alwaysenduphere (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alwaysenduphere) wrote2010-04-12 12:26 am
alwaysenduphere) wrote2010-04-12 12:26 am
Entry tags:
fic (plus mix): Let me steal this moment from you now
Title: Let me steal this moment from you now
Summary: And in Sam’s dreams, Dean is always running from him. The worst part is, that's better than the reality.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: girl!Dean, Pre-season 4 (meaning Dean is currently in hell).
Notes: 1,025 words. Idea taken from a line Amanda Greystone said in Caprica: "chasing my dead brother down hallways." Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spnland’s genderswap challenge (where it won first place, holy crap, I’m still surprised!) I’ve never written genderswap, nor particularly liked reading it, but eh, roll with whatchu got, right? Dean will always be “Dean” to me, whether male or female. Mini-playlist included at the end. :)
***
When he's awake, he sees Dean everywhere: standing at the counter in gas station; in churches, sitting in a pew or stealing holy water from the parapet; sometimes she'll be in the seat next to him in the impala, smile on her face and insults about his driving on her lips. It should be no surprise she's in his dreams as well.
In his dreams, she runs.
It reminds him of 5 am drills when they were younger, swatting their hands at each other with Dad running behind them, yelling at them to shape up and behave, that running drills was important. Dean would jump to attention and take off leaving Sam in the dust, her hair fading into the breeze behind her. Sam always wondered why Dad didn't insist she cut it; after all, he'd used it to his advantage in their sparring more than once, grabbing handfuls of it and pulling her down. There was nothing to say a monster wouldn't do the same, but Dad never mentioned it. Looking back, Sam thinks there were a lot of things Dad never mentioned, at least not to him. He wonders how much Dean knew that he doesn’t, what other weights Dad placed on her shoulders before he died. Before she died.
In his dreams, Sam chases her. Even in dreams, Sam will always follow his sister.
They run through fields, a dry season’s worth of corn stalks whipping them in the face. He can hear her voice, hear her calling back to him. The words are a blur, caught in the space between her mouth and his ears, taken away by the breeze. The dry stalks tear at him, but he follows her, unrelenting. Imaginary blood runs down his face, gets in his eyes so thick he has to stop to wipe it out. When he looks up, she’s gone. The only thing in his sight is mile after mile of golden brown stalks, waving back in forth in the wind.
In his dreams, he never catches her.
Night after night, she sprints through his dreams. Sometimes he misses variety, thinking back to Jess burning on the ceiling in Technicolor, nightmares of monsters under his bed as a child. Even visions of events yet to happen would be welcome, headaches and all. But none of it would be the same without Dean there, he knows. And so he dreams.
In his dreams, her hair is always down.
He thinks it’s because she used to complain about wearing it up during hunts, how it was so heavy on her neck. He’d tease her about it, jokingly chase after her with the scissors. “There’s an easy solution,” he’d say, and she’d just toss a big wad of it over her shoulder, smile and say “It’s only easy if you catch me.” Then she’d dart off, tongue between her teeth to hold back her giggles. He wouldn’t chase after her, though, instead choosing to listen to the wise ‘don’t run with scissors’ adage and let her get away. Sam thinks that exact scene happened at least half a dozen times in the last few years. He’d never admit it, but he loved her hair like it was, long and slightly wavy, that shade in between what people would consider blonde and mousy brown. Just like a lot of things about Dean, he couldn’t put a name to the color.
In his dreams, Sam runs with scissors and her hair is blonde.
In tonight’s dream, he finds her in a department store trying on a dress. For a moment he wonders where his mind pulled that image from, as he’s fairly sure he’d never seen Dean in one. He laughs when he sees her, her arms caught inside, red dress twisted around at her hips at an awkward angle and the zipper only half down. That’s more realistic, he thinks. He gets close enough to try to pull at the zipper, but she jerks away, points to the scissors in his hands. “Use those,” he hears, even though her mouth doesn’t form the words.
