FIC: What the Crow Says
TITLE: What the Crow Says
CHAR: Dean, Sam, Cas
GENRE: Gen, H/C, angst
SPOILERS: 9.02, (speculative late season 9)
WORDS: 1350-ish
SUMMARY: Dean wakes up in the woods.
what the crow says
Blue and white orbs of light saturate the sky. At least, you think it’s the sky. You’re lying on your back, shaking, a fierce cold seared into your bones, as if you’ve been here for hours already. But you don’t know how. Or where.
The orbs turn into little clouds, and naked black branches frame your vision like spider webs. Your hands clutch the sticky, brittle snow. When you try to sit up, it awakens legions of pain up and down your torso. A formation of geese flies overhead, honking, deriding your failed efforts. The groan you let out is jagged and hoarse. Nothing is familiar. You need to figure out what to do, but your thoughts feel as unsteady and unreliable as your legs would be if you tried to stand.
You think of the angels falling from heaven and wonder where you fell from, where you mis-stepped. Another one of your badly planned flight paths. You knew there was a reason you hated flying.
It’s hard to even tell what you’re touching, your fingers are so numb. But you manage to find something phone-shaped in your coat. You have to hold it with both hands to keep it still against your ear. Eyes closed, you wait for Sam’s voice.
“Dean,” he says, and you feel like someone just threw you a life jacket. “Dean?”
“Sam. I d-d-d-don’t…” Talking flicks a switch, turns your teeth into a wind-up toy. “D-don’t kn-know where I am.”
“What’d you see?”
“Nothin’. Trees. F-f-f-fuckin’ cold. Hurts to m-m-m-move.”
“Okay. It’s gonna be okay. You’re outside?”
“Forest.”
“Right. We’re gonna come get you. Your phone still have some juice?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Leave it on. I’ll track you.”
For all you know, you could be in Winnipeg. But Sam seems so certain he’ll find you that you let yourself believe him. Besides, your options are limited; lie here and wait to die, or lie here and hope you don’t.
In the trees there are squirrels clacking at each other and woodpeckers pecking little holes. There was a place like this you used to go with Dad and Sammy, not long after mom died. You’d look for deer hoof prints and Dad would try to get you to talk by asking you to imitate all the animals’ noises. What does the crow say, kiddo? Caw! Caw! It’s something you thought you’d forgotten, that time after the fire but before Dad started hunting, and somehow, lying here half-frozen, it feels like everything after that was some terrible vision, and maybe Dad never started hunting, and maybe you’re still that silent four year old in those woods and he just needs to open his mouth and speak and the spell will be broken.
It’s a nice thought, but it’s not enough to keep you warm.
Everything you’re made of craves heat, shelter. Your vision blurs again and the snow saps away your energy like a cheap remote-control car. Your phone lasts longer than you do.
-∫-∫-
A soft heat hums on your cheeks. You open your eyes and find Cas’s nose inches from your own, his hands on your face.
“Dean.”
Sam appears beside him, and together they wrap a thick blanket around your shoulders. It’s the one from your bedroom. Your blanket. Something about that makes you want to fucking cry.
“It’s alright, Dean,” Cas says, because maybe you are crying.
Sam runs his hands up and down your body, checking for broken bones. You don’t think you have any, but you can’t be sure. Parts of you are numb. The rest is so cold that you feel like you’re on fire.
“Okay,” Sam says. “We can move him.”
He takes one of your arms and Cas takes the other and then they’re dragging you to your feet and you try, without very much success, to hold back a deep groan. There’s nothing your body wants less than to be standing right now.
“Shit,” Sam says, because you’re weaker than they thought you’d be, and now they have to do it all different.
“”M sorry…” you tell them. You didn’t mean for it to be this way.
“It’s okay, man. We just really need to get you inside.” This is the first thing Sam says to you.
-∫-∫-
The Impala is still warm. Sam drives and you lie curled on the back seat with your head in Cas’s lap. He holds the blanket in place over your shoulders and rubs your back, but none of it’s enough.
“He won’t stop shaking,” Cas says.
“Shaking’s good. It means he doesn’t have hypothermia.”
Cas looks out the window like he’s waiting for a storm to appear.
“What hap-happened to me?” you ask.
He looks towards Sam. Neither of them have an answer for you.
-∫-∫-
The television’s on. You’re standing in front of it, flicking between Pawn Stars and an old episode of Law and Order. You can’t seem to get to the other channels. You toss the remote.
