She moves quietly on bare feet around their room, carrying a mug of steaming coffee with lots of cream and sugar, and sits on a stool by the window where the first rays of sunlight hit the blank white canvas on the easel. Setting her coffee down and pulling her blond curls into a ponytail at the back of her head, she selects a few of her favorite charcoal pencils to sketch.
As she looks back at the bed, white cotton sheets are rumpled around his waist with his tan back and arms stretched long and at impossible angles, as if he was a child who threw himself down to sleep. His pink lips are opened slightly, breathing in and out, and she loses herself for a moment in the gentle rhythm.
His hair has grown out somewhat in the few months since they started dating but she likes it now, how it forms a messy dark halo around his face on the white pillowcase. The dark lead of the charcoal captures his curls and his soft eyelashes on the blank canvas.
His face and hair are a favorite subject to draw. He looks so different in sleep, sweet and innocent, far from the guarded look he carries with him when going through day-to-day life. Perhaps she likes to capture its likeness in the hope that she could give him back that peace of mind even when he wakes up.
Sam never likes the sketches that Jessica draws of him. He loves her other art but he’s self conscious when she says he’s beautiful. But that’s what he is in this thin morning light. Beautiful. And every thing she could possibly want.
Pastor Jim’s voice was very soft and laced with worry
when he said: “John, your boys. They are. Well, aren’t they a little too close?
I don’t think. I don’t think their relationship is very healthy.”
John stared blankly at him.
Of course he knew.
After all, he was the one who had to pretend not to
notice when Dean’s hand rested on Sam’s thigh beneath the diner tables; he was
the one who had to come home to a motel room and find the boys rosy cheeked and
slightly out of breath. He saw the bruised love bites on Sam’s neck; brand new
marks even though Sam had barely left the motel for a week.
He was the one who had to fall asleep to the sound of
his boys fucking; the muffled noise of Dean telling Sam to be quiet, because
dad could be awake.
Oh, John knew.
He knew there were so many things he hadn’t been able
to give them; a home, a base, a mother. There had been times when he hadn’t
been able to feed them or clothe them properly; and there had been times when
he hadn’t even given them a father.
There was one thing, though. One thing he’d given
them.
He’d given them each other, and he knew that they
carried each other through this miserable life he’d given them; they made each
other smile even when they had nothing to smile about; even if they had to go
to bed hungry.
John knew, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, put out the only light they had in this pitch-black existence
he’d thrown them into.
“John?”
John swallowed. “Don’t you worry about my boys, Jim.”
he said lowly. “They’re pulling through.”
Dean Winchester didn’t date. Or rather, he didn’t go on second dates. He hardly went on first dates to begin with. He would find some girl, maybe she was blonde or a brunette or maybe a redhead, honestly it didn’t matter, but he would start talking to her, turn on that Winchester charm and the girl would practically be in love with him before he even fully introduced himself.
Then, in that way that only Sam knew how to do, he showed up at Dean’s side and just like that, Dean would be gone.
With one look down into those innocent doe eyes, the girl, no matter how pretty she could be, was nothing more than a memory.
Dean would wrap his arm around Sam’s bony shoulders, pulling him in tight next to his body and the girl would look at the two of them with a fond, slightly confused smile. She thought that they were getting somewhere, that maybe she had a chance with this beautiful stranger but the way that they were looking at each other, it was obvious to anyone that they were together.
It would take a moment longer for the girl to realize that Dean was only being nice, trying to be friendly towards her, maybe try to be friends but he didn’t want anything else because he was already taken.
Sam would keep his eye on the girl as she and his brother talked, making sure to whenever the girl glanced down at him that he was looking up at Dean with this possessive glint in his eye, one that clearly read that Dean was his. The conversation would end sometime after that and Dean would still have his arm around his brother as Sam laced his arm around Dean’s waist. For a couple of minutes Dean would sulk because he thought he was getting somewhere with the girl but then Sam would smile at him like that and suddenly nothing else would matter.
