sink or swim (Sam/Dean, PG-13)
Feb. 25th, 2011 10:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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apreludetoanend's birthday. I miss her. ♥
Over a year ago, I wrote her in their element, a short fic about Sam & Dean 'as undercover doctors who have to make out in their scrubs so people don't find out they're not real doctors.' I needed some loose semblance of plot structure, and ended up with an air elemental. I then decided to continue into a series, one story for each element, but never actually got around to it. Until now.
This is a sequel, for the element Water. Warning: it is not funny/fluffy like the first. You don't need to have read the first (though I'd love it if you did!); all you need to know is that, as advertised, the boys ended up making out briefly. Set in season three, ~3200 words, rated PG-13. Thanks tomadame_meretrix for beta-reading.
sink or swim
They weren’t looking for a case in this town, somewhere on the back roads of Nebraska. They’d just stopped for gas and a late-afternoon snack, on a meandering trip south to a national park reporting a higher-than-average number of bear attacks, but Sam went in to pay because Dean needed to piss and he isn’t in the car when Dean comes back.
Dean takes a deliberate breath and reminds himself there are many different reasons for Sam not being where Dean expects him to be. Most of these don’t involve abduction by demons, cannibals, or other hunters, despite what recent history might suggest. He looks around and sure enough, Sam’s visible through the window, flirting with the cashier.
Or no, he realizes as the bell jangles above his head, Sam’s talking to another customer while the teenage cashier fights with the ancient cash register. He’s got his earnest, trustworthy face on, the one the old ladies always fall for. This one’s leaning in close, one hand on his arm, as she peers at him through her bifocals.
“Sam, I’m surprised at you,” Dean mutters, stepping up by Sam’s elbow, “what about poor Gertrude?”
Sam’s smile doesn’t falter as he steps hard on Dean’s toe. Even through Dean’s boot, this is enough to hurt; Sam’s heavy.
“Mrs. Hawkesworth here was just telling me about some strange disappearances in the area,” Sam says, releasing Dean’s foot. “Mrs. Hawkesworth, this is my brother, Dean.”
“Oh goodness,” Mrs. Hawkesworth says, looking over at Dean. “You be sure to look after your brother here, young man. I was telling Frank,” she patted Sam’s arm again, “he looks just like my friend Violet’s grandson who went missing. Violet raised him, you know, after his mother died, and David was such a good boy, never gave her a moment’s trouble... The police said he must have run off and poor Violet, she was blaming herself something terrible, but I don’t believe it for a minute.”
“And there’ve been some others, haven’t there?” Sam says, off Dean’s are-you-kidding-me look.
“Ha!” There’s a bang and jingle from the counter and the cashier does a fist-pump as the drawer opens. “Your change,” she says to Sam, pushing it across the counter.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Dean says, scooping it up. “Sam, c’mon. I wanna make Fort Collins by sundown.”
“There’s no rush, Dean,” Sam says. He smiles at Mrs. Hawkesworth. “It sounds like the local historical library has a fascinating collection of, uh, stuff. I was thinking we could stick around for a day or two, take a look at it tomorrow.”
“Lakeside’s a nice place for a vacation,” Mrs. Hawkesworth says. The girl behind the counter snorts.
“Yeah, well, we’re on a road trip,” Dean says. “Let’s hit the road.”
“So was one of the others,” the girl says, and snaps her gum.
Dean frowns. “Others?”
“Disappearances,” Sam says. “The ones I was talking about.”
“Sam,” Dean says impatiently, “someone on a cross-country road trip disappeared? I’m about to disappear. You coming?”
The girl gives him a disparaging look and snaps her gum again. “His car’s out back of the garage.” She folds her arms across her chest. “He left it parked at the motel. Wherever he went, he didn’t drive there. Didn’t take none of his stuff, either.”
Sam gives Dean a challenging look.
“Neither did David,” says Mrs. Hawkesworth sadly. “I can’t understand it.”
“Have all the disappearances been men?” Sam asks.
“Yeah, I guess,” the cashier says. “There was a girl went missing last year, but they found her clothes down by the lake. The cops figured she drowned, said she must have been drunk or stoned and went swimming at night. They never found her body, though.”
“Now she might have run away,” Mrs. Hawkesworth says, and her tone is frosty. “She wasn’t a nice girl.”
