Supernatural Fic: in aqua dulci
Nov. 25th, 2012 04:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kat_lairTitle: in aqua dulci
Author:
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kat_lair / Mistress KatFandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Genre: Angst, UST, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,938
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing
Summary: This will drown them both if Sam lets it.
Author notes: This was written way back during Season 1, and was originally meant to be a part of a themed set. Posted now as, while I’ll never finish the whole thing, parts of it will work as standalones. Excellent beta-reading provided by
virtualinsomnia. Title from Ovid quote ‘Est in aqua dulci non invidiosa voluptas’ (‘There is no small pleasure in sweet water’) – because I rather enjoy being pretentious on occasion and you can't stop me.Sam’s boot scrapes against the fence, slips at first, and then catches; his leg muscles bunching, pushing his body up and over. He lands silently, knees bending automatically into a low squat. Five tense seconds later, Sam feels the wood vibrate minutely at his back, and Dean drops down next to him. There’s an insolent little half-smirk dancing on his brother’s lips, and Sam knows this is a bad idea. Of course, so is drowning. The lesser of two evils and all that.
“Here. I brought you something.” They’re standing up now, surveying the empty poolside casually.
Cautiously, Sam extends his hand to take the proffered item. Dean is trying to look indifferent, but his mouth keeps twitching, and he’s not fooling anyone. Well, not Sam anyway.
The tightly rolled bundle feels slick and plastic, and Sam knows what it is straightaway. He unfolds it slowly, schooling his features into seriousness.
“Thank you, Dean. I’m sure it will be very useful.” He smoothes out the wrinkles, uncapping the air vent and lifting it to his lips.
Dean’s jaw drops, and then he’s stuffing a fist into his mouth in an effort not to laugh. Sam shrugs out of his jeans and t-shirt, trying on the latest purchase in a long line of gag gifts.
“Dean, I don’t think it fits.” Of course it doesn’t. The bright pink swim ring is made for kids. Pastel-coloured ponies prance along the edge, making Sam’s teeth ache. It goes up to his knees and no further.
The look on Dean’s face is worth a little embarrassment. Sam hobbles around for a few minutes, putting on a proper show. Dean appears close to choking. His face is turning an interesting shade of red, and are those…? Score! There are unmistakable tears of laughter rolling down his big brother’s cheeks, and Sam considers this mission a success.
Usually their teasing is a never-ending game of one-upmanship, practical jokes and cleverly placed insults designed to drive each other mad. But there are times – more often now with age – when the adversarial turns reciprocal, and it’s like the instinctual synchrony that marks their hunting is finally bleeding over to the more private and personal areas of their relationship.
Dean wheezes something about wishing for a camera and collapses on an abandoned recliner, weakly tugging at his clothes.
Sam eases the swim ring off, the plastic squeaking in protest. It’s a relief to flop down on the edge of the pool, the sun-soaked slabs under him still radiating warmth. He kicks his feet in the water and watches the droplets rain down, making tiny rivulets of moisture on his bare legs.
Then Dean is standing right by him, calf brushing against his arm, the heat of skin on skin brief but shocking.
Sam draws in a sharp breath, ready to say something, because surely there’s a way he could just stay on the shore tomorrow, and they don’t have to… But Dean is already moving, knees bent and arms extended, spine a long sinuous arch of controlled energy. He jumps off, all sleekness and perfect form, suspended in the air for two long seconds before cleaving water like a knife.
Sam’s hand drifts to the pile of clothes nearby, fingers sneaking into the jeans pocket as drawn by an invisible force. The paper is soft and crumbly from weeks of opening and closing, worn thin with time and indecision: …delighted to make an unconditional offer for a place at Stanford University…
He’d made a deal with himself: one more job and then he’d tell.
Of course, that job just happens to involve a particularly malevolent nix bent on drowning any and all passers-by. Hence, the swimming lessons, because – as Dean so eloquently put it – he should at least make the scaly bastard work for it a bit before dragging his sorry ass to the bottom of the lake.
Sam sighs, rubbing a weary hand across his face. At the other end of the pool, Dean is hoisting himself out of the water, even though it’s completely unnecessary, just so he can show off.
Nevertheless, Sam finds himself sitting up straighter, giving up all pretence of not watching as Dean shakes the water out of his hair before slowly stretching his arms above his head. He flashes Sam a quick grin before crouching down and diving back in, and there’s something…
Huh. Sam blinks slowly, his mind shifting gears because, sure, Dean’s showing off, that’s nothing new, but it seems more... deliberate now, almost like he wants Sam’s eyes on him. Only, it doesn’t change anything, because Sam is still leaving and—
Dean surfaces, splashing water everywhere. “Come on. You can’t learn swimming on dry land.”
Sam rolls his eyes at this staggering display of his brother’s logical faculties, but gives in, sliding into the pool. The water is surprisingly warm, making him feel lethargic and a bit disconnected.
That feeling leaves the second Dean’s hands are on him, slowly easing him on his back. “Right, let’s start with the basics,” he says, one arm under Sam’s shoulders and the other at the back of his thighs, lifting his feet off the bottom of the pool.