It was so damn obvious to everyone who even cared to look that Sam had Dean wrapped so tight around his pinky finger that it could almost be considered Stockholm Syndrome and Dean was none the wiser.
thirty words in thirty days audaciousdean vs. @call-888-8sparky word #6: second date
He climbs back into bed and buries himself deeper into his thin, stiff sheets, trying not to breathe in too much of their mustiness, and he holds on tight. Like he’s still back there, back then, and nothing went wrong and no one burned. Like he could dream her back to life, if only he tried hard enough.
the boy king’s demons aren’t allowed to close deals with underage kids anymore, but that doesn’t mean kids aren’t still trying. the demons never show, but within a week of a teenager burying a Altoids tin of graveyard dirt at a crossroads, the kid’s problems always disappear under mysterious and inexplicable circumstances
A summoned demon could appear anywhere in the vicinity of the crossroads, so Sam made sure to stay behind a tree, obscured from the sight of this kid. Sam noticed he was rather small, his shape obscured by the baggy, oversized clothes he wore. His hair just fell past his ears in uneven cuts, and his hands endlessly trembled and fidgeted together.
“Come on!” The kid cried out. “Just show yourself, please!” No matter how much this kid pleaded, Sam couldn’t negotiate with him. He refused to allow children to offer their souls to demons. It was only this time that Sam even bothered showing up at the crossroads in the first place.
“We don’t have enough money to last us until next year-..” the kid trailed off, hesitantly stepping back. “We could get enough money, a-and then have one less mouth to feed.” Sam almost felt something in the last working corner of his heart. God damn these kids and their willingness to sacrifice themselves. No wonder he forbid deals with them.
Sam rubbed his chin slowly, deep in thought. He wouldn’t let this selfless kid throw himself to the hounds for the sake of his family. He didn’t deserve it. And he didn’t deserve to have to struggle to get by with his family, either.
There was extreme irony in calling it a blessing. Angels never thought of rewarding resilient souls for their troubles, and demons never felt like offering their services for free. But if God was going to turn a blind eye to the Kennedy family in their time of need, then Sam would provide the intervention they deserved, whether it be divine or not.
The first time John walks into his boys kissing, he’s sober enough to drag his tired ass to a separate room and let them enjoy the night and part of the next morning. The second time, though, it looks like they’re just kissing and cuddling–and he takes a second to stare, because isn’t that sweet? He vaguely remembers doing the same with Mary before Dean was born, and well it seems their boys are just as boring and domestic as they used to be.
Who could’ve guessed, huh?
But before he can leave the room and make some noise outside to warn them he’s back, Sam makes a startled noise and honest to God pushes Dean away from him so desperately that the kid just falls out of the bed. John winces in simpathy– this must’ve hurt. But then he suddenly remembers they don’t know he knows, because they’ve been trying real hard to hide their whatever-they-have from everyone, John’s name placed at the golden #1 position on their list.
“We..we–” Dean is stuttering and stumbling on his own feet, looking so young and scared that John wonders if he should step closer and hug the kid. “Sam did nothing wrong, s-sir–”
Okay, maybe John should’ve warned them. He could’ve left a note or something, at least– but hey, tracking the demon and hunting supernatural things wasn’t exactly easy. His to-do list is a bit full right now and he’s been a little too busy to remember his kids were kissing each other (and doing other things he really didn’t want to know about, and Sam’s already 15 so hey, not his damn business anymore).
“Dean, shut up.” John replies, but maybe he’s too tired because he sounds rougher than expected and Dean just tenses up and looks even more younger if it’s possible. “Come here, son.”
Dean gulps loudly and takes nothing but a second to stare at Sam, but then lowers his head and steps closer, still tense. John will remember to leave a note next time he finds out one of his kids fell in love with a family member, but for now he just pulls his oldest into a hug and doesn’t let go until Dean relaxes completely–
“It’s okay, buddy.”
–which takes a damn long time, a lot of encouragement and Sam silently slipping into the hug when John invited him.
He’s made peace with his mind a long time ago about their relationship, or whatever they name it. It took some time and a fair share of liquor bottles and bar fights, of course– but he’s seen how happy they are with each other, how they protect and love each other. He didn’t choose to love Mary, just as they didn’t choose this. It’s not fair to destroy their happiness just because he got his ripped apart all those years ago.
