SPN FIC - Thunderstorm
A while back, kjfri asked for this: the follow-up to We All Fall Down, with the boys recovering from my version of the Apocalypse, at the Lodge. She got married recently, which seems like a good reason to look at the ways love begins with friendship, and affection, and a desire to help the other person Get some rest.
You always know what you need. Down inside, you know.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Morgan (OFC)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1623 words
THUNDERSTORM
By Carol Davis
You always know what you need. Down inside, you know, even if the wide-awake part of your mind wouldn't let you admit it if somebody held a gun to your head.
It's a little after two in the morning when he slides out of bed and makes his way downstairs to the big room that faces the lake, hair bed-skewed, face stubbled with three days' worth of beard, dressed in a rumpled t-shirt and sweatpants and socks, all of it smelling unfamiliarly of fabric softener because they washed everything in his duffel while he was unconscious.
Didn't ask them to do that.
The washing.
Didn't ask them to mess with his stuff.
The storm woke him up, put him a little on edge, even though it's just a storm, the entirely natural kind, not a portent of anything except a lot of wet ground and maybe a fried tree or two; as he looks out the window into the dark he remembers another-him asking in a small, thin voice, "How'd it do that, Dad?" and his father gazing silently at the charred husk of a tree, as if maybe it'd suit him to be the lightning, or the tree.
It's just a storm. The rest of it's over.
He wishes he felt like the rest of it was over.
They put him in a room by himself, because this foolish place still doesn't have any rooms with two beds, and the biggest any of the beds is is a double. Not that he honestly wants to sleep with Sam, anyway. Sam hasn't said anything to anybody for three days. He just sleeps, and eats a little, and shuffles into the bathroom like the walking dead - which isn't to say that Dean feels much more lively than that himself. So maybe it's best that there's a wall between them, one made of drywall and two-by-fours, until they can finish tearing down the invisible one that started going up all the way back when Dad died. It's got a few windows in it, and some cracks big enough to shove a hand through, but it's a sturdy son of a bitch. Demon blood, apparently, makes some damn fine mortar.
That, and stubbornness.
He half expected to find somebody in the great room, because when it was over, when the blinding light faded away and Lucifer and Michael had left the building (got dragged out, he thinks; nobody went anywhere willingly), he hauled his brother into the car and drove them to a friggin' bed and breakfast. There are people here, half of whom he didn't know, and there's always somebody in the great room, day or night. Watching the TV, looking out the window, working on a jigsaw puzzle or knitting or some damn thing.
So it's a surprise: the room's empty.
And then it's not.
"You all right?" Morgan asks him. She's dressed like him, like his friggin' twin, in t-shirt, sweats, and socks. She's holding a mug, has it cupped in both hands. Probably not coffee, this time of night. Tea, maybe, or hot chocolate.
He shrugs, mostly because he doesn't know the answer.
For a second he thinks she's going to hug him, because the Donahues - some of them, anyway - are notorious huggers. They hug the guests hello, hug them goodbye, hug them if they've got any kind of good news, or a cold, or if it's a Tuesday. He doesn't remember them doing that when he and Sam were here before, a few years back, and they don't much do it out on the road, but this time…
Maybe it's the Apocalypse, he thinks. Maybe everybody found Jesus. Or Care Bears.
"I'm good," he mutters. "Just -"
"Storm wake you up?"
The rain's sheeting against the picture window. He can't see much past there, just undulating layers of gray.
"I'm good," he says again.
You can go back to bed.
She walks past him, over to the window, and stands looking out at the night with the mug held in front of her like an offering. She takes a sip after a minute, and pulls in a deep breath, like whatever's in that mug is the finest kind of fine.
It's not tea, he realizes. Snorts softly, almost silently.
He's leery of standing in front of windows like that, when a storm's playing full-out. There's not much of a likelihood of being struck, but still, there's a vulnerable feeling to standing on display like that, like you're saying, Hey, Bitch. Come and get me, and for a minute he wants to pull her back, make her stand somewhere safe.
She turns, mug in one hand now, and locks eyes with him.
Go…
"You're welcome to stay as long as you want," she says quietly. "You know that, don't you? It's not an idle offer. We want you to stay."
Going on two-thirty in the morning. He's slept for the best part of three days, but feels like he hasn't slept in months. Years, maybe; he tries to remember the last time he got a good night's sleep and woke up feeling like the world was his oyster, and can't.
He wanted to be alone down here, just for a little while, to watch lightning fracture the darkness, listen to the drum of rain against that big pane of glass, the sudden rumble and CRACK! of thunder that shakes you down to your soul.
He remembers his father, awake one night, standing by the window. Remembers Dad folding him into his arms, no explanation given.
He had nowhere to go, and everywhere, and he picked here.
He used to think, watching the rain cascade down like it's doing now, that there couldn't be that much water hanging above the earth - that the whole thing was like one of those fountains that just recycles the same water over and over, and of course that's exactly what it is, but still, it's a marvel, that much water, up there overhead.
The whole world's a marvel, pretty much, and those sons of bitches were bent on destroying it.
