Fic: Five times... 2. November 2004 - Even God's Simplest Creatures...
Title: Five Times Dean Was Saved. And One Time He Wasn't. Part 2
Author: felisblanco
Fandom: SPN
Characters/Pairing: Dean, John,
Word Count: 1267
2. November 2004 - Even God's Simplest Creatures...
All heat’s long gone from the car, the small space having quickly been invaded by the cold air of the late November night. Dean sits still, watching the wispy grey clouds of his breath disintegrate into the dark. The naked bulb above the door to the motel room casts a yellow light over the parking lot, reaching halfway across the hood of the Impala. Not far enough to penetrate the windshield and Dean feels securely hidden from his father’s eyes if the man decides to peek out. Every now and then John’s shadow moves behind the curtains. Dean should go in, see if there’s any news on that werewolf. He should clean his guns. He should get some sleep.
He doesn’t move.
He honestly has no idea what’s lead to this. He can’t remember feeling depressed, not really. He’s not the kind of guy that lets feelings get the better of him. Sure he feels emotions, strong ones, not all of them good. Sadness, yes. Who doesn’t? Anger? Often. Despair? Occasionally, but less frequently now than a couple of years ago. But most of the time he considers himself a well-balanced person. Resigned to his place in life, his fate. Sammy used to call him repressed, bottled up, but then again his brother always was overly emo, even as a kid.
Dean blinks, pushing away the image of Sam’s disapproving eyes to concentrate once again on where he is and what he’s doing. And why. Especially why.
It would be nice to blame the alcohol but the truth is he hasn’t had any more than usual. Just a couple of beers and some shots. Nothing that can explain or excuse this.
This.
The heavy weight draws his attention once again and he looks down at the .45 resting peacefully against his thigh, his fingers curled loosely around the butt. It feels so familiar in his hand but at the same time totally foreign. Tightening his grip he lifts the gun slowly. It seems heavier than it should be and he stares at it like he’s never seen it before. He can’t remember taking it out of the glove department. There has to have been a sound or a shadow, something that made him reach for it, but whatever it was it’s gone now. He should put it back. Put it back and get out and go inside. He should…
He turns the gun slightly, then reaches up with his left hand to stroke it gently. The barrel feels cold and smooth like raw silk under his fingertips. He runs his fingers a few times along the barrel then pulls his hand away, rubbing the calloused fingertips together in thought. After a moments hesitation he brings the gun slowly up to his face, inhaling the soothing scent of metal and gun oil. A scent as familiar to him as the smell of the Impala’s leather seats against his cheek or Sam’s hair tickling his chin. Sammy’s too long, ever-tangled, silky hair, falling across his forehead, hiding the frustration in his eyes. Even now, after three years of absence the smell of Sam overpowers everything else in his memory, lingering in his nostrils as stubborn as the boy who put it there.
Pushing the thought of Sam away yet again Dean tips the gun so it rests against the bridge of his nose, then runs it down until it slips of the tip, across his nostrils and down to his lips. He presses it closer, not really kissing the metal, just testing the feel of it. Cold. Slightly acid. He parts his lips slowly and lets the barrel slip inside his mouth, sliding along the tongue. The acid taste gets stronger, burning the slick surface of his tongue, and he withdraws it, resting the barrel on the lower row of his front teeth instead. The tip of the barrel tickles the upper roof of his mouth but he doesn’t gag, just lets it stay there for a moment before moving it to the side until it lies against the inside of his cheek.
Slowly the cool metal warms in the cavity of his mouth until after a while it might as well not be there, just a natural part of him like his tongue and teeth. If it wasn’t for the weight and the still acid taste he might forget it doesn’t belong there.
His fingers tighten on the grip, the index finger slipping in beside the trigger, pressing it lightly. He stills and opens his eyes, staring out into the dark.
He has no idea how long he sits there. His soul is perfectly at peace for once. His mind completely empty except for a fleeting thought of, “Would dad call Sam if I… Would they start talking again?” that then drifts away and leaves everything quiet.
