fic: old long since
Title: old long since
Character: Dean Winchester
Rating: PG
Summary: Eleven fifty-nine and you're staring at an empty glass a bar on the west edge of Nebraska, thinking about your brother.
Notes: Written for prompt 18 of my spn_30snapshots table. Title is the literal English translation of "auld lang syne," that song traditionally sung on New Year's that no one seems to know the words to anymore. 566 words. Happy New Year. :)
"And I know that I'm damned if I never get out
And maybe I'm damned if I do
But with any other beat I got left in my heart
You know I'd rather be damned with you"
-Bat Out of Hell by Meatloaf
Eleven fifty-one and you're staring up at the countdown on the TV waiting for all this shit to be over so you can get back to drinking your beer in silence. You've been crushed against the bar more than once by burly men buying their friends one last round for the year, and every time you wonder if it'd be worth it to turn around and confront Jim, Jo, Bob, or Billy about personal space. Instead you just bury yourself in another drink, try and scrounge up some bit of thankfulness for surviving to see the next year.
Eleven fifty-three and the bar's so far beyond fire code regulations, you couldn't move to leave if you wanted. The bartender's been swamped for near twenty minutes, but that doesn't stop her from asking you if you want one last drink in this year. She's pretty, brunnette hair with streaks of red and a button nose way too small for her face. She's smiled at you twice tonight, dimple on one side popping out, and its obvious she'd be willing to do whatever you asked. On any other day, you'd probably take what she's giving but tonight the alcohol is the only company you want to keep.
Eleven fifty-seven and you can feel the thin strip of healing skin stretch awkwardly as you reach for the fresh glass sat in front of you. Four days ago you wouldn't have even been able to open and close your hand, parting gift from underestimating a ghoul back in Illinois, so you suppose there's one thing to add to the list of things NOT to do in the next year. The whiskey barely burns as you throw it down your throat, one last drink in two thousand three. You look at your hand when you set the empty glass down, flex it again to feel the skin move. There'll be a scar for sure, thin one that'll curve right around your index finger and down past your thumb. If Sam were here, he'd probably chide you for not sewing it up better and you'd cut back with something along the lines of "if you'd been here, it'd look fine."
Eleven fifty-nine and you're staring at an empty glass a bar on the west edge of Nebraska, thinking about your brother. You wonder what he's doing tonight, probably out at some party with friends, but then you realize this is SAM you're thinking of and then imagine him sitting in his dorm in sweats, clutching a beer and watching the ball drop on TV, enjoying a moment of normal like you can't ever remember having. It's a better picture and the skin beside your mouth tugs slightly as it's going through your head. The patrons in the bar start counting down from ten, and you glance up at the timer, the big ball in Times Square glowing on the screen. You wonder if this is the same broadcast Sam will be watching an hour later, and that's your last thought of the year as the ball plummets and the noise in the bar becomes so deafening you wonder if you'll be able to hear again in the next week.
Twelve oh-two into the new year and you decide you're going to stick around for a couple more hours and drinks, maybe ring in the new year with the next time zone, too.
Character: Dean Winchester
Rating: PG
Summary: Eleven fifty-nine and you're staring at an empty glass a bar on the west edge of Nebraska, thinking about your brother.
Notes: Written for prompt 18 of my spn_30snapshots table. Title is the literal English translation of "auld lang syne," that song traditionally sung on New Year's that no one seems to know the words to anymore. 566 words. Happy New Year. :)
"And I know that I'm damned if I never get out
And maybe I'm damned if I do
But with any other beat I got left in my heart
You know I'd rather be damned with you"
-Bat Out of Hell by Meatloaf
Eleven fifty-one and you're staring up at the countdown on the TV waiting for all this shit to be over so you can get back to drinking your beer in silence. You've been crushed against the bar more than once by burly men buying their friends one last round for the year, and every time you wonder if it'd be worth it to turn around and confront Jim, Jo, Bob, or Billy about personal space. Instead you just bury yourself in another drink, try and scrounge up some bit of thankfulness for surviving to see the next year.
Eleven fifty-three and the bar's so far beyond fire code regulations, you couldn't move to leave if you wanted. The bartender's been swamped for near twenty minutes, but that doesn't stop her from asking you if you want one last drink in this year. She's pretty, brunnette hair with streaks of red and a button nose way too small for her face. She's smiled at you twice tonight, dimple on one side popping out, and its obvious she'd be willing to do whatever you asked. On any other day, you'd probably take what she's giving but tonight the alcohol is the only company you want to keep.
Eleven fifty-seven and you can feel the thin strip of healing skin stretch awkwardly as you reach for the fresh glass sat in front of you. Four days ago you wouldn't have even been able to open and close your hand, parting gift from underestimating a ghoul back in Illinois, so you suppose there's one thing to add to the list of things NOT to do in the next year. The whiskey barely burns as you throw it down your throat, one last drink in two thousand three. You look at your hand when you set the empty glass down, flex it again to feel the skin move. There'll be a scar for sure, thin one that'll curve right around your index finger and down past your thumb. If Sam were here, he'd probably chide you for not sewing it up better and you'd cut back with something along the lines of "if you'd been here, it'd look fine."
Eleven fifty-nine and you're staring at an empty glass a bar on the west edge of Nebraska, thinking about your brother. You wonder what he's doing tonight, probably out at some party with friends, but then you realize this is SAM you're thinking of and then imagine him sitting in his dorm in sweats, clutching a beer and watching the ball drop on TV, enjoying a moment of normal like you can't ever remember having. It's a better picture and the skin beside your mouth tugs slightly as it's going through your head. The patrons in the bar start counting down from ten, and you glance up at the timer, the big ball in Times Square glowing on the screen. You wonder if this is the same broadcast Sam will be watching an hour later, and that's your last thought of the year as the ball plummets and the noise in the bar becomes so deafening you wonder if you'll be able to hear again in the next week.
Twelve oh-two into the new year and you decide you're going to stick around for a couple more hours and drinks, maybe ring in the new year with the next time zone, too.