Sam wakes up and hears the fire crackle; they’ve borrowed
a hunter’s cabin in Wyoming for the case and it doesn’t have electricity.He knows something is wrong, because Dean’s back
trembles, and Sam crawls closer.“Dean?” he whispers, fingertips light against his big
brother’s naked back. It’s smooth and golden in the light of the flames, and
Sam doesn’t know why it makes his stomach flutter. “You awake?”Dean goes taut beneath his touch. “Go back to sleep, Sammy.”
It’s not mean or harsh, but it makes Sam’s stomach churn.
“I can’t,” he whispers, because John’s snores from the couch are close. “You’re
sad.”Dean turns around then, and Sam’s eyes go wide,
because Dean’s eyes are puffy and red in the yellow, waxy glow from the fire.
His big brother, ever so brave and true is crying, and Sam asks: “Why are you sad?”Dean laughs strangely and puts a hand to Sam’s cheek.
He draws him close; Sam lets him, because it’s Dean. His big brother, his everything. He feels safe in Dean’s
arms.Then, Dean whispers: “Because I think I love you too much.”
Sam doesn’t know what that means, but when he traces
his index finger down the bridge of Dean’s freckled nose, he decides.He wants to
find out.
Tag: ficlet
Sam makes friends with girls easily. They feel like he’s almost like one of them; soft and long haired and he blushes prettily when they talk about boys – not that little Sammy has eyes for anyone but his boyfriend, of course.
The mysterious older boyfriend he tells them about: The dark blonde hair and the freckled face; He wears a leather jacket and he swears a lot, Sam dreamily tells the giggling girls in pigtails. He’s got green eyes and he’s so tall, I have to tiptoe when I kiss him.
A black Impala gleams as it rolls up in front of the school steps. Sam bites his lip, pearly whites over plump cherry red, and a boy gets out from the driver’s seat. The green gaze makes the girls go weak in their knees, and the sun licks against leather clad shoulders.
They share a filthy kiss before taking off with a roar, and around the breathless girls, teachers murmur in distress about the Winchester brothers.
Sam moves like a cat in the backseat, like a kitten craving attention; rubbing his nose against the spot beneath Dean’s ear.
“Gonna kiss you now,” Sam murmurs softly.
Dean only gasps softly as Sam kisses him: noisily and open-mouthed, his fingernails dragging pink lines down Dean’s neck. Dean knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s so wrong and fucked up but he doesn’t call the shots anymore because his little brother has ways of getting beneath his skin with his words and his tongue and Dean can’t help but to moan helplessly into his pretty baby brother’s mouth.
Sam’s eyes glitter in the darkness when they part and he hums softly with approval. That’s when he notices the way Dean looks to the front seat, and Sam turns his head to glare.
John’s eyes meet Sam’s cold ones in the rear view mirror, his throat thick with bile and fear because he doesn’t know what to do anymore, doesn’t know what Sam is or how it got to Dean, too – he just knows that his youngest boy licked his brother’s mouth open in the backseat, and that’s the first time they hadn’t even tried to hide it.
“Please,” John pleads brokenly, eyes wide with desperation. “Don’t.”
Sam only smiles a cold, horrible smile that looks hideously wrong on that innocent fourteen year old face.
“Keep your eyes on the road, old man,” Sam tells John darkly as he turns back to his big brother. He pets Dean’s hair, and adds gently: “You’ve got precious cargo.”
Sam can still hear his brother laughing, throwing him a playful wink and “third time’s the charm, Sammy” when he strikes out twice before he finds the right lead to follow or a half-decent meal or a girl to take him home. Dean lives his life in lucky threes, in dancing past the bad with the knowledge of something good on the horizon.
For the first time, Sam wishes Dean’s life didn’t play by triplets.
It was the rawhead, first. The stupid electrocution that fried his heart. The faith healer that Sam tracked down and the life he traded for his brother’s.
Second was the eighteen-wheeler that t-boned the Impala and left Dean clinging to life by the tips of his fingers. The time Sam wasn’t good enough and their father died in Dean’s place.
Twice Dean has come face-to-face with death, and twice, his life has been spared as another’s is taken in his place. Some would call him lucky; Dean himself has always considered himself unworthy.
But the third time- the third time his number’s up and Sam would give anything to take his brother’s place.
