SPN FIC - Fragile
Thirty years down the road -- a rest stop, a quiet afternoon, and a little bit of truth about those three days in Cold Oak.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 796 words
FRAGILE
By Carol Davis
They're old men, the two of them - both of them past sixty, an age they never thought they'd reach - when Dean finally tells Sam a portion of the truth, of what was in his head during those three days in Cold Oak.
"People do it, Dean," Sam says softly, his voice still raspy with the remains of a bout with the flu. "They do it. I lost Jess. We lost Dad. We kept going."
Not the same, Dean wants to say.
Not the same at all.
They sit watching cars rocket by, listen to the persistent buzzing hum of tires on pavement. An SUV pulls into the narrow parking strip of the rest stop, disgorges a sweaty woman and a small girl; they scurry out of sight into the rest room, the child wailing and clutching herself in a way that says they've arrived a little too late.
"Rock," Dean says.
His gaze wanders, giving Sam no clue what he means. And as he has so many times during their lives, Sam lifts an eyebrow, asking for more.
"There was this rock," Dean says finally, as a convoy of white semis flashes by, all of them brightly labeled, Walmart blue, Staples red, Home Depot orange. "It was right next to this friggin' shack Dad had us staying in. Paint was all gone off of it, except for this little patch of red down in the corner."
"On the rock."
"Who's tellin' this? No, not the rock. The shack," Dean challenges, then sighs. It's a torment of its own particular kind, sitting on a metal picnic bench. He's been through worse. God knows, he's been through worse. But everything's relative; everything's its own particular kind of torment. "Big gray rock," he goes on, tracking a sparrow picking up crumbs off the walkway, the remains of a crushed Cheez Doodle. "Smooth. Round. Glacier left it there, Dad said. It was -"
His voice trails off. Finding it again takes a minute.
"Had to be three times as tall as you were. Giant-ass gray rock."
Sam waits.
They don't press each other any more. Not at times like this - the in-betweens. There's no point to it - to demanding anything from each other. These says, it comes when it comes, and they're both good with that.
"Found you one day," Dean muses. "Hugging the friggin' thing, like this." He splays his arms out wide. "Cheek up against it. I thought you were trying to climb it, because you were always climbing shit. Furniture, hills, up on the shelves in the grocery store. I told you to quit, that it was round. No way to climb up on it. Not without a ladder, but I didn't say ladder. You would've been all over my ass to find you a ladder."
Sam waits. Takes a long, leisurely pull of his soda. Sets the can back down on the dented metal tabletop.
"You said -"
Dean looks away, down the long gray ribbon of interstate.
"You said, 'It's a whale, Dee! See, Dee? I'm huggin' the whale!'"
"How old was I?"
"Three. I don't know. Three."
"Did it look like -"
"Kinda did. Big and gray. Good Christ, my ass hurts."
"We can go."
Dean shakes his head. "It was all I could think of," he says after a minute. "How little you were, next to that big-ass rock. And how happy you were. Kissing a damn whale."
"People go on, Dean," Sam says quietly.
"They keep breathing, maybe."
There's more to it, of course; you can't reduce those three days in Cold Oak to a single thought, a single emotion.
And there are - there always are - the days that came after.
Sunlight, far too bright.
The plain and honest anguish in Bobby's cry of "WHAT DID YOU DO???"
Like something that comes to you in a dream.
Dean is past sixty now - and that's brought with it a certain clarity, one Bobby Singer must have felt during those days at Cold Oak, and just afterwards. It's easier now to believe (though not fully; never fully) that what the pain in Bobby's words meant was
I love you more.
Of the two of you, you're the one who's dearer to me. Just that little bit.
Could be that it was more than a bit; Dean never asked. Either way, what slipped into Dean's mind that day, in the searing light of afternoon in that junkyard, was
Oh.
He'll never tell Sam about that - about the agony in Bobby's voice, or what he felt when he heard it. There'd be no point.
Not when they've come this far without it being said.