“Whatever. Sometimes I miss the old days, you know,” you say. “Then again…”
You turn around. There’s a family of four tied and gagged on the couch: a mom, dad, and two teenage boys. Beaten. Bloody. Terrified.
“I just can’t imagine life without cordless power tools.”
You pick up the drill off the coffee table and turn it on, and then shove it into the Dad’s stomach.
You wake up gasping for air. Cas is squeezing your shoulder, trying to make eye contact. “Dean?”
The sensation of the dull drill bit’s resistance against flesh and rib cage lingers like an illness. Your head spins and stomach flips and you wish you were still frozen out there in those woods, confused and ignorant.
“Pull over,” you croak.
“What is it?”
“Pull the fuck over!”
The Impala slows and the tires cut through the slush on the highway shoulder. Cas reaches over you to open your door and you spill out onto the muddy, cold ground and start to retch.
You can feel Cas’s hand on your shoulder again. Not far from where his hand-print used to be burned on your skin. You’re glad it’s gone. You’d rather forget anyone ever thought you were worth saving.
Nothing of any substance comes out of you. Only a clear, yellowish acid that stings your throat like a swarm of bees. You wish you could puke up your heart and lungs, and just be done with it. Imagine if people had the power to end it all just by willing it to happen, if they could expel themselves from their body the way Sam could expel Zeke. You probably would have left the building years ago.
It’s easier to just collapse out there, in the half-melted snow, than it is to do anything else, so you do. Cas says your name again and you see his grey sneakers climb out between you and the car door.
“Would you like to get back in?” he asks quietly, crouched down, a hand reaching out to your forehead.
You pull away from his touch. No matter how much you think you need it, you don’t deserve it. “Don’t touch me,” you tell him. You hate the thought of getting back in the car, of letting them take you back to the bunker to tuck you into bed like some little kid who’s come down with the flu or something. But you can’t do much except sit there and shiver and when Sam gets out and both of them are gently coaxing you into the back seat, you don’t have the wherewithal to fight against it.
Before he closes the door, Sam says, “It wasn’t you. This isn’t on you,” with his hand on your jaw.
He gets back on the highway. You huddle under the blanket, as close to the window and as far away from Sam and Cas and their damned forgiveness as you can get.
CHAR: Dean, Sam, Cas
GENRE: Gen, H/C, angst
SPOILERS: 9.02, (speculative late season 9)
WORDS: 1350-ish
SUMMARY: Dean wakes up in the woods.
what the crow says
Blue and white orbs of light saturate the sky. At least, you think it’s the sky. You’re lying on your back, shaking, a fierce cold seared into your bones, as if you’ve been here for hours already. But you don’t know how. Or where.
The orbs turn into little clouds, and naked black branches frame your vision like spider webs. Your hands clutch the sticky, brittle snow. When you try to sit up, it awakens legions of pain up and down your torso. A formation of geese flies overhead, honking, deriding your failed efforts. The groan you let out is jagged and hoarse. Nothing is familiar. You need to figure out what to do, but your thoughts feel as unsteady and unreliable as your legs would be if you tried to stand.
You think of the angels falling from heaven and wonder where you fell from, where you mis-stepped. Another one of your badly planned flight paths. You knew there was a reason you hated flying.
It’s hard to even tell what you’re touching, your fingers are so numb. But you manage to find something phone-shaped in your coat. You have to hold it with both hands to keep it still against your ear. Eyes closed, you wait for Sam’s voice.
“Dean,” he says, and you feel like someone just threw you a life jacket. “Dean?”
“Sam. I d-d-d-don’t…” Talking flicks a switch, turns your teeth into a wind-up toy. “D-don’t kn-know where I am.”
“What’d you see?”
“Nothin’. Trees. F-f-f-fuckin’ cold. Hurts to m-m-m-move.”
“Okay. It’s gonna be okay. You’re outside?”
“Forest.”
“Right. We’re gonna come get you. Your phone still have some juice?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Leave it on. I’ll track you.”
For all you know, you could be in Winnipeg. But Sam seems so certain he’ll find you that you let yourself believe him. Besides, your options are limited; lie here and wait to die, or lie here and hope you don’t.
