The Game by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roque_clasique for <user site="livejournal.com" use
Jun. 14th, 2012 04:40 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
springflingmod.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
spn_springflingTitle: The Game
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Any warnings: This is mushy as hell.
Written byroque_clasique for delanach!
Sam played a game sometimes: he pretended he didn’t know his brother.
It had started off sour, when he was young and still believed there was a different life hanging just beyond his reach, like a piece of high-up fruit. He’d slump in the backseat of the Impala while his Dad pumped gas and Dean squeegied unlucky bugs off the windshield, and he’d watch them with the eyes of a stranger, pretending they were someone else’s family. Dad’s five-day stubble and black eye, Dean’s badly-cut hair and split lip – not Sam’s problem. The bruises, the ripped jeans, the muddy boots, the bulge of a gun; he saw it all with the detached calm of an anthropologist, noticing how shabby they looked, how violent and stupid, but it didn’t bother him because they weren’t his to be bothered by. They belonged to some other poor sucker of a kid. It was an exercise in distance, and it came in handy when, years later, he took a stack of college applications and let the mailbox eat them with a clang that barely registered over the frantic gallop of his heart.
But the game was different now. Now, Sam sat at the counter of an all-night diner, scraping up the last of his pancakes and watching Dean pay the check at the register a couple stools away. It was 2am and the only other customer was an older man with his cheek pressed to the table, snoring loudly, and Sam let the world go blurry around the edges, searching for the disconnect he needed to warp Dean unfamiliar. It was a little like a Magic Eye – letting his vision go soft until he could see the hidden picture beneath the hectic pattern of the page.
The guy at the register was thirty-something with a torn flannel shirt and a line of black stitches peeking out from his rolled-up sleeve. Scabby knuckles, crooked fingers. He looked tired and a little grimy, and he didn’t smile as he handed over his money, just shifted on his feet and stared into space as the waitress rattled up a handful of coins and a couple of bills. The cash register slammed shut and the guy’s shoulders went up for a second, the waitress still waiting with her hand outstretched over the counter, trying to pass him his change.
“Sir,” she said, and then again, louder, “Sir.”
“Oh,” the guy said, “sorry,” and took the money, peeling off a few dollars to put in the tip jar. “Hey, you know if there’s a motel around here?”
“Next exit,” she said. “Motel 6.”
“They got free breakfast?” he asked, and gave her a tentative smile, which she didn’t return.
“Couldn’t tell you,” she said.
He folded his cash back into his wallet, smile fading like evaporating water, and then turned to amble towards Sam.
Who was he?
He was sleepy. He was walking slow because knees ached. He wasn’t from around here. Maybe he’d been a high school baseball star, and maybe he’d gone to Afghanistan, and maybe he went fishing on the weekends with his dog, a black lab or a heeler or a two year-old boxer mix, a sweet brown-eyed thing with too much energy who didn’t always come when she was called, but never went far in the first place. Maybe he was a trucker, or maybe he worked from home, had a space in his garage where he built clean-lined oak furniture or fixed old cars, and maybe he had kids and loved them to the point of panic. Maybe he was married. Maybe he fell asleep each night curled around a soft, nightgowned body, or maybe he lay alone in bed with his limbs outstretched. Maybe he was happy. Maybe he wasn’t.
“You’re driving,” the guy said, and slid onto the stool next to Sam. “I’m falling asleep on my feet, here, christ. I think there were tranqs in that coffee instead of caffeine.”
And this was why Sam played the game. For this moment: for the switch back from unknowable to utterly, simply, deeply known. There had never been a time in his life when he hadn’t known Dean, and loved him, and looked at him, and wanted him in some capacity. Both of them had changed irrevocably, and sometimes Sam sat next to his brother and felt they barely occupied the same dimension, much less the same car – yet still he knew Dean better than he’d known anything. He played the game to surprise himself, over and over, with the depth of his gratitude.
“Earth to Sammy,” Dean said, and snapped a pair of halfhearted fingers under his nose.
“Yeah,” Sam said, and because he could, he grabbed Dean’s hand away from his face and held onto it for a minute before releasing the familiar, calloused warmth. “I can drive.”
Dean rose from the stool, and Sam followed him out the door into the cool North Dakota night. “Keys,” Sam said as they reached the Impala, and snagged a finger through Dean’s belt loop, pulling him back.
“What,” Dean said, wary and a little bit pleased. In answer, Sam ran a hand down the soft curve of Dean’s head and palmed the back of his neck, stepped forward so their bodies were flush against one another. The first time they’d done this they’d been the same height, noses touching, but now Sam had to bend down to put his mouth against the soft throb of his brother’s pulse. They’d grown around each other like tree roots around rocks, their bodies learning to accommodate, and Dean leaned into him automatically, one hand coming up to curl in his jacket. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey stranger,” said Sam.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Any warnings: This is mushy as hell.
Written by
roque_clasique for delanach!Sam played a game sometimes: he pretended he didn’t know his brother.
It had started off sour, when he was young and still believed there was a different life hanging just beyond his reach, like a piece of high-up fruit. He’d slump in the backseat of the Impala while his Dad pumped gas and Dean squeegied unlucky bugs off the windshield, and he’d watch them with the eyes of a stranger, pretending they were someone else’s family. Dad’s five-day stubble and black eye, Dean’s badly-cut hair and split lip – not Sam’s problem. The bruises, the ripped jeans, the muddy boots, the bulge of a gun; he saw it all with the detached calm of an anthropologist, noticing how shabby they looked, how violent and stupid, but it didn’t bother him because they weren’t his to be bothered by. They belonged to some other poor sucker of a kid. It was an exercise in distance, and it came in handy when, years later, he took a stack of college applications and let the mailbox eat them with a clang that barely registered over the frantic gallop of his heart.
