Fic: Drowning (Supernatural)
And here's entry #3 for hc_bingo. My card can be found over here.
It's coming slowly, but surely. I've got one pretty long fic I'm working on along with the others that I hope to start posting soon. It might be a few weeks though. I go back to classes next week and then the projects will begin. I want to maybe bang some fic out next week before that happens.
This one is a little shorter than usual. As per usual, it's only been edited by me so if you see anything, drop me a note.
Title: Drowning
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Dean, Sam, John
Pairing(s): Gen
Prompt: Fire
Word Count: 2,336
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. If you recognize it, I had no hand in making it. I do not own any piece of the Supernatural awesomeness. It all belongs to Kripke et. al. I’m just borrowing for a minute.
Warnings: None
Summary: Dean wonders just how much of his life will be consumed by fire and if one day, it might just take the one thing he considers more precious than his own life. Pre-series.
The Impala stopped at the end of a long dirt road in the middle of the woods, somewhere in central Alabama at 2:13 a.m. There was an overgrown path leading up to an old hunting cabin. There were gaps in the wall where boards were missing boards and the porch railings had fallen into the ragged, tall grass at some point in the past. It was set in the middle of a small clearing with trees crowding in, in a claustrophobic circle maybe thirty feet away all around.
In the dark of the woods, with only the headlights from the Impala to illuminate it, the cabin looked more like a lair than a home. This must be what the second little pig’s house looked like, only a hundred years older.
As long as there weren’t any werewolves around, they would be safe.
Dean snorted. As long as there wasn’t a storm, they might stay mostly dry.
At least Sam was sleeping, sprawled out in the backseat. Dean had refused to drop off to sleep when his dad pulled the map from his hand two hours ago. He had been trying to ignore Sam’s soft snoring. It made him sleepy, but he was determined to prove that he could stay up. He was fifteen. He could stay up past midnight, no problem. Only, Dean had always been a morning person. After eleven or so, he ran on pure adrenaline the few times he helped on hunts. It was his dad and Sam who were good with late nights.
But Sam had passed out somewhere a hundred miles back, which Dean was silently thankful for. Sam had started to turn querulous lately. He was always moody and Dean could see the path puberty would take for his little brother. He was not looking forward to that at all. Sam had gone from quiet, book-loving nerd to a massive ball of disagreeable obstinate almost overnight. And this was only the early phase. It would get worse before it got better.
His father shut off the engine and climbed out of the car. By the time Dean had made his way to his feet, Dad had gathered up Sammy and was motioning for him to collect their duffels from the trunk. Together, the three made their way up the creaking stairs and into the dark interior. Dean barely glanced at the main room as he dropped the bags inside the doorway. He found what looked to be an ancient mattress in a back room and threw himself down. He’d worry about tetanus and bedbugs in the morning.
He was woken by shouting coming from somewhere in the front of the cabin. Sam must be up. Dean had only managed a couple of hours of sleep. He was tired and cranky and would be needing his coffee I.V. stat.
To make matters worse, their current abode wasn’t any more appealing in the light of day. The dilapidated house made Dean think of old Mr. Sanders, the man who had lived up the street from him, way back when. Back when Dean had lived his entire life in one place and there were always cookies and juice boxes in the kitchen. Back then, he would watch as the man hobbled up the street muttering to himself. Dad told Mom one day, when he thought Dean wasn’t listening, that it was only sheer spite that kept the old man from blowing away.
That’s what the house seemed to be trying to accomplish. The roof was missing half its shingles. If it ever actually did rain, they would have to do something to block out the water. The walls had cracks wider than his hand in some spots and he was pretty sure part of the floor was rotten through in the very back of his dad’s bedroom. The cabinets in the kitchen half hung off the wall and the woodstove was rusted through in one place on the top right, near where the pipe meet the stovetop. Thank God it was late June and they weren’t expected to heat the house off the thing.
