supernatural drabble. "if the line snaps & there's no air."

[spinspinsugar]

if the line snaps & there's no air.

Coda to 3x16. 671 words. PG for mild language and implied Wincest.



Dean is stock-still, and Sam's hands won't stop shaking, the deepest shades of red pooled inside them. He's been here awhile now, but he can't bear to leave, doesn't want to even think about burying the body. He gingerly traces a jagged line down his brother's chest. His brother is (was) beautiful, even now, decorated erroneously with multiple gashes.

He wishes they'd bought a camera. Never once thought to buy one. Consequently, there is no hard proof. There is nothing to remind him beyond his failing memory. He can already feel days, nights, weeks slip away. Or maybe if were an artist...

He shuts his eyes tight, tries to remember how his brother's lips curved up, tries to remember a face alight with pleasure, satisfaction, happiness. He doesn't want to see this anymore. But his mind is cruel, and it is the only image it will allow him to see.

Sam tries to erase this cold body now draped uselessly in his arms, but it's not working.

A terrible thought creeps into his mind, and causes more tears. What if this is all he'll ever see? The tears fall and mix with his brother's spilled blood.

Sam suddenly becomes aware of how loud he is breathing. It is coming out erratic, ragged, his throat is scratchy and dry and raw from crying out.

He knows this: His adoration for his older brother crept over him like honey dripping down the jar. It inched slowly until it covered every single part of him. Slowly, because there was never a defining moment. It wasn't a snap of fingers. It was fingers sliding down his belly, finding the button on his jeans, during late nights, at rest stops and on the sides of highways. Sam closes his eyes again and a blurry image suddenly comes into sharp focus. Brightly lit. Surround sound. They're in the backseat of the Impala, and Dean's hand is trailing fingers softly across his skin. The rain is beating heavy on the roof, and it sounds like it's not going to let up for some time. He feels so safe.

These moments were rare, so Sam cherished them. He was unrelenting, in the way a puppy might be if denied his kibbles and bits. He knows why there were altercations. He knows why Dean tried to stop it. But he couldn't. It had spread and there was no stopping it. Not ever. No matter how hard Dean tried.

Mostly, it was violent. Volatile. His back slammed against walls, and dirty tile floors in abandoned houses. Torn t-shirts. Bite marks. Uneven scratches down his back. Sam's arms still bear bruises.

He aches now, deep deep inside. He wants to make it better, but it's too late. Days after he was stabbed, he kept reliving that moment: Fell asleep feeling jagged blade piercing his flesh. The absolute worst pain imaginable. He had so many nightmares. Dean assured him they would stop. He is reliving that moment right now, only now it's worse, because he worries this ache may never heal. When the knife wrenched, he was submerged in blinding bright white. What does his brother see now?

Dean's voice cuts through his racing mind, far away sounding, saying What the hell are you doing, sitting there, mourning me? Does evil ever sleep? You should be out there, kicking its ass. I'm finished, man. I'm done. Do your job, Sammy.

"How can I?" He's surprised at how meek his voice sounds. And tries to fight back more tears but fails, and finally backs away slowly from his brother into the darkest corner he can find.

Bobby arrives some time later, and stands rigid in the doorway. Sam rises to his feet feebly. Bobby crosses the threshold, and wordlessly pulls Sam into a tight embrace. It feels so familiar, and suddenly it hits him, and the images flicker underneath his eyelids like someone's turned on a film reel. And god, this is unbearable. Anger floods to his fingertips, and he gruffly pushes away from the older man.

"We've got work to do."

p.s. The title comes from a lyric in this song, which I highly recommend you listen to. It is pretty. + Lyrics.

Comments

[oxoniensis.livejournal.com]

This is the Sam I see - this helpless, hopeless, desperate grief, but he only allows it to last so long, before he's fighting to get Dean back. Cruelly beautiful, this.

[proofpudding.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm glad you see the same Sam I do. :)

[hoveringon.livejournal.com]

Oh my. This was lovely.

[proofpudding.livejournal.com]

Thank you. :)

[fleshflutter.livejournal.com]

Oh that was incredibly beautiful. So so well done. :)

[proofpudding.livejournal.com]

Thank you! :)

[iyalode.livejournal.com]

Yep, that's it. Crushing grief that Sam knows he can't hold onto because he has a job to do. So very good.

[proofpudding.livejournal.com]

Thank you. :)

[kerri-is-dead.livejournal.com]

Ouch, loved the imagery and how you described Sam's grief slowly transforming into something tinged with anger at the end there :)

[proofpudding.livejournal.com]

Thank you. :D