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Title: Claw And Grin
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellifer_fic
Rating: PG-13
Category: SPN/SGA (Ronon/Sam Winchester, Dean - werewolf AU)
Word Count: 861
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no offense, no money.
Notes: Belated birthday gift foroxoniensis.
Sam knows it’s not fair to run.
He knows when the wolf takes a chunk out of his thigh and Dean doesn’t see it, says later, “Lucky the bastard just clawed you, huh?” with a silent question, no, a plea in his eyes and Sam nods mutely that he should’ve done it then.
Pressed the gun into Dean’s hands and his forehead against the muzzle.
He can’t though, not now, not ever again. He’d asked Dean to kill him before and knows how wounded he can look, how he never would. He should be brave enough to take himself out the back of the motel when they pull up and do it his own damn self.
Daddy’s brave little soldier.
He can’t. He packs his things while Dean’s in the shower, his brother cursing up a storm when he’s probably scrubbing the dirt out of his scalp wound. Slinks out like a dog with his tail between his legs and the symmetry doesn’t escape him.
Writes sorry on the napkin of the bar they last went into. Pressed into his top pocket because every time he does a wash and doesn’t search every nook and cranny there’s always something in there that will stain/get over all of his stuff. Dean chuckling hard when he has a pink shirt or unmovable fluff over everything.
Writes sorry and runs into the trees that nestle up to the back of the motel’s lot because Dean will head for the highway first.
Writes sorry because he can’t think of anything else to say.
~~~
First night by himself and he’s thinking he’s dodged a bullet. He’s thinking that as he lies on the motel bed of the room he’s barricaded himself in. Thinks that right up until he wakes up in the field out the back, naked and bruised and smelling of wild.
There’s no blood and no new reports of anyone mauled but it doesn’t make a difference. Motel clerk accepts his cash for another night's stay with a grumble about animal control and did he see that dog slinking about the parking lot, he said no pets goddamit.
“Not mine,” Sam says, surprised his voice sounds the same.
The motel clerk chuffs in annoyance but doesn’t press it.
~~~
Ronon was an accident, grabbing Sam by the scruff as he’d skulked outside the Roadhouse.
“Nothing for you here,” Ronon had growled, scenting a predator but there was something slightly off, stink of fear and loneliness overwhelming everything.
“I got a place,” he says, invites.
~~~
Sam presses his face into Ronon’s collar bone. Digs his fingers into the twisted hair at his nape. “Don’t let him find us, find me,” he breathes. “If I hurt him… if I do that…” He sounds so injured when he gets like this.
All Ronon can do is hold on and make promises he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep. “You won’t hurt anyone,” he says, voice a soothing level brush of sound.
~~~
Dean has a fatal flaw.
He starts calling as soon as he gets close. He has a decent lead and a good run and he starts calling, usually from the road with music and the wind behind him. Ronon listens to him pleading on Sam’s voicemail.
Sometimes Ronon picks up.
Sometimes he finds Sam hunched over in the pre-dawn light listening to his brother’s voice.
“You should get rid of that,” Ronon says, tapping the phone lightly with a finger. Knowing Sam won’t.
Ronon never tries to dissuade Dean, never tells him to back off. Knows he has no right. Just picks up and listens to him ramble, in turns angry and sad, desperate and resigned. Only answers when Dean asks a direct question. “Is he… just… he’s okay, right?”
“He’s fine,” Ronon promises and simply listens to Dean breathe because he knows he just needs someone on the other end of the line, just for a little while.
~~~
They fuck, quick and dirty when the moon is bloated round. It’s the best way to get his scent all over Sam, make him whine low and nuzzle when he changes instead of attack.
Pack, Ronon breathes, holding Sam’s shaggy head between his palms.
Sam doesn’t look exactly like Ronon would have imagined, any werewolf Ronon's fought. Less bipedal monster, more large wolf. Tan and black with breath that smells like sulphur. They drive as far and as long as they can when it’s time, seeking wilderness. Ronon runs alongside, dodges between trees, flashes of shadow. Sam will nip at his heels, trip him up if he isn’t paying enough attention but he’s only playing.
When Sam scents something on the wind though, something red, Ronon pursues. Brushes the gun at his hip with his fingers until he’s sure it’s an animal that Sam will bring down.
~~~
“Why do you think you can look after him better than me?” Dean demands when his voice is ragged-rough, either choked with whiskey or tears. Ronon’s finding it hard to tell the difference and he’s pretty sure Dean is too.
“Because I will shoot him,” Ronon says, matter-of-fact. “When I need to.”
He doesn’t say if.