Third time’s the charm, though, and he gets to watch Dean be torn apart while he can’t so much as lift a finger to help, instead, and suddenly he’s a child again, left alone with Dean’s ruined, bloody corpse and feeling like someone has stolen his lungs as his body rebels against the slippery crimson staining his fingers, a sob choked out of him as he pulls his brother into his arms.
Sam’s fingers shake when he reaches up to cup Dean’s cheek, but he only succeeds in smearing more blood between cinnamon-spot freckles that he remembers trying to count and that’s when he breaks.
Third time’s the fucking charm and when Sam buries his face in Dean’s shoulder and cries, there’s no comforting heartbeat to tell him things will be okay.
97/365
“You know it’s Easter, right? Not Halloween?”
Dean decides to ignore the skepticism in his brother’s voice as he adds another box of chocolates to their shopping cart. They’d needed to do groceries, anyways, and they’ve already got the basics covered, but as soon as he’d seen the array of pastel-coloured displays and plastic rabbits…
Well. He couldn’t help himself.
“No children are going to come wandering by our door looking for candy,” Sam tells him, and Dean rolls his eyes. Poor kid still doesn’t know how to have fun. “And if you eat all that chocolate yourself, Dean, I’m not gonna be the one to scrape you off the floor when you die of a sugar overdose.”
“It’s not all for me.” Admittedly, the thought is very tempting, and Dean has plenty of fond memories of Halloweens and Easters past, mostly spent stuffing himself with candy and then regretting it shortly afterwards. “And c’mon, Sammy, where’s your Easter spirit? You used to love this stuff.”
When he glances towards Sam, Sam seems to be biting back a smile. Not nearly as grumpy as he’s trying to appear. “I’m not a little kid, Dean. You can’t buy me with chocolate anymore.”
Dean purses his lips at that. “I think that just means that nobody’s tried to buy you yet with enough chocolate. Amateurs.”
That pulls a laugh out of Sam, and Dean grins, happy to continue down the aisles and pick up a few more treats along the way. Some festive marshmallows, some chocolate bunnies, and even half a dozen mini pastel cupcakes that give Dean some ideas for later. With everything he wants to get, he starts towards the checkout counters, talking to Sam again as they go.
“You think Charlie’s free?” He’s going down a list in his head, friends and allies who could use an excuse to relax. “And Jody? Kevin and his mom, too… Cas, obviously. Oh, and Garth… guess we’ve got some phone calls to make.”
Sam softens as Dean continues mumbling to himself, and together, they start calling around, inviting everybody over for a little celebration.
“Why not, right?” Dean shrugs on their way back home, candy safely loaded up in the back and engine rumbling around them on the way down the road. “‘Tis the season.”
There’s no harm in taking a little time to be happy.
88/365
Dean was nervous when he got called down to the principal’s office during social studies. He hadn’t even done anything today. Not that he remembered. He was pretty sure. This time.
So as he walked down the long empty hallway, slip of paper in hand granting permission to walk to the administration area, he dawdled, dragging out the inevitable. He thought over the events of the morning and lunch, he couldn’t pinpoint anything that would give pause or concern over from authority figures.
And as he mused, it dawned on him that it might very well not be about him. All warning bells fired off at the same time, and as his heart raced, his feet started running.
Sammy.
He skidded to a stop right outside the office door, took a deep breath and opened it wide, scanning for his little brother.
The secretary glanced up, and her frown turned into a smile, one Dean wasn’t used to seeing on her face, not when it came to him. Did that mean Sam was ok?
“He’s in with Mr. Davenport. He’s fine, Dean. Just – well, go ahead in, you’ll see.” And she barely contained a chuckle as Dean slowly walked towards the frosted glass door that led into the place he found himself more often than not. Had they called dad? Was dad even reachable right now? Sammy never got in trouble. And he was only in kindergarten. He took another deep breath, swallowed, and pushed the door open, his bottle-green eyes wide in distress.
He stopped in his tracks as he took in the sight before him. Sammy was sitting on a cream colored tarp in the middle of the floor, seemingly ok, but completely covered in paint. Sam had his patented dimpled grin in place and at the sight of Dean, quickly stood up on chubby little legs, turned and made to move towards his big brother.
