Untitled #15 (Gen, PG)
Nov. 18th, 2008 04:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pixel_0Title: Untitled #15
Rating: PG
Category: Gen oneshot
Word Count: 1090
Characters: Sam and Dean
Spoilers: S2: “All Hell Breaks Loose” and S3: “Mystery Spot”
Summary: During the Tuesdays, Sam tries something new to save Dean.
Warnings: None
Author’s Notes: Takes place during “Mystery Spot.” Also, I wrote this with a gen intent. However, rereading it, I can see how there might be “slashy undertones,” as some people say. In that case, if the idea of the boys sharing a bed and touching is squicky, it’s probably better to avoid this one. I rewatched “Mystery Spot” recently, thus resulting in the concoction of this way too early in the morning and the creation during the LJ shutdown.
Disclaimer: The following characters and situations are used without permission of the creators, owners, and further affiliates of the television show, Supernatural, to whom they rightly belong. I claim only what is mine, and I make no money off what is theirs.
- - - - -
He lost count of the Tuesdays about twenty days ago. He figures, though, that he’s closing in on one hundred and sixty some Tuesdays. One hundred and sixty some ways that Dean’s died.
Sam doesn’t remember the exact number of how many Tuesdays he’s lived through, but when they walk down the street—Dean in front and Sam behind—Sam can look at the places and think, There, he died there, and Here, I held him here. He can remember hunching over in the park, crying in doorways, and swearing at the street corners. Every death of Dean’s is burned forever in Sam’s mind. Dean’s blood is smeared across this city, unseen by all, except Sam who will never be able to forget.
He won’t admit it, but he’s starting to give up hope that they’ll ever escape this nightmare. He doesn’t know who to call, as he can’t seem to get a signal on his phone, and when he drives out of the city limits, Dean always dies. Somehow, someway, Dean always dies. Sam can’t escape the city so long as Dean is with him, and he can’t leave Dean behind to die alone, so Sam stays as well. It’s like they’re insects in this town, caught underneath a glass jar filled with infinite Tuesdays and Dean’s deaths.
He’s tried keeping Dean in the motel room to protect him. But death always finds him. In the shower, in the bathroom, even here in the bedroom. Sam had told him they were going to sit and do nothing but stare at each other all day. All day they sat and stared, and Sam was convinced they were going to make it until midnight, breaking the curse, when at half past eleven that night, the ceiling caved in and crushed Dean.
One morning, Sam awakes to the same incessant song and looks over to see Dean tying his boot, and it’s the same scene he’s lived through one hundred and sixty some times. Right then, Sam has an idea that they haven’t tried before. He really has nothing to lose, except Dean of course, but given the circumstances, it’s not a permanent loss.
He explains to Dean about the time loop, refusing to allow Dean to move from his bed until he nods and says, “I get it, Sammy, sheesh, I get it.”
Sam’s still sitting in his bed, the covers draped over his legs, and he extends his hand to Dean. “C’mere,” he says.
Dean looks at Sam’s hand skeptically before lifting his eyes to Sam’s face. “What…what are you doing?” he asks, forehead scrunched and eyes narrowed.
“Just, just take off your boots and come here.”
“Is this some sort of plan to save me? Or are you just feeling lonely and want to cuddle?” Dean smarts back, but he’s untying his boots anyway, pulling them off and tossing them to the ground. They hit the floor with a dead weight, and Dean shucks off his button-down shirt, tossing that on his own bed.
When he’s wearing just his jeans and t-shirt, Sam lifts up the covers to allow Dean to climb in beside him. The bed dips and creaks when Dean sinks down onto the mattress.
Sam pulls the blankets back up to their shoulders as Dean rolls over to face him. So close like this, Sam can see every freckle speckled across Dean’s cheeks and nose, and every line and crease around Dean’s eyes.
“All right,” Dean says, “what is this? Care to explain this brilliant plan of yours?”
Sam swallows, shifts so he’s lying down, face to face with Dean. “Look, I’ve seen you die…a lot, and I realized that I’m never hurt at all. Nothing ever touches me.”
“Yeah?” Dean replies. He grabs one of Sam’s double-stacked pillows for himself so they each have one pillow to rest their heads on.
“I thought…well…if somehow, I could, I don’t know, well…” Sam’s words trail off, sounding foolish and embarrassing aloud now.
“Sam?”
“Well, I thought that if, maybe, I was, I don’t know, touching you, you couldn’t be hurt. Like, well, I’d act like a protective shield or something.”
Dean doesn’t say anything for a beat, and then he smirks. “So, you want to spend the day spooning?”
