SPN FIC - ...Until Your Father Says You Are
There's a quote I read a long time ago: "You're not a man until your father says you are." All the more true if your father is a certain, somewhat legendary figure. Or maybe it's not true at all.
A few years down the road. A dusty, low-slung roadhouse outside of Oklahoma City.
CHARACTERS: Dean, background OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 600 words
...UNTIL YOUR FATHER SAYS YOU ARE
By Carol Davis
He's crossed a line, somehow.
And it's not because of Hell; not because his soul's been battered and bloodied, shredded and frayed.
Nor is it thanks to the sheer numbers of people he knew, cared about, loved, who've been torn away from him over the years. It's not a "last man standing" kind of a thing. You don't get here simply by being the one who wasn't killed.
Particularly if you have been killed, a hundred times over.
It's not because of what he knows. There are people who know more than he does. Who are more skilled, more ingenious.
He's nothing special.
And yet there's this.
This quiet awe. This deference. This delivering of gifts (another chilled, brimming pitcher of beer; the offer of a deal on a couple of new tires to replace the ones that got shredded outside of Tulsa; the flip of a skirt that implies something more, something to be granted later, in a more private place).
Sam will laugh, he thinks. In the morning, when Sam finally arrives after three days on the road. He will snort. He will roll his eyes, when Dean tells him about this.
Or maybe not. Maybe Sam's been on the receiving end of this same peculiar treatment.
When Dean came in through the door of this place, this dusty, low-slung roadhouse an hour outside of Oklahoma City, he collided with a kid who looked nineteen or so - a kid who showed the signs of having been in the life for half of his. Dean met his gaze, found a weariness that matched his own. Then astonishment. Chagrin.
"Sorry, sir," was what the kid said. "Jesus. You're - I'm sorry. Sir."
Sir?? Dean thinks, one hand curled around a half-empty mug, the glass of it scratched and chipped and scuffed with wear. It's as battered as Dean feels, but it's got one up on him: it's just a thing. Unaware. Unfeeling.
The hell…?
Somehow, he's become a "sir."
Because of all the hunters lost these past few years, to the demons, the angels, the Alphas, the Leviathans? To the run-of-the-mill uglies they battle every day? Is he what's left? That terrible thinning of the ranks put him here?
Is that it?
The waitress returns with the plate of eggs and home fries she promised him, sets it down gently, smiling, and he thinks of Jo, how Jo would never have tiptoed around him like this, would never have treated him like he farts the scent of fresh-cut grass and lilacs. It's a freaking roadhouse, he thinks, not some white-tablecloth place, not some place he wouldn't be welcome in torn jeans and an old flannel button-down stained with dried gore.
"Do you know me?" he asks, frowning.
She ruffles a little bit, like a bird surprised by a strong gust of wind. "Well… yeah. Of course."
He's thirty-six years old.
He's been killed more than a hundred times. None of them stuck, though that one time stuck well enough. He's been made whole, in some sense, at least, after every one of those times, but more often than not, he feels as fragmented as a boxful of jigsaw puzzle pieces.
A thought occurs to him, and as she turns to walk away, he voices it.
"I'm John Winchester's son."
That stops her, but not for the reason he thought it might. "I -" she says. "Who?"
He shakes his head.
She's really young. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. And things slip away.
Someday, he figures, he will have slipped away too.
Just as well, he thinks, and digs into the plate of food.
* * * * *
A few years down the road. A dusty, low-slung roadhouse outside of Oklahoma City.
CHARACTERS: Dean, background OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 600 words
...UNTIL YOUR FATHER SAYS YOU ARE
By Carol Davis
He's crossed a line, somehow.
And it's not because of Hell; not because his soul's been battered and bloodied, shredded and frayed.
Nor is it thanks to the sheer numbers of people he knew, cared about, loved, who've been torn away from him over the years. It's not a "last man standing" kind of a thing. You don't get here simply by being the one who wasn't killed.
Particularly if you have been killed, a hundred times over.
It's not because of what he knows. There are people who know more than he does. Who are more skilled, more ingenious.
He's nothing special.
And yet there's this.
This quiet awe. This deference. This delivering of gifts (another chilled, brimming pitcher of beer; the offer of a deal on a couple of new tires to replace the ones that got shredded outside of Tulsa; the flip of a skirt that implies something more, something to be granted later, in a more private place).
Sam will laugh, he thinks. In the morning, when Sam finally arrives after three days on the road. He will snort. He will roll his eyes, when Dean tells him about this.
Or maybe not. Maybe Sam's been on the receiving end of this same peculiar treatment.
When Dean came in through the door of this place, this dusty, low-slung roadhouse an hour outside of Oklahoma City, he collided with a kid who looked nineteen or so - a kid who showed the signs of having been in the life for half of his. Dean met his gaze, found a weariness that matched his own. Then astonishment. Chagrin.
"Sorry, sir," was what the kid said. "Jesus. You're - I'm sorry. Sir."
Sir?? Dean thinks, one hand curled around a half-empty mug, the glass of it scratched and chipped and scuffed with wear. It's as battered as Dean feels, but it's got one up on him: it's just a thing. Unaware. Unfeeling.
The hell…?
Somehow, he's become a "sir."
Because of all the hunters lost these past few years, to the demons, the angels, the Alphas, the Leviathans? To the run-of-the-mill uglies they battle every day? Is he what's left? That terrible thinning of the ranks put him here?
Is that it?
The waitress returns with the plate of eggs and home fries she promised him, sets it down gently, smiling, and he thinks of Jo, how Jo would never have tiptoed around him like this, would never have treated him like he farts the scent of fresh-cut grass and lilacs. It's a freaking roadhouse, he thinks, not some white-tablecloth place, not some place he wouldn't be welcome in torn jeans and an old flannel button-down stained with dried gore.
"Do you know me?" he asks, frowning.
She ruffles a little bit, like a bird surprised by a strong gust of wind. "Well… yeah. Of course."
He's thirty-six years old.
He's been killed more than a hundred times. None of them stuck, though that one time stuck well enough. He's been made whole, in some sense, at least, after every one of those times, but more often than not, he feels as fragmented as a boxful of jigsaw puzzle pieces.
A thought occurs to him, and as she turns to walk away, he voices it.
"I'm John Winchester's son."
That stops her, but not for the reason he thought it might. "I -" she says. "Who?"
He shakes his head.
She's really young. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. And things slip away.
Someday, he figures, he will have slipped away too.
Just as well, he thinks, and digs into the plate of food.
* * * * *