“Stop!” Mr. Davenport’s voice was not harsh, but firm. Sam stopped and turned around, his lower lip trembling, hazel eyes filling with tears ready to spill over. Dean knew that look. Puppy face of doom. First came the sniffles, and the wobbly response of, “Sorry,” as he sat back down on the tarp, fidgeting with his shoelaces. “Please stay on the tarp, Samuel. The paint is still dripping from your hair.” A quirk of lips hiding a smile, Dean could tell, showed that the principal was not truly angry, more perplexed by the whole situation. As was Dean. Sam was a good kid, not one for making waves – that was Dean’s thing.
Dean walked forward and crouched down near Sam, checking him over visually for obvious injuries. He was quickly assured there weren’t any, because Sam appeared to be fine when that dimpled smile shyly returned and his tears spilled over. Dean reached out a finger to wipe the wetness away from his cheek, and brushed a lock of hair in the process. His finger came back with dots of red and yellow. Giving Sammy a puzzled look, he turned to Mr. Davenport who was patiently waiting for Dean’s protective assessment to be done.
“Your little brother’s class was decorating papier-mâché Easter eggs. Apparently the painting got a tad out of control.” Mr. Davenport was trying not to let laughter creep into his voice and having trouble hiding it.
“A tad, yeah, looks like.” Dean turned back to Sammy, who was tugging on Dean’s pants leg, little green and blue paint spatters all over his small hands.
“Sorry, De.” Sam looked up at Dean, his sweet cherub face full of sorrow and innocence, seemingly not understanding why he was in trouble. “But I made you an egg.” And Sam pulled out a gaily decorated egg from his backpack. Dean couldn’t make out the designs on it, but he knew Sam had concentrated on making it just for him because it was mostly in his favorite color, shades of blue, and a distinct D shaped letter was colored in a deep navy hue. Those green eyes lit up, and the biggest grin Mr. Davenport had ever seen on Dean Winchester’s face broke wide.
“’S ok, Sammy. Just uh, we need to get you cleaned up.” Dean took the egg from Sam, noting it was still tacky from not yet dried paint, and made a face. There was gonna be paint everywhere – Sam, his books, his backpack and probably anything he touched until he got into a bathtub. He swung his gaze to Mr. Davenport, who watched in amusement. “Sir, is he in trouble?”
“Officially Dean, no. Maybe just take him home and get him cleaned up? We tried reaching your father, but the calls went straight to voicemail, so he must be rather busy at his job.” He shuffled some papers, smoothed back his hair and got up. “You’re both excused for the day. And Samuel,” here the principal crouched down to speak to Sammy in a whispered tone, “maybe don’t make a ‘game’ with Tommy out of art time, ok?” He stood up to open his door for the brothers. “Dean, you might want to keep the tarp wrapped around him for a bit – he’s pretty soaked through. Be safe walking home.”
“Yes sir. C’mon Sammy, let’s roll.” Dean swaddled Sammy in the tarp, grabbed the backpack, and Sammy’s hand. Sam let himself be led, happy that he didn’t seem to be in trouble and that he’d made Dean smile.
As they left the principal’s office, Dean held onto his little brother. He looked down at the egg in his other hand and kept the laughter at bay. As they hit the sidewalk outside the school, he thought to ask Sam, “Hey, kiddo, what happened with Tommy?”
Sam stopped and dropped his head, scuffing his shoe on the curb of the asphalt sidewalk. “Punched him in the nose.”
Dean’s eyes widened in surprise – Sammy wasn’t a fighter. But Sam had started talking, and the waterworks were gonna start again, he could see it – Sam’s breathing became erratic and his little face was all furrowed in anger.
“He told me it was stupid to make you an egg. And he flicked paint on me. So I flicked paint back then there was paint all over and he punched my arm. So I punched him in the nose. De, I made his nose bleed.” And Sam got real quiet, tears once again flowing. “He had to go to the nurses’ office.”
Dean was in shock. Sam had had his first fight. And won. An odd sort of pride settled over him, but he knew he couldn’t let Sammy get away with that. Dad would be pissed if Sam got in trouble under Dean’s watch.
“Sammy.” And he tried to put on a stern face, but those eyes of Sam’s locked on his, and he could see from the set of his jaw and the thrust of his chin Sam wasn’t really that sorry about Tommy. Just worried about getting into trouble – about getting them both in trouble. Dean sighed, he’d taught his brother a bit too well, if he was gonna start acting just like him.
“He said making an egg for you was stupid!” Sam stomped his foot and pouted. Dean couldn’t even resist how adorable little Sammy fighting for Dean’s honor was. Paint or no, he pulled Sam into a tight hug.