In the trees there are squirrels clacking at each other and woodpeckers pecking little holes. There was a place like this you used to go with Dad and Sammy, not long after mom died. You’d look for deer hoof prints and Dad would try to get you to talk by asking you to imitate all the animals’ noises. What does the crow say, kiddo? Caw! Caw! It’s something you thought you’d forgotten, that time after the fire but before Dad started hunting, and somehow, lying here half-frozen, it feels like everything after that was some terrible vision, and maybe Dad never started hunting, and maybe you’re still that silent four year old in those woods and he just needs to open his mouth and speak and the spell will be broken.
It’s a nice thought, but it’s not enough to keep you warm.
Everything you’re made of craves heat, shelter. Your vision blurs again and the snow saps away your energy like a cheap remote-control car. Your phone lasts longer than you do.
-∫-∫-
A soft heat hums on your cheeks. You open your eyes and find Cas’s nose inches from your own, his hands on your face.
“Dean.”
Sam appears beside him, and together they wrap a thick blanket around your shoulders. It’s the one from your bedroom. Your blanket. Something about that makes you want to fucking cry.
“It’s alright, Dean,” Cas says, because maybe you are crying.
Sam runs his hands up and down your body, checking for broken bones. You don’t think you have any, but you can’t be sure. Parts of you are numb. The rest is so cold that you feel like you’re on fire.
“Okay,” Sam says. “We can move him.”
He takes one of your arms and Cas takes the other and then they’re dragging you to your feet and you try, without very much success, to hold back a deep groan. There’s nothing your body wants less than to be standing right now.
“Shit,” Sam says, because you’re weaker than they thought you’d be, and now they have to do it all different.
“”M sorry…” you tell them. You didn’t mean for it to be this way.
“It’s okay, man. We just really need to get you inside.” This is the first thing Sam says to you.
-∫-∫-
The Impala is still warm. Sam drives and you lie curled on the back seat with your head in Cas’s lap. He holds the blanket in place over your shoulders and rubs your back, but none of it’s enough.
“He won’t stop shaking,” Cas says.
“Shaking’s good. It means he doesn’t have hypothermia.”
Cas looks out the window like he’s waiting for a storm to appear.
“What hap-happened to me?” you ask.
He looks towards Sam. Neither of them have an answer for you.
-∫-∫-
The television’s on. You’re standing in front of it, flicking between Pawn Stars and an old episode of Law and Order. You can’t seem to get to the other channels. You toss the remote.
“Whatever. Sometimes I miss the old days, you know,” you say. “Then again…”
You turn around. There’s a family of four tied and gagged on the couch: a mom, dad, and two teenage boys. Beaten. Bloody. Terrified.
“I just can’t imagine life without cordless power tools.”
You pick up the drill off the coffee table and turn it on, and then shove it into the Dad’s stomach.
You wake up gasping for air. Cas is squeezing your shoulder, trying to make eye contact. “Dean?”
The sensation of the dull drill bit’s resistance against flesh and rib cage lingers like an illness. Your head spins and stomach flips and you wish you were still frozen out there in those woods, confused and ignorant.
“Pull over,” you croak.
“What is it?”
“Pull the fuck over!”
The Impala slows and the tires cut through the slush on the highway shoulder. Cas reaches over you to open your door and you spill out onto the muddy, cold ground and start to retch.
You can feel Cas’s hand on your shoulder again. Not far from where his hand-print used to be burned on your skin. You’re glad it’s gone. You’d rather forget anyone ever thought you were worth saving.
Nothing of any substance comes out of you. Only a clear, yellowish acid that stings your throat like a swarm of bees. You wish you could puke up your heart and lungs, and just be done with it. Imagine if people had the power to end it all just by willing it to happen, if they could expel themselves from their body the way Sam could expel Zeke. You probably would have left the building years ago.
It’s easier to just collapse out there, in the half-melted snow, than it is to do anything else, so you do. Cas says your name again and you see his grey sneakers climb out between you and the car door.
“Would you like to get back in?” he asks quietly, crouched down, a hand reaching out to your forehead.
You pull away from his touch. No matter how much you think you need it, you don’t deserve it. “Don’t touch me,” you tell him. You hate the thought of getting back in the car, of letting them take you back to the bunker to tuck you into bed like some little kid who’s come down with the flu or something. But you can’t do much except sit there and shiver and when Sam gets out and both of them are gently coaxing you into the back seat, you don’t have the wherewithal to fight against it.
Before he closes the door, Sam says, “It wasn’t you. This isn’t on you,” with his hand on your jaw.
He gets back on the highway. You huddle under the blanket, as close to the window and as far away from Sam and Cas and their damned forgiveness as you can get.