withimpunity (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
withimpunity) wrote2008-08-14 01:32 am
withimpunity) wrote2008-08-14 01:32 am
Entry tags:
winchesters
Title: Time To Wake Up
Pairing: none; samndean gen
Rating: R
Words: 208
Prompt: Shakespeare prompt @![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wnchesters100 and I got a bit carried away.
There are times he isn’t sure if his eyes are open, awake and whole, or if he’s still trapped in the nightmare.
He's not sure, because sometimes Sam’s there and sometimes he’s not. Sometimes Dean’s burning, screaming with such force he turns himself inside out, and sometimes his foot’s on the pedal, metal blaring, trees nothing but a blur outside the dirty windows of the Impala. Smiling. Sam. Sammy.
“Dean, c’mon. C’mon, Dean. We gotta go, gotta go now. Come on!”
“Sammy?” Dean’s voice is hoarse, feels like he swallowed that big old knife of Sam’s, his favorite, the one with the wicked curve, as Sam loosens the ropes tied around his wrists. Dean sniffs the air. He smells like blood and sulfur and suffering.
“You’re not Sam.”
Amber eyes flash behind a feral grin as Sam hooks his arm around Dean’s waist and hoists him up. “C’mon, we gotta hurry.”
The blood caked walls and ashen floors fade away and then they’re standing in the junkyard, Dean’s nose pressed flush against Sam’s adam’s apple. Dean’s home.
He knows he should care about the why and the how, about the what now’s, but he doesn’t have the strength to argue or question. Nightmare's over.
Time to wake up.
Pairing: none; samndean gen
Rating: R
Words: 208
Prompt: Shakespeare prompt @
wnchesters100 and I got a bit carried away.There are times he isn’t sure if his eyes are open, awake and whole, or if he’s still trapped in the nightmare.
He's not sure, because sometimes Sam’s there and sometimes he’s not. Sometimes Dean’s burning, screaming with such force he turns himself inside out, and sometimes his foot’s on the pedal, metal blaring, trees nothing but a blur outside the dirty windows of the Impala. Smiling. Sam. Sammy.
“Dean, c’mon. C’mon, Dean. We gotta go, gotta go now. Come on!”
“Sammy?” Dean’s voice is hoarse, feels like he swallowed that big old knife of Sam’s, his favorite, the one with the wicked curve, as Sam loosens the ropes tied around his wrists. Dean sniffs the air. He smells like blood and sulfur and suffering.
“You’re not Sam.”
Amber eyes flash behind a feral grin as Sam hooks his arm around Dean’s waist and hoists him up. “C’mon, we gotta hurry.”
The blood caked walls and ashen floors fade away and then they’re standing in the junkyard, Dean’s nose pressed flush against Sam’s adam’s apple. Dean’s home.
He knows he should care about the why and the how, about the what now’s, but he doesn’t have the strength to argue or question. Nightmare's over.
Time to wake up.
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It huuurts, mcgee! I loved this: Dean’s nose pressed flush against Sam’s adam’s apple. Dean’s home. Because Sam's very presence makes everything better.
And the shoutout to Sam's Curvy Knife of Doom. Whatever happened to that thing? I miss it!
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Oh, boys. *pets* Ow.