the reluctant lobotomist (fourfreedoms) wrote,
the reluctant lobotomist

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As Etta James would say, At last

The long awaited ficlets. I tried to do something different with each of these. There's reversed pov, outside pov, past events, and so on. I'll get the rest up soon, hopefully. I think I only have a few more to go.

The Fortress of a High Mind

Jensen has been watching Jared for years. He noticed fairly early that Jared is extremely self-conscious. He’s like an anorexic girl who sees only fat when she looks in the mirror—reality completely skewed. He’s hugs people, touches readily, perpetually laughing and hiding a deep sense of inadequacy.

He realizes what a gift he’s been given that Jared is so easily naked in his presence. Jared strips unashamed, inching clothes off with a subtle quirk of his lips. The overhead light in Jensen’s room turns everything faintly green, so he always switches it off and lets the light from the window shine in.

Jared lazes on Jensen’s bed with a long limbed elegance he doesn’t realize he possesses and Jensen can sit and watch until Jared stops him.

“You’re getting creepy,” he says, over one golden shoulder, hair spilling into his eyes. He turns onto his back. “C’mere.”

Jensen gets up out of his dish chair and lies beside him. He never took his pants off, but before he can unzip them, Jared rolls on top, blanketing him.

“You’re too serious,” Jared tells him, smiling. Jensen smiles back and slides a palm up Jared’s spine. Seeing Jared like this only serves to remind him what an expensive present it is, one he’s not sure he deserves. But he’s always been greedy.

The Paint That Hides the Crime

Dad’s been in and out steadily for weeks, upsetting their careful equilibrium. He’s so drunk tonight he can’t get up out of his chair, but he can yell. Sam will start breaking windows if he listens. Dean’s in the shower, water on porcelain screening him from their father’s intoxicated lunacy. Sam leans against the paper thin wall of his bedroom, feeling anger and desperation thrum through him.

Dad starts calling his name, bitter bleats that Sam marches pitilessly past, English reading in hand. He shoves at the bathroom door, having to ply more pressure against the warped wood. He expects Dean to notice, to shout at him when it finally bangs open. But there is nothing but the sound of spray on skin. He sighs and sits on the faux-marble counter, back sliding against the condensation of the mirror.

The crisp pages of his book wilt from moisture, but he can’t hear his dad’s insensible fury or smell the bitter burn of alcohol rising off his skin. Dean’s black jeans and t-shirt are strewn across the toilet, pack of cigarettes and brushed steel lighter lying proudly on top. Sam leans forward and picks the pack up, flicking the top open. It’s crushed flat, like Dean’s been stuffing it into his back pocket. There are only four cigarettes left.

Sam sighs. Dean’s been chain-smoking, ever since that night, before Dad came home. His fingers are now yellow with nicotine, not even the shower can wash it off. Sam plucks one out of the box and sticks it between his lips so that he can light it up.

He inhales and the first sear of smoke hits his throat. Sam hasn’t smoked since he was fourteen, playing around at school. He breathes out tar and chemicals, watching it swirl in the bathroom’s humidity, book forgotten on his lap.

The shower clicks off and Dean thrusts the curtain back unaware that he should be concerned for his modesty. He doesn’t quite start when he sees Sam, but Sam readily sees the muscles jump and tighten under his skin. He keeps his expression dispassionate, bringing the cigarette back to his mouth for another puff.

Dad’s ragged shouting penetrates their tableau. Dean yanks the towel of the rack, and ties it tight around his waist. Sam keeps his eyes casually averted.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks, broad back turned to his brother. Sam follows the line of his spine with his eyes, slight swell of his ass revealed by the terry cloth. Dean shivers like he can feel it.

Sam pauses before answering, waiting for Dean to turn back to him. “Every cigarette you don’t smoke is one step farther away from cancer.”

Dean reaches for him, pulling him up from his slump against the glass. He slides his fingers into Sam’s hair and kisses him, lips harsh and unyielding. Sam lets him, head tipping back on his neck when Dean’s teeth sink into his lower lip. Their breaths seem too loud, echoing off the tiles. Dean’s fingers dig into his skull, but Sam doesn’t mind. He spreads his thighs to accommodate Dean’s body and Dean moans, shoving in closer. And it just that moment the cigarette in Sam’s fingers burns down.

