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Oct. 9th, 2006 08:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecatevariThis is probably the closest story to being finished and I can't really post it, because it totally "spoils" too many events in the middle. *headdesks* Hey Kink--remember when we wrote LINEARLY?
Lightverse. Sam/Dean. After the divorce and after Sam's moved in.
The rustbucket car that Sam practically only uses to get back and forth from the train station to Dean's house—well, their house now—is dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
And Sam's ability with cars hasn't improved significantly over the years. It's only a couple miles home; after gazing blankly at the engine for twenty minutes and fiddling with wires and coils and things, Sam decides the better part of valor is to just leave it, walk home and hope Dean will help him fix it (read: Dean fixes it while Sam sits on the side and holds tools and looks helpfully ready) tomorrow.
It's bitterly cold out, but it's otherwise clear and Sam huddles deeper into his threadbare jacket and walks home, his mind skipping aimlessly like a scratched CD. If he can afford a new coat, because this one's barely good enough for scurrying from car to train to school and back. How he's going to afford the parts for the car, because Dean's going to give him the labor for free and he'd throw in the parts too, but Sam's got to draw the line somewhere. Whether Dean's going to yell at him for not calling and having Dean come get him from the station.
It's weird living with someone—with Dean—again. He's missed Dean, he wants Dean with a hunger that borders on irrational, but the living part, the day to day is hard. Being responsible—accountable—to someone again is hard. Not that Dean's ever let him not be accountable, even when he could barely stand to look at Sam.
The porch light is on when he gets home, but the only other light he sees is the flicker of the TV. He wonders if Dean's waiting up for him. He wonders if he's getting laid.
Oh God, he prays idly, rolling his eyes heavenward, please let me be getting laid. His brain throws up a pleasant and random porno of Sam and Dean moments; Dean's mouth on his cock, the breathless and whining moan Dean makes when Sam scrapes his teeth just right over his nipples, the feel of Dean inside him and the look on his face when Sam tightens around his cock.
"Hi, Uncle Sammy," Miria says indistinctly through a mouthful of what looks like a whole bag of multicolored M&Ms. Chocolate rings her mouth and the fingers she waves at him are dyed. The twins are in their car seats on either side of her and for a change, Evan is the one asleep, a milk moustache so thick he looks like a little old man. They're watching The Little Mermaid. Again.
"Isn't it kind of late for movies?" Sam asks mildly, taking off his coat. "Where's your dad? Why aren't you in bed?"
"Dad's sleep." Miria carefully pauses the movie—Sam winces at the chocolate smeared across the remote's buttons—and then gets up and comes over to him, hugging his leg. "Me 'n Kait 'n Evan were hungry. Are you going to make dinner? I want grilled cheese."
Sam looks over at the playpen. The netting's been cut open, scissors lying on the floor nearby. She's Dean's kid all right. "You haven't had dinner?" He hoists her up absently and wipes her mouth with his sleeve. She ducks away.
"Uncle Sammy!" She scowls reproachfully. "I tried to wake Dad up, so's he could make dinner, but he wouldn't."
"Wouldn't make dinner?"
"Wouldn't wake up," Miria corrects in a passing imitation of Dean's 'aren't you listening?' voice.
Sam almost drops her, suddenly chilled. "Did something happen?" Sam asks carefully. He shifts her around to his hip, picks up Evan's carrier by the handle. "Did Dean fall down or…or…" He doesn't know. He doesn't know the questions to ask and not scare her.
Miria looks at him blankly. "He's just sleeping," she says. "Dad's real tired."
"Well, you should be too," Sam says mildly. "I think it's long past bedtime for all Winchester children."
"But what about dinner?" Miria protests as he slides her down onto her bed.
"I think M&Ms will have to do for tonight. I'll make you grilled cheese tomorrow, okay?" He carefully lifts her chocolatey shirt over her head, Miria's arms raised helpfully, then gets her out of her smudged pants.
"Promise?"
Sam slides a clean nightgown over her head and ushers her under the covers. "I promise."
"Uncle Sammy?"
"Yeah?" He hands her Cupcake, her stuffed bear, and she eases down on the pillow looking worried.
"My tummy doesn't feel so good."
"Yeah, well, this is why we don't eat chocolate for dinner, isn't it?" He smoothes her hair back from her forehead then bends and kisses her. She should probably have a bath as well, but Sam's not going to worry about niceties. "Go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, okay?
"Okay," she says doubtfully.
It's far easier and faster to put the twins to bed and Sam's not at all looking forward to the day that they start talking back.
