fic: elsebound
SPN: John and Dean, gen, pre-S1. PG.
Elsebound
--
The wind smells of fall, of burning. Outside the cracked highway stretches past the horizon, past miles and miles of prairie and fields gone to grey.
John takes a sip of coffee. The newspaper makes a soft rustling sound as he sets it atop the table. "You ready?" he asks.
"Yeah," Dean says. His eyes are dark and heavy and he shoves the chair back almost too hard. Meets John's eyes in apology. His hands opening and closing over empty space. "I'll be outside," he says, and John nods.
When he goes outside, Dean's standing next to the car with his arms crossed. John rests a hand on the back of his neck and Dean tilts his head. "We wanna be there by eight?" he asks.
"That's the plan," John says, and Dean ducks into the car. John stands there for a minute, looks at the leaves turning to gold in the trees. A truck rumbles down the highway and away. He thinks that maybe it's just too goddamn quiet with Sam gone. Too goddamn quiet.
--
It's cold on the coast, coming into autumn. Dean shifts from foot to foot beside him, his hands in his pockets, smiling at the clerk. There are chimes ringing in the distance and the lights outside the motel are switching on against dusk.
"Enjoy your stay," the clerk says and the door closes on Dean's reply as John retreats to the parking lot. He stands at the edge of the lot, silent, his breath beginning to mist. A chill breeze blows off the water and he cups his hand around the flame as he lights a cigarette. Wonders when he began to feel so old.
The ocean is barely visible from here. Dark grey against the red of sunset. He turns as Dean comes towards him, his boots loud across the asphalt.
"Where to?" Dean asks. He sounds too tired, too hopeful. He's hardly said anything since Sam left. He scuffs at the damp gravel next to John.
"You hungry?" John asks. Dean pulls his own lighter from his pocket, shakes a cigarette loose from the packet, and shrugs.
--
There's a note in John's wallet, crumpled and torn. It's been there for two weeks. Since he found Dean reading it and asked what it was. One week after Sam left.
Here, Dean said. Pressed the note into John's hand and looked away.
Sam's handwriting. I worry sometimes, it said. And, we're more than our father's children.
Why, Dean asked, low and rough. John was silent. Dean rubbed a hand across his face and didn't ask again.
--
Dean should have known better, and maybe he did, and maybe he decided it was worth the trouble. Starting a fight in the bar. Not about anything in particular, just because he could. Because he felt like it. Because he had to.
John understands this, too. Even though it's going to make their job a hell of a lot more difficult. But there are good times and bad times and it could be worse. It could be worse.
So he doesn't move until the fourth man grabs a bottle, and then John claps a hand on his shoulder, turns him around, and hits him squarely in the jaw. The man goes down and the bartender calls the others off, gestures, threatens to call somebody.
And Dean's fine. Of course he is. Even without Sam at his back. He can take care of himself.
"Dean," John says, nodding at the door. Dean's jaw is tense. Outside the air is heavy with salt, and damp. Light spilling out from the bar. John doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have to.
--
John reads by the dim light over his bed, the yellow glow flickering every three minutes. Turns page after page in his journal, cross-references his writing with the blurry newspaper photocopies. Missing children. Miles of shoreline. Voices on the wind.
He thinks about the parents, the ones who are left. The ones who don't understand what's happening, don't want to understand. He thinks about how family's all you ever have, really, and how he used to tell the boys. One day, all you'll have is each other.
He'd die for them and he still doesn't know anybody else who will, when it comes down to it.
Dean's breathing changes, on the other bed, and John looks up. Dean's freckles are dark against his skin. "Sam," he says.
"Nightmare," John says. He waits for a long moment until Dean's breath evens again and then he goes to the window. Fog rising from the water like smoke.
He hopes Sam remembered to salt the windows, wherever he is.
--
In the morning, the hills are grey, drifting, wave-tossed. John and Dean stand on the dock and watch the fishing boats moving out. John wraps his hands around his paper cup of coffee for heat. His flannel and his jacket are heavy on his back, but warm.
"Fucking cold," Dean says. There's two days worth of stubble on his jaw and a bruise darkening across his cheekbone.
"Language," John says absently, running a hand through his own beard. He takes a sip of coffee. It's going cold fast. "Fucking freezing." An exaggeration but the corner of Dean's mouth twitches, something like a smile.
"Feel like getting started?" John asks after a minute.
"Yessir," Dean says, and they turn away from the water.