Sam tears his mouth away, crying out and tossing the cigarette aside. The moment is broken. Dad’s slurring shouts from the other room solidify into something identifiable: Dean and Son of a Bitch. Dean backs away from Sam, shaking his head. His cheeks are red, mouth swollen and dark with blood. Sam stares down at the burn on his second knuckle, pretending not to notice as Dean leaves to wait on Dad. He gets down from the counter to run his hand under the tap.

He has to avert his eyes from his own reflection, because the person he sees there looks wild and wanton. This was a bad idea, terrible. Sam knows if he has this, he will never be able to leave.

You Never Forget Your First Love
Okay, so this fic was really embarrasing for me when I looked back on it, I was attempting to do an experiment with POV that didn't really work. At all, but here...

When Sam was sixteen, John had dropped them off for a hunt that he wanted to handle on his own…

Sam’s always been darker than his brother. His skin is used to the touch of the sun and it browns rather than burns. Dean can’t stay still long enough, he’s probably never napped on a lawn with a book his entire life. And he hates the beach. Sam likes the lazy stillness.

At Bobby’s there’s not a whole lot of ambience, or shade, for that matter, but beggars can’t be choosers. Sam doesn’t mind lying on the bench seat of a wrecked convertible, He doesn’t mind that his legs spill over the door, or that the foam is spilling out the cracked leather. There’s a slight dry breeze, takes the edge off the heat. Sam is careful not to touch the rusted body of the car. The air shimmers and it’s so bright that when Sam closes his eyelids, he sees red.

“Marco,” Dean says, looming upside down over Sam.

Sam twitches his nose. “Polo,” he says softly.

Dean swings himself over the door into the driver’s seat. “Took me fuckin’ forever to find you.”

“I didn’t realize I had a babysitter,” Sam replies, eyes shut against the blue sky that goes on for miles.

“Pouty bitch.” Dean reaches over the seat and flicks Sam’s nose. Sam can nearly hear him smile. “How’s your book.”

“You wouldn’t like it,” Sam says snottily, shifting it off his chest.

Dean laughs. “That’s undoubtedly true.”

“What do you want?” Sam says, softening his voice so it doesn’t sound so antagonistic. He doesn’t have the energy for a fight.

“There’s this tower of cars at the back of the property, I think you can see at least thirty miles in every direction.”

Sam grumbles, he doesn’t want to get up. “Couldn’t be more, that’s as far as the eye can see.”

“Hoo, you’re in a mood,” Dean says, seemingly permanently good-natured. “Come on, I’ll help you sneak some of Bobby’s restricted books if you come.”

Sam sighs and pulls himself out of the belly of the car, following Dean through the fortress of broken-down vehicles. When they reach the tallest stack of cars, he looks at it dubiously. It doesn’t seem very well balanced.

Dean interprets his less-than-impressed face and says, “The axles are all rusted out and half of them don’t have wheels, they won’t roll off under our weight.”

“Been doing this a lot?” Sam says, watching his brother start scaling an old RX7. Dean’s using glassless windows as footholds, moving ever upward with spider-like grace. He turns to look back down at Sam and Sam knows what’s about to roll off his tongue. “All right, I’m coming. I’m not a chicken.”

He follows the route Dean picked out on his climb, trying to ignore how hot the steel frames are underneath his palms. When he gets to the second last car in the stack, a once cherry-red Chevy Nova, the door groans and squeals under his weight, before dropping off the car with a horrible clank. Only Sam’s tight grip on the roof and Dean’s quick reflexes save him from the ground and a broken leg.

Dean laughs uproariously, Tugging Sam up so that he can get a foot on the hood and then scramble up on the roof. Sam’s heart beats too fast in his chest. “Fucktard,” he says, somewhat annoyed when it comes out affectionately.

Dean chuckles and Sam finally looks around, watching dry planes and interstates crisscrossing through farms. Clouds darken the horizon, signaling rain. The breeze washes over them again and Sam suddenly feels the itchy prickle of sweat over his eyes and on his upper lip. He pulls the hem of his t-shirt up to his face to wipe it off.