From what Dean’s seen, and he thinks he’s seen it all, this town is barely big enough to turn around in. And there’s nothing to say this is supernatural. A few guys disappearing isn’t much of a case...if he lived here, he’d take off too. But Sam’s got it in his head there’s something more, and Dean doesn’t feel like putting up with Sam’s amazingly eloquent and resentful silence all the way to Colorado.
Maybe that’s selfish, but fuck it. Dean can count his days—he tries hard not to, but he could tell you the exact number if you asked—and he’d like them to be good ones. For him, sure, but mostly for Sam. Because those are the good days for Dean too.
“Library, huh?” he says. “I guess we can stick around for a day or two.”
They take a room at the local motel, the one the road-tripping guy had disappeared from. Maybe the location had something to do with it, maybe not, but it was the only place around anyway.
By the same token, they end up eating in the town’s solitary diner. Dean doesn’t have to look at the menu. The pie in the display case, the blue plate special scrawled on the chalkboard behind the counter, the red-checked vinyl tablecloths and fly-specked lace curtains: he’s seen them all hundreds of times before.
Not every diner has a good-looking waitress, though. Dean turns on the charm, keeping the flirting just this side of outrageous. Sam rolls his eyes when she leans in close to deliver Dean’s hamburger, her long dark hair brushing Dean’s arm and her cleavage at eye level, but she saves them the last couple of pieces of peach pie and their coffee is strong and scalding hot.
“Anything else?” she says to Dean, but her gaze rests on Sam. Dean waggles his eyebrows at Sam who, as usual, completely fails to take the hint.
“Just the bill,” Sam says.
Sam smirks when the receipt she hands Dean doesn’t have her phone number scrawled on the back. Dean tips generously anyway.
They make their way to the local bar, have a few drinks and play some darts. Seems like it’s a slow night, though, and there aren’t even any hot bar chicks to improve the scenery. Sam manages to get one of the regulars talking about his daughter’s ex-husband who’d disappeared, but the general consensus is that Crystal’s better off without the son of a bitch and nobody much cares what might have happened to him.
Sam’s clearly frustrated as he downs the last of his beer.
“That guy vanished without a trace one night too,” he tells Dean, leaning in across the table. “There’s something here, I’ve got a feeling.”
“Okay,” Dean says, “but this place is a bust, and I’m beat. I’m heading back to the motel.”
He can’t be bothered to care if there’s a hunt or not. Sitting in a bar, drinking reasonably decent beer and watching Sam throw darts—those are good things. He’ll enjoy them while he can.
They walk back to the motel in silence. Dean unlocks the door and beats Sam to the bathroom. He strips down to boxers, brushes his teeth and splashes a bit of water over his face. Sam’s at the table with his laptop when Dean comes out, hasn’t even bothered to take his boots off. He’s frowning at the screen and every so often his leg jiggles.
“Don’t stay up too late with the research, Sammy,” Dean says, crawling into the nearest bed. “Gotta be fresh for the library tomorrow.”
Sam doesn’t answer, and Dean falls asleep to the sound of sporadic typing.
He’s not sure what wakes him up, but even before he comes to full consciousness, he can feel Sam’s absence in the room.
He takes a couple of deep breaths and tries to relax. It’s not as if one or the other of them haven’t taken off by themselves after dark before, on a different kind of hunt. Probably Sam’ll be back in a couple of hours, smelling of sweat and girl and cheap perfume, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes. Dean should be glad; Sam’s been on edge lately, and in Dean’s experience, getting laid usually solves that for at least a day or two.
But Sam looks like David, who disappeared.
He won’t be able to sleep until he knows for sure. Sam can’t be too far. Dean would bet a hundred bucks the Impala’s still out front: no way can she drive away from him without him knowing.
He pulls on jeans and a sweatshirt, tucks a bronze blade in one boot and silver in the other. The Beretta’s a reassuring weight in his hand as the door clicks shut behind him.
Dew has fallen, and the moon is high. The world is silver and black, all clean lines and wavering shadows. Sam’s large footprints show stark against the wet grass, leading down over the meadow to the lake beyond.
He’s halfway there when he sees him. Them.
The moon lights a path along the water, and Sam is following it, wading deeper. He’s up to his waist now, moving slowly against the weight of the water, and the weight of the girl wrapped around him, kissing him. Her legs are locked in the small of Sam’s back, arms tight round his neck. Dean can’t see her face, but the long dark fall of her hair is familiar.
