(no subject)
Jul. 17th, 2006 11:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elohveeghost song.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. Adult. Titled and written with sincerest apologies to Jim Morrison. Because just listening to American Prayer is enough to make you feel drugged and pensive about the power of words. Also, someday? I swear I'm going to start using quotation marks again.
He's sleeping deep on a New Mexico highway, dreaming of swirling cold-colored lights and girlish giggles over a steady drum beat: bum bum da-dum, bum bum—you get the idea.
He's sleeping deep and dark, comfortable and feeling safe. Somewhere, he can hear the hum of the engine and the car's wheels steady on the road, turning round and round, and outside the dark, the death toll stays at zero. He knows, feels, that this is good. This is good.
Unconsciously, he settles deeper into his seat, shifts his head just so, and then he doesn't move at all.
::
He's sleeping deep on a New Mexico highway when the word cuts through the fuzz in his brain like a hot knife through butter: Awake. It's isn't a command or a suggestion or anything but a statement and nothing more, and at loss for what to do, he opens his eyes.
Yeah?
Sam looks over from the wheel, confused. I didn't say anything. Sleep well?
Dean rubs a dry hand over his face, presses his palm into his eyes until all he can see is black. Harder, he sees spots. He yawns, Yeah. Like a baby. Where are we?
Not too far from Roswell.
Dean snorts and says, Man, wake me up when you find us a real job.
::
In a small, flat motel somewhere just off the road from nowhere to elsewhere, there's a locked door and two brothers on a king-sized bed. The sheets are grey with use, and they feel and sound like tissue paper crumpled by Dean's skin and ear.
Sam moves slowly—languid, Dean thinks: that's the word—his mouth opening to Dean's throat, his teeth scraping over Dean's collarbone. His breath is hot, burning a stripe down Dean's chest and stomach. When he closes his eyes, Dean thinks he can see his skin blister.
All join now, and lament...
He drops an arm over his eyes and says, I should sleep.
Sam looks up, eyebrows raised, his fingers splayed across his brother's thigh. Sure, he says and rolls over. Whatever, man.
::
They cross the Arizona-California state line and Sam's eyes dart right. His hands tighten on the steering wheel.
You don't look so good, Dean.
Dean laughs. Mirror, mirror on the wall—
I'm serious. You sleeping all right?
He shrugs. I'm fine, Sammy. Give it a rest.
It's not... nightmares, is it?
No. No, it's not that.
::
In San Jose, the car breaks down and Sam thinks it might be beyond repair. He says as much, and Dean growls at him and calls a tow truck.
Find us a room, he says when they get to the garage. I'm staying here.
Sam shakes his head, disbelieving, but Dean sits down in a small plastic chair and unfolds a newspaper in his lap and doesn't look up again.
The mechanic's daughter is five and a half feet of half-naked tanned skin and dark hair and lips, but her teeth are bright bright white. He remembers watching the clearest stars in a black night sky, and he grins back easy and warm, sleazy and open.
Dean drives to the room four and a half hours later, the motel's address scratched onto the back of a business card with a lipstick heart on the front.
He showers first to get her out from under his skin, and when he slips under Sam's covers instead of his own, his hair is still damp. Sam rolls over when he feels the mattress dip, and he says, What. What, you're not too tired this time?
It's a challenge.
Dean fakes a yawn, then shrugs. Drawls, You wanna find out, baby? and spreads his hands in open invitation.
::
Blue moonlight filters in through the slats of the blinds, painting their skins and bed covers. If he squints, Dean thinks he can see an owl perched on a tree branch just beyond their window. He exhales smoke, and the image disappears in a puff of white-grey-navy.
Sam takes the cigarette from his brother's fingers and takes a drag. Staring at the ceiling, he says, We should go east. What he really means is, We shouldn't go north.
The smoke curls up and fades, and this time, he can hear the bird saying who. who who.
East, he repeats and pretends to think it over. Okay.
::
They get all the way to Childress. Sam drives, Dean sleeps, and in Texas, they get into a bar fight over a game of pool.
Back at their hotel, Dean laughs too long, too loud, still high off adrenaline and more than a little drunk. He pushes Sam's back into the brick wall outside and kisses him, biting his brother's lips and tongue. Sam's head falls back when Dean's hand slips into his jeans, and he groans: Dean, the room is right there, just gimme the key—but Dean doesn't listen, he never does. He strokes up, down, and slips his thumb wetly over the ridge and head of Sam's cock, and moments later, Sam comes over his brother's hand with a wounded noise out of his throat.
That night, they both dream. Dark roads, dark alleys, blackness and dancing lights. Angel wings and spirits in cold lights, the rock and roll of a long, low black car sliding down the highway. Come on, baby, faster. Faster.
They wake at the same time, with the sheets tangled around their legs and sweat cold on their skin. They don't talk about it.
The drive out at dawn and are accosted by a woman standing in the middle of the street waving a sign on a stick, The End Is Always Near in big, bold letters. There's a smear of ash above her brow. Dean frowns.
What day is it?
