SPN fic: Ripping out all our epilogues
Title: Ripping out all our epilogues
Author: maharetr
Fandom/Rating/Genre: SPN, PG, Gen
Warnings/Spoilers: This is totally work safe: no sex, no violence, no language. But, um… *bites knuckle* Tag for 2x12 Nightshifter.
Disclaimer: Not happening, not ever. Also, not mine.
Word count: Exactly 1000 (written for picfor1000)
Author's notes: Many thanks to vegetariansushi for the excellent, patient beta. Title from the Bright Eyes song, "At the bottom of everything".
Summary: "We can hide her, Dean," Sam says, like it's meant to be reassuring. "They'll never find her."
Two hours over the state line, Sam takes the wheel while Dean tries to sleep. There's nothing for him to do, nothing to focus on, and the fear he's pushed down during the first adrenaline rush of run is starting to rise. He closes his eyes and listens to the rumble of the engine, forcing himself to breathe.
He doesn't remember dozing off, but when he opens his eyes the world is glowing with evening sunlight, orange over Sam's hands as he grips the wheel. Dean rubs a hand over his face, and is about to offer to drive when Sammy says, levelly, not taking his eyes off the road:
"We need to find another car, Dean."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He actually flinches, hunching forward around the blow. They drive in silence for a minute.
"We can leave her at Bobby's," Dean says. "It's not that far to the yard."
Sam bites his lip.
"They'll know we had her at the bank, Dean. If they know that much…" His voice hitches. "They'll be keeping tabs on Bobby. It's not fair to bring that down on him."
Dean leans forward and rests his hands on the dashboard, his forehead against the backs of his hands.
"We can hide her, Dean," Sam says, like it's meant to be reassuring. "They'll never find her."
"Yeah, they will," Dean whispers. He sits up. "This was the last car mom rode in, the last car dad rode in."
"Yeah," Sam says, just as softly.
"They'll search her and drive her and take her apart. I'm not letting that happen. I'm not."
"Yeah," Sam says again.
Dean fists his hands in his lap, and his eyes water against the setting sun.
~*~
Dean lies back against the windshield, legs stretched out on the hood, the metal still warm from the engine. The stars are bright out here, tiny cold pinpricks of light.
The sound of an approaching engine has been building, but Dean only glances across to establish it's Sam behind the wheel. He doesn't sit up until Sam gets out, and comes and stands beside the Impala. He's carrying flashlights in one hand, and curled in the other is a gas can and tubing.
He looks like he wants to say something, and Dean looks away. He doesn't know what he'll do if Sam tries to apologize or say something consoling. Sam hands him one of the flashlights instead, and starts getting their bags out of the car.
By the time Dean slides off the hood, Sam's at the trunk, disassembling weapons and stashing them in the duffle bags. He hands Dean the screwdriver without a word, and Dean eases onto his back and shuffle-slides under the car, flashlight in one hand, screwdriver in the other.
Bobby had installed the original compartment at John's request, and he'd installed it again in the new chassis at Dean's. Dean unscrews the panel and takes out the baggie tucked inside.
Out from under the car, Dean opens the bag and starts unfolding birth certificates: Thomas Lorne, born 1983; Alexander Lorne, born 1979 and -- Dean passes this one silently to Sam -- William Lorne, 1954. There are drivers' licenses, social security numbers and passports jumbled together, and Dean busies his hands separating them into piles.
Sam's moved to the back of the car, breath shuddering, and Dean can hear the soft scraping sounds as he positions the empty gas can. Dean stuffs the papers back into the baggie and goes after him.
"Hey," Dean says. He looks down. He knows they're his hands gently prying the tubing out of Sam's grip, but they don't feel like they're part of his body.
"You try that, you're going to choke. Go sit in the -" That's nearly enough. For agonizing seconds, Dean can feel the tight ache in his chest, and the way his eyes are burning, then it's gone again.
