Land of Castles and Stains (SPN, preseries, AU)
Title: Land of Castles and Stains
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Warnings: I never meant this to be so sad
Rating: PG(-13?)
Word count: 1,203
Spoilers: preseries
Summary: It’s their third country in the last twelve months. Sam wonders sometimes if it would have been easier in the States to look into a stranger’s eyes and believe there is understanding there.
Yay Beta!: Thank you, Roommate! It was good just to know what I thought the fic was doing worked as it should. The errors, they are all and always mine.
Author notes: Written for the awesome worldwide_spn challenge! I pretty much lost skin squeaking in under the extended deadline. Originally I wanted to write a happy, fluffy story with lots of A-Team references where the boys took Toledo (Spain) by storm. Turned into an atmospheric, plotless preseries AU where John took the boys abroad after Mary’s death. See end for more notes.
Sam hates Toledo.
When he says that out loud (never to Dad because Dad would just give him the look and take another shot of dirt-cheap whiskey) Dean always snorts and says, “Ohio?”
They’ve been to Toledo, Ohio. Dean’s said so, said that when Sam was a baby they passed through on the way to somewhere else (somewhere else is where they’re always going), but Sam doesn’t remember. Sometimes Sam thinks that he’d never remember anything if it wasn’t written in a book, or said in Dean’s voice.
They’re not in Ohio. Castilla-fucking-La Mancha, land of castles and parched earth. The skies are sharp enough to cut and sometimes his lungs hurt from running in the bone-dry air. They train during siesta when normal people (people with families, Sam thinks sometimes, and then hopes Dean can’t read his mind) are in their homes eating, or sleeping, or enjoying each other’s company with a simplicity the Winchesters never do.
It’s their third country in the last twelve months, and Sam’s suddenly trying to understand the respiratory system in Spanish when two weeks ago he was struggling through Le Petit Prince for a book report.
That alone would be enough to piss him off : anything seems to now, from the way Dad drinks (he always keeps a firm grip on the bottle, as though he thinks his booze is going to try to run; Sam’s thought about running a couple times, but doesn’t want to know for sure that Dad would just let him slip away) to their crap appartements, and being in another school, failing school in yet another language when he could maybe make something for himself if a house would stay a fucking house, or even a puta casa for more than six months at a time, but instead they’ve been in casas, maisons, huizen, domy, hauser, and the occasional fangwu just to fuck with his head.
It’s easy to get angry at Dad and this life they lead in any of a dozen languages. Always has. He wonders sometimes if it would be easier if they had stayed in the States, hunting whatever monsters the New World could offer, or if the one ghost they will never shake (Mom on the ceiling in Dean’s dreams, Dad’s shaking hand and her name barely ever spoken) would haunt them there too, make it this hard to look into a stranger’s eyes and believe there is understanding there.
“You know, it’s not a bad break,” Dean says over breakfast one early Saturday afternoon, either a hangover or research putting dark circles under his eyes. Sam hopes it’s a hangover, because then maybe the grin he’s offering with the morning eggs is because he got laid at a botellón, and not something he pulls on just for Sam. “Decent piso, cheap booze, pretty chicks, and a bit of cash coming in. These are the good times, Sammy.”
Dean always adapted faster, like there was some switch in his head that could transition him from English, to Dutch, to Spanish and back with barely a stutter. Three days in a new place and he could talk the talk in a way that had nothing to do with actual language ability. One day he’s swearing a blue streak in German, and the next he’s making Spaniards blush, and Sam does not know how he does it. Sam needs things to hold onto, books and words and structure and he feels envious and a little lost every time he watches Dean just change like he understands how people think and feel and can make them think anything he wants.
Sam doesn’t know how he does it.
“Chicas,” Sam says, and then, when Dean gives him a funny looks, rolls his eyes. “It’s not chicks, it’s chicas.”
