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Entry tags:
SpN: Come The Night, 29/29
Title: Come The Night, 29/29
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 4930
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance.
It gets worse before it gets better.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen~fourteen~fifteen~sixteen~seventeen
eighteen~ ninteen~twenty~twenty-one~twenty-two
twenty-three~twenty-four ~ twenty-five ~ twenty-six
twenty-seven ~ twenty-eight ~ twenty-nine
icon by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shalowater
The End of Everything
"How can you ever forgive me?"
"You're my brother. What the fuck else am I gonna do?"
Dean's knocked out of restless sleep by Sam waking up screaming, fighting the sheets and striking out blindly, at least until Dean manages to get his hand on the back of his neck. Sam's skin is like ice, cold and wet, it scares the hell out of Dean because he's used to Sam running hot. He fights against Dean's grip, untwists himself from the torn sheet and almost flings himself off the bed despite the hold Dean's got on him, and he's still moaning and screaming something Dean can't understand. Dean shouts, "Sam, Sammy, I'm here, right here—"
Sam jerks hard, his eyes fly open and his arms shoot wide—reminds Dean of a startled baby but before the image really clears in his head, Sam drops back and it sends them both flat to the mattress. For a whole two minutes he's still, loose to the point of boneless-ness and Dean draws a relieved breath. Right, like everything's going to be just peachy now. Any minute puppies are going to start barfing sunshine—sure enough; Sam rears back up, starts shaking so hard the bed quakes. He's mumbling something over and over; Dean has to almost press his ear to Sam's mouth before he can make it out.
"…sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm…"
Dean grabs Sam's face, yanks him around so they're face to face and he locks eyes with Sam, tries to look right inside him, stare into his soul. "Sam…?"
Sam shakes his head, shakes it harder trying to escape Dean's grip, the little whining noise he's making grow louder and louder, until Dean has to let go of him, has to cover his ears because it feels like the sound is drilling right into his brain. Sam flips off the mattress and scrambles into Dean's lap, his giant hands clamp down on Dean's shoulders and he really lets loose.
It's not normal; it's not human, what comes out of his brother: the sound of a million different voices, legions screaming and under that, an amplified hiss, like grease hitting a hot skillet, hissing and popping—instinct tells Dean to close his eyes and he hides his face against Sam's chest just as a wave of something slams into him. It's like lava and glaciers smashing into each other and Dean's swirling in the wake—there's light burning behind his closed eyelids, it's a lot like when Cas tried to speak to him, the first time—and then it's gone.
It smells good. That's the first thing Dean notices when he's aware of himself again. The air is dry, and hot, but it’s clean. There's a faint smell of pine needles, the smell of sun-baked sand. He opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is Sam, Sam's head resting on his thigh, his hand curled over Dean's hip. Sam looks like he's asleep, curled into Dean's body and he's smiling so sweet and peaceful that Dean panics—shakes him, yelling "Sam, Sam—" freaked out and panicking because he knows Fate's a bitch and after all this, it would just figure, this would just totally be the way their fucking luck runs. Of course, Sam's dead. Because Dean's life has always been this, giving your all and failing anyway, getting ashes and death and handfuls of nothing in return….
"No, oh no, no—" Dean shakes his head hard, trying to jumpstart his brain— presses his fingers to Sam's neck, feeling like a fool for screaming first instead of checking. Fucking rookie move.
He holds his breath, waits. Nothing, nothing, and then, slow, faint, but it's there. A pulse. Dean almost cries, he's so relieved. He slumps over Sam and feels how his hands are cramping, he's been holding on to Sam so hard…and then curses himself for again wanting Sam to live, despite the evidence that the world would be so much better off if Sam had died at any point ever before that fucking afternoon.
Selfish. That's always been his problem, Dean thinks. And right now, he just doesn’t give a shit, he doesn’t even care. If all he gets is half a Sam, or a Sam that he's got to look out for over his shoulder for the rest of eternity, so fucking what—he'll take it.
Sam suddenly rolls over in his lap, takes a deep breath, and moans. The moan turns into a sobbing hitch of breath and then, Sam's crying, but it's regular crying, good crying, so Dean just sits there and lets it happen. He shifts Sam so he's more comfortable, and looks around…of course they're not in the Hotel anymore. Where they are, though, is anyone's guess. They're in a sea of red sand and stone and scraps of scraggly plant life. And it's hot. Weird. Feels like all the moisture's been sucked out of his body, and he snorts. It’s a dry heat…the giggles dry up too, when what’s happened finally percolates fully through his molasses brain.
"Fuck, fuck…" Sam's punched them somewhere else; in some weird, other part of hell. "Sam…hey, Sam…where in hell are we?"
Sam raises his head, sniffs a little and smears his shirt sleeve—and snot and tears—across his face. Looks around and says, "Arizona?"
Dean blinks. "Sure. Oka-ay…so, what's next?" Sam stares down in his lap, shakes his head. Dean sighs. "I know, I know…but. We have to do something."
Sam throws himself flat on the ground. "Can't we just stay here? Or, I don’t know. I don't want to go back. Besides I blew everything on cleaning out the hotel and getting us here. I'm all tapped out... like, like after…Lilith, you know…"
"Unh-unh." Dean shakes his head and gives Sam a pitying look. He stretches out next to him, the sand hot and gritty against his skin where his shirts ridden up. Prickly things poke him and little stones roll under his shoulder blades but it feels, damn, it feels good. Feels real. There's a sort of pressure in the air against him, he notices Sam's shifted closer and tries hard and not entirely successfully not to flinch. "Yeah, good try there, Sammy, but I don’t think so. This is something different, isn't it? You don't need go-juice anymore, I'm thinking. This shit, whatever happened, is not going anywhere, not even if you want it to."
Sam shrugs, shoulders digging furrows in the dirt, and finally gives Dean a small, almost not-a-nod nod. Mutters, "Maybe."
Dean pats Sam's knee, and he really wants to leave it there but a creeping sense of unease has him pulling his hand back. He bites the inside of his cheek when he sees Sam noticing what he did. His heart clenches at Sam's look—Sam knows why and it hurts him. Dean doesn't want to pull away but he can't help it. Sam being too close still makes him skittish and on edge, even if Dean is nearly certain that he's not about to take him apart anytime too soon. "Sam," he says, kindly as he can, "Someone's got to do something. You got…well, you know you gotta try and fix it, much as possible. Right?"