With a few snips, the dress falls to the floor in a great pile. Sam follows its fall, watches as it fades into the tile, leaving a river of blood in its wake. He looks back up at Dean, who’s watching the red stream with a look of wistfulness on her face. She looks back up at him, her eyes shining. “It shouldn’t be like this,” he hears. Sam opens his mouth to respond, but that’s just another mistake. She’s gone before the words get out, wearing nothing but her underwear. “Wait,” he calls after her anyway, but the words die on his lips.
There aren’t words in his dreams.
This time they’re running up a hill, dodging tree stumps and wildflowers as they go. Or rather, Sam dodges tree remnants and dead dandelion patches. The flowers remain still as Dean runs through them. She’s laughing again, ducking around dead trees, hiding from him. She’s still in just her bra and panties, and he glimpses patches of her bare skin has they run, tanned and smooth.
Thirty years of scars don’t exist in his dreams.
In this dream, he’s gotten closer than ever to her, and he’s not about to give up. He chases her down paved roads, down cobble streets and dirt paths, traces of gravel kicking up behind him. He never gets tired, never runs out of breath. Neither does she.
It's impossible, he thinks, when he finally catches up to her. They’re under a giant oak tree, its branches groaning in the ever-present wind. Dean’s hair is blowing loosely behind her, tangling amongst itself. Sam reaches up and grabs a handful of her thick hair, spins her around roughly. Her lips form a smile, tongue darting out with the grin. "Hiya, Sammy," she says. To him, it doesn’t matter that he’s just dreaming, it’s still the sweetest words he's heard in months. He starts to respond, starts to pour out his heart telling Dean how much he's missed her. And then he looks up into her black eyes.
Sam wakes up.
***
I don’t usually listen to music while I write, but for some reason I decided to type "run" into my iTunes search box, and these are what I listened to while I wrote (Running Up That Hill was of course, the obvious one, and one of my all-time favorite songs.) No fancy cover art or anything to go with, sorry.
Placebo – Running Up That Hill
Within Temptation – Running Up That Hill
Coheed & Cambria – The Running Free
Snow Patrol – Run
Leona Lewis – Run
Muse – Time is Running Out
***
Summary: And in Sam’s dreams, Dean is always running from him. The worst part is, that's better than the reality.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: girl!Dean, Pre-season 4 (meaning Dean is currently in hell).
Notes: 1,025 words. Idea taken from a line Amanda Greystone said in Caprica: "chasing my dead brother down hallways." Written for
spnland’s genderswap challenge (where it won first place, holy crap, I’m still surprised!) I’ve never written genderswap, nor particularly liked reading it, but eh, roll with whatchu got, right? Dean will always be “Dean” to me, whether male or female. Mini-playlist included at the end. :)***
When he's awake, he sees Dean everywhere: standing at the counter in gas station; in churches, sitting in a pew or stealing holy water from the parapet; sometimes she'll be in the seat next to him in the impala, smile on her face and insults about his driving on her lips. It should be no surprise she's in his dreams as well.
In his dreams, she runs.
It reminds him of 5 am drills when they were younger, swatting their hands at each other with Dad running behind them, yelling at them to shape up and behave, that running drills was important. Dean would jump to attention and take off leaving Sam in the dust, her hair fading into the breeze behind her. Sam always wondered why Dad didn't insist she cut it; after all, he'd used it to his advantage in their sparring more than once, grabbing handfuls of it and pulling her down. There was nothing to say a monster wouldn't do the same, but Dad never mentioned it. Looking back, Sam thinks there were a lot of things Dad never mentioned, at least not to him. He wonders how much Dean knew that he doesn’t, what other weights Dad placed on her shoulders before he died. Before she died.
In his dreams, Sam chases her. Even in dreams, Sam will always follow his sister.
They run through fields, a dry season’s worth of corn stalks whipping them in the face. He can hear her voice, hear her calling back to him. The words are a blur, caught in the space between her mouth and his ears, taken away by the breeze. The dry stalks tear at him, but he follows her, unrelenting. Imaginary blood runs down his face, gets in his eyes so thick he has to stop to wipe it out. When he looks up, she’s gone. The only thing in his sight is mile after mile of golden brown stalks, waving back in forth in the wind.
