SPN fic: Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground
Title: Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground
Author: D. (namegoeshere)
Rating: PG13.
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, for serious.
Word count: Approx. 1300
Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with the people who create or work for Supernatural. No copyright infringement is intended, this is for entertainment only.
Warnings: Spoilers for AHBL part 2.
Summary: He comes into the world naked and blind, crawling in the dirt.
A/N: Many moons ago, super_kc bought me for Sweet Charity and asked me to write a fic in some way inspired by the song "Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground" by the White Stripes. This is that fic. Beta'd by the ever lovely ellipsisblack.
: : :
He comes into the world naked and blind, crawling in the dirt.
The ground is wet beneath his hands, smells of good, rich earth and autumn. He shivers, stumbling towards a stand of trees, instinct driving him to seek shelter. Above him, the leaves glow red and gold beneath the bright light of the sun, like the branches are aflame. There are patches of blue sky visible through the foliage, shimmering and warm.
The air is cool with the approach of winter. He doesn't know where he is, can't remember his own name, anything at all except the stench of blood, smoke and rotten meat.
A breeze lifts some of the leaves from the ground. They swirl around him before they settle, and he lays down in them, draws them close around him.
He doesn't know how long it's been. A year, maybe, or more. The last thing he remembers before the blood is summer, the heat of the sun on his shoulders, and the sound of his brother screaming his name.
Dean.
Oh god. Sam.
: : :
South Dakota is cold in mid-November, and Sam sighs, shoving the books aside. He reaches for his gloves, grumbling at Bobby. "Please tell me you'll have the heater fixed the next time I come around," he complains. "It's fucking freezing."
"You could always put some more wood in the stove," Bobby says blandly.
Dim sunlight filters in through the grimy window, and Sam sighs as he lurches to his feet. The fire in the woodstove is dwindling, which explains the sudden chill. He puts another couple logs in, holding his hands out to warm them as the wood catches fire, then swings the metal door closed.
"I'm gonna go check the mail," Bobby tells him. "I'm still waitin' on that book from Tony that you said you wanted."
It's been so damn long. A year and a half now with no answers, and Sam's looked everywhere, through a thousand dusty tomes looking for a spell, for a trick, for anything that will bring his brother back. He doesn't want to admit he's on the verge of giving up, but there's nothing. There's just nothing.
The screen door bangs shut behind Bobby when he goes out. Sam rubs his palms together as he settles back down at the kitchen table, reaching for the pages he's gone through a thousand times. He comes here after every job, hoping some missing piece will fall magically into place. So far, no luck.
"Sam!" Bobby shouts. And the screen door slams shut behind him again. "Come look at this!"
Another heaved sigh, and Sam lurches to his feet. "What is it?" he asks tiredly. Bobby is holding a few envelopes and mail-order catalogues in one hand. In the other is a four by six piece of cardstock with a picture of some hills that says Shenandoah Valley on it. It's the post card that Bobby hands him, and Sam turns it over.
The writing is shaky but familiar. Bobby's address is there, and three times more postage than would be necessary to send it. Otherwise, it says only
SAM
ALL SOULS DAY
38.6 78.5
PLEAS
Please is misspelled, missing the e that should be on the end. Sam can hear his heart hammering in his chest, because he has notebooks filled with that familiar scrawl, Dean's written lectures on rock salt and car maintenance. The error throws him, because Dean may be an idiot, but he's the one who taught Sam how to spell. But it is-it's Dean.
Dean.
"Don't get your hopes up," Bobby murmurs quietly. "It's probably-"
"A demon," Sam finishes for him. "I know. But-but maybe it has my brother."
"Sam." He sighs, like Sam doesn't understand. "He may still be..."
"Dead, I know. I just... I just want to put him to rest."
: : :
The town is small and poor. There are lots of empty, abandoned houses. His is dusty and bare. It reeks of stale urine and human waste. There are mice and rats in the basement, inside the walls, so he stays on the main floor where the light from the windows keeps them hiding. The picture window that looks out over the front yard is broken; some kid threw a rock at it. There is broken glass spread across the floor, shiny silver fragments, and the house is always cold.
There's an old woman who lives next door. She leaves him blankets, clean clothes and plates of fresh, warm food. It's better than what he ate out of dumpsters before he got here, and he thinks the heat in his chest is grateful. Still, he keeps his distance. She isn't Sam.
He doesn't know how long he's been here: days, weeks, months maybe. The sun comes up every morning, and goes down in the evening. He eats and shits and sleeps, waiting. His stomach hurts, and he throws up sometimes, bile bitter in the back of his throat. His throat is too dry, makes it hard to breathe, and there's something clogging his nose. He is too hot and too cold, shivering and sweating. He isn't dying, but he's scared.