"How? How do I do that? How do I use this…this…" Sam stares at his hands in horror. "I can't. I can't make this right. I can undo myself, that's all I've got, Dean."
"That's such bullshit; I don’t even want to hear shit like that. Get over it, dude—suck it up. You fucked things up and now, you gotta fix it."
Sam glares at him, his mouth a sharp slash of anger but his eyes…his eyes are pure Sammy. Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and scoots fractionally closer to Sam. Sam cuts his eyes to Dean, and away. Says, "I never stopped loving you, you know."
Sam's words make him shiver, and all he wants right now is a few worlds worth of distance between himself and Sam but…he has to do this, has to prove to Sam he's got a reason to…to try and make it better, that he can be forgiven. And it starts with the truth. "You never stopped wanting me, you mean. Now maybe you can love me again."
Sam nods but Dean's not sure his brother heard what he was trying to say. Sam stands up and pulls Dean up with him. "Let's go—somewhere better than here. Hold on—" Dean closes his eyes and when he opens them again, they’re on a quiet, endless stretch of beach.
"Wow…this jumping around with you feels so much better than the Constipatey Angel Flights. So. Where are we now?"
"The Atlantic coast…Jersey? Not sure…" Sam looks mildly guilty and Dean doesn't even want to know.
"It's…clean," Dean says, surprised because he figured with all the shit that's been going on, most anywhere beyond the Out Town borders or Dys would look like the first chapter of The Stand. But there's nothing but clear, clean beach for miles, nothing but the occasional pale gray smear here and there in the white sand.
The guilty look Sam's wearing intensifies, he flushes and turns away. "Yeah. Now it is."
It's pretty much what Dean had figured so he lets it go and concentrates on what's important, like —"Sam. This is nice and all but why are we here?"
"Because of what you said, remember? You said, ' After, we get some place near the beach, we drink a shit ton of booze, we fuck each other on every available service. And then…we relax.' You said that."
Dean blinks—stunned. He did say that—as soon as the words tumble out of Sam's mouth, he remembers saying it, sees it clear as day, him and Sam wrapped around each other on a skuzzy motel room bed. "Fuck. Yeah. Are you…are you remembering us, Sam? Things coming back? Feelings, good ones coming back?"
Sam looks confused; Dean can see him checking out. Things are coming too fast, there's too much to process and Dean gets that, feels the same way but he doesn’t have the option to shut down, he's got to hold on for both of them….
Sam moves, like he's about to drift away, so Dean takes his hand and makes Sam sit on the warm sand with him. They face the ocean; dig their toes in the sand. Sam makes a small noise and tilts, slowly, slowly towards Dean, giving him every chance to push Sam away but Dean sits still. It takes a lot, fighting down the urge to flinch but he takes a deep breath and lets the feeling of Sam take over. Sam's head is on his shoulder and Dean thinks of his Sam of long ago, that little kid who'd shove his head under Dean's chin, sometimes tight enough to choke because that's how much he wanted to get close to Dean. His hair always smelled like coconut back then, fluffy and a little dry from the cheap dollar store shampoos Dad would buy. Dean pushes Sam's hair back from his eyes and takes a sniff. Sam's hair smells like smoke, and something expensive too, something that would probably have let Dean keep the Impala in gas and parts for a month or more—Dean winces. His eyes fill with tears so fast it hurts.
Quietly, hesitantly Sam says, "I remember…that you had a beard and I had to make you wash…" he bites his nails and goes on, "and I remember walking under a path lined with trees and there were dogs. I played with the dogs and it felt…good. I remember you let me kiss you, but I was scared…when did that happen? I remember it but I don’t remember when…"
Dean stares at the ocean, afraid to look at Sam. "Angel?" He risks a look, and Sam's staring at him. His face crumbles, and it's horrible because Dean has to force the vision of a laughing blood-filled mouth away, and look into wounded hazel eyes, watch the droop of Sam's lower lip. Fuck, just like when he was five. And ten. And twenty-five….
"You'll never…," Sam stops, breathes hard before going on, "I know, it will always be Angel now. I lost you. I broke you and I broke myself and I have nothing—"
Dean grabs Sam's wrist, yanking him closer. He locks eyes with Sam, Sam's clear, beautiful eyes, and says, "You idiot, when are you going to get it though that thick skull, hunh? You and Angel are one and the same. I loved him because I love you."
"But he wasn't me—he was different! He lived this whole other life that you don't even know about but I do! I have all these memories and they aren't mine. Memories of you and I want them to be but they’re not—"
"Sam, you've got his memories and—hell, I'm pretty sure you've got most of mine—" Sam jerks so hard he almost pulls out of Dean's grip, but Dean won't let him and tears flow again but Dean barrels on "—and you have your own, all that shit…so okay, you deal with it. You fucking work through it because we don’t have any other choice, you get that?"
Sam just folds, and there he is again, the Sam he grew up with, in that stupid, trembling, cupid's bow mouth, in that impossibly wrinkled forehead that makes Dean think of lost puppies and skinned knees, and 'fix it, oh god, fix it now—Sam's just fucking killing him. Sam cries out, "How can you ever forgive me?"
"You're my brother. What the fuck else am I gonna do?" Dean's glad it comes out less hopeless than he feels…still, Sam pins him a with look, a long, flat stare the Dean swears he feels in the back of his head. After a bit Sam nods, and drops his gaze to where their feet touch in the sand. "I know. Some day, you're really going to forgive me, but I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself."
"Well, you'll have to. You weren't all there and you didn’t have me, so…that's that. We gotta go back, you know that, right?"
"Fuck. Yeah."
"Someone's gotta make sure that this legion of yours doesn't eat up the rest of the world. Someone's gotta shove the Colt back in the lock, Sam. So to speak."
Sam snorts, peeks at him from the corner of his eye. "How're we gonna do that, Dean? How are we gonna stuff this shit back down where it belongs?"
"Well, first you climb your ass back on the throne, and then, you start making rules…like you did for Chronopolis. Not all of them were bad rules, and you encourage the good ones people made and we do it low key and patient and after a while, it will have changed and they won't even realize until it’s over."
