SPN FIC - Touchstone
The people who live here are running a yard sale - something Sam and Dean investigate when they have the chance, because it's a cheap way to find tools, car parts, a warm jacket, a shovel to replace the one they had to leave behind at a gravesite. Sam buys books at yard sales now and then, cheap paperbacks to read during a long stretch on the road, or when he's tired of watching reruns on TV. This book, though - this isn't the kind he normally buys.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
TOUCHSTONE
By Carol Davis
The past reaches out to him sometimes.
He'll glimpse from a distance someone he's sure is one of his former classmates, though of course, they're not. The aroma of meatloaf and gravy will bring back a dinner with Dad; a few bars of a song will recreate the entire sixth grade dance.
Long blonde hair always, always makes him think of Jess.
Those things happen to everyone. The little reminders. An event, a person, remembered, then gone again.
Sometimes, though, the past seizes him with a grip that makes his teeth rattle.
He has a book in his hands as he walks across the ragged, patchy lawn of a small house at the end of a quiet street just outside of Omaha, Nebraska. The people who live here are running a yard sale - something Sam and Dean investigate when they have the chance, because it's a cheap way to find tools, car parts, a warm jacket, a shovel to replace the one they had to leave behind at a gravesite. Sam buys books at yard sales now and then, cheap paperbacks to read during a long stretch on the road, or when he's tired of watching reruns on TV.
This book, though - this isn't the kind he normally buys.
"Hi," he says to the woman who has charge of the cash box. She offers him a friendly smile, and swipes a strand of hair away from her forehead with the tip of a finger. "Could you - I wonder - do you have any idea where you got this?"
He shows her the book, and she frowns.
"My mother," she says after a minute. "She buys things for the kids at church sales. Old book sales at the library."
They aren't that far from Lawrence, Sam thinks. Not all that far.
"Twenty-five cents," she says.
He hands over the quarter. Returns the woman's rekindled smile with all the enthusiasm he can muster, which isn't much, because his mind is reeling.
How? he wonders.
How, after all this time?
Part of him thinks he should have left the book behind. Should have left it in the box of toys and games he prowled through, looking for a baseball he and Dean could toss back and forth, or a magic trick, or a whoopee cushion. Something that would make his brother laugh. Something they could use to amuse themselves, the way they did years ago, when Dad was on the road. When summer nights were nothing more than that. When the world still seemed like a good place. An honest place.
And maybe this book isn't what he thinks it is, at all.
Maybe, though, it's exactly what he thinks it is.
"The hell's that?" Dean asks when Sam climbs into the car, the book held close against his chest. Then, without allowing time for Sam to respond, he asks, "You done? I need food."
"We can go," Sam allows.
But Dean doesn't start the car. Instead, he frowns. He's caught a glimpse of the book, Sam thinks, enough of one that he's curious. Suspicious, maybe.
This might open an enormous can of worms.
So do most things, Sam thinks. A single word. A gesture.
Slowly, he lays the book down on his lap, face up.
It's a children's book. A small one, maybe eight inches square. On the cover is a picture of a bunny in a jaunty plaid cap, beneath the words FLOPPITY AND THE MAGIC GARDEN. Some years ago, on an occasion Sam can't remember the specifics of, Dean told him that this book, FLOPPITY AND THE MAGIC GARDEN, was his favorite of the ones their mother would read to him. And that would have been enough of a reason to consider pulling it out of that box of toys and well-used games; reason enough to hand over a quarter for it, so that at the right moment, he could tease Dean about it.
The odd thing about this particular book - the thing that has Sam wondering whether what he's bought is a gift, or a weapon - is that on the inside, underneath the words THIS BOOK BELONGS TO, someone wrote the name Dean Winchester.
Sam faces his brother warily. It's not too late, he thinks. There's time to ditch the thing.
"Where'd you get that?" Dean murmurs.
"Box," Sam says. "Toys and stuff."
Dean could not have handled a hand grenade any more delicately than he handles this small book. He holds it as if it's made of eggshell, opens it to that front page reverently, silently. Seeing his name written there makes him flinch, but only once, and just for a second.
"There was stuff in the house that didn't get burned," he says after a minute. "Dad never said what happened to any of it."
"Then it's -"
"There's fairies in this," Dean scoffs. "Friggin' things. I hate fairies."
"All this time," Sam says. "And we're a long way from Lawrence."
"Couple hundred miles."
"It's crazy, though. I mean, come on. What are the chances?"
Dean shrugs, a single, slight lift of one shoulder. "Don't know," he murmurs. "Maybe nothing's a coincidence."
"You believe that?"
Dean's attention slides away from Sam, back to the little book, and he props the book against the steering wheel as if the wheel's a lectern. Whoever's owned the book along the way cared for it well; it's a little scuffed along the edges, nothing more. The pages haven't been dog-eared, or marked up with crayons.
It's as if someone kept it in trust all this time. Guarded it, until it could be returned to its rightful owner.
The past reaches out sometimes, Sam thinks.
Reaches out and says in a whisper, I'm still here, when you need me.
"You okay, man?" he asks his brother.
