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spn_springfling2016-03-14 06:00 pm
springflingmod.livejournal.com) wrote in spn_springfling2016-03-14 06:00 pm
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irradiant for <user site="livejournal.co
Title: behind this curtain
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: E
Any warnings: underage content
Some time when Sam’s still young enough not to know any better he tells Dad that Dean is back. It’s been a few weeks but they feel like years, like a minor lifetime, before Sam’s waking in the dark and cold to Dean wriggling into his bed, cuddling up to Sam like they did in every motel room, in every city and state they’d traveled through since Sam could first remember.
Dad barges in with his shotgun, smelling sharp and sour and stale, breath as harsh as bellows. Sam doesn’t understand. He’s sure Dad’ll be happy with the news, until Dad looks right through Dean who’s sitting up in bed, hair rumpled and eyes wide, and Sam feels a rock drop down in the pit of his stomach.
*
Sam tries for a long while, but every time he mentions Dean’s name Dad’s face goes dark as a storm cloud and his knuckles go white on the steering wheel and he calls anything Sam says nonsense; shuts him up real quick. Dad talks to priests in high collars and long black robes, he talks to women who smell like the damp earth after it rains and give Sam drinks that taste like grass and sweet smoke, that send him into hot, sweaty fevers that lose him days.
Sam learns not to say anything at all. He’s got Dean again and the car and the road. It’s enough.
*
Dean winks back at him from the passenger seat and says watch this. Then he changes the radio channel just to watch Dad curse and swerve, the whole of them swaying in their great, black car and Sam bites down hard on his bottom lip so he won’t smile, keeps his laughter to himself until he’s in bed and under the covers with Dean, hot breath mingling between them as they whisper each day’s worth of secrets.
*
Sam’s in fifth grade and he hears Bobby say, Something ain’t right with that boy, his voice a growly rumble.
The rest is muffled as Dad and Bobby make their way deeper into the ramshackle house. Sam peers through the dirty back windows, rickety patio floorboards creaking underfoot. Dean scowls and bangs his hand against the screen door. It rattles in place like a cornered snake.
Sam’s throat feels like it's closing up on him, his stomach squeezing up tight over and over again until his eyes go hot and he’s sure he’s gonna hurl right over the ancient patio railing.
“I’ll show ‘em what’s not right,” Dean mutters. His hands curl into vengeful fists at his sides.
“Dean,” Sam says weakly. It comes out thin and wavery and Dean’s eyes go soft for all of a second. He makes a show of ruffling Sam’s hair like that might reassure him, but his jaw’s set stiff, and he still lopes down the wooden steps and deep into the junkyard.
Sam follows halfway down the rutted dirt path. Bobby’s rottweiler whines as Sam approaches. It slinks quickly into the nearby rusted carcass of a dark blue Ford pick up, its chain rattling behind, sweeping up a cloud of dust. Sam waits, shifting anxiously on his feet. A shout makes him turn towards Bobby’s house, up into the flat midday winter sky. There’s a black plume of smoke curling upward from somewhere on the other side. The back door opens with a bang and Dad emerges, eyes settling on Sam for all of a second before he’s rushing back inside.
Dean comes back smiling and smelling like burnt rubber, teeth white in his soot streaked face.
*
Sam turns sixteen and they spend the summer in Florida.
Their apartment smells like mold and heats up hotter than a sauna. Dad leaves for weeks at a time and Sam walks a mile every morning just to escape within the silent stacks of books inside the neighborhood public library. No one questions why he only reads and never checks anything out and soon enough he’s a feature there like the trickling, circular fountain in the courtyard or the sound of the copy machine whirring and clicking in the back office.
Dean comes home later and later at night. He’s gotten broader in the shoulders, lean muscle and tanned skin and callouses on his thick fingers. Freckles over the bridge of his nose and down his back when he chucks his shirt overhead at night and Sammy you should’ve seen the girls tonight in his low, sleepy voice that starts tugging right at a spot low in Sam’s gut.
They sleep in Dad’s bed when he’s gone, smelling like musk and the new colognes Dean wears now and the intimate, grown smell of Dean. It’s like the first time Dean started wearing Dad’s jacket, and every time he’d hold Sam to him in jest or in anger Sam’s heartbeat would go all wonky in his chest, trying to escape, trying to press its desperate shape right up into Dean’s ribcage.
“I said, scoot,” Dean mumbles, once he’s down to his shirt and boxers. The bed dips below his knee. He’s hot as a brick laid out in the sun all along Sam’s back as he scoops him up in his arms, no matter that Sam’s seemingly sprouted another inch overnight, so that he’s taller than Dean now, stretched thin as a beanpole.
*
Sam’s so hard it’s a sweet torture just having Dean pull him out. He keeps his arms at his sides and watches Dean’s big hand wrap around and squeeze up. Wet beads at the tip. Sam’s mouth falls open. He’s so swollen and hot between his legs he’s sure he’ll blow. It never takes long when he’s by himself, but he wants to savor it now, wants to draw it out and hoard the moment inside forever because it's Dean’s hand on him, and Dean’s breath ghosting against his neck.