"Dean, that sounds like—years and years—"
"Sam…I think we have years and years. Something you did, or Cas did but…I'm thinking time's not much of a problem for us anymore."
Sam sighs. "I don't think I can do this for as long as it’s gonna take."
"Don’t think of it like that. I'm gonna be here okay, I'm gonna protect you. I'm like, your guard."
Sam whips around and shouts, "Stop it, stop acting like you care, like we're just---fucking Sam and fucking Dean. What I did to you—what I did to you."
"What you did, you made me like, your weapon, okay? You melted me, and took a hammer to me, you bent me and beat me and bent and beat until you beat out the perfect weapon. That's how you gotta see it, Sam."
"But that's not true, Dean, that’s not what happened!"
"It did Sam, that's what happened and that’s how the world is going to remember it and that’s how we will remember it, okay?" Sam shakes his head and Dean can see he doesn't understand yet, but he will some day. He'll get it. "Sam." He takes Sam's face in his hands and kisses him, closes his eyes and opens up to Sam until Sam whimpers and kisses back. "Okay? You have to put it back, all right?"
Dean let Sam wrap himself around him. In the space of a heartbeat, they're back where it all started, in Sam's office, on the upper floor in the now empty hotel. A breeze chases little plumes of fine, silvery ash through the room, out through open doors and windows. The sun's rising, the morning air is clear, and slightly chilly, and the walls are washed with the golden light of the still weak sun…Dean sits cross-legged across from Sam, Sam mirroring his pose. He smiles and asks Sam, "Do you believe that we have a chance—that we'll beat this thing?"
Sam takes a deep breath, looks over to an empty corner of his office, where there used to be an angel chained, and says, "Yes."
~o0o~
Epilogue
Sam sighs, knuckles his eyes, and leans into the thickly upholstered back of his desk chair. Reports flow over the screen to his left: troop movements, images from street cameras in every free city, spare, dry reports from Chronopolis, from the Out Towns, the mining provinces, the new Beach Towns…it all pours out of the screens all over Sam's office. He watches his kingdom work like a well-maintained watch. All the pieces they'd lined up and kicked into motion had clicked nicely in place—he's got Chronopolis' ever loyal and ever irritating mayor in his pocket. Maybe. She was a devious woman but sufficiently driven by self-interest to improve the lives of her citizens. Hell, for all Sam knew, she genuinely wanted to improve their lives and effect change in the world. Whatever. She treated Sam the way she always had, even when she realized a fundamental change had taken place…Sam liked her.
And then there was Harold, King of the Floating Cities and Mr. Hunter General and the other major player in the game. With the loosely organized Hunter's Guild under his wing, and Dean's foot on his throat, they kept the Duke's legion running. Sam had no doubt that eventually, the world would tilt back the way it was, or close enough…Sam sighs and rubs at his eyes again. The last long run of days has worn him out. He's sick and tired of pulling the strings—the whole setup's like sitting in the center of a prickly, spiked web. Sam thinks about that, decides that's probably best re-phrased— it's like being trapped in the center of prickly, spiked web. After all these years, he still resents his brother somewhat for herding him into this situation.
There's a knock at the door, and Sam checks one of the screens. "It's about damn time," he mutters and calls, "Come in—"
The door flies open before he can even finish his sentence. Annoyance is a slow burn through his gut and it comes out in his voice, "You're late."
His consigliore enters the office and stops at the side of Sam's desk, plops down on a corner of it. "Couldn't be helped. We had to make an example or two in the Alley. A slash and burn everyone saw. I put it on the hunters there to step it up or else. We don’t have to take shit like that, fucking sneaky-ass demons. Especially since his majesty the Boy King outlawed horses and lotteries."
Sam drops his hands to his desk and lets the anger roll over him, shakes it off. "I told you I want to know when something like that happens…"
"Sammy, we have to deal with it immediately and totally and with maximum blood loss. Some of those camps out in the desert, they still think they can get favors by putting up horses…"
Sam holds his hand up. "Stop. I don't want to hear it right now. "
He understands that Dean can't get why Sam seems so squeamish now, but Sam knows how fragile a hold he has on that monster who ruled from this office. Dean helps, god knows, Dean helps. But it's on Sam to hold the reins on who he used to be.
"Okay," Dean says, "Then how about some good news. How about the fact that our friend the Duke's faction ran into quite the welcome party at the border. Your legion was on top of things for once, and the Duke's on the run. Again."
Dean grins and Sam can't help but grin back, says, "Yeah, he's still screaming all over the place that I screwed him out of a deal but—"
Dean throws his head back and laughs, deep and stomach-shaking and Sam's eyes narrow in pleasure. He has a brief, overwhelming desire, to stop all other noises just so he can hear the sound of his brother's laughter better.
"Fuck that son-of-a-bitch." Dean says, "The moment I found out who that motherfucker was, I figured I was duty bound to make his life a miserable march through steaming shit. You never should have hidden it from me, Sam," Dean says, but there's no anger in his voice, just a touch of amused annoyance.
Sam relishes that tone, wants to make Dean laugh some more—it's what Dean needs and ever since this new chance has come to pass, Sam does his best to give Dean whatever that might be. So he snaps back, "Christo, dude, hold a damn grudge, why don't you? I apologized for that about a million times already."
"And I love it when you apologize, each time." Dean winks and Sam blushes because Dean…Dean loves that he does. "Let's take off for a bit—a couple of hours, Sam. What's a coupla hours gonna hurt?"
"Dean, I can’t leave—who’s going to keep track of these pain-in-the-ass humans?" he says, and stutters to a stop when he realizes what he's said, but Dean either didn't hear it or he ignores it.
"I already got Harold and his crew on it, everything's at Defcon five. Come on, Sammy. Just for a little bit, let's go."
Sam gets up and walks around his desk, runs his hand across Dean's arm. The charms Dean wears on his wrist and pinned to his vest and hanging around his neck ring like little bells. Sam's touch makes him shiver. Sam knows it's not all desire—70/30, maybe. Mostly desire, but Sam's smile dims a bit anyway, despite Dean's assurances, over and over, that he wants Sam's touch. Needs it.