Of course that also meant no cold provisions. The cabin might have water, but it most certainly did not have electricity. It looked like there would be a lot of camp meals served out of tin cans this summer. He really couldn’t help but agree with Sam’s complaint that the place was an accident waiting to happen.
Even Dad looked skeptical about staying for long. Dean noticed he never really unpacked anything. Maybe that meant they’d be gone before too long. Dean didn’t like keeping Sammy in something that so closely resembled a death trap. Not when there were other options.
Dean kept a close eye on Sam. He didn’t want to come back to the cabin one afternoon and find that the kid had fallen through the floor or something. He absolutely refused to let him cook on that stove. If it had been up to Dean, they would have just made do with a fire pit outside. It would have been safer and kept the cabin cooler in the heavy, humid heat. But their dad felt the stove was safe enough and didn’t seem to mind the extra warmth.
Maybe Vietnam had made Dad immune to anything less than extreme swamp conditions. Or maybe he had always like the heat. Dean hated it. He hated coming in from training feeling like he was swimming. Hated never feeling dry. Even on windy days, it felt like he was drowning every time he breathed. Sam’s asthma was acting up again too.
Dean would be all to glad to leave the Alabama summer behind.
They survived there for three weeks before Dean woke to the scent of smoke filling the cabin. He jerked up in his sleeping bag, grabbing the knife he kept under his pillow and glancing over to the narrow mattress where Sam was sleeping. Where Sam was supposed to be sleeping.
He leapt to his feet. “Sammy?” he called, snatching a lungful of gritty smoke as he did. “Sammy!”
He was running. Out their door and into the short hallway, he grabbed the handle for the bathroom, hoping Sam was there, and yanked it open. It was empty. “Sammy!” He called. “Dad!”
The next door down was their father’s room. He tore into it, regardless of privacy. It was getting hazier in the house by the second. Dad was still in bed, asleep. Dean couldn’t believe he hadn’t woken from the smell.
“Dad!” He flew to the bed, tearing at John’s covers. “Dad, get up!”
John sprang up, knife in hand, and was at Dean’s throat before Dean could swear. Dean blinked against the stinging in his eyes that was making it hard to focus.
“Dad! There’s a fire. Let’s go!” He pushed his father off of him and rolled up.
“I’ve got to find Sam.” He was pushing his way out the door with John close on his heels.
“Sam’s not with you?”
Dean glanced back, but didn’t answer. There wasn’t time. “Sammy!”
Then he heard it. “Dean! Help!” This was followed by a series of sharp coughs.
“Sam! Where are you?”
“Kitchen.”
More coughing followed this. Dean barreled around the corner and into the kitchen. Sam huddled across the room in the corner furthest from the iron stove. The entire room was ablaze and Dean couldn’t see a way through.
There was a horrible popping creak and one of the cabinets fell completely from the wall.
Dean didn’t see it. All he could see was the yellow-red light of the fire. The fire that had licked its way out of the nursery, crawling along the ceiling into the hallway where John was holding an infant Sam.
He couldn’t move. He knew he was supposed to take Sammy and run to safety, but all he could see was fire. It was everywhere. He couldn’t even step back from the rushing heat of it.
Something jostled his arm and he snapped back just enough to see his father rushing forward through a brief gap in the flames. Dad scooped Sam up and was running back towards him. This time, instead of thrusting the bundle of Sam at him, he kept running. He didn’t stop to check Dean, just grabbed his shoulder and shoved him towards the door.
Dean stumbled and ran, following his father out and into the clearing of the yard. When they reached the drive where the Impala was parked, he turned back to look at the cabin. Flames danced in the two front windows now. Much longer and their escape route would have been completely cut off.
Dean stood in the drive shaking and watching the fire consume the derelict building. He vaguely heard his father rummaging in the car behind him.
