angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2009-10-13 02:47 am
angelgazing) wrote2009-10-13 02:47 am
Entry tags:
fic: 52 pickup - spn - sam/dean
Why, yes, I should be doing important things like sleeping, or studying for midterms. But you should all know me better than that by now anyway. This doesn't even let me cross anything off my to-do list.
title: 52 Pickup
fandom: SPN
rating: pg
summary: There was never a time when Dean would say, "don't" and Sam wouldn't, because there was never a time when Dean would say it, until he did.
notes: I actually wrote Sam/Dean. You guys, I've been trying to do this for years, only to have it come up gen every time. Big, big thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
luzdeestrellas and musesfool for telling me when I'm not wearing clothes, and betaing, and making this better.
It's not that there's nothing coming for them; it's just that they're harder to find.
They drive through towns filled with churches, and there's someone standing on the front steps of every one. Dean keeps the needle steady on four above the speed limit, Sam slouches as best he can in the passenger seat, and the radio hums ancient country music.
Dean's pretty sure they're hanging themselves with the bible belt, but he's out of ideas and they've been running on close to empty for way too long.
---
Sam's always looked at Dean differently than the rest of the world. It wasn't a secret to Dean when he was nine, and Sammy mimicked his every step, and it's not a secret to him now.
When Sam was nineteen, Dean was his only family; when he was sixteen, Dean was his best friend in the fucking world; when he was thirteen, Dean was the bane of his existence. When Sam was nine, Dean was his hero and the light of his life.
There was never a time when Dean would say, "don't" and Sam wouldn't, because there was never a time when Dean would say it, until he did.
There are too many years between them, in shared motel rooms and the Impala's leather seats.
The heat in the room isn't busted so much as it's stubborn. It keeps the temperature exactly where it pleases, which is about eleven degrees above where they would choose, if given the option. It's hot and sticky inside, and the wind is howling outside. Dean knows, when Sam tilts toward him, before Sam even does it. Dean wraps his fingers around a sweating bottle of beer, and doesn't say it again, because he isn't sure what he'd do if Sam listened.
---
The TV wobbles when they shut the bathroom door, like it's just waiting for a decent excuse to dive for the flattened orange carpet. The beds are lumpy. The pillows are flat. There's something sticky on the half-sized card table shoved into the corner.
The free cable that the sign offers is the local news, Monk reruns, TLC, and four different church channels.
Nothing in the entire town delivers.
Sam keeps his socks on, and pokes at Dean's ankle with his toes, until Dean looks up from cleaning his guns. Sam smiles, and Dean isn't in on the joke. He flicks Sam's kneecap, knowing it'll be dulled by denim.
The lady on TV is wearing red lipstick, and it smears like an afterthought across the screen; the coloring bleeding out after every headshake, like a horror-movie clown. Sam pokes at Dean's ankle with his toes.
---
"Look," Dean says, shuffling a brand new deck of cards.
Sam's leaning forward on his elbows, twisting his half-empty coffee mug in circles, over and over, with his thumb and forefinger. "Dean," he says, with a sigh.
Dean learned card tricks to make him laugh, practicing in the passenger seat while Dad drove through the night, with cards that were worn and dirty at the edges. When they were younger, playing Texas Hold 'Em on cheap motel room bedspreads, Dean never let Sam win. Except for all the times he did.
Sometimes, when Dean dreams, it's about the sound of socked-feet sliding over slick blankets, and piles of nickels and dimes falling down. Sometimes it's beer bottles crashing together. And sometimes, it's Sam laughing, his hand wrapped around the back of Dean's neck, thumb tucked up under Dean's ear like it's telling him a secret.
"Look," Dean says, again, and sends the cards flying because they're too stiff. He laughs, and Sam shakes his head, and kicks Dean's shin.
Dean shrugs, but ruins it with a grin. "Fifty-two card pickup."
"Dick," Sam says, but fondly, with his mouth pinched like he's trying not to smile. He shakes his head again, and probably knows that Dean always lets him win anyway.
---
Dean curls his shoulders in, the collar of his jacket popped against the wind. His teeth won't stop chattering; his fingers are like ice, and he managed to pull up to the slowest gas pump known to man.
There's some kid making faces at him through the fingerprint-covered window of a powder-blue minivan, and a bunch of not-quite-teen girls singing at the top of their lungs—and so off-key it makes Sam look like Sinatra—about cherry Chapstick. They've got their soccer-mom in the passenger seat, looking bored and flipping through yet another tabloid with Britney Spears on the cover.