Sam pauses at that. It's the first time he's concretely thought about being here that long; him and Dean living here, raising Dean's kids. It's a weird thought and he doesn't know how he feels about it.
Kait rolls onto her belly, levers up into a crawl position, rocking back and forth on her knees. Kait is the night owl. "Nuh-uh," Sam tells her, flipping her over again and rubbing the heel of his hand against her warm, soft tummy. "Past your bedtime, too. Uncle Sam's got to look in on Dad."
Kait burbles, but she stays put and Sam flips on the baby monitor—which Dean apparently built himself and that carry for three blocks in any direction—grabbing the handset and tucking it into his back pocket. "Be good," he tells Kait, switching on the night light and turning off the overhead. "Don't destroy anything while I'm gone."
When he looks in Dean's room, it's empty. The bed's unmade, but it usually is. He looks in on Miria again, and for all her animation ten minutes ago, she's already sleeping. Sam heads back downstairs. The light's still on in the kitchen. Dean's at the table, head on a pile of bills between his arms like the Sandman had coshed him one on the back of the head and Dean had just gone down. Sam puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck to feel the heat of his body, put his finger against Dean's pulse. Dean's breathing is rhythmic and even. There's no blood under his head, but there is a little bit of drool, dampening up the phone bill. He really is just sleeping.
And no wonder. Reassured, Sam ruffles his thumb through Dean's hair, seeing silver gleaming in the dark—too much of it. Dean normally looks peaceful in his sleep, but whether it's the position, or his dreams, or just that Sam's looking at him in good light, Dean looks oddly crushed now, the darkness around his eyes nearly bruises, the sun and smile lines deepened to gullies.
"Dean?" Sam hunkers down, fingers still tracing lines in Dean's hair. "Dean, wake up, man."
Dean doesn't move, doesn't even twitch.
Sam gentles the pile of bills out from under Dean's cheek. There are a lot of them. And Dean's checkbook, which Sam would have made some crack about if Dean had been awake; something about his math skills, which would be ridiculous and would earn him a punch in the arm. Sam's not regularly nosy, but he looks anyway, sees the money hemorrhaging out of Dean's account. Sam closes it and puts it aside with the rest of the bills. Suddenly his tummy doesn't feel so good either.
"Dean," he says again. "Dean. Wake up, man. Wake up." He thinks about how exhausted Dean must be, to have slept through the whole evening, to have slept through Miria's attempts to wake him, through giving the kids their dinner. Dean loves his kids. "Dean? Wake up, Dean. Gotta get you to bed. C'mon, Dean. Wake up."
Five minutes of patient shaking—enough to freak him out, enough to make him worry—before he even gets a twitch; Dean's hand jerking sideways in a half-hearted attempt to push him off. Sam catches Dean's fingers in his, holding them flat against his chest. The kids are sleeping; Sam dares to lean forward and brush his lips over Dean's.
For a moment, there's nothing. Then Dean's mouth somehow softens and opens, moving lightly, still sleepily. Sam's eyes are open and he sees when Dean's blink into awareness. Dean inhales and Sam, sensing his protest, draws back. "So much for that fairy tale," he murmurs and simultaneously tracing and wiping Dean's lips with his forefinger.
"What are you doing home so early?" Dean answers muzzily, straightening up from the table. He wiggles his jaw with one hand. "Where are the kids?"
"It's not early," Sam tells him gently. Dean sleepy and blurry is quite possible the sexiest in a long line of ways Dean looks hot, and Sam's tempted to lean in and kiss him again even though he's pretty sure Dean would only pull away. "And the kids are asleep. C'mon. Let's get you to bed too."
"What…?" Dean scratches his hair in slow motion, blinking. He's pliant as Sam half-hoists him to his feet. "Fuck," Dean breathes. "I'm tired." He looks up at Sam, swaying a little and, to Sam's surprise, pulls Sam down to his mouth again. This time, Sam closes his eyes. Dean kisses differently when he's only partially awake too, everything about him just open and upfront and without defensive layers. Sam can tell how Dean still loves him, wants him, in kisses like this, in the soft moaning sounds Dean makes in the back of his throat like it costs him something to kiss like this.
(stuff in between)
Sam realizes that, although he thinks of Miria, Kait and Evan as his nieces and nephew, he's still been drawing some invisible line of 'us and them'; him and Dean versus everyone else…including Dean's kids. He's done his share of cleaning, diaper duty and babysitting, but that's pretty close to it. The house, the real drudge work of maintenance and dealing with the kids…he's left all that up to Dean. He's left all that burden on Dean. And Dean being Dean, he's just borne up the best he could and not said a word to anybody.
