Echo
Title: Echo
Pairing: Destiel
Warnings/rating/genre: drama, PG.
Spoiler: for the “On the Head of a Pin” episode.
Word count: 1017
Summary: Memories...
Disclaimer: I own nothing, sadly.
Dean tumbled to his feet and laughed. He was actually surprised. Usually if he stumbled, he’d feel a tightening in his stomach, and he’d flinch at his father’s instant reprimand, but Sam was pushing and tickling him. Sure, Dean was letting him win, but it was still surprising to feel Sammy’s strength, as he was only five years old.
“Woo, Sammy!,” he laughed, pushing him off again.
“Dean!”
“You feel better?,” Dean asked after Sam finally got tired from laughing. By then Dean had been annoyed, but he hadn’t let it show.
“Yeah!”
Dean smiled and asked if he wanted something to eat, then heated some chicken noodle soup for him. He hoped John would be home soon.
Dean was tired but he forced his eyes to stay open, his cheek pressed against the cold window of the Impala. Sam was lying against him in the backseat, and, as always, he was hogging the covers. The bumps in the road seemed to wake him, and so, he occasionally kicked Dean or muttered something. He worried about his dad. When’s the last time he had slept? Dean knew he’d stayed up the whole previous night, looking over his journal, ripping parts out of newspapers, counting their money, looking at maps. There’d been a moment when John had seemed to get distracted, or maybe he’d remembered something, and he’d buried his head in his hands for a long time.
Eight year old Sam had pushed his blanket from the couch onto the floor and this seemed to have woken Dean, who lay on another couch. He stood and covered Sam again with the blanket, and looked around Bobby’s living room. Bobby was scribbling something in a notebook and the TV was on, muted.
“You lookin’ for trouble, Dean?,” asked Bobby.
Dean smiled and went into the kitchen. He wondered if his dad was safe and filled a glass of water to put by Sammy, in case he woke up thirsty. Bobby came into the kitchen.
“You don’t want to be going to sleep again just yet. Wake your brother up, it’s almost midnight.”
As he said this, Bobby threw Dean and Sam’s empty packets of Ho-Hos into the trash and then seemed to notice the mountain of trash. He wrestled with some bags, trying to contain it, while Dean laughed, and finally, he took it outside. Dean watched him through the window, as Bobby was staring up at the sky for a bit, then Dean went to wake Sam up.
“Sam, Sammy. It’s almost New Years.”
Sam groaned angrily.
“Come on, man. I know you love fireworks.”
Sam moaned softly and burrowed himself deeper into the blanket.
Bobby came in and washed his hands, turning the light on in the kitchen. This and the sound of a distant firework finally woke Sam up, who then ran out the door.
Dean stood on the steps, next to Bobby, watching Sam, when Bobby pushed him forward.
“Go be with your brother, Dean.”
It was morning and ten year old Dean was shuffling things around the motel room, looking for Sam’s school items, putting different things into his backpack, and wondering what they would have for breakfast, when John finally came home after three days.
“Hey, son,” said John, dropping his duffel bag down onto the dining table.
Dean watched him as he went back and forth from the Impala. His hands were dirty and calloused, knuckles bleeding in parts. His hair messy and greasy, stubble growing on his face, jeans torn and stained with oil or maybe blood, boots muddy. He looked half-asleep, his movements stiff and slow, and he was now bringing some heavy plastic bags.
His hero.
And Dean felt overwhelmed with love, the kind of love he had always had for Mary, John and Sam.
“Sorry,” said Dean.
“Sorry? For what? Did something happen?”, he asked, suddenly alarmed.
“No, just - sorry... about... um, the mess.”
“Ah, son.” He hugged Dean with one arm, smelling of leather, sweat and a cold morning in the woods. “I brought you guys some donuts and milk. They only had 2%, and I know you don’t like it, sorry.”
Dean watched him, holding back tears, and smiled as John woke Sam up.
“Dad!,” said Sam, wrapping his arms around John’s neck. “Can we skip school?”
“No, son,” said John, standing up and walking to the bathroom.
“Pleaseee.”
“No, Sam. Get dressed.”
“He brought donuts!,” said Dean.
Sam gave him a grimace. “Did you steal them, Dad?”
John walked slowly to the bathroom and slammed the door.
Now Dean was three, laying in his parents’ bed, and he clutched Mary’s blue maternity dress, enjoying the soft cotton, his cheek pressed to her, so he smelled the fabric softener, her mommy softness and warmth all around him, her blond curls falling on him. He knew he was going to be a big brother, because a baby was inside her taut tummy. He liked hugging her and saying hi and goodnight to the baby every day. She stroked his head, pushing his sandy blond hair back, her warm hands smelling of roses and cocoa butter. She was his world, a whole world, a holy world, better than any.
He started crying, with the grief completely naked, an emotion raw and vivid. Dean suddenly sat up and realized he’d been dreaming. Cas was standing over him, a concerned look in his face, his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean then felt the medical equipment that was strapped on him, and it all came rushing back: Alistair, the torture, being choked against the iron pentagram.
“What did you do?,” he asked.
“I just- I wanted you to dream something pleasant... memories... but then you started to -”
“Yeah. Ok, Cas.”
Now Cas cocked his head, a puzzled and troubled look on his face.
“It’s - It’s ok... Thanks, Cas.”
Cas nodded but seemed confused.
Dean looked away and he heard Cas sit down in the chair at his bedside. He wasn’t sure if he wanted him to leave or not, so he didn’t look at him.
Cas stayed.
Author's Notes: This story was written in December, then promptly lost. Given that time created a new scene and enough distance to make for better editing, I consider it a good thing. Many thanks to the books Reykjavik 101 and the song 'Animal Instinct' by the Cranberries for inspiration.
