every breath is a victory (moveablehistory) wrote in thistogether,
every breath is a victory

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title: [various]
author: moveablehistory
rating: [various, I tend to use the canadian ratings system]
characters/pairings: Sam, Dean, John, Missouri, OFC(s), OMC(s).
warnings: [gen set]: fluff, angst, non-angsty character death, angsty character death, genderswitch AU, apocalypse, wee!Winchesters, hellspawn, language, gratuitious homoerotic subtext, implausible plot devices, mood pieces, character studies, flowery prose and wildly happy boys. Also, I know - I know, drabbles are exactly one hundred words each, but I kind of bent the rules a wee bit. :)

This drabble set is divided into two parts - slash and gen - and they'll link each other at the end. Just want to make sure nobody accidently reads anything that wish they didn't. :)

wordcount: total - 10,000.
feedback: This was a huge exercise for me, so commenting with concrit, favourite lines, general impressions, etc. would be so very helpful. ♥
soundtrack: Phillip Glass - Solo Piano (album, zipped) and Jose Gonzalez - Heartbeats (album, zipped)
note: This is the GEN part. The SLASH part is here // full introduction here.

hit tracker

ARTISTIC| g, gen.
When Sammy was four, their father paused long enough to allow Sammy a whole school year in which to learn his ABC's and his numbers up to one hundred. Sammy was only supposed to learn up to ten, but he figured out the pattern easily.

Dean figured it out easily, too.

Their father never worried about things like notebooks or crayons or magic markers, but Dean always stole some from his classroom and brought them home. After school, he would dig them out so he and Sammy would draw in them; pretending they had their own journals just like Dad.

MOODY | g, gen.
The hardest thing about being on the move was when they had to stop.

Intellectually, Dean knew that he was supposed to feel the same pull towards normalcy that Sam apparently did. He read all about Maslov's needs; how he was supposed to crave constancy, a safe and stable enviroment.

In his heart, though, he figured that this - the sun setting in the west and slightly to the south, Led Zeppelin IV Side B in the tape deck, Sam eating all the brown M&Ms - this is home. This is safe and constant. The only danger is when they stop.

ACCOMPLISHED | pg, gen. powers!fic
Dean grinned at Sam and he was pretty sure Sam could feel it even though his eyes were closed.

"How's that coming along, anyways?" Dean called out, and Sam sat up from where he was lying on the Impala's hood.

"Watch." Sam said smugly, and the silver spoon he was holding bent itself, looping in a circle until the stem neatly rested in the bowl.

"Oh my god, you're Neo." Dean joked, and Sam threw the spoon at him, stopping it midair an inch from his brother's nose.

"No kidding." Sam said, softly; Dean plucked it out of the air and threw it back.

AMUSED | ANGRY | pg, gen.
There's going to be a creak, a snap, and maybe a whining sound, but neither of them will notice until it is much too late to do anything about it. Sam will sit up, sliding down the snapped-in-half bed, and he'll shake Dean awake because how does that fool boy wake up when Sam's got a bit of a nightmare but not notice that the bed just snapped in half?

Dean will wake up with a jerk, his hands will reach for the knife that ought to be under the pillow but in actuality was somewhere beneath him, warming up under the close contact with his skin.

"Dude. You broke your bed." Sam will say, and Dean will reply with something along the lines of "Dude, you're the one who fucked up your own bed and refused to sleep on the floor." He'll mutter something like "whiny princess" but Sam won't be paying attention.

Both of them will groan, and they will set up on the floor, planning a quick getaway in the morning, blankets spread and assorted weaponry set around them.

They'll fall asleep beside each other, barely touching back to back. Just like when they're awake.

APATHETIC | pg, gen, deleted scene from untitled (a stanford fic)
"You want me to do what?" Dean paused at the door, hand on the knob. Sam shrugged and looked away.

"She's expecting us both to work on this essay, weren't you paying attention?"

Dean almost slammed the door. "Yeah, I was listening. Looks to me like you're the student. Not like I'm gonna get any credit."

Sam leaned back in his chair. "Writing's an important skill."

"Like what, bowhunting?" Dean snapped back.

"Yes!" Sam said. "Like bowhunting!"

"When you put it that way..." Dean looked over Sam's shoulder at the laptop. "...why the fuck do you have three prepositions in a row?"

"What! Where?!"

Dean grinned. "Gotcha."