He breaks into a run, tugging his sweatshirt over his head. It only takes a few seconds, but when he again focuses on the lake, Sam is up to his neck.
He’s almost to the shore. Sam’s clothes are on a rock, folded in a neat pile. He drops the gun onto them, tosses down his shirt.
“Sam!”
Sam falters. Both dark heads turn to look at him. Sam’s eyes are glazed, confused. Hers are bright and sharp and inhuman and when she grins at Dean, a wicked little smirk, he sees this is also true of her teeth.
“Sam, get out of there!”
Sam blinks, but she grabs his head between both hands and kisses him again, deep and messy, and makes little humming noises. Dean is going to kill her, and not just because, although he’s done his best to forget it ever happened, Sam once kissed him like that and so Dean knows, he knows it’s something way too good for monsters like her.
He’s kicking off his boots, retrieving the knives, and Sam starts moving again. She’s still humming, singing as they disappear under the water.
He throws himself in after them.
The cold is a shock, but Dean’s a strong swimmer. He wishes he’d had time to get his jeans off; the wet denim drags at his legs, but he powers towards Sam with everything he’s got. There are bubbles rising from the trail on the water. He takes a deep breath and dives.
Here under the water, her song is clear and compelling. It’s wonder and magic, it’s need and desire, it’s promise and fulfillment, and Dean understands why Sam followed it, but his ears are filled with the gurgle Sam made as he sank and there’s no room in his mind for anything else.
Sam’s still moving, ever deeper, walking along the lake bottom, but his pace is slowing. Dean’s coming up on them fast. Silver, he thinks, sticking the bronze blade edge-out between his teeth and settling the other firmly in his grip. It’s hard to make out edges in the near dark, where Sam ends and the girl begins. Her long dark hair streams and twists around them.
Dean grabs a handful and pulls, hard as he can, yanks her lips and tongue and brutal little teeth off his brother.
The song swells, but it’s wilder, more violent; there are hissing, angry notes under the sweetly-spilling surface. Dean can barely make out her features but he slides his hand up, tangling and grabbing through her hair, until he can feel the nape of her neck. He starts to force her head back, then jerks in pain as her nails—ten sharp little knives, sharp as the teeth that glint in the tiny amount of light that makes it down here—sink into his sides, below his ribs. It’s all he can do not to yell, or suck in water. He closes his lips along the knife in his mouth and clenches his teeth harder.
His blood is swirling in the water, another darkness, mingling with her hair. He can hardly see Sam anymore.
He forces her head back. Her right hand clenches, nails reaching for his heart; her left pulls out and slams five points of agony into his back and shoulder blade. He nearly drops the knife, head reflexively snapping back, but Sam is down here and if his own lungs are screaming for breath, Sam’s must be almost beyond hope.
He welcomes the pain, channels it, uses it as fuel, as air.
The knife strikes cleanly upwards, straight through the cup of her jaw, directly into the brain.
Her limbs flail, then relax. The song cuts off abruptly.
He pulls the knife free and pushes her body to the side. Her hair floats languidly behind her as she falls in slow motion towards the lake floor. A dark cloud of blood trails from her mouth. He takes the other knife from his mouth and holds both in one hand, kicking forward, sweeping his free arm in front of his face, trying to diffuse the blood—too much blood, hers and his, he can’t see a damn thing, and who knows what else is down here that it might attract—and his hand collides with flesh.
He slides his arm beneath his brother’s and kicks up to the surface.
The rush of air into his lungs is almost as painful as its absence. He sucks in great noisy gulps, and refuses to think about the fact that Sam isn’t doing the same. It’s hard to swim one-armed, but he manages, until they’re in the shallows.
He hauls Sam out of the water and up the shore. The rocks are uncomfortable beneath him as he cradles Sam, huge and naked and heavy across his lap. Sam’s not breathing and his skin is chill to Dean’s touch.
Dean turns Sam’s head and pushes on his chest. Dark water spills out. He’s still not breathing but there’s a pulse, heart beating beneath Dean’s hand splayed on his ribs.
He curls over and lowers his mouth to his brother’s.
It’s so unlike the first time. Sam’s lips are cool and unmoving beneath his, tasting of lake water, tannin and iron. He pushes air into Sam’s lungs, hands moving over his chest; Dean’s heart is in his throat and his mind is yammering Sam, Sam. He won’t lose him now, not again, not like this. He’s got nothing left to bargain with, he gave it all up already, all for Sam, and it wasn’t enough, never be enough, but it’s all he had and all he has is Sam’s, always.
