alwaysenduphere (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alwaysenduphere) wrote2011-04-15 07:38 am
alwaysenduphere) wrote2011-04-15 07:38 am
Entry tags:
fic: happiness is only a heartbeat away
title: happiness is only a heartbeat away
rating: pffffft. PG
characters: Dean, Sam. This was supposed to be wincest but other than sharing a bed there's not really much action. /shrug
summary: Sometimes you think his face is more expressive now that he can't see, lines of disappointment and sadness easier to read, like he's forgotten that everyone else can still see him.
notes: 1061 words. second-person pov as usual. (oh god what is this i just wrote? it's almost...cheerful. [if blind!dean is your idea of domesticity, i suppose.]) this was supposed to also be under 1000 words for a challenge on tumblr, but uh, that failed a bit. OH WELL.
There's dust in your eye and it burns. Dean opened the window over the stove days ago, when it was warm, and you never bothered to close it, chose instead to enjoy the feel of the breeze, the smell of the outside air and sound of nature outside. You didn't even think about it when you woke up today, just rolled out of bed and threw on a sweatshirt in the chilly morning air and stumbled into the kitchen to make breakfast.
Dean hums in the other room, same off-key rendition of Blue Collar Man you hear from him every morning. You're used to the sound, know that when he reaches "long nights, impossible odds" for the second time he'll be two steps inside the kitchen. All his traveling around the house is done by lyrics, his own twisted way of echolocation. A trip upstairs is a few lines of Stairway to Heaven, the short walk from the bedroom to the bathroom is the chorus of Enter Sandman, the bed to the couch is about half of Ramble On as he has to weave through furniture, sometimes bumping into it on the way. There's a song for the laundry room to the garage as well - Back in Black, like it could be anything else - but you don't hear it very often anymore.
"Good morning," Dean says in between yawns, stretching his arms up and up and up until his fingers tentatively touch the door frame and latch on. You can hear his joints pop as he does it, daily exercise to wake up a body not as young as it used to be. You never take the time to stretch anymore, instead choosing to just get up and move, doing your best to keep to the same routine you've had since children. Even if everything else has changed, you're still the early riser.
You don't bother answering him. "You want toast with the eggs?" You've gotten better at cooking, though sometimes it's still cereal or pop-tarts. Dean doesn't like those choices much, always makes faces when he makes it to the kitchen and you ask "blueberry or brown sugar cinnamon," but his face always lights up when you say "eggs." He's surprisingly easy to please anymore.
"Don't I always?" Two more bars of Styx and he's at the counter, fumbling with the stool. "Sounds like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, grumpy."
Sometimes you keep it to yourself, figuring Dean has enough shit to deal with and it's not your job to add to it. Sometimes you keep it to yourself. "You snore, Dean. You know this, I've told you a million times. It's why I wear earplugs, it's why I keep to my side of the bed when we're actually trying to sleep. I need sleep, Dean, I need it so I can take care of you, which sometimes isn't an easy task. Like when I get up to make you breakfast, as I do every day, and end up with a face full of the great outdoors, and not in a fun way." You're not sure there is a fun way anymore, really, the land all around covered in half-starved animals and dry brush, lone pine trees off in the far distance. "And since the window was left open, there's a half dozen flies in here, the windowsill is wet from where it rained last night, and there's this grain of dirt in my eye that I can't seem to get out no matter how much I blink."
Dean frowns and you watch as he tries to find the approximate position of the window with the eyesight he no longer has. He's looking a little too far to the left, adjusting for the sound of your voice but not factoring in that you're no longer near the stove, busy scooping the over-easy eggs onto a plate for him and pulling his toast out of the toaster. "I forgot about the window," he says. Sometimes you think his face is more expressive now that he can't see, lines of disappointment and sadness easier to read, like he's forgotten that everyone else can still see him. And sometimes you forget that he's not the same as he used to be, that his brain isn't quite full of the sharp wit it used to hold, that his snoring and singing and constant talking isn't to annoy you so much as it is to make himself feel less alone.
"I know you did," you say gently, pausing for a moment before deciding whether or not to continue. You don't even know why you started complaining. It's really no big deal, it's the life you're stuck with, and it's far better than the life without Dean you almost ended up with. "I forgot to close it last night. I knew it was going to rain." Your knees always warn you a day ahead, with cracks and pops that lets you know you're not as young as you used to be, either.
Dean's frown deepens, shifts from disappointment to more of a confused look, one eyebrow arched higher than the other. You've seen the look a thousand times and it's still amusing, like looking at a real-life cartoon character, and you muffle a laugh, completely draining all the tension you had moments ago. He takes a bite of his eggs and makes a face, grabbing quickly for a piece of toast. So you've only gotten better at cooking, you never said it was perfect. And you think you might have forgotten to put in the pepper, too busy wiping the dust from your eyes.
"So why are we arguing again?" He talks with his mouth full, small chunk of toast flying out with the beginning of his sentence. He doesn't see it land an inch from your plate of toast, doesn't see you trying not to laugh at his ridiculous expression.