A moment slips by. Then Dean nods and hands the book back to Sam. "Hold on to that," he says, more cheerfully than Sam anticipated.
To Sam's great relief, Dean is smiling as he starts the car.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
TOUCHSTONE
By Carol Davis
The past reaches out to him sometimes.
He'll glimpse from a distance someone he's sure is one of his former classmates, though of course, they're not. The aroma of meatloaf and gravy will bring back a dinner with Dad; a few bars of a song will recreate the entire sixth grade dance.
Long blonde hair always, always makes him think of Jess.
Those things happen to everyone. The little reminders. An event, a person, remembered, then gone again.
Sometimes, though, the past seizes him with a grip that makes his teeth rattle.
He has a book in his hands as he walks across the ragged, patchy lawn of a small house at the end of a quiet street just outside of Omaha, Nebraska. The people who live here are running a yard sale - something Sam and Dean investigate when they have the chance, because it's a cheap way to find tools, car parts, a warm jacket, a shovel to replace the one they had to leave behind at a gravesite. Sam buys books at yard sales now and then, cheap paperbacks to read during a long stretch on the road, or when he's tired of watching reruns on TV.
This book, though - this isn't the kind he normally buys.
"Hi," he says to the woman who has charge of the cash box. She offers him a friendly smile, and swipes a strand of hair away from her forehead with the tip of a finger. "Could you - I wonder - do you have any idea where you got this?"
He shows her the book, and she frowns.
"My mother," she says after a minute. "She buys things for the kids at church sales. Old book sales at the library."
They aren't that far from Lawrence, Sam thinks. Not all that far.
"Twenty-five cents," she says.
He hands over the quarter. Returns the woman's rekindled smile with all the enthusiasm he can muster, which isn't much, because his mind is reeling.
How? he wonders.
How, after all this time?
Part of him thinks he should have left the book behind. Should have left it in the box of toys and games he prowled through, looking for a baseball he and Dean could toss back and forth, or a magic trick, or a whoopee cushion. Something that would make his brother laugh. Something they could use to amuse themselves, the way they did years ago, when Dad was on the road. When summer nights were nothing more than that. When the world still seemed like a good place. An honest place.
And maybe this book isn't what he thinks it is, at all.
Maybe, though, it's exactly what he thinks it is.
"The hell's that?" Dean asks when Sam climbs into the car, the book held close against his chest. Then, without allowing time for Sam to respond, he asks, "You done? I need food."
"We can go," Sam allows.
But Dean doesn't start the car. Instead, he frowns. He's caught a glimpse of the book, Sam thinks, enough of one that he's curious. Suspicious, maybe.
This might open an enormous can of worms.
So do most things, Sam thinks. A single word. A gesture.
Slowly, he lays the book down on his lap, face up.
It's a children's book. A small one, maybe eight inches square. On the cover is a picture of a bunny in a jaunty plaid cap, beneath the words FLOPPITY AND THE MAGIC GARDEN. Some years ago, on an occasion Sam can't remember the specifics of, Dean told him that this book, FLOPPITY AND THE MAGIC GARDEN, was his favorite of the ones their mother would read to him. And that would have been enough of a reason to consider pulling it out of that box of toys and well-used games; reason enough to hand over a quarter for it, so that at the right moment, he could tease Dean about it.
The odd thing about this particular book - the thing that has Sam wondering whether what he's bought is a gift, or a weapon - is that on the inside, underneath the words THIS BOOK BELONGS TO, someone wrote the name Dean Winchester.
Sam faces his brother warily. It's not too late, he thinks. There's time to ditch the thing.
"Where'd you get that?" Dean murmurs.
"Box," Sam says. "Toys and stuff."
Dean could not have handled a hand grenade any more delicately than he handles this small book. He holds it as if it's made of eggshell, opens it to that front page reverently, silently. Seeing his name written there makes him flinch, but only once, and just for a second.
"There was stuff in the house that didn't get burned," he says after a minute. "Dad never said what happened to any of it."
"Then it's -"
"There's fairies in this," Dean scoffs. "Friggin' things. I hate fairies."
"All this time," Sam says. "And we're a long way from Lawrence."
"Couple hundred miles."
"It's crazy, though. I mean, come on. What are the chances?"
Dean shrugs, a single, slight lift of one shoulder. "Don't know," he murmurs. "Maybe nothing's a coincidence."
"You believe that?"
Dean's attention slides away from Sam, back to the little book, and he props the book against the steering wheel as if the wheel's a lectern. Whoever's owned the book along the way cared for it well; it's a little scuffed along the edges, nothing more. The pages haven't been dog-eared, or marked up with crayons.
It's as if someone kept it in trust all this time. Guarded it, until it could be returned to its rightful owner.
The past reaches out sometimes, Sam thinks.
Reaches out and says in a whisper, I'm still here, when you need me.
"You okay, man?" he asks his brother.
A moment slips by. Then Dean nods and hands the book back to Sam. "Hold on to that," he says, more cheerfully than Sam anticipated.
To Sam's great relief, Dean is smiling as he starts the car.
* * * * *