Tuesday. No, wait. Wednesday.
Dean checks his watch, then yawns and reaches for his Styrofoam coffee cup. Shame. I though we were gonna make it to New Orleans for Mardi Gras.
::
The first time Dean thinks he fell in love, it was with a ghost. He was sixteen and she was a girl trapped in one space of time, not yet malevolent but unable to move on.
On the second floor, he turned the corner of a time-worn hotel in the deep south. Faded red carpet under his feet, and there she was in the middle of the hallway. She turned a pale, empty face to his, and he felt his heartbeat double. It wasn't fear, no.
He took a step, steadied himself with a hand on the wall, and he asked, What did you die for?
Her eyes watched him sadly, and her throat and lips moved but no sound came out. He understood: Nothing at all.
::
The flatlands bore Sam, but Dean likes long, straight roadways that don't twist or turn, pavement that goes on forever. He can push his car forward, onward, until the speedometer whispers, too fast, and Sam curls his fingers into the seat and the door handle, trying to slow down.
The sunsets are different out here, and to Dean, it looks like the sky is burning. With everything leveled, there's nothing to get in the way and everything turns orange and gold. In the flat and the twisted light, he sees the hitchhiker from too far away.
He's tall, thin, dirty, and he peers in the window when they slow.
Need a ride? asks Sam, because he's been there before. Dean keeps his hands on the wheel, because he hasn't.
Tall, thin, dirty. He peers in the window and says, I killed a man last night. Look, this. This is his blood. He holds out his hands. Look, he says, look.
They drive, and they don't look back.
::
He's sleeping deep on a Louisiana highway, dreaming of black nights and bright lights as they dance dance dance away.
And then there's quiet. And then there's dark.
Supernatural. Sam/Dean. Adult. Titled and written with sincerest apologies to Jim Morrison. Because just listening to American Prayer is enough to make you feel drugged and pensive about the power of words. Also, someday? I swear I'm going to start using quotation marks again.
He's sleeping deep on a New Mexico highway, dreaming of swirling cold-colored lights and girlish giggles over a steady drum beat: bum bum da-dum, bum bum—you get the idea.
He's sleeping deep and dark, comfortable and feeling safe. Somewhere, he can hear the hum of the engine and the car's wheels steady on the road, turning round and round, and outside the dark, the death toll stays at zero. He knows, feels, that this is good. This is good.
Unconsciously, he settles deeper into his seat, shifts his head just so, and then he doesn't move at all.
::
He's sleeping deep on a New Mexico highway when the word cuts through the fuzz in his brain like a hot knife through butter: Awake. It's isn't a command or a suggestion or anything but a statement and nothing more, and at loss for what to do, he opens his eyes.
Yeah?
Sam looks over from the wheel, confused. I didn't say anything. Sleep well?
Dean rubs a dry hand over his face, presses his palm into his eyes until all he can see is black. Harder, he sees spots. He yawns, Yeah. Like a baby. Where are we?
Not too far from Roswell.
Dean snorts and says, Man, wake me up when you find us a real job.
::
In a small, flat motel somewhere just off the road from nowhere to elsewhere, there's a locked door and two brothers on a king-sized bed. The sheets are grey with use, and they feel and sound like tissue paper crumpled by Dean's skin and ear.
Sam moves slowly—languid, Dean thinks: that's the word—his mouth opening to Dean's throat, his teeth scraping over Dean's collarbone. His breath is hot, burning a stripe down Dean's chest and stomach. When he closes his eyes, Dean thinks he can see his skin blister.
All join now, and lament...
He drops an arm over his eyes and says, I should sleep.
Sam looks up, eyebrows raised, his fingers splayed across his brother's thigh. Sure, he says and rolls over. Whatever, man.
::
They cross the Arizona-California state line and Sam's eyes dart right. His hands tighten on the steering wheel.
You don't look so good, Dean.
Dean laughs. Mirror, mirror on the wall—
I'm serious. You sleeping all right?
He shrugs. I'm fine, Sammy. Give it a rest.
It's not... nightmares, is it?
No. No, it's not that.
::
In San Jose, the car breaks down and Sam thinks it might be beyond repair. He says as much, and Dean growls at him and calls a tow truck.
Find us a room, he says when they get to the garage. I'm staying here.
Sam shakes his head, disbelieving, but Dean sits down in a small plastic chair and unfolds a newspaper in his lap and doesn't look up again.
The mechanic's daughter is five and a half feet of half-naked tanned skin and dark hair and lips, but her teeth are bright bright white. He remembers watching the clearest stars in a black night sky, and he grins back easy and warm, sleazy and open.
Dean drives to the room four and a half hours later, the motel's address scratched onto the back of a business card with a lipstick heart on the front.
He showers first to get her out from under his skin, and when he slips under Sam's covers instead of his own, his hair is still damp. Sam rolls over when he feels the mattress dip, and he says, What. What, you're not too tired this time?
It's a challenge.
Dean fakes a yawn, then shrugs. Drawls, You wanna find out, baby? and spreads his hands in open invitation.
