The Morning Comes
Title: The Morning Comes
Fandom: Supernatural + Calvin & Hobbes
Rating: PG-13
Category: Gen, quiet and moody.
Spoilers: nothing specific, set in a near, dark (imagined) future.
They meet in a bar in Iowa.
Sam is drowning himself in Jack Daniels, mainly because he remembers that his father liked it and only an hour ago the latest mother died in flames on her ceiling, six miles away.
The other man is drinking beer, the American kind, and when Sam sees it out of the corner of his eye he thinks of Dean.
“Hey,” the other man says, looking vaguely familiar and sliding into the stool next to Sam. “Mind if I…?”
“No, no, not at all,” Sam says, and a bit of a sigh-laugh escapes from between his lips.
The other man nods, his blond hair falling across his forehead, and for the two hours until closing time they sit still, downing drink after drink, until Sam isn’t sure where his hands end and the bar begins.
The bartender hustles them out, pressing on the other man’s shoulders with a gentle “please, Calvin, no driving now” and they climb into the Impala together and fall asleep, Sam in the front and the other man sprawled across the back.
The morning comes hot and hard, slamming between their temples as they sit up, a police officer knocking loudly on the windshield. Sam opens the door, hazily.
“Calvin, is that you?” the police officer says, and for the first time the cops don’t seem to be troubled by Sam.
“Yeah,” the other man says, weakly, sitting up in the backseat and nearly banging his head on the Impala’s roof. Sam wishes sometimes he’d left the Impala instead of the truck, two cans of lighter fluid and a match in the Badlands.
“Your folks are asking for you, son,” the officer says, “you should get going. Your daughter is waiting with Susie’s folks.”
“I-” the other man says, and stops, and Sam hears his breath catch in his throat. “Just-I’ll be there in a half hour, all right? I-”
“Of course, son,” the officer says, softening around the edges, and he pats the roof of the Impala as he leaves.
Sam sits straight and turns to look at the other man. His back is flat against his seat and his spine is locked (Sam does this sometimes, too, all he can do to stop himself from keeling over, falling down).
“Wait, you’re…” Sam says, recognizing the face of the young father, screaming hoarsely at the flaming house, six-month-old baby clasped in his arms.
“My wife-my house-burned down last night,” the other man says, finally, and Sam almost wilts down against Dean’s steering wheel, another failure.
“And it’s silly,” he continues, “but right now-all I can think about-my goddamn stuffed tiger was in the attic, and I…”
He trails off, and then his eyes catch Sam’s in a moment of unadulterated panic.
“What do I do now?”
Sam thinks of what Dean would have said, what Dad would have said, the soothing words, the reassurance, the handing off of the bereaved to the waiting relatives, and thinks of the man as a boy, pulling a tiger through the leaves of a suburban house, the childhood that Sam never had.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, and the words feel inadequate. “I don’t-I don’t know.”
Fandom: Supernatural + Calvin & Hobbes
Rating: PG-13
Category: Gen, quiet and moody.
Spoilers: nothing specific, set in a near, dark (imagined) future.
They meet in a bar in Iowa.
Sam is drowning himself in Jack Daniels, mainly because he remembers that his father liked it and only an hour ago the latest mother died in flames on her ceiling, six miles away.
The other man is drinking beer, the American kind, and when Sam sees it out of the corner of his eye he thinks of Dean.
“Hey,” the other man says, looking vaguely familiar and sliding into the stool next to Sam. “Mind if I…?”
“No, no, not at all,” Sam says, and a bit of a sigh-laugh escapes from between his lips.
The other man nods, his blond hair falling across his forehead, and for the two hours until closing time they sit still, downing drink after drink, until Sam isn’t sure where his hands end and the bar begins.
The bartender hustles them out, pressing on the other man’s shoulders with a gentle “please, Calvin, no driving now” and they climb into the Impala together and fall asleep, Sam in the front and the other man sprawled across the back.
The morning comes hot and hard, slamming between their temples as they sit up, a police officer knocking loudly on the windshield. Sam opens the door, hazily.
“Calvin, is that you?” the police officer says, and for the first time the cops don’t seem to be troubled by Sam.
“Yeah,” the other man says, weakly, sitting up in the backseat and nearly banging his head on the Impala’s roof. Sam wishes sometimes he’d left the Impala instead of the truck, two cans of lighter fluid and a match in the Badlands.
“Your folks are asking for you, son,” the officer says, “you should get going. Your daughter is waiting with Susie’s folks.”
“I-” the other man says, and stops, and Sam hears his breath catch in his throat. “Just-I’ll be there in a half hour, all right? I-”
“Of course, son,” the officer says, softening around the edges, and he pats the roof of the Impala as he leaves.
Sam sits straight and turns to look at the other man. His back is flat against his seat and his spine is locked (Sam does this sometimes, too, all he can do to stop himself from keeling over, falling down).
“Wait, you’re…” Sam says, recognizing the face of the young father, screaming hoarsely at the flaming house, six-month-old baby clasped in his arms.
“My wife-my house-burned down last night,” the other man says, finally, and Sam almost wilts down against Dean’s steering wheel, another failure.
“And it’s silly,” he continues, “but right now-all I can think about-my goddamn stuffed tiger was in the attic, and I…”
He trails off, and then his eyes catch Sam’s in a moment of unadulterated panic.
“What do I do now?”
Sam thinks of what Dean would have said, what Dad would have said, the soothing words, the reassurance, the handing off of the bereaved to the waiting relatives, and thinks of the man as a boy, pulling a tiger through the leaves of a suburban house, the childhood that Sam never had.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, and the words feel inadequate. “I don’t-I don’t know.”