![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
New Year's Day, 2015
So. First day of 2015. 1/1/2015, 1:19 AM. It's not as weird as I thought it would feel. It feels pretty freakin' good, actually! I got to kiss my wonderful boyfriend Vic at midnight, and afterwards we went on the trampoline and jumped around in freezing temperatures. We make jokes that we're Dean and Sam. Quite fitting, actually. I think I might write something Wincest-y in celebration of the new year :D
(more under the cut!)
Resolutions
It's minutes to midnight when Dean finally comes crashing home (or at least what they can call home), bumbling drunk and giddy with alcohol-induced excitement.
Sam's waiting for him in the motel room, leaning on the edge of their shared, worn-out mattress, yellow legal pad in hand, scribbling down anything that he can scrape from his mind.
He jumps when the door swings open abruptly, and a very tipsy Dean emerges from the shadows of the night.
"Heeeeyaa, Sammy!" Dean slurs, a grin stretched across his otherwise slack face. He stumbles a few steps, leaning against the door frame to keep himself from falling.
Sam chuckles, and pushes himself off the bed to help Dean walk. "I thought you were gonna be at that party all night. Uh, Ronda Hurley's, right?"
"I was at that party," Dean raises his eyebrows, pointing a finger at Sam. "But that Ronda Hurley's a bitch. And I thought-" -He pokes his finger into Sam's chest- "that New Year's would be waaaay more fun with my lil' bro."
Sam laughs, helping Dean onto his side of the creaky old motel mattress- who immediately flops back onto the bed, stretching himself out so he takes up nearly the entire space. As he's getting comfortable on the tragically uncomfortable bed, Dean knocks over the nearly-forgotten yellow legal pad that Sam had been writing on.
"Whatcha got there, Sammy?" He asks, barely opening one of his eyes to see where the notepad had landed.
"Oh- I uh, was just..." -Sam bends down to pick up the notepad from the floor- "I was just writing stuff down for the new year. Resolutions, I guess. It's kind of stupid."
Dean shrugs, exaggerating the movement with his whole body. "'Wish I were like you. Bein' able to write up a list of stuff you wanna do, but bein' able to think you'll actually do it. I couldn't do it even if I tried."
Sam's about to say something, but Dean continues in his slurred speech, his face buried in a stained pillow. "Y'know, that's cool, man. Keep goin' at it. You got this."
Sam smirks. Usually when his older brother comes home drunk like hell, he just helps him to bed and leaves an aspirin and some water for the imminent hangover the next morning. On occasion, he'd held a half-decent conversation with him, on the lines of "You okay, man?" "Yeah, I'm good." "How much you have to drink?" "I 'unno. A lot." "Okay, whatever. I'll help you to bed. Get some sleep." "M'kay, Sam."
But this time, it was different: Dean was definitely more than buzzed, but not passed-out drunk. Just enough to make him woozy and love everyone around him, but (thankfully) not so much he was spewing out the contents of his stomach. It was a strange feeling talking to him now, since he's at that medium of drunk-ness.
Sam's so caught up in his thoughts that it's Dean who first realizes: "'Ey. A minute left."
He blinks, reality flooding back to his mind. "Oh, shit. Well, happy-almost New Year."
"What're your resolutions, Sam?" Dean's face is out of the pillow now, and he's propped his chin up in his hands. "Anything special?"
Sam glances down at the paper, the words lost to him. "Nothing special. Just...go on some hunts. Kill some monsters. Get good grades. Uh...apply to college, I guess?" The clock's down to 40 seconds.
He's not even touching Dean, but he can feel the sudden coldness that overtakes his body. "Fuck. You're serious about college."
Thirty seconds. "Yeah, I am. I kind of hate this life, if you haven't noticed."
"You're leaving." Twenty-five. So this is our last New Year's.
Twenty.
"I'm sorry, Dean." Sorry for loving you. "Really, I am. But I can't keep living like this." I can't keep loving you.
Nineteen, eighteen...
"You're leaving." Don't leave me.
Eleven, ten...
"I can't Dean. I just can't." You know why.
No words are spoken.
Seven, six...
Maybe it'll be my resolution to tell you.
Five, four...