Dean felt a small hand in his own. He looked down to find hazel green eyes peering up at him from under a sandy mop of hair. Sammy’s face was soot streaked and pale. He stared up at Dean with wide, lost eyes and Dean remembered what he’d almost lost. He dropped to his knees, the knife he had been clutching since he woke up fell to the ground with a soft thump. He pulled his brother in front of him.
“Are you okay?” He demanded, his hands checking every inch of Sam. There were a few first degree burns and it looked like something had clipped his cheek, but Dean didn’t see anything life threatening.
Sam pulled back, but didn’t stop him. “I’m fine, Dean.” His voice was little more than a croak and the effort sent him into another coughing fit.
Then Dad was there. He thrust bottles of water at both Sam and Dean. Dean watched carefully as Sam chugged down half his bottle in one long, guzzling gulp. Dean took a sip of his own and felt a blanket drop down on his shoulders. He belatedly realized that he was still shaking.
He had frozen in the face of the fire and nearly got Sam hurt.
“God, Sammy. I’m sorry,” he muttered getting to his feet. He was pretty sure he was about to barf up what little water he had just managed to sip down. He stumbled over to the nearest tree, leaning against it for support as his stomach heaved.
A strong, wide hand rubbed circles on his back. “It’s okay,” his father was saying. “Just let it out. You’re safe now.”
Dean tried to shake off his hand, but only managed to turn around and look up at his father.
“Dad.”
“You’re fine, Dean. Everyone’s okay.”
Dean shuddered. “Sammy could have died because I froze in there.” His stomach decided it wanted to lose yesterday’s dinner too. When he straightened back up, his father was still there with a hand on his shoulder. He turned Dean back around to look at him.
“Listen to me, Dean. I know. I’m not saying it’s okay, but God knows I know.”
Dean met his eye. There was a haunted look to them he hadn’t seen in years.
His dad squeezed his shoulder, which was about as close as John Winchester came to doing feelings of any kind. “We’re all safe. That’s what’s important right now. I just want to know what happened.”
“It was my fault.” A small voice spoke from just beside them.
Dean turned to look at Sam.
“Sammy?”
The kid was staring at the ground a few feet away from either Dean or Dad. “I got up for a drink of water. I guess the stove was still hot or something, but I - I tripped and bumped into it and then the bottom kind of fell out of it and there was fire everywhere. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I swear it was an accident. I’m sorry.”
Sammy had been right in the middle of it. No wonder he’d gotten trapped in the corner. It was a miracle he hadn’t had worse burns.
Dean’s gut twisted.
“No, Sam,” Dean said, coming to kneel in front of him again. He grabbed his brother’s arms. “Take a breath.”
When he did, Dean went on. “It’s not your fault. The thing was ancient. It’s been waiting to fall apart. We shouldn’t have been using it to start with.”
“Dean’s right, Sam.”
Dean looked back at their father. John Winchester had all but admitted to making a mistake. This was a day for the history books.
“But what about our stuff? It’s all still inside.”
Dean shot a glance up at the building. “Forget about it, Sammy. It was just clothes anyway.”
“But -”
“No. It’s fine. We can get new stuff. And your duffel’s still out here from the training trip the other day. Remember? So is most of Dad’s stuff. Mine was just clothes. All the important stuff is fine.”
Sam look up from his shoes and Dean caught a glimpse of wide, wet eyes before he had an armful of Sam clinging to him. Dean shushed him. He laced his fingers in the fine hair and pulled Sammy’s head close. He could smell the smoke clinging to his skin and knew he probably hadn’t fared much better. Sam tightened his grip and they clung to each other.
Later, Dean would deny every second.
“Come on boys,” John said from the car. “We need to go. We don’t want to be here if someone comes to investigate, and we should call 911. Summer this far south, we don’t need to start a forest fire if we can help it and I don’t have anything to fight that with.”
Sam pulled back and Dean let him. They made their way to the car together and Dean slid into the backseat next to Sam as the engine rumbled to life. He was not going to let Sam out of his sight. Not for a good long while. Maybe not until he hit high school. Or turned thirty.