He thumps once more on Sam's chest, takes a deep breath and seals his lips over Sam's again. Breathes and prays and knows no one is listening.
Sam coughs. Dean's mouth is flooded with water and blood and nothing has ever tasted so real.
He lifts his head, spits it out, turns Sam on his side, thumps his back, rubs his hand up and down Sam's side and his voice is hoarse as he says, "Sam." Over and over. "Sam. It's okay. I gotcha. Breathe. Sam."
Sam breathes. In and out, occasional weak cough, but no more water comes. He turns his head, eyes dark and still distant, far under the water where light cannot penetrate.
His hand comes up to grip Dean's. He tries to sit up; Dean tries to prevent him, but Sam gets one hand behind his head and pulls himself up, sitting in Dean's lap. Dean is abruptly aware of how chilled he is, everywhere except where Sam is touching him. Sam's skin is a brand against him.
Sam loops an arm around Dean's neck, brings their foreheads together, and again they are breathing in tandem. In and out. Dean would blame the water on his face on the lake, except he can taste the salt.
When their mouths meet again, it is essential as life, as breath.
Dean would stay there forever, not to have to think, to deal with whatever this is between them. The wind is cold against his bare chest, though, and Sam has nothing to shield him.
“C’mon, Sammy,” he says, and the words fall jagged and rough like stones against the quiet of the moonlit water. “Let’s get you inside.”
Two separate sets of prints down to the lake. One tangled trail back, Sam’s arm slung across Dean’s shoulder and their legs bumping with every step, as Dean mostly carries Sam and Sam, blue-lipped and shivering, pretends he’s fine.
They fall across the threshold. Dean waves Sam in the direction of the bathroom and hot water as he retrieves the salt canister from the table and seals the doorway behind them. Sam mumbles in protest and tries to insist Dean go first; Dean doesn’t even bother to dignify this with an answer.
He shoves Sam backwards into the bathroom and manhandles him into the tiny walk-in shower stall. He figures the fact that he can is obvious proof Sam needs it more.
“Get yourself warm,” he says gruffly.
He’s turning away when he’s arrested by the grim sight of himself in the mirror—hair lying flat with water, eyes dark-circled, mouth a drawn reddened slash against skin pale as the moon—and he isn’t expecting it when Sam snakes out a hand and hauls him in with him.
“Jeez,” Dean grumbles, “I still have my clothes on, bitch.”
“They’re already wet,” Sam points out, swaying, and then damn near passes out on him as the hot water gets going. Dean lunges forward and gets an arm around him, sliding him down the wall. Sam drops his head between his knees and takes deep gulping breaths of the steam rising around them. Little rivulets run down his head, drip from the ends of hair curtaining his face.
Dean peels the jeans off one-handed, which is possibly the most difficult part of his evening, and keeps Sam from drowning for a second time that night. He soaps and rinses him off, manhandles him into a pair of boxers and a T-shirt that cling and bunch on still-damp skin, and tucks him in under both their comforters.
“Dean,” Sam mutters, almost inaudibly. “’M sorry.”
Dean can’t deal with this right now, not least because he’s not sure what Sam’s sorry for. The girl. The lake. The kill. The kiss.
“Okay, Sammy,” he says, throat tight. “It’s okay.”
He lies under a thin sheet and stares at the ceiling for hours before sleep comes.
apreludetoanend's birthday. I miss her. ♥Over a year ago, I wrote her in their element, a short fic about Sam & Dean 'as undercover doctors who have to make out in their scrubs so people don't find out they're not real doctors.' I needed some loose semblance of plot structure, and ended up with an air elemental. I then decided to continue into a series, one story for each element, but never actually got around to it. Until now.
This is a sequel, for the element Water. Warning: it is not funny/fluffy like the first. You don't need to have read the first (though I'd love it if you did!); all you need to know is that, as advertised, the boys ended up making out briefly. Set in season three, ~3200 words, rated PG-13. Thanks to
madame_meretrix for beta-reading.sink or swim
They weren’t looking for a case in this town, somewhere on the back roads of Nebraska. They’d just stopped for gas and a late-afternoon snack, on a meandering trip south to a national park reporting a higher-than-average number of bear attacks, but Sam went in to pay because Dean needed to piss and he isn’t in the car when Dean comes back.
