SPN FIC - Survivor
For good, bad, or indifferent, the Muse seems to want to wallow in Season 1 this weekend. Which brings us up to Faith. I've dealt several times with the beginning of the episode, but the end of it's been unattended-to. So here's this: some survivor guilt. And the buddy system. And running until you can't run any more.
"Dean, man," Sam said quietly. "You can't run in boots."
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 825 words
SURVIVOR
By Carol Davis
"Dean, man," Sam said quietly. "You can't run in boots."
"I do it all the damn time."
"For a few hundred yards, yeah. But you're talking about miles, here. Trust me, man. You're gonna mess yourself up."
Dean seemed tall, from where Sam was sitting: on a wooden bench alongside the running track at Whitley High. New school, with all the amenities, as far as Sam could tell from the outside. They'd attended a school or two like that. For a few weeks, back in the day. He remembered libraries with new books. Lockers that weren't dented.
"Difference does it make," Dean muttered.
He wasn't looking at Sam. Hadn't looked at Sam, other than a glance, since he'd come striding down here from the parking lot.
"It makes a difference to me," Sam said.
"Over what? Some calluses? Maybe a busted ankle? People -"
"I know."
"Then stop wantin' me to pretend it didn't happen."
And he was gone.
Sam watched him run half a circuit, going what passed for full-out. As limber as Dean was, swift as he might be chasing something through the woods, sure-footed as a dancer, here, now, the boots were slowing him down. So was the heavy jacket, unbuttoned and flapping in his wake like a sail that had torn loose of its rigging in a storm that hadn't yet worked its way up to full fury.
Dean didn't need to say he wanted to fall. Wanted to bust himself up.
If it happened, it'd do no one any good. Wouldn't bring back the guy who'd died because of Dean's bad heart. Wouldn't cure Layla Rourke. Wouldn't do a damn thing for the people who'd need their help over the next few weeks, while whatever Dean had busted up was trying to heal.
Maybe he'd work through the pain. Force himself to keep going.
Like he was doing now.
Like Sam had been doing for the past six months.
Dean was at the far end of the track, head down, trying to hit whatever wall he could manage to conjure up, when Sam got up from the bench, turned his back on his brother, and walked back to the car. When Sam returned half an hour later he was in almost the same place, the same posture, as if no time had passed.
Sam came back with a pair of sneakers in his hand, and another pair on his feet. A sweatshirt lay over his arm, a bright red thing that said Homecoming Hoedown 2002 on it in big white letters. With any luck the sneakers would fit, although they'd been broken in by someone else's feet. The sweatshirt was going to be too small for normal use, but it'd cut down wind resistance.
"Do this right," he said when Dean got close enough to hear him.
Dean ran on past him.
With a sigh Sam shook himself to loosen himself up a little, then set off in pursuit of his brother. It took him only a few strides to catch up, and not much effort to match Dean's pace.
"Do this right," he said again. "And I'll do it with you."
"I don't need a friggin' buddy," Dean snapped at him.
Sam stepped into his path. Forced him off the track and gave him a solid shove that made him stumble half a step. Dean glowered at him, shifted his shoulders, ready to fight if that was what Sam wanted.
Ready to fight if it was what anybody wanted.
"It's not fair," Sam sputtered at him. "Don't you think I get that? Do you think I picked me, instead of her? Do you think I figure it's right that I'm here and she's not? I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry. I didn't pick me instead of her. Somebody else did. Somebody else did, and I got left behind. I'm sorry I did pick you, and somebody else paid the price. It's not fair, Dean. None of it's fair. None of it even starts to be fair."
To his credit, Dean listened. Then he looked at the ground. "Leave me alone," he muttered.
"Not gonna do that."
"I said -"
Sam thrust the sneakers against his brother's chest. "Do it right. If you're gonna run 'til you drop, drop because you're done. Not because you were too lazy to change your freaking shoes."
Dean gave the sneakers a disdainful glare.
"Dean," Sam said.
For a moment, Dean's shoulders sank in defeat. Again, he refused to look Sam in the eye.
"I'm sorry, man," Sam repeated. "But I'd do it again. I'd pick you again. And you know damn well that if it was reversed, you'd pick me."
Dean moved his head a little. Stared long and hard and angry.
