b e n e a t h . t h i s . g r a v e y a r d . w e s t e r n . s k y

Beneath this graveyard western sky
[by victoria p.]

Rating: g

Summary: They drive.

Spoilers: None

Notes: Thanks to Luzdeestrellas for betaing All remaining errors are mine.

Word count: 625 words

Date: October 6, 2007

They drive. West, because it's always west when Dean chooses the direction and they have no particular destination in mind. The sun is setting, painting the blue sky pink and orange, and the road stretches out to meet the horizon.

Sometimes when they're driving like this, Sam thinks he can see the curve of the earth in the heat that shimmers above the road, the black and white ribbons that tie the world up in a bow, theirs for the taking in this nowhere that's everywhere, here and now and the only time that ever matters, because they're alive and they're together.

Dean seems to know this instinctively; he has a flare for dramatic entrances and exits, sees himself as the hard-drinking, gun-slinging hero of his own life, vanquishing monsters and leaving broken-hearted women in his wake. Dean lives like he's the star of a John Huston movie, and Sam spent most of his teenage years wanting to live in a John Hughes world, yearning to outgrow his brother's shadow, his larger-than-life heroism.

Those days are gone, of course, lost in fire and blood, the forces that have always shaped their lives. Now, Sam sits beside Dean and sees the exhaustion, the fear, the need that eats away at him, that he's always tried to hide. It scares Sam, sometimes, to see the cracks in the façade, to know that Dean's not invincible, but it compels him, too, to pick at the fissures, to see if he can break Dean apart somehow and put him back together, smoothing over Dean's broken pieces with his own.

Dean's oblivious to Sam's ruminations; he's humming along to Black Sabbath, thumb tapping against the wheel, right arm slung across the backrest. Sam shifts to the left, tips his head back, and waits, silently counting heartbeats, one, two, three. He closes his eyes when he feels the tips of Dean's fingers in his hair, gently brushing the back of his neck. He shivers, and Dean's hand stills, caught. Before Dean can pull away, Sam sighs in contentment and leans back into the touch.

The pads of Dean's fingers are rough and warm against the skin of Sam's neck, rubbing in small, soothing circles that make him feel both sleepy and wired, relaxed and alert, like he knows what's going to happen next, can see it all in high definition, and like it's all a big unknown, like the road rolling out ahead of them in the deepening darkness, where anything could happen.

Sabbath segues into Zeppelin, and then Zeppelin into Pink Floyd, and Dean's still got his hand curled around Sam's neck, warm and sure. Night is falling like a velvet curtain, stars appearing bright as diamonds overhead, and the air smells like wet leaves and exhaust.

They pass a sign for a rest area, motel and Denny's coming up in six miles. Dean glances over and says, "You good? Or you wanna stop?"

Sam turns to face him, shivering again at the slide of Dean's thumb along his jaw, throat tight and chest aching with something he can't bring himself to name just yet.

"I'm good," he says, voice a whiskey rasp that sounds strange even to his own ears. "Keep driving."

Dean's mouth curves in the smile only Sam ever gets to see, wide as the sky and sweeter than honey. He puts his foot down on the gas and it feels like taking wing. Floyd segues into Queen, and Sam can't help but sing along.

They drive through the night, one ocean at their backs, the other somewhere up ahead, waiting. Sam drifts in and out of sleep, and the next time he wakes, the sun is rising behind them, and the world is theirs to take.

end

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Note: Title and cut-tag text from Counting Crows.

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