Of course Dean picks up on Sam's shift of mood. Dean pushes into Sam's space, frames his face with capable, square hands, pressing in sweet and firm. "Don't," Dean says. "It's better. I'm better, you're better…"
Thing is, Sam's never been able to leave well enough alone—if there's a scab, he'll pick at it, and pick at it until he bleeds. "How? They call you the Scapegoat. They think I've bewitched you. They still think I'm the Devil—capital D. They hate me, they make signs when I pass—when you pass."
"So what? That's a good thing, Sam; it means they feel safe enough to do it. The world's in better shape than it's been in a long time. I don't care what they think as long as things keep getting better. And Sam—listen to me, Sam. The world is healing. It is." He takes Sam's mouth, leans his long, lean length into him until Sam finally gets with it and kisses back, lets everything go and just concentrates on this kiss, the warm, wet feel of Dean's mouth on his, tasting of nothing but the faint, faint hint of coffee. His chest presses against Dean's as they breathe together, heat spreads across his chest, and down his thighs and Dean presses up against him—not hard, not yet, but it wouldn't take much.
Dean draws away, a lingering withdrawal that leaves Sam sighing for more. "I love you," Dean says, "You're part of me. Who can understand me like you do? When I look at you, there's this place in my chest that gets so tight I can barely breathe tight and then you touch me and it's all good. Man, even when I want to beat the fucking shit out of you for being so fucking stubborn and hard-headed, I still love you. So much that we could be in the middle of a knock-down, drag-out fight but if you said "let's fuck" I'd do it right there on the floor because you wanted it."
Sam's startled into a laugh. He tilts his head, the way he knows will make Dean mock him, and says, "Is that love you’re talking about or obsession?"
Dean laughs too. "It's us, is there a difference? Does it even matter?"
Sam just shakes his head, grinning, he nudges Dean until he trips into the couch across from his desk—a couch that has fat upholstered arms, all dark soft wool and warm wood…Dean's idea.
Sam pushes him down, gently, and Dean smiles even wider and spreads his arms. Sam yanks his shirt over his head, and pulls his boots off, Dean making the way slower by helping. They manage between the two of them to strip each other off—elbows in ribs and boots on toes and at one point Dean clips Sam in the chin with his head and makes him snap his own tongue between his teeth "Ow!"
"Eh, big baby boy king—can't handle a little pinch."
"Handle this," Sam says, and licks a wet stripe up Dean's bobbing dick and works his lips around the tip. He sucks once, hard, sucking up the taste and feel of precome and Dean pounds his fist against Sam's shoulder.
"Ah—okay, that's good, too good, you're gonna make me come."
"Lightweight," Sam chuckles and sucks a little bite into Dean's hip.
They're still finding their way back to this, to an effortless coming together. Dean doesn't flinch anymore when Sam reaches out to him suddenly, shivers less and less when Sam lays his hand on any part of him. Most nights when he wakes up, he curls around Sam instead of bolting upright in bed and trying to climb the headboard.
Sam's almost stopped disappearing into the bathroom when that happens, to cry secretly. He thinks.
Today's a good day, a great day—Dean spreads his arms and legs and pulls Sam in against him, rubs against him like a cat and he doesn't stop smiling one little bit, even when Sam kisses him, when Sam leans down and nibbles and sucks at his neck, his jaw, tugs just a little at his nipples, just the way Dean likes. When Sam turns him over and spreads him, rubbing fingers around his hole, slipping the tips in just to tease, Dean moans and shimmies to his knees, spreading himself wider and bitching that Sam's going so slow he's gonna die of old age before Sam manages to get his ginormo dick inside him, never mind, he'll bring his own self off, damn it. He tries to elbow Sam and Sam dodges it with a snort and says, "You’re disgusting," and Dean says, in that annoying 'duh' tone of voice, "Well, yeah," like Sam doesn’t know him.
Sam slides in slow anyway, good for him and good for Dean. Sam's feeling every bit of the slide inside Dean—so hot, silky, giving way bit by bit as Sam drives steadily deeper. He listens to Dean's careful breathing, and nips the back of his neck, just to hear it catch. It makes Dean tighten on him, his barely audible moan working like gas on a fire. "Shit…aw, fuck, Dean…" Sam rocks his hips, grinding deeper, still only moving just enough to tease them both. Holds Dean in place, until Dean whines in frustration, because he likes that little noise, but it means Dean's at the end of his rope so he relents, lets Dean set the pace. Blissfully ignores the muttered, "Finally you asshole," and just rides out the sensation, the sounds, holds Dean close when they both come….
It's when it's like this, that Sam feels something deep inside, a glowing loop of heat, spreading hot threads through him, slipping in his veins and his nerves, growing wider and wider and he knows what it is, it’s love. All of it is love for Dean, for what Dean did, never giving up and loving him no matter what. It's for everything Dean lost and what they gained, together, what they gained.
~o0o~
They clean up, and Sam stands, slips his pants and shirt back on and tries to flatten out his hair a bit… Dean's splayed over the wide, deep couch, ass up and buck-naked, seeming completely casual and comfortable. He probably is, the apartment's always edging on too warm anymore…"So, let's go to Florida," Dean says, "do some of that beach-fucking we talk about all the time and never do."
Sam turns to the couch, the ends of his tie pinched in his hands. "You know why. You won't like fucking on the beach, all that sand in bad places—"
"It's the principle of the thing, Sam. It's a promise we made that we should keep, we need to keep."
Sam nods. "You’re right. We will. When we have enough time, we'll do just that, I swear."
"All right," Dean smiles, like they've just settled something earth-shattering and important, instead of again postponing this thing they agreed on once upon a time. "Right now, dude, we gonna snatch a coupla hours, because we got a drive to go on."
He lets Sam dress him, and then Sam takes his hand and suddenly, they’re on a road—yellow dashed blacktop stretching on for miles, flat and empty under an ice-blue sky. There's a big, black car idling on the side of the road, thrumming expectantly. Sam's learned not to look at Dean in the first few seconds they see the car because of the face Dean makes when he sees it--every time. It only lasts a second before he smiles, and when he gets in the car, he pats the roof—but he never smoothes his hand over the long, sleek lines of it, he never calls it anything but 'the car'.
It's not Dean's car, will never be, but there's a nice breeze blowing, the sky is clear and cloudless. The sun's lemon-bright and there's a scent of roses on the air.
They get in and drive towards the sun.
7-19-2012
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 4930
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance.
