The Melting Point, Supernatural, PG-13
Nov. 7th, 2006 09:13 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phantismaToday is totally supposed to be a NaNo day (and I have NaNo'd today)...and I totally should be working...but...gah! I had to get this out before it ate my brain...
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Melting Point
Characters/Pairing: Dean, Sam (implied Dean/Sam)
Rating: PG-13 ish
Summary: A follow on to The Balancing Point, The Breaking Point, The Turning Point and The Point of Offering. "The Balancing Point" was my tag to the end of episode 2x02, "Everybody Loves A Clown"...this one is from Dean's POV
Warnings/Author's Notes: Schloompy Angst, entirely emo...Suddenly know where this is going folks...turns out it kinda had a plot from the beginning,...I just didn't see it. Seems I got my angst muse back...and my dark one is sort of whispering her return...now if I could just find my porn muse!
Spoilers: (Obviously) Through "Everybody Loves a Clown"
Disclaimer: If I owned them, there'd be a lot more sex.
The sky burns with orange and red against the deep, rich blue of the ocean. The sand under him is still warm from the scorch of the sun and it burns past the denim, into his skin, lapping at the chill that came with the blood.
His hands still bear the red, echoing the sky, all fire and condemnation. The sand doesn’t scrub it clean. Sam is silent behind him. Always so quiet anymore. His body is still, his legs embracing his brother without touching him. He knows the sounds of Sam’s silences, the ones that come before the visions, the ones that come after…the ones that crave touch, the ones that need space.
And ones like this…when no vision was enough to save them, when children were dead and the blood was on their hands. Dean glances aside and notices Sam hasn’t begun to clean the blood off of him. It stands out against the faded blue of his jeans, paints his skin lurid red.
Dean’s knees hurt from the hunt, from the concrete and the falling, but he kneels in the sand, accepting the pain because it’s something real…something he can feel. Sam sighs and the sound cuts the distance between them, makes Dean quiver with the emotion he has never found a name for…something he think exists only because Sam created it. He has no words to offer his brother, no way to hold him, to keep him.
Something broke apart, changed in his eyes and Dean doesn’t have the tools to mend it. Sam slips a little further away with every miss…and there are still good hunts, good work, people rescued from the dark things that hunt the night…but there are days like this one…hunts that end with the blood of children smeared across the sky, across the seats of the car, along their faces and hands and god but he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel clean again.
Sam’s silence lengthens, grows around them, almost palpable against his skin. He sighs, speaks without sound, his breath on the back of Dean’s neck, moist and warm. It chases chills down his bare back, Sam’s heat…following the wind over muscle and bone. Its more than the heat of a dying sun or the sand beneath them. It’s white fire, melting the definition between them, blurring the lines of who they are, who they were.
Sam’s hand on his skin trails blood and sand, his palm flat against the expanse of back, pressing that flame onto him, as though the blood on his hands wasn’t the remnant of a hunt gone bad a town and a half ago…as though it was fresh, dripping from his own wounds…from the tears in Sam’s soul.
Dean leans back into the touch, lets in melt into him, pulling Sam inside of him, letting Sam’s heat melt the cold, letting Sam bleed into him. This touch, the weight of him against Sam is enough, and his arms come around Dean, pulling him closer still. Sam’s eyes flutter closed and he lets go of it all, nestling his face into the crook of Dean’s neck.
“You should go…while I can still let you.” Sam whispered, his voice hot on Dean’s ear.
Dean only melts more languidly against him, his body boneless in Sam’s arms, letting his silence say the things words had no business with.
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Melting Point
Characters/Pairing: Dean, Sam (implied Dean/Sam)
Rating: PG-13 ish
Summary: A follow on to The Balancing Point, The Breaking Point, The Turning Point and The Point of Offering. "The Balancing Point" was my tag to the end of episode 2x02, "Everybody Loves A Clown"...this one is from Dean's POV
Warnings/Author's Notes: Schloompy Angst, entirely emo...Suddenly know where this is going folks...turns out it kinda had a plot from the beginning,...I just didn't see it. Seems I got my angst muse back...and my dark one is sort of whispering her return...now if I could just find my porn muse!
Spoilers: (Obviously) Through "Everybody Loves a Clown"
Disclaimer: If I owned them, there'd be a lot more sex.
The sky burns with orange and red against the deep, rich blue of the ocean. The sand under him is still warm from the scorch of the sun and it burns past the denim, into his skin, lapping at the chill that came with the blood.
His hands still bear the red, echoing the sky, all fire and condemnation. The sand doesn’t scrub it clean. Sam is silent behind him. Always so quiet anymore. His body is still, his legs embracing his brother without touching him. He knows the sounds of Sam’s silences, the ones that come before the visions, the ones that come after…the ones that crave touch, the ones that need space.
And ones like this…when no vision was enough to save them, when children were dead and the blood was on their hands. Dean glances aside and notices Sam hasn’t begun to clean the blood off of him. It stands out against the faded blue of his jeans, paints his skin lurid red.
Dean’s knees hurt from the hunt, from the concrete and the falling, but he kneels in the sand, accepting the pain because it’s something real…something he can feel. Sam sighs and the sound cuts the distance between them, makes Dean quiver with the emotion he has never found a name for…something he think exists only because Sam created it. He has no words to offer his brother, no way to hold him, to keep him.
Something broke apart, changed in his eyes and Dean doesn’t have the tools to mend it. Sam slips a little further away with every miss…and there are still good hunts, good work, people rescued from the dark things that hunt the night…but there are days like this one…hunts that end with the blood of children smeared across the sky, across the seats of the car, along their faces and hands and god but he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel clean again.
Sam’s silence lengthens, grows around them, almost palpable against his skin. He sighs, speaks without sound, his breath on the back of Dean’s neck, moist and warm. It chases chills down his bare back, Sam’s heat…following the wind over muscle and bone. Its more than the heat of a dying sun or the sand beneath them. It’s white fire, melting the definition between them, blurring the lines of who they are, who they were.
Sam’s hand on his skin trails blood and sand, his palm flat against the expanse of back, pressing that flame onto him, as though the blood on his hands wasn’t the remnant of a hunt gone bad a town and a half ago…as though it was fresh, dripping from his own wounds…from the tears in Sam’s soul.
Dean leans back into the touch, lets in melt into him, pulling Sam inside of him, letting Sam’s heat melt the cold, letting Sam bleed into him. This touch, the weight of him against Sam is enough, and his arms come around Dean, pulling him closer still. Sam’s eyes flutter closed and he lets go of it all, nestling his face into the crook of Dean’s neck.
“You should go…while I can still let you.” Sam whispered, his voice hot on Dean’s ear.
Dean only melts more languidly against him, his body boneless in Sam’s arms, letting his silence say the things words had no business with.