Sometimes, Dean can't help but wonder if the world's really worth saving, after all.
Sam bumps his shoulder, smirking, and hands him a cup of coffee.
They roll their eyes together, as the gas pump keeps ticking on.
---
There's a lady sitting at the counter, her fingers curled tight around the battered spine of her bible. Her eyes flash when they walk in, but there's not really a lot they can do about it.
There are six other people in the restaurant; two of them are armed.
The restaurant smells like dinner rolls. It's warm inside, like walking into a kitchen where things have been baking all day. It's just a tiny, out of the way place. The clouds outside are heavy, growing darker without the aid of sunset, and more intimidating by the hour. They wouldn't have stopped, but Dean's starting to get a headache from trying to stare down the sky. The lights all start to sputter.
When the lady stands, she comes up—roughly—to Sam's belly button. She's got a boy's haircut, a smile with too many teeth, and a Cosby sweater that comes down nearly to her knees. Her fingers don't meet around Dean's wrist, but when she touches him, she shivers and grips her bible tighter with her other hand.
"You boys," she says, sounding older than she looks. "Do you think you'll be able to forgive yourselves when all of this is over?" She looks at Sam, but doesn't let go of Dean's wrist. She laughs, sharply, and the lights dim and brighten in time with it. "I'll be praying for you."
The lights don't stop flickering until the bell on the door chimes happily behind her.
Everyone else is still looking down at their food. Dean's stomach churns unpleasantly.
---
Dawn is peeking in through the two inches where the curtains don't close. The light streaks across Sam's face as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, knees pressed against Dean's, and their feet planted firmly on the floor between their beds.
Dean's phone lights up and starts to buzz across the nightstand, and Sam just smiles. "Look," he says, like Dean hasn't gotten the hint yet. "Look," he repeats, and curves his palm around the back of Dean's neck, presses their foreheads together, and closes his eyes. "Dean."
Dean doesn't answer his phone.
---
Sam used to talk about these dreams he had, of going to a house he'd never seen, and finding Mom standing in the kitchen. He said she'd ask about school, about homework, about his friends. They'd talk until it got dark outside, and the only light was the one above the stove. His stomach would growl, and she'd laugh. But, he said, with his voice shaking, but there was always something missing, right?
He'd go to drop his bag in his room, to wash his hands for dinner, to do homework, whatever. But he'd leave the kitchen and the island of warmth, and light, and he'd walk around the house, but never get anywhere. He'd call out for Dean, and walk until his feet hurt, and then he'd run, opening door after door in an endless hallway, and all any of them ever led to was another empty hotel room.
He always said he knew if he could just find Dean, then Dean could figure out where he was going. In Sam's nightmares, he could never find Dean.
In Dean's nightmares, Sam stopped looking.
---
He knows Sam is coming from the crunch of gravel and ice under his boots, and because he's been able to locate Sam in pitch black with his eyes closed since he was six.
"We have to go back," Sam says, leaning against the Impala, cradling a steaming cup of coffee between his palms. He hands it over with an unnecessary roll of his eyes, when Dean looks at it meaningfully. He huffs, and makes clouds in the air, and pretends that Dean hasn't been driving toward Kansas for days.
Dean's fingers are red from cold, when he wraps them around Sam's wrist. He's got needles in his fingertips, from the sudden shock of warmth, and he presses in until he can feel Sam's pulse under the pads of his fingers anyway.
The air is thick with the promise of another storm. Even if it wasn't freezing, it's still off-season. The parking lot would be just as empty if the sun wasn't being beaten back by heavy grey clouds. There's a beat up Pinto, a white Oldsmobile, and a green truck that's actually smaller than Dean's car. Dean doesn't let go of Sam's wrist because he doesn't want to.
"Sam," he says, and has absolutely no idea what should follow it.
He thinks, this right here, is time to make a choice. He thinks about making smoke rings with his breath and the cold air. He thinks about card tricks, and growing up, and the things he keeps dreaming.
Sam shakes his head, and huffs again, and pulls him in. "You never listen," he says, but fondly, cupping Dean's face with his hands. He kisses Dean, in the middle of a hotel parking lot in Midwest America, in the middle of the day.
"Okay?" Sam asks, and doesn't really wait for an answer before he does it again.
"Okay," Dean says, finally, when his ears are hurting they're so cold, and the coffee's stopped steaming, and his feet are numb.