“I’m okay with this.” John says at some point, presses gentle kisses to Dean and Sam’s foreheads before finally letting them go. “It’s not what I expected for you when you were born, but…” He also didn’t expect to lose Mary, to have this kind of life. “But we’re family.”
“Dad–”
He smiles and pats Sam’s cheek playfully. “Just give your old man a break and try not jump into your brother’s pants when I’m around. You’re damn loud, kiddo.”
They love each other in dark motel rooms and truck stop bathrooms; love each other with a look or with a breath or with quiet fingers finding bare skin in a back seat. They love each other like the moon loves the sun, like the forest loves the rain, desperate and dependent and wholly consumed, love each other with steady hands on gun triggers and knife hilts, lives saved so many times the debts stopped being debts and became their souls instead, grown together like scar tissue on the jagged edges of a long forgotten wound, like saplings planted too close together, tangling and accommodating and fusing, twins conjoined at the chest and skull and soul, separation not recommended, survival unlikely.
The first time Dean remembers Sam crawling into his bed (long after he and Sam stopped sharing as kids), Dean was 19. He woke up with Sam shuffling at the end of the mattress, flushing in a way that made his overgrown 15-year-old brother look younger than he had in years.
“Sam?” Dean had asked, already pushing back his covers, shifting out of the warm spot. “Everything okay?”
Sam had shaken his head, scurrying over to the open side. He buried himself under Dean’s covers, then clung to him, burying his warm face into Dean’s chest.
“Aren’t you a little old for this?” Dean had teased while draping an arm over Sam’s waist, shifting so Sam could come closer.
“Never,” Sam had mumbled, breath hot and damp against Dean’s bare chest. “I’ll never grow outta you, Dean.”
“Hey, like, not to be rude, but I can’t see around your hair.”
Those are the first words Jessica Moore, art history senior, says to Sam Winchester, pre-law junior. She’s teasing, really, trying to be clever, to make him finally notice her, because there are only three weeks left in this semester and then she’ll never see him again, this quiet boy who keeps sitting in front of her in her Latin class.
Jess took Latin because she heard this professor was easy. Sam Winchester apparently already speaks it, as much as anyone can speak a dead language, and she’s maybe been a little bit in love with him since the first time she heard him say “nosce te ipsum” with perfect pronunciation.
Dean swallows hard, staring at the big bold letters in Sam’s journal. He knows he shouldn’t have looked, but it was right there, open on the desk in the motel room.
Sam probably hadn’t even realized he’d left it out; hell, he tucked that thing into the bottom of his bag to ensure that it never accidentally got left behind, or so that prying eyes couldn’t see it.
It’s my fault that Dad died.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He should move away from it, pretend he never even saw it before Sam gets back in here from grabbing coffee.
I can’t sleep. I feel too guilty.
Jesus. Dean’s heart races. He knows he’s been hard on Sam – fuck, all they’ve done is fight and lash out since their dad’s death. Maybe Sam’s been right – they need to make an effort to talk about their issues, or it’s all gonna come out in the worst way possible.
He’s about to finally tear his eyes away when he sees one more stark phrase:
I want to die. I’d be better off dead.
And that? Dean can’t ignore that. There’s no way he’ll be able to pretend he hasn’t seen anything, especially when something as alarming as that stands out.
He takes a deep breath, heart racing. He needs to talk to Sam as soon as possible. He doesn’t care how pissed he’ll be. Doesn’t care how they’ve been getting on lately. This can’t wait.
Before he turns towards the door, something else catches his eyes, but it’s written so much smaller than everything else that he barely notices it.
I started cutting again.
It all starts to come together in Dean’s head: the need to change in the bathroom, the long sleeves – even in hot weather or at night. Fuck, fuck, fuck.No.
Sam suddenly comes through the door, a shy little smile on his face. “Hey, they only had medium roast, hope that’s…” He pauses when he sees Dean’s face. “Dean? You okay?” He glances around the room – and then he sees it – his journal wide open on the desk.
Sam turns white as the Styrofoam cups he’s holding. “I –” he stutters. “You didn’t –?”
Dean’s gentle and cautious in his approach. “Sammy,” his voice cracks. “Let’s talk, okay?”
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