SPN FIC - Himself He Cannot Save
Okay, here we go. Season's over, so let's ... look back. John, very early on, trying to find his footing in a strange new world.
In his skin, his bones, he knows it's there. Fifty yards away, maybe; no more than that.
CHARACTERS: John
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1141 words
HIMSELF HE CANNOT SAVE
By Carol Davis
That was then.
Over there, in country, in uniform. Blue-collar kid from a Midwest college town, trained to say "Sir!" and "Yes, SIR!"
Trained to sense an enemy he couldn't see, to feel its presence in his skin, his bones.
He killed, over there.
But he never wore the blood of the dead.
Only his own.
This is now.
In his skin, his bones, he knows it's there. Fifty yards away, maybe; no more than that. When the wind shifts, just for a moment, he can smell it, an acrid stink that makes his nose twitch, makes him want to sneeze. He has to bite down hard on his tongue to keep silent.
He doesn't doubt for a moment that it can smell him too.
Do the research, they told him when he chose this path - never go in blind, you'll end up in pieces. He never had to do that then, when his uniform was something different from jeans and a plaid flannel button-down. Somebody else looked at the maps back then, at the aerial photos, figured out troop strength and weaponry and weather.
Here, now, it's just him.
A battalion of one.
"Ain't deer you're after," they told him over beer and turkey sandwiches. "Ain't quail, or some shit like that. You let your mind wander, you start thinkin' about, there's a knock in the engine, or that boy of yours 's got a runny nose, you can kiss your ass goodbye. You ain't huntin' duck. What's out there, it's smarter 'n you are."
He twitched a brow. Implied, Not always.
"You're a goddamn fool," they told him.
No.
He's not.
He did the research.
And he doesn't doubt for a moment that it did too.
He's both the stalker and the stalked. The thing out there has home field advantage: it's wild, and it knows these woods. He drove in from two states away, in an old car with a bad wiper blade and a fondness for canting left rather than running a straight line. He'd think about that, about how he needs to fix the damn thing before it runs him off the road with two little kids in the back seat - but they told him not to.
They told him not to think. Just DO.
His heart flutters birdlike inside his ribcage and he breathes, count of five, in and out. Does it again, then once more, until the flutter levels out.
It's out there, and it's watching him.
"You ain't nervous, you ain't afraid," they told him, "then you're a goddamn fool. Trick is to box it up. Leave it by the side of the road. Fear lays on you like a coat a' fresh paint. Sonsabitches'll smell it a mile off."
Moon's out, round and full.
Not a lot of light, not really - but enough.
They're bathed in silver, the hunter and the hunted. He's done the research. Packaged up his fear and left it lying at the side of the road, alongside that old car that likes to cant to the left. He's got a gun in his hand, loaded with consecrated rounds.
"It matters?" he asked.
His teachers smirked at each other. At him.
He won't think of what he left behind: the house, the job, the drinks and pretzels at the Upside Down on Friday nights after the garage closed up. Won't think of her or the fire or the questions that kept coming right up until he put Lawrence, Kansas in his rearview mirror. Won't think of high school or the idea that maybe somewhere along the line he'd sign up for a course or two at the community college, or of burgers at Jaybird's or signing his name on the dotted line for a car and a wife and a house and his taxes.
Won't think of two little boys being looked after by a grizzled old man who seems to have no name other than Hoss.
He can smell the thing that's out there.
Not a deer. Bear. Cougar.
Nothing natural.
He sees silver, a glint of light on black, and of course it sees him too.
It's fast; they told him that.
But so is he.
The gun goes off muffled against the hide of that thing, a sound that's nothing compared to the cry it lets out as it falls. He rolls out from under almost far enough but not quite; his left leg stays pinned and he has to struggle and yank and grit his teeth against the stench of the thing, the stink that was bad enough before he put a fist-sized hole in it and let what was inside start to leak on out. When he's free, when he's on his ass in the leaves a couple of paces away from what he's sure is a corpse once he's put another couple of consecrated slugs in it for good measure, he can see himself in the moonlight.
Can see its blood on his clothes, his hands.
He can see it, smell it, taste it on his lips and tongue as he drags the thing into a clearing, away from dry brush, because he was told to burn it, not half the state.
He doesn't need to stay, once the burning's begun, but he does. Stands a step or two away breathing through his mouth and thinks of her, left behind in an empty grave. Of those two little boys, left behind with an old man named Hoss.
Of himself.
Left behind. Sometimes, he has no idea where.
"Know what you mean to do," they told him. "Then do it. Ain't no room for half-assed." Then they looked at each other, and at him, and one of them said, "You done cryin'?"
"What?" he asked.
"Ain't no room for that."
He left that behind, too, he thinks. There's no room for it here, in the woods, in the middle of the night.
He stinks now. Of blood. Of death.
"Y' get used to it," they told him. "Gonna be the natural state of things."
He watches the flames leap gold and red in the moonlight and understands that they were right: if this is what he's going to do, he will carry death with him wherever he goes.
Will wear the blood of the dead, even after he's washed it off.
Sir! he thinks, and remembers a boy in uniform, a sense of pride, a sense of I will do this, and then I will go home.
Yes, SIR!
When there is nothing left of the thing he killed but a shriveled husk and that smell, that clinging, acrid smell, he kicks dirt onto the last embers of the fire, then walks away.
What he told them was a lie: he's not done crying.