He curls up on the hardwood floor of what was once a bedroom, the blankets piled around him for warmth. He sleeps beneath the window, where sunlight can warm him, soothe the ache out of his bones.
He always dreams of Sam.
: : :
The house is rotting, falling down, a little crooked on its foundations. The front window is broken, and the children whisper of the homeless man who lives there like he's some kind of monster.
It took him two days to get here from Bobby's junkyard.
The floorboards creak beneath his feet, a low, whining sound. There's a rat in the corner who scurries quickly away. There's refuse and broken glass scattered across the floor, dirty dishes stacked in the corner. A low hacking cough comes from another room, and the air smells like sickness and decay. Someone here is sick; Sam's hardly surprised.
A closed door at the end of the hall has a devil's trap drawn on it with a shaking hand. Dried blood, dried shit, Sam doesn't know, really doesn't want to. He lets himself in, the hinges squeaking a protest. A figure curled up the floor moans quietly, shifting beneath the blankets that surround it.
"Sammy," it whispers in a wrecked voice.
Sam murmurs, gentle, "Christo."
Dean doesn't flinch, just sits up slowly, the blankets falling away. He's impossibly thin, his eyes fever-bright and distant. He is pale, pale like he's on the very edge of death, and god, his face. A twisted scar tracks from his left temple over the bridge of nose, down to the corner of his right eye. The eye itself is untouched, bright green, and his mouth moves without making any sound. "Sam," he finally says, his voice hoarse, then stops, doubling over as he coughs.
It's Dean. God, it's Dean.
Sam holds him close, and Dean's slender arms wrap around him, bony fingers grasping at the cotton of Sam's shirts. "Dean," Sam murmurs into his neck, and Dean moans, squirming to get closer, shivering in his arms.
"Sammy," Dean whispers. "Sammy."
"I'm here. I'm here, it's okay."
: : :
He calls Bobby from the car. Dean's curled up on the seat next to him, murmuring quietly, "Sam, Sam," between hoarse, hacking coughs. Sam soothes a hand through his brother's sweaty hair, muttering comforts and listening to the phone ring.
When Sam asks, Bobby tells him about an old cabin on the outskirts of the valley, a good few miles from anyplace at all.
"And Dean?" he asks.
"Sammy," his brother whispers, reaching out to twist his fingers into the fabric of Sam's coat.
Sam hangs up the phone without even knowing why.
Author: D. (namegoeshere)
Rating: PG13.
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, for serious.
Word count: Approx. 1300
Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with the people who create or work for Supernatural. No copyright infringement is intended, this is for entertainment only.
Warnings: Spoilers for AHBL part 2.
Summary: He comes into the world naked and blind, crawling in the dirt.
A/N: Many moons ago, super_kc bought me for Sweet Charity and asked me to write a fic in some way inspired by the song "Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground" by the White Stripes. This is that fic. Beta'd by the ever lovely ellipsisblack.
: : :
He comes into the world naked and blind, crawling in the dirt.
The ground is wet beneath his hands, smells of good, rich earth and autumn. He shivers, stumbling towards a stand of trees, instinct driving him to seek shelter. Above him, the leaves glow red and gold beneath the bright light of the sun, like the branches are aflame. There are patches of blue sky visible through the foliage, shimmering and warm.
The air is cool with the approach of winter. He doesn't know where he is, can't remember his own name, anything at all except the stench of blood, smoke and rotten meat.
A breeze lifts some of the leaves from the ground. They swirl around him before they settle, and he lays down in them, draws them close around him.
He doesn't know how long it's been. A year, maybe, or more. The last thing he remembers before the blood is summer, the heat of the sun on his shoulders, and the sound of his brother screaming his name.
Dean.
Oh god. Sam.
: : :
South Dakota is cold in mid-November, and Sam sighs, shoving the books aside. He reaches for his gloves, grumbling at Bobby. "Please tell me you'll have the heater fixed the next time I come around," he complains. "It's fucking freezing."
"You could always put some more wood in the stove," Bobby says blandly.
Dim sunlight filters in through the grimy window, and Sam sighs as he lurches to his feet. The fire in the woodstove is dwindling, which explains the sudden chill. He puts another couple logs in, holding his hands out to warm them as the wood catches fire, then swings the metal door closed.
"I'm gonna go check the mail," Bobby tells him. "I'm still waitin' on that book from Tony that you said you wanted."
It's been so damn long. A year and a half now with no answers, and Sam's looked everywhere, through a thousand dusty tomes looking for a spell, for a trick, for anything that will bring his brother back. He doesn't want to admit he's on the verge of giving up, but there's nothing. There's just nothing.