--
There's a dog tied out front and the house is made of weathered-grey boards. There were sisters, not brothers, for which John is glad. The woman, the mother, serves them coffee. The men they passed on the street glared at them, but she'll talk. What does she have to lose?
"Amy was a good girl," she says. "She never wandered. Never."
A young girl with her hair in a braid comes in and buries her face in her mother’s side. "Mama," she says, and the woman smiles shakily. Her skin looks thin, worn.
"My other daughter," she says. "Sarah, say hi to our guests."
Sarah mumbles something and John meets the mother's eyes. "You're going to take care of this?" she asks again.
"Yes, ma'am," Dean says, stronger, more sure, than John could ever be.
--
A woman with pale hair stands on her toes and presses her fingers to John's lips and he's glad Dean's not here. You're doing good, she says. But she is not a ghost, she is a dream, and when he opens his eyes, she disappears.
The sun is setting again. They have to do this tonight, before another child is taken.
"Dad," Dean says. Sitting on the edge of the other bed, twisting his ring around his finger and avoiding John's eyes. "You think maybe we should check out California after this? I saw something about werewolves. In San Jose."
"I think," John says. "That'd be a good idea."
"Okay," Dean says.
--
They find her that night, leaning over a small bed, her hair twisting and tangling down her back. My pretty, pretty child, she whispers. When they open the door, she turns to them with her mouth open wide. John fires and she lunges at him, long nails raking across his face. Dean ducks past and reaches for the boy. She turns back to Dean, one hand reaching out, and John fires again.
When she falls, her blood is saltwater.
The boy's mother rushes in and takes her child from Dean. John lowers his gun, swallows. Dean knuckles blood from his mouth and lets out a deep breath.
They check out of the motel when they get back. The clerk doesn't look sorry to see them go.
--
At night the water is black, deep, an erasure. There are no stars out, not now, and even the moon is absent.
"Dean," John says. He shifts his weight. The dock creaks in answer. "You did good." The wind pricks at his skin, heavy with winter. Soon he will light a candle in a church far from here. Two candles, now. One for grief. Both for love.
"We did good," Dean corrects.
"He'll be okay," John says. Because it needs to be said. They both have to know. They both have to believe.
Dean looks at him for a long moment. "I just," he says. "Yeah, Dad," he says, and he nods. "Yeah."
--
end
Elsebound
--
The wind smells of fall, of burning. Outside the cracked highway stretches past the horizon, past miles and miles of prairie and fields gone to grey.
John takes a sip of coffee. The newspaper makes a soft rustling sound as he sets it atop the table. "You ready?" he asks.
"Yeah," Dean says. His eyes are dark and heavy and he shoves the chair back almost too hard. Meets John's eyes in apology. His hands opening and closing over empty space. "I'll be outside," he says, and John nods.
When he goes outside, Dean's standing next to the car with his arms crossed. John rests a hand on the back of his neck and Dean tilts his head. "We wanna be there by eight?" he asks.
"That's the plan," John says, and Dean ducks into the car. John stands there for a minute, looks at the leaves turning to gold in the trees. A truck rumbles down the highway and away. He thinks that maybe it's just too goddamn quiet with Sam gone. Too goddamn quiet.
--
It's cold on the coast, coming into autumn. Dean shifts from foot to foot beside him, his hands in his pockets, smiling at the clerk. There are chimes ringing in the distance and the lights outside the motel are switching on against dusk.
"Enjoy your stay," the clerk says and the door closes on Dean's reply as John retreats to the parking lot. He stands at the edge of the lot, silent, his breath beginning to mist. A chill breeze blows off the water and he cups his hand around the flame as he lights a cigarette. Wonders when he began to feel so old.
The ocean is barely visible from here. Dark grey against the red of sunset. He turns as Dean comes towards him, his boots loud across the asphalt.
"Where to?" Dean asks. He sounds too tired, too hopeful. He's hardly said anything since Sam left. He scuffs at the damp gravel next to John.
"You hungry?" John asks. Dean pulls his own lighter from his pocket, shakes a cigarette loose from the packet, and shrugs.
--
There's a note in John's wallet, crumpled and torn. It's been there for two weeks. Since he found Dean reading it and asked what it was. One week after Sam left.
Here, Dean said. Pressed the note into John's hand and looked away.
Sam's handwriting. I worry sometimes, it said. And, we're more than our father's children.
Why, Dean asked, low and rough. John was silent. Dean rubbed a hand across his face and didn't ask again.
