Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one.
Summary: Sam/Dean. Another 'Dean returns' post-S3 finale fic I started writing but got sidetracked by the “Darkness never dies” bunny, and now I’m all wrung out with the angst so no intentions of finishing this, like EVER. What you read here is intended to be an out-of-control sleep deprivation-induced rambling from Sam’s POV.
Author Notes: The bigger story was supposed to be about how Sam is paranoid and traumatized by the thought of losing Dean again but Dean is battling his own demons and doesn’t notice what his silence is doing to Sam until much later. I have no energy left to complete this but it’s also something I cannot possibly use or plug into any of my other ongoing projects so… guess I’m just gonna put this out here. Sorry if it’s patchy and not quite right,*shrugs* but that’s all she wrote, folks.
Word Count: 780
The lights are all off but we keep a curtain undrawn, to let the moonlight or neonlights from the motel sign outside trickle in, protect us from the pitch black that you can’t stand anymore.
It takes getting used to but I can see you in the dark, clear as crystal as if it were mid-day. I take in everything of you - the lines, the scars, the freckles, and the two-day old stubble that you don’t seem to want to shave anymore.
Your eyelids are moving, your brow is faintly twitching; your lips are falling open to gasp in more air than you normally need. It’s a nightmare, another one, another torturous, inescapable aftermath of your mistake that brought me back.
But you’re here now, body and soul, back with me where you belong. And I can’t stand it that they still, that she still manages to steal you away. Fuck the rules and fucking deals and destinies. I fought for you; I won you back. And there’s no way in hell I’d let them take you from me again. Never again.
I stand up, shrugging out of my t-shirt that once was yours then mine, and now it’s so old and short and tattered, the Salvation Army would be insulted. Step out of my sweats and briefs and off my bed and into yours.
You lie on your side, left palm stuck under your face, on top of the covers fully clothed. It’s how you seem to crash these days, aching and spent and hot, vestiges of adrenaline still thrumming through your fire-filled veins. Doesn’t matter if it took you hours to sleep in the first place, too bad. I need to wake you up to bring you back, and hell, that’s just what I’m going to do.
I fit myself along the arc of your body, press my chest against yours and wind my arms round your neck. You resist when I slide one hand under you but I don’t care, pull you close and press my face against yours with determined vehemence. Hot and cold and sweat-soaked, I kiss your lips gently at first; then coaxing and prodding and insisting until you let me in, even if you’re not fully awake yet.
I wait it out as you go slowly from unresponsive to rigid to pliant, counting down with glee the shadows waning behind your eyes. And when your hands reach out to clutch at my arms, my hair, my face, I want to holler and dance and celebrate, ‘cause I know this round is mine.
It’s how the battle against pain must be won, bit by bit, round by round. Again and again and again.
It’s why I let myself get strangled more often, to distract you every time you're about to go Slashy McHacky on a meat-suit. It’s why I veer off lanes and into oncoming traffic, every time you’d rather stare out the window blankly than drive.
It’s why I’m never hungry if you’re not, and I don’t work out if you don’t, and I don’t take a break when you won’t and I don’t care how hard you cuff me, I’m still always two steps behind.
It’s why I play your favorite rock stations and sing at the top of my tone-deaf lungs, just so you’d roll your eyes and scowl and tell me to shut up like I was twelve. It’s why I go all maudlin and teary and chick-flicky, every time you start to remember something else I’d rather you not, something vivid and gory and useless.
It’s why I beg you to take me in your ice cold showers and shiver until you see my lips turn blue, until you sigh and reach for the hot water knob. It’s why I drink too much and keep you occupied, so you can’t go looking for the person you used to be at the bottom of a bottle of scotch.
I’m a selfish sonofabitch, I know.
And I don’t care. You’re mine. I fought for you; I won you back.
Talk to me, cry to me, stay with me. Hit me. Fuck me. Choose me. ‘Cause you know I won’t let them steal you away from me, not physically or mentally, not even metaphorically. Not again, not ever again.
You thrust into me one last time, letting go of your fears and despair at last and can't help but smile - that gorgeous, rare, untainted smile. Exhausted, I wrap you up in my tangle of limbs and watch your lashes touchdown softly on your cheeks.
I’ve been watching you sleep ever since you came back.
A/N: It's not so dark, is it really? C'mon... *thinks* it really is dark, innit? *facepalm*