“Alright – let’s just get you – us, back and washed up. Ok? And then pizza tonight, maybe a movie.”
“Not gonna tell dad?”
“No, this is just between us.”
Sam smiled and grabbed Dean’s hand again, and they started walking back to their motel. Tomorrow Sam planned to tell Tommy how happy the egg had made Dean as a lesson on not messing with Sam about his big brother. Dean deserved a happy Easter treat too, and he still didn’t know about the candy Sam had stolen out of Tommy’s lunchbox to seal up inside the egg.
“Hey – hey, what’s wrong?” Dean’s voice is still groggy with sleep, but he can hear Sam’s deep breaths; the barely-held-in sniffles. He gets out of his bed, stumbling towards Sam’s, touching his arm.
“Nothing,” Sam’s voice is hoarse. “Nothing’s wrong. Go back to sleep.”
They’re on a case, staying at a motel for the first time in a long time, the comfort of the bunker left behind.
Dean crawls into Sam’s bed – hey, he doesn’t give a damn – and turns towards him. “C’mon. I’m not stupid.”
“I – I don’t know why I’m upset,” Sam suddenly says, his voice soft. “And it feels so fucking stupid.”
Dean bites his lip. “Is this…kind of what we talked about the other day? That you’re…feeling sad, and stuff?”
Sam nods, staring down at the comforter.
He keeps his lip between his teeth, concentrating, trying to figure out how to say it gently. “Sam – Sammy. I…man, it’s not…normal to wake up crying in the middle of the night, you know? Have you…”
Sam looks at him – and he always looks at him like he’s his whole world – and swallows hard. “What?”
“…I think you’re depressed, Sam. Not just – ‘oh, I had a bad day and I’m sad.’ But…like depressed. I don’t know a lot about…y’know, this kind of stuff, but I know you’ve been suffering. And man, you don’t…you don’t have to suffer.” Dean reaches for him, ‘cause he knows that physical affection will soften the blow. Not that he minds holding him, anyway.
The whole room’s suddenly quiet, save for the way Sam exhales into the crook of Dean’s arm, and the way the coarseness of Dean’s hand glides against the soft fabric of Sam’s t-shirt.
“I think I am, too,” he murmurs, as if giving in, struggling to accept this thing that’s been haunting him for months now. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”
Dean holds him, moving his hand to Sam’s hair. “Maybe we should…” He swallows thickly. “Book an appointment with someone? And just…see what they say?” Two years – hell, even a year ago – he’d be against this. But…seeing the way this invisible force of grief is tearing through Sam is breaking his heart.
Honestly…he knows the feeling. And he doesn’t want that for Sam; he never has.
“Okay,” Sam acquiesces after a minute. “I’ll…I’ll go. See someone.”
Dean can hear the fear in his voice. “I’ll come with you. Don’t worry. Okay? I have your back.” He squeezes him tightly.
Sam nods, but he knows…eventually, at least part of this will come down to being in love with Dean, and not being able to tell him.
It always does; doctors can’t right this kind of wrong, even with drugs.
spnhiatuscreations | 2017 week 2
↳urban legendsthe sensible grown ups will tell you that they’re just urban legends; scary stories made up to teach little children not to go wandering off in the market, or teenagers not to sneak off at night to make out on secluded overlooks or abandoned parking lots. they’ll tell you that the stories are too fantastical to be true, that there’s nothing hiding under your bed or in your closet, no one stalking outside your window late at night. they’ll tell you that you’re safe. but gracie knows better.
oh, the stories were exaggerated, sure, blurring the line between truth and legend. they’re not seven feet tall, although she can see how someone could think they are. they’re not as wide as a truck, either, although one of them may have trouble fitting through the odd doorway here and there. and they’re certainly not hideous, at least not at first, they smile and shake hands and say yes ma’am and no sir just like her momma and daddy taught her to do. they crouch down to speak with little children, soft smiles and softer voices, completely disarming behind a mask of kindness.
and she figures it is a kindness to some, to the others, the plain and the ordinary and the weak.
she was nine when she saw them, they came right to her house, right to the front door and knocked, asked to be let in, and of course momma let them in because monsters don’t ask, do they, they just enter. but that was all part of the masquerade. gracie saw them for what they were, saw what the grownups couldn’t because grown ups are too busy to think about boogeymen and scary campfire stories and things that go bump in the night. busy putting food on the table, that’s what daddy used to say.