It gets worse before it gets better.
one ~ two~ three ~ four ~ five ~six
seven ~ eight ~ nine ~ ten ~ eleven ~ twelve
thirteen~fourteen~fifteen~sixteen~seventeen
eighteen~ ninteen~twenty~twenty-one~twenty-two
twenty-three~twenty-four ~ twenty-five ~ twenty-six
twenty-seven ~ twenty-eight ~ twenty-nine
icon by
shalowaterThe End of Everything
"You're my brother. What the fuck else am I gonna do?"
Dean's knocked out of restless sleep by Sam waking up screaming, fighting the sheets and striking out blindly, at least until Dean manages to get his hand on the back of his neck. Sam's skin is like ice, cold and wet, it scares the hell out of Dean because he's used to Sam running hot. He fights against Dean's grip, untwists himself from the torn sheet and almost flings himself off the bed despite the hold Dean's got on him, and he's still moaning and screaming something Dean can't understand. Dean shouts, "Sam, Sammy, I'm here, right here—"
Sam jerks hard, his eyes fly open and his arms shoot wide—reminds Dean of a startled baby but before the image really clears in his head, Sam drops back and it sends them both flat to the mattress. For a whole two minutes he's still, loose to the point of boneless-ness and Dean draws a relieved breath. Right, like everything's going to be just peachy now. Any minute puppies are going to start barfing sunshine—sure enough; Sam rears back up, starts shaking so hard the bed quakes. He's mumbling something over and over; Dean has to almost press his ear to Sam's mouth before he can make it out.
"…sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm…"
Dean grabs Sam's face, yanks him around so they're face to face and he locks eyes with Sam, tries to look right inside him, stare into his soul. "Sam…?"
Sam shakes his head, shakes it harder trying to escape Dean's grip, the little whining noise he's making grow louder and louder, until Dean has to let go of him, has to cover his ears because it feels like the sound is drilling right into his brain. Sam flips off the mattress and scrambles into Dean's lap, his giant hands clamp down on Dean's shoulders and he really lets loose.
It's not normal; it's not human, what comes out of his brother: the sound of a million different voices, legions screaming and under that, an amplified hiss, like grease hitting a hot skillet, hissing and popping—instinct tells Dean to close his eyes and he hides his face against Sam's chest just as a wave of something slams into him. It's like lava and glaciers smashing into each other and Dean's swirling in the wake—there's light burning behind his closed eyelids, it's a lot like when Cas tried to speak to him, the first time—and then it's gone.
It smells good. That's the first thing Dean notices when he's aware of himself again. The air is dry, and hot, but it’s clean. There's a faint smell of pine needles, the smell of sun-baked sand. He opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is Sam, Sam's head resting on his thigh, his hand curled over Dean's hip. Sam looks like he's asleep, curled into Dean's body and he's smiling so sweet and peaceful that Dean panics—shakes him, yelling "Sam, Sam—" freaked out and panicking because he knows Fate's a bitch and after all this, it would just figure, this would just totally be the way their fucking luck runs. Of course, Sam's dead. Because Dean's life has always been this, giving your all and failing anyway, getting ashes and death and handfuls of nothing in return….
"No, oh no, no—" Dean shakes his head hard, trying to jumpstart his brain— presses his fingers to Sam's neck, feeling like a fool for screaming first instead of checking. Fucking rookie move.
He holds his breath, waits. Nothing, nothing, and then, slow, faint, but it's there. A pulse. Dean almost cries, he's so relieved. He slumps over Sam and feels how his hands are cramping, he's been holding on to Sam so hard…and then curses himself for again wanting Sam to live, despite the evidence that the world would be so much better off if Sam had died at any point ever before that fucking afternoon.
Selfish. That's always been his problem, Dean thinks. And right now, he just doesn’t give a shit, he doesn’t even care. If all he gets is half a Sam, or a Sam that he's got to look out for over his shoulder for the rest of eternity, so fucking what—he'll take it.
Sam suddenly rolls over in his lap, takes a deep breath, and moans. The moan turns into a sobbing hitch of breath and then, Sam's crying, but it's regular crying, good crying, so Dean just sits there and lets it happen. He shifts Sam so he's more comfortable, and looks around…of course they're not in the Hotel anymore. Where they are, though, is anyone's guess. They're in a sea of red sand and stone and scraps of scraggly plant life. And it's hot. Weird. Feels like all the moisture's been sucked out of his body, and he snorts. It’s a dry heat…the giggles dry up too, when what’s happened finally percolates fully through his molasses brain.
"Fuck, fuck…" Sam's punched them somewhere else; in some weird, other part of hell. "Sam…hey, Sam…where in hell are we?"
Sam raises his head, sniffs a little and smears his shirt sleeve—and snot and tears—across his face. Looks around and says, "Arizona?"
Dean blinks. "Sure. Oka-ay…so, what's next?" Sam stares down in his lap, shakes his head. Dean sighs. "I know, I know…but. We have to do something."
Sam throws himself flat on the ground. "Can't we just stay here? Or, I don’t know. I don't want to go back. Besides I blew everything on cleaning out the hotel and getting us here. I'm all tapped out... like, like after…Lilith, you know…"
"Unh-unh." Dean shakes his head and gives Sam a pitying look. He stretches out next to him, the sand hot and gritty against his skin where his shirts ridden up. Prickly things poke him and little stones roll under his shoulder blades but it feels, damn, it feels good. Feels real. There's a sort of pressure in the air against him, he notices Sam's shifted closer and tries hard and not entirely successfully not to flinch. "Yeah, good try there, Sammy, but I don’t think so. This is something different, isn't it? You don't need go-juice anymore, I'm thinking. This shit, whatever happened, is not going anywhere, not even if you want it to."
Sam shrugs, shoulders digging furrows in the dirt, and finally gives Dean a small, almost not-a-nod nod. Mutters, "Maybe."
Dean pats Sam's knee, and he really wants to leave it there but a creeping sense of unease has him pulling his hand back. He bites the inside of his cheek when he sees Sam noticing what he did. His heart clenches at Sam's look—Sam knows why and it hurts him. Dean doesn't want to pull away but he can't help it. Sam being too close still makes him skittish and on edge, even if Dean is nearly certain that he's not about to take him apart anytime too soon. "Sam," he says, kindly as he can, "Someone's got to do something. You got…well, you know you gotta try and fix it, much as possible. Right?"