Dean’s face changes, and he reaches out, grabs Sam by the back of the neck and pulls him close, like he does sometimes when Sam can’t hold back the anger he has at Dad, when sometimes he’s so angry that he can’t even swear anymore, just breaks down almost crying at how little sense all this shit makes. “No, it’s chicks. That’s English slang, Sammy.” Sam closes his eyes and leans into the touch, wishes that all the words could just go away and he could just have this.
They live in the casco, the old city, a bird’s nest tangle of tiny streets and decaying buildings wrapped around each other for support, perching on the mountains where the Tajo twists in on itself. The rent is cheap and heat is expensive, so Sam shares a bed with Dean during the bitter, dry nights and Dad stays out late, hunting the alleys and antique bookstores for information about the supernatural that hasn’t been obscured by €10 tourists walks.
It’s all different from the States, Dean says. The New World is like a spot-faced teenager compared to the places they’ve been, that the monsters back home (only Dean uses this word; Sam doesn’t, he’s never been there how can it be home?) are young, weak, transitory, imported.
“This is where you find the real monsters,” Dean says, worry and triumph mixed in his eyes. “The one hundred percent, no-shipping-fee required nasties. And we’re gonna put them all down.”
They lay salt every night, in linking and overlapping circles that Sam has memorized by heart, in case he has to pick his way past them to the small bathroom with its toilet that always runs. Sometimes there are things that thump against their walls, screams in the dark (stray cats, the building settling, who knows what), and Dean pulls him so close that it’s hard for Sam to breathe with his big brother shaking behind him, sneaking one hand under their pillow for the blessed knife.
History rides so close here, bleeding up into churches, museums, hundred-year-old walls casually vandalized, that it’s hard to know what might be safe. Hard, always, to say if a cold-spot is from closed in walls that never quite let in the sun, or something malignant rising like blood and flood from the cracked foundations.
Toledo was an intersection point for three cultures, easy to see in the architecture, a draw for the tourist trade. Moors, Christians and Jews living together, dying together, summoning the devil by a dozen names, laying ghosts and bricking them up again. Sam wonders sometimes how they managed it, how they spoke and made themselves understood, if there’s a trick that’s been lost. Could that be one of the things Dad searches for in the ruins, the smoky bars and crab-written books?
Sam doubts. Doubts Dad cares about communication (the words he speaks come up from a bottle; they begin with Mary and end somewhere Sam can’t follow) and doubts they’ll stay in this place long enough to know what they’ve come for.
So he crumples up his formless hatred, refuses to name the players or the source, and gives it to Toledo. And the city takes it with ease and grace. Sam knows that when the Winchesters leave again for algún otro lugar (it’s only a matter of time) his rage will be just another stone in the walls.
~*~
Language Notes:
The title comes from a literal (and inaccurate) translation of "Castilla-La Mancha", the Autonomous Community of which Toledo is the capital.
Siesta - (Spanish) two to three hours during midday when many people go home for lunch, and maybe have a nap
Appartements - (French) apartments
Puta casa - (Spanish) fucking house
Casas, maisons, huizen, domy, hauser…fangwu - thanks to Google Translator, “houses” in six languages: Spanish, French, Dutch, Polish, German, and Chinese
Botellón - (Spanish) as paraphrased from the explanation on Wikipedia: a mass meeting of young people between the ages of 13 and 24, mainly in open areas of free access (i.e. a park), to drink beverages (often alcoholic) they have previously purchased from grocery and convenience stores.
Piso - (Spanish) apartment
Chicas - (Spanish) girls
Casco - (Spanish) literally “helmet”, practically the "historic center" of a city
Tajo - the main river of Toledo, Spain, “Tagus” in English
Algún otro lugar - (Spanish) “some other place” or “somewhere else”
Extra Emo Author’s Notes:
This challenge was so awesome that it deserved an on-time fic that was funny, happy, and cheerful, with an excellent plot and snappy dialogue.
But somewhere along the way life refused, and then the only thing I had in my head were a lot of the struggles with language and loneliness that I’ve been having these last couple years living in Spain. Someday I hope to write a REALLY HAPPY story about Spain, because it’s a gorgeous country with wonderful (sometimes really weird) people and a nice, textured culture (and let’s not even get started on the history). But not today.