It's coming slowly, but surely. I've got one pretty long fic I'm working on along with the others that I hope to start posting soon. It might be a few weeks though. I go back to classes next week and then the projects will begin. I want to maybe bang some fic out next week before that happens.
This one is a little shorter than usual. As per usual, it's only been edited by me so if you see anything, drop me a note.
Title: Drowning
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Dean, Sam, John
Pairing(s): Gen
Prompt: Fire
Word Count: 2,336
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. If you recognize it, I had no hand in making it. I do not own any piece of the Supernatural awesomeness. It all belongs to Kripke et. al. I’m just borrowing for a minute.
Warnings: None
Summary: Dean wonders just how much of his life will be consumed by fire and if one day, it might just take the one thing he considers more precious than his own life. Pre-series.
The Impala stopped at the end of a long dirt road in the middle of the woods, somewhere in central Alabama at 2:13 a.m. There was an overgrown path leading up to an old hunting cabin. There were gaps in the wall where boards were missing boards and the porch railings had fallen into the ragged, tall grass at some point in the past. It was set in the middle of a small clearing with trees crowding in, in a claustrophobic circle maybe thirty feet away all around.
In the dark of the woods, with only the headlights from the Impala to illuminate it, the cabin looked more like a lair than a home. This must be what the second little pig’s house looked like, only a hundred years older.
As long as there weren’t any werewolves around, they would be safe.
Dean snorted. As long as there wasn’t a storm, they might stay mostly dry.
At least Sam was sleeping, sprawled out in the backseat. Dean had refused to drop off to sleep when his dad pulled the map from his hand two hours ago. He had been trying to ignore Sam’s soft snoring. It made him sleepy, but he was determined to prove that he could stay up. He was fifteen. He could stay up past midnight, no problem. Only, Dean had always been a morning person. After eleven or so, he ran on pure adrenaline the few times he helped on hunts. It was his dad and Sam who were good with late nights.
But Sam had passed out somewhere a hundred miles back, which Dean was silently thankful for. Sam had started to turn querulous lately. He was always moody and Dean could see the path puberty would take for his little brother. He was not looking forward to that at all. Sam had gone from quiet, book-loving nerd to a massive ball of disagreeable obstinate almost overnight. And this was only the early phase. It would get worse before it got better.
His father shut off the engine and climbed out of the car. By the time Dean had made his way to his feet, Dad had gathered up Sammy and was motioning for him to collect their duffels from the trunk. Together, the three made their way up the creaking stairs and into the dark interior. Dean barely glanced at the main room as he dropped the bags inside the doorway. He found what looked to be an ancient mattress in a back room and threw himself down. He’d worry about tetanus and bedbugs in the morning.
He was woken by shouting coming from somewhere in the front of the cabin. Sam must be up. Dean had only managed a couple of hours of sleep. He was tired and cranky and would be needing his coffee I.V. stat.
To make matters worse, their current abode wasn’t any more appealing in the light of day. The dilapidated house made Dean think of old Mr. Sanders, the man who had lived up the street from him, way back when. Back when Dean had lived his entire life in one place and there were always cookies and juice boxes in the kitchen. Back then, he would watch as the man hobbled up the street muttering to himself. Dad told Mom one day, when he thought Dean wasn’t listening, that it was only sheer spite that kept the old man from blowing away.
That’s what the house seemed to be trying to accomplish. The roof was missing half its shingles. If it ever actually did rain, they would have to do something to block out the water. The walls had cracks wider than his hand in some spots and he was pretty sure part of the floor was rotten through in the very back of his dad’s bedroom. The cabinets in the kitchen half hung off the wall and the woodstove was rusted through in one place on the top right, near where the pipe meet the stovetop. Thank God it was late June and they weren’t expected to heat the house off the thing.
