whynot | 'looking at the sky' - SPN - Sam, Dean - PG13

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'looking at the sky' - SPN - Sam, Dean - PG13 - 1000 words

So I'm kind of relieved that Sam/Dean isn't my OTP because otherwise this epic Wincest trilogy might have left me too broken to function. (SO BROKEN.) Whose first-born do I have to sacrifice to write like her?

I resolve to post my Mordred fic within the next couple of weeks. I always resolve to do this, but then I get distracted by commentfic memes, you know how it goes. Today's culprit is the Sam hurt/comfort commentfic meme at the hilariously and appropriately named

ohsam.

Okay, so at this point, I've covered 1st, 2nd, and 3rd person POVs in SPN fic. What next? Perhaps the plural?

looking at the sky
Supernatural. Sam, Dean. PG. Warnings: Sam being an emotional drunk? But that is canon.
Pre-series. Sam drunk-dials Dean during his first week at Stanford. ~1000 words

You promised yourself you wouldn't even call him, and you last less than a week. Frankly, you blame the booze.

You blame the booze, and you blame that douchebag who thought he was being ironic blaring "Back in Black" real loud as he bounced around the party air-guitaring like some moron. And there you go, that's when the unspoken things bubble up from inside, reaching for that familiar riff. That's when you suddenly miss your brother so much it hurts. Yeah, your brother, who loves this song totally unironically, who knows every word of the goddamn album, who'd only sing louder when you told him to shut up. You know every word to "Back in Black" too, but only because Dean gave you no choice.

You're stumbling out of the party and you sort of push this one dude out of the way, you feel kind of bad about it though. You don't know your own strength when you're wasted. You know exactly how strong you are when you're fighting monsters though, ha, you know exactly how hard to hit them, how fast to move, you know where to aim the bullet and the blade.

You push past the smokers' circle outside and Dean's cellphone rings and rings. There's a part of you that says hang up and a part that wishes don't pick up, but when you hear your brother's sleep-fuzzed "Wha?", you say his name instead of hello and hate the way you say it, all tight and cracked and ragged.

"Sammy?"

"I'm back," you say, forcing laughter, "I'm back in black!"

"You drunk?"

"No. Yes."

"Fuck off, Sam. I just killed three ghouls, I'm going back to sleep."

"No!" And you hate the way you say that too, you hate the way your heart seizes up, so you start making up some bullshit about a girl you're trying to screw, because if there's anything Dean loves more than calling you a girl, it's calling you bad at girls, and it works. Suddenly it's all nerd this, geek that, and masturbation jokes, and you think maybe you can hear the smile in his voice, tired as he is. There is no smile on your own face, but now that Dean is here there's a chance one might show up.

You cast one last look at the frathouse behind you, and make your way back to your dorm, calling Dean a jerk while he calls you a bitch and it's all so familiar, you might as well be in the Impala. You might as well be in anonymous motel rooms with the only thing the world will ever let you know. Dean's hands have set your bones and his eyes have memorized your body language, and he taught you how to ride a bike and shoot a gun. When you came to Stanford and listened to everyone talk about their families and friends, you wondered if they have a brother like Dean, or a friend or someone, anyone who ever pushed them out of harm's way at the last second, ever ripped up their own shirt to make you a bandage even if they were bleeding just as badly. Ever said "Over my dead body" to creatures that wanted you dead, and meant it.

And that's the problem, that's exactly it: love is not supposed to be measured in blood and violence, but you have no other reference. You came to Stanford to get away from all that, but here you are: Orientation Week is barely over and you're drunk-dialing your brother because you won't dial him any other way, not even when you want to, especially when you want to.

"I told myself I wouldn't call you," you say. "You make me break my promises."

"I didn't twist your arm to call me, dude. I was perfectly happy sleeping."

