Fic: But if you try sometimes
This isn't actually a new fic - I was messing with my tags and I realized I had posted this one directly to spnspiration instead of just posting a link, so I decided to repost to my own journal just to make sure it doesn't go away.
But if you try sometimes
Length: About 1100 words
Rating: PG-13 for language
Characters: Dean Winchester, omniscient narrator
Spoilers: Through Bad Day at Black Rock. This is an AU of that episode, where Dean did not save Sam after Cold Oak, but it won't make sense unless you've seen BDaBR.
Synopsis: A different day at Black Rock. But it's still bad.
Notes: This was written to fill the omniscient POV square on my spnspiration bingo card, except I'm a moron because I don't actually have that square. Dammit. I guess it goes in my free space. Or can I pretend I never got slam poetry? Cause I'm never gonna write slam poetry. (ETA... Radical revision! Woot!) Title is from the Rolling Stones song "You Can't Always Get What You Want."
The end of this story is sitting in front of you. All you have to do is pick up that napkin. But to understand what you see beneath the napkin, first I have to take you back to the beginning.
The very beginning? About 25 years ago, perhaps? When a distraught man puts an infant in a young child's arms and never really takes him back? Or maybe not so far back. Maybe about 18 years later, when that baby, now six and a half feet of angry, sad, frightened determination, finally crawls out of his brother's arms and tries to create his own life. Or maybe four years later when his brother gets him back.
Or a few months ago, when he lost him again.
Lost him more than once, actually. Lost him when he was stolen right under his nose. Lost him again, when he found him just in time to witness his murder and hold him as he died. And lost him a third time, for good, when he tried to make a deal with a crossroads demon to bring him back, and was told the underworld was more interested in his brother being dead than in anything he personally had to offer.
(Yes, you're right, most people would have considered him lost for good when he died, but these boys live under different rules than most people.)
But let's skip a few dark, ugly months and look at what happened this week. When he received a phone call about a break-in at a storage locker he didn't know his father had. When he visited that storage locker and found a place where a hex box used to be, which made him puzzled. And an old sawed-off shotgun, which made him smile. And an old soccer trophy, which made him smash a few things in anger and then slide down to the floor, quietly weeping.
And now we see him sitting alone, in a booth at a chain restaurant which, while not exactly known for the quality of its offerings, does happen to have a tasty fried onion appetizer on its menu.
He's a handsome young man by anyone's standards, but not particularly approachable, don't you agree? Something about him says Don't touch. There's something prickly and angry about the set of his jaw, something broken about the slope of his shoulders. And yet, if we'd been here a few minutes earlier, we would have seen someone try to approach him, a waitress wearing a rather unfortunate black wig. We would have seen him grab her wrist as she tried to slip a hand into his pocket. We would have seen her tell him he doesn't know what he's dealing with, and offer him an amount of money (small to her, large to him) to take it off his hands. We would have seen him tell her to go to Hell. But since we weren't here for all of that, you can just take my word on it.
What we do get to see now is one side of the phone conversation he's having.
Hey, Bobby. What did you find out?
No, I didn't lose it.
Yes, I'm sure. Some chick did try to steal it though. I think she's the one who got it out in the first place. Or paid those morons to get it, I guess.
Yes, I told you, I have it. I'm holding it right here in my hand. Jesus, Bobby, what's up?
That doesn't sound so bad. Some good luck would be nice for a change.
So I just won't lose it.
I don't care if everybody loses it. Maybe I'm not everybody.
Okay, so can't I just put it back in the box?
No, I get it. I touched it, it's mine. Christ. Just let me know when you figure out how to destroy it.
Yeah, okay, I'll talk to you later.
How am I? I'm fine.
Yes, really. I'm fan-fucking-tastic. My life is non-stop rainbows and unicorns.
Shit, I don't know what you want me to say. How am I supposed to be dealing with -
No, I just.
No, Bobby, I know. I'm sorry.
I know you do. I'm sorry.
Hey, Bobby? This good luck. How good is it?
No, I'm not going to do anything stupid. I'm just. Curious.
I won't. Dammit, I promise, I won't.
You too. I'll talk to you later.
(What kind of dipping sauce do you prefer for your fried onion? I'm partial to the ranch dressing.)
And now, here we are. Now that this young man knows the power of the object in his pocket, he has a choice to make. He's considering two options. One is that he could take the object and use the luck associated with it to do what he wasn't able to accomplish earlier - to make a deal with a demon and bring his brother back. The other is that he could leave the object for the thieving waitress, knowing he'll be dead in a week.
(Yes, I know he could wait for his friend to tell him how to destroy it. But he's not going to do that. No, I'm quite sure. You'll just have to trust me on that one.)
Watch him turn the object over in his hands. Such a powerful little thing. The power to bring him something he treasures, something he wants more than he ever realized he could want anything - either his brother, or an end.
(No, obviously I don't approve of such things. There is a natural order that should be kept.)
As he gets up to leave, he carefully places his napkin on the table. Maybe it's covering a couple of crumpled bills. Maybe it's covering an innocuous-looking object of great power. Either way, he's made his decision. To see what he has chosen, all you have to do is look under that napkin.