In his dreams, he never catches her.
Night after night, she sprints through his dreams. Sometimes he misses variety, thinking back to Jess burning on the ceiling in Technicolor, nightmares of monsters under his bed as a child. Even visions of events yet to happen would be welcome, headaches and all. But none of it would be the same without Dean there, he knows. And so he dreams.
In his dreams, her hair is always down.
He thinks it’s because she used to complain about wearing it up during hunts, how it was so heavy on her neck. He’d tease her about it, jokingly chase after her with the scissors. “There’s an easy solution,” he’d say, and she’d just toss a big wad of it over her shoulder, smile and say “It’s only easy if you catch me.” Then she’d dart off, tongue between her teeth to hold back her giggles. He wouldn’t chase after her, though, instead choosing to listen to the wise ‘don’t run with scissors’ adage and let her get away. Sam thinks that exact scene happened at least half a dozen times in the last few years. He’d never admit it, but he loved her hair like it was, long and slightly wavy, that shade in between what people would consider blonde and mousy brown. Just like a lot of things about Dean, he couldn’t put a name to the color.
In his dreams, Sam runs with scissors and her hair is blonde.
In tonight’s dream, he finds her in a department store trying on a dress. For a moment he wonders where his mind pulled that image from, as he’s fairly sure he’d never seen Dean in one. He laughs when he sees her, her arms caught inside, red dress twisted around at her hips at an awkward angle and the zipper only half down. That’s more realistic, he thinks. He gets close enough to try to pull at the zipper, but she jerks away, points to the scissors in his hands. “Use those,” he hears, even though her mouth doesn’t form the words.
With a few snips, the dress falls to the floor in a great pile. Sam follows its fall, watches as it fades into the tile, leaving a river of blood in its wake. He looks back up at Dean, who’s watching the red stream with a look of wistfulness on her face. She looks back up at him, her eyes shining. “It shouldn’t be like this,” he hears. Sam opens his mouth to respond, but that’s just another mistake. She’s gone before the words get out, wearing nothing but her underwear. “Wait,” he calls after her anyway, but the words die on his lips.
There aren’t words in his dreams.
This time they’re running up a hill, dodging tree stumps and wildflowers as they go. Or rather, Sam dodges tree remnants and dead dandelion patches. The flowers remain still as Dean runs through them. She’s laughing again, ducking around dead trees, hiding from him. She’s still in just her bra and panties, and he glimpses patches of her bare skin has they run, tanned and smooth.
Thirty years of scars don’t exist in his dreams.
In this dream, he’s gotten closer than ever to her, and he’s not about to give up. He chases her down paved roads, down cobble streets and dirt paths, traces of gravel kicking up behind him. He never gets tired, never runs out of breath. Neither does she.
It's impossible, he thinks, when he finally catches up to her. They’re under a giant oak tree, its branches groaning in the ever-present wind. Dean’s hair is blowing loosely behind her, tangling amongst itself. Sam reaches up and grabs a handful of her thick hair, spins her around roughly. Her lips form a smile, tongue darting out with the grin. "Hiya, Sammy," she says. To him, it doesn’t matter that he’s just dreaming, it’s still the sweetest words he's heard in months. He starts to respond, starts to pour out his heart telling Dean how much he's missed her. And then he looks up into her black eyes.
Sam wakes up.
***
I don’t usually listen to music while I write, but for some reason I decided to type "run" into my iTunes search box, and these are what I listened to while I wrote (Running Up That Hill was of course, the obvious one, and one of my all-time favorite songs.) No fancy cover art or anything to go with, sorry.
Placebo – Running Up That Hill
Within Temptation – Running Up That Hill
Coheed & Cambria – The Running Free
Snow Patrol – Run
Leona Lewis – Run
Muse – Time is Running Out
***