"You make me break my promises, Dean," and you think thank fuck you're finally at your dorm, shit, Stanford is huge. You trudge up the stairs to your single while Dean calls you a sappy motherfucker, and the first thing you see when you stumble inside is that fucking plant you bought on impulse at the supermarket. As if plants were enough to make this glorified shoebox a home. You hate it. You fucking loathe that plant right now. It's fucking ugly, and you should've bought some fabric softener instead.

"You back in your room now?” Dean asks.

“Yeah.”

“All right, it's time to call it a night and pass out, Sammy."

"No," you slur, collapsing on your bed, "it's time to--" To what? You don't even know. It's time for you to go back to them, maybe. No, never. It's time for Dean to be here with you now, maybe, because you've spent your whole life fighting against your family, but now that you've cut the cord, you are adrift, lost in space. You don't know who you are without the constant struggle that forged you, and you miss the friction that Dean provided. It grounded you, kept you warm.

"Dean," you say again, and you are tired, and heartsick, and it's probably the booze, and it's probably that stupid song, and you promise yourself that you won't feel this way tomorrow. Tomorrow you will pick yourself up like a grown-ass man and live the life you've won for yourself, but tonight: tonight you will give yourself this, because you don't know when you will again.

And Dean understands, in that weird Dean way of his. Of course he does, so he stays on the phone with you, talking nonsense as you drift closer to unconsciousness, squeezed tight by his absence but soothed by the familiar rumble of his voice. When you finally sleep, it's in the middle of Dean talking about driving across New Mexico, how still the desert is. His voice slips into your dreams, and you dream of bloodstains and the open road, the burning sun, your brother beside you and the endless sky above.

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No no no no NO NO! You may NOT rec epic trilogies of fics whilst I am trying to 1) work (my job), 2) WRITE (3 big_bangs, omg, I'm so stupid), 3) curl up and die (RL, I hate you. No love, Mikey).

Okay, will be back to read the actual short fic included here in a bit. No really, I have to look busy for a while. Despite the fact that everyone else in the office took the day off or is out for a two hour lunch. *face!palm*

I'm back!

I love backstory, and have always loved the idea that Sam keeps falling back to his default - Dean - when drunk or upset. It's my own personal fanon that Sam called Dean a lot, but hung up before Dean could answer, and Dean never called back because he just knows Sam well enough to know that he didn't need to. ...um, tangent. Sorry. But your story brings up all those kinds of images, young and certainly socially backward Sam getting his college legs under him while really NOT, and Dean being there.

I think the second person POV worked really well here, it added a lot to the fuzzy-drunk of Sam's perceptions (not that your writing is fuzzy, that's not what I meant...oh balls. I hope you know what I meant. gahk!)

Lovely, lovely story, very touching and heartwarming, despite the element of angst/sadness to it.

MAN, EPIC TRILOGIES ARE NOT ALLOWED TO EXIST WHEN I'M SUPPOSDE TO BE WRITING MY THESIS. Argh. It's not a deathfic, but GOD IT FEELS LIKE IT. I ALMOST WISH IT WERE DEATHFIC. ARGH. :(

Thank you!

I'm glad I can't bring myself to read Wincest. If I had all that to plow through, I would never leave the house and my eyeballs would dry out completely and I'd end up like one of those freaky children who lived in the walls and ate rats.

But then again I also 'don't' read anything in second person, but I read this and really liked it, so clearly I'm weak! That last paragraph is so PRETTY. Such a good depiction of Sam the bordering-on-inappropriately-clingy-drunk.

Yeah I'm slowly getting pulled into Wincest. HALP! ...in a bit.

I have a terrible fondness for second person. I think it's part laziness, 'cos it feels like dictating almost, and more anecdotal.

Thanks!

omg, themmmmmmmmmmm. i love that your fic and the one you recced are early season fics - THE BEST SEASONS AND THE BEST FIC AND NO STUPID ANGELS GETTING ALL UP IN MY FACE! NOTHING BUT GOOD OLD-FASHIONED WINCEST ANGST!

eta: i don't mean to tread on people's toes - i know that some folks really like the later seasons of spn. it's just that i don't, and i have nostalgia for the early seasons and early season fic!

