SPN FIC - Down Under
I'm going to leave you a little -- well, all right, a lot -- in the dark with this one, because saying anything about it would ruin the reveal. So I'll just say: if you trust me, read. It's a small, simple idea that tickled me when it arrived, and I hope you'll have the same reaction.
CHARACTERS: There are two.
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None (for canon)
LENGTH: 682 words
DOWN UNDER
By Carol Davis
It strikes him as funny, when he bothers to stop and think about it, that something as simple as idle curiosity ended up saving his life.
Particularly when, as the saying goes, curiosity tends to…well, kill you.
"It was more than that," his savior says.
They've got chairs set out side by side on the beach. A while ago, the edge of the lapping water was a good ten feet away. Now, with each pulse of the surf, it's brushing their toes, eating away little bits of the sand beneath their feet, and beneath the legs of the chairs.
The day is quiet. Serene and undisturbed.
Of course; they're a long way from anything with a voice - other than the occasional sea bird - and farther away than that from machinery.
He used to enjoy a little bit of noise. Still does, really. But these stretches of time when it's just him and his savior and the tranquility of the beach have their own particular appeal. He can understand why so many people flock to the coastline - any coastline - though it seems to him to be a self-defeating enterprise, because if it draws you, it's likely to draw everyone else, so the odds of ending up on any decent beach alone are minuscule.
For a moment he thinks of Coney Island.
Now that was some good times.
"You cared about me," his savior says, squinting a little against the almost-white brilliance of the early afternoon sun.
He draws in a long, deep breath. Not in the beginning, he thinks, and when he looks to his left, his savior is frowning. "Happens once in a while," he admits with a small, crooked smile. "But don't let that get around. It'll ruin my reputation."
And he thinks: Don't speak ill of the dead.
"Nobody else came looking for me," the boy says quietly.
"Nobody else had the juice to find you," he replies, though that isn't quite true. There are (or were) others, but they were occupied with other things.
Life.
Death.
Apocalypse.
They should all spend some time on the beach, he thinks. Clear their heads. Contemplate the waves. The enormity of all that water, the rhythm of it as it surges in to shore. Once in a while there's something out there, breaking that pure, clean line between water and sky: a ship, or a whale, or a school of smaller fish. He spent an entire afternoon not long ago watching something drift, bobbing, in toward the shore, and was a little intrigued when it turned out to be an empty plastic milk jug with the cap screwed on.
It had drifted here all the way from Texas.
"Anyway," his savior says. "I didn't want you to - you know."
"Die?"
"Do you? Die? Really."
"Not sure," he says.
"Everyone goes somewhere. Don't they?"
He makes a show of contemplating the sea for a minute or two. Once in a while, he misses deeper conversation. He likes a little deep conversation, a little intellectual discourse, although that flies in the face of the personality he conjured for himself.
He likes to ponder serious things. Life. Death. The fine, delicate, smoky aftertaste of a special brand of Costa Rican chocolate.
His savior would rather discuss action figures.
Graphic novels.
And that's fine. It will do, for now.
"Guess so," Gabriel says quietly.
Arm's reach away, the boy named Jesse nods, and begins to dig in the wet sand with the toes of his bare feet.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: There are two.
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None (for canon)
LENGTH: 682 words
DOWN UNDER
By Carol Davis
It strikes him as funny, when he bothers to stop and think about it, that something as simple as idle curiosity ended up saving his life.
Particularly when, as the saying goes, curiosity tends to…well, kill you.
"It was more than that," his savior says.
They've got chairs set out side by side on the beach. A while ago, the edge of the lapping water was a good ten feet away. Now, with each pulse of the surf, it's brushing their toes, eating away little bits of the sand beneath their feet, and beneath the legs of the chairs.
The day is quiet. Serene and undisturbed.
Of course; they're a long way from anything with a voice - other than the occasional sea bird - and farther away than that from machinery.
He used to enjoy a little bit of noise. Still does, really. But these stretches of time when it's just him and his savior and the tranquility of the beach have their own particular appeal. He can understand why so many people flock to the coastline - any coastline - though it seems to him to be a self-defeating enterprise, because if it draws you, it's likely to draw everyone else, so the odds of ending up on any decent beach alone are minuscule.
For a moment he thinks of Coney Island.
Now that was some good times.
"You cared about me," his savior says, squinting a little against the almost-white brilliance of the early afternoon sun.
He draws in a long, deep breath. Not in the beginning, he thinks, and when he looks to his left, his savior is frowning. "Happens once in a while," he admits with a small, crooked smile. "But don't let that get around. It'll ruin my reputation."
And he thinks: Don't speak ill of the dead.
"Nobody else came looking for me," the boy says quietly.
"Nobody else had the juice to find you," he replies, though that isn't quite true. There are (or were) others, but they were occupied with other things.
Life.
Death.
Apocalypse.
They should all spend some time on the beach, he thinks. Clear their heads. Contemplate the waves. The enormity of all that water, the rhythm of it as it surges in to shore. Once in a while there's something out there, breaking that pure, clean line between water and sky: a ship, or a whale, or a school of smaller fish. He spent an entire afternoon not long ago watching something drift, bobbing, in toward the shore, and was a little intrigued when it turned out to be an empty plastic milk jug with the cap screwed on.
It had drifted here all the way from Texas.
"Anyway," his savior says. "I didn't want you to - you know."
"Die?"
"Do you? Die? Really."
"Not sure," he says.
"Everyone goes somewhere. Don't they?"
He makes a show of contemplating the sea for a minute or two. Once in a while, he misses deeper conversation. He likes a little deep conversation, a little intellectual discourse, although that flies in the face of the personality he conjured for himself.
He likes to ponder serious things. Life. Death. The fine, delicate, smoky aftertaste of a special brand of Costa Rican chocolate.
His savior would rather discuss action figures.
Graphic novels.
And that's fine. It will do, for now.
"Guess so," Gabriel says quietly.
Arm's reach away, the boy named Jesse nods, and begins to dig in the wet sand with the toes of his bare feet.
* * * * *