(no subject)
Every Aching Old Machine
Supernatural
Dean (gen); PG
1,134 words
A/N: A little WIAWSNB coda, that was supposed to be part of something much larger, but never quite made it there. Thanks to mcee for beta.
Dean lies awake long after Sam's fallen asleep, spread-eagle and facedown in the pillows. The shadows on the wall pulse orange, then black, in time with the neon vacancy sign outside. The heater rattles underneath the window, the wind howling in the stairwell. Sam snores quietly, muffled.
Dean's exhausted, but his eyes won't close. His brain won't shut off, won't shut up. All he can think about is Mom, Carmen, Jess. Dad, and how deep that wound runs. That even in Dean's perfect little dream life, he's still gone. Thinks about Sam, other-Sam, who had his girl and law school and his perfect cookie-cutter life, but didn't have Dean. And Sam, his Sam, who'd brought him home.
He understands, now, why Sam didn't sleep when the nightmares started.
*
When he finally falls asleep, around dawn, he dreams of Carmen.
Their little apartment, their simple, happy life. Her scrubs in the closet, his coveralls in the hamper. He runs his thumb over the name patch on the chest, the G&W Auto Repairs logo stitched above it. Misses Dad suddenly and fiercely. Even in dreams, he can't escape that.
"Babe?" Carmen pokes her head into the bedroom. Her hair's pulled up, the neck of her t-shirt--his, actually, he thinks--gaping a little, exposing the dip of her collarbone. "Dinner's ready."
His smile is automatic, easy. "I'll be right there. Just gonna wash up first."
"M'kay." She reaches around the doorframe to grab a handful of his shirt and pull him into a kiss. "Don't be long."
The bathroom is still warm, soap-sweet, like she's just showered. He washes his hands, splashes cold water on his face. Knows that when he looks in the mirror, his reflection will be a few scars shy of what he's used to, that the shadows under his eyes will be paler. It's not such a bad thing.
When he steps into the hallway, the light is soft, pinkish; late-day sun, or maybe just rose-colored. It surrounds him, envelops him, swallows him whole.
*
"Hey, wake up."
Dean peels his eyes open to cold, bright light, the mattress dipping and groaning as Sam plunks gracelessly on the edge of the mattress. The dream lingers a moment, suspends him in that limbo space between sleep and waking. Tries to tug him back in but he fights it, pushing unsteadily onto his elbow. Sam smiles down at him.
"Hey."
"Time is it?" Dean asks. His eyes feel swollen, sore, and he flops back on the pillow to rub at them with the heels of his hands.
"Nine-thirty, and check out's at eleven." Sam laces up his boots, pulls the cuffs of his jeans down over them. "Unless you want to stay...?"
"Ungh, no. I'm up." Dean throws back the blankets, feels around on the floor for his jeans. "Gimme twenty minutes."
"You wanna jump in the shower? I'll go get coffee."
"Yeah, thanks."
Dean shuffles into the bathroom, puffy-eyed and dry-mouthed. He kicks the door shut behind him, and the magazine's sitting on the back of the toilet. Cover bent back, the pages steam-wavy, open to the El Sol ad. It catches him off-guard, off-center; and he pitches forward, slapping his hand against the wall for balance.
For a second, not even, he half-expects to hear Carmen call out, "You okay in there?" But it's Sam's voice that drifts under the closed door, disorienting him.
"Dean?"
"Tripped over my own damn feet," he says, trying to steady his breathing, his pulse. He grabs the magazine, something spiking sharp and hot in his chest. "I'm fine."
The door eases open an inch, Sam's hand and then his face appearing around the frame. "Dude, if you slip in the shower and crack your head open, you're on your own."
Dean waves him away impatiently. "Do you mind? I'm trying to take a leak."
Sam's eyes flicker to the magazine in Dean's hand. His eyebrows and the corner of his mouth quirk up. "Yeah. I'll uh, leave you to it."
"Would you, please?"
Sam rolls his eyes and pulls the door closed again. Dean lingers over the magazine a minute longer, then tosses it in the trash. He showers quickly, uses the last of the shampoo and, after, Sam's toothpaste.
His clothes are about two states past really needing to be washed, but he just applies extra deodorant and calls it even. Not much they can do without cash, anyway, and that's been in short supply since Arkansas.
He sits on the closed toilet lid to pull on his socks--his last clean pair, but he'll wear them until they get up and walk off on their own. His eyes keep drifting to the trash can, the corner of the model's smile peeking over the edge.
The page tears a little when he grabs at it, and he spreads the magazine open on his lap, smoothing the ripped and rippled page with his palm. He wonders how many times he's flipped right past this same ad, driven past billboards of it, for this chick to have sunk so deeply into his subconscious. He can't remember ever sparing her more than a passing thought before; now he can't stop thinking about her. Go someplace better, indeed.
He tears out the page, folds it carefully into eighths so that her face is framed just right, and tucks the whole thing into his wallet, behind last week's credit cards. Any soldier worth his salt carries a picture of his girl back home. It's the closest thing Dean's got.
*
They drive straight through to Topeka, five hundred mostly silent miles punctuated by strangely halting attempts at conversation. But Dean's too preoccupied to follow any train of thought for very long, his head still too full of things it shouldn't be. He's not even paying attention to the radio; it's Sam who twists the dial when they hit long stretches of static, and Dean doesn't even slap his hand away.
He sticks to the major highways for a change, a dumb move even with the plates switched on the car, but he doesn't think he can take the back roads today. All those houses--homes--with their neat lawns and flower boxes in the windows. All those families tucked up safe inside, oblivious and happy.