But the game was different now. Now, Sam sat at the counter of an all-night diner, scraping up the last of his pancakes and watching Dean pay the check at the register a couple stools away. It was 2am and the only other customer was an older man with his cheek pressed to the table, snoring loudly, and Sam let the world go blurry around the edges, searching for the disconnect he needed to warp Dean unfamiliar. It was a little like a Magic Eye – letting his vision go soft until he could see the hidden picture beneath the hectic pattern of the page.
The guy at the register was thirty-something with a torn flannel shirt and a line of black stitches peeking out from his rolled-up sleeve. Scabby knuckles, crooked fingers. He looked tired and a little grimy, and he didn’t smile as he handed over his money, just shifted on his feet and stared into space as the waitress rattled up a handful of coins and a couple of bills. The cash register slammed shut and the guy’s shoulders went up for a second, the waitress still waiting with her hand outstretched over the counter, trying to pass him his change.
“Sir,” she said, and then again, louder, “Sir.”
“Oh,” the guy said, “sorry,” and took the money, peeling off a few dollars to put in the tip jar. “Hey, you know if there’s a motel around here?”
“Next exit,” she said. “Motel 6.”
“They got free breakfast?” he asked, and gave her a tentative smile, which she didn’t return.
“Couldn’t tell you,” she said.
He folded his cash back into his wallet, smile fading like evaporating water, and then turned to amble towards Sam.
Who was he?
He was sleepy. He was walking slow because knees ached. He wasn’t from around here. Maybe he’d been a high school baseball star, and maybe he’d gone to Afghanistan, and maybe he went fishing on the weekends with his dog, a black lab or a heeler or a two year-old boxer mix, a sweet brown-eyed thing with too much energy who didn’t always come when she was called, but never went far in the first place. Maybe he was a trucker, or maybe he worked from home, had a space in his garage where he built clean-lined oak furniture or fixed old cars, and maybe he had kids and loved them to the point of panic. Maybe he was married. Maybe he fell asleep each night curled around a soft, nightgowned body, or maybe he lay alone in bed with his limbs outstretched. Maybe he was happy. Maybe he wasn’t.
“You’re driving,” the guy said, and slid onto the stool next to Sam. “I’m falling asleep on my feet, here, christ. I think there were tranqs in that coffee instead of caffeine.”
And this was why Sam played the game. For this moment: for the switch back from unknowable to utterly, simply, deeply known. There had never been a time in his life when he hadn’t known Dean, and loved him, and looked at him, and wanted him in some capacity. Both of them had changed irrevocably, and sometimes Sam sat next to his brother and felt they barely occupied the same dimension, much less the same car – yet still he knew Dean better than he’d known anything. He played the game to surprise himself, over and over, with the depth of his gratitude.
“Earth to Sammy,” Dean said, and snapped a pair of halfhearted fingers under his nose.
“Yeah,” Sam said, and because he could, he grabbed Dean’s hand away from his face and held onto it for a minute before releasing the familiar, calloused warmth. “I can drive.”
Dean rose from the stool, and Sam followed him out the door into the cool North Dakota night. “Keys,” Sam said as they reached the Impala, and snagged a finger through Dean’s belt loop, pulling him back.
“What,” Dean said, wary and a little bit pleased. In answer, Sam ran a hand down the soft curve of Dean’s head and palmed the back of his neck, stepped forward so their bodies were flush against one another. The first time they’d done this they’d been the same height, noses touching, but now Sam had to bend down to put his mouth against the soft throb of his brother’s pulse. They’d grown around each other like tree roots around rocks, their bodies learning to accommodate, and Dean leaned into him automatically, one hand coming up to curl in his jacket. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey stranger,” said Sam.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 03:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 04:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 04:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 05:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 05:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 06:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 09:41 pm (UTC)It's an interesting game that Sam plays, and when he's a kid, the way he sees his family, scuffed up and grubby, dangerous and not to be messed with, is so true to how an outsider would see them. I love it when he's older and watching a tired Dean, musing on who he might be, and I'll admit I got a little choked up when I read why he plays the game.
For this moment: for the switch back from unknowable to utterly, simply, deeply known. There had never been a time in his life when he hadn’t known Dean, and loved him, and looked at him, and wanted him in some capacity.
This says it all about how they are together, as does this:
They’d grown around each other like tree roots around rocks, their bodies learning to accommodate
Thank you, whoever you are for such a perfect gift :)
no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 10:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-14 11:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-15 11:10 am (UTC)I love your few words of dialogue and Dean's reaction here:
“What,” Dean said, wary and a little bit pleased.
Also, I found your author's note very enticing!
no subject
Date: 2012-06-15 11:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-15 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-15 08:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-16 12:56 pm (UTC)For some reasons, the part where Sam observes Dean at the register with a stranger's eyes especially tugged at my heart. This is a story that will stay with me for a long time.
no subject
Date: 2012-06-17 06:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-17 02:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-17 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-18 02:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-18 04:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-18 11:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 09:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-22 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-24 06:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-01 10:35 pm (UTC)Okay, I'm just going to sit on the porch and rock this phrase all afternoon with a smile on my face.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-02 06:12 am (UTC)Your stuff is always so warm and so evocative and so CREDIBLE.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-02 07:50 am (UTC)<3
J
no subject
Date: 2012-07-02 04:04 pm (UTC)Oh my God, I want to MARRY this paragraph. It's awesome and so are you for writing it (and the whole thing). What a really beautiful piece of writing.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-02 05:25 pm (UTC)Sam seeing his dad and Dean as strangers - ugly, unhappy strangers - was a bit heartbreaking.
But so much better in the end.
no subject
Date: 2012-08-02 03:44 am (UTC)