SPN FIC - Words
Looking back, to 2005.
It's November, and it's cold. The light's gone out of the world -- and it's impossible to fix anything that matters.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 820 words
WORDS
By Carol Davis
Eight hundred and fifty miles left behind them.
Two states.
The entire sunlit part of the day.
Dark now, rain thundering down outside, hovering on the borderline between liquid and ice. There'd be snow just north of here, further up into the mountains; here, it was just bone-numbing cold, the ass end of autumn crawling on into winter.
The winter would suck this year. Full-on suck.
Ought to go south, Dean thought as Sam turned on the water behind the closed door of the bathroom - but that wouldn't make any difference. Wouldn't brighten the situation at all, even if the next four or five months bore nothing but sunshine, balmy breezes and blue skies. Dad missing, Jessica gone, the thing that killed her well out of reach. Sam numb and silent.
The room, too: silent, chilly, a little damp.
It didn't smell, though, and maybe that was a good sign. There'd been no gasp, no yelp from Sam inside the bathroom, which seemed to indicate a steady flow of hot water in the shower. Hopeful (though that normally had as bountiful a yield as a cornfield in a full drought year), Dean flipped open the lid of the HVAC unit and pondered the controls. Flipping the switch from OFF to HEAT and the temperature selector to three-quarters prompted the unit to chug and wheeze, then settle into a steady uzz-uzz-uzz that produced no warmth at all.
Perfect.
Just frigging PERFECT.
But he was John Winchester's kid. The son of a mechanic. And Sam took ridiculously long showers.
When Sam finally emerged, barefoot, dressed in sweats and a faded Stanford tee, towel slung around his neck to catch the drips from his hair, the room was warm.
He looked around. Frowned at the door - at the thundering rain outside, the dark. Grimaced for a moment.
When he finally turned to Dean, his dismay had faded. There was nothing left but exhaustion, the same kind of sagging surrender he'd displayed since he was a baby and the day had used him up. Dean would not have been at all surprised if Sam had stretched out both arms and tucked his chin, asking without words to be carried off to bed. As it was, Sam smiled faintly, and nodded.
"Thanks," he murmured.
It made Dean's heart ache, knowing the days of being able to curl around his little brother, keeping him safe by using himself as a shield, were long gone. It hurt, too, to think If I hadn't taken him away, maybe he could've saved her.
Maybe he'd still be happy now.
It hurt to think Sam had had that same thought. That Sam might always carry that thought with him.
"Just had to tinker with it a little bit," Dean shrugged.
"It's… good."
No. Far from "good."
But warm. Dry.
Safe, for the moment.
No chick-flick moments, he'd told Sam a few days ago, but there were times when he was a lousy liar. When he could say one thing and feel something entirely different, and Sam could see the truth for what it was.
Fixed the friggin' heater.
Can't fix anything that matters.
Sam shook his head; might have been denying anything at all. It was an absent gesture, one that made the towel slip a little off his shoulders, and he tossed it aside, then pulled down the covers on the bed farthest from the door and crawled underneath. Settled himself - eyes closed - into the position he would maintain until well after he'd fallen asleep. That was an unspoken "good night," the signal that Sam was done interacting with the world for now; that he was ready to rest, and hope that he could sleep without dreams.
Respectful of that lowering of the curtain, Dean sat down long enough to pull off his boots, then shucked his jeans and shirts. Switched off the light. Climbed into the other bed and rolled onto his side to face his brother, watch over him through the night.
Sam whispered something that was lost in the folds of the bedcovers pulled up around his chin.
"What?" Dean asked.
"Warm. It feels good. Thank you."
Years ago, after that first fire, after Mom, people had tried to prod Dean into talking. If he talked, they thought, it would mean he was all right. That he could function. That they didn't need to worry about him. Silence, they figured, was a problem.
Words would mean everything was going to be fine.
They were wrong.
Again. This should not have frigging happened AGAIN. Wasn't once enough?
How many is ENOUGH????
"Dean?" Sam murmured.
Wanting him to talk, when there was nothing to say. When Sam himself had so little to say.
The room was fully dark, and that was a comfort of sorts. No one saw Dean shape his lips around the words Love you and I'm sorry.
The only thing he said aloud was, "Okay."