A small shadow suddenly jumps out of the dark and onto the hood of the Impala, just out of the light’s reach. Yellow eyes stare at him and he stares back until they blink and the creature steps into the beam of light, moving closer until it sits down just on the other side of the windshield. They keep up the staring for a while and then the cat lowers its head, lifts a paw and starts licking. It wets the soft fur, making it slick and silky, before lifting the paw and sweeping it over its right ear and down its nose. Again and again before licking the paw wet again and repeating the process.
Dean sits frozen, watching mesmerized as the cat washes every part of its body, from the tip of its nose to the hard-to-reach spot by its tail. It takes its time, carefully ridding the fur of every real and imagined speck of dirt, eyes closed in concentration. At long last the cat sits back and looks at him. He looks back, unable to blink. Then the cat yawns and stands up, tail trembling slightly at the tip as it straightens it, then tip-toes across the hood of the car and jumps off, instantly swallowed by the dark.
Dean blinks. Then he lowers his arm, the gun slipping out of his mouth, leaving a wet trail down his chin. He lays the heavy weight down on his thigh and licks his lips. They are dry, a crack forming down the middle of his lower lip. It stings. Slowly he reaches over to the glove apartment, pops it open and puts the gun back inside before closing it with a snap. Then he opens the door and gets out, locking the car carefully before walking slowly across the parking lot and to their motel room. He reaches out for the knob, takes a deep breath, and then opens the door.
John looks up from the small table where he’s nursing a triple whiskey in a smudged glass, the journal open in front of him. “About time. We’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dean pulls off his jacket, surprised to find the material sticking to his back. His t-shirt is soaked with sweat and when he looks down he realises his hands are shaking. Huh.
“You all right there, son?”
He’s so lost in thought it takes him a moment to register his father’s voice. He glances over but John is once again lost in his notes, frowning in concentration.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.”
There’s no answer. He stands still, watching his father’s bowed head for a moment, and then nods to himself before walking into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him.
Continued in 3. December 2005 - He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Idiot Brother
Author: felisblanco
Fandom: SPN
Characters/Pairing: Dean, John,
Word Count: 1267
2. November 2004 - Even God's Simplest Creatures...
All heat’s long gone from the car, the small space having quickly been invaded by the cold air of the late November night. Dean sits still, watching the wispy grey clouds of his breath disintegrate into the dark. The naked bulb above the door to the motel room casts a yellow light over the parking lot, reaching halfway across the hood of the Impala. Not far enough to penetrate the windshield and Dean feels securely hidden from his father’s eyes if the man decides to peek out. Every now and then John’s shadow moves behind the curtains. Dean should go in, see if there’s any news on that werewolf. He should clean his guns. He should get some sleep.
He doesn’t move.
He honestly has no idea what’s lead to this. He can’t remember feeling depressed, not really. He’s not the kind of guy that lets feelings get the better of him. Sure he feels emotions, strong ones, not all of them good. Sadness, yes. Who doesn’t? Anger? Often. Despair? Occasionally, but less frequently now than a couple of years ago. But most of the time he considers himself a well-balanced person. Resigned to his place in life, his fate. Sammy used to call him repressed, bottled up, but then again his brother always was overly emo, even as a kid.
Dean blinks, pushing away the image of Sam’s disapproving eyes to concentrate once again on where he is and what he’s doing. And why. Especially why.
It would be nice to blame the alcohol but the truth is he hasn’t had any more than usual. Just a couple of beers and some shots. Nothing that can explain or excuse this.
This.