"Yeah," he tells his brother, as he hauls himself up from the torment of that rusted metal bench. "I guess they do."
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 796 words
FRAGILE
By Carol Davis
They're old men, the two of them - both of them past sixty, an age they never thought they'd reach - when Dean finally tells Sam a portion of the truth, of what was in his head during those three days in Cold Oak.
"People do it, Dean," Sam says softly, his voice still raspy with the remains of a bout with the flu. "They do it. I lost Jess. We lost Dad. We kept going."
Not the same, Dean wants to say.
Not the same at all.
They sit watching cars rocket by, listen to the persistent buzzing hum of tires on pavement. An SUV pulls into the narrow parking strip of the rest stop, disgorges a sweaty woman and a small girl; they scurry out of sight into the rest room, the child wailing and clutching herself in a way that says they've arrived a little too late.
"Rock," Dean says.
His gaze wanders, giving Sam no clue what he means. And as he has so many times during their lives, Sam lifts an eyebrow, asking for more.
"There was this rock," Dean says finally, as a convoy of white semis flashes by, all of them brightly labeled, Walmart blue, Staples red, Home Depot orange. "It was right next to this friggin' shack Dad had us staying in. Paint was all gone off of it, except for this little patch of red down in the corner."
"On the rock."
"Who's tellin' this? No, not the rock. The shack," Dean challenges, then sighs. It's a torment of its own particular kind, sitting on a metal picnic bench. He's been through worse. God knows, he's been through worse. But everything's relative; everything's its own particular kind of torment. "Big gray rock," he goes on, tracking a sparrow picking up crumbs off the walkway, the remains of a crushed Cheez Doodle. "Smooth. Round. Glacier left it there, Dad said. It was -"
His voice trails off. Finding it again takes a minute.
"Had to be three times as tall as you were. Giant-ass gray rock."
Sam waits.
They don't press each other any more. Not at times like this - the in-betweens. There's no point to it - to demanding anything from each other. These says, it comes when it comes, and they're both good with that.
"Found you one day," Dean muses. "Hugging the friggin' thing, like this." He splays his arms out wide. "Cheek up against it. I thought you were trying to climb it, because you were always climbing shit. Furniture, hills, up on the shelves in the grocery store. I told you to quit, that it was round. No way to climb up on it. Not without a ladder, but I didn't say ladder. You would've been all over my ass to find you a ladder."
Sam waits. Takes a long, leisurely pull of his soda. Sets the can back down on the dented metal tabletop.
"You said -"
Dean looks away, down the long gray ribbon of interstate.
"You said, 'It's a whale, Dee! See, Dee? I'm huggin' the whale!'"
"How old was I?"
"Three. I don't know. Three."
"Did it look like -"
"Kinda did. Big and gray. Good Christ, my ass hurts."
"We can go."
Dean shakes his head. "It was all I could think of," he says after a minute. "How little you were, next to that big-ass rock. And how happy you were. Kissing a damn whale."
"People go on, Dean," Sam says quietly.
"They keep breathing, maybe."
There's more to it, of course; you can't reduce those three days in Cold Oak to a single thought, a single emotion.
And there are - there always are - the days that came after.
Sunlight, far too bright.
The plain and honest anguish in Bobby's cry of "WHAT DID YOU DO???"
Like something that comes to you in a dream.
Dean is past sixty now - and that's brought with it a certain clarity, one Bobby Singer must have felt during those days at Cold Oak, and just afterwards. It's easier now to believe (though not fully; never fully) that what the pain in Bobby's words meant was
I love you more.
Of the two of you, you're the one who's dearer to me. Just that little bit.
Could be that it was more than a bit; Dean never asked. Either way, what slipped into Dean's mind that day, in the searing light of afternoon in that junkyard, was
Oh.
He'll never tell Sam about that - about the agony in Bobby's voice, or what he felt when he heard it. There'd be no point.
Not when they've come this far without it being said.
"Yeah," he tells his brother, as he hauls himself up from the torment of that rusted metal bench. "I guess they do."
* * * * *