Sam huffs and rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to save your life, asshole.” He shakes his head against his pillow while his fingers twist in the blankets. “I…I can’t keep seeing you die, Dean. I…I can’t.”
Something in Dean’s face softens then, and it could be he’s remembering what it was like watching Sam die. What it was like holding Sam’s limp weight in his arms and how badly it hurt to have his brother taken away from him. He says, “All right, Sammy, all right. We’ll give it a shot.” He smiles, not a smirk, but a quiet smile, and he rolls over and away from Sam to press his back to Sam’s front.
Sam lifts his arm to wrap it over Dean’s chest and curve his fingers beneath Dean’s armpit across his body. It’s weird, this, being so close to Dean again. They haven’t slept in the same bed since they were children, and Dad took the other bed in their two queens motel room. After a certain age, about the time that Sam became taller than Dean, they stopped sharing a bed. Hugging each other even seemed awkward. Now, it’s almost as if they’ve gone back twenty years.
Next to him, Dean’s breathing, easy and gentle, and he smells like the shampoo he used this morning and the fabric softener of his clothing. Sam sighs and presses his head to Dean’s shoulder, caught in the perhaps futile hope that the more of him that touches Dean, the greater the chance that Dean will live until Wednesday.
“No funny business, mister,” Dean says, elbowing Sam harmlessly in the stomach..
“Won’t be, unless you’re paying,” Sam replies, which gets a light chuckle from Dean.
Dean brings his leg back and hooks his foot over Sam’s ankle. “There,” he says. “That should help.”
They stay together in silence, breathing and thinking, before Sam says, “Dean?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t die on me.”
Dean sighs, chest lifting beneath Sam’s hold, and he says, “Not until at least Wednesday. Not until then.”
“No,” Sam says, remembering the demon’s deal and feeling Dean’s dwindling time pressing heavily on them. “Never. Not even on Wednesday.”
Dean lifts a hand and rests it over Sam’s on his chest. “I’ll do what I can,” he whispers.
End
“Running Up That Hill” by Placebo and “Out of My Hands” by Dave Matthews Band
Rating: PG
Category: Gen oneshot
Word Count: 1090
Characters: Sam and Dean
Spoilers: S2: “All Hell Breaks Loose” and S3: “Mystery Spot”
Summary: During the Tuesdays, Sam tries something new to save Dean.
Warnings: None
Author’s Notes: Takes place during “Mystery Spot.” Also, I wrote this with a gen intent. However, rereading it, I can see how there might be “slashy undertones,” as some people say. In that case, if the idea of the boys sharing a bed and touching is squicky, it’s probably better to avoid this one. I rewatched “Mystery Spot” recently, thus resulting in the concoction of this way too early in the morning and the creation during the LJ shutdown.
Disclaimer: The following characters and situations are used without permission of the creators, owners, and further affiliates of the television show, Supernatural, to whom they rightly belong. I claim only what is mine, and I make no money off what is theirs.
He lost count of the Tuesdays about twenty days ago. He figures, though, that he’s closing in on one hundred and sixty some Tuesdays. One hundred and sixty some ways that Dean’s died.
Sam doesn’t remember the exact number of how many Tuesdays he’s lived through, but when they walk down the street—Dean in front and Sam behind—Sam can look at the places and think, There, he died there, and Here, I held him here. He can remember hunching over in the park, crying in doorways, and swearing at the street corners. Every death of Dean’s is burned forever in Sam’s mind. Dean’s blood is smeared across this city, unseen by all, except Sam who will never be able to forget.
He won’t admit it, but he’s starting to give up hope that they’ll ever escape this nightmare. He doesn’t know who to call, as he can’t seem to get a signal on his phone, and when he drives out of the city limits, Dean always dies. Somehow, someway, Dean always dies. Sam can’t escape the city so long as Dean is with him, and he can’t leave Dean behind to die alone, so Sam stays as well. It’s like they’re insects in this town, caught underneath a glass jar filled with infinite Tuesdays and Dean’s deaths.
He’s tried keeping Dean in the motel room to protect him. But death always finds him. In the shower, in the bathroom, even here in the bedroom. Sam had told him they were going to sit and do nothing but stare at each other all day. All day they sat and stared, and Sam was convinced they were going to make it until midnight, breaking the curse, when at half past eleven that night, the ceiling caved in and crushed Dean.
One morning, Sam awakes to the same incessant song and looks over to see Dean tying his boot, and it’s the same scene he’s lived through one hundred and sixty some times. Right then, Sam has an idea that they haven’t tried before. He really has nothing to lose, except Dean of course, but given the circumstances, it’s not a permanent loss.