ANNOYED | pg, gen. post-finale.
"What a loser." Dean muttered, and he stared straight ahead and kept his eyes on the road because if he looked at Sam he'd remember just how pissed off he was.

"Not my fault, dude." Sam said, and Dean knew it wasn't but he didn't feel like blaming himself and the Impala was definitely innocent of all charges.

"This blows." Sam said, and Dean leveled a glare at him that said you would know how, exactly? It didn't do anything to lighten the mood. Dean pulled over, wordlessly, and Sam got out to stretch his legs.

"Fucking rental." Dean said.

BROKEN | pg, gen.
Monitors beeped slowly, but Sam didn't need them to let him know that Dean's heart was still beating; he could feel Dean's pulse unsteady beneath his fingertips. He could feel Dean wake up.

“Do you think we can fix her?” Dean asked quietly. He was pale; awkward bandages wrapped around him.

Sam paused. It wasn't that easy to breathe – it felt kind of like his broken ribs were shoving into his heart and he wondered if that maybe was a little too accurate in his case.

“Sammy?” Dean breathed, and Sam grinned.

“Yeah, Dean. I think she'll be all right.”

BORED | gen, pg.
They were laid up in a motel room for two weeks. It wasn't bad, it was just - nothing.

Just nothing. Sam's broken wrist didn't even hurt anymore; Dean's sprained ankle didn't need constant Ace-bandage wrapping. They just weren't ready yet; things didn't feel quite right just yet.

Sam watched the weather channel for fun. Dean wrapped one of the stolen rental ties around his eyes and practiced field-stripping all the rifles. They went to bed early - real early - and slept in late. When they drove, Sam steered the wheel and hit the brakes and throttle while Dean shifted gears.

COLD | pg, gen.
Sam shivered, and Dean threw a blanket at him before turning up the Impala's heat as high as it would go. "Why's it always have to be so damn cold in North Dakota?" he complained, and Sam glared at him.

"North Dakota, jerk."


Sam shifted the air vents so they'd blow in his face. "Next time, I get to pick."

Dean shrugged. "Hey, I go where the hunting's at."

"Maybe that's your problem." Sam said, giving up, curling up on the bench seat as much as he could.

"You're my problem." Dean grumbled. Sam moved to share the blanket.

CREATIVE | pg, gen.
Sam doodled on a napkin, and Dean looked over at him carefully.

"What's that?" he asked around a mouthful of fries.

Sam shrugged. "Nothing." He had a diner-provided crayon, evidently meant for their littlest customers, but Sam had appropriated it - evidently not caring that he was about four times bigger than the intended user. Dean looked at Sam's upside-down picture, noticing it was a simple box house, like you'd draw when you were four and learning to write.

"Your house, Sammy?"

Sam crumpled up the napkin. "Our house would be a hell of a lot nicer than that."

DRAINED | pg, gen. pre-series
John would be driving. It'd be late; his boys would be bone deep tired and he'd let them sleep, curled up in the backseat, blanket over both.

There wouldn't be any other traffic around, and the road ahead of him would be long. It'd have those rumbly things on the side, and when he drifted a little too far over they'd vibrate. Dean would mumble something, Sam's eyes would open and then shut.

John would straightened up and he'd lower the windows so that the cold rush of air would wake him; would keep him on the road a little longer.

ENVIOUS | pg, gen.
The book had 'WICHITA PUBLIC LIBRARY' stamped on the inside front cover. Dean 'liberated' it when he was thirteen, when he was still a little bright-eyed with the hope that everything was maybe going to be okay. Sometimes he wonders if he really thought that way. He never hopes for the same conviction.

Sam found it buried under a ka-bar, two 9mm clips and a half-empty bag of Doritos. He left it on the backseat and it was gone the next time he looked.

He thought about when Peter Pan stopped being funny and started being tragic.

EXHAUSTED | pg, gen.
He felt wide-open, heart-deep tired; boneless. He shifted in the seat, eyes closed. The pump thunked off, and he could hear Dean hang it back up, shuffling around, going into the gas bar. He didn't need to be completely conscious to know that Dean was getting coffee and charming the attendant into giving them a discount, or that the sound of gravel kicking up meant that Dean was trying to be quiet.

"I'm up." Sam said quietly, and Dean handed him the coffee.

"Good," Dean grinned, and he opened the passenger door to shove Sam over. "I can sleep while you drive."