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Warnings: I never meant this to be so sad
Rating: PG(-13?)
Word count: 1,203
Spoilers: preseries
Summary: It’s their third country in the last twelve months. Sam wonders sometimes if it would have been easier in the States to look into a stranger’s eyes and believe there is understanding there.
Yay Beta!: Thank you, Roommate! It was good just to know what I thought the fic was doing worked as it should. The errors, they are all and always mine.
Author notes: Written for the awesome worldwide_spn challenge! I pretty much lost skin squeaking in under the extended deadline. Originally I wanted to write a happy, fluffy story with lots of A-Team references where the boys took Toledo (Spain) by storm. Turned into an atmospheric, plotless preseries AU where John took the boys abroad after Mary’s death. See end for more notes.
Sam hates Toledo.
When he says that out loud (never to Dad because Dad would just give him the look and take another shot of dirt-cheap whiskey) Dean always snorts and says, “Ohio?”
They’ve been to Toledo, Ohio. Dean’s said so, said that when Sam was a baby they passed through on the way to somewhere else (somewhere else is where they’re always going), but Sam doesn’t remember. Sometimes Sam thinks that he’d never remember anything if it wasn’t written in a book, or said in Dean’s voice.
They’re not in Ohio. Castilla-fucking-La Mancha, land of castles and parched earth. The skies are sharp enough to cut and sometimes his lungs hurt from running in the bone-dry air. They train during siesta when normal people (people with families, Sam thinks sometimes, and then hopes Dean can’t read his mind) are in their homes eating, or sleeping, or enjoying each other’s company with a simplicity the Winchesters never do.
It’s their third country in the last twelve months, and Sam’s suddenly trying to understand the respiratory system in Spanish when two weeks ago he was struggling through Le Petit Prince for a book report.
That alone would be enough to piss him off : anything seems to now, from the way Dad drinks (he always keeps a firm grip on the bottle, as though he thinks his booze is going to try to run; Sam’s thought about running a couple times, but doesn’t want to know for sure that Dad would just let him slip away) to their crap appartements, and being in another school, failing school in yet another language when he could maybe make something for himself if a house would stay a fucking house, or even a puta casa for more than six months at a time, but instead they’ve been in casas, maisons, huizen, domy, hauser, and the occasional fangwu just to fuck with his head.
It’s easy to get angry at Dad and this life they lead in any of a dozen languages. Always has. He wonders sometimes if it would be easier if they had stayed in the States, hunting whatever monsters the New World could offer, or if the one ghost they will never shake (Mom on the ceiling in Dean’s dreams, Dad’s shaking hand and her name barely ever spoken) would haunt them there too, make it this hard to look into a stranger’s eyes and believe there is understanding there.
“You know, it’s not a bad break,” Dean says over breakfast one early Saturday afternoon, either a hangover or research putting dark circles under his eyes. Sam hopes it’s a hangover, because then maybe the grin he’s offering with the morning eggs is because he got laid at a botellón, and not something he pulls on just for Sam. “Decent piso, cheap booze, pretty chicks, and a bit of cash coming in. These are the good times, Sammy.”
Dean always adapted faster, like there was some switch in his head that could transition him from English, to Dutch, to Spanish and back with barely a stutter. Three days in a new place and he could talk the talk in a way that had nothing to do with actual language ability. One day he’s swearing a blue streak in German, and the next he’s making Spaniards blush, and Sam does not know how he does it. Sam needs things to hold onto, books and words and structure and he feels envious and a little lost every time he watches Dean just change like he understands how people think and feel and can make them think anything he wants.
Sam doesn’t know how he does it.
“Chicas,” Sam says, and then, when Dean gives him a funny looks, rolls his eyes. “It’s not chicks, it’s chicas.”
Dean’s face changes, and he reaches out, grabs Sam by the back of the neck and pulls him close, like he does sometimes when Sam can’t hold back the anger he has at Dad, when sometimes he’s so angry that he can’t even swear anymore, just breaks down almost crying at how little sense all this shit makes. “No, it’s chicks. That’s English slang, Sammy.” Sam closes his eyes and leans into the touch, wishes that all the words could just go away and he could just have this.
