Sam's got his fingers stuck in his hair. It's a small, blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment, the same they usually come. A thick breath, a swallow, a shudder and he's closing his eyes, untangling his fingers to lean his hands onto his thighs. He bends over, breathes in the warm mist with water raining over his body, and once the ground's stable again, he pulls up.
Lost in thought, that's all. Not possessed. Not this time. Lost in thought, tired. Not possessed.
Everything is alright.
*
Something stirs in Dean. He's breathing quickly, all of a sudden; it's that - that sound of fire crackling, and a smell like metal. He's up, fingers bending around the safe curve of his weapon, but he's aiming it at nothing and lowering it soon enough.
It's Sam showering. That's all.
Cursing under his breath, he places the gun back under his pillow. Well, he's up; better get the coffee dripping before the grumpy giant gets out the bathroom.
They barely smile in the mornings. It's one grunt to another's grunt, a tired glare when either one cracks an equally tired joke, but when they've both had a sandwich or two, and when they're finishing the first cup of coffee, communication starts flowing more easily. That's Dean's safe place - his brother by his side, smelling of some fruity two-in-one, growling at him and giving him those long, worn-out looks of distress in return for his big, toothy fake smiles. That's where home is, for both of them.
*
Rain pitter-patters over the roof of the car like a stampede of a thousand mice. Sam watches through the soaked window as Dean rushes across the parking lot with his jacket thrown over his head and then dives in through the driver's door with a warm bag of diner food in one hand. He lands them on Sam and he's laughing as he settles back behind the wheel, all proud of himself, and Sam's proud of him, too. They're on their way to Nevada, and it's a long damn road - but they're there together, and Sam guesses that's the one thing that really matters. He digs his fingers into the bag until he can feel the top of the box containing his salad. Unlike Dean's burger, still wrapped inside its papers, his meal is cold and radiates with nutrition.
"Dude."
"Huh?"
"It's a miracle you've made it to thirty-six with that diet."
Dean grins. "Gimme my meal," he purrs and reaches one free hand towards the bag.
Sam lets him take it.
*
In the night, the motel room closes in. Dean swallows thickly, trying to shake off the fear from his bones, but it creeps in like an unwanted lover, all cold with an ironclad chokehold. He throws a look towards Sam, and a sensation like warm water splashing over him washes off the worst of the panic: Sam's staring at the ceiling, awake. The smallest shift in Dean alerts him, and their gazes meet. Sam smiles at him - he's sleepy, too, but it's not the first time they share their insomnia.
"You, um, you wanna talk...?" Sam asks him, gently prodding the ache inside Dean's chest.
He shakes his head and swallows. He doesn't know how to talk. However, just being asked to - the fact that Sam's there to ask, the fact that he sees Dean, sees the pain - it's good. They're good.
"'s gonna be alright," Dean mumbles at him and closes his eyes, "Just go to sleep, Sammy."
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timeasmymeasure
RE: Sam/Dean, body autonomy, lived experience of mi
Date: 2016-11-10 07:46 am (UTC)Lost in thought, that's all. Not possessed. Not this time. Lost in thought, tired. Not possessed.
Everything is alright.
*
Something stirs in Dean. He's breathing quickly, all of a sudden; it's that - that sound of fire crackling, and a smell like metal. He's up, fingers bending around the safe curve of his weapon, but he's aiming it at nothing and lowering it soon enough.
It's Sam showering. That's all.
Cursing under his breath, he places the gun back under his pillow. Well, he's up; better get the coffee dripping before the grumpy giant gets out the bathroom.
They barely smile in the mornings. It's one grunt to another's grunt, a tired glare when either one cracks an equally tired joke, but when they've both had a sandwich or two, and when they're finishing the first cup of coffee, communication starts flowing more easily. That's Dean's safe place - his brother by his side, smelling of some fruity two-in-one, growling at him and giving him those long, worn-out looks of distress in return for his big, toothy fake smiles. That's where home is, for both of them.
*
Rain pitter-patters over the roof of the car like a stampede of a thousand mice. Sam watches through the soaked window as Dean rushes across the parking lot with his jacket thrown over his head and then dives in through the driver's door with a warm bag of diner food in one hand. He lands them on Sam and he's laughing as he settles back behind the wheel, all proud of himself, and Sam's proud of him, too. They're on their way to Nevada, and it's a long damn road - but they're there together, and Sam guesses that's the one thing that really matters. He digs his fingers into the bag until he can feel the top of the box containing his salad. Unlike Dean's burger, still wrapped inside its papers, his meal is cold and radiates with nutrition.
"Dude."
"Huh?"
"It's a miracle you've made it to thirty-six with that diet."
Dean grins.
"Gimme my meal," he purrs and reaches one free hand towards the bag.
Sam lets him take it.
*
In the night, the motel room closes in. Dean swallows thickly, trying to shake off the fear from his bones, but it creeps in like an unwanted lover, all cold with an ironclad chokehold. He throws a look towards Sam, and a sensation like warm water splashing over him washes off the worst of the panic: Sam's staring at the ceiling, awake. The smallest shift in Dean alerts him, and their gazes meet. Sam smiles at him - he's sleepy, too, but it's not the first time they share their insomnia.
"You, um, you wanna talk...?" Sam asks him, gently prodding the ache inside Dean's chest.
He shakes his head and swallows. He doesn't know how to talk. However, just being asked to - the fact that Sam's there to ask, the fact that he sees Dean, sees the pain - it's good. They're good.
"'s gonna be alright," Dean mumbles at him and closes his eyes, "Just go to sleep, Sammy."
Sometimes, words do heal wounds.