Edited 2010-03-02 22:56 (UTC)

HAHA oh Nix, I KNEW it. I knew that's how you roll! And I guess at this point it's pretty clear how I roll. So no worries, dude! <3

hee, there was totally a moment when I was writing this when I was like, "...what, this fic doesn't even have Castiel in it, what even is this, whaaaaa?!" But then I got over it.

Thank you!

MY PREDICTABILITY, LET ME SHOW Y- . . . oh, hang on, you've already seen it!

now i have a craving for more Good Old Fashioned Wincest, Preferably With Angst. *looks through old bookmarks*

<3 <3 <3

This was pure awesomeness--it just feels exactly right, like this really happened. And this line:

"love is not supposed to be measured in blood and violence, but you have no other reference"

pretty much sums up the brothers Winchester.

Thank you!

Ya, oh Winchesters. If they were not violently codependent, would we love them as much?

Oh, ouch...! This is heartbreaking in a really great way though; I can just imagine Sam being so lost but only contacting Dean when wasted. And of course Dean would let him and then try to soothe him in his own special way, even though he must be hurting so badly himself. Great work.

Thank you! :)

Oh, Sammy. This is lovely, and it made me tear up.

Thank you! <3 Aww, totes flattered.

That's fantastic.

Thanks, dude.

"...you promise yourself that you won't feel this way tomorrow. Tomorrow you will pick yourself up like a grown-ass man and live the life you've won for yourself, but tonight: tonight you will give yourself this, because you don't know when you will again."

Ack, wonderful! I like that you look at Sam's POV on this whole thing, usually it seems like Dean's angst over the family rift gets more focus, but Sam must have had a hell of a time adjusting and being on his own. Kudos!

Haha, right? All his blah blah blah about wanting to be normal, and now that he gets the chance, he discovers that he has NO CLUE HOW. Maybe he joins up with the football team but has to quit because everyone he tackles ends up with broken bones.

Thanks!

wow. stream of conciousness is hard, yo- but it did just what it should!

Thanks, man! Glad you liked.

OH, SAM.

Second person does not always work for me, but it does here, beautifully. You really make me feel for Sam. All I want to do is give him a giant hug and tell him everything is going to be okay.

Glad the 2nd person worked, haha. I admit, I kind of have a soft spot for 2nd person. Thank you!

in that weird Dean way of his
exactly. maybe most of the time Dean is about as emotionally available as a clam, but he has these moments (almost always for Sam) where he gets it. and it is adorable.

And that's the problem, that's exactly it: love is not supposed to be measured in blood and violence, but you have no other reference.
... ANNNND points go to Lass for summing up SPN's completedly fucked-up intrapersonal relationships in ONE SENTENCE. LIKE A BILLION POINTS.

<3333 OH SAM AND DEAN and how they can never escape each other. D:

Sam is what Dean makes exceptions for. \o/

Oh Winchesters. No healthy relationships for them EVER.

Thank you, Betsycakes! <3

"You make me break my promises, Dean,"

I LOVE THIS KIND OF FIC AND YOU DO IT JUST PERFECTLY. Sam POV FTW OH SAM ANGST I love good sam angst, and this is good. it is perfect and I can't get enough of it.

you dream of bloodstains and the open road
THIS LINE IN ITSELF IS A POEM. Oh Sam drunk streaming consciousness. oh missing Dean and with that missing himself, knowing his strength, knowing his role, how he fits into the small winchester puzzle. (MOTHERFUCKING WINCHESTERS oh my god)

I'm just, going crazy on a squeefest right now. rifling through your fic that won't spoil me XD

lol, the 2nd person, the streams-of-consciousness, or the are-you-SURE-it's-gen? Either way, thanks for not telling me I'm crazy. (Sometimes I think I am too fond of 2nd person POV.) The funny thing is that in SPN AUs, like the one where the Winchesters are Indonesian (Dimas and Satri!) and the Arthur/Morgana one, I end up gravitating towards the Sam. Hmm!