“Dean,” Sam says, small and weak.
Relax, there you go, Dean says. His grip goes tighter, twists palm over the head to smear around the wet. Sam swallows down a whine. His hips jolt up and in between blinks Dean’s hand disappears like a magic act. Reappears. Gone again. Sam’s dick juts up desperate and hard and Dean’s hand is merciless, drawing it out, until Sam’s dick jerks and spurts, wetting his stomach and dribbling over Dean’s knuckles.
Sam’s fist twists in Dean’s shirt. He closes his eyes and holds onto Dean’s voice, a steady whisper in his ear.
*
Sam is legally an adult in just a few a short months - a few stretch of forever. Inside he’s ancient bark and twisted roots and Dad is having none of it when he finds the acceptance letter. His hand is tight across the back of Sam’s neck, and Sam holds his shotgun like he’s never seen it before, heart pounding in his ears. His rage is a red thing, obscuring the darkened interior of tonight’s haunted Victorian as it sheds yellowed wallpaper like a second skin. Sam doesn’t see the specter until it's hurtling towards him in the air, tattered remains of its dress eerily still as it rushes through him bodily. He shoots two salt rounds. Then he’s slammed against the sharp edge of a decrepit bannister, a sharp, black pain at his temple.
*
The car ride back is silent except for the shadow of Sam’s anger, radiating out of him like a heatwave.
Dean’s face is surprise, then anger, then something deep and blank when he sees Sam. He rips the shower curtain down in the bathroom even though he hisses Quit it, at Sam. It’s like the first time Dean came back, the there and not there of him, the nausea that twists up inside Sam and makes him lean over the toilet, gagging.
“Don’t leave me,” Sam hisses; anger and fright.
Dean’s mouth quirks at the side. His hand is curled around the doorknob.
“I ain’t the one leaving,” Dean says.
*
In the morning Dad won’t answer his door, and Dean packs Sam’s bags for him, comes out whistling. The night before is like a page torn out of a book. When Sam concentrates on the ragged edges his skull goes tight and his vision swims and Dean’s hand descends on his shoulder.
Sam buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck. He breathes in. He smells dewy morning air, soft as it always is before the first hot, lance of sunlight. He doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t think.
*
The car and Dean beside him and the open road.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: E
Any warnings: underage content
Some time when Sam’s still young enough not to know any better he tells Dad that Dean is back. It’s been a few weeks but they feel like years, like a minor lifetime, before Sam’s waking in the dark and cold to Dean wriggling into his bed, cuddling up to Sam like they did in every motel room, in every city and state they’d traveled through since Sam could first remember.
Dad barges in with his shotgun, smelling sharp and sour and stale, breath as harsh as bellows. Sam doesn’t understand. He’s sure Dad’ll be happy with the news, until Dad looks right through Dean who’s sitting up in bed, hair rumpled and eyes wide, and Sam feels a rock drop down in the pit of his stomach.
*
Sam tries for a long while, but every time he mentions Dean’s name Dad’s face goes dark as a storm cloud and his knuckles go white on the steering wheel and he calls anything Sam says nonsense; shuts him up real quick. Dad talks to priests in high collars and long black robes, he talks to women who smell like the damp earth after it rains and give Sam drinks that taste like grass and sweet smoke, that send him into hot, sweaty fevers that lose him days.
Sam learns not to say anything at all. He’s got Dean again and the car and the road. It’s enough.
*
Dean winks back at him from the passenger seat and says watch this. Then he changes the radio channel just to watch Dad curse and swerve, the whole of them swaying in their great, black car and Sam bites down hard on his bottom lip so he won’t smile, keeps his laughter to himself until he’s in bed and under the covers with Dean, hot breath mingling between them as they whisper each day’s worth of secrets.
*
Sam’s in fifth grade and he hears Bobby say, Something ain’t right with that boy, his voice a growly rumble.
The rest is muffled as Dad and Bobby make their way deeper into the ramshackle house. Sam peers through the dirty back windows, rickety patio floorboards creaking underfoot. Dean scowls and bangs his hand against the screen door. It rattles in place like a cornered snake.
Sam’s throat feels like it's closing up on him, his stomach squeezing up tight over and over again until his eyes go hot and he’s sure he’s gonna hurl right over the ancient patio railing.
“I’ll show ‘em what’s not right,” Dean mutters. His hands curl into vengeful fists at his sides.
“Dean,” Sam says weakly. It comes out thin and wavery and Dean’s eyes go soft for all of a second. He makes a show of ruffling Sam’s hair like that might reassure him, but his jaw’s set stiff, and he still lopes down the wooden steps and deep into the junkyard.