but their smiles, they were just a little too smooth; their questioning just a little too nonchalant, and it tickled the fine hairs on the back of her neck. when they left, seemingly satisfied with the answers momma provided, she begged and begged to skip town, to move on before they came back. but daddy said nonsense and momma said we seen plenty of detectives come and go, those ones will be moving on soon enough.
it was the big one, not that they’re not both big, that spared her. momma was on the kitchen floor with a silver knife in her neck, daddy was down the hall, head laying several feet from his body. she was supposed to be asleep but the noise had woken her up. there he stood, one half of the story that wasn’t supposed to be real, covered in blood but barely even breathing hard at all for having killed two people. he looked so startled to see her, and then so sad. i’m so sorry, he’d said, and damn if it didn’t sound sincere, but we had to stop them, and then he was gone.
a part of her understands. almost. momma and daddy killed their kind, after all, lured them into dark alleys and drained their blood to the very last drop. but that was their food. they had to. she’s not sure whether they knew if she was like her momma and daddy or not. part of them had to suspect, but he didn’t make one move to hurt her. sometimes she thinks they might come back for her when she’s older. sometimes she thinks she should go after them before they have a chance to.
just stories, her new family insists, like she didn’t see what she knows she did. probably just another vamp they’d pissed off somewhere along the way, that was their explanation. those super hunters, they tell her, those winchesters, they aren’t real. there’s lots of dangers in the world for young little vampires and werewolves and ghosties and ghouls, they say, but nothing so outlandish as giant humans who travel the whole country, who stalk the night and who can’t die. tall tales that grew taller over time, that’s all. urban legends.
Sorry if this is weird, but I’m a sucker (read: cryer) for Sam sleeping in the Impala instead of inside because he thinks he’s unworthy/not wanted etc… Thanks in advance :0
This might not be 100% what you asked for, but I hope you like it anyway!
Warning for gory descriptions.
The ceiling fan twitches overhead, making its final slow circles in the dark. Everything is quiet, except for Dean’s soft snores and the occasional car passing by outside, a hush like waves as its tires scrape the asphalt. Sam focuses on these things, as well as the dull pain of his thumb bothering the scar on his palm. If he doesn’t, he’ll have to look to his left where Jess’s skin is blackened and flaking. He refuses to look, but he can feel her smile, made crooked by the incoming wisdom teeth which had bothered her in the months before she died.
Sam pulls the thin motel sheets up to his chin and rolls to the right. Dean is sweaty and sleep-warm, his arm dangling over the side of his bed. Sam wonders how he does it. How did he relearn to sleep after forty years in Hell?
Sam isn’t sure when he last slept. Dreams and wakefulness are to difficult to tell apart these days.
They’re sitting in the car when the couple comes out of the church, bride resplendent in shimmering white, her groom’s smile just as bright. Sammy gets up his knees and presses his button nose against the window to get a better view. “Dean, look at the princess!”
Dean smiles and doesn’t correct him. “I see her, Sammy. She’s gettin’ married to her prince.” At ten, Dean’s been too old for fairy tales for years and he knows his dad would prefer Sam to grow up just as quick as he did. But even at ten, Dean’s got his own opinions about that. He just keeps them to himself.
John comes out of the church, dressed in sombre black with white at his throat. He barely glances at the couple posing on the steps. John Winchester may be dressed as a priest, but he’s not here to marry anyone.
He gets in the car just as Sam pipes from the backseat, “Dean, will you marry me? If no girls wanna?”
“Boys don’t marry each other, Sam,” John says roughly before Dean can reply. “Especially brothers.”
Sam’s face falls and Dean leans over the front seat, pretending to help his little brother buckle his seatbelt. “Don’t worry, Sammy,” he says, soft so John can’t hear. “I’ll be your last resort. But you aren’t gonna need me. All the girls will want to marry you.”
Sam beams, then his little face changes, growing pensive. “I think I’ll pick you anyways,” he says seriously, patting Dean’s arm. Dean just laughs and settles back into his seat.
Thirty five years later, Dean strokes a finger over the gold band on his finger, the matching one glinting in the sunshine on his brother’s hand, draped casually across the seat of the Impala, and wonders how the hell Sam had known even way back then.
Backup bloh 