Sam gets the message, stumbling away, fumbling the driver's door open with a creak of hinges. So many things they should have fixed…
The thought hurts, but Dean's hands are steady as he unscrews the fuel cap and pushes the siphon tube into the tank. Practice makes perfect; they've done this countless times in dark side-streets and gas stations, and three gentle sucks later there's a steady flow filling the gas can.
When the container's full, Dean lifts the tube and pulls it from the tank. He carries it around to the driver's side, where Sam's sitting in the car, forehead resting on the steering wheel. Dean brushes his hand over the edge of the roof, caressing.
He feels like he should say something, but there's nothing left, so he waits until Sam climbs slowly out of the car, then leans into the open window and tilts the gas can. Fuel glugs over the leather, spreading over the bench seat and pooling under the pedals.
The smell is familiar: it's countless salt and burns, and it's never going to be a good smell again.
Sam takes the can and pours the other half over the back seat, the roof, the trunk. The liquid makes the paintwork gleam under the flashlights. Dean moves back with Sam as he leaves a trail of gasoline behind them.
Dean lights the match. The flame flickers in the breeze, and he has to turn away as he drops it. He doesn't want to see, but the brightness and heat assault him anyway.
He folds in on himself, down on his knees. Sam's beside him, trying to coax him up, but he can't move, and Sam has to grab his shirt and haul him to the other car. He can smell burning leather through the stench of gasoline and as much as he doesn't want to see the car he's climbing into, he can't bring himself to look back, either. Sam starts the engine, and Dean presses his forehead to the cold window. He keeps his eyes closed as they drive away.
~*~
I'm sorry
More A/N: My prompt pic is here, although the scene that prompted this fic had to be sacrificed to the great gods of word count, so including it feels a little odd.
(Fic has/will be x-posted to picfor1000 and supernaturalfic)
Finally, I'd like to take a moment to rec luzdeestrellas's fic: From the Fire Roads to the Interstate.
I read it while I was writing this, and it made me cry, and feel better. My fic? Not canon. Her fic? Totally canon, even with the wincest (and even if, looking at that title, the irony is quite something). Just go read.
Author: maharetr
Fandom/Rating/Genre: SPN, PG, Gen
Warnings/Spoilers: This is totally work safe: no sex, no violence, no language. But, um… *bites knuckle* Tag for 2x12 Nightshifter.
Disclaimer: Not happening, not ever. Also, not mine.
Word count: Exactly 1000 (written for picfor1000)
Author's notes: Many thanks to vegetariansushi for the excellent, patient beta. Title from the Bright Eyes song, "At the bottom of everything".
Summary: "We can hide her, Dean," Sam says, like it's meant to be reassuring. "They'll never find her."
Two hours over the state line, Sam takes the wheel while Dean tries to sleep. There's nothing for him to do, nothing to focus on, and the fear he's pushed down during the first adrenaline rush of run is starting to rise. He closes his eyes and listens to the rumble of the engine, forcing himself to breathe.
He doesn't remember dozing off, but when he opens his eyes the world is glowing with evening sunlight, orange over Sam's hands as he grips the wheel. Dean rubs a hand over his face, and is about to offer to drive when Sammy says, levelly, not taking his eyes off the road:
"We need to find another car, Dean."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He actually flinches, hunching forward around the blow. They drive in silence for a minute.
"We can leave her at Bobby's," Dean says. "It's not that far to the yard."
Sam bites his lip.
"They'll know we had her at the bank, Dean. If they know that much…" His voice hitches. "They'll be keeping tabs on Bobby. It's not fair to bring that down on him."
Dean leans forward and rests his hands on the dashboard, his forehead against the backs of his hands.
"We can hide her, Dean," Sam says, like it's meant to be reassuring. "They'll never find her."
"Yeah, they will," Dean whispers. He sits up. "This was the last car mom rode in, the last car dad rode in."
"Yeah," Sam says, just as softly.
"They'll search her and drive her and take her apart. I'm not letting that happen. I'm not."
"Yeah," Sam says again.
