "I'm your brother, Sammy," and Sam said, "No one better," and in Arizona, Sam took him apart.
He drew out every secret with his hands and his mouth, gave up his own in return, like sacrifices he should have made years ago, his body pouring over Dean in the only blessing he could give, Dean's name mouthed over and over against Dean's skin, holy and right and strong, the only truth Sam had ever really been sure of.
"You and me," he'd said later, before he drifted to sleep, before Dean could freak out and pull everything back in, away from Sam. "You and me, Dean, swear to God."
In the morning, they got in the car and drove, a stretch of highway and a wide open sky, Sam reading the op-eds and wondering if there was a way to make his vote count, and underneath it all, thrumming in his blood like the vibration of the engine around him, the knowledge of how Dean tasted, and of the future telegraphed out before them, in the angles and lines of how they fit together.
This is what Sam still knows, knowledge he clings to when everything else is fucked to hell.
He knows he didn't choose this life, and he knows he wouldn't give it up, either. He knows that if he asked, Dean would probably try to stop hunting for him, even if it ripped him apart. He knows that Dean is the most infuriating person he's ever met, all smirks and innuendo, able to get under Sam's skin until Sam wants to beat him to death, and on days like today, Sam thinks about doing it, or maybe pushing as far as he can--hey, Dean, you wanna settle down somewhere, leave this hunting gig to someone else?--just to even the playing field. He doesn't, because he knows he can't give up hunting anymore than Dean can, that bullets and silver and words of strength and protection are as much their father's legacy as the people they've saved and the fights they've won, and that it cost too much, but the reward is enough.
He's still got plans for a house somewhere, a safe place they can go to rest up and call home now that Hendrickson's started to add the right parts up. They'll head back there every few months, touch base and sleep in until Sam offers to make breakfast and Dean gets up, just because if he's going to live in the damn house, he's not having Sam set fire to it trying to make some goddamn toast.
It's a working plan, and he's got Bobby making calls, and soon, maybe when Dean's fucked out or maybe just bone-tired, Sam will tell him all about it, coax him into it with puppy eyes and little brother pleading and the kind of slow, sleepy kisses Dean pretends to hate, and he'll let Dean think he believes any of it was really necessary. For now, he throws a napkin at Dean's head, threatens to scrawl, I hate Dean Winchester on the Impala's paintwork. Dean brings Sam back hot water instead of coffee, and Sam bitches about Dean's music and accidentally cuts the ribbon on his AC/DC tape. They fight and snap all the way to the next motel, anger edging everything, because not even a saint could spend two days on the road without going a little crazy, and neither of them is even close to that.
Dean falls asleep, half a mile away from Sam on the bed, and Sam uses his toothbrush to clean caked on ectoplasm from his knife. He keeps the light on to read while the laptop plays everything in his library Sam loves and Dean hates. Dean, who can wake, knife in hand and feet on the floor, at the slightest provocation, stays oblivious, breathing deep and even, interrupted only when he mumbles about cheese. But eventually, he rolls towards Sam, big, freakish sleep-snuggler that he is, presses his face against Sam's hip, and winds his arm over Sam's stomach. His hair's still damp, and there's a bruise the size of Alaska creeping over his shoulder, and Sam's thumb skims the edge of it when he drops his hand to Dean's neck. Beneath it, Dean's pulse beats, slow and steady, and Sam flicks the light off and flips the laptop shut.
"I still hate you," he says, as he slides down into the warmth of Dean's orbit. "I hope your toothbrush kills you."
Against his shoulder now, Dean makes a contented noise, the one that lets Sam know they're both right where they're meant to be, and Sam smiles.