It was past midnight, twenty-five miles outside of the middle of nowhere and Dean couldn't see a fucking thing. It was driving him insane and he couldn't find Sam and he was out of his mind, his mind-


It was fucking dark and if Sam didn't say anything in the next half a second he was gonna-


"Where are you?" Dean muttered freak under his breath because who in their right mind ran after twinkly little lights in the forest? It could be malevolent spirits, or the unseelie fae, or any number of things that would love to eat Sam's cute bleedin' heart for breakfast.

He heard Sam's voice somewhere close, saying something suspiciously like pretty! but Dean wasn't about to acknowledge that. He stepped into a little clearing and caught Sam's eyes.

"Don't go running off like that, you jerk." Dean stood beside Sam and looked around them, seeing the little lights, and his hand tightened on the Beretta at his waistband. "The hell is that?" he whispered, and in their glow he could see Sam grinning.


Dean relaxed, just a little bit. Sam caught one in his big hands and then let it go.

GLOOMY | pg, gen.
Dean needed stitches again and every time Sam dug the first aid kit out of the Impala's trunk he wondered just how much damage Dean could take before it all became too much; before his body would just give out or his heart would stop beating again.

He was going to drown himself if he didn't think of something happy really damn fast.

"You have a crappy bedside manner, Sam." Dean said, and he didn't flinch when Sam threaded the needle and sent it through his skin.

"Does it hurt?" Sam asked.

"How the fuck did you managed to get into college?" Dean snapped.

GRATEFUL | GRUMPY | pg, gen.
It looked kind of like a burned-out fifties bomb shelter, but it was better than nothing - especially when it's raining harder than God's own tears - and it was well hidden. They could roll the Impala into the woods, tucked away, and they could just take a little time to sleep, maybe recover for a while.

Sam found the running water first, and he dibs taking a shower. Dean found the fireplace, complete with twenty-year-old dried out logs, and he set up a makeshift clothesrack, seeing as they were soaked through to the bone and sloshing all over the place. He sat down in front of it, dressed in just his boxers, flicking his lighter on and off.

He heard Sam going through shelves and cabinets, but he was too tired to move, so he didn't. He was cut up, bruised and aching, and he just wanted to get some sleep before the next job, before the next fucking trip through a brick wall.

"Hey, I found the good stuff." Sam crowed, and he walked back into the tiny "living area" holding a bottle of twenty-year-old scotch and two glasses. He poured Dean a shot first.

HOPEFUL | pg, gen, apocalypse!fic.
World's about to end, and there is nothing left to wait for. It's all about to be finished, and there's nothing that you can do to save it. Absently, you remember back when instead of sitting in the Impala about to die you were fifteen, sitting in the Impala, antsy in the driver's seat. Dean would patiently point out the brake, the throttle, the emergency handbrake and the speedometer - "don't worry about that, dude" - and now you're here for the very first time, again.

Dean is saying the same thing he said before. "Just hold on and enjoy the ride."

LETHARGIC | LISTLESS | pg, gen. suggested intertext: kiraboshi's 'under a spider tree'
When Sam was young, he used to love spy movies, or at least all those 'secret agent' movies. He probably saw True Lies hundreds of times on fuzzy late night motel TV - head propped on his hands, cars roaring by outside, Dad snoring on the other bed and Dean kicking at him, turn it down, turn it down.

He kind of hoped that he might grow up to be like that, if he was lucky. You know, fighting the forces of fascism or corrupt governments or evil demons, with a swagger and a crooked smile. Coming home to a pretty wife he loved and a couple of kids - at least a dog- after saving the world again.

He's smart, he should have figured out that movies always copied from real life, at least a little but. No one could ever keep their secrets and their perfectly normal lives apart, at least not for long.

Dean threw popcorn at the screen. "This one has a happy ending. Don't fuck it up."

"How do you know?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "You can walk out or you can stay to the end. You never know. Just might turn out the way you want."

INDIFFERENT | pg, gen, ofc, metafiction.
It's late, it's Thursday and usually I'd be home but not tonight. Supernatural is playing on the television above the bar, and usually I'd care except this time I'm too tired to tell the difference between Dean Winchester and his car.

"You watch this show?" I asked the bartender, and she nodded.

"I think they're hot." She confided, and I hooked the heels of my shoes behind the barstool's legs and knocked back a shot. She looked at me sympathetically, as if she understood affection almost obsession.

"Oh yeah?" I slurred, truth-serum-sleepy. "I write fanfiction."

