Fic: Stacking Bones, prologue
So when Kripke pitched the story line for 3.16, you know I had to take a swing it at.
Title: Stacking Bones, prologue
Category: Gen, angst , AU after 3.16
Spoilers: Up to and including 3.16
Summary: Sam never gave up on Dean, but he didn’t save him either.
Rating: T
Warnings: Language. Oh, the language. Because you know this is how they’d talk if they had their own movie. Also, Dean-centric
Disclaimers: I don’t own the Winchesters. If I did, I’d never leave the house. I’m not making a dime. This story was written for entertainment only, mostly my own.
Notes: As usual this fic comes to you unbetaed. All mistakes are my own. Please forgive me for being human. All the same, if you do notice a huge, glaring error, please don’t be shy about mentioning it.
Prologue:
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
The road out of Hell is paved with gravel and dirt and huge rocks that rise up out of nowhere and punish the shit out of a car’s shocks.
That’s how it seems anyway.
Dean closes his eyes in Hell and opens them in the back seat of a 1971 Chevelle, rocking back and forth with the motion of the car, sick to his stomach, sick down to the soles of his feet and weak as a day-old kitten. There’s dirt in his clothes, sand in his eyes and fire in his muscles. There’s also the sharp, familiar smell of gasoline and engine grease in his nose. It’s the kind of smell you only find in a garage or in an old car that’s been salvaged from a junkyard and brought back to life, or kept running past its time. It’s warm and familiar, like apple pie and hot coffee. When Dean smells that smell, that’s when he knows that he’s saved.
Maybe he makes some kind of noise. Maybe he grunts or groans or farts because the driver turns around in his seat, suddenly more focused on his passenger than on the road in front of him.
The driver says something, just one word. Maybe it’s his name. Everything’s a hazy, confused jumble of sights and sounds and smells. It’s all-out assault on his senses and Dean’s absurdly grateful when the car stops.
There’s a creak of leather or pleather and a big hand in Dean’s hair, thumb stroking his forehead. Then there’s a big, deep, familiar voice talking to him in a language that he used to know, but the words might as well be Greek or Cantonese or Yiddish for all the sense Dean can make out of them. So he lets the sound wash over him, a familiar tide, rising and falling, carrying him home.
Everything hurts.
Everything.
The touch on Dean’s forehead is too rough, sandpaper over frostbitten skin. The voice is too loud, and he can’t move away. Dean blinks back tears. He stares straight ahead, past the driver, past the seat backs and the dashboard, out the dusty windshield and into the sky. It’s so big and so blue and so real that it freezes him, every muscle. He is afraid that if he so much as twitches, it will disappear.
The flow of words eventually stops. The hand goes away, along with the driver. After a long moment, the car starts moving again, bumping and weaving along this backwater dirt road. On either side of the car, trees slide in and out of sight, one after the other. The sky stays put, a permanent, cloudless field.
Could look at that all day long, he thinks, right before he closes his eyes.
Then there is a long, dark stretch of time during which he doesn’t dream.
tbc...
Go to part 1
Title: Stacking Bones, prologue
Category: Gen, angst , AU after 3.16
Spoilers: Up to and including 3.16
Summary: Sam never gave up on Dean, but he didn’t save him either.
Rating: T
Warnings: Language. Oh, the language. Because you know this is how they’d talk if they had their own movie. Also, Dean-centric
Disclaimers: I don’t own the Winchesters. If I did, I’d never leave the house. I’m not making a dime. This story was written for entertainment only, mostly my own.
Notes: As usual this fic comes to you unbetaed. All mistakes are my own. Please forgive me for being human. All the same, if you do notice a huge, glaring error, please don’t be shy about mentioning it.
Prologue:
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
The road out of Hell is paved with gravel and dirt and huge rocks that rise up out of nowhere and punish the shit out of a car’s shocks.
That’s how it seems anyway.
Dean closes his eyes in Hell and opens them in the back seat of a 1971 Chevelle, rocking back and forth with the motion of the car, sick to his stomach, sick down to the soles of his feet and weak as a day-old kitten. There’s dirt in his clothes, sand in his eyes and fire in his muscles. There’s also the sharp, familiar smell of gasoline and engine grease in his nose. It’s the kind of smell you only find in a garage or in an old car that’s been salvaged from a junkyard and brought back to life, or kept running past its time. It’s warm and familiar, like apple pie and hot coffee. When Dean smells that smell, that’s when he knows that he’s saved.
Maybe he makes some kind of noise. Maybe he grunts or groans or farts because the driver turns around in his seat, suddenly more focused on his passenger than on the road in front of him.
The driver says something, just one word. Maybe it’s his name. Everything’s a hazy, confused jumble of sights and sounds and smells. It’s all-out assault on his senses and Dean’s absurdly grateful when the car stops.
There’s a creak of leather or pleather and a big hand in Dean’s hair, thumb stroking his forehead. Then there’s a big, deep, familiar voice talking to him in a language that he used to know, but the words might as well be Greek or Cantonese or Yiddish for all the sense Dean can make out of them. So he lets the sound wash over him, a familiar tide, rising and falling, carrying him home.
Everything hurts.
Everything.
The touch on Dean’s forehead is too rough, sandpaper over frostbitten skin. The voice is too loud, and he can’t move away. Dean blinks back tears. He stares straight ahead, past the driver, past the seat backs and the dashboard, out the dusty windshield and into the sky. It’s so big and so blue and so real that it freezes him, every muscle. He is afraid that if he so much as twitches, it will disappear.
The flow of words eventually stops. The hand goes away, along with the driver. After a long moment, the car starts moving again, bumping and weaving along this backwater dirt road. On either side of the car, trees slide in and out of sight, one after the other. The sky stays put, a permanent, cloudless field.
Could look at that all day long, he thinks, right before he closes his eyes.
Then there is a long, dark stretch of time during which he doesn’t dream.
tbc...
Go to part 1