Fic
How would life look if the world changed? Supernatural, Dean, short.
The Something (smallish, dark, fluffy) easily flips him off when Dean tries to get an arm across what *seems* to be a neck. He lands on his back with an extremely painful thud and thinks longingly about his second gun, thirty feet away or more now.
This is so fucking *humiliating*.
He never would have thought it would be so *hard* to fight like this. The world used to be divided into people who could fight, and did, and people who couldn't, and you didn't resent that, because they really couldn't; didn't know how, didn't have the training. You blinked with some awe when they tried to do something anyway, even though they had nothing to back it up, and you swore to yourself or at them if they acted as though they had it and almost got themselves killed, and you saved them. Simple.
There's nothing simple about this, and the creature jumps at him again and Dean just barely manages to dodge and takes a second to miss his knives, too.
He has all of his reflexes, as far as he can tell. And that's almost worse, because his reflexes were made for a guy who can do this, not a guy who's spent twenty six years jogging and lifting some weights and has been, if to believe the stories, in exactly two bar fights his whole life.
The shooting was easier to master, but he still has to remind himself he can't trust his aim, not completely, can't have blind faith in his abilities even there. He still knows how to clean a weapon, he still knows how to find things out (things you don't need the right connections for, the right people on speed dial), he still knows which herbs you need for a dozen small spells and to carry salt and weapons at all times, and nobody's going to rip him off on dynamite. But that's about it.
His brain, his memories are still his own, but that's not enough in thei - in his line of business. It's a big part, but it's not enough, nowhere near.
It's been six month and this is the third time he's been out and he thinks, for the four thousandth time, that maybe he should have waited longer, because this *sucks*.
They're circling each other; Dean isn't entirely sure how he got there. Autopilot's always bad, but especially right now, when even the real pilot isn't exactly reliable. It's possible he's panicking.
Him. Panicking. God, he hates this.
Another jump; he feints and manages to get a jab in, and the stick in his hand - his knives, he can't believe he lost his goddamned *knives* so easily - breaks in two but the creature grunts and hops away again. This is quite possibly not going to end well, which is fucking ridiculous when you consider the thing's about five feet tall.
It's not like he hasn't considered just - giving up. Even before he knew how much work it would take, even before he knew how *wrong* it would feel to fight this way - and it hadn't even occurred to him before he really started training, because hell, he was Dean Winchester, of course it would come back to him like *that*. He'd spent his whole life training for what he's doing right now - except, of course, 'his whole life' suddenly means 'the last few months'.
But even when he was his own cocky on-top-of-it self, it had been a temptation. Of course it was. Because Dean's life used to be simple and clear; the whole world was designed to tell him what it was he needed to do. And suddenly the world was still telling him, but it was a different world and it was telling him something else entirely.
He'd thought about it, hell yes. Looking Cassie up. Talking to his brother without any kind of tension between them. Sitting with his father every weekend and watching him relaxed, happy, laughing. Living five minutes' drive away from his mom's house.
Yeah, he'd thought about it.
He ends up breaking the thing's neck with a kick he really shouldn't have tried, both because there was no guarantee whatsoever that he'd manage to pull it off and because managing's going to cost him two days of pulled thigh muscles. He tells himself that a year from now it's going to be easier, but that doesn't really make it any better right now.
Two states away, his brother and his father - his brother and father who don't understand why he's suddenly changed jobs, who'd be stunned and disappointed if they knew how he was making his money, who are never going to be there, watching his back, because even if they knew to, wanted to, they have even less idea of it then he does - are setting the table. Two states away, his mom is stirring pots on the stove, putting last touches in, calling out to his dad to ask if he thinks Dean'll be there on time after all. She has gray in her hair, a fair amount of it, and her smile is exactly the same as Dean remembers from his childhood, from pictures, new crinkles by the same warm eyes.
Two states away, his brother's going to be doing the dishes despite protests about how he should be doing nothing on his weekend away from school. His father is going to alternate between reading the paper and working on his new project in the garage. He's going to say something about Dean not being there when he could use a hand and his mom is going to say something about how he could be there for the one weekend Sam's home.
Three states away, in a little place near Indianapolis, there's something that's leaving beheaded bodies just outside the town limits.
Dean sighs and crouches down to look for his weapons and keys, also knocked away when he tried to use them as weapon. Maybe he'll just drop in for breakfast. His mom makes killer pancakes.
