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mickeymTitle: These Eyes
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Not rated, nothing TO rate
Words: ~1100
Warnings/Notes: This is future!fic. Like, decades down the road. Vague references to events that happened in "As I Lay Dying" (did I just mangle that title?) -- You know, S2, ep 1. Otherwise, no particular spoilers. There's also...well, I put a note at the bottom of the story, with the warning for this, because otherwise it gives the whole story away, basically. So read the warning at the bottom, if you want to be spoiled.
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agt_spooky is having a really rough week, and I offered to write her a little something. She wanted something schmoopy...Barb, I hope this works for you. I kept trying to take it one way, and it kept resisting and going another. Grr.
The first rattle of the door handle made him stiffen up, though he knew who it was. His breath was an ache in his chest until the door clicked shut again, and the tang of aftershave, sweat and sunshine reached in and wriggled around him.
Dean exhaled and inhaled in a rush, taking the scent in, wishing it was something tangible he could hold on to.
"Fifty looks good on you, man." The voice was low, a little rumbly, and felt as good washing over Dean as the hands that settled on his shoulders: warm, comforting, comfortable. So weird how Sam could do that. So weird how he reacted to it every single time. "Really, anything does. But fifty--"
"Yeah, yeah, okay, I get it. But--it's weird, dude." Dean missed the warmth of large, broad hands as soon as Sam moved away, and he leaned back in his chair, eyes closing to better listen to the sounds of Sam walking, shifting, moving.
The quiet shhhck of cloth-against-cloth would be Sam taking his jacket off and unknotting his tie, if he hadn't done that already, on the way home. A soft scuffling noise followed by a quiet intake of breath and low sound of pleasure when Sam took his shoes and socks off.
"You ever think of getting some odor-eaters for those humongous feet of yours?" Dean tipped his head in Sam's direction. "Your feet should probably be registered as lethal weapons."
"You ever think you shouldn't try comedy as a day job?" Sam was further away, just a little, and the snap-pop of a lid coming off a beer made Dean's mouth water.
"Fuck you and get me one, too."
Sam snorted; that sound always came through loud and clear, no matter what. Dean thought there might be a pissy face along with it, but lost the urge to care when a cold bottle was placed in front of him. Sam even took the top off--how thoughtful of him.
"So, didja get me any presents?" The first swallow of beer slid down his throat, icy-cold and carbonated; the fizz burned the back of his throat and up into his sinuses, and Dean coughed against it.
"Amazing. Fifty years old -- that'd be a half century, Dean -- and you're still all 'where are my presents'. Dude." How Sam managed to sound reproachful and amused all at the same time would forever be a mystery.
"I know how old I am, man. Don't need to keep rubbing it in." Dean took another drink of his beer, then another, felt it going down while hearing the sounds of Sam drinking, too. The bottle was slick beneath his fingertips, condensation making the glass almost like ice. He lifted the bottle, held it in front of his face and felt the cold radiating outward. "MGD, right? Brown bottle?"
Sam coughed, a quiet wheeze that sounded like "yes", and Dean nodded. His other senses compensated pretty good, but outright guesses always made him feel better, when he was right.
"It's weird," He said quietly, when the sound of nothing seemed strangling.
"Mmm?" Sam turned his bottle around and around on the table; in his mind's eye Dean could picture him peeling the label slowly, trying so hard not to tear it.
"I'm older than Dad was. He never got to see fifty."
They hardly ever talked about any of that any more: the demon, Mom or Dad, the roadhouse -- none of it. They'd talked and talked -- well, Sam talked, Dean alternated between listening and tuning him out -- with nothing ever really being resolved. Dean was okay with that.
"No," Sam said slowly, giving way more syllables to that tiny word than there should be. "He didn't." He lapsed back into quiet, and not for the first time Dean wished he could see his brother again. Not feel him, or hear him, or touch him or smell him, but see the thoughtful expressions. The pissy bitchface that no one did as well as Sam. The smiles that could light up small towns.
That would be the best present he could ever get, for any occasion. After a decade and a half of nothing but some shadows and gradations of light, Dean couldn't wish for anything more than to see Sam's face again. Even for just a minute.
"Stop it." Sam was closer now than a minute ago which kind of surprised Dean, since he hadn't heard him move. After so long relying on his other senses to fill in the missing blanks, Dean was sure he could hear a mouse fart a mile away. Sam told him he'd read too many comic books about superheroes.
