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withimpunityTitle: Let's Drink to the Salt of the Earth
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: 843
A/n: I was prompted with “gun holsters.” It was supposed to be pointless porn. Instead, this little drabble took off in its own direction. Just thought I’d explain the whole random shoulder holster thing. *lol*
Disclaimer: Sam, Dean, and Friends belong to Kripke and Co. For entertainment purposes only.
The atmosphere of the room is yellow, dingy, like the wallpaper peeling from the walls and the faded carpet; they all look the same anymore, temporary, not-home. The only sound that can be heard as they prepare for the hunt is the incessant, torturous dripping of the bathroom faucet, no pattern, just random dripping, and the low rumble of the soon to break down furnace. It’s been going ever since they checked in to the damn room and its still not warm; doesn’t matter, won’t be here long. Never anywhere long enough to get warm.
Sam pulls his shirt over his head, watching Dean’s face tighten as he slips one arm through the holster over his shoulder. The other one’s bandaged tight around the shoulder from the bullet that barely missed a major tendon two weeks ago, tinged pink in the center from where he aggravated the wound last night wrestling with a re-animated corpse.
“Let me help,” Sam says softly and Dean lets him; for once, he lets him. Sam moves behind Dean’s body, getting a whiff of the apple scented shampoo the last people that stayed in the room left behind, his spicy, familiar cologne, and salt. Sam smiles to himself as he tightens the holster on Dean’s shoulder; a normal person wouldn’t even be able to smell salt, but for Sam it’s one of those things like play dough or fruit punch. He has memories of running his fingers through coarse rock salt as a baby, licking the strong, pungent flavor off the ends of his fingers. He remembers hugging his Dad around the waist whenever he would come in from a hunt, breathing in a multitude of scents - the metallic smell of blood, the heady aroma of his leather jacket, and the earthy, comforting, safe scent of salt covering him all over.
Dad’s gone now, but not completely. Dean wears his leather jacket, collar upturned just like John always used to wear it, smelling of their Dad’s cologne, and of earth and salt. Sam lifts Dean’s arm, fitting the other strap up on his shoulder, plants one hand on Dean’s hip and moves in front of him. Dean’s short, bristly hair tickles his nose when he leans down, tightening the clasp on the side.
“Whatcha think?” Dean says, big old grin taking over his entire face, reminding Sam of when they were kids and Dean liked to tease him for being a bookworm. Then he works his face into what Sam quickly recognizes as the world’s worst Clint Eastwood impression and says, “I know what you’re thinkin’ punk. You’re thinkin’, did he fire six shots or only five?”
Sam chuckles as he helps Dean on with his button up, ignoring his older brother’s dramatic eye roll and comment about not being an invalid; however it doesn’t seem to bother him when Sam fits the Beretta into the holster for him and snaps it in, or when he takes his time, slowly buttoning up every off-white button on his shirt.
“I can take care of myself, Sammy,” Dean says, though his words lack their usual snap, putting his hand on Sam’s shoulder to push him away; not too far, never too far. Just enough.
“No,” Sam says, backing off a little, just enough to give Dean his space. “You take care of everyone else; when do you have time to take care of yourself?”
Dean gives a little shrug, just a flinch of his shoulder really, and pushes past Sam, grabbing the keys before he heads out the door.
That night, they stumble back into the motel room, reeking of blood, earth, and dead things. Sam has a bad cut on his face and Dean inspects it, doctors it with a couple balls of cotton and peroxide. Sam lets him, closes his eyes, breathes in salt, leather, and Dean, feeling an instant calm wash over him.
Dean takes his shirt off for a shower and the bandage over his right shoulder is saturated in dark crimson. His eyes meet Sam’s and he gives; he finally lets Sam in, because deep down, Dean’s knows that he’s right. All his life, this is who he’s been. Take care of Dad, look out for Sam. No time to worry about Dean. He sits on the edge of the bed, lets Sam clean out the wound, being so careful Dean doubts he’s really doing any good, but the fixed, raw expression on Sam’s face catches him by surprise and pulls at his heart; he doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feel the warm trickle of a tear slide down his cheek. Sam catches it with his fingertip and leans in, kissing him on the lips, pouring all that he has into Dean, and Dean’s so confused, so surprised, so not used to being the one being taken care of - that he kisses him back. Kisses Sam - his brother. The last thing he remembers thinking is how Sammy tastes like salt, tastes like home, and how nothing else in the world matters.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: 843
A/n: I was prompted with “gun holsters.” It was supposed to be pointless porn. Instead, this little drabble took off in its own direction. Just thought I’d explain the whole random shoulder holster thing. *lol*
Disclaimer: Sam, Dean, and Friends belong to Kripke and Co. For entertainment purposes only.