He tightens his fingers around Sam's wrist, and hopes like hell he can find their way.
title: 52 Pickup
fandom: SPN
rating: pg
summary: There was never a time when Dean would say, "don't" and Sam wouldn't, because there was never a time when Dean would say it, until he did.
notes: I actually wrote Sam/Dean. You guys, I've been trying to do this for years, only to have it come up gen every time. Big, big thanks to
luzdeestrellas and musesfool for telling me when I'm not wearing clothes, and betaing, and making this better.It's not that there's nothing coming for them; it's just that they're harder to find.
They drive through towns filled with churches, and there's someone standing on the front steps of every one. Dean keeps the needle steady on four above the speed limit, Sam slouches as best he can in the passenger seat, and the radio hums ancient country music.
Dean's pretty sure they're hanging themselves with the bible belt, but he's out of ideas and they've been running on close to empty for way too long.
---
Sam's always looked at Dean differently than the rest of the world. It wasn't a secret to Dean when he was nine, and Sammy mimicked his every step, and it's not a secret to him now.
When Sam was nineteen, Dean was his only family; when he was sixteen, Dean was his best friend in the fucking world; when he was thirteen, Dean was the bane of his existence. When Sam was nine, Dean was his hero and the light of his life.
There was never a time when Dean would say, "don't" and Sam wouldn't, because there was never a time when Dean would say it, until he did.
There are too many years between them, in shared motel rooms and the Impala's leather seats.
The heat in the room isn't busted so much as it's stubborn. It keeps the temperature exactly where it pleases, which is about eleven degrees above where they would choose, if given the option. It's hot and sticky inside, and the wind is howling outside. Dean knows, when Sam tilts toward him, before Sam even does it. Dean wraps his fingers around a sweating bottle of beer, and doesn't say it again, because he isn't sure what he'd do if Sam listened.
---
The TV wobbles when they shut the bathroom door, like it's just waiting for a decent excuse to dive for the flattened orange carpet. The beds are lumpy. The pillows are flat. There's something sticky on the half-sized card table shoved into the corner.
The free cable that the sign offers is the local news, Monk reruns, TLC, and four different church channels.
Nothing in the entire town delivers.
Sam keeps his socks on, and pokes at Dean's ankle with his toes, until Dean looks up from cleaning his guns. Sam smiles, and Dean isn't in on the joke. He flicks Sam's kneecap, knowing it'll be dulled by denim.
The lady on TV is wearing red lipstick, and it smears like an afterthought across the screen; the coloring bleeding out after every headshake, like a horror-movie clown. Sam pokes at Dean's ankle with his toes.
---
"Look," Dean says, shuffling a brand new deck of cards.
Sam's leaning forward on his elbows, twisting his half-empty coffee mug in circles, over and over, with his thumb and forefinger. "Dean," he says, with a sigh.
Dean learned card tricks to make him laugh, practicing in the passenger seat while Dad drove through the night, with cards that were worn and dirty at the edges. When they were younger, playing Texas Hold 'Em on cheap motel room bedspreads, Dean never let Sam win. Except for all the times he did.
Sometimes, when Dean dreams, it's about the sound of socked-feet sliding over slick blankets, and piles of nickels and dimes falling down. Sometimes it's beer bottles crashing together. And sometimes, it's Sam laughing, his hand wrapped around the back of Dean's neck, thumb tucked up under Dean's ear like it's telling him a secret.
"Look," Dean says, again, and sends the cards flying because they're too stiff. He laughs, and Sam shakes his head, and kicks Dean's shin.
Dean shrugs, but ruins it with a grin. "Fifty-two card pickup."
"Dick," Sam says, but fondly, with his mouth pinched like he's trying not to smile. He shakes his head again, and probably knows that Dean always lets him win anyway.
---
Dean curls his shoulders in, the collar of his jacket popped against the wind. His teeth won't stop chattering; his fingers are like ice, and he managed to pull up to the slowest gas pump known to man.
There's some kid making faces at him through the fingerprint-covered window of a powder-blue minivan, and a bunch of not-quite-teen girls singing at the top of their lungs—and so off-key it makes Sam look like Sinatra—about cherry Chapstick. They've got their soccer-mom in the passenger seat, looking bored and flipping through yet another tabloid with Britney Spears on the cover.
Sometimes, Dean can't help but wonder if the world's really worth saving, after all.
Sam bumps his shoulder, smirking, and hands him a cup of coffee.
They roll their eyes together, as the gas pump keeps ticking on.
---
There's a lady sitting at the counter, her fingers curled tight around the battered spine of her bible. Her eyes flash when they walk in, but there's not really a lot they can do about it.
There are six other people in the restaurant; two of them are armed.