* * * * *
It's November, and it's cold. The light's gone out of the world -- and it's impossible to fix anything that matters.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 820 words
WORDS
By Carol Davis
Eight hundred and fifty miles left behind them.
Two states.
The entire sunlit part of the day.
Dark now, rain thundering down outside, hovering on the borderline between liquid and ice. There'd be snow just north of here, further up into the mountains; here, it was just bone-numbing cold, the ass end of autumn crawling on into winter.
The winter would suck this year. Full-on suck.
Ought to go south, Dean thought as Sam turned on the water behind the closed door of the bathroom - but that wouldn't make any difference. Wouldn't brighten the situation at all, even if the next four or five months bore nothing but sunshine, balmy breezes and blue skies. Dad missing, Jessica gone, the thing that killed her well out of reach. Sam numb and silent.
The room, too: silent, chilly, a little damp.
It didn't smell, though, and maybe that was a good sign. There'd been no gasp, no yelp from Sam inside the bathroom, which seemed to indicate a steady flow of hot water in the shower. Hopeful (though that normally had as bountiful a yield as a cornfield in a full drought year), Dean flipped open the lid of the HVAC unit and pondered the controls. Flipping the switch from OFF to HEAT and the temperature selector to three-quarters prompted the unit to chug and wheeze, then settle into a steady uzz-uzz-uzz that produced no warmth at all.
Perfect.
Just frigging PERFECT.
But he was John Winchester's kid. The son of a mechanic. And Sam took ridiculously long showers.
When Sam finally emerged, barefoot, dressed in sweats and a faded Stanford tee, towel slung around his neck to catch the drips from his hair, the room was warm.
He looked around. Frowned at the door - at the thundering rain outside, the dark. Grimaced for a moment.
When he finally turned to Dean, his dismay had faded. There was nothing left but exhaustion, the same kind of sagging surrender he'd displayed since he was a baby and the day had used him up. Dean would not have been at all surprised if Sam had stretched out both arms and tucked his chin, asking without words to be carried off to bed. As it was, Sam smiled faintly, and nodded.
"Thanks," he murmured.
It made Dean's heart ache, knowing the days of being able to curl around his little brother, keeping him safe by using himself as a shield, were long gone. It hurt, too, to think If I hadn't taken him away, maybe he could've saved her.
Maybe he'd still be happy now.
It hurt to think Sam had had that same thought. That Sam might always carry that thought with him.
"Just had to tinker with it a little bit," Dean shrugged.
"It's… good."
No. Far from "good."
But warm. Dry.
Safe, for the moment.
No chick-flick moments, he'd told Sam a few days ago, but there were times when he was a lousy liar. When he could say one thing and feel something entirely different, and Sam could see the truth for what it was.
Fixed the friggin' heater.
Can't fix anything that matters.
Sam shook his head; might have been denying anything at all. It was an absent gesture, one that made the towel slip a little off his shoulders, and he tossed it aside, then pulled down the covers on the bed farthest from the door and crawled underneath. Settled himself - eyes closed - into the position he would maintain until well after he'd fallen asleep. That was an unspoken "good night," the signal that Sam was done interacting with the world for now; that he was ready to rest, and hope that he could sleep without dreams.
Respectful of that lowering of the curtain, Dean sat down long enough to pull off his boots, then shucked his jeans and shirts. Switched off the light. Climbed into the other bed and rolled onto his side to face his brother, watch over him through the night.
Sam whispered something that was lost in the folds of the bedcovers pulled up around his chin.
"What?" Dean asked.
"Warm. It feels good. Thank you."
Years ago, after that first fire, after Mom, people had tried to prod Dean into talking. If he talked, they thought, it would mean he was all right. That he could function. That they didn't need to worry about him. Silence, they figured, was a problem.
Words would mean everything was going to be fine.
They were wrong.
Again. This should not have frigging happened AGAIN. Wasn't once enough?
How many is ENOUGH????
"Dean?" Sam murmured.
Wanting him to talk, when there was nothing to say. When Sam himself had so little to say.
The room was fully dark, and that was a comfort of sorts. No one saw Dean shape his lips around the words Love you and I'm sorry.
The only thing he said aloud was, "Okay."
* * * * *