FIC: "A Small Plot of Land" - SPN - vague Sam/Dean - PG-13
A Small Plot of Land by bionic
rating: PG-13
words: 748
feedback: most welcome!
A/N: written for the contrelamontre David Bowie song title challenge. Given time - 55 minutes.
It was the last thing Dean thought he’d be doing. The old woman behind the desk was very generous and kind; her eyes were small and solemn, but her smile was genuine and it reminded him of his mother’s. Her voice was almost soothing to his ears, like he’d traveled on such a long journey and was finally able to set his boots down to rest.
“There’s a beautiful view.” She gave Dean a sheet of paper, a summary of all the things they’d talked about and what Dean was getting in return for his payment. “I’m sure he’ll love it.”
Dean nodded and smiled, breathing a sigh of relief. “I’m glad we found it.”
“Yes,” the kind woman said, and Dean signed on the final black line. “It’s all set then.”
Mornings were the cruelest. He’d struggle up from his nest of satin and try to blink awake, but the world would remain dark. He’d lost his vision somewhere along the way. Maybe a harpy got a nice chunk of his face with her claws, or a witch had cursed him out of spite. Either way, he couldn’t remember. They must have taken his memories, too.
Every day, though, he felt a presence of a man. The man always came around right after he’d wake, and the man talked to him, but he couldn’t remember what he would say. He could only remember a phantom feeling of hope and warmth, like he was being cared for. It calmed his nerves, and set him to rest. He slept a lot, now that light was no longer a part of his world.
He still felt like he wasn’t finished, that there were demons left to exorcise and evil things to kill. But he couldn’t do that anymore, and he felt useless.
“You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?” Dean unrolled the morning paper and hunkered down to sit cross-legged on the grass. “Only for you, Sam.” He set his paper cup of coffee on the cool stone next to the ‘r’ and opened up the newspaper, beginning from the top of the page, the first article.
“Debates for presidential elections…” Dean sighed and shook his head. The morning mist was thick today, and it dampened the paper until his fingers were thoroughly smudged with ink. “Exciting stuff,” he commented dryly, ignoring the black marks on his fingertips. He continued reading. Dean always read until his voice was hoarse, his hands like charcoal.
He got tired of not being able to remember their conversations. He hated the sound of his own voice in his head, talking to himself. It was driving him crazy.
“And that’s all, Sammy.” He said at last, folding up the Life & Entertainment section. He was always very animated during the sports section, but by the end, when he’d get into the lifestyles and home décor bullshit, he’d be looking at Sam and frowning and making weird faces at the sky, like he might cry.
Dean cradled the empty cup of coffee in his hands, turning it around and around. “You look good today.” He pursed his lips, scrunched up his face. “The weather is fan-fucking-tastic.” It was true, the mist was clearing quickly, and the sun was warming him up. The chill was seeping away from his bones.
“I’ll see you later,” he said abruptly and got up in a rush, paper in hand and cup crushed in a fist. He wanted to leave before the sprinklers came on.
Sometimes he’d try to scream, he’d claw at the darkness around him but his fingers would scramble up against a wall of black. If he were trapped, caught in a room somewhere by a demon, a witch, a jilted lover - he couldn’t tell. He didn’t even know if it was in his head, being trapped, or if it was real. He was starting to forget his name, but the scary thing was, he was starting to forget his purpose.
If he lost his purpose, he would lose his identity. And somehow, becoming that nothing, that nobody, it was a fear he associated with death.
“I really hate you for this.” Another day, another visit. Dean was starting to lose track of the number of times he’d sat in front of Sam. “I hope you like it here. I bought one right next to you.” Dean said as he touched the damp grass, healthy and green. “You look good, Sammy.”
the end.
rating: PG-13
words: 748
feedback: most welcome!
A/N: written for the contrelamontre David Bowie song title challenge. Given time - 55 minutes.
It was the last thing Dean thought he’d be doing. The old woman behind the desk was very generous and kind; her eyes were small and solemn, but her smile was genuine and it reminded him of his mother’s. Her voice was almost soothing to his ears, like he’d traveled on such a long journey and was finally able to set his boots down to rest.
“There’s a beautiful view.” She gave Dean a sheet of paper, a summary of all the things they’d talked about and what Dean was getting in return for his payment. “I’m sure he’ll love it.”
Dean nodded and smiled, breathing a sigh of relief. “I’m glad we found it.”
“Yes,” the kind woman said, and Dean signed on the final black line. “It’s all set then.”
Mornings were the cruelest. He’d struggle up from his nest of satin and try to blink awake, but the world would remain dark. He’d lost his vision somewhere along the way. Maybe a harpy got a nice chunk of his face with her claws, or a witch had cursed him out of spite. Either way, he couldn’t remember. They must have taken his memories, too.
Every day, though, he felt a presence of a man. The man always came around right after he’d wake, and the man talked to him, but he couldn’t remember what he would say. He could only remember a phantom feeling of hope and warmth, like he was being cared for. It calmed his nerves, and set him to rest. He slept a lot, now that light was no longer a part of his world.
He still felt like he wasn’t finished, that there were demons left to exorcise and evil things to kill. But he couldn’t do that anymore, and he felt useless.
“You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?” Dean unrolled the morning paper and hunkered down to sit cross-legged on the grass. “Only for you, Sam.” He set his paper cup of coffee on the cool stone next to the ‘r’ and opened up the newspaper, beginning from the top of the page, the first article.
“Debates for presidential elections…” Dean sighed and shook his head. The morning mist was thick today, and it dampened the paper until his fingers were thoroughly smudged with ink. “Exciting stuff,” he commented dryly, ignoring the black marks on his fingertips. He continued reading. Dean always read until his voice was hoarse, his hands like charcoal.
He got tired of not being able to remember their conversations. He hated the sound of his own voice in his head, talking to himself. It was driving him crazy.
“And that’s all, Sammy.” He said at last, folding up the Life & Entertainment section. He was always very animated during the sports section, but by the end, when he’d get into the lifestyles and home décor bullshit, he’d be looking at Sam and frowning and making weird faces at the sky, like he might cry.
Dean cradled the empty cup of coffee in his hands, turning it around and around. “You look good today.” He pursed his lips, scrunched up his face. “The weather is fan-fucking-tastic.” It was true, the mist was clearing quickly, and the sun was warming him up. The chill was seeping away from his bones.
“I’ll see you later,” he said abruptly and got up in a rush, paper in hand and cup crushed in a fist. He wanted to leave before the sprinklers came on.
Sometimes he’d try to scream, he’d claw at the darkness around him but his fingers would scramble up against a wall of black. If he were trapped, caught in a room somewhere by a demon, a witch, a jilted lover - he couldn’t tell. He didn’t even know if it was in his head, being trapped, or if it was real. He was starting to forget his name, but the scary thing was, he was starting to forget his purpose.
If he lost his purpose, he would lose his identity. And somehow, becoming that nothing, that nobody, it was a fear he associated with death.
“I really hate you for this.” Another day, another visit. Dean was starting to lose track of the number of times he’d sat in front of Sam. “I hope you like it here. I bought one right next to you.” Dean said as he touched the damp grass, healthy and green. “You look good, Sammy.”
the end.