The restaurant smells like dinner rolls. It's warm inside, like walking into a kitchen where things have been baking all day. It's just a tiny, out of the way place. The clouds outside are heavy, growing darker without the aid of sunset, and more intimidating by the hour. They wouldn't have stopped, but Dean's starting to get a headache from trying to stare down the sky. The lights all start to sputter.
When the lady stands, she comes up—roughly—to Sam's belly button. She's got a boy's haircut, a smile with too many teeth, and a Cosby sweater that comes down nearly to her knees. Her fingers don't meet around Dean's wrist, but when she touches him, she shivers and grips her bible tighter with her other hand.
"You boys," she says, sounding older than she looks. "Do you think you'll be able to forgive yourselves when all of this is over?" She looks at Sam, but doesn't let go of Dean's wrist. She laughs, sharply, and the lights dim and brighten in time with it. "I'll be praying for you."
The lights don't stop flickering until the bell on the door chimes happily behind her.
Everyone else is still looking down at their food. Dean's stomach churns unpleasantly.
---
Dawn is peeking in through the two inches where the curtains don't close. The light streaks across Sam's face as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, knees pressed against Dean's, and their feet planted firmly on the floor between their beds.
Dean's phone lights up and starts to buzz across the nightstand, and Sam just smiles. "Look," he says, like Dean hasn't gotten the hint yet. "Look," he repeats, and curves his palm around the back of Dean's neck, presses their foreheads together, and closes his eyes. "Dean."
Dean doesn't answer his phone.
---
Sam used to talk about these dreams he had, of going to a house he'd never seen, and finding Mom standing in the kitchen. He said she'd ask about school, about homework, about his friends. They'd talk until it got dark outside, and the only light was the one above the stove. His stomach would growl, and she'd laugh. But, he said, with his voice shaking, but there was always something missing, right?
He'd go to drop his bag in his room, to wash his hands for dinner, to do homework, whatever. But he'd leave the kitchen and the island of warmth, and light, and he'd walk around the house, but never get anywhere. He'd call out for Dean, and walk until his feet hurt, and then he'd run, opening door after door in an endless hallway, and all any of them ever led to was another empty hotel room.
He always said he knew if he could just find Dean, then Dean could figure out where he was going. In Sam's nightmares, he could never find Dean.
In Dean's nightmares, Sam stopped looking.
---
He knows Sam is coming from the crunch of gravel and ice under his boots, and because he's been able to locate Sam in pitch black with his eyes closed since he was six.
"We have to go back," Sam says, leaning against the Impala, cradling a steaming cup of coffee between his palms. He hands it over with an unnecessary roll of his eyes, when Dean looks at it meaningfully. He huffs, and makes clouds in the air, and pretends that Dean hasn't been driving toward Kansas for days.
Dean's fingers are red from cold, when he wraps them around Sam's wrist. He's got needles in his fingertips, from the sudden shock of warmth, and he presses in until he can feel Sam's pulse under the pads of his fingers anyway.
The air is thick with the promise of another storm. Even if it wasn't freezing, it's still off-season. The parking lot would be just as empty if the sun wasn't being beaten back by heavy grey clouds. There's a beat up Pinto, a white Oldsmobile, and a green truck that's actually smaller than Dean's car. Dean doesn't let go of Sam's wrist because he doesn't want to.
"Sam," he says, and has absolutely no idea what should follow it.
He thinks, this right here, is time to make a choice. He thinks about making smoke rings with his breath and the cold air. He thinks about card tricks, and growing up, and the things he keeps dreaming.
Sam shakes his head, and huffs again, and pulls him in. "You never listen," he says, but fondly, cupping Dean's face with his hands. He kisses Dean, in the middle of a hotel parking lot in Midwest America, in the middle of the day.
"Okay?" Sam asks, and doesn't really wait for an answer before he does it again.
"Okay," Dean says, finally, when his ears are hurting they're so cold, and the coffee's stopped steaming, and his feet are numb.
He tightens his fingers around Sam's wrist, and hopes like hell he can find their way.
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Lovely.
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*claps*
you should do this more often.
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Thank you. I've glad you liked it. :D
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I love the descriptions of where they are and where they go--the hotel room and the TV, the bible belt, the woman in the diner, by churches with someone standing on the steps of every one.
I also love all the subtext--Sam and Dean's relationship, the looming end of the world--all of it is nice and understated.
Thanks for sharing this!
I came via a rec by musesfool in unfit for society.
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lol I still swear that the only reason people ever read anything I write is because of Vic.