After the fifth night, Dean stops pretending that things might have a chance of normal. He just gets a queen, and falls asleep to whispers and hands holding him and bracing him for an impact only Sam can feel.
It's some night, maybe ten or twenty or fifty days after that, and Sam's wrapped around him. He's quiet this time, like he's empty or everything's been taken from him, and Dean says, "hey."
Sam breathes against him, warm and wet enough that when Sam hold his breath the room's air settles cold over him, shivers pricking along his spine. "You died," it's explosive, hot, and the only thing Dean has is, "I know."
"It's wasn't just Tuesdays. It was Wednesdays and weeks and months."
Jesus fuck. "What?" But he gets it, now, everything, or at least thinks he does.
"You died," and here's the sob, brief and muffled like Dean actually fuckin cares he's crying, like it's something that he really has to hide. "You died and you didn't come back."
"Alright," Dean says, and gets his arms braced against Sam's, gets enough force to break the grip on him. It turns Sam frantic, like Dean's going to disappear, and Sam won't stop reaching for him. "Dammit, stop, Sam!"
Sam does. He goes stiff and still, so still that Dean can't even be sure he's actually breathing. It gives him a chance, though, to flip onto his side facing Sam, get his brother wrapped up, best Dean can fit anyway, in his arms.
"Listen, alright? Listen to me. I'm here," he tightens his arms around Sam, until he can feel muscle and bone and hear Sam's grunt. "I'm right fuckin here, now. No Trickster, no Ground Hog's Day bullshit, Sam. Just me and you." He can hear the hitches in Sam's breath, the wet grief trying to spill out of him. "And I know what you're thinking, Sammy, I do. But if you say I'll be here come the end of my year, I'll be here." He pulls far enough away to catch Sam's eye. "Understand?"
Dean sees Sam's eyes fall shut, like maybe that's what Sam was waiting all this time for, just that, for Dean to say something. He hears Sam sigh, broken and low, before he feels the jerk of Sam nodding his head. "Good," he says, and tries to do what Sam did, tug his brother closer until there's nowhere else to go and no space between them. Then, low, a third time, because maybe that's the charm, the luck that'll make it real, he says, "I'll be here."
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carisma_sensei
FILLED, accidents of faith and nature, 2/2, gen
Date: 2010-03-06 03:34 pm (UTC)After the fifth night, Dean stops pretending that things might have a chance of normal. He just gets a queen, and falls asleep to whispers and hands holding him and bracing him for an impact only Sam can feel.
It's some night, maybe ten or twenty or fifty days after that, and Sam's wrapped around him. He's quiet this time, like he's empty or everything's been taken from him, and Dean says, "hey."
Sam breathes against him, warm and wet enough that when Sam hold his breath the room's air settles cold over him, shivers pricking along his spine. "You died," it's explosive, hot, and the only thing Dean has is, "I know."
"It's wasn't just Tuesdays. It was Wednesdays and weeks and months."
Jesus fuck. "What?" But he gets it, now, everything, or at least thinks he does.
"You died," and here's the sob, brief and muffled like Dean actually fuckin cares he's crying, like it's something that he really has to hide. "You died and you didn't come back."
"Alright," Dean says, and gets his arms braced against Sam's, gets enough force to break the grip on him. It turns Sam frantic, like Dean's going to disappear, and Sam won't stop reaching for him. "Dammit, stop, Sam!"
Sam does. He goes stiff and still, so still that Dean can't even be sure he's actually breathing. It gives him a chance, though, to flip onto his side facing Sam, get his brother wrapped up, best Dean can fit anyway, in his arms.
"Listen, alright? Listen to me. I'm here," he tightens his arms around Sam, until he can feel muscle and bone and hear Sam's grunt. "I'm right fuckin here, now. No Trickster, no Ground Hog's Day bullshit, Sam. Just me and you." He can hear the hitches in Sam's breath, the wet grief trying to spill out of him. "And I know what you're thinking, Sammy, I do. But if you say I'll be here come the end of my year, I'll be here." He pulls far enough away to catch Sam's eye. "Understand?"
Dean sees Sam's eyes fall shut, like maybe that's what Sam was waiting all this time for, just that, for Dean to say something. He hears Sam sigh, broken and low, before he feels the jerk of Sam nodding his head. "Good," he says, and tries to do what Sam did, tug his brother closer until there's nowhere else to go and no space between them. Then, low, a third time, because maybe that's the charm, the luck that'll make it real, he says, "I'll be here."