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Happy birthday to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wanderlight!
Doctor Who's ep JUST got downloaded. After five hours and four freaking tries. *stabs internet connection*
I've been lazying around all day, doing nothing but reading fic obsessively (and cry a bit because The Jared Padalecki Untitled Project is over and I kinda wanted it go on and on forever). My brother's wangsting about wanting to see the wretched Chivas vs. Atlas soccer game but it's a local game so no tv station airs it until it's over and all I wanna do is go and eat a burger or something but everyone's rambling on and on about said wretched game, ugh.
But! Nothing of this matters, because it's wanderlight's birthday and
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RITA!!!
I hope you had a great time! You're one of the greatest people I've ever met, and you must already know by know that I heart you like whoa. So here, a bit of present, messily wrapped but hope you like it either - Terra gave you angsty!Dean, so it's only fitting that I give you angsty!Sam. ♥ ♥
Title: See You When I'm Sleeping
Word Count: 650
Summary: Sam thinks a dreamcatcher will help him get rid of all of his unwanted dreams.
Rating: PG-13
Author Notes: Rita get wincest as a gift because she's such an enabler and because her user interest 'dreamcatcher' was too damn cool to not write anything about it. Also, I took quite a leeway with dreamcatcher's functions, sorry. Mmm, dunno whether I should crosspost. I mean, it's rather short, isn't it?
Sam takes to sleeping every night with a dreamcatcher pinned to the wall above his bed with a rusty tack, the colorful strands of twine looking grey in the darkness.
Dean thinks it’s meant to catch nightmares, to keep him from waking in the middle of the night with the breath knocked out of him from the fire and blood behind his eyelids. Sam doesn’t correct him. He’s not entirely wrong, after all.
Dean’s always been a heavy sleeper, something he hates but has no control over, and Sam sneaks out every morning before he wakes up, an extra layer of clothes against the cold. He sits on the asphalt next to the Imapala in this week, month’s motel parking lot, and touches the fine strands shaped as a spider web.
He lets himself get lost in the images, just for a second, with the whispered pleas and the feeling of heated flesh against flesh and DeanDeanDean pressed up against him, warm and willing and soft.
He bites his lip, mimics what the Dean in his mind was doing in his dreams last night, and lets his head fall back with a heavy thud on the car’s door, hands clutching at the dreamcatcher.
Afterwards, he dumps the dreams on the asphalt, shakes the dreamcatcher clean and lets the dreams fall out to either wither on the parking lot and get stuck on tires or to fly away with the morning breeze, far away where Sam doesn’t have to own up to them, doesn’t have to acknowledge them.
Later, he comes back into the room bearing coffee, places it on the nightstand next to Dean’s bed and tries not to stare. He puts the dreamcatcher in the bottom of his duffel, hidden by smelly shirts and a pair of hole infested socks and tries to forget all about it.
He guesses he shouldn’t be surprised when he wakes up to Dean kneeling on his bed, fingers touching the dreamcatcher, mouth and eyes open almost comically. There’s nothing comical about the situation, though, dawn’s light filtering through the curtains and Dean tense beside him, his right knee touching Sam’s shoulder.
“Uh,” says Sam, staring up at Dean, who just blinks back.
Dean bites his lip as he averts Sam’s eyes, looking uncomfortable, something Sam hadn’t seen since he was twelve and caught Dean with his hand up a girl’s skirt on their old couch. Dean goes into the bathroom and closes the door, leaves Sam still lying on the bed, heart racing, an arm thrown across his face.
They don’t talk about it.
----
It’s three months later when Dean straddles him while Sam’s sitting on his bed, pushes him down until he’s flat on his back with Dean curled over him, forearms on each sides of his head.
Dean’s breath feels warm against Sam’s lips, and he starts breathing faster, eyes open wide as Dean just hovers there for a moment, staring at him.
“Dean,” he starts to say, but Dean interrupts him.
“Stop angsting about it, Sammy,” he says, and then he kisses him, a little hesitant and sloppy but Sam’s beyond caring. He takes a hold of Dean’s shirt, pulls on the fabric to bring Dean closer.
The soft evening light makes the room look sepia-colored; the Louisiana heat turns the image hazy, almost blurry, and Sam has to wonder if this is another dream. Dean still tastes vaguely like the French fries he had for lunch, and his shirt makes Sam’s skin itch, details so real and tangible that they clash with the dream-like quality of the moment, of Dean’s mouth sliding against Sam’s and the way he says Sam’s name, all breathless sounds.