Then he snatched the sneakers out of Sam's hand.
All he would say before he set off running again, wearing someone else's sneakers instead of his own boots, was one word:
"Yeah."
* * * * *
"Dean, man," Sam said quietly. "You can't run in boots."
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 825 words
SURVIVOR
By Carol Davis
"Dean, man," Sam said quietly. "You can't run in boots."
"I do it all the damn time."
"For a few hundred yards, yeah. But you're talking about miles, here. Trust me, man. You're gonna mess yourself up."
Dean seemed tall, from where Sam was sitting: on a wooden bench alongside the running track at Whitley High. New school, with all the amenities, as far as Sam could tell from the outside. They'd attended a school or two like that. For a few weeks, back in the day. He remembered libraries with new books. Lockers that weren't dented.
"Difference does it make," Dean muttered.
He wasn't looking at Sam. Hadn't looked at Sam, other than a glance, since he'd come striding down here from the parking lot.
"It makes a difference to me," Sam said.
"Over what? Some calluses? Maybe a busted ankle? People -"
"I know."
"Then stop wantin' me to pretend it didn't happen."
And he was gone.
Sam watched him run half a circuit, going what passed for full-out. As limber as Dean was, swift as he might be chasing something through the woods, sure-footed as a dancer, here, now, the boots were slowing him down. So was the heavy jacket, unbuttoned and flapping in his wake like a sail that had torn loose of its rigging in a storm that hadn't yet worked its way up to full fury.
Dean didn't need to say he wanted to fall. Wanted to bust himself up.
If it happened, it'd do no one any good. Wouldn't bring back the guy who'd died because of Dean's bad heart. Wouldn't cure Layla Rourke. Wouldn't do a damn thing for the people who'd need their help over the next few weeks, while whatever Dean had busted up was trying to heal.
Maybe he'd work through the pain. Force himself to keep going.
Like he was doing now.
Like Sam had been doing for the past six months.
Dean was at the far end of the track, head down, trying to hit whatever wall he could manage to conjure up, when Sam got up from the bench, turned his back on his brother, and walked back to the car. When Sam returned half an hour later he was in almost the same place, the same posture, as if no time had passed.
Sam came back with a pair of sneakers in his hand, and another pair on his feet. A sweatshirt lay over his arm, a bright red thing that said Homecoming Hoedown 2002 on it in big white letters. With any luck the sneakers would fit, although they'd been broken in by someone else's feet. The sweatshirt was going to be too small for normal use, but it'd cut down wind resistance.
"Do this right," he said when Dean got close enough to hear him.
Dean ran on past him.
With a sigh Sam shook himself to loosen himself up a little, then set off in pursuit of his brother. It took him only a few strides to catch up, and not much effort to match Dean's pace.
"Do this right," he said again. "And I'll do it with you."
"I don't need a friggin' buddy," Dean snapped at him.
Sam stepped into his path. Forced him off the track and gave him a solid shove that made him stumble half a step. Dean glowered at him, shifted his shoulders, ready to fight if that was what Sam wanted.
Ready to fight if it was what anybody wanted.
"It's not fair," Sam sputtered at him. "Don't you think I get that? Do you think I picked me, instead of her? Do you think I figure it's right that I'm here and she's not? I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry. I didn't pick me instead of her. Somebody else did. Somebody else did, and I got left behind. I'm sorry I did pick you, and somebody else paid the price. It's not fair, Dean. None of it's fair. None of it even starts to be fair."
To his credit, Dean listened. Then he looked at the ground. "Leave me alone," he muttered.
"Not gonna do that."
"I said -"
Sam thrust the sneakers against his brother's chest. "Do it right. If you're gonna run 'til you drop, drop because you're done. Not because you were too lazy to change your freaking shoes."
Dean gave the sneakers a disdainful glare.
"Dean," Sam said.
For a moment, Dean's shoulders sank in defeat. Again, he refused to look Sam in the eye.
"I'm sorry, man," Sam repeated. "But I'd do it again. I'd pick you again. And you know damn well that if it was reversed, you'd pick me."
Dean moved his head a little. Stared long and hard and angry.
Then he snatched the sneakers out of Sam's hand.
All he would say before he set off running again, wearing someone else's sneakers instead of his own boots, was one word:
"Yeah."
* * * * *