"Stop what?" For a minute Dean wasn't sure what Sam was talking about, then he shrugged. "Oh, about Dad? It's just I've been thinking, and how it's weird to be somewhere he wasn't. Or something." He shrugged again.
"Yeah, I can see that." Sam sounded closer, so it wasn't a huge surprise when his hand came down on Dean's, big and strong and so warm. Like Sam himself. "So you want presents, huh, birthday boy?"
"That's birthday man to you, youngster." Dean turned his hand over so they were palm-to-palm and twitched just a little when Sam threaded their fingers together. "I swear, kids these days--"
"You're not too old for a whoopin'," Sam said, leaning in close enough that Dean could feel warm breath and smell the coffee Sam had had earlier. "I oughta put you over my knee."
"Promises, promises." Dean squeezed Sam's hand, then let go so Sam could stand. He followed, stepping away from the table very precisely before letting Sam guide them down the hall to their bedroom.
It was dimmer in there; faint flickers of shadow and light snuck across his line-of-sight, teasing him with their ins and outs. Dean blinked, resisting the urge to chase them, because they were never where he thought they would be when he tried.
"Hey," Sam called softly from right in front of him. "Still want your present?"
"It better be a good one," Dean warned. "You stiffed me at Christmas."
Sam snorted. "The way I remember it, you were the one who was stiff."
"Technicalities, whatever." Dean waved his hand, grinning when Sam caught it. The grin faded when Sam stepped closer, into Dean's personal space. Up against Dean, raising his hand to the collar of Sam's shirt -- sure enough, the tie was gone -- and the buttons there.
"All you gotta do is unwrap it," Sam whispered, leaning in to kiss Dean. He didn't get to see Sam's face any longer, but Dean knew what he saw, regardless.
He saw love.
~fin~
Warning: Dean is blind in this story, and has been for quite some time, now. I don't know why or how, and he chose not to share with me at this point.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: Not rated, nothing TO rate
Words: ~1100
Warnings/Notes: This is future!fic. Like, decades down the road. Vague references to events that happened in "As I Lay Dying" (did I just mangle that title?) -- You know, S2, ep 1. Otherwise, no particular spoilers. There's also...well, I put a note at the bottom of the story, with the warning for this, because otherwise it gives the whole story away, basically. So read the warning at the bottom, if you want to be spoiled.
agt_spooky is having a really rough week, and I offered to write her a little something. She wanted something schmoopy...Barb, I hope this works for you. I kept trying to take it one way, and it kept resisting and going another. Grr. The first rattle of the door handle made him stiffen up, though he knew who it was. His breath was an ache in his chest until the door clicked shut again, and the tang of aftershave, sweat and sunshine reached in and wriggled around him.
Dean exhaled and inhaled in a rush, taking the scent in, wishing it was something tangible he could hold on to.
"Fifty looks good on you, man." The voice was low, a little rumbly, and felt as good washing over Dean as the hands that settled on his shoulders: warm, comforting, comfortable. So weird how Sam could do that. So weird how he reacted to it every single time. "Really, anything does. But fifty--"
"Yeah, yeah, okay, I get it. But--it's weird, dude." Dean missed the warmth of large, broad hands as soon as Sam moved away, and he leaned back in his chair, eyes closing to better listen to the sounds of Sam walking, shifting, moving.
The quiet shhhck of cloth-against-cloth would be Sam taking his jacket off and unknotting his tie, if he hadn't done that already, on the way home. A soft scuffling noise followed by a quiet intake of breath and low sound of pleasure when Sam took his shoes and socks off.
"You ever think of getting some odor-eaters for those humongous feet of yours?" Dean tipped his head in Sam's direction. "Your feet should probably be registered as lethal weapons."
"You ever think you shouldn't try comedy as a day job?" Sam was further away, just a little, and the snap-pop of a lid coming off a beer made Dean's mouth water.
"Fuck you and get me one, too."
Sam snorted; that sound always came through loud and clear, no matter what. Dean thought there might be a pissy face along with it, but lost the urge to care when a cold bottle was placed in front of him. Sam even took the top off--how thoughtful of him.
"So, didja get me any presents?" The first swallow of beer slid down his throat, icy-cold and carbonated; the fizz burned the back of his throat and up into his sinuses, and Dean coughed against it.