Pairing: Destiel
Warnings/rating/genre: drama, PG.
Spoiler: for the “On the Head of a Pin” episode.
Word count: 1017
Summary: Memories...
Disclaimer: I own nothing, sadly.
Dean tumbled to his feet and laughed. He was actually surprised. Usually if he stumbled, he’d feel a tightening in his stomach, and he’d flinch at his father’s instant reprimand, but Sam was pushing and tickling him. Sure, Dean was letting him win, but it was still surprising to feel Sammy’s strength, as he was only five years old.
“Woo, Sammy!,” he laughed, pushing him off again.
“Dean!”
“You feel better?,” Dean asked after Sam finally got tired from laughing. By then Dean had been annoyed, but he hadn’t let it show.
“Yeah!”
Dean smiled and asked if he wanted something to eat, then heated some chicken noodle soup for him. He hoped John would be home soon.
Dean was tired but he forced his eyes to stay open, his cheek pressed against the cold window of the Impala. Sam was lying against him in the backseat, and, as always, he was hogging the covers. The bumps in the road seemed to wake him, and so, he occasionally kicked Dean or muttered something. He worried about his dad. When’s the last time he had slept? Dean knew he’d stayed up the whole previous night, looking over his journal, ripping parts out of newspapers, counting their money, looking at maps. There’d been a moment when John had seemed to get distracted, or maybe he’d remembered something, and he’d buried his head in his hands for a long time.
Eight year old Sam had pushed his blanket from the couch onto the floor and this seemed to have woken Dean, who lay on another couch. He stood and covered Sam again with the blanket, and looked around Bobby’s living room. Bobby was scribbling something in a notebook and the TV was on, muted.
“You lookin’ for trouble, Dean?,” asked Bobby.
Dean smiled and went into the kitchen. He wondered if his dad was safe and filled a glass of water to put by Sammy, in case he woke up thirsty. Bobby came into the kitchen.
“You don’t want to be going to sleep again just yet. Wake your brother up, it’s almost midnight.”
As he said this, Bobby threw Dean and Sam’s empty packets of Ho-Hos into the trash and then seemed to notice the mountain of trash. He wrestled with some bags, trying to contain it, while Dean laughed, and finally, he took it outside. Dean watched him through the window, as Bobby was staring up at the sky for a bit, then Dean went to wake Sam up.
“Sam, Sammy. It’s almost New Years.”
Sam groaned angrily.
“Come on, man. I know you love fireworks.”
Sam moaned softly and burrowed himself deeper into the blanket.
Bobby came in and washed his hands, turning the light on in the kitchen. This and the sound of a distant firework finally woke Sam up, who then ran out the door.
Dean stood on the steps, next to Bobby, watching Sam, when Bobby pushed him forward.
“Go be with your brother, Dean.”
It was morning and ten year old Dean was shuffling things around the motel room, looking for Sam’s school items, putting different things into his backpack, and wondering what they would have for breakfast, when John finally came home after three days.
“Hey, son,” said John, dropping his duffel bag down onto the dining table.
Dean watched him as he went back and forth from the Impala. His hands were dirty and calloused, knuckles bleeding in parts. His hair messy and greasy, stubble growing on his face, jeans torn and stained with oil or maybe blood, boots muddy. He looked half-asleep, his movements stiff and slow, and he was now bringing some heavy plastic bags.
His hero.
And Dean felt overwhelmed with love, the kind of love he had always had for Mary, John and Sam.
“Sorry,” said Dean.
“Sorry? For what? Did something happen?”, he asked, suddenly alarmed.
“No, just - sorry... about... um, the mess.”
“Ah, son.” He hugged Dean with one arm, smelling of leather, sweat and a cold morning in the woods. “I brought you guys some donuts and milk. They only had 2%, and I know you don’t like it, sorry.”
Dean watched him, holding back tears, and smiled as John woke Sam up.
“Dad!,” said Sam, wrapping his arms around John’s neck. “Can we skip school?”
“No, son,” said John, standing up and walking to the bathroom.
“Pleaseee.”
“No, Sam. Get dressed.”
“He brought donuts!,” said Dean.
Sam gave him a grimace. “Did you steal them, Dad?”
John walked slowly to the bathroom and slammed the door.
Now Dean was three, laying in his parents’ bed, and he clutched Mary’s blue maternity dress, enjoying the soft cotton, his cheek pressed to her, so he smelled the fabric softener, her mommy softness and warmth all around him, her blond curls falling on him. He knew he was going to be a big brother, because a baby was inside her taut tummy. He liked hugging her and saying hi and goodnight to the baby every day. She stroked his head, pushing his sandy blond hair back, her warm hands smelling of roses and cocoa butter. She was his world, a whole world, a holy world, better than any.
He started crying, with the grief completely naked, an emotion raw and vivid. Dean suddenly sat up and realized he’d been dreaming. Cas was standing over him, a concerned look in his face, his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean then felt the medical equipment that was strapped on him, and it all came rushing back: Alistair, the torture, being choked against the iron pentagram.
“What did you do?,” he asked.
“I just- I wanted you to dream something pleasant... memories... but then you started to -”
“Yeah. Ok, Cas.”
Now Cas cocked his head, a puzzled and troubled look on his face.
“It’s - It’s ok... Thanks, Cas.”
Cas nodded but seemed confused.
Dean looked away and he heard Cas sit down in the chair at his bedside. He wasn’t sure if he wanted him to leave or not, so he didn’t look at him.
Cas stayed.
Author's Notes: This story was written in December, then promptly lost. Given that time created a new scene and enough distance to make for better editing, I consider it a good thing. Many thanks to the books Reykjavik 101 and the song 'Animal Instinct' by the Cranberries for inspiration.