angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2008-07-13 10:30 pm
angelgazing) wrote2008-07-13 10:30 pm
Entry tags:
...and the lies that they told
Hey, look, ficlets! Wait, they probably can't even be called that. Drabbles! Something, whatever, let's pretend it was something awesome and productive.
We Move Along - SPN - 274 words
Sam leaves and Dean stays. That's how it works, right up until it isn't anymore.
It wasn't easy the first time, when Sam was sixteen and had his bags packed the second he had a license in his hand, and Dean at his side, fists tights in his pockets, waiting out the sixteen thousandth tantrum of Sam's teenage years. And it wasn't easy when Sam was eighteen, when he had a scholarship, a plan, and a dream of a picket fence and two-point-four kids. When Sam was showing mercy, when he had a blade cut through his spinal cord, when Dean had to watch. It wasn't easy.
But when Dean asked right, Sam came back.
And Dean knew—they both knew—that this wasn't going to work that way, once it was done.
When it stops being months and stops being weeks, and enters days at breakneck speeds, Dean laughs, in the green glow of the dashboard lights. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the radio loud, and curls his fingers around the back of Sam's neck, when Sam's eyes drop closed and snap back open again.
Dean remembers all the times Sam left, and he remembers all the times Sam stayed, just like this, waiting for something to happen, driving too fast, trying to stay awake after too little sleep for way too long. And he says, "Sammy, Sammy, you gotta—"
"Shut up," Sam mutters, turning just slightly, keeping Dean's hand at the back of neck with some freakish magnetic field, and his force of will, or something. "I'm trying to sleep here," he says, and keeps his eyes open, waiting.
---
Disney Never Would've Done It Like This - Arrested Development - George Michael/Maeby - 281 words
"It's like,' George Michael says, and stops and repeats, and says, "like the old stories, you know. Like, fairy godparents and happily ever after and—"
"I don't," Maeby sort of interrupts, in the middle of another long pause. She pushes the back of her wrist against his hip when she grabs a fist full of sand from between them and lets it go again, slowly, through her fingers. She watches her hand like maybe she can forget the way that George Michael is looking at her. "I was never much for Disney," she says, to somewhere around the freckle on her right knee.
"Right, right, no," George Michael says, and stops, and looks like maybe he bit his tongue to keep from repeating it. He shrugs, and Maeby feels it bump against her shoulder. "No," he says again, anyway, "Right."
The sun is setting, right there in front of them, heavy and redorangepink right over the ocean, and it's really, probably not the prettiest thing Maeby's ever seen, because she's seen the inside of her grandmother's jewelry box. But there's something, she thinks, that this means.
"George Michael," she whispers, accidently, and turns toward him without meaning to, and their noses bump, and she pulls away again, makes a face and fists her hands in the sand. "I feel like I'm missing something," she says, voice low, like it's a secret, "With all the fairytales that are missing from my developmental years."
He laughs, all nervousscaredsad, and curls his fingers 'til the backs of them are pressed against the inside of her wrist, and she sighs, maybe, a little, but he just says, "The ending was always my favorite part."
---
We Move Along - SPN - 274 words
Sam leaves and Dean stays. That's how it works, right up until it isn't anymore.
It wasn't easy the first time, when Sam was sixteen and had his bags packed the second he had a license in his hand, and Dean at his side, fists tights in his pockets, waiting out the sixteen thousandth tantrum of Sam's teenage years. And it wasn't easy when Sam was eighteen, when he had a scholarship, a plan, and a dream of a picket fence and two-point-four kids. When Sam was showing mercy, when he had a blade cut through his spinal cord, when Dean had to watch. It wasn't easy.
But when Dean asked right, Sam came back.
And Dean knew—they both knew—that this wasn't going to work that way, once it was done.
When it stops being months and stops being weeks, and enters days at breakneck speeds, Dean laughs, in the green glow of the dashboard lights. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the radio loud, and curls his fingers around the back of Sam's neck, when Sam's eyes drop closed and snap back open again.
Dean remembers all the times Sam left, and he remembers all the times Sam stayed, just like this, waiting for something to happen, driving too fast, trying to stay awake after too little sleep for way too long. And he says, "Sammy, Sammy, you gotta—"
"Shut up," Sam mutters, turning just slightly, keeping Dean's hand at the back of neck with some freakish magnetic field, and his force of will, or something. "I'm trying to sleep here," he says, and keeps his eyes open, waiting.
---
Disney Never Would've Done It Like This - Arrested Development - George Michael/Maeby - 281 words
"It's like,' George Michael says, and stops and repeats, and says, "like the old stories, you know. Like, fairy godparents and happily ever after and—"
"I don't," Maeby sort of interrupts, in the middle of another long pause. She pushes the back of her wrist against his hip when she grabs a fist full of sand from between them and lets it go again, slowly, through her fingers. She watches her hand like maybe she can forget the way that George Michael is looking at her. "I was never much for Disney," she says, to somewhere around the freckle on her right knee.
"Right, right, no," George Michael says, and stops, and looks like maybe he bit his tongue to keep from repeating it. He shrugs, and Maeby feels it bump against her shoulder. "No," he says again, anyway, "Right."
The sun is setting, right there in front of them, heavy and redorangepink right over the ocean, and it's really, probably not the prettiest thing Maeby's ever seen, because she's seen the inside of her grandmother's jewelry box. But there's something, she thinks, that this means.
"George Michael," she whispers, accidently, and turns toward him without meaning to, and their noses bump, and she pulls away again, makes a face and fists her hands in the sand. "I feel like I'm missing something," she says, voice low, like it's a secret, "With all the fairytales that are missing from my developmental years."
He laughs, all nervousscaredsad, and curls his fingers 'til the backs of them are pressed against the inside of her wrist, and she sighs, maybe, a little, but he just says, "The ending was always my favorite part."
---