"How? How do I do that? How do I use this…this…" Sam stares at his hands in horror. "I can't. I can't make this right. I can undo myself, that's all I've got, Dean."
"That's such bullshit; I don’t even want to hear shit like that. Get over it, dude—suck it up. You fucked things up and now, you gotta fix it."
Sam glares at him, his mouth a sharp slash of anger but his eyes…his eyes are pure Sammy. Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and scoots fractionally closer to Sam. Sam cuts his eyes to Dean, and away. Says, "I never stopped loving you, you know."
Sam's words make him shiver, and all he wants right now is a few worlds worth of distance between himself and Sam but…he has to do this, has to prove to Sam he's got a reason to…to try and make it better, that he can be forgiven. And it starts with the truth. "You never stopped wanting me, you mean. Now maybe you can love me again."
Sam nods but Dean's not sure his brother heard what he was trying to say. Sam stands up and pulls Dean up with him. "Let's go—somewhere better than here. Hold on—" Dean closes his eyes and when he opens them again, they’re on a quiet, endless stretch of beach.
"Wow…this jumping around with you feels so much better than the Constipatey Angel Flights. So. Where are we now?"
"The Atlantic coast…Jersey? Not sure…" Sam looks mildly guilty and Dean doesn't even want to know.
"It's…clean," Dean says, surprised because he figured with all the shit that's been going on, most anywhere beyond the Out Town borders or Dys would look like the first chapter of The Stand. But there's nothing but clear, clean beach for miles, nothing but the occasional pale gray smear here and there in the white sand.
The guilty look Sam's wearing intensifies, he flushes and turns away. "Yeah. Now it is."
It's pretty much what Dean had figured so he lets it go and concentrates on what's important, like —"Sam. This is nice and all but why are we here?"
"Because of what you said, remember? You said, ' After, we get some place near the beach, we drink a shit ton of booze, we fuck each other on every available service. And then…we relax.' You said that."
Dean blinks—stunned. He did say that—as soon as the words tumble out of Sam's mouth, he remembers saying it, sees it clear as day, him and Sam wrapped around each other on a skuzzy motel room bed. "Fuck. Yeah. Are you…are you remembering us, Sam? Things coming back? Feelings, good ones coming back?"
Sam looks confused; Dean can see him checking out. Things are coming too fast, there's too much to process and Dean gets that, feels the same way but he doesn’t have the option to shut down, he's got to hold on for both of them….
Sam moves, like he's about to drift away, so Dean takes his hand and makes Sam sit on the warm sand with him. They face the ocean; dig their toes in the sand. Sam makes a small noise and tilts, slowly, slowly towards Dean, giving him every chance to push Sam away but Dean sits still. It takes a lot, fighting down the urge to flinch but he takes a deep breath and lets the feeling of Sam take over. Sam's head is on his shoulder and Dean thinks of his Sam of long ago, that little kid who'd shove his head under Dean's chin, sometimes tight enough to choke because that's how much he wanted to get close to Dean. His hair always smelled like coconut back then, fluffy and a little dry from the cheap dollar store shampoos Dad would buy. Dean pushes Sam's hair back from his eyes and takes a sniff. Sam's hair smells like smoke, and something expensive too, something that would probably have let Dean keep the Impala in gas and parts for a month or more—Dean winces. His eyes fill with tears so fast it hurts.
Quietly, hesitantly Sam says, "I remember…that you had a beard and I had to make you wash…" he bites his nails and goes on, "and I remember walking under a path lined with trees and there were dogs. I played with the dogs and it felt…good. I remember you let me kiss you, but I was scared…when did that happen? I remember it but I don’t remember when…"
Dean stares at the ocean, afraid to look at Sam. "Angel?" He risks a look, and Sam's staring at him. His face crumbles, and it's horrible because Dean has to force the vision of a laughing blood-filled mouth away, and look into wounded hazel eyes, watch the droop of Sam's lower lip. Fuck, just like when he was five. And ten. And twenty-five….
"You'll never…," Sam stops, breathes hard before going on, "I know, it will always be Angel now. I lost you. I broke you and I broke myself and I have nothing—"
Dean grabs Sam's wrist, yanking him closer. He locks eyes with Sam, Sam's clear, beautiful eyes, and says, "You idiot, when are you going to get it though that thick skull, hunh? You and Angel are one and the same. I loved him because I love you."
"But he wasn't me—he was different! He lived this whole other life that you don't even know about but I do! I have all these memories and they aren't mine. Memories of you and I want them to be but they’re not—"
"Sam, you've got his memories and—hell, I'm pretty sure you've got most of mine—" Sam jerks so hard he almost pulls out of Dean's grip, but Dean won't let him and tears flow again but Dean barrels on "—and you have your own, all that shit…so okay, you deal with it. You fucking work through it because we don’t have any other choice, you get that?"
Sam just folds, and there he is again, the Sam he grew up with, in that stupid, trembling, cupid's bow mouth, in that impossibly wrinkled forehead that makes Dean think of lost puppies and skinned knees, and 'fix it, oh god, fix it now—Sam's just fucking killing him. Sam cries out, "How can you ever forgive me?"
"You're my brother. What the fuck else am I gonna do?" Dean's glad it comes out less hopeless than he feels…still, Sam pins him a with look, a long, flat stare the Dean swears he feels in the back of his head. After a bit Sam nods, and drops his gaze to where their feet touch in the sand. "I know. Some day, you're really going to forgive me, but I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself."
"Well, you'll have to. You weren't all there and you didn’t have me, so…that's that. We gotta go back, you know that, right?"
"Fuck. Yeah."
"Someone's gotta make sure that this legion of yours doesn't eat up the rest of the world. Someone's gotta shove the Colt back in the lock, Sam. So to speak."
Sam snorts, peeks at him from the corner of his eye. "How're we gonna do that, Dean? How are we gonna stuff this shit back down where it belongs?"
"Well, first you climb your ass back on the throne, and then, you start making rules…like you did for Chronopolis. Not all of them were bad rules, and you encourage the good ones people made and we do it low key and patient and after a while, it will have changed and they won't even realize until it’s over."
"Dean, that sounds like—years and years—"
"Sam…I think we have years and years. Something you did, or Cas did but…I'm thinking time's not much of a problem for us anymore."