He feels very small and insignificant, for all they told him how important he was. They told him he was The One, but he's not that. He's just John and Mary's son. Sam's brother. He does what he can. Helps when he can.
Somehow - maybe he's sleepwalking, now, or having blackouts, and wouldn't that just put the icing on the cake - Morgan is there close to him, with her arms around him. She's put down the mug, but she smells very faintly of her little nightcap, and other things: a little bit of sweat. Body lotion or some other girly thing.
Get some rest.
That's what everybody told him, in the djinn-world, the world he cooked up out of a lifetime's worth of wishes and dreams.
Get some rest.
But he couldn't. Wouldn't. Had to fight his way back out.
It's been three days now, and he can sleep, but he can't rest. The whole thing's over, they said (Bobby said), but there's so much more out there, and Sam's in here, and that's what Dad charged him with: Take care of Sam.
Help people.
It's too much. It's too damn much.
They stand there for a while, her arms wrapped around him and him not relaxed into them, and all he can make himself think of is dryer sheets. Then she slips a hand down to grasp his and takes a step, intending him to follow, and he thinks she's taking him to bed, which is all kinds of wrong and all kinds of something he does not want, not right now, not in this place. But where she's really taking him is down the little hallway alongside the stairs, into the room the Donahues use as a den, the room that's just theirs, off limits to guests. She lets go of him long enough to crouch in front of the fireplace, put another log and some kindling sticks and some crumpled newspaper in there and light it. Once it's going she returns to him and steers him over to the couch.
"Best couch in the world," she says, and there's a smile in her voice. "Bar none. Nothing else even comes close."
Another blackout, and he's stretched out on soft cushions, tucked underneath a soft knitted afghan, head resting on a throw pillow.
None of it smells like dryer sheets.
There's a chair nearby, a big, well-used one with an ottoman. When he peers over at Morgan she's smiling in a way he remembers, in a way that means It's all right now, and he watches her settle into the chair with another afghan wrapped around her. Her hand moves, finds something on the end table that he realizes is the TV remote when she points it and the TV blinks on. That's it, he thinks, that familiar flicker, no sound necessary; the rain and the fire are enough. Somewhere along the line she opened one of the windows a little bit and he can smell the lake, fishy and elemental, the earth, and the trees, and, very faintly, the ozone prickle that's so much like sulfur.
Stay with us, Dean, they told him in the djinn-world. And he wanted to, wanted to so badly it broke his heart.
He fought his way out.
He'll fight his way out of here, too. Soon, he thinks. Maybe too soon.
"Okay?" Morgan asks him softly.
Earth, air, fire and water.
He didn't mean for them to do any of this. Mess with his stuff. Lead him around like this.
But maybe he did.
"Yeah," he murmurs, and for the first time in a long time, he sleeps.
* * * * *
You always know what you need. Down inside, you know.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Morgan (OFC)
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1623 words
THUNDERSTORM
By Carol Davis
You always know what you need. Down inside, you know, even if the wide-awake part of your mind wouldn't let you admit it if somebody held a gun to your head.
It's a little after two in the morning when he slides out of bed and makes his way downstairs to the big room that faces the lake, hair bed-skewed, face stubbled with three days' worth of beard, dressed in a rumpled t-shirt and sweatpants and socks, all of it smelling unfamiliarly of fabric softener because they washed everything in his duffel while he was unconscious.
Didn't ask them to do that.
The washing.
Didn't ask them to mess with his stuff.
The storm woke him up, put him a little on edge, even though it's just a storm, the entirely natural kind, not a portent of anything except a lot of wet ground and maybe a fried tree or two; as he looks out the window into the dark he remembers another-him asking in a small, thin voice, "How'd it do that, Dad?" and his father gazing silently at the charred husk of a tree, as if maybe it'd suit him to be the lightning, or the tree.
It's just a storm. The rest of it's over.
He wishes he felt like the rest of it was over.
They put him in a room by himself, because this foolish place still doesn't have any rooms with two beds, and the biggest any of the beds is is a double. Not that he honestly wants to sleep with Sam, anyway. Sam hasn't said anything to anybody for three days. He just sleeps, and eats a little, and shuffles into the bathroom like the walking dead - which isn't to say that Dean feels much more lively than that himself. So maybe it's best that there's a wall between them, one made of drywall and two-by-fours, until they can finish tearing down the invisible one that started going up all the way back when Dad died. It's got a few windows in it, and some cracks big enough to shove a hand through, but it's a sturdy son of a bitch. Demon blood, apparently, makes some damn fine mortar.
That, and stubbornness.
He half expected to find somebody in the great room, because when it was over, when the blinding light faded away and Lucifer and Michael had left the building (got dragged out, he thinks; nobody went anywhere willingly), he hauled his brother into the car and drove them to a friggin' bed and breakfast. There are people here, half of whom he didn't know, and there's always somebody in the great room, day or night. Watching the TV, looking out the window, working on a jigsaw puzzle or knitting or some damn thing.
So it's a surprise: the room's empty.
And then it's not.
"You all right?" Morgan asks him. She's dressed like him, like his friggin' twin, in t-shirt, sweats, and socks. She's holding a mug, has it cupped in both hands. Probably not coffee, this time of night. Tea, maybe, or hot chocolate.