Sam thinks vaguely of all of the stolen moments pressed against the car, and running his fingers over Dean’s back feels infinitely better than pressing them against twine strands and ancient magic.
I've been lazying around all day, doing nothing but reading fic obsessively (and cry a bit because The Jared Padalecki Untitled Project is over and I kinda wanted it go on and on forever). My brother's wangsting about wanting to see the wretched Chivas vs. Atlas soccer game but it's a local game so no tv station airs it until it's over and all I wanna do is go and eat a burger or something but everyone's rambling on and on about said wretched game, ugh.
wanderlight's birthday andTitle: See You When I'm Sleeping
Word Count: 650
Summary: Sam thinks a dreamcatcher will help him get rid of all of his unwanted dreams.
Rating: PG-13
Author Notes: Rita get wincest as a gift because she's such an enabler and because her user interest 'dreamcatcher' was too damn cool to not write anything about it. Also, I took quite a leeway with dreamcatcher's functions, sorry. Mmm, dunno whether I should crosspost. I mean, it's rather short, isn't it?
Sam takes to sleeping every night with a dreamcatcher pinned to the wall above his bed with a rusty tack, the colorful strands of twine looking grey in the darkness.
Dean thinks it’s meant to catch nightmares, to keep him from waking in the middle of the night with the breath knocked out of him from the fire and blood behind his eyelids. Sam doesn’t correct him. He’s not entirely wrong, after all.
Dean’s always been a heavy sleeper, something he hates but has no control over, and Sam sneaks out every morning before he wakes up, an extra layer of clothes against the cold. He sits on the asphalt next to the Imapala in this week, month’s motel parking lot, and touches the fine strands shaped as a spider web.
He lets himself get lost in the images, just for a second, with the whispered pleas and the feeling of heated flesh against flesh and DeanDeanDean pressed up against him, warm and willing and soft.
He bites his lip, mimics what the Dean in his mind was doing in his dreams last night, and lets his head fall back with a heavy thud on the car’s door, hands clutching at the dreamcatcher.
Afterwards, he dumps the dreams on the asphalt, shakes the dreamcatcher clean and lets the dreams fall out to either wither on the parking lot and get stuck on tires or to fly away with the morning breeze, far away where Sam doesn’t have to own up to them, doesn’t have to acknowledge them.
Later, he comes back into the room bearing coffee, places it on the nightstand next to Dean’s bed and tries not to stare. He puts the dreamcatcher in the bottom of his duffel, hidden by smelly shirts and a pair of hole infested socks and tries to forget all about it.
He guesses he shouldn’t be surprised when he wakes up to Dean kneeling on his bed, fingers touching the dreamcatcher, mouth and eyes open almost comically. There’s nothing comical about the situation, though, dawn’s light filtering through the curtains and Dean tense beside him, his right knee touching Sam’s shoulder.
“Uh,” says Sam, staring up at Dean, who just blinks back.
Dean bites his lip as he averts Sam’s eyes, looking uncomfortable, something Sam hadn’t seen since he was twelve and caught Dean with his hand up a girl’s skirt on their old couch. Dean goes into the bathroom and closes the door, leaves Sam still lying on the bed, heart racing, an arm thrown across his face.
They don’t talk about it.
----
It’s three months later when Dean straddles him while Sam’s sitting on his bed, pushes him down until he’s flat on his back with Dean curled over him, forearms on each sides of his head.
Dean’s breath feels warm against Sam’s lips, and he starts breathing faster, eyes open wide as Dean just hovers there for a moment, staring at him.
“Dean,” he starts to say, but Dean interrupts him.
“Stop angsting about it, Sammy,” he says, and then he kisses him, a little hesitant and sloppy but Sam’s beyond caring. He takes a hold of Dean’s shirt, pulls on the fabric to bring Dean closer.
The soft evening light makes the room look sepia-colored; the Louisiana heat turns the image hazy, almost blurry, and Sam has to wonder if this is another dream. Dean still tastes vaguely like the French fries he had for lunch, and his shirt makes Sam’s skin itch, details so real and tangible that they clash with the dream-like quality of the moment, of Dean’s mouth sliding against Sam’s and the way he says Sam’s name, all breathless sounds.
Sam thinks vaguely of all of the stolen moments pressed against the car, and running his fingers over Dean’s back feels infinitely better than pressing them against twine strands and ancient magic.