The atmosphere of the room is yellow, dingy, like the wallpaper peeling from the walls and the faded carpet; they all look the same anymore, temporary, not-home. The only sound that can be heard as they prepare for the hunt is the incessant, torturous dripping of the bathroom faucet, no pattern, just random dripping, and the low rumble of the soon to break down furnace. It’s been going ever since they checked in to the damn room and its still not warm; doesn’t matter, won’t be here long. Never anywhere long enough to get warm.
Sam pulls his shirt over his head, watching Dean’s face tighten as he slips one arm through the holster over his shoulder. The other one’s bandaged tight around the shoulder from the bullet that barely missed a major tendon two weeks ago, tinged pink in the center from where he aggravated the wound last night wrestling with a re-animated corpse.
“Let me help,” Sam says softly and Dean lets him; for once, he lets him. Sam moves behind Dean’s body, getting a whiff of the apple scented shampoo the last people that stayed in the room left behind, his spicy, familiar cologne, and salt. Sam smiles to himself as he tightens the holster on Dean’s shoulder; a normal person wouldn’t even be able to smell salt, but for Sam it’s one of those things like play dough or fruit punch. He has memories of running his fingers through coarse rock salt as a baby, licking the strong, pungent flavor off the ends of his fingers. He remembers hugging his Dad around the waist whenever he would come in from a hunt, breathing in a multitude of scents - the metallic smell of blood, the heady aroma of his leather jacket, and the earthy, comforting, safe scent of salt covering him all over.
Dad’s gone now, but not completely. Dean wears his leather jacket, collar upturned just like John always used to wear it, smelling of their Dad’s cologne, and of earth and salt. Sam lifts Dean’s arm, fitting the other strap up on his shoulder, plants one hand on Dean’s hip and moves in front of him. Dean’s short, bristly hair tickles his nose when he leans down, tightening the clasp on the side.
“Whatcha think?” Dean says, big old grin taking over his entire face, reminding Sam of when they were kids and Dean liked to tease him for being a bookworm. Then he works his face into what Sam quickly recognizes as the world’s worst Clint Eastwood impression and says, “I know what you’re thinkin’ punk. You’re thinkin’, did he fire six shots or only five?”
Sam chuckles as he helps Dean on with his button up, ignoring his older brother’s dramatic eye roll and comment about not being an invalid; however it doesn’t seem to bother him when Sam fits the Beretta into the holster for him and snaps it in, or when he takes his time, slowly buttoning up every off-white button on his shirt.
“I can take care of myself, Sammy,” Dean says, though his words lack their usual snap, putting his hand on Sam’s shoulder to push him away; not too far, never too far. Just enough.
“No,” Sam says, backing off a little, just enough to give Dean his space. “You take care of everyone else; when do you have time to take care of yourself?”
Dean gives a little shrug, just a flinch of his shoulder really, and pushes past Sam, grabbing the keys before he heads out the door.
That night, they stumble back into the motel room, reeking of blood, earth, and dead things. Sam has a bad cut on his face and Dean inspects it, doctors it with a couple balls of cotton and peroxide. Sam lets him, closes his eyes, breathes in salt, leather, and Dean, feeling an instant calm wash over him.
Dean takes his shirt off for a shower and the bandage over his right shoulder is saturated in dark crimson. His eyes meet Sam’s and he gives; he finally lets Sam in, because deep down, Dean’s knows that he’s right. All his life, this is who he’s been. Take care of Dad, look out for Sam. No time to worry about Dean. He sits on the edge of the bed, lets Sam clean out the wound, being so careful Dean doubts he’s really doing any good, but the fixed, raw expression on Sam’s face catches him by surprise and pulls at his heart; he doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feel the warm trickle of a tear slide down his cheek. Sam catches it with his fingertip and leans in, kissing him on the lips, pouring all that he has into Dean, and Dean’s so confused, so surprised, so not used to being the one being taken care of - that he kisses him back. Kisses Sam - his brother. The last thing he remembers thinking is how Sammy tastes like salt, tastes like home, and how nothing else in the world matters.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-04 04:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-04 06:59 am (UTC)