Dean takes a deliberate breath and reminds himself there are many different reasons for Sam not being where Dean expects him to be. Most of these don’t involve abduction by demons, cannibals, or other hunters, despite what recent history might suggest. He looks around and sure enough, Sam’s visible through the window, flirting with the cashier.
Or no, he realizes as the bell jangles above his head, Sam’s talking to another customer while the teenage cashier fights with the ancient cash register. He’s got his earnest, trustworthy face on, the one the old ladies always fall for. This one’s leaning in close, one hand on his arm, as she peers at him through her bifocals.
“Sam, I’m surprised at you,” Dean mutters, stepping up by Sam’s elbow, “what about poor Gertrude?”
Sam’s smile doesn’t falter as he steps hard on Dean’s toe. Even through Dean’s boot, this is enough to hurt; Sam’s heavy.
“Mrs. Hawkesworth here was just telling me about some strange disappearances in the area,” Sam says, releasing Dean’s foot. “Mrs. Hawkesworth, this is my brother, Dean.”
“Oh goodness,” Mrs. Hawkesworth says, looking over at Dean. “You be sure to look after your brother here, young man. I was telling Frank,” she patted Sam’s arm again, “he looks just like my friend Violet’s grandson who went missing. Violet raised him, you know, after his mother died, and David was such a good boy, never gave her a moment’s trouble... The police said he must have run off and poor Violet, she was blaming herself something terrible, but I don’t believe it for a minute.”
“And there’ve been some others, haven’t there?” Sam says, off Dean’s are-you-kidding-me look.
“Ha!” There’s a bang and jingle from the counter and the cashier does a fist-pump as the drawer opens. “Your change,” she says to Sam, pushing it across the counter.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Dean says, scooping it up. “Sam, c’mon. I wanna make Fort Collins by sundown.”
“There’s no rush, Dean,” Sam says. He smiles at Mrs. Hawkesworth. “It sounds like the local historical library has a fascinating collection of, uh, stuff. I was thinking we could stick around for a day or two, take a look at it tomorrow.”
“Lakeside’s a nice place for a vacation,” Mrs. Hawkesworth says. The girl behind the counter snorts.
“Yeah, well, we’re on a road trip,” Dean says. “Let’s hit the road.”
“So was one of the others,” the girl says, and snaps her gum.
Dean frowns. “Others?”
“Disappearances,” Sam says. “The ones I was talking about.”
“Sam,” Dean says impatiently, “someone on a cross-country road trip disappeared? I’m about to disappear. You coming?”
The girl gives him a disparaging look and snaps her gum again. “His car’s out back of the garage.” She folds her arms across her chest. “He left it parked at the motel. Wherever he went, he didn’t drive there. Didn’t take none of his stuff, either.”
Sam gives Dean a challenging look.
“Neither did David,” says Mrs. Hawkesworth sadly. “I can’t understand it.”
“Have all the disappearances been men?” Sam asks.
“Yeah, I guess,” the cashier says. “There was a girl went missing last year, but they found her clothes down by the lake. The cops figured she drowned, said she must have been drunk or stoned and went swimming at night. They never found her body, though.”
“Now she might have run away,” Mrs. Hawkesworth says, and her tone is frosty. “She wasn’t a nice girl.”
From what Dean’s seen, and he thinks he’s seen it all, this town is barely big enough to turn around in. And there’s nothing to say this is supernatural. A few guys disappearing isn’t much of a case...if he lived here, he’d take off too. But Sam’s got it in his head there’s something more, and Dean doesn’t feel like putting up with Sam’s amazingly eloquent and resentful silence all the way to Colorado.
Maybe that’s selfish, but fuck it. Dean can count his days—he tries hard not to, but he could tell you the exact number if you asked—and he’d like them to be good ones. For him, sure, but mostly for Sam. Because those are the good days for Dean too.
“Library, huh?” he says. “I guess we can stick around for a day or two.”
They take a room at the local motel, the one the road-tripping guy had disappeared from. Maybe the location had something to do with it, maybe not, but it was the only place around anyway.
By the same token, they end up eating in the town’s solitary diner. Dean doesn’t have to look at the menu. The pie in the display case, the blue plate special scrawled on the chalkboard behind the counter, the red-checked vinyl tablecloths and fly-specked lace curtains: he’s seen them all hundreds of times before.
