Supernatural: Long Strange Trip
Title: Long Strange Trip
Author: caoine
Rating: G
Count: ~937 words
Notes: Totally gen!fic. Also? Why do I always get bunnies RIGHT before bed? As usual, all disclaimers apply. Not mine, I'm poor, don't sue.
John loves the road, and he hates it.
It stretches out before him, every night, a single straight path that leads, inevitably, to the same destination. It's a purpose. A mission. A holy quest. He packs his bag and the truck and tries hard not to think of the hollow-eyed boys he's leaving behind. They're better off with Jim, anyhow, he tells himself.
John drives.
Because he can't wait. Can't wait for for things to come to him. Can't wait to finish it all. Because he has to do something to kill the ache inside of him. Because it's a purpose and a reason and because he suspects the ache won't die until he does.
John drives to forget.
He doesn't notice the scenery. Trees billboards towns slip along the double yellow lines, fading into flames and ash in the rearview mirror. He drives until the white noise of tire on asphalt roars in his ears and pulls him toward numbing exhaustion. He sleeps in the truck, at rest stops. In parking lots. It's more home to him than he's had in years.
John doesn't forget.
Mary. Smiling and laughing. Screaming. Bleeding from the ceiling.
John doesn't forget.
Two boys, with Mary's eyes and her laughter. Two boys he can't protect from the sudden evil of the world. Two boys who were supposed to be his sons, but have become his soldiers. Two boys, his sons, and he can't bear to look at them.
John loves the road and he hates it.
Dean loves the road.
Unconditionally. Without thought. He gasses up and revels in miles past, miles to go. The windows down and going eighty, bass shaking the seats and the wheel and his skin. It's exhilaration and promise and a new place every day. A reassuring constant. The silver-black skeleton holding his world together.
Dean drives.
Because he can. He spent a whole summer restoring the Impala for Dad. Now he spends an hour a day checking it over. The car is his only possession, she's the only thing he loves. Gunning the engine and squealing the tires on his way out of town, off to save the next poor soul who's stuck in suburbia and probably never even changed his own oil. A thousand miles a day with no map and who else in the world but a Winchester gets to do that?
Dean drives.
With himself and for himself, eyes alight, taking in everything. City skylines and sprawl, strip malls and skyscrapers. And people. Too many people on his roads. Empty highways made just for him. Broken barns and one stoplight towns - post office and gas station on one side, bar on the other. There's always a bar.
Dean drives because he knows.
He knows where they're going. He had every back-country lane in a three state area memorized by the time he was seventeen. Now he thinks he might know how to get anywhere.
Dean drives because he knows.
He knows where they've been. Understands the look in Dad's eye every time he leaves. Knows that Sam would never go anywhere, not if he had the choice. Would stay and put down roots and get a job somewhere. Would become another poor soul stuck in suburbia. But Dean believes, with a faith so strong it frightens him, in the possibility and the promise.
Dean loves the road.
Sam thinks he hates the road.
Sometimes he does. It means goodbyes and dirty motels and days with nothing to look at except Dean or Dad or potholes. Missing dances and football games and spending too much time thinking. Sometimes he thinks it might not be so bad. The road means new people and places he'd never read about in a book and familiar silences. Laughing at Dean's taste in music. Near-death experiences of a normal-person variety - at least when Dean is driving.
Sam drives.
When Dean lets him. He'd had to pry the key out of Dean's hand, that first time. Had gotten so distracted by the roiling power of the car, the pedal under his foot, he almost ran them into a tree and Dad looked at him with disgust. Dean wouldn't talk to him for days. The second time was easier. Dean threw him the keys and settled back against the seat and Sam picked the destination, the route.
Sam drives.
Because he has to. Because he aches, too. Because he believes that someday, it will end. At least his part in it. Because there are still people to save. Poor souls in suburbia who don't know any better and he desperately wishes he could be one. Because he knows what he wants, but maybe not really.
Sam drives.
Because it's what they've always done. Cheap motel rooms and living out of the trunk, clothes on top of guns, and never knowing exactly where they are or when they're leaving. Four years against eighteen, knowing ever speed trap. Every rattle and shimmy and shake of car on concrete or tire going flat. Every thing that goes bump in the night. Because everything is different every day and it's all familiar.
Sam drives.
Because it's home. Always was, before Jess. Sometimes he thinks he'll never recover. Sometimes he thinks he doesn't have the courage. Sometimes he wonders if he ever really had a choice.
Sam thinks he hates the road.
The road doesn't care.
It's seen every tragedy, every joy. It reaches into the heart of every mountain. Every valley. Every person.