She looked horrified.

LONELY | LAZY | pg, gen. preseries.
Sam remembered that Dean loved (loves, he corrected himself) Led Zeppelin. It wasn't as if he was ever going to forget anyways, but sometimes when he missed his brother so hard it felt as if the impala parked itself on his chest, he'd boot up his computer and put all the Led Zep he'd collected back on his iPod and play through it. Vague memories came back, things like that job in Tulsa, that hunt in Green River, the barghest in Maine.

He secretly thanked God that liking Zeppelin made him hip; made him classic. His friends would nod and say "yeah, they're cool" while wearing their faux distressed Sex Pistols or Ramones band shirts and he'd idly wonder if they knew what they were talking about.

Sometimes he'd lie down during broad daylight, extra salt on the threshold because some habits aren't supposed to be broken, and put The Rain Song on repeat. He'd be thinking of riding stretched out in the impala's backseat, looking up at the insane twinkling stars and faded city lights flashing by in steady rhythm. He'd fall asleep, and when he woke up he'd reset the playcount so that it'd stop being most played.

LOVED | pg, gen.
"Aww, hell no!" Sam hissed quietly, and Dean couldn't see the other guy behind the glass but it didn't sound good. All he could hear was a low rumble that seemed like a whole lot of trouble and Dean wasn't about to let some punkass bitch jump his brother over a real bad hand at Hold'em.

"You totally thought that was some bigass biker tryin' to rip me a new one, huh?" Sam asked, and when Dean just groaned in pain, Sam grinned down at him, and offered him a hand up that Dean didn't have a hard time accepting.

MISCHIEVIOUS | MOROSE | NAUGHTY | NERVOUS | 14a, gen. also, completely mary sue. but it's gen mary sue. so there.
The girl was in a black shirt, a frilly white skirt, and hot pink shoes, and she definitely didn't look like she was Dean's type. Sam's type, either.

Considering that they had her at gunpoint, it was prety safe to say that she didn't think they were all that great, either.

"The fuck, dudes?" she whined, "put those away before you hurt somebody."

Sam's voice was hard, and his grip on the gun was firm. "Hands up." He flipped the hammer back, and it clicked loudly. "What did you do with the knives?"

"What! I've only got -"

"Nuh-uh-uh," Dean smiled broadly, "knives. Hand 'em over."

She reached into the waistband of her skirt. "Look, if you're gonna mug me, I haven't got anything except-" she looked in her pockets, "- a notebook and a pen. And a mobile. You can take that, sure, it's pretty new but I'm dying to get out of the contract and-"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Knives, ma'am."

She grinned. "Heee. Ma'am." She pulled out a couple of knives from her skirt. "These are the ones I usually carry. One's a fixed blade tanto, six inches, because any longer's illegal. Other's a folding liner-lock, a colt police issue. I got it from this shady Russian dude, I sure hope it... anyways, it folds down small, but-"

Dean took the knives, but waved the gun around just a little. "Cursed knives."

She shrugged. "Why'd I want cursed knives?"

"Raise hell?" Sam said darkly.

She shook her head. "I've got enough problems."

They lowered their guns, and it was obvious that she was harmless. Aside from the creepy knife carrying, but they could hardly judge that.

"Can I go now?" She said, and Sam nodded. She started walking towards the curb, and paused beside the Impala. "This one yours?" she called out, and Dean grinned.

"Yeah, she's all mine."

"Pity," she visibly deflated, "she's so pretty. What about that Mustang SSP? And can I get my knives back?"

"Uh, not mine, and sure." Dean handed the knives back over. She flipped open the colt, and crouched under the car.

"Green wires first." She grinned, and opened the car door. She settled in, tucking her skirt in around her, hotwiring the car - red and white, she said - and it started with a cough. "See ya!"

They watched her drive off. "What a weird kid." Sam said, and they turned to keep walked down the narrow alley, still looking.

Dean sighed. "Have you seen my wallet?"

MELANCHOLY | pg, gen, pre-series.
Dean got his sunglasses in California. He figured it was as good a place as any to pick up a pair - it was a big fucking state and they had to know a thing or two about proper eyecare, seeing as they were all sunshine and fake tans and too bright lights.

His first pair were aviators, you know, the kind that cops in old-movie Texas wear. When he rolled by Stanford to check on Sam (just for a little while, just to make sure) and he saw Sam wearing the exact same fucking pair, he threw them out.