The heavy weight draws his attention once again and he looks down at the .45 resting peacefully against his thigh, his fingers curled loosely around the butt. It feels so familiar in his hand but at the same time totally foreign. Tightening his grip he lifts the gun slowly. It seems heavier than it should be and he stares at it like he’s never seen it before. He can’t remember taking it out of the glove department. There has to have been a sound or a shadow, something that made him reach for it, but whatever it was it’s gone now. He should put it back. Put it back and get out and go inside. He should…
He turns the gun slightly, then reaches up with his left hand to stroke it gently. The barrel feels cold and smooth like raw silk under his fingertips. He runs his fingers a few times along the barrel then pulls his hand away, rubbing the calloused fingertips together in thought. After a moments hesitation he brings the gun slowly up to his face, inhaling the soothing scent of metal and gun oil. A scent as familiar to him as the smell of the Impala’s leather seats against his cheek or Sam’s hair tickling his chin. Sammy’s too long, ever-tangled, silky hair, falling across his forehead, hiding the frustration in his eyes. Even now, after three years of absence the smell of Sam overpowers everything else in his memory, lingering in his nostrils as stubborn as the boy who put it there.
Pushing the thought of Sam away yet again Dean tips the gun so it rests against the bridge of his nose, then runs it down until it slips of the tip, across his nostrils and down to his lips. He presses it closer, not really kissing the metal, just testing the feel of it. Cold. Slightly acid. He parts his lips slowly and lets the barrel slip inside his mouth, sliding along the tongue. The acid taste gets stronger, burning the slick surface of his tongue, and he withdraws it, resting the barrel on the lower row of his front teeth instead. The tip of the barrel tickles the upper roof of his mouth but he doesn’t gag, just lets it stay there for a moment before moving it to the side until it lies against the inside of his cheek.
Slowly the cool metal warms in the cavity of his mouth until after a while it might as well not be there, just a natural part of him like his tongue and teeth. If it wasn’t for the weight and the still acid taste he might forget it doesn’t belong there.
His fingers tighten on the grip, the index finger slipping in beside the trigger, pressing it lightly. He stills and opens his eyes, staring out into the dark.
He has no idea how long he sits there. His soul is perfectly at peace for once. His mind completely empty except for a fleeting thought of, “Would dad call Sam if I… Would they start talking again?” that then drifts away and leaves everything quiet.
A small shadow suddenly jumps out of the dark and onto the hood of the Impala, just out of the light’s reach. Yellow eyes stare at him and he stares back until they blink and the creature steps into the beam of light, moving closer until it sits down just on the other side of the windshield. They keep up the staring for a while and then the cat lowers its head, lifts a paw and starts licking. It wets the soft fur, making it slick and silky, before lifting the paw and sweeping it over its right ear and down its nose. Again and again before licking the paw wet again and repeating the process.
Dean sits frozen, watching mesmerized as the cat washes every part of its body, from the tip of its nose to the hard-to-reach spot by its tail. It takes its time, carefully ridding the fur of every real and imagined speck of dirt, eyes closed in concentration. At long last the cat sits back and looks at him. He looks back, unable to blink. Then the cat yawns and stands up, tail trembling slightly at the tip as it straightens it, then tip-toes across the hood of the car and jumps off, instantly swallowed by the dark.
Dean blinks. Then he lowers his arm, the gun slipping out of his mouth, leaving a wet trail down his chin. He lays the heavy weight down on his thigh and licks his lips. They are dry, a crack forming down the middle of his lower lip. It stings. Slowly he reaches over to the glove apartment, pops it open and puts the gun back inside before closing it with a snap. Then he opens the door and gets out, locking the car carefully before walking slowly across the parking lot and to their motel room. He reaches out for the knob, takes a deep breath, and then opens the door.
John looks up from the small table where he’s nursing a triple whiskey in a smudged glass, the journal open in front of him. “About time. We’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dean pulls off his jacket, surprised to find the material sticking to his back. His t-shirt is soaked with sweat and when he looks down he realises his hands are shaking. Huh.
“You all right there, son?”
He’s so lost in thought it takes him a moment to register his father’s voice. He glances over but John is once again lost in his notes, frowning in concentration.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.”
There’s no answer. He stands still, watching his father’s bowed head for a moment, and then nods to himself before walking into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him.
Continued in 3. December 2005 - He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Idiot Brother