The road just keeps on going.
Author: caoine
Rating: G
Count: ~937 words
Notes: Totally gen!fic. Also? Why do I always get bunnies RIGHT before bed? As usual, all disclaimers apply. Not mine, I'm poor, don't sue.
John loves the road, and he hates it.
It stretches out before him, every night, a single straight path that leads, inevitably, to the same destination. It's a purpose. A mission. A holy quest. He packs his bag and the truck and tries hard not to think of the hollow-eyed boys he's leaving behind. They're better off with Jim, anyhow, he tells himself.
John drives.
Because he can't wait. Can't wait for for things to come to him. Can't wait to finish it all. Because he has to do something to kill the ache inside of him. Because it's a purpose and a reason and because he suspects the ache won't die until he does.
John drives to forget.
He doesn't notice the scenery. Trees billboards towns slip along the double yellow lines, fading into flames and ash in the rearview mirror. He drives until the white noise of tire on asphalt roars in his ears and pulls him toward numbing exhaustion. He sleeps in the truck, at rest stops. In parking lots. It's more home to him than he's had in years.
John doesn't forget.
Mary. Smiling and laughing. Screaming. Bleeding from the ceiling.
John doesn't forget.
Two boys, with Mary's eyes and her laughter. Two boys he can't protect from the sudden evil of the world. Two boys who were supposed to be his sons, but have become his soldiers. Two boys, his sons, and he can't bear to look at them.
John loves the road and he hates it.
Dean loves the road.
Unconditionally. Without thought. He gasses up and revels in miles past, miles to go. The windows down and going eighty, bass shaking the seats and the wheel and his skin. It's exhilaration and promise and a new place every day. A reassuring constant. The silver-black skeleton holding his world together.
Dean drives.
Because he can. He spent a whole summer restoring the Impala for Dad. Now he spends an hour a day checking it over. The car is his only possession, she's the only thing he loves. Gunning the engine and squealing the tires on his way out of town, off to save the next poor soul who's stuck in suburbia and probably never even changed his own oil. A thousand miles a day with no map and who else in the world but a Winchester gets to do that?
Dean drives.
With himself and for himself, eyes alight, taking in everything. City skylines and sprawl, strip malls and skyscrapers. And people. Too many people on his roads. Empty highways made just for him. Broken barns and one stoplight towns - post office and gas station on one side, bar on the other. There's always a bar.
Dean drives because he knows.
He knows where they're going. He had every back-country lane in a three state area memorized by the time he was seventeen. Now he thinks he might know how to get anywhere.
Dean drives because he knows.
He knows where they've been. Understands the look in Dad's eye every time he leaves. Knows that Sam would never go anywhere, not if he had the choice. Would stay and put down roots and get a job somewhere. Would become another poor soul stuck in suburbia. But Dean believes, with a faith so strong it frightens him, in the possibility and the promise.
Dean loves the road.
Sam thinks he hates the road.
Sometimes he does. It means goodbyes and dirty motels and days with nothing to look at except Dean or Dad or potholes. Missing dances and football games and spending too much time thinking. Sometimes he thinks it might not be so bad. The road means new people and places he'd never read about in a book and familiar silences. Laughing at Dean's taste in music. Near-death experiences of a normal-person variety - at least when Dean is driving.
Sam drives.
When Dean lets him. He'd had to pry the key out of Dean's hand, that first time. Had gotten so distracted by the roiling power of the car, the pedal under his foot, he almost ran them into a tree and Dad looked at him with disgust. Dean wouldn't talk to him for days. The second time was easier. Dean threw him the keys and settled back against the seat and Sam picked the destination, the route.
Sam drives.
Because he has to. Because he aches, too. Because he believes that someday, it will end. At least his part in it. Because there are still people to save. Poor souls in suburbia who don't know any better and he desperately wishes he could be one. Because he knows what he wants, but maybe not really.
Sam drives.
Because it's what they've always done. Cheap motel rooms and living out of the trunk, clothes on top of guns, and never knowing exactly where they are or when they're leaving. Four years against eighteen, knowing ever speed trap. Every rattle and shimmy and shake of car on concrete or tire going flat. Every thing that goes bump in the night. Because everything is different every day and it's all familiar.
Sam drives.
Because it's home. Always was, before Jess. Sometimes he thinks he'll never recover. Sometimes he thinks he doesn't have the courage. Sometimes he wonders if he ever really had a choice.
Sam thinks he hates the road.
The road doesn't care.
It's seen every tragedy, every joy. It reaches into the heart of every mountain. Every valley. Every person.
The road just keeps on going.