Dean doesn’t deserve to be lied to.
Author:
kellifer_ficRating: PG-13
Category: SPN/SGA (Ronon/Sam Winchester, Dean - werewolf AU)
Word Count: 861
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no offense, no money.
Notes: Belated birthday gift for
oxoniensis.Sam knows it’s not fair to run.
He knows when the wolf takes a chunk out of his thigh and Dean doesn’t see it, says later, “Lucky the bastard just clawed you, huh?” with a silent question, no, a plea in his eyes and Sam nods mutely that he should’ve done it then.
Pressed the gun into Dean’s hands and his forehead against the muzzle.
He can’t though, not now, not ever again. He’d asked Dean to kill him before and knows how wounded he can look, how he never would. He should be brave enough to take himself out the back of the motel when they pull up and do it his own damn self.
Daddy’s brave little soldier.
He can’t. He packs his things while Dean’s in the shower, his brother cursing up a storm when he’s probably scrubbing the dirt out of his scalp wound. Slinks out like a dog with his tail between his legs and the symmetry doesn’t escape him.
Writes sorry on the napkin of the bar they last went into. Pressed into his top pocket because every time he does a wash and doesn’t search every nook and cranny there’s always something in there that will stain/get over all of his stuff. Dean chuckling hard when he has a pink shirt or unmovable fluff over everything.
Writes sorry and runs into the trees that nestle up to the back of the motel’s lot because Dean will head for the highway first.
Writes sorry because he can’t think of anything else to say.
First night by himself and he’s thinking he’s dodged a bullet. He’s thinking that as he lies on the motel bed of the room he’s barricaded himself in. Thinks that right up until he wakes up in the field out the back, naked and bruised and smelling of wild.
There’s no blood and no new reports of anyone mauled but it doesn’t make a difference. Motel clerk accepts his cash for another night's stay with a grumble about animal control and did he see that dog slinking about the parking lot, he said no pets goddamit.
“Not mine,” Sam says, surprised his voice sounds the same.
The motel clerk chuffs in annoyance but doesn’t press it.
Ronon was an accident, grabbing Sam by the scruff as he’d skulked outside the Roadhouse.
“Nothing for you here,” Ronon had growled, scenting a predator but there was something slightly off, stink of fear and loneliness overwhelming everything.
“I got a place,” he says, invites.
Sam presses his face into Ronon’s collar bone. Digs his fingers into the twisted hair at his nape. “Don’t let him find us, find me,” he breathes. “If I hurt him… if I do that…” He sounds so injured when he gets like this.
All Ronon can do is hold on and make promises he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep. “You won’t hurt anyone,” he says, voice a soothing level brush of sound.
Dean has a fatal flaw.
He starts calling as soon as he gets close. He has a decent lead and a good run and he starts calling, usually from the road with music and the wind behind him. Ronon listens to him pleading on Sam’s voicemail.
Sometimes Ronon picks up.
Sometimes he finds Sam hunched over in the pre-dawn light listening to his brother’s voice.
“You should get rid of that,” Ronon says, tapping the phone lightly with a finger. Knowing Sam won’t.
Ronon never tries to dissuade Dean, never tells him to back off. Knows he has no right. Just picks up and listens to him ramble, in turns angry and sad, desperate and resigned. Only answers when Dean asks a direct question. “Is he… just… he’s okay, right?”
“He’s fine,” Ronon promises and simply listens to Dean breathe because he knows he just needs someone on the other end of the line, just for a little while.
They fuck, quick and dirty when the moon is bloated round. It’s the best way to get his scent all over Sam, make him whine low and nuzzle when he changes instead of attack.
Pack, Ronon breathes, holding Sam’s shaggy head between his palms.
Sam doesn’t look exactly like Ronon would have imagined, any werewolf Ronon's fought. Less bipedal monster, more large wolf. Tan and black with breath that smells like sulphur. They drive as far and as long as they can when it’s time, seeking wilderness. Ronon runs alongside, dodges between trees, flashes of shadow. Sam will nip at his heels, trip him up if he isn’t paying enough attention but he’s only playing.
When Sam scents something on the wind though, something red, Ronon pursues. Brushes the gun at his hip with his fingers until he’s sure it’s an animal that Sam will bring down.
“Why do you think you can look after him better than me?” Dean demands when his voice is ragged-rough, either choked with whiskey or tears. Ronon’s finding it hard to tell the difference and he’s pretty sure Dean is too.
“Because I will shoot him,” Ronon says, matter-of-fact. “When I need to.”
He doesn’t say if.
Dean doesn’t deserve to be lied to.