RESTLESS | SAD | pg, gen, salvation.
They were waiting for their father. The motel had thin walls, and whenever a phone rang in another room Dean would jump up, realise it wasn't for them, pace for a while and then sit back down on the edge of the bed. Sam didn't bother getting up anymore.

The tension in the air was dizzying, clouding. The air was filling up with a million things neither really cared to put a name to. Restless, shaking limbs loose and bouncing on the balls of their feet or mentally calculating the cracks in the ceiling and the statistical likelihood of it breaking because a cow fell through it. Something ridiculous, something they would never think of otherwise.

The minibar was empty, but the vending machines weren't and Dean always knew how to coax an extra bar from them. Or kick them hard enough for the machine to rattle and drop another. Plastic containers sat on the bedside table, the outer edges of each bed. Sam stirred and rolled over; tried to sleep and failed. Nothing worked. It reminded him of a wake, or maybe waiting at the side of a coma patient flipping coins endlessly, heads they live, tails they die.

The phone rang.

NOSTALGIC | pg, gen, futurefic.
Sam'll lean back in his chair. The porch will creak a little beneath their weight but neither of them will notice.

"Hey, do you remember when-" Sam'll start, and he'll think about every that's happened since then, images blurring in his mind and fleeting sense memories of muscles burning with pain, nights of shotgun-filled glory, glowy soft mornings in the middle of nowhere and with no one else around but his brother. He'll remember their past in the space of two seconds, half a lifetime of almost dying.

"-yeah, I remember." Dean'll finish. He'll be thinking of their future.

PENSIVE | pg, gen, genderswitch AU.
John didn't mind that Diana would climb into baby Samantha's crib. They were sisters, and sisters looked out for each other. Squabble over toys and what TV channel to watch and who's hotter - Matt Damon or Ben Affleck. John didn't try to fool himself into thinking that arguing about glock seventeens versus walther PPKs was quite as normal.

He thought it was kind of ironic that he and Mary decided to name their eldest Diana, after the goddess of the hunt and the moon. Sometimes, he hoped that if She existed, She'd look out for his girls when he couldn't.

STRESSED | SYMPATHETIC | pg, gen, ofc-focused, post-finale.
She started noticing a pattern around Christmas. Her boss would tell her to get off snopes.com and get on a real story, but she wouldn't shake the idea that there was something there. Things that would pop up every once in a while would come up briefly, and then disappear fast - as if somebody was hunting it down. She wasn't about to object but there was more and more, as if something was building or something was coming.

She was insane, obviously. Couldn't shake the feeling, though, couldn't shake the uneasy up and down her spine. Had no idea who was involved, either - there was always somebody or somebodies at the centre of these things, whether it was politics or cover stories or anything else - and she wanted to know. She paused to consider just how awesome that interview would be, no matter how unpublishable.

Her boss was yelling at her, something about covering some "tragic" near-fatal accident on the interstate just north, something about damn kids not just looking either way before going through intersections. She grabbed her bag and wondered if she had time to write down some notes for a draft before getting to the hospital.

THANKFUL | pg, gen.
Dean's kind of glad that in every motel room they've ever stayed at, there's one of those Gideon bibles - usually not defaced - in the nightstand. He doesn't pray a lot, but words carry weight and a book like that leaves a taste in the air that lingers.

He doesn't dwell on it and he certainly doesn't trust it, but he always flips the bibles open and marks under that passage in Romans, the one that says nothing can separate you from God, not angels or demons. He salts lines around the room, thinking about what separates them from everything else.

ENAMOURED | 14a, gen, post-finale
Dean sighed contentedly, sliding in easily, running his hands across her, every inch of her. He wanted to know every part of her, every little thing - every quirk and inclination and everything. He'd never been so happy. He shifted, the sudden realization that everything he wanted was right here and maybe he could have it for a little bit longer. He wouldn't mind at all.

Sam stuck his head in, since Bobby hadn't fixed the windows yet. "Do you two want to get a room?" Sam teased, and Dean leaned back against the Impala's seat, nearly sliding off in pleasure.

When Dean was sixteen, and Sam was twelve, they drove clear across Texas - El Paso to Sulphur Springs - in a day, trying to finally catch up to their dad in Mount Pleasant. They'd almost made it, almost, but there were limits of all kinds, saying things like 80mph only and can't drive with no sleep.