“Floating is the key to—” Dean frowns down at him. “Dude, you’re as stiff as a board. You’ve got to relax.” He jostles Sam a bit, like he’s trying to force him to relax by shaking him. Of course, the movement has exactly the opposite effect, the water sloshing perilously close to his face. Sam scrunches his eyes shut, concentrating hard on not struggling to get free.
Dean is holding him in his arms and it’s weird and uncomfortable and familiar in a way that it totally shouldn’t be. But after a while it‘s as if his body recognises the position, some deep muscle-memory telling him to just relax and go with it, and Sam finds himself going loose-limbed and pliant.
And then he’s floating, weightless, limp, drifting but not adrift. Sam blinks at the sensation, a strange mixture of serenity and exhilaration, tilting his head back to look at his brother. “Let go, Dean.”
But Dean doesn’t hear him. There’s a distant expression on his face, like he isn’t even really here anymore, but lost in some memory both painful and treasured.
“Dean.” The grip tightens abruptly as Dean returns from wherever he’s been and looks down. There’s something dark and a little desperate flickering in his eyes.
“Sammy?” And even that’s unsure, like he’s surprised to find his brother cradled in his arms, almost curled around him.
“Let go, Dean.” Sam repeats, firmly now, because they’re here for a reason and whatever this is, it isn’t swimming. “I think I got it now.”
“Uh, yeah. Knock yourself out.” Dean slips his hands away and then Sam is floating on his own, body buoyed by tepid water and the smug smile on Dean’s lips.
“Dude, I knew it! I’m a brilliant teacher!”
Sam snorts derisively, managing to inhale half of the pool in the process. He chokes and splutters, flailing in sudden panic, all recently acquired skill abandoning him. But Dean’s hands are already there, circling his waist and bringing him upright.
Sam leans weakly against his brother, chlorine burning at the back of his throat and nose.
“You okay?” Dean doesn’t sound worried so Sam knows he must be. He nods, forehead sliding on the water slick skin, and God, that’s too close.
Sam exhales and watches his breath stir the baby fine hairs at the nape of his brother’s neck. A swathe of goose bumps chases down along the sides of it and Sam can feel them forming under his palms where they rest on Dean’s arms.
They are flush against each other, the press of water intimate and oddly soothing.
“Don’t worry about it.” Dean’s voice is rough-soft and Sam can feel the words through their chests. “You’re a natural. Build like a swimmer, aren’t you?”
Dean’s hands are gliding up and down Sam’s back and he can’t help curving his spine into the caress, mouth now open and resting on the juncture of neck and shoulder where the skin is stretched thin and tight. It would be so very easy to move that final inch, prison the thrumming pulse under his tongue, bite down and hold it captive.
The touch circles around and down, Dean’s fingers splaying over the bow of his ribs and there’s no question about their intent.
Sam knows now that he is doing the right thing. He is not alone in this and that more than anything means he has to go. Now. Tomorrow. While he still can. Because this? This will drown them both if Sam lets it, and if the Winchester way of life has taught him anything, it’s that pain is always preferable to death.
It costs everything he has to push his brother away, gentle but insistent, until Dean’s hands falter, stuttering to a stop as he takes a step back.
“I’m fine now Dean.” Teeth embedded in the soft inside flesh of his cheek keep his voice from cracking.
Dean’s eyes are searching his face. “Sam?” There. Uncertainty, apology, guilt. Sam feeds it all carefully, not too much, keeping his expression open, smile easy. Nothing to see here folks, move along now.
“How about some actual swimming, bro? Show me the moves?” He can see the exact moment Dean gets it, a flash of hurt and regret and love so fierce it almost, almost breaks his resolve.
Then it’s all over, like someone’s turned a switch, and Dean is all brotherly grins, brittle but no less real, as he demonstrates the breast stroke and then the crawl.
An hour later Sam manages to swim the length of the pool without too much trouble, and that’s enough to get the job done.
***
The next night, Sam walks out of the cheap crappy motel room, his father’s silence loud at his back. He stops on the far end of the parking lot, where the drive melds into the empty street, and waits for his brother to catch up.
When he does, he pulls Sam into a hug and for a few seconds they cling together like two lost children, pretending to be brave. Then Dean lets him go, turning away without a word, without a backward glance.
Whatever Dean thinks he knows about why Sam is leaving is both right and wrong, and not being able to tell him which is which, is something Sam will not let himself think about over the next few years.
He keeps up the swimming though, awkward at first but quickly gaining confidence. It turns out Dean was right: he is a natural. He even joins the College team only to quit after one semester, giving vague explanations about course work and other commitments. The simple truth is he doesn’t like swimming with other people, the wrong people.
Sam swims alone, three mornings a week, getting up early to avoid the crowds. He grins sheepishly and says it’s to get some much needed time with his thoughts as well as – and here he gives his flat stomach a little pat – to keep fit. But really he does it because the forty laps at the Olympic size pool push his body past exhaustion into that sweet ache of weightlessness that he can no longer achieve any other way.
He lets himself float, eyes closed and lungs burning. And there is a moment of stillness, right at the end, when the water lapping at his back becomes a pair of arms, keeping him from sinking.
Fin.
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on 2012-11-25 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
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on 2012-11-26 12:26 am (UTC)And Dean will always keep Sam from sinking. What a hurty lovely fic.
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on 2012-11-26 07:35 pm (UTC)Thank you for your comment!
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