::
Blue moonlight filters in through the slats of the blinds, painting their skins and bed covers. If he squints, Dean thinks he can see an owl perched on a tree branch just beyond their window. He exhales smoke, and the image disappears in a puff of white-grey-navy.
Sam takes the cigarette from his brother's fingers and takes a drag. Staring at the ceiling, he says, We should go east. What he really means is, We shouldn't go north.
The smoke curls up and fades, and this time, he can hear the bird saying who. who who.
East, he repeats and pretends to think it over. Okay.
::
They get all the way to Childress. Sam drives, Dean sleeps, and in Texas, they get into a bar fight over a game of pool.
Back at their hotel, Dean laughs too long, too loud, still high off adrenaline and more than a little drunk. He pushes Sam's back into the brick wall outside and kisses him, biting his brother's lips and tongue. Sam's head falls back when Dean's hand slips into his jeans, and he groans: Dean, the room is right there, just gimme the key—but Dean doesn't listen, he never does. He strokes up, down, and slips his thumb wetly over the ridge and head of Sam's cock, and moments later, Sam comes over his brother's hand with a wounded noise out of his throat.
That night, they both dream. Dark roads, dark alleys, blackness and dancing lights. Angel wings and spirits in cold lights, the rock and roll of a long, low black car sliding down the highway. Come on, baby, faster. Faster.
They wake at the same time, with the sheets tangled around their legs and sweat cold on their skin. They don't talk about it.
The drive out at dawn and are accosted by a woman standing in the middle of the street waving a sign on a stick, The End Is Always Near in big, bold letters. There's a smear of ash above her brow. Dean frowns.
What day is it?
Tuesday. No, wait. Wednesday.
Dean checks his watch, then yawns and reaches for his Styrofoam coffee cup. Shame. I though we were gonna make it to New Orleans for Mardi Gras.
::
The first time Dean thinks he fell in love, it was with a ghost. He was sixteen and she was a girl trapped in one space of time, not yet malevolent but unable to move on.
On the second floor, he turned the corner of a time-worn hotel in the deep south. Faded red carpet under his feet, and there she was in the middle of the hallway. She turned a pale, empty face to his, and he felt his heartbeat double. It wasn't fear, no.
He took a step, steadied himself with a hand on the wall, and he asked, What did you die for?
Her eyes watched him sadly, and her throat and lips moved but no sound came out. He understood: Nothing at all.
::
The flatlands bore Sam, but Dean likes long, straight roadways that don't twist or turn, pavement that goes on forever. He can push his car forward, onward, until the speedometer whispers, too fast, and Sam curls his fingers into the seat and the door handle, trying to slow down.
The sunsets are different out here, and to Dean, it looks like the sky is burning. With everything leveled, there's nothing to get in the way and everything turns orange and gold. In the flat and the twisted light, he sees the hitchhiker from too far away.
He's tall, thin, dirty, and he peers in the window when they slow.
Need a ride? asks Sam, because he's been there before. Dean keeps his hands on the wheel, because he hasn't.
Tall, thin, dirty. He peers in the window and says, I killed a man last night. Look, this. This is his blood. He holds out his hands. Look, he says, look.
They drive, and they don't look back.
::
He's sleeping deep on a Louisiana highway, dreaming of black nights and bright lights as they dance dance dance away.
And then there's quiet. And then there's dark.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-18 04:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-18 05:08 am (UTC)Wonderful, wonderful. The descriptions were so vivid, each by themselves, and I especially loved Dean's description of the road. You seemed to put into words what freedom means.
Beautiful, without being blatantly trying for it--very subtle.
Cheers,
Kits
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-18 05:48 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-18 07:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-18 07:35 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-18 09:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-18 01:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-21 11:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-19 09:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-19 01:45 pm (UTC)sahdasdsadja you had me at 'hello'. damn.
The first time Dean thinks he fell in love, it was with a ghost.
oh, yes yes yes. this is just so full of empty space and smoke. it's suffocating, in the best possible way.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-19 05:49 pm (UTC)But, as always, lovely lovely imagery and writing style.
Quotations. Pah. Who needs 'em?
Also, aw! Ghost love. Why am I such a fan of that?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:46 pm (UTC)Thank you, twinnybella.
You're a fan of it because you are a t00b. And possibly my fic pimp. *is h0red*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-19 06:06 pm (UTC)He took a step, steadied himself with a hand on the wall, and he asked, What did you die for?
Her eyes watched him sadly, and her throat and lips moved but no sound came out. He understood: Nothing at all.
gogd. wow. beautiful fic!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-19 07:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 01:39 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 02:14 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-20 10:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-24 01:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-24 01:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-31 03:10 am (UTC)This is lovely, lovely, dreamy stuff.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-31 03:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-06 10:29 pm (UTC)There's really not a word wasted, everything fits together so perfectly. The scene with Dean and the ghost in the hotel is my favorite part, it's so beautiful and a just a little bit creepy.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-06 10:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-04 01:50 am (UTC)well done! :D
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-05 01:20 am (UTC)