"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, burying his face in Dean's hair. "God, Dean, I'm so sorry. I can do better. I can do more. I will, I promise."
Lightverse. Sam/Dean. After the divorce and after Sam's moved in.
The rustbucket car that Sam practically only uses to get back and forth from the train station to Dean's house—well, their house now—is dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
And Sam's ability with cars hasn't improved significantly over the years. It's only a couple miles home; after gazing blankly at the engine for twenty minutes and fiddling with wires and coils and things, Sam decides the better part of valor is to just leave it, walk home and hope Dean will help him fix it (read: Dean fixes it while Sam sits on the side and holds tools and looks helpfully ready) tomorrow.
It's bitterly cold out, but it's otherwise clear and Sam huddles deeper into his threadbare jacket and walks home, his mind skipping aimlessly like a scratched CD. If he can afford a new coat, because this one's barely good enough for scurrying from car to train to school and back. How he's going to afford the parts for the car, because Dean's going to give him the labor for free and he'd throw in the parts too, but Sam's got to draw the line somewhere. Whether Dean's going to yell at him for not calling and having Dean come get him from the station.
It's weird living with someone—with Dean—again. He's missed Dean, he wants Dean with a hunger that borders on irrational, but the living part, the day to day is hard. Being responsible—accountable—to someone again is hard. Not that Dean's ever let him not be accountable, even when he could barely stand to look at Sam.
The porch light is on when he gets home, but the only other light he sees is the flicker of the TV. He wonders if Dean's waiting up for him. He wonders if he's getting laid.
Oh God, he prays idly, rolling his eyes heavenward, please let me be getting laid. His brain throws up a pleasant and random porno of Sam and Dean moments; Dean's mouth on his cock, the breathless and whining moan Dean makes when Sam scrapes his teeth just right over his nipples, the feel of Dean inside him and the look on his face when Sam tightens around his cock.
"Hi, Uncle Sammy," Miria says indistinctly through a mouthful of what looks like a whole bag of multicolored M&Ms. Chocolate rings her mouth and the fingers she waves at him are dyed. The twins are in their car seats on either side of her and for a change, Evan is the one asleep, a milk moustache so thick he looks like a little old man. They're watching The Little Mermaid. Again.
"Isn't it kind of late for movies?" Sam asks mildly, taking off his coat. "Where's your dad? Why aren't you in bed?"
"Dad's sleep." Miria carefully pauses the movie—Sam winces at the chocolate smeared across the remote's buttons—and then gets up and comes over to him, hugging his leg. "Me 'n Kait 'n Evan were hungry. Are you going to make dinner? I want grilled cheese."
Sam looks over at the playpen. The netting's been cut open, scissors lying on the floor nearby. She's Dean's kid all right. "You haven't had dinner?" He hoists her up absently and wipes her mouth with his sleeve. She ducks away.
"Uncle Sammy!" She scowls reproachfully. "I tried to wake Dad up, so's he could make dinner, but he wouldn't."
"Wouldn't make dinner?"
"Wouldn't wake up," Miria corrects in a passing imitation of Dean's 'aren't you listening?' voice.
Sam almost drops her, suddenly chilled. "Did something happen?" Sam asks carefully. He shifts her around to his hip, picks up Evan's carrier by the handle. "Did Dean fall down or…or…" He doesn't know. He doesn't know the questions to ask and not scare her.
Miria looks at him blankly. "He's just sleeping," she says. "Dad's real tired."
"Well, you should be too," Sam says mildly. "I think it's long past bedtime for all Winchester children."
"But what about dinner?" Miria protests as he slides her down onto her bed.
"I think M&Ms will have to do for tonight. I'll make you grilled cheese tomorrow, okay?" He carefully lifts her chocolatey shirt over her head, Miria's arms raised helpfully, then gets her out of her smudged pants.
"Promise?"
Sam slides a clean nightgown over her head and ushers her under the covers. "I promise."
"Uncle Sammy?"
"Yeah?" He hands her Cupcake, her stuffed bear, and she eases down on the pillow looking worried.
"My tummy doesn't feel so good."
"Yeah, well, this is why we don't eat chocolate for dinner, isn't it?" He smoothes her hair back from her forehead then bends and kisses her. She should probably have a bath as well, but Sam's not going to worry about niceties. "Go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, okay?
"Okay," she says doubtfully.
It's far easier and faster to put the twins to bed and Sam's not at all looking forward to the day that they start talking back.
Sam pauses at that. It's the first time he's concretely thought about being here that long; him and Dean living here, raising Dean's kids. It's a weird thought and he doesn't know how he feels about it.