He'll find a time for it, again.
But not now.
* * * * *
In his skin, his bones, he knows it's there. Fifty yards away, maybe; no more than that.
CHARACTERS: John
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1141 words
HIMSELF HE CANNOT SAVE
By Carol Davis
That was then.
Over there, in country, in uniform. Blue-collar kid from a Midwest college town, trained to say "Sir!" and "Yes, SIR!"
Trained to sense an enemy he couldn't see, to feel its presence in his skin, his bones.
He killed, over there.
But he never wore the blood of the dead.
Only his own.
This is now.
In his skin, his bones, he knows it's there. Fifty yards away, maybe; no more than that. When the wind shifts, just for a moment, he can smell it, an acrid stink that makes his nose twitch, makes him want to sneeze. He has to bite down hard on his tongue to keep silent.
He doesn't doubt for a moment that it can smell him too.
Do the research, they told him when he chose this path - never go in blind, you'll end up in pieces. He never had to do that then, when his uniform was something different from jeans and a plaid flannel button-down. Somebody else looked at the maps back then, at the aerial photos, figured out troop strength and weaponry and weather.
Here, now, it's just him.
A battalion of one.
"Ain't deer you're after," they told him over beer and turkey sandwiches. "Ain't quail, or some shit like that. You let your mind wander, you start thinkin' about, there's a knock in the engine, or that boy of yours 's got a runny nose, you can kiss your ass goodbye. You ain't huntin' duck. What's out there, it's smarter 'n you are."
He twitched a brow. Implied, Not always.
"You're a goddamn fool," they told him.
No.
He's not.
He did the research.
And he doesn't doubt for a moment that it did too.
He's both the stalker and the stalked. The thing out there has home field advantage: it's wild, and it knows these woods. He drove in from two states away, in an old car with a bad wiper blade and a fondness for canting left rather than running a straight line. He'd think about that, about how he needs to fix the damn thing before it runs him off the road with two little kids in the back seat - but they told him not to.
They told him not to think. Just DO.
His heart flutters birdlike inside his ribcage and he breathes, count of five, in and out. Does it again, then once more, until the flutter levels out.
It's out there, and it's watching him.
"You ain't nervous, you ain't afraid," they told him, "then you're a goddamn fool. Trick is to box it up. Leave it by the side of the road. Fear lays on you like a coat a' fresh paint. Sonsabitches'll smell it a mile off."
Moon's out, round and full.
Not a lot of light, not really - but enough.
They're bathed in silver, the hunter and the hunted. He's done the research. Packaged up his fear and left it lying at the side of the road, alongside that old car that likes to cant to the left. He's got a gun in his hand, loaded with consecrated rounds.
"It matters?" he asked.
His teachers smirked at each other. At him.
He won't think of what he left behind: the house, the job, the drinks and pretzels at the Upside Down on Friday nights after the garage closed up. Won't think of her or the fire or the questions that kept coming right up until he put Lawrence, Kansas in his rearview mirror. Won't think of high school or the idea that maybe somewhere along the line he'd sign up for a course or two at the community college, or of burgers at Jaybird's or signing his name on the dotted line for a car and a wife and a house and his taxes.
Won't think of two little boys being looked after by a grizzled old man who seems to have no name other than Hoss.
He can smell the thing that's out there.
Not a deer. Bear. Cougar.
Nothing natural.
He sees silver, a glint of light on black, and of course it sees him too.
It's fast; they told him that.
But so is he.
The gun goes off muffled against the hide of that thing, a sound that's nothing compared to the cry it lets out as it falls. He rolls out from under almost far enough but not quite; his left leg stays pinned and he has to struggle and yank and grit his teeth against the stench of the thing, the stink that was bad enough before he put a fist-sized hole in it and let what was inside start to leak on out. When he's free, when he's on his ass in the leaves a couple of paces away from what he's sure is a corpse once he's put another couple of consecrated slugs in it for good measure, he can see himself in the moonlight.
Can see its blood on his clothes, his hands.
He can see it, smell it, taste it on his lips and tongue as he drags the thing into a clearing, away from dry brush, because he was told to burn it, not half the state.
He doesn't need to stay, once the burning's begun, but he does. Stands a step or two away breathing through his mouth and thinks of her, left behind in an empty grave. Of those two little boys, left behind with an old man named Hoss.
Of himself.
Left behind. Sometimes, he has no idea where.
"Know what you mean to do," they told him. "Then do it. Ain't no room for half-assed." Then they looked at each other, and at him, and one of them said, "You done cryin'?"
"What?" he asked.
"Ain't no room for that."
He left that behind, too, he thinks. There's no room for it here, in the woods, in the middle of the night.
He stinks now. Of blood. Of death.
"Y' get used to it," they told him. "Gonna be the natural state of things."
He watches the flames leap gold and red in the moonlight and understands that they were right: if this is what he's going to do, he will carry death with him wherever he goes.
Will wear the blood of the dead, even after he's washed it off.
Sir! he thinks, and remembers a boy in uniform, a sense of pride, a sense of I will do this, and then I will go home.
Yes, SIR!
When there is nothing left of the thing he killed but a shriveled husk and that smell, that clinging, acrid smell, he kicks dirt onto the last embers of the fire, then walks away.
What he told them was a lie: he's not done crying.
He'll find a time for it, again.
But not now.
* * * * *