Not every diner has a good-looking waitress, though. Dean turns on the charm, keeping the flirting just this side of outrageous. Sam rolls his eyes when she leans in close to deliver Dean’s hamburger, her long dark hair brushing Dean’s arm and her cleavage at eye level, but she saves them the last couple of pieces of peach pie and their coffee is strong and scalding hot.
“Anything else?” she says to Dean, but her gaze rests on Sam. Dean waggles his eyebrows at Sam who, as usual, completely fails to take the hint.
“Just the bill,” Sam says.
Sam smirks when the receipt she hands Dean doesn’t have her phone number scrawled on the back. Dean tips generously anyway.
They make their way to the local bar, have a few drinks and play some darts. Seems like it’s a slow night, though, and there aren’t even any hot bar chicks to improve the scenery. Sam manages to get one of the regulars talking about his daughter’s ex-husband who’d disappeared, but the general consensus is that Crystal’s better off without the son of a bitch and nobody much cares what might have happened to him.
Sam’s clearly frustrated as he downs the last of his beer.
“That guy vanished without a trace one night too,” he tells Dean, leaning in across the table. “There’s something here, I’ve got a feeling.”
“Okay,” Dean says, “but this place is a bust, and I’m beat. I’m heading back to the motel.”
He can’t be bothered to care if there’s a hunt or not. Sitting in a bar, drinking reasonably decent beer and watching Sam throw darts—those are good things. He’ll enjoy them while he can.
They walk back to the motel in silence. Dean unlocks the door and beats Sam to the bathroom. He strips down to boxers, brushes his teeth and splashes a bit of water over his face. Sam’s at the table with his laptop when Dean comes out, hasn’t even bothered to take his boots off. He’s frowning at the screen and every so often his leg jiggles.
“Don’t stay up too late with the research, Sammy,” Dean says, crawling into the nearest bed. “Gotta be fresh for the library tomorrow.”
Sam doesn’t answer, and Dean falls asleep to the sound of sporadic typing.
He’s not sure what wakes him up, but even before he comes to full consciousness, he can feel Sam’s absence in the room.
He takes a couple of deep breaths and tries to relax. It’s not as if one or the other of them haven’t taken off by themselves after dark before, on a different kind of hunt. Probably Sam’ll be back in a couple of hours, smelling of sweat and girl and cheap perfume, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes. Dean should be glad; Sam’s been on edge lately, and in Dean’s experience, getting laid usually solves that for at least a day or two.
But Sam looks like David, who disappeared.
He won’t be able to sleep until he knows for sure. Sam can’t be too far. Dean would bet a hundred bucks the Impala’s still out front: no way can she drive away from him without him knowing.
He pulls on jeans and a sweatshirt, tucks a bronze blade in one boot and silver in the other. The Beretta’s a reassuring weight in his hand as the door clicks shut behind him.
Dew has fallen, and the moon is high. The world is silver and black, all clean lines and wavering shadows. Sam’s large footprints show stark against the wet grass, leading down over the meadow to the lake beyond.
He’s halfway there when he sees him. Them.
The moon lights a path along the water, and Sam is following it, wading deeper. He’s up to his waist now, moving slowly against the weight of the water, and the weight of the girl wrapped around him, kissing him. Her legs are locked in the small of Sam’s back, arms tight round his neck. Dean can’t see her face, but the long dark fall of her hair is familiar.
He breaks into a run, tugging his sweatshirt over his head. It only takes a few seconds, but when he again focuses on the lake, Sam is up to his neck.
He’s almost to the shore. Sam’s clothes are on a rock, folded in a neat pile. He drops the gun onto them, tosses down his shirt.
“Sam!”
Sam falters. Both dark heads turn to look at him. Sam’s eyes are glazed, confused. Hers are bright and sharp and inhuman and when she grins at Dean, a wicked little smirk, he sees this is also true of her teeth.
“Sam, get out of there!”
Sam blinks, but she grabs his head between both hands and kisses him again, deep and messy, and makes little humming noises. Dean is going to kill her, and not just because, although he’s done his best to forget it ever happened, Sam once kissed him like that and so Dean knows, he knows it’s something way too good for monsters like her.
He’s kicking off his boots, retrieving the knives, and Sam starts moving again. She’s still humming, singing as they disappear under the water.
He throws himself in after them.