--
Dean should have known better, and maybe he did, and maybe he decided it was worth the trouble. Starting a fight in the bar. Not about anything in particular, just because he could. Because he felt like it. Because he had to.
John understands this, too. Even though it's going to make their job a hell of a lot more difficult. But there are good times and bad times and it could be worse. It could be worse.
So he doesn't move until the fourth man grabs a bottle, and then John claps a hand on his shoulder, turns him around, and hits him squarely in the jaw. The man goes down and the bartender calls the others off, gestures, threatens to call somebody.
And Dean's fine. Of course he is. Even without Sam at his back. He can take care of himself.
"Dean," John says, nodding at the door. Dean's jaw is tense. Outside the air is heavy with salt, and damp. Light spilling out from the bar. John doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have to.
--
John reads by the dim light over his bed, the yellow glow flickering every three minutes. Turns page after page in his journal, cross-references his writing with the blurry newspaper photocopies. Missing children. Miles of shoreline. Voices on the wind.
He thinks about the parents, the ones who are left. The ones who don't understand what's happening, don't want to understand. He thinks about how family's all you ever have, really, and how he used to tell the boys. One day, all you'll have is each other.
He'd die for them and he still doesn't know anybody else who will, when it comes down to it.
Dean's breathing changes, on the other bed, and John looks up. Dean's freckles are dark against his skin. "Sam," he says.
"Nightmare," John says. He waits for a long moment until Dean's breath evens again and then he goes to the window. Fog rising from the water like smoke.
He hopes Sam remembered to salt the windows, wherever he is.
--
In the morning, the hills are grey, drifting, wave-tossed. John and Dean stand on the dock and watch the fishing boats moving out. John wraps his hands around his paper cup of coffee for heat. His flannel and his jacket are heavy on his back, but warm.
"Fucking cold," Dean says. There's two days worth of stubble on his jaw and a bruise darkening across his cheekbone.
"Language," John says absently, running a hand through his own beard. He takes a sip of coffee. It's going cold fast. "Fucking freezing." An exaggeration but the corner of Dean's mouth twitches, something like a smile.
"Feel like getting started?" John asks after a minute.
"Yessir," Dean says, and they turn away from the water.
--
There's a dog tied out front and the house is made of weathered-grey boards. There were sisters, not brothers, for which John is glad. The woman, the mother, serves them coffee. The men they passed on the street glared at them, but she'll talk. What does she have to lose?
"Amy was a good girl," she says. "She never wandered. Never."
A young girl with her hair in a braid comes in and buries her face in her mother’s side. "Mama," she says, and the woman smiles shakily. Her skin looks thin, worn.
"My other daughter," she says. "Sarah, say hi to our guests."
Sarah mumbles something and John meets the mother's eyes. "You're going to take care of this?" she asks again.
"Yes, ma'am," Dean says, stronger, more sure, than John could ever be.
--
A woman with pale hair stands on her toes and presses her fingers to John's lips and he's glad Dean's not here. You're doing good, she says. But she is not a ghost, she is a dream, and when he opens his eyes, she disappears.
The sun is setting again. They have to do this tonight, before another child is taken.
"Dad," Dean says. Sitting on the edge of the other bed, twisting his ring around his finger and avoiding John's eyes. "You think maybe we should check out California after this? I saw something about werewolves. In San Jose."
"I think," John says. "That'd be a good idea."
"Okay," Dean says.
--
They find her that night, leaning over a small bed, her hair twisting and tangling down her back. My pretty, pretty child, she whispers. When they open the door, she turns to them with her mouth open wide. John fires and she lunges at him, long nails raking across his face. Dean ducks past and reaches for the boy. She turns back to Dean, one hand reaching out, and John fires again.
When she falls, her blood is saltwater.
The boy's mother rushes in and takes her child from Dean. John lowers his gun, swallows. Dean knuckles blood from his mouth and lets out a deep breath.
They check out of the motel when they get back. The clerk doesn't look sorry to see them go.
--
At night the water is black, deep, an erasure. There are no stars out, not now, and even the moon is absent.
"Dean," John says. He shifts his weight. The dock creaks in answer. "You did good." The wind pricks at his skin, heavy with winter. Soon he will light a candle in a church far from here. Two candles, now. One for grief. Both for love.
"We did good," Dean corrects.
"He'll be okay," John says. Because it needs to be said. They both have to know. They both have to believe.
Dean looks at him for a long moment. "I just," he says. "Yeah, Dad," he says, and he nods. "Yeah."
--
end