WINCHESTERS. They cannot miss each other without missing themseeeelves. YOU make me squee, homie. Thanksss <33

ALL OF THE ABOVE. For serious. I, too, am too fond of 2nd person. and stream of consciousness. and ESPECIALLY are-you-sure-it's-gen :DDD
HMM interesting! I think Dean is such a strong character he's very Dean in any AU but Sam is... who knows? he always feels more ambiguous to me. maybe it's the part where they give him less screentime and so leave us guessing at his arc. eh.

Dean is such a strong character he's very Dean in any AU
I dunno, I have been having thoughts about my Indonesian-immigrant Winchesters. I think Dimas is meaner, and a little more reserved. He's maybe not as big of a womanizer, unless he pays for women more often. Yeah, he kind of pays for women more often. And there's something I want to get at about race and self-segregation and Chinatown here, I think, but I'm not sure how to articulate it unless I actually tell the story. Also, Dimas hates the winter, he never quite got used to it. He chooses the cases in warmer climes. OF COURSE, for the melodramz, Satri goes to Columbia and not Stanford, so in the pilot we can have Dimas being disoriented and miserable in the snow and glass canyons, but then he sees Satri on the corner of 120th and Broadway, his little brother with his face turned to the sky, snow in his hair, looking unafraid and settled, and farther for it from Dimas than ever before. The lights change and Dimas crosses the street, tailing Satri from a distance, shoving numb hands in his pockets; he doesn't have the gloves for this weather. (Of course Dimas romanticizes the tropical climes of Indonesia.)

Aaaaand I wanna stuff in something about names, because Indonesians don't take on their father's husband's last names. Aaaand I wanna throw in something about how when their dad is angry, he is angry in Sundanese, not Bahasa Indonesia. These are the things Dimas associates with Sundanese: his father's disapproval, his father's misery, his father's contacts with whom he has a camaraderie that he doesn't always have with Dimas. It's just that sometimes Dimas wishes he can still associate Sundanese with his mother, just his mother, and not the dead thing pinned to the ceiling burning, burning.

Joni Wicaksono only started drinking in the US. He switches cigarettes from cloves to tobacco because clove cigarettes are ridiculously expensive in the US. But after a hunt, or after a fight, he will indulge in a pack of Djarums if the nearest store carries them. Strange, how cloves here are choice cigs of well-heeled hipsters. Back home everyone smoked them, bus drivers, businessmen, becak coolies, old women, young men, unidentifiable with a single class. "I don't know how you can stand these, the smoke gives me headaches," the clerk says, taking Joni's ten and giving him a few dollars back. And Joni tells her they remind him of home.

the snow and glass canyons,
Satri on the corner of 120th and Broadway, his little brother with his face turned to the sky, snow in his hair, looking unafraid and settled, and farther for it from Dimas than ever before.
he doesn't have the gloves for this weather.

I can just PICTURE this, oh wow it is gorgeous!

It's just that sometimes Dimas wishes he can still associate Sundanese with his mother, just his mother, and not the dead thing pinned to the ceiling burning, burning.
*criiiiiies*

LASS YOU ARE AMAZING I love these bits. Clove cigarettes, my dad used to smoke them a long time ago. They smell so good. I don't like the tobacco, I adore the cloves. but I won't smoke. I'd pick up the empty tin though and keep stickers in it or something.

:D <333

Here's who I imagine for Dimas:

His name's Evan Sanders.

Still trying to find Satri. Have begun poking around Filipino actors, and I am only further convinced that Filipinos HAVE THE BEST NAMES. I mean, Dingdong Dantes?