Sunrise saw them on the 20, outside Cisco. That's when they hit a coyote - it just darted in front of them, and Dean was too tired to react fast enough, to swerve out of the way. It went down with a yelp and a crack, and Dean woke up just enough to roll the Impala to the shoulder.

"Stay in the car, Sam." Dean ordered, and he patted down the side of his jacket to make sure the .32 was still in there. After a minute, Sam looked in the rearview, the coyote was trying to get up and Dean was crouched over it, maybe touching it softly, maybe just holding the coyote down, holding it still while he aimed.

Sam couldn't really see what Dean was doing and he wasn't sure that he wanted to, but for a moment, he almost hated his brother.

A while back, Sam was gone and Dean didn't know what to do with himself except pick up some girl at some bar.

They went to a raunchy drive-in and Dean was sure he was going to get some action but she batted his hands away and looked at the screen. Somebody was being chased by some killer - tame, Dean thought, kind of annoyed. She munched on a chocolate bar and waved vaguely towards the screen.

"...would you do?"


She shrugged. "If you were being chased like that."

Dean briefly considered telling her about rock salt and the uses thereof. "What would you do?" he asked instead.

She laughed low. "Depends, I guess, on whether I'm alone or with somebody I love." Dean's eyes flickered to the screen in time to see someone die. "If I was by myself, maybe I'd pistol-whip the bitch and hope to live."

Dean popped some M&Ms into his mouth. "And with somebody you loved?"

She looked as if she remembered something. "Run. Grab their hand and hold on. Run until I couldn't then fight to the end."

Dean leaned back against the seat. Quietly, he whispered sounds good to me.

SCARED | SHOCKED| 14a, gen.
When Dean was sixteen and Sam was twelve, Sam shot a poltergeist with rock salt. Some of the pellets ricocheted and some left scars on Dean that Sam wouldn't see. It didn't matter 'cause he'd saved his brother's life for the first time.

When Dean was twenty-three and Sam was nineteen, Sam cut the head off a spirit that's somehow gone corporeal. It didn't bleed but Dean did, right where Sam'd nipped his shoulder on the downward stroke. It didn't matter 'cause he decided he's saved his brother's life for the last time.

When Dean was twenty-six and Sam was twenty-two, a not-bullet hit home and when it was over, Dean didn't blink and Sam didn't know where to put his regret and the realization that while he was gone, Dean had lost his soul.

"Why're you leaving?" Dean asked for the eleventh time, and Sam finally snapped back, saying "Because someday I'm gonna be too late and then I'm gonna have to be the one to bury you."

Maybe sometime in the future, Dean is going to remember what his brother said when he left, and he'll think it ironic; how some things never changed.

WEIRD | gen, 14a, immediately post-finale.
If Sam could cry, or maybe even sob, that's what he'd be doing right now. Dean stomped around the impala's wreckage, kicking listlessly, glaring at Sam with why are we okay? and where's dad? all over his face.

He didn't know what he was doing. "You should have let him- you should have let me- shouldn't have wasted the bullet on me-"

Dean tackled him flying, they rolled together until they stopped and Dean was above him, angry and cracking, muttering me first, me first.

Sam looked up past his brother, and laughed, because the sky was bluer than he could ever recall.

THOUGHTFUL | TIRED | 14a, gen, not angsty character death. is that possible?
Of all the ways of dying Sam had ever imagined, this one by far wasn't the worst. In fact, it was kind of okay. Being stuck in a nailed coffin, underground, about a half hour away from running out of air and there was fuck-all they could do to save themselves. No one would come fast enough, they couldn't dig themselves out fast enough and this was it. This was fucking it.

"It could be a lot worse." Dean coughed. He was draped across his brother, the only way they could fit in the coffin comfortably.

"At least we're going out together." Sam said. He could feel Dean's hips against his, the only solid thing he could feel anymore. There were white lights sparking behind his eyes and he could feel Dean breathing against his throat and as he faded out he considered that dying like this was actually the best way he could have gone.

When Dean woke, he realized immediately that he was dead, because Sam was up and leaning against the Impala, and he looked kinda happy, and there is no way they had gotten out before-

"C'mon, Dean." Sam said. "We've got work to do."

SLASH set >>>
Tags: fandom: supernatural, genre: angst, genre: comedy, genre: crack, genre: drama, genre: schmoop, length: 3000-4000, pairing: none, rating: 14a, rating: pg, style: interconnected drabbles
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