SPN FIC - One Man's Heaven
New day, more fic. The long weekend rolls merrily along! So it's time for some JDub. (Had to be, or saberivojo would smack me silly.)
None of this is real, of course. But maybe that doesn't matter.
CHARACTERS: John
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: Dark Side of the Moon
LENGTH: 561 words
ONE MAN'S HEAVEN
By Carol Davis
The tree's not as tall as he remembers it.
"Perspective, John," Joshua says quietly.
That's true, he supposes; he was a child on the summer days he'd spend here, sprawled on the grass in the tree's broad shadow, or clambering up through its branches, as high a small boy dared to go. He's smiling at he looks around. All so familiar, the old sundial, the rosebushes, the little stone bench.
He was happy here.
None of this is real, of course. But maybe that doesn't matter.
"It's your choice," Joshua tells him.
He ignores that for a minute (or maybe it's a year; there's no time here, and he suspects that if he stands watching the sundial for as long as he can bear, the finger of shadow that falls across its face will never move) so he can stroll across the grass. He arrived here with boots on, but he's barefoot now, and the cool tickle against the soles of his feet is the loving touch of an old friend. When he tips his face into the sun, the warm lay of it is exactly what he remembers.
"Yes," he says.
Joshua releases a small sound. "You could have -"
"Not yet."
That's a little insubordinate, he thinks. A little disrespectful, and that's fine. They say they're guiding him, not ordering him, but there's still some We know what's good for you painted through it, and if free will means anything, it means he knows what's good for him.
"And everyone else can go scratch?" Joshua inquires.
He was Downstairs for a century. He may be here for longer.
"Hmm," he says.
Over there, in the sun, there's a bush (a hydrangea; Mary told him it was hydrangea) that spills out like a fountain, all palm-sized leaves and big white blossoms. They had one in the yard in Lawrence, and when Dean was old enough to understand hide-and-seek, they crawled underneath it together. It was a tight fit for him.
This one's bigger. He might fit.
"I want to be here," he says.
"You can move on, John."
They've been telling him that since he got here. It's been three years, according to them, but to his mind it's been…
He's got no idea how long it's been.
Not long enough. He knows that much.
"Not done yet," he says over his shoulder.
They haven't told him what (or where) he'd be moving on to. Trust them to hold on to their mysteries, he thinks, even when they've brought him this far. Maybe they think he'd find a way to spill the beans.
He was happy here, in this place.
He was loved here.
"Gonna wait," he says, with the feeling that someone other than Joshua is listening. "If you're good with that, I'd like to be alone for a while."
"Fair enough."
Joshua doesn't vanish, exactly; it's something different. One moment he's there, the next, he was never there.
Free will's a fine thing, John thinks.
He's smiling as he stands in the middle of his grandmother's garden. It's exactly as he remembers it: the breeze, the sun, the sweet scent of the flowers. That big old tree, waiting to be climbed. A small boy's paradise.
It's what he remembers, and everything his heart can invent.
Everything.
So he's not alone.
"Hey," he says, and takes a step forward.
* * * * *
None of this is real, of course. But maybe that doesn't matter.
CHARACTERS: John
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: Dark Side of the Moon
LENGTH: 561 words
ONE MAN'S HEAVEN
By Carol Davis
The tree's not as tall as he remembers it.
"Perspective, John," Joshua says quietly.
That's true, he supposes; he was a child on the summer days he'd spend here, sprawled on the grass in the tree's broad shadow, or clambering up through its branches, as high a small boy dared to go. He's smiling at he looks around. All so familiar, the old sundial, the rosebushes, the little stone bench.
He was happy here.
None of this is real, of course. But maybe that doesn't matter.
"It's your choice," Joshua tells him.
He ignores that for a minute (or maybe it's a year; there's no time here, and he suspects that if he stands watching the sundial for as long as he can bear, the finger of shadow that falls across its face will never move) so he can stroll across the grass. He arrived here with boots on, but he's barefoot now, and the cool tickle against the soles of his feet is the loving touch of an old friend. When he tips his face into the sun, the warm lay of it is exactly what he remembers.
"Yes," he says.
Joshua releases a small sound. "You could have -"
"Not yet."
That's a little insubordinate, he thinks. A little disrespectful, and that's fine. They say they're guiding him, not ordering him, but there's still some We know what's good for you painted through it, and if free will means anything, it means he knows what's good for him.
"And everyone else can go scratch?" Joshua inquires.
He was Downstairs for a century. He may be here for longer.
"Hmm," he says.
Over there, in the sun, there's a bush (a hydrangea; Mary told him it was hydrangea) that spills out like a fountain, all palm-sized leaves and big white blossoms. They had one in the yard in Lawrence, and when Dean was old enough to understand hide-and-seek, they crawled underneath it together. It was a tight fit for him.
This one's bigger. He might fit.
"I want to be here," he says.
"You can move on, John."
They've been telling him that since he got here. It's been three years, according to them, but to his mind it's been…
He's got no idea how long it's been.
Not long enough. He knows that much.
"Not done yet," he says over his shoulder.
They haven't told him what (or where) he'd be moving on to. Trust them to hold on to their mysteries, he thinks, even when they've brought him this far. Maybe they think he'd find a way to spill the beans.
He was happy here, in this place.
He was loved here.
"Gonna wait," he says, with the feeling that someone other than Joshua is listening. "If you're good with that, I'd like to be alone for a while."
"Fair enough."
Joshua doesn't vanish, exactly; it's something different. One moment he's there, the next, he was never there.
Free will's a fine thing, John thinks.
He's smiling as he stands in the middle of his grandmother's garden. It's exactly as he remembers it: the breeze, the sun, the sweet scent of the flowers. That big old tree, waiting to be climbed. A small boy's paradise.
It's what he remembers, and everything his heart can invent.
Everything.
So he's not alone.
"Hey," he says, and takes a step forward.
* * * * *