Kait rolls onto her belly, levers up into a crawl position, rocking back and forth on her knees. Kait is the night owl. "Nuh-uh," Sam tells her, flipping her over again and rubbing the heel of his hand against her warm, soft tummy. "Past your bedtime, too. Uncle Sam's got to look in on Dad."
Kait burbles, but she stays put and Sam flips on the baby monitor—which Dean apparently built himself and that carry for three blocks in any direction—grabbing the handset and tucking it into his back pocket. "Be good," he tells Kait, switching on the night light and turning off the overhead. "Don't destroy anything while I'm gone."
When he looks in Dean's room, it's empty. The bed's unmade, but it usually is. He looks in on Miria again, and for all her animation ten minutes ago, she's already sleeping. Sam heads back downstairs. The light's still on in the kitchen. Dean's at the table, head on a pile of bills between his arms like the Sandman had coshed him one on the back of the head and Dean had just gone down. Sam puts his hand on the back of Dean's neck to feel the heat of his body, put his finger against Dean's pulse. Dean's breathing is rhythmic and even. There's no blood under his head, but there is a little bit of drool, dampening up the phone bill. He really is just sleeping.
And no wonder. Reassured, Sam ruffles his thumb through Dean's hair, seeing silver gleaming in the dark—too much of it. Dean normally looks peaceful in his sleep, but whether it's the position, or his dreams, or just that Sam's looking at him in good light, Dean looks oddly crushed now, the darkness around his eyes nearly bruises, the sun and smile lines deepened to gullies.
"Dean?" Sam hunkers down, fingers still tracing lines in Dean's hair. "Dean, wake up, man."
Dean doesn't move, doesn't even twitch.
Sam gentles the pile of bills out from under Dean's cheek. There are a lot of them. And Dean's checkbook, which Sam would have made some crack about if Dean had been awake; something about his math skills, which would be ridiculous and would earn him a punch in the arm. Sam's not regularly nosy, but he looks anyway, sees the money hemorrhaging out of Dean's account. Sam closes it and puts it aside with the rest of the bills. Suddenly his tummy doesn't feel so good either.
"Dean," he says again. "Dean. Wake up, man. Wake up." He thinks about how exhausted Dean must be, to have slept through the whole evening, to have slept through Miria's attempts to wake him, through giving the kids their dinner. Dean loves his kids. "Dean? Wake up, Dean. Gotta get you to bed. C'mon, Dean. Wake up."
Five minutes of patient shaking—enough to freak him out, enough to make him worry—before he even gets a twitch; Dean's hand jerking sideways in a half-hearted attempt to push him off. Sam catches Dean's fingers in his, holding them flat against his chest. The kids are sleeping; Sam dares to lean forward and brush his lips over Dean's.
For a moment, there's nothing. Then Dean's mouth somehow softens and opens, moving lightly, still sleepily. Sam's eyes are open and he sees when Dean's blink into awareness. Dean inhales and Sam, sensing his protest, draws back. "So much for that fairy tale," he murmurs and simultaneously tracing and wiping Dean's lips with his forefinger.
"What are you doing home so early?" Dean answers muzzily, straightening up from the table. He wiggles his jaw with one hand. "Where are the kids?"
"It's not early," Sam tells him gently. Dean sleepy and blurry is quite possible the sexiest in a long line of ways Dean looks hot, and Sam's tempted to lean in and kiss him again even though he's pretty sure Dean would only pull away. "And the kids are asleep. C'mon. Let's get you to bed too."
"What…?" Dean scratches his hair in slow motion, blinking. He's pliant as Sam half-hoists him to his feet. "Fuck," Dean breathes. "I'm tired." He looks up at Sam, swaying a little and, to Sam's surprise, pulls Sam down to his mouth again. This time, Sam closes his eyes. Dean kisses differently when he's only partially awake too, everything about him just open and upfront and without defensive layers. Sam can tell how Dean still loves him, wants him, in kisses like this, in the soft moaning sounds Dean makes in the back of his throat like it costs him something to kiss like this.
(stuff in between)
Sam realizes that, although he thinks of Miria, Kait and Evan as his nieces and nephew, he's still been drawing some invisible line of 'us and them'; him and Dean versus everyone else…including Dean's kids. He's done his share of cleaning, diaper duty and babysitting, but that's pretty close to it. The house, the real drudge work of maintenance and dealing with the kids…he's left all that up to Dean. He's left all that burden on Dean. And Dean being Dean, he's just borne up the best he could and not said a word to anybody.
"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, burying his face in Dean's hair. "God, Dean, I'm so sorry. I can do better. I can do more. I will, I promise."