Dude he's *perfect* for Dimas. those eyes and eyebrows! and Dingdong Dantes XDDD

ISN'T HE?? Okay I think I found my Satri. He doesn't strike me as viscerally as the Dimas casting did, but he pleases me still. He's Filipino, and he's even called Sam.

Voila Sam Milby:

Normaler picture of him and his girl, I guess. (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v204/lei22/LJ/pictureofperfection.jpg)

WE HAVE A VISUAL. Clearly I must write fic soon.

YES YES AND YES FIC
I like how he's kinda shy and babyface looking sometimes. but still ALL MAN lol.

I think Dimas is meaner, and a little more reserved. He's maybe not as big of a womanizer, unless he pays for women more often.

...

The lights change and Dimas crosses the street, tailing Satri from a distance, shoving numb hands in his pockets; he doesn't have the gloves for this weather. (Of course Dimas romanticizes the tropical climes of Indonesia.)

*clutches heart*

I can see this beautifully lyrical event unfolding and a thousand fangirls going, "Oh, Dimas ..."

Aaaaand I wanna stuff in something about names, because Indonesians don't take on their father's/husband's last names.

I am always puzzled at how to fill in the surname and middle name thing. I have neither.

Joni Wicaksono only started drinking in the US. He switches cigarettes from cloves to tobacco because clove cigarettes are ridiculously expensive in the US. But after a hunt, or after a fight, he will indulge in a pack of Djarums if the nearest store carries them. Strange, how cloves here are choice cigs of well-heeled hipsters. Back home everyone smoked them, bus drivers, businessmen, becak coolies, old women, young men, unidentifiable with a single class. "I don't know how you can stand these, the smoke gives me headaches," the clerk says, taking Joni's ten and giving him a few dollars back. And Joni tells her they remind him of home.

*swoon*

I used to be a Sampoerna A girl; my grandma used to favour Gudang Garam. Delicious and sweet, but no longer does it for me when I am no longer stressed out of my gourd. *grin*

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OH DIMAAAAAS :D Someday I will actually write snippets of this fic, but first I have to research on the Indonesian occult.

I am always puzzled at how to fill in the surname and middle name thing. I have neither.
When I moved to a country with a western naming convention, my family just ended up officially changing our names to include our dad's last name to make it easier for all of us. My name has had a bunch of variations, so I am not overly attached to any one of them. What's in a name!

I started on cloves, but they're so expensive here so I've switched to tobacco (Camel Lights). I was smoking Djarum Blacks at first, but I came to favor Sampoerna too.

This was great. So happy I saw a rec for it. I love this line the best: You came to Stanford to get away from all that, but here you are: Orientation Week is barely over and you're drunk-dialing your brother because you won't dial him any other way, not even when you want to, especially when you want to.

The characterization is great and I liked the pacing--Sam walking home was a good way to move through the story.

Thanks.

Thank YOU! :)

You know, judging by what has transpired in the past few episodes in season 5, this is highly unlikely to have happened, but I'm gonna cling to it as canon anyway.

*clings desperately*

Haha, maybe it wouldn't happen ALL THE TIME, but maybe just this once because he's still unnerved by the new environment? :)

*clings with you*

And that's the problem, that's exactly it: love is not supposed to be measured in blood and violence, but you have no other reference.

OH that's so sad and so true and holds up from S1 to S5.

Awesome, awesome job, I am generally skeptical of 2nd person but it's working beautifully here, love it.

And jesus, candle-beck, right? *shakes head* Not human.

Aw hey thanks! I have an unfortunate soft spot for the second person. Glad it worked for you here.

And jesus, candle-beck, right? *shakes head* Not human.
FOR REAL. WHAT IS SHE?? I don't know how she does it, she makes words do awesome things and I am left going fjldsjfldfdsl.

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'looking at the sky' - SPN - Sam, Dean - PG13 - 1000 words

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