They live in the casco, the old city, a bird’s nest tangle of tiny streets and decaying buildings wrapped around each other for support, perching on the mountains where the Tajo twists in on itself. The rent is cheap and heat is expensive, so Sam shares a bed with Dean during the bitter, dry nights and Dad stays out late, hunting the alleys and antique bookstores for information about the supernatural that hasn’t been obscured by €10 tourists walks.
It’s all different from the States, Dean says. The New World is like a spot-faced teenager compared to the places they’ve been, that the monsters back home (only Dean uses this word; Sam doesn’t, he’s never been there how can it be home?) are young, weak, transitory, imported.
“This is where you find the real monsters,” Dean says, worry and triumph mixed in his eyes. “The one hundred percent, no-shipping-fee required nasties. And we’re gonna put them all down.”
They lay salt every night, in linking and overlapping circles that Sam has memorized by heart, in case he has to pick his way past them to the small bathroom with its toilet that always runs. Sometimes there are things that thump against their walls, screams in the dark (stray cats, the building settling, who knows what), and Dean pulls him so close that it’s hard for Sam to breathe with his big brother shaking behind him, sneaking one hand under their pillow for the blessed knife.
History rides so close here, bleeding up into churches, museums, hundred-year-old walls casually vandalized, that it’s hard to know what might be safe. Hard, always, to say if a cold-spot is from closed in walls that never quite let in the sun, or something malignant rising like blood and flood from the cracked foundations.
Toledo was an intersection point for three cultures, easy to see in the architecture, a draw for the tourist trade. Moors, Christians and Jews living together, dying together, summoning the devil by a dozen names, laying ghosts and bricking them up again. Sam wonders sometimes how they managed it, how they spoke and made themselves understood, if there’s a trick that’s been lost. Could that be one of the things Dad searches for in the ruins, the smoky bars and crab-written books?
Sam doubts. Doubts Dad cares about communication (the words he speaks come up from a bottle; they begin with Mary and end somewhere Sam can’t follow) and doubts they’ll stay in this place long enough to know what they’ve come for.
So he crumples up his formless hatred, refuses to name the players or the source, and gives it to Toledo. And the city takes it with ease and grace. Sam knows that when the Winchesters leave again for algún otro lugar (it’s only a matter of time) his rage will be just another stone in the walls.
~*~
Language Notes:
The title comes from a literal (and inaccurate) translation of "Castilla-La Mancha", the Autonomous Community of which Toledo is the capital.
Siesta - (Spanish) two to three hours during midday when many people go home for lunch, and maybe have a nap
Appartements - (French) apartments
Puta casa - (Spanish) fucking house
Casas, maisons, huizen, domy, hauser…fangwu - thanks to Google Translator, “houses” in six languages: Spanish, French, Dutch, Polish, German, and Chinese
Botellón - (Spanish) as paraphrased from the explanation on Wikipedia: a mass meeting of young people between the ages of 13 and 24, mainly in open areas of free access (i.e. a park), to drink beverages (often alcoholic) they have previously purchased from grocery and convenience stores.
Piso - (Spanish) apartment
Chicas - (Spanish) girls
Casco - (Spanish) literally “helmet”, practically the "historic center" of a city
Tajo - the main river of Toledo, Spain, “Tagus” in English
Algún otro lugar - (Spanish) “some other place” or “somewhere else”
Extra Emo Author’s Notes:
This challenge was so awesome that it deserved an on-time fic that was funny, happy, and cheerful, with an excellent plot and snappy dialogue.
But somewhere along the way life refused, and then the only thing I had in my head were a lot of the struggles with language and loneliness that I’ve been having these last couple years living in Spain. Someday I hope to write a REALLY HAPPY story about Spain, because it’s a gorgeous country with wonderful (sometimes really weird) people and a nice, textured culture (and let’s not even get started on the history). But not today.