The screen door bangs shut behind Bobby when he goes out. Sam rubs his palms together as he settles back down at the kitchen table, reaching for the pages he's gone through a thousand times. He comes here after every job, hoping some missing piece will fall magically into place. So far, no luck.
"Sam!" Bobby shouts. And the screen door slams shut behind him again. "Come look at this!"
Another heaved sigh, and Sam lurches to his feet. "What is it?" he asks tiredly. Bobby is holding a few envelopes and mail-order catalogues in one hand. In the other is a four by six piece of cardstock with a picture of some hills that says Shenandoah Valley on it. It's the post card that Bobby hands him, and Sam turns it over.
The writing is shaky but familiar. Bobby's address is there, and three times more postage than would be necessary to send it. Otherwise, it says only
SAM
ALL SOULS DAY
38.6 78.5
PLEAS
Please is misspelled, missing the e that should be on the end. Sam can hear his heart hammering in his chest, because he has notebooks filled with that familiar scrawl, Dean's written lectures on rock salt and car maintenance. The error throws him, because Dean may be an idiot, but he's the one who taught Sam how to spell. But it is-it's Dean.
Dean.
"Don't get your hopes up," Bobby murmurs quietly. "It's probably-"
"A demon," Sam finishes for him. "I know. But-but maybe it has my brother."
"Sam." He sighs, like Sam doesn't understand. "He may still be..."
"Dead, I know. I just... I just want to put him to rest."
: : :
The town is small and poor. There are lots of empty, abandoned houses. His is dusty and bare. It reeks of stale urine and human waste. There are mice and rats in the basement, inside the walls, so he stays on the main floor where the light from the windows keeps them hiding. The picture window that looks out over the front yard is broken; some kid threw a rock at it. There is broken glass spread across the floor, shiny silver fragments, and the house is always cold.
There's an old woman who lives next door. She leaves him blankets, clean clothes and plates of fresh, warm food. It's better than what he ate out of dumpsters before he got here, and he thinks the heat in his chest is grateful. Still, he keeps his distance. She isn't Sam.
He doesn't know how long he's been here: days, weeks, months maybe. The sun comes up every morning, and goes down in the evening. He eats and shits and sleeps, waiting. His stomach hurts, and he throws up sometimes, bile bitter in the back of his throat. His throat is too dry, makes it hard to breathe, and there's something clogging his nose. He is too hot and too cold, shivering and sweating. He isn't dying, but he's scared.
He curls up on the hardwood floor of what was once a bedroom, the blankets piled around him for warmth. He sleeps beneath the window, where sunlight can warm him, soothe the ache out of his bones.
He always dreams of Sam.
: : :
The house is rotting, falling down, a little crooked on its foundations. The front window is broken, and the children whisper of the homeless man who lives there like he's some kind of monster.
It took him two days to get here from Bobby's junkyard.
The floorboards creak beneath his feet, a low, whining sound. There's a rat in the corner who scurries quickly away. There's refuse and broken glass scattered across the floor, dirty dishes stacked in the corner. A low hacking cough comes from another room, and the air smells like sickness and decay. Someone here is sick; Sam's hardly surprised.
A closed door at the end of the hall has a devil's trap drawn on it with a shaking hand. Dried blood, dried shit, Sam doesn't know, really doesn't want to. He lets himself in, the hinges squeaking a protest. A figure curled up the floor moans quietly, shifting beneath the blankets that surround it.
"Sammy," it whispers in a wrecked voice.
Sam murmurs, gentle, "Christo."
Dean doesn't flinch, just sits up slowly, the blankets falling away. He's impossibly thin, his eyes fever-bright and distant. He is pale, pale like he's on the very edge of death, and god, his face. A twisted scar tracks from his left temple over the bridge of nose, down to the corner of his right eye. The eye itself is untouched, bright green, and his mouth moves without making any sound. "Sam," he finally says, his voice hoarse, then stops, doubling over as he coughs.
It's Dean. God, it's Dean.
Sam holds him close, and Dean's slender arms wrap around him, bony fingers grasping at the cotton of Sam's shirts. "Dean," Sam murmurs into his neck, and Dean moans, squirming to get closer, shivering in his arms.
"Sammy," Dean whispers. "Sammy."
"I'm here. I'm here, it's okay."
: : :
He calls Bobby from the car. Dean's curled up on the seat next to him, murmuring quietly, "Sam, Sam," between hoarse, hacking coughs. Sam soothes a hand through his brother's sweaty hair, muttering comforts and listening to the phone ring.
When Sam asks, Bobby tells him about an old cabin on the outskirts of the valley, a good few miles from anyplace at all.
"And Dean?" he asks.
"Sammy," his brother whispers, reaching out to twist his fingers into the fabric of Sam's coat.
Sam hangs up the phone without even knowing why.