Sam only asks once if he's okay. When Dean snaps back that he's "Fine, Sam, okay?" Sam pauses, like he's going to say something else. Dean shifts his eyes back to the road, and Sam just nods, curls up against the door with his jacket under his head.
Dean clicks off the radio and rolls his window down, lets the rush of the wind cool his cheeks, his burning eyes, the ache in his chest for things that were never meant to be his.
Supernatural
Dean (gen); PG
1,134 words
A/N: A little WIAWSNB coda, that was supposed to be part of something much larger, but never quite made it there. Thanks to mcee for beta.
Dean lies awake long after Sam's fallen asleep, spread-eagle and facedown in the pillows. The shadows on the wall pulse orange, then black, in time with the neon vacancy sign outside. The heater rattles underneath the window, the wind howling in the stairwell. Sam snores quietly, muffled.
Dean's exhausted, but his eyes won't close. His brain won't shut off, won't shut up. All he can think about is Mom, Carmen, Jess. Dad, and how deep that wound runs. That even in Dean's perfect little dream life, he's still gone. Thinks about Sam, other-Sam, who had his girl and law school and his perfect cookie-cutter life, but didn't have Dean. And Sam, his Sam, who'd brought him home.
He understands, now, why Sam didn't sleep when the nightmares started.
*
When he finally falls asleep, around dawn, he dreams of Carmen.
Their little apartment, their simple, happy life. Her scrubs in the closet, his coveralls in the hamper. He runs his thumb over the name patch on the chest, the G&W Auto Repairs logo stitched above it. Misses Dad suddenly and fiercely. Even in dreams, he can't escape that.
"Babe?" Carmen pokes her head into the bedroom. Her hair's pulled up, the neck of her t-shirt--his, actually, he thinks--gaping a little, exposing the dip of her collarbone. "Dinner's ready."
His smile is automatic, easy. "I'll be right there. Just gonna wash up first."
"M'kay." She reaches around the doorframe to grab a handful of his shirt and pull him into a kiss. "Don't be long."
The bathroom is still warm, soap-sweet, like she's just showered. He washes his hands, splashes cold water on his face. Knows that when he looks in the mirror, his reflection will be a few scars shy of what he's used to, that the shadows under his eyes will be paler. It's not such a bad thing.
When he steps into the hallway, the light is soft, pinkish; late-day sun, or maybe just rose-colored. It surrounds him, envelops him, swallows him whole.
*
"Hey, wake up."
Dean peels his eyes open to cold, bright light, the mattress dipping and groaning as Sam plunks gracelessly on the edge of the mattress. The dream lingers a moment, suspends him in that limbo space between sleep and waking. Tries to tug him back in but he fights it, pushing unsteadily onto his elbow. Sam smiles down at him.
"Hey."
"Time is it?" Dean asks. His eyes feel swollen, sore, and he flops back on the pillow to rub at them with the heels of his hands.
"Nine-thirty, and check out's at eleven." Sam laces up his boots, pulls the cuffs of his jeans down over them. "Unless you want to stay...?"
"Ungh, no. I'm up." Dean throws back the blankets, feels around on the floor for his jeans. "Gimme twenty minutes."
"You wanna jump in the shower? I'll go get coffee."
"Yeah, thanks."
Dean shuffles into the bathroom, puffy-eyed and dry-mouthed. He kicks the door shut behind him, and the magazine's sitting on the back of the toilet. Cover bent back, the pages steam-wavy, open to the El Sol ad. It catches him off-guard, off-center; and he pitches forward, slapping his hand against the wall for balance.
For a second, not even, he half-expects to hear Carmen call out, "You okay in there?" But it's Sam's voice that drifts under the closed door, disorienting him.
"Dean?"
"Tripped over my own damn feet," he says, trying to steady his breathing, his pulse. He grabs the magazine, something spiking sharp and hot in his chest. "I'm fine."
The door eases open an inch, Sam's hand and then his face appearing around the frame. "Dude, if you slip in the shower and crack your head open, you're on your own."
Dean waves him away impatiently. "Do you mind? I'm trying to take a leak."
Sam's eyes flicker to the magazine in Dean's hand. His eyebrows and the corner of his mouth quirk up. "Yeah. I'll uh, leave you to it."
"Would you, please?"
Sam rolls his eyes and pulls the door closed again. Dean lingers over the magazine a minute longer, then tosses it in the trash. He showers quickly, uses the last of the shampoo and, after, Sam's toothpaste.
His clothes are about two states past really needing to be washed, but he just applies extra deodorant and calls it even. Not much they can do without cash, anyway, and that's been in short supply since Arkansas.
He sits on the closed toilet lid to pull on his socks--his last clean pair, but he'll wear them until they get up and walk off on their own. His eyes keep drifting to the trash can, the corner of the model's smile peeking over the edge.
The page tears a little when he grabs at it, and he spreads the magazine open on his lap, smoothing the ripped and rippled page with his palm. He wonders how many times he's flipped right past this same ad, driven past billboards of it, for this chick to have sunk so deeply into his subconscious. He can't remember ever sparing her more than a passing thought before; now he can't stop thinking about her. Go someplace better, indeed.
He tears out the page, folds it carefully into eighths so that her face is framed just right, and tucks the whole thing into his wallet, behind last week's credit cards. Any soldier worth his salt carries a picture of his girl back home. It's the closest thing Dean's got.
*
They drive straight through to Topeka, five hundred mostly silent miles punctuated by strangely halting attempts at conversation. But Dean's too preoccupied to follow any train of thought for very long, his head still too full of things it shouldn't be. He's not even paying attention to the radio; it's Sam who twists the dial when they hit long stretches of static, and Dean doesn't even slap his hand away.
He sticks