He shrugs, mostly because he doesn't know the answer.
For a second he thinks she's going to hug him, because the Donahues - some of them, anyway - are notorious huggers. They hug the guests hello, hug them goodbye, hug them if they've got any kind of good news, or a cold, or if it's a Tuesday. He doesn't remember them doing that when he and Sam were here before, a few years back, and they don't much do it out on the road, but this time…
Maybe it's the Apocalypse, he thinks. Maybe everybody found Jesus. Or Care Bears.
"I'm good," he mutters. "Just -"
"Storm wake you up?"
The rain's sheeting against the picture window. He can't see much past there, just undulating layers of gray.
"I'm good," he says again.
You can go back to bed.
She walks past him, over to the window, and stands looking out at the night with the mug held in front of her like an offering. She takes a sip after a minute, and pulls in a deep breath, like whatever's in that mug is the finest kind of fine.
It's not tea, he realizes. Snorts softly, almost silently.
He's leery of standing in front of windows like that, when a storm's playing full-out. There's not much of a likelihood of being struck, but still, there's a vulnerable feeling to standing on display like that, like you're saying, Hey, Bitch. Come and get me, and for a minute he wants to pull her back, make her stand somewhere safe.
She turns, mug in one hand now, and locks eyes with him.
Go…
"You're welcome to stay as long as you want," she says quietly. "You know that, don't you? It's not an idle offer. We want you to stay."
Going on two-thirty in the morning. He's slept for the best part of three days, but feels like he hasn't slept in months. Years, maybe; he tries to remember the last time he got a good night's sleep and woke up feeling like the world was his oyster, and can't.
He wanted to be alone down here, just for a little while, to watch lightning fracture the darkness, listen to the drum of rain against that big pane of glass, the sudden rumble and CRACK! of thunder that shakes you down to your soul.
He remembers his father, awake one night, standing by the window. Remembers Dad folding him into his arms, no explanation given.
He had nowhere to go, and everywhere, and he picked here.
He used to think, watching the rain cascade down like it's doing now, that there couldn't be that much water hanging above the earth - that the whole thing was like one of those fountains that just recycles the same water over and over, and of course that's exactly what it is, but still, it's a marvel, that much water, up there overhead.
The whole world's a marvel, pretty much, and those sons of bitches were bent on destroying it.
He feels very small and insignificant, for all they told him how important he was. They told him he was The One, but he's not that. He's just John and Mary's son. Sam's brother. He does what he can. Helps when he can.
Somehow - maybe he's sleepwalking, now, or having blackouts, and wouldn't that just put the icing on the cake - Morgan is there close to him, with her arms around him. She's put down the mug, but she smells very faintly of her little nightcap, and other things: a little bit of sweat. Body lotion or some other girly thing.
Get some rest.
That's what everybody told him, in the djinn-world, the world he cooked up out of a lifetime's worth of wishes and dreams.
Get some rest.
But he couldn't. Wouldn't. Had to fight his way back out.
It's been three days now, and he can sleep, but he can't rest. The whole thing's over, they said (Bobby said), but there's so much more out there, and Sam's in here, and that's what Dad charged him with: Take care of Sam.
Help people.
It's too much. It's too damn much.
They stand there for a while, her arms wrapped around him and him not relaxed into them, and all he can make himself think of is dryer sheets. Then she slips a hand down to grasp his and takes a step, intending him to follow, and he thinks she's taking him to bed, which is all kinds of wrong and all kinds of something he does not want, not right now, not in this place. But where she's really taking him is down the little hallway alongside the stairs, into the room the Donahues use as a den, the room that's just theirs, off limits to guests. She lets go of him long enough to crouch in front of the fireplace, put another log and some kindling sticks and some crumpled newspaper in there and light it. Once it's going she returns to him and steers him over to the couch.
"Best couch in the world," she says, and there's a smile in her voice. "Bar none. Nothing else even comes close."
Another blackout, and he's stretched out on soft cushions, tucked underneath a soft knitted afghan, head resting on a throw pillow.
None of it smells like dryer sheets.
There's a chair nearby, a big, well-used one with an ottoman. When he peers over at Morgan she's smiling in a way he remembers, in a way that means It's all right now, and he watches her settle into the chair with another afghan wrapped around her. Her hand moves, finds something on the end table that he realizes is the TV remote when she points it and the TV blinks on. That's it, he thinks, that familiar flicker, no sound necessary; the rain and the fire are enough. Somewhere along the line she opened one of the windows a little bit and he can smell the lake, fishy and elemental, the earth, and the trees, and, very faintly, the ozone prickle that's so much like sulfur.
Stay with us, Dean, they told him in the djinn-world. And he wanted to, wanted to so badly it broke his heart.
He fought his way out.
He'll fight his way out of here, too. Soon, he thinks. Maybe too soon.
"Okay?" Morgan asks him softly.
Earth, air, fire and water.
He didn't mean for them to do any of this. Mess with his stuff. Lead him around like this.
But maybe he did.
"Yeah," he murmurs, and for the first time in a long time, he sleeps.
* * * * *