You manage to get out, "What else is there to do?" biting your cheek in the process to keep from laughing. He can't see how shiny your eyes are and even if he did you'd still have a perfectly good excuse with the whole "dust in my eye" thing, and you'd most certainly never tell him it's because you're glad to be here, glad that he's here with you.
rating: pffffft. PG
characters: Dean, Sam. This was supposed to be wincest but other than sharing a bed there's not really much action. /shrug
summary: Sometimes you think his face is more expressive now that he can't see, lines of disappointment and sadness easier to read, like he's forgotten that everyone else can still see him.
notes: 1061 words. second-person pov as usual. (oh god what is this i just wrote? it's almost...cheerful. [if blind!dean is your idea of domesticity, i suppose.]) this was supposed to also be under 1000 words for a challenge on tumblr, but uh, that failed a bit. OH WELL.
There's dust in your eye and it burns. Dean opened the window over the stove days ago, when it was warm, and you never bothered to close it, chose instead to enjoy the feel of the breeze, the smell of the outside air and sound of nature outside. You didn't even think about it when you woke up today, just rolled out of bed and threw on a sweatshirt in the chilly morning air and stumbled into the kitchen to make breakfast.
Dean hums in the other room, same off-key rendition of Blue Collar Man you hear from him every morning. You're used to the sound, know that when he reaches "long nights, impossible odds" for the second time he'll be two steps inside the kitchen. All his traveling around the house is done by lyrics, his own twisted way of echolocation. A trip upstairs is a few lines of Stairway to Heaven, the short walk from the bedroom to the bathroom is the chorus of Enter Sandman, the bed to the couch is about half of Ramble On as he has to weave through furniture, sometimes bumping into it on the way. There's a song for the laundry room to the garage as well - Back in Black, like it could be anything else - but you don't hear it very often anymore.
"Good morning," Dean says in between yawns, stretching his arms up and up and up until his fingers tentatively touch the door frame and latch on. You can hear his joints pop as he does it, daily exercise to wake up a body not as young as it used to be. You never take the time to stretch anymore, instead choosing to just get up and move, doing your best to keep to the same routine you've had since children. Even if everything else has changed, you're still the early riser.
You don't bother answering him. "You want toast with the eggs?" You've gotten better at cooking, though sometimes it's still cereal or pop-tarts. Dean doesn't like those choices much, always makes faces when he makes it to the kitchen and you ask "blueberry or brown sugar cinnamon," but his face always lights up when you say "eggs." He's surprisingly easy to please anymore.
"Don't I always?" Two more bars of Styx and he's at the counter, fumbling with the stool. "Sounds like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed, grumpy."
Sometimes you keep it to yourself, figuring Dean has enough shit to deal with and it's not your job to add to it. Sometimes you keep it to yourself. "You snore, Dean. You know this, I've told you a million times. It's why I wear earplugs, it's why I keep to my side of the bed when we're actually trying to sleep. I need sleep, Dean, I need it so I can take care of you, which sometimes isn't an easy task. Like when I get up to make you breakfast, as I do every day, and end up with a face full of the great outdoors, and not in a fun way." You're not sure there is a fun way anymore, really, the land all around covered in half-starved animals and dry brush, lone pine trees off in the far distance. "And since the window was left open, there's a half dozen flies in here, the windowsill is wet from where it rained last night, and there's this grain of dirt in my eye that I can't seem to get out no matter how much I blink."
Dean frowns and you watch as he tries to find the approximate position of the window with the eyesight he no longer has. He's looking a little too far to the left, adjusting for the sound of your voice but not factoring in that you're no longer near the stove, busy scooping the over-easy eggs onto a plate for him and pulling his toast out of the toaster. "I forgot about the window," he says. Sometimes you think his face is more expressive now that he can't see, lines of disappointment and sadness easier to read, like he's forgotten that everyone else can still see him. And sometimes you forget that he's not the same as he used to be, that his brain isn't quite full of the sharp wit it used to hold, that his snoring and singing and constant talking isn't to annoy you so much as it is to make himself feel less alone.
"I know you did," you say gently, pausing for a moment before deciding whether or not to continue. You don't even know why you started complaining. It's really no big deal, it's the life you're stuck with, and it's far better than the life without Dean you almost ended up with. "I forgot to close it last night. I knew it was going to rain." Your knees always warn you a day ahead, with cracks and pops that lets you know you're not as young as you used to be, either.
Dean's frown deepens, shifts from disappointment to more of a confused look, one eyebrow arched higher than the other. You've seen the look a thousand times and it's still amusing, like looking at a real-life cartoon character, and you muffle a laugh, completely draining all the tension you had moments ago. He takes a bite of his eggs and makes a face, grabbing quickly for a piece of toast. So you've only gotten better at cooking, you never said it was perfect. And you think you might have forgotten to put in the pepper, too busy wiping the dust from your eyes.
"So why are we arguing again?" He talks with his mouth full, small chunk of toast flying out with the beginning of his sentence. He doesn't see it land an inch from your plate of toast, doesn't see you trying not to laugh at his ridiculous expression.
You manage to get out, "What else is there to do?" biting your cheek in the process to keep from laughing. He can't see how shiny your eyes are and even if he did you'd still have a perfectly good excuse with the whole "dust in my eye" thing, and you'd most certainly never tell him it's because you're glad to be here, glad that he's here with you.