Sam sighs. "I don't think I can do this for as long as it’s gonna take."
"Don’t think of it like that. I'm gonna be here okay, I'm gonna protect you. I'm like, your guard."
Sam whips around and shouts, "Stop it, stop acting like you care, like we're just---fucking Sam and fucking Dean. What I did to you—what I did to you."
"What you did, you made me like, your weapon, okay? You melted me, and took a hammer to me, you bent me and beat me and bent and beat until you beat out the perfect weapon. That's how you gotta see it, Sam."
"But that's not true, Dean, that’s not what happened!"
"It did Sam, that's what happened and that’s how the world is going to remember it and that’s how we will remember it, okay?" Sam shakes his head and Dean can see he doesn't understand yet, but he will some day. He'll get it. "Sam." He takes Sam's face in his hands and kisses him, closes his eyes and opens up to Sam until Sam whimpers and kisses back. "Okay? You have to put it back, all right?"
Dean let Sam wrap himself around him. In the space of a heartbeat, they're back where it all started, in Sam's office, on the upper floor in the now empty hotel. A breeze chases little plumes of fine, silvery ash through the room, out through open doors and windows. The sun's rising, the morning air is clear, and slightly chilly, and the walls are washed with the golden light of the still weak sun…Dean sits cross-legged across from Sam, Sam mirroring his pose. He smiles and asks Sam, "Do you believe that we have a chance—that we'll beat this thing?"
Sam takes a deep breath, looks over to an empty corner of his office, where there used to be an angel chained, and says, "Yes."
Epilogue
Sam sighs, knuckles his eyes, and leans into the thickly upholstered back of his desk chair. Reports flow over the screen to his left: troop movements, images from street cameras in every free city, spare, dry reports from Chronopolis, from the Out Towns, the mining provinces, the new Beach Towns…it all pours out of the screens all over Sam's office. He watches his kingdom work like a well-maintained watch. All the pieces they'd lined up and kicked into motion had clicked nicely in place—he's got Chronopolis' ever loyal and ever irritating mayor in his pocket. Maybe. She was a devious woman but sufficiently driven by self-interest to improve the lives of her citizens. Hell, for all Sam knew, she genuinely wanted to improve their lives and effect change in the world. Whatever. She treated Sam the way she always had, even when she realized a fundamental change had taken place…Sam liked her.
And then there was Harold, King of the Floating Cities and Mr. Hunter General and the other major player in the game. With the loosely organized Hunter's Guild under his wing, and Dean's foot on his throat, they kept the Duke's legion running. Sam had no doubt that eventually, the world would tilt back the way it was, or close enough…Sam sighs and rubs at his eyes again. The last long run of days has worn him out. He's sick and tired of pulling the strings—the whole setup's like sitting in the center of a prickly, spiked web. Sam thinks about that, decides that's probably best re-phrased— it's like being trapped in the center of prickly, spiked web. After all these years, he still resents his brother somewhat for herding him into this situation.
There's a knock at the door, and Sam checks one of the screens. "It's about damn time," he mutters and calls, "Come in—"
The door flies open before he can even finish his sentence. Annoyance is a slow burn through his gut and it comes out in his voice, "You're late."
His consigliore enters the office and stops at the side of Sam's desk, plops down on a corner of it. "Couldn't be helped. We had to make an example or two in the Alley. A slash and burn everyone saw. I put it on the hunters there to step it up or else. We don’t have to take shit like that, fucking sneaky-ass demons. Especially since his majesty the Boy King outlawed horses and lotteries."
Sam drops his hands to his desk and lets the anger roll over him, shakes it off. "I told you I want to know when something like that happens…"
"Sammy, we have to deal with it immediately and totally and with maximum blood loss. Some of those camps out in the desert, they still think they can get favors by putting up horses…"
Sam holds his hand up. "Stop. I don't want to hear it right now. "
He understands that Dean can't get why Sam seems so squeamish now, but Sam knows how fragile a hold he has on that monster who ruled from this office. Dean helps, god knows, Dean helps. But it's on Sam to hold the reins on who he used to be.
"Okay," Dean says, "Then how about some good news. How about the fact that our friend the Duke's faction ran into quite the welcome party at the border. Your legion was on top of things for once, and the Duke's on the run. Again."
Dean grins and Sam can't help but grin back, says, "Yeah, he's still screaming all over the place that I screwed him out of a deal but—"
Dean throws his head back and laughs, deep and stomach-shaking and Sam's eyes narrow in pleasure. He has a brief, overwhelming desire, to stop all other noises just so he can hear the sound of his brother's laughter better.
"Fuck that son-of-a-bitch." Dean says, "The moment I found out who that motherfucker was, I figured I was duty bound to make his life a miserable march through steaming shit. You never should have hidden it from me, Sam," Dean says, but there's no anger in his voice, just a touch of amused annoyance.
Sam relishes that tone, wants to make Dean laugh some more—it's what Dean needs and ever since this new chance has come to pass, Sam does his best to give Dean whatever that might be. So he snaps back, "Christo, dude, hold a damn grudge, why don't you? I apologized for that about a million times already."
"And I love it when you apologize, each time." Dean winks and Sam blushes because Dean…Dean loves that he does. "Let's take off for a bit—a couple of hours, Sam. What's a coupla hours gonna hurt?"
"Dean, I can’t leave—who’s going to keep track of these pain-in-the-ass humans?" he says, and stutters to a stop when he realizes what he's said, but Dean either didn't hear it or he ignores it.
"I already got Harold and his crew on it, everything's at Defcon five. Come on, Sammy. Just for a little bit, let's go."
Sam gets up and walks around his desk, runs his hand across Dean's arm. The charms Dean wears on his wrist and pinned to his vest and hanging around his neck ring like little bells. Sam's touch makes him shiver. Sam knows it's not all desire—70/30, maybe. Mostly desire, but Sam's smile dims a bit anyway, despite Dean's assurances, over and over, that he wants Sam's touch. Needs it.
Of course Dean picks up on Sam's shift of mood. Dean pushes into Sam's space, frames his face with capable, square hands, pressing in sweet and firm. "Don't," Dean says. "It's better. I'm better, you're better…"
Thing is, Sam's never been able to leave well enough alone—if there's a scab, he'll pick at it, and pick at it until he bleeds. "How? They call you the Scapegoat. They think I've bewitched you. They still think I'm the Devil—capital D. They hate me, they make signs when I pass—when you pass."