"Amazing. Fifty years old -- that'd be a half century, Dean -- and you're still all 'where are my presents'. Dude." How Sam managed to sound reproachful and amused all at the same time would forever be a mystery.
"I know how old I am, man. Don't need to keep rubbing it in." Dean took another drink of his beer, then another, felt it going down while hearing the sounds of Sam drinking, too. The bottle was slick beneath his fingertips, condensation making the glass almost like ice. He lifted the bottle, held it in front of his face and felt the cold radiating outward. "MGD, right? Brown bottle?"
Sam coughed, a quiet wheeze that sounded like "yes", and Dean nodded. His other senses compensated pretty good, but outright guesses always made him feel better, when he was right.
"It's weird," He said quietly, when the sound of nothing seemed strangling.
"Mmm?" Sam turned his bottle around and around on the table; in his mind's eye Dean could picture him peeling the label slowly, trying so hard not to tear it.
"I'm older than Dad was. He never got to see fifty."
They hardly ever talked about any of that any more: the demon, Mom or Dad, the roadhouse -- none of it. They'd talked and talked -- well, Sam talked, Dean alternated between listening and tuning him out -- with nothing ever really being resolved. Dean was okay with that.
"No," Sam said slowly, giving way more syllables to that tiny word than there should be. "He didn't." He lapsed back into quiet, and not for the first time Dean wished he could see his brother again. Not feel him, or hear him, or touch him or smell him, but see the thoughtful expressions. The pissy bitchface that no one did as well as Sam. The smiles that could light up small towns.
That would be the best present he could ever get, for any occasion. After a decade and a half of nothing but some shadows and gradations of light, Dean couldn't wish for anything more than to see Sam's face again. Even for just a minute.
"Stop it." Sam was closer now than a minute ago which kind of surprised Dean, since he hadn't heard him move. After so long relying on his other senses to fill in the missing blanks, Dean was sure he could hear a mouse fart a mile away. Sam told him he'd read too many comic books about superheroes.
"Stop what?" For a minute Dean wasn't sure what Sam was talking about, then he shrugged. "Oh, about Dad? It's just I've been thinking, and how it's weird to be somewhere he wasn't. Or something." He shrugged again.
"Yeah, I can see that." Sam sounded closer, so it wasn't a huge surprise when his hand came down on Dean's, big and strong and so warm. Like Sam himself. "So you want presents, huh, birthday boy?"
"That's birthday man to you, youngster." Dean turned his hand over so they were palm-to-palm and twitched just a little when Sam threaded their fingers together. "I swear, kids these days--"
"You're not too old for a whoopin'," Sam said, leaning in close enough that Dean could feel warm breath and smell the coffee Sam had had earlier. "I oughta put you over my knee."
"Promises, promises." Dean squeezed Sam's hand, then let go so Sam could stand. He followed, stepping away from the table very precisely before letting Sam guide them down the hall to their bedroom.
It was dimmer in there; faint flickers of shadow and light snuck across his line-of-sight, teasing him with their ins and outs. Dean blinked, resisting the urge to chase them, because they were never where he thought they would be when he tried.
"Hey," Sam called softly from right in front of him. "Still want your present?"
"It better be a good one," Dean warned. "You stiffed me at Christmas."
Sam snorted. "The way I remember it, you were the one who was stiff."
"Technicalities, whatever." Dean waved his hand, grinning when Sam caught it. The grin faded when Sam stepped closer, into Dean's personal space. Up against Dean, raising his hand to the collar of Sam's shirt -- sure enough, the tie was gone -- and the buttons there.
"All you gotta do is unwrap it," Sam whispered, leaning in to kiss Dean. He didn't get to see Sam's face any longer, but Dean knew what he saw, regardless.
He saw love.
~fin~
Warning: Dean is blind in this story, and has been for quite some time, now. I don't know why or how, and he chose not to share with me at this point.
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no subject
Date: 2007-02-22 04:16 am (UTC)This was so good! And so totally not anything I was expecting. The schmoop was perfect. Just really nice and sweet and I loved it and you made me smile, too. :-)
Love you so much for doing this for me today. I was just getting ready to sign off and go to bed, hit Refresh one more time and here was the story! Now I can go to bed happy. *bg*
Big hugs! ♥ ♥
no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 11:14 pm (UTC)