The cold is a shock, but Dean’s a strong swimmer. He wishes he’d had time to get his jeans off; the wet denim drags at his legs, but he powers towards Sam with everything he’s got. There are bubbles rising from the trail on the water. He takes a deep breath and dives.
Here under the water, her song is clear and compelling. It’s wonder and magic, it’s need and desire, it’s promise and fulfillment, and Dean understands why Sam followed it, but his ears are filled with the gurgle Sam made as he sank and there’s no room in his mind for anything else.
Sam’s still moving, ever deeper, walking along the lake bottom, but his pace is slowing. Dean’s coming up on them fast. Silver, he thinks, sticking the bronze blade edge-out between his teeth and settling the other firmly in his grip. It’s hard to make out edges in the near dark, where Sam ends and the girl begins. Her long dark hair streams and twists around them.
Dean grabs a handful and pulls, hard as he can, yanks her lips and tongue and brutal little teeth off his brother.
The song swells, but it’s wilder, more violent; there are hissing, angry notes under the sweetly-spilling surface. Dean can barely make out her features but he slides his hand up, tangling and grabbing through her hair, until he can feel the nape of her neck. He starts to force her head back, then jerks in pain as her nails—ten sharp little knives, sharp as the teeth that glint in the tiny amount of light that makes it down here—sink into his sides, below his ribs. It’s all he can do not to yell, or suck in water. He closes his lips along the knife in his mouth and clenches his teeth harder.
His blood is swirling in the water, another darkness, mingling with her hair. He can hardly see Sam anymore.
He forces her head back. Her right hand clenches, nails reaching for his heart; her left pulls out and slams five points of agony into his back and shoulder blade. He nearly drops the knife, head reflexively snapping back, but Sam is down here and if his own lungs are screaming for breath, Sam’s must be almost beyond hope.
He welcomes the pain, channels it, uses it as fuel, as air.
The knife strikes cleanly upwards, straight through the cup of her jaw, directly into the brain.
Her limbs flail, then relax. The song cuts off abruptly.
He pulls the knife free and pushes her body to the side. Her hair floats languidly behind her as she falls in slow motion towards the lake floor. A dark cloud of blood trails from her mouth. He takes the other knife from his mouth and holds both in one hand, kicking forward, sweeping his free arm in front of his face, trying to diffuse the blood—too much blood, hers and his, he can’t see a damn thing, and who knows what else is down here that it might attract—and his hand collides with flesh.
He slides his arm beneath his brother’s and kicks up to the surface.
The rush of air into his lungs is almost as painful as its absence. He sucks in great noisy gulps, and refuses to think about the fact that Sam isn’t doing the same. It’s hard to swim one-armed, but he manages, until they’re in the shallows.
He hauls Sam out of the water and up the shore. The rocks are uncomfortable beneath him as he cradles Sam, huge and naked and heavy across his lap. Sam’s not breathing and his skin is chill to Dean’s touch.
Dean turns Sam’s head and pushes on his chest. Dark water spills out. He’s still not breathing but there’s a pulse, heart beating beneath Dean’s hand splayed on his ribs.
He curls over and lowers his mouth to his brother’s.
It’s so unlike the first time. Sam’s lips are cool and unmoving beneath his, tasting of lake water, tannin and iron. He pushes air into Sam’s lungs, hands moving over his chest; Dean’s heart is in his throat and his mind is yammering Sam, Sam. He won’t lose him now, not again, not like this. He’s got nothing left to bargain with, he gave it all up already, all for Sam, and it wasn’t enough, never be enough, but it’s all he had and all he has is Sam’s, always.
He thumps once more on Sam's chest, takes a deep breath and seals his lips over Sam's again. Breathes and prays and knows no one is listening.
Sam coughs. Dean's mouth is flooded with water and blood and nothing has ever tasted so real.
He lifts his head, spits it out, turns Sam on his side, thumps his back, rubs his hand up and down Sam's side and his voice is hoarse as he says, "Sam." Over and over. "Sam. It's okay. I gotcha. Breathe. Sam."
Sam breathes. In and out, occasional weak cough, but no more water comes. He turns his head, eyes dark and still distant, far under the water where light cannot penetrate.
His hand comes up to grip Dean's. He tries to sit up; Dean tries to prevent him, but Sam gets one hand behind his head and pulls himself up, sitting in Dean's lap. Dean is abruptly aware of how chilled he is, everywhere except where Sam is touching him. Sam's skin is a brand against him.