Dean fists his hands in his lap, and his eyes water against the setting sun.
~*~
Dean lies back against the windshield, legs stretched out on the hood, the metal still warm from the engine. The stars are bright out here, tiny cold pinpricks of light.
The sound of an approaching engine has been building, but Dean only glances across to establish it's Sam behind the wheel. He doesn't sit up until Sam gets out, and comes and stands beside the Impala. He's carrying flashlights in one hand, and curled in the other is a gas can and tubing.
He looks like he wants to say something, and Dean looks away. He doesn't know what he'll do if Sam tries to apologize or say something consoling. Sam hands him one of the flashlights instead, and starts getting their bags out of the car.
By the time Dean slides off the hood, Sam's at the trunk, disassembling weapons and stashing them in the duffle bags. He hands Dean the screwdriver without a word, and Dean eases onto his back and shuffle-slides under the car, flashlight in one hand, screwdriver in the other.
Bobby had installed the original compartment at John's request, and he'd installed it again in the new chassis at Dean's. Dean unscrews the panel and takes out the baggie tucked inside.
Out from under the car, Dean opens the bag and starts unfolding birth certificates: Thomas Lorne, born 1983; Alexander Lorne, born 1979 and -- Dean passes this one silently to Sam -- William Lorne, 1954. There are drivers' licenses, social security numbers and passports jumbled together, and Dean busies his hands separating them into piles.
Sam's moved to the back of the car, breath shuddering, and Dean can hear the soft scraping sounds as he positions the empty gas can. Dean stuffs the papers back into the baggie and goes after him.
"Hey," Dean says. He looks down. He knows they're his hands gently prying the tubing out of Sam's grip, but they don't feel like they're part of his body.
"You try that, you're going to choke. Go sit in the -" That's nearly enough. For agonizing seconds, Dean can feel the tight ache in his chest, and the way his eyes are burning, then it's gone again.
Sam gets the message, stumbling away, fumbling the driver's door open with a creak of hinges. So many things they should have fixed…
The thought hurts, but Dean's hands are steady as he unscrews the fuel cap and pushes the siphon tube into the tank. Practice makes perfect; they've done this countless times in dark side-streets and gas stations, and three gentle sucks later there's a steady flow filling the gas can.
When the container's full, Dean lifts the tube and pulls it from the tank. He carries it around to the driver's side, where Sam's sitting in the car, forehead resting on the steering wheel. Dean brushes his hand over the edge of the roof, caressing.
He feels like he should say something, but there's nothing left, so he waits until Sam climbs slowly out of the car, then leans into the open window and tilts the gas can. Fuel glugs over the leather, spreading over the bench seat and pooling under the pedals.
The smell is familiar: it's countless salt and burns, and it's never going to be a good smell again.
Sam takes the can and pours the other half over the back seat, the roof, the trunk. The liquid makes the paintwork gleam under the flashlights. Dean moves back with Sam as he leaves a trail of gasoline behind them.
Dean lights the match. The flame flickers in the breeze, and he has to turn away as he drops it. He doesn't want to see, but the brightness and heat assault him anyway.
He folds in on himself, down on his knees. Sam's beside him, trying to coax him up, but he can't move, and Sam has to grab his shirt and haul him to the other car. He can smell burning leather through the stench of gasoline and as much as he doesn't want to see the car he's climbing into, he can't bring himself to look back, either. Sam starts the engine, and Dean presses his forehead to the cold window. He keeps his eyes closed as they drive away.
~*~
I'm sorry
More A/N: My prompt pic is here, although the scene that prompted this fic had to be sacrificed to the great gods of word count, so including it feels a little odd.
(Fic has/will be x-posted to picfor1000 and supernaturalfic)
Finally, I'd like to take a moment to rec luzdeestrellas's fic: From the Fire Roads to the Interstate.
I read it while I was writing this, and it made me cry, and feel better. My fic? Not canon. Her fic? Totally canon, even with the wincest (and even if, looking at that title, the irony is quite something). Just go read.