He explains to Dean about the time loop, refusing to allow Dean to move from his bed until he nods and says, “I get it, Sammy, sheesh, I get it.”
Sam’s still sitting in his bed, the covers draped over his legs, and he extends his hand to Dean. “C’mere,” he says.
Dean looks at Sam’s hand skeptically before lifting his eyes to Sam’s face. “What…what are you doing?” he asks, forehead scrunched and eyes narrowed.
“Just, just take off your boots and come here.”
“Is this some sort of plan to save me? Or are you just feeling lonely and want to cuddle?” Dean smarts back, but he’s untying his boots anyway, pulling them off and tossing them to the ground. They hit the floor with a dead weight, and Dean shucks off his button-down shirt, tossing that on his own bed.
When he’s wearing just his jeans and t-shirt, Sam lifts up the covers to allow Dean to climb in beside him. The bed dips and creaks when Dean sinks down onto the mattress.
Sam pulls the blankets back up to their shoulders as Dean rolls over to face him. So close like this, Sam can see every freckle speckled across Dean’s cheeks and nose, and every line and crease around Dean’s eyes.
“All right,” Dean says, “what is this? Care to explain this brilliant plan of yours?”
Sam swallows, shifts so he’s lying down, face to face with Dean. “Look, I’ve seen you die…a lot, and I realized that I’m never hurt at all. Nothing ever touches me.”
“Yeah?” Dean replies. He grabs one of Sam’s double-stacked pillows for himself so they each have one pillow to rest their heads on.
“I thought…well…if somehow, I could, I don’t know, well…” Sam’s words trail off, sounding foolish and embarrassing aloud now.
“Sam?”
“Well, I thought that if, maybe, I was, I don’t know, touching you, you couldn’t be hurt. Like, well, I’d act like a protective shield or something.”
Dean doesn’t say anything for a beat, and then he smirks. “So, you want to spend the day spooning?”
Sam huffs and rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to save your life, asshole.” He shakes his head against his pillow while his fingers twist in the blankets. “I…I can’t keep seeing you die, Dean. I…I can’t.”
Something in Dean’s face softens then, and it could be he’s remembering what it was like watching Sam die. What it was like holding Sam’s limp weight in his arms and how badly it hurt to have his brother taken away from him. He says, “All right, Sammy, all right. We’ll give it a shot.” He smiles, not a smirk, but a quiet smile, and he rolls over and away from Sam to press his back to Sam’s front.
Sam lifts his arm to wrap it over Dean’s chest and curve his fingers beneath Dean’s armpit across his body. It’s weird, this, being so close to Dean again. They haven’t slept in the same bed since they were children, and Dad took the other bed in their two queens motel room. After a certain age, about the time that Sam became taller than Dean, they stopped sharing a bed. Hugging each other even seemed awkward. Now, it’s almost as if they’ve gone back twenty years.
Next to him, Dean’s breathing, easy and gentle, and he smells like the shampoo he used this morning and the fabric softener of his clothing. Sam sighs and presses his head to Dean’s shoulder, caught in the perhaps futile hope that the more of him that touches Dean, the greater the chance that Dean will live until Wednesday.
“No funny business, mister,” Dean says, elbowing Sam harmlessly in the stomach..
“Won’t be, unless you’re paying,” Sam replies, which gets a light chuckle from Dean.
Dean brings his leg back and hooks his foot over Sam’s ankle. “There,” he says. “That should help.”
They stay together in silence, breathing and thinking, before Sam says, “Dean?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t die on me.”
Dean sighs, chest lifting beneath Sam’s hold, and he says, “Not until at least Wednesday. Not until then.”
“No,” Sam says, remembering the demon’s deal and feeling Dean’s dwindling time pressing heavily on them. “Never. Not even on Wednesday.”
Dean lifts a hand and rests it over Sam’s on his chest. “I’ll do what I can,” he whispers.
End
“Running Up That Hill” by Placebo and “Out of My Hands” by Dave Matthews Band
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-11-18 10:16 pm (UTC)Oh, boys.
no subject
Date: 2008-11-19 02:22 am (UTC)*pats boys*
Thank you. :)
no subject
Date: 2008-11-18 10:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-19 02:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-19 04:19 am (UTC)*clutches it*
Oh, boys. Oh, you! ♥
no subject
Date: 2008-11-20 12:39 am (UTC)Thank you very much! :)
♥
no subject
Date: 2008-11-20 08:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-22 06:11 am (UTC)Thank you! :D