Sam loops an arm around Dean's neck, brings their foreheads together, and again they are breathing in tandem. In and out. Dean would blame the water on his face on the lake, except he can taste the salt.
When their mouths meet again, it is essential as life, as breath.
Dean would stay there forever, not to have to think, to deal with whatever this is between them. The wind is cold against his bare chest, though, and Sam has nothing to shield him.
“C’mon, Sammy,” he says, and the words fall jagged and rough like stones against the quiet of the moonlit water. “Let’s get you inside.”
Two separate sets of prints down to the lake. One tangled trail back, Sam’s arm slung across Dean’s shoulder and their legs bumping with every step, as Dean mostly carries Sam and Sam, blue-lipped and shivering, pretends he’s fine.
They fall across the threshold. Dean waves Sam in the direction of the bathroom and hot water as he retrieves the salt canister from the table and seals the doorway behind them. Sam mumbles in protest and tries to insist Dean go first; Dean doesn’t even bother to dignify this with an answer.
He shoves Sam backwards into the bathroom and manhandles him into the tiny walk-in shower stall. He figures the fact that he can is obvious proof Sam needs it more.
“Get yourself warm,” he says gruffly.
He’s turning away when he’s arrested by the grim sight of himself in the mirror—hair lying flat with water, eyes dark-circled, mouth a drawn reddened slash against skin pale as the moon—and he isn’t expecting it when Sam snakes out a hand and hauls him in with him.
“Jeez,” Dean grumbles, “I still have my clothes on, bitch.”
“They’re already wet,” Sam points out, swaying, and then damn near passes out on him as the hot water gets going. Dean lunges forward and gets an arm around him, sliding him down the wall. Sam drops his head between his knees and takes deep gulping breaths of the steam rising around them. Little rivulets run down his head, drip from the ends of hair curtaining his face.
Dean peels the jeans off one-handed, which is possibly the most difficult part of his evening, and keeps Sam from drowning for a second time that night. He soaps and rinses him off, manhandles him into a pair of boxers and a T-shirt that cling and bunch on still-damp skin, and tucks him in under both their comforters.
“Dean,” Sam mutters, almost inaudibly. “’M sorry.”
Dean can’t deal with this right now, not least because he’s not sure what Sam’s sorry for. The girl. The lake. The kill. The kiss.
“Okay, Sammy,” he says, throat tight. “It’s okay.”
He lies under a thin sheet and stares at the ceiling for hours before sleep comes.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-26 03:16 am (UTC)I also like how frazzled Dean is about the whole thing.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-28 12:39 am (UTC)Dean is dealing with rather a lot at the moment anyway...this seemed likely to fry his brain somewhat. *g*
(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-26 07:09 am (UTC)*shivers*
And the memory of the kiss, and oh, Dean.
*hugs them both*
Good stuff.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-28 12:40 am (UTC)Omg your ICON!!
(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-28 01:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-26 04:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 03:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-27 03:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 03:16 pm (UTC)I decided maybe I had the order wrong after all. I've more or less thrown out the original 'fire' draft and I'll see where it goes from here...
(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 01:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 03:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 02:47 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 03:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 03:09 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 03:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 04:12 am (UTC)Definitely going back to read the other one as well :)
(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 03:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 01:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-01 03:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-07 01:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-08 01:06 am (UTC)sink or swim
Date: 2011-03-08 01:53 am (UTC)Re: sink or swim
Date: 2011-03-08 10:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-10 03:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-11 03:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-26 03:23 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-26 09:58 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-04-27 05:30 pm (UTC)Sam once kissed him like that and so Dean knows, he knows it’s something way too good for monsters like her.
He thumps once more on Sam's chest, takes a deep breath and seals his lips over Sam's again. Breathes and prays and knows no one is listening.
Two separate sets of prints down to the lake. One tangled trail back, Sam’s arm slung across Dean’s shoulder and their legs bumping with every step
The girl. The lake. The kill. The kiss.
Ahhhhh. SO MUCH YES!
You are AMAZING. ♥♥♥
p.s.~ Will you write more in this 'verse? I would read more! *puppyeyes*
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-07 02:26 am (UTC)I am so glad you like this! Quotage makes me grin with delight. :D (see?)
There are definitely plans for more in this verse (two, possibly three) but heaven only knows when...
(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-06 07:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-07 02:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-09 10:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-05-10 01:35 am (UTC)