Me? No, I'm not curious. I already know the answer.
But if you try sometimes
Length: About 1100 words
Rating: PG-13 for language
Characters: Dean Winchester, omniscient narrator
Spoilers: Through Bad Day at Black Rock. This is an AU of that episode, where Dean did not save Sam after Cold Oak, but it won't make sense unless you've seen BDaBR.
Synopsis: A different day at Black Rock. But it's still bad.
Notes: This was written to fill the omniscient POV square on my spnspiration bingo card, except I'm a moron because I don't actually have that square. Dammit. I guess it goes in my free space. Or can I pretend I never got slam poetry? Cause I'm never gonna write slam poetry. (ETA... Radical revision! Woot!) Title is from the Rolling Stones song "You Can't Always Get What You Want."
The end of this story is sitting in front of you. All you have to do is pick up that napkin. But to understand what you see beneath the napkin, first I have to take you back to the beginning.
The very beginning? About 25 years ago, perhaps? When a distraught man puts an infant in a young child's arms and never really takes him back? Or maybe not so far back. Maybe about 18 years later, when that baby, now six and a half feet of angry, sad, frightened determination, finally crawls out of his brother's arms and tries to create his own life. Or maybe four years later when his brother gets him back.
Or a few months ago, when he lost him again.
Lost him more than once, actually. Lost him when he was stolen right under his nose. Lost him again, when he found him just in time to witness his murder and hold him as he died. And lost him a third time, for good, when he tried to make a deal with a crossroads demon to bring him back, and was told the underworld was more interested in his brother being dead than in anything he personally had to offer.
(Yes, you're right, most people would have considered him lost for good when he died, but these boys live under different rules than most people.)
But let's skip a few dark, ugly months and look at what happened this week. When he received a phone call about a break-in at a storage locker he didn't know his father had. When he visited that storage locker and found a place where a hex box used to be, which made him puzzled. And an old sawed-off shotgun, which made him smile. And an old soccer trophy, which made him smash a few things in anger and then slide down to the floor, quietly weeping.
And now we see him sitting alone, in a booth at a chain restaurant which, while not exactly known for the quality of its offerings, does happen to have a tasty fried onion appetizer on its menu.
He's a handsome young man by anyone's standards, but not particularly approachable, don't you agree? Something about him says Don't touch. There's something prickly and angry about the set of his jaw, something broken about the slope of his shoulders. And yet, if we'd been here a few minutes earlier, we would have seen someone try to approach him, a waitress wearing a rather unfortunate black wig. We would have seen him grab her wrist as she tried to slip a hand into his pocket. We would have seen her tell him he doesn't know what he's dealing with, and offer him an amount of money (small to her, large to him) to take it off his hands. We would have seen him tell her to go to Hell. But since we weren't here for all of that, you can just take my word on it.
What we do get to see now is one side of the phone conversation he's having.
Hey, Bobby. What did you find out?
No, I didn't lose it.
Yes, I'm sure. Some chick did try to steal it though. I think she's the one who got it out in the first place. Or paid those morons to get it, I guess.
Yes, I told you, I have it. I'm holding it right here in my hand. Jesus, Bobby, what's up?
That doesn't sound so bad. Some good luck would be nice for a change.
So I just won't lose it.
I don't care if everybody loses it. Maybe I'm not everybody.
Okay, so can't I just put it back in the box?
No, I get it. I touched it, it's mine. Christ. Just let me know when you figure out how to destroy it.
Yeah, okay, I'll talk to you later.
How am I? I'm fine.
Yes, really. I'm fan-fucking-tastic. My life is non-stop rainbows and unicorns.
Shit, I don't know what you want me to say. How am I supposed to be dealing with -
No, I just.
No, Bobby, I know. I'm sorry.
I know you do. I'm sorry.
Hey, Bobby? This good luck. How good is it?
No, I'm not going to do anything stupid. I'm just. Curious.
I won't. Dammit, I promise, I won't.
You too. I'll talk to you later.
(What kind of dipping sauce do you prefer for your fried onion? I'm partial to the ranch dressing.)
And now, here we are. Now that this young man knows the power of the object in his pocket, he has a choice to make. He's considering two options. One is that he could take the object and use the luck associated with it to do what he wasn't able to accomplish earlier - to make a deal with a demon and bring his brother back. The other is that he could leave the object for the thieving waitress, knowing he'll be dead in a week.
(Yes, I know he could wait for his friend to tell him how to destroy it. But he's not going to do that. No, I'm quite sure. You'll just have to trust me on that one.)
Watch him turn the object over in his hands. Such a powerful little thing. The power to bring him something he treasures, something he wants more than he ever realized he could want anything - either his brother, or an end.
(No, obviously I don't approve of such things. There is a natural order that should be kept.)
As he gets up to leave, he carefully places his napkin on the table. Maybe it's covering a couple of crumpled bills. Maybe it's covering an innocuous-looking object of great power. Either way, he's made his decision. To see what he has chosen, all you have to do is look under that napkin.
Me? No, I'm not curious. I already know the answer.