The Something (smallish, dark, fluffy) easily flips him off when Dean tries to get an arm across what *seems* to be a neck. He lands on his back with an extremely painful thud and thinks longingly about his second gun, thirty feet away or more now.
This is so fucking *humiliating*.
He never would have thought it would be so *hard* to fight like this. The world used to be divided into people who could fight, and did, and people who couldn't, and you didn't resent that, because they really couldn't; didn't know how, didn't have the training. You blinked with some awe when they tried to do something anyway, even though they had nothing to back it up, and you swore to yourself or at them if they acted as though they had it and almost got themselves killed, and you saved them. Simple.
There's nothing simple about this, and the creature jumps at him again and Dean just barely manages to dodge and takes a second to miss his knives, too.
He has all of his reflexes, as far as he can tell. And that's almost worse, because his reflexes were made for a guy who can do this, not a guy who's spent twenty six years jogging and lifting some weights and has been, if to believe the stories, in exactly two bar fights his whole life.
The shooting was easier to master, but he still has to remind himself he can't trust his aim, not completely, can't have blind faith in his abilities even there. He still knows how to clean a weapon, he still knows how to find things out (things you don't need the right connections for, the right people on speed dial), he still knows which herbs you need for a dozen small spells and to carry salt and weapons at all times, and nobody's going to rip him off on dynamite. But that's about it.
His brain, his memories are still his own, but that's not enough in thei - in his line of business. It's a big part, but it's not enough, nowhere near.
It's been six month and this is the third time he's been out and he thinks, for the four thousandth time, that maybe he should have waited longer, because this *sucks*.
They're circling each other; Dean isn't entirely sure how he got there. Autopilot's always bad, but especially right now, when even the real pilot isn't exactly reliable. It's possible he's panicking.
Him. Panicking. God, he hates this.
Another jump; he feints and manages to get a jab in, and the stick in his hand - his knives, he can't believe he lost his goddamned *knives* so easily - breaks in two but the creature grunts and hops away again. This is quite possibly not going to end well, which is fucking ridiculous when you consider the thing's about five feet tall.
It's not like he hasn't considered just - giving up. Even before he knew how much work it would take, even before he knew how *wrong* it would feel to fight this way - and it hadn't even occurred to him before he really started training, because hell, he was Dean Winchester, of course it would come back to him like *that*. He'd spent his whole life training for what he's doing right now - except, of course, 'his whole life' suddenly means 'the last few months'.
But even when he was his own cocky on-top-of-it self, it had been a temptation. Of course it was. Because Dean's life used to be simple and clear; the whole world was designed to tell him what it was he needed to do. And suddenly the world was still telling him, but it was a different world and it was telling him something else entirely.
He'd thought about it, hell yes. Looking Cassie up. Talking to his brother without any kind of tension between them. Sitting with his father every weekend and watching him relaxed, happy, laughing. Living five minutes' drive away from his mom's house.
Yeah, he'd thought about it.
He ends up breaking the thing's neck with a kick he really shouldn't have tried, both because there was no guarantee whatsoever that he'd manage to pull it off and because managing's going to cost him two days of pulled thigh muscles. He tells himself that a year from now it's going to be easier, but that doesn't really make it any better right now.
Two states away, his brother and his father - his brother and father who don't understand why he's suddenly changed jobs, who'd be stunned and disappointed if they knew how he was making his money, who are never going to be there, watching his back, because even if they knew to, wanted to, they have even less idea of it then he does - are setting the table. Two states away, his mom is stirring pots on the stove, putting last touches in, calling out to his dad to ask if he thinks Dean'll be there on time after all. She has gray in her hair, a fair amount of it, and her smile is exactly the same as Dean remembers from his childhood, from pictures, new crinkles by the same warm eyes.
Two states away, his brother's going to be doing the dishes despite protests about how he should be doing nothing on his weekend away from school. His father is going to alternate between reading the paper and working on his new project in the garage. He's going to say something about Dean not being there when he could use a hand and his mom is going to say something about how he could be there for the one weekend Sam's home.
Three states away, in a little place near Indianapolis, there's something that's leaving beheaded bodies just outside the town limits.
Dean sighs and crouches down to look for his weapons and keys, also knocked away when he tried to use them as weapon. Maybe he'll just drop in for breakfast. His mom makes killer pancakes.