Maybe I'll kiss you at midnight.
Three, two, one...
Another time.
Well, that came out more angsty than I planned for. Oh well, it's 3 in the morning and I'm tired as heck. Goodnight, guys, and happy new year! :)
(more under the cut!)
Resolutions
It's minutes to midnight when Dean finally comes crashing home (or at least what they can call home), bumbling drunk and giddy with alcohol-induced excitement.
Sam's waiting for him in the motel room, leaning on the edge of their shared, worn-out mattress, yellow legal pad in hand, scribbling down anything that he can scrape from his mind.
He jumps when the door swings open abruptly, and a very tipsy Dean emerges from the shadows of the night.
"Heeeeyaa, Sammy!" Dean slurs, a grin stretched across his otherwise slack face. He stumbles a few steps, leaning against the door frame to keep himself from falling.
Sam chuckles, and pushes himself off the bed to help Dean walk. "I thought you were gonna be at that party all night. Uh, Ronda Hurley's, right?"
"I was at that party," Dean raises his eyebrows, pointing a finger at Sam. "But that Ronda Hurley's a bitch. And I thought-" -He pokes his finger into Sam's chest- "that New Year's would be waaaay more fun with my lil' bro."
Sam laughs, helping Dean onto his side of the creaky old motel mattress- who immediately flops back onto the bed, stretching himself out so he takes up nearly the entire space. As he's getting comfortable on the tragically uncomfortable bed, Dean knocks over the nearly-forgotten yellow legal pad that Sam had been writing on.
"Whatcha got there, Sammy?" He asks, barely opening one of his eyes to see where the notepad had landed.
"Oh- I uh, was just..." -Sam bends down to pick up the notepad from the floor- "I was just writing stuff down for the new year. Resolutions, I guess. It's kind of stupid."
Dean shrugs, exaggerating the movement with his whole body. "'Wish I were like you. Bein' able to write up a list of stuff you wanna do, but bein' able to think you'll actually do it. I couldn't do it even if I tried."
Sam's about to say something, but Dean continues in his slurred speech, his face buried in a stained pillow. "Y'know, that's cool, man. Keep goin' at it. You got this."
Sam smirks. Usually when his older brother comes home drunk like hell, he just helps him to bed and leaves an aspirin and some water for the imminent hangover the next morning. On occasion, he'd held a half-decent conversation with him, on the lines of "You okay, man?" "Yeah, I'm good." "How much you have to drink?" "I 'unno. A lot." "Okay, whatever. I'll help you to bed. Get some sleep." "M'kay, Sam."
But this time, it was different: Dean was definitely more than buzzed, but not passed-out drunk. Just enough to make him woozy and love everyone around him, but (thankfully) not so much he was spewing out the contents of his stomach. It was a strange feeling talking to him now, since he's at that medium of drunk-ness.
Sam's so caught up in his thoughts that it's Dean who first realizes: "'Ey. A minute left."
He blinks, reality flooding back to his mind. "Oh, shit. Well, happy-almost New Year."
"What're your resolutions, Sam?" Dean's face is out of the pillow now, and he's propped his chin up in his hands. "Anything special?"
Sam glances down at the paper, the words lost to him. "Nothing special. Just...go on some hunts. Kill some monsters. Get good grades. Uh...apply to college, I guess?" The clock's down to 40 seconds.
He's not even touching Dean, but he can feel the sudden coldness that overtakes his body. "Fuck. You're serious about college."
Thirty seconds. "Yeah, I am. I kind of hate this life, if you haven't noticed."
"You're leaving." Twenty-five. So this is our last New Year's.
Twenty.
"I'm sorry, Dean." Sorry for loving you. "Really, I am. But I can't keep living like this." I can't keep loving you.
Nineteen, eighteen...
"You're leaving." Don't leave me.
Eleven, ten...
"I can't Dean. I just can't." You know why.
No words are spoken.
Seven, six...
Maybe it'll be my resolution to tell you.
Five, four...
Maybe I'll kiss you at midnight.
Three, two, one...
Another time.
Well, that came out more angsty than I planned for. Oh well, it's 3 in the morning and I'm tired as heck. Goodnight, guys, and happy new year! :)