rivers_bend

Title: Cool as Starlight on your Skin
Pairing: Sam/Dean (pre-series [I know you're all shocked])
Words: 1000
Rating: Teen
A/N: for the "looking at the stars" prompt on my schmoop_bingo card
Summary: If there's one thing Sam's good at, it's running. But one thing Dean's good at is finding him.


If there's one thing Sam is good at—good enough that even John Winchester doesn't find fault—it's running. He can keep going for miles if he needs to, and now that his legs are as long as Dean's, he's fast, too, coming in first in almost all of their training runs.

This isn't a training run, though, and he's not running for his life. He just needs to be away; he's almost old enough now that an aggressive prosecutor could press to try him as an adult, and he's pretty sure patricide is a death-penalty offence in Texas. And, he wouldn't let me work on my history essay, probably isn't enough to get an acquittal. Not that it was just that. It was that on top of everything else.

It's hot and muggy and gross and the air feels like it's pressing on Sam's brain all the time, and Dean's never home, off on one errand or another across half the state, and John, getting over a dislocated shoulder with bonus stitches in a seven-inch claw gouge, is surly and demanding as hell.

Sam just needs—he needs five fucking minutes. There's a lake—pond, reservoir, some kind of body of water—with no houses around about three miles from the motel, and Sam's seen people swimming there sometimes, so he heads in that direction, hoping to cool off.

He's breathing hard when he gets there, the air that's almost as wet as the lake sticking in his lungs. But it's worth it, because the water feels perfect. It's silver in the moonlight, ripples moving out in dark rings as he wades in, his shorts abandoned on a fallen branch on the shore. When the water is up to his knees, Sam pushes off in a shallow dive, and that's it. That's what he needed, the water closing over his skull, cool hands soothing him.

But then he surfaces again and the air is still muggy and the water on his chest warms on his skin and feels like sweat. Flopping back, he floats, kicking out farther in the pond, hoping to find a pocket of cooler water, maybe enough to get his feet actually cold. He can't remember what cold feet feel like.

He's drifting, eyes closed, when he hears a familiar rumble getting closer. Flailing, jackknifing, he tries to get underwater to hide, before he remembers John's been letting Dean use the Impala—that the Vicodin he's been taking is less likely to make him come after Sam, not more—that it's probably Dean.

Headlights swing off the road onto the dirt track that curves around the pond and disappears into the grass beyond, then flash across Sam's face and go dark. A creaking sound—someone needs to oil the hinges—then the night-muffled sound of the door closing and Dean's voice: "How's the water?"

Sam tosses a handful of water toward Dean's shadow, not caring that it falls several yards short, feeling light for the first time in days. He floats on his back, chin lifted enough to watch as Dean-shape emerges from the bulky shadow of jeans and tee, as Dean wades toward him then disappears under the surface.

He comes up under Sam's out-flung arm, grabbing his waist, tickling and splashing. Sam laughs, unable to hold onto the remnants of his frustration long enough even to protest the water in his eyes. The "Dean," he lets out, squirming away from the tickling fingers despite wanting to be closer to his brother, sounds more fond than irritated.

"Sam," Dean says back, a question and an answer, and he calms, his legs coming up so he can float beside Sam, hips near Sam's head, head near Sam's hips. Their hands find each other in the water, press, slide, quest, and then end up linked palm to wrist.

Sam thinks Dean might pull him in, touch his thigh, his belly, but, "Is that the Big Dipper?" Dean asks, his hand on Sam's wrist their only point of contact.

Sam looks up, really looks for the first time since they came here, astounded at how many stars he can see. The air is so soupy feeling it should be translucent, but despite the heat it's crystal clear. "You know it is," he says.

Dean strokes the inside of Sam's arm with a fingertip.

"And there's Orion," Sam offers, eyes drifting shut with Dean's stroking.

"And Cassiopeia," Dean all but whispers.

Sam doesn't open his eyes, just names the first constellation he can think of. "Ursa Major."

They whisper star names to each other, voices only carrying the arm's length between them, hands and feet wrinkling in the water, and Sam has no idea if Dean's actually naming things he sees or if, like Sam, he's just talking to hear the other's voice, but it makes no difference. All his tension sinks away into the water and mud below them, and Sam's left feeling like nothing more than starlight and his connection to Dean.

"How'd you find me?" he finally asks when they've run out of stars and there's been nothing but the sound of crickets for several minutes.

"Dad said you got pissed and ran off, and I've seen you eyeing this place on the way to school."

"Is he mad?"

"He said you'd come home eventually." Dean tugs on Sam's arm, floating him closer; close enough he can loop an arm over Sam's chest and cup the back of his head. "I didn't feel like waiting."

With a twist of his legs, Sam gets them both upright, arms around each other, cocks bobbing between them.

"Waited too long already," Sam says, voice little more than puffs of air against Dean's mouth.

"Worth it, though." Dean pulls Sam the final inch between them and finally kisses him.

"Mmmm," Sam says.

"You all cooled down, now?" Dean pulls back to ask. Sam nods. "Got a blanket in the back of the car," he continues. "Let's see if we can warm you up again."

They get sweaty as hell, but Sam doesn't even think about complaining.