Sam follows halfway down the rutted dirt path. Bobby’s rottweiler whines as Sam approaches. It slinks quickly into the nearby rusted carcass of a dark blue Ford pick up, its chain rattling behind, sweeping up a cloud of dust. Sam waits, shifting anxiously on his feet. A shout makes him turn towards Bobby’s house, up into the flat midday winter sky. There’s a black plume of smoke curling upward from somewhere on the other side. The back door opens with a bang and Dad emerges, eyes settling on Sam for all of a second before he’s rushing back inside.
Dean comes back smiling and smelling like burnt rubber, teeth white in his soot streaked face.
*
Sam turns sixteen and they spend the summer in Florida.
Their apartment smells like mold and heats up hotter than a sauna. Dad leaves for weeks at a time and Sam walks a mile every morning just to escape within the silent stacks of books inside the neighborhood public library. No one questions why he only reads and never checks anything out and soon enough he’s a feature there like the trickling, circular fountain in the courtyard or the sound of the copy machine whirring and clicking in the back office.
Dean comes home later and later at night. He’s gotten broader in the shoulders, lean muscle and tanned skin and callouses on his thick fingers. Freckles over the bridge of his nose and down his back when he chucks his shirt overhead at night and Sammy you should’ve seen the girls tonight in his low, sleepy voice that starts tugging right at a spot low in Sam’s gut.
They sleep in Dad’s bed when he’s gone, smelling like musk and the new colognes Dean wears now and the intimate, grown smell of Dean. It’s like the first time Dean started wearing Dad’s jacket, and every time he’d hold Sam to him in jest or in anger Sam’s heartbeat would go all wonky in his chest, trying to escape, trying to press its desperate shape right up into Dean’s ribcage.
“I said, scoot,” Dean mumbles, once he’s down to his shirt and boxers. The bed dips below his knee. He’s hot as a brick laid out in the sun all along Sam’s back as he scoops him up in his arms, no matter that Sam’s seemingly sprouted another inch overnight, so that he’s taller than Dean now, stretched thin as a beanpole.
*
Sam’s so hard it’s a sweet torture just having Dean pull him out. He keeps his arms at his sides and watches Dean’s big hand wrap around and squeeze up. Wet beads at the tip. Sam’s mouth falls open. He’s so swollen and hot between his legs he’s sure he’ll blow. It never takes long when he’s by himself, but he wants to savor it now, wants to draw it out and hoard the moment inside forever because it's Dean’s hand on him, and Dean’s breath ghosting against his neck.
“Dean,” Sam says, small and weak.
Relax, there you go, Dean says. His grip goes tighter, twists palm over the head to smear around the wet. Sam swallows down a whine. His hips jolt up and in between blinks Dean’s hand disappears like a magic act. Reappears. Gone again. Sam’s dick juts up desperate and hard and Dean’s hand is merciless, drawing it out, until Sam’s dick jerks and spurts, wetting his stomach and dribbling over Dean’s knuckles.
Sam’s fist twists in Dean’s shirt. He closes his eyes and holds onto Dean’s voice, a steady whisper in his ear.
*
Sam is legally an adult in just a few a short months - a few stretch of forever. Inside he’s ancient bark and twisted roots and Dad is having none of it when he finds the acceptance letter. His hand is tight across the back of Sam’s neck, and Sam holds his shotgun like he’s never seen it before, heart pounding in his ears. His rage is a red thing, obscuring the darkened interior of tonight’s haunted Victorian as it sheds yellowed wallpaper like a second skin. Sam doesn’t see the specter until it's hurtling towards him in the air, tattered remains of its dress eerily still as it rushes through him bodily. He shoots two salt rounds. Then he’s slammed against the sharp edge of a decrepit bannister, a sharp, black pain at his temple.
*
The car ride back is silent except for the shadow of Sam’s anger, radiating out of him like a heatwave.
Dean’s face is surprise, then anger, then something deep and blank when he sees Sam. He rips the shower curtain down in the bathroom even though he hisses Quit it, at Sam. It’s like the first time Dean came back, the there and not there of him, the nausea that twists up inside Sam and makes him lean over the toilet, gagging.
“Don’t leave me,” Sam hisses; anger and fright.
Dean’s mouth quirks at the side. His hand is curled around the doorknob.
“I ain’t the one leaving,” Dean says.
*
In the morning Dad won’t answer his door, and Dean packs Sam’s bags for him, comes out whistling. The night before is like a page torn out of a book. When Sam concentrates on the ragged edges his skull goes tight and his vision swims and Dean’s hand descends on his shoulder.
Sam buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck. He breathes in. He smells dewy morning air, soft as it always is before the first hot, lance of sunlight. He doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t think.
*
The car and Dean beside him and the open road.
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Wonderful piece :)
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And this, and every time he’d hold Sam to him in jest or in anger Sam’s heartbeat would go all wonky in his chest, trying to escape, trying to press its desperate shape right up into Dean’s ribcage.
So great! Thanks!
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Beautiful and compelling!
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