Dean watches, lips tilted into a not quite smile. He folds down to his knees, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the start of Sam’s happy trail.

“Dean!” Sam protests, “Anybody could see us!”

Dean hums and sucks hard, tongue sliding lower like a promise. Sam almost loses his resolve, considers letting Dean pull him down the dented roof and have his way with him practically on display to the whole world. Dean’s teeth sink into sensitive flesh just as his eyelids start to droop. Sam cries out and swats him back, dropping the hem of his shirt. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Dean’s smile is blinding. “Just getting you back for those sunscreen palm prints.”

Sam backs away from him. “That was not my fault, you kept distracting me.”

“How hard is to put on sunscreen? I’m burned around the shape of your hands and won’t be able to take my shirt off for a month.”

Sam snorts, thinking about it. “Sins marked onto the flesh.”

“Shut up and enjoy the view,” Dean says, getting back up onto his feet. “We are what we are, Sam.”

Sam shakes his head, but listens. The world seems so large and they seem so small. Nobody is there to watch this big wide open space but them.

An Unmade Bed (Or Five Guys Sam Fucked Before Fucking Dean)

Alyssa didn’t want a church wedding. On the day that Sam Monroe signs the marriage registry, he thinks of two people who are gone. The first is his father. He wishes he could be here, even if he wouldn’t approve of the blue still in his hair and the tattoo running from his wrist to the tip of his index finger. The other is Sam Winchester. For one second his hand stutters, the pen jerking across the page. His signature trips on the line, looking like somebody else’s name. Alyssa smiles at him and he pushes the document quickly to her, backing up and stumbling over his feet. She signs determinedly, like everything she does in life.

She leans over and kisses him, the hem of her short white dress brushing the knee of his gabardine pants. He smiles, thinks of an entire life of her shirts pressed and tangled with his in the laundry and hanging straight in the closet. He knows this is exactly where he should be. He knows this. But Winchester was and always has been a mystery.

“What are you thinking?” Alyssa asked, posies in one hand, his in the other as they walked out into the sunshine.

Sam blinks. “I was thinking about laundry.”

At the reception, when the night is winding down and only a few people are left swaying to Madonna on the dance floor, the cell-phone in his pocket vibrates. He flips it open and finds “Congratulations” on the screen from an unknown number. Sam grins. He should’ve known. When he looks up he catches his new wife’s eyes as she laughs with her drunken bridesmaids. She shakes her head at him, amused.

She knows everything about him. But she doesn't know this.

And Sam types back, “Thanks.”

This Is The Sun Gone Down and its Sequel This Space Will Never Get Tired Of You

Things you didn’t know about the characters:

Sam took calligraphy in college, Jonah did all of the assignments. Sometimes when Sam’s bored and stuck with a pen and paper, he finds himself marking out the outlines of Old English lettering. He’s always surprised he retained the skill.

Dean puts every single cell-phone number girls give him in his phone. Mark used to delete them when he was asleep. Now that Sam is integrated Dean finds he has a hell of a lot more contacts.

When the body was fifteen and Dean was 19, Dean let Alicia put makeup on him. He has never told Sam.

Maxwell used to silently watch horror movies with Dean. Six months after the first kiss, Sam came home from research with an Ed Wood boxed set from Best Buy from one of the bargain bins and a ten-pack of microwave popcorn. Dean wanted to go out and buy him a ring.

Dean got his ear pierced his sophomore year of high school. Dad never noticed. Sam told him he looked cool, but when Will saw it he laughed for nearly thirty minutes. When Sam came back, he noticed it was gone.

Sam loves the way Dean’s shoulder blades move under his skin. Sam doesn’t know, but whenever he lays his hand over Dean’s back, so that the tips of his fingers brush over them, Dean has to stave off a hard-on.

The highest test score Dean ever got in school was in biology during the sex ed unit.

One time before the Meg personality emerged, Dean went looking for clean socks in Sam’s duffle and found a sheaf of drawings of himself in a manila folder. Jonah’s signature and the date were marked into the bottom corner of every page.

It's 55 degrees out, I skipped section just so that I could lounge on my sofa in the sun.
Tags: fic, j2, sam/dean, spn
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