It’s got sprinkles, and something that shines; crystals, edible stars.
Sorry, Sammy, Dean says, was the only one they had left.
The candles (33) are arson aboard a snowfield. Too much sugar and shortening. Dean’s eyes crinkle up, and Sam's seen, pre-thirty, pre-twenty probably, maybe too young to know there were monsters.
Blow.
Sam does.
*
There’s whiskey after, and the bunker’s warm library-light, optics and stars. Dean hands over a box, violet-wrapped and bow’d, some sort of retro department store-looking--
Dust-puff inside. Old book. Symbolled cover. Gold leaf and alchemy.
*
Three AM: Sam stumbles sinkward, pukes up cake, sweats out sugar, sweats out a fever in Dean’s bed while his brother mutters just--
Just spill it, Sammy. You’ll feel better.
He does:
I never wanted to come home, from Phoenix, from anywhere.
I wanted kids.
I remember everyone I hurt, soulless. Everyone I killed.
I still feel like a worthless piece of crap.
I’m still not pure. Never will be.
Attack of the shakes.
Dean sits heavy, cold-waters his cheekbone. Brushes; leans.
Shh.
So sorry, Sammy.
So sorry.
* Thirties: You take stock. Or you start to.
Dean burns things, breaks the curse, lockboxes the book, watches Sam sleep, stir, sleep again.
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carisma_sensei
FILLED: Somewhere Older Than I Was
Date: 2016-05-02 07:35 am (UTC)Cursed: one cake.
It’s got sprinkles, and something that shines; crystals, edible stars.
Sorry, Sammy, Dean says, was the only one they had left.
The candles (33) are arson aboard a snowfield. Too much sugar and shortening. Dean’s eyes crinkle up, and Sam's seen, pre-thirty, pre-twenty probably, maybe too young to know there were monsters.
Blow.
Sam does.
*
There’s whiskey after, and the bunker’s warm library-light, optics and stars. Dean hands over a box, violet-wrapped and bow’d, some sort of retro department store-looking--
Dust-puff inside. Old book. Symbolled cover. Gold leaf and alchemy.
*
Three AM: Sam stumbles sinkward, pukes up cake, sweats out sugar, sweats out a fever in Dean’s bed while his brother mutters just--
Just spill it, Sammy. You’ll feel better.
He does:
I never wanted to come home, from Phoenix, from anywhere.
I wanted kids.
I remember everyone I hurt, soulless. Everyone I killed.
I still feel like a worthless piece of crap.
I’m still not pure. Never will be.
Attack of the shakes.
Dean sits heavy, cold-waters his cheekbone. Brushes; leans.
Shh.
So sorry, Sammy.
So sorry.
*
Thirties: You take stock. Or you start to.
Dean burns things, breaks the curse, lockboxes the book, watches Sam sleep, stir, sleep again.
Mixes up juice with a pinch. Sits, penitent.
Cure for a truth hangover: Salt.
*Title from Heather Nova’s “Sugar”