"So what? That's a good thing, Sam; it means they feel safe enough to do it. The world's in better shape than it's been in a long time. I don't care what they think as long as things keep getting better. And Sam—listen to me, Sam. The world is healing. It is." He takes Sam's mouth, leans his long, lean length into him until Sam finally gets with it and kisses back, lets everything go and just concentrates on this kiss, the warm, wet feel of Dean's mouth on his, tasting of nothing but the faint, faint hint of coffee. His chest presses against Dean's as they breathe together, heat spreads across his chest, and down his thighs and Dean presses up against him—not hard, not yet, but it wouldn't take much.
Dean draws away, a lingering withdrawal that leaves Sam sighing for more. "I love you," Dean says, "You're part of me. Who can understand me like you do? When I look at you, there's this place in my chest that gets so tight I can barely breathe tight and then you touch me and it's all good. Man, even when I want to beat the fucking shit out of you for being so fucking stubborn and hard-headed, I still love you. So much that we could be in the middle of a knock-down, drag-out fight but if you said "let's fuck" I'd do it right there on the floor because you wanted it."
Sam's startled into a laugh. He tilts his head, the way he knows will make Dean mock him, and says, "Is that love you’re talking about or obsession?"
Dean laughs too. "It's us, is there a difference? Does it even matter?"
Sam just shakes his head, grinning, he nudges Dean until he trips into the couch across from his desk—a couch that has fat upholstered arms, all dark soft wool and warm wood…Dean's idea.
Sam pushes him down, gently, and Dean smiles even wider and spreads his arms. Sam yanks his shirt over his head, and pulls his boots off, Dean making the way slower by helping. They manage between the two of them to strip each other off—elbows in ribs and boots on toes and at one point Dean clips Sam in the chin with his head and makes him snap his own tongue between his teeth "Ow!"
"Eh, big baby boy king—can't handle a little pinch."
"Handle this," Sam says, and licks a wet stripe up Dean's bobbing dick and works his lips around the tip. He sucks once, hard, sucking up the taste and feel of precome and Dean pounds his fist against Sam's shoulder.
"Ah—okay, that's good, too good, you're gonna make me come."
"Lightweight," Sam chuckles and sucks a little bite into Dean's hip.
They're still finding their way back to this, to an effortless coming together. Dean doesn't flinch anymore when Sam reaches out to him suddenly, shivers less and less when Sam lays his hand on any part of him. Most nights when he wakes up, he curls around Sam instead of bolting upright in bed and trying to climb the headboard.
Sam's almost stopped disappearing into the bathroom when that happens, to cry secretly. He thinks.
Today's a good day, a great day—Dean spreads his arms and legs and pulls Sam in against him, rubs against him like a cat and he doesn't stop smiling one little bit, even when Sam kisses him, when Sam leans down and nibbles and sucks at his neck, his jaw, tugs just a little at his nipples, just the way Dean likes. When Sam turns him over and spreads him, rubbing fingers around his hole, slipping the tips in just to tease, Dean moans and shimmies to his knees, spreading himself wider and bitching that Sam's going so slow he's gonna die of old age before Sam manages to get his ginormo dick inside him, never mind, he'll bring his own self off, damn it. He tries to elbow Sam and Sam dodges it with a snort and says, "You’re disgusting," and Dean says, in that annoying 'duh' tone of voice, "Well, yeah," like Sam doesn’t know him.
Sam slides in slow anyway, good for him and good for Dean. Sam's feeling every bit of the slide inside Dean—so hot, silky, giving way bit by bit as Sam drives steadily deeper. He listens to Dean's careful breathing, and nips the back of his neck, just to hear it catch. It makes Dean tighten on him, his barely audible moan working like gas on a fire. "Shit…aw, fuck, Dean…" Sam rocks his hips, grinding deeper, still only moving just enough to tease them both. Holds Dean in place, until Dean whines in frustration, because he likes that little noise, but it means Dean's at the end of his rope so he relents, lets Dean set the pace. Blissfully ignores the muttered, "Finally you asshole," and just rides out the sensation, the sounds, holds Dean close when they both come….
It's when it's like this, that Sam feels something deep inside, a glowing loop of heat, spreading hot threads through him, slipping in his veins and his nerves, growing wider and wider and he knows what it is, it’s love. All of it is love for Dean, for what Dean did, never giving up and loving him no matter what. It's for everything Dean lost and what they gained, together, what they gained.
They clean up, and Sam stands, slips his pants and shirt back on and tries to flatten out his hair a bit… Dean's splayed over the wide, deep couch, ass up and buck-naked, seeming completely casual and comfortable. He probably is, the apartment's always edging on too warm anymore…"So, let's go to Florida," Dean says, "do some of that beach-fucking we talk about all the time and never do."
Sam turns to the couch, the ends of his tie pinched in his hands. "You know why. You won't like fucking on the beach, all that sand in bad places—"
"It's the principle of the thing, Sam. It's a promise we made that we should keep, we need to keep."
Sam nods. "You’re right. We will. When we have enough time, we'll do just that, I swear."
"All right," Dean smiles, like they've just settled something earth-shattering and important, instead of again postponing this thing they agreed on once upon a time. "Right now, dude, we gonna snatch a coupla hours, because we got a drive to go on."
He lets Sam dress him, and then Sam takes his hand and suddenly, they’re on a road—yellow dashed blacktop stretching on for miles, flat and empty under an ice-blue sky. There's a big, black car idling on the side of the road, thrumming expectantly. Sam's learned not to look at Dean in the first few seconds they see the car because of the face Dean makes when he sees it--every time. It only lasts a second before he smiles, and when he gets in the car, he pats the roof—but he never smoothes his hand over the long, sleek lines of it, he never calls it anything but 'the car'.
It's not Dean's car, will never be, but there's a nice breeze blowing, the sky is clear and cloudless. The sun's lemon-bright and there's a scent of roses on the air.
They get in and drive towards the sun.
7-19-2012
no subject
Definitely adding to my bookmarks and rec list!
no subject
Definitely adding to my bookmarks and rec list!
Oh, thanks so much, that's very flattering! And thank you so much for reading this! ♥