Of course that also meant no cold provisions. The cabin might have water, but it most certainly did not have electricity. It looked like there would be a lot of camp meals served out of tin cans this summer. He really couldn’t help but agree with Sam’s complaint that the place was an accident waiting to happen.
Even Dad looked skeptical about staying for long. Dean noticed he never really unpacked anything. Maybe that meant they’d be gone before too long. Dean didn’t like keeping Sammy in something that so closely resembled a death trap. Not when there were other options.
Dean kept a close eye on Sam. He didn’t want to come back to the cabin one afternoon and find that the kid had fallen through the floor or something. He absolutely refused to let him cook on that stove. If it had been up to Dean, they would have just made do with a fire pit outside. It would have been safer and kept the cabin cooler in the heavy, humid heat. But their dad felt the stove was safe enough and didn’t seem to mind the extra warmth.
Maybe Vietnam had made Dad immune to anything less than extreme swamp conditions. Or maybe he had always like the heat. Dean hated it. He hated coming in from training feeling like he was swimming. Hated never feeling dry. Even on windy days, it felt like he was drowning every time he breathed. Sam’s asthma was acting up again too.
Dean would be all to glad to leave the Alabama summer behind.
They survived there for three weeks before Dean woke to the scent of smoke filling the cabin. He jerked up in his sleeping bag, grabbing the knife he kept under his pillow and glancing over to the narrow mattress where Sam was sleeping. Where Sam was supposed to be sleeping.
He leapt to his feet. “Sammy?” he called, snatching a lungful of gritty smoke as he did. “Sammy!”
He was running. Out their door and into the short hallway, he grabbed the handle for the bathroom, hoping Sam was there, and yanked it open. It was empty. “Sammy!” He called. “Dad!”
The next door down was their father’s room. He tore into it, regardless of privacy. It was getting hazier in the house by the second. Dad was still in bed, asleep. Dean couldn’t believe he hadn’t woken from the smell.
“Dad!” He flew to the bed, tearing at John’s covers. “Dad, get up!”
John sprang up, knife in hand, and was at Dean’s throat before Dean could swear. Dean blinked against the stinging in his eyes that was making it hard to focus.
“Dad! There’s a fire. Let’s go!” He pushed his father off of him and rolled up.
“I’ve got to find Sam.” He was pushing his way out the door with John close on his heels.
“Sam’s not with you?”
Dean glanced back, but didn’t answer. There wasn’t time. “Sammy!”
Then he heard it. “Dean! Help!” This was followed by a series of sharp coughs.
“Sam! Where are you?”
“Kitchen.”
More coughing followed this. Dean barreled around the corner and into the kitchen. Sam huddled across the room in the corner furthest from the iron stove. The entire room was ablaze and Dean couldn’t see a way through.
There was a horrible popping creak and one of the cabinets fell completely from the wall.
Dean didn’t see it. All he could see was the yellow-red light of the fire. The fire that had licked its way out of the nursery, crawling along the ceiling into the hallway where John was holding an infant Sam.
He couldn’t move. He knew he was supposed to take Sammy and run to safety, but all he could see was fire. It was everywhere. He couldn’t even step back from the rushing heat of it.
Something jostled his arm and he snapped back just enough to see his father rushing forward through a brief gap in the flames. Dad scooped Sam up and was running back towards him. This time, instead of thrusting the bundle of Sam at him, he kept running. He didn’t stop to check Dean, just grabbed his shoulder and shoved him towards the door.
Dean stumbled and ran, following his father out and into the clearing of the yard. When they reached the drive where the Impala was parked, he turned back to look at the cabin. Flames danced in the two front windows now. Much longer and their escape route would have been completely cut off.
Dean stood in the drive shaking and watching the fire consume the derelict building. He vaguely heard his father rummaging in the car behind him.
Dean felt a small hand in his own. He looked down to find hazel green eyes peering up at him from under a sandy mop of hair. Sammy’s face was soot streaked and pale. He stared up at Dean with wide, lost eyes and Dean remembered what he’d almost lost. He dropped to his knees, the knife he had been clutching since he woke up fell to the ground with a soft thump. He pulled his brother in front of him.
“Are you okay?” He demanded, his hands checking every inch of Sam. There were a few first degree burns and it looked like something had clipped his cheek, but Dean didn’t see anything life threatening.
Sam pulled back, but didn’t stop him. “I’m fine, Dean.” His voice was little more than a croak and the effort sent him into another coughing fit.
Then Dad was there. He thrust bottles of water at both Sam and Dean. Dean watched carefully as Sam chugged down half his bottle in one long, guzzling gulp. Dean took a sip of his own and felt a blanket drop down on his shoulders. He belatedly realized that he was still shaking.
He had frozen in the face of the fire and nearly got Sam hurt.
“God, Sammy. I’m sorry,” he muttered getting to his feet. He was pretty sure he was about to barf up what little water he had just managed to sip down. He stumbled over to the nearest tree, leaning against it for support as his stomach heaved.
A strong, wide hand rubbed circles on his back. “It’s okay,” his father was saying. “Just let it out. You’re safe now.”
Dean tried to shake off his hand, but only managed to turn around and look up at his father.
“Dad.”
“You’re fine, Dean. Everyone’s okay.”
Dean shuddered. “Sammy could have died because I froze in there.” His stomach decided it wanted to lose yesterday’s dinner too. When he straightened back up, his father was still there with a hand on his shoulder. He turned Dean back around to look at him.
“Listen to me, Dean. I know. I’m not saying it’s okay, but God knows I know.”
Dean met his eye. There was a haunted look to them he hadn’t seen in years.
His dad squeezed his shoulder, which was about as close as John Winchester came to doing feelings of any kind. “We’re all safe. That’s what’s important right now. I just want to know what happened.”
“It was my fault.” A small voice spoke from just beside them.
Dean turned to look at Sam.
“Sammy?”
The kid was staring at the ground a few feet away from either Dean or Dad. “I got up for a drink of water. I guess the stove was still hot or something, but I - I tripped and bumped into it and then the bottom kind of fell out of it and there was fire everywhere. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I swear it was an accident. I’m sorry.”
Sammy had been right in the middle of it. No wonder he’d gotten trapped in the corner. It was a miracle he hadn’t had worse burns.
Dean’s gut twisted.
“No, Sam,” Dean said, coming to kneel in front of him again. He grabbed his brother’s arms. “Take a breath.”
When he did, Dean went on. “It’s not your fault. The thing was ancient. It’s been waiting to fall apart. We shouldn’t have been using it to start with.”
“Dean’s right, Sam.”
Dean looked back at their father. John Winchester had all but admitted to making a mistake. This was a day for the history books.
“But what about our stuff? It’s all still inside.”
Dean shot a glance up at the building. “Forget about it, Sammy. It was just clothes anyway.”
“But -”
“No. It’s fine. We can get new stuff. And your duffel’s still out here from the training trip the other day. Remember? So is most of Dad’s stuff. Mine was just clothes. All the important stuff is fine.”
Sam look up from his shoes and Dean caught a glimpse of wide, wet eyes before he had an armful of Sam clinging to him. Dean shushed him. He laced his fingers in the fine hair and pulled Sammy’s head close. He could smell the smoke clinging to his skin and knew he probably hadn’t fared much better. Sam tightened his grip and they clung to each other.
Later, Dean would deny every second.
“Come on boys,” John said from the car. “We need to go. We don’t want to be here if someone comes to investigate, and we should call 911. Summer this far south, we don’t need to start a forest fire if we can help it and I don’t have anything to fight that with.”
Sam pulled back and Dean let him. They made their way to the car together and Dean slid into the backseat next to Sam as the engine rumbled to life. He was not going to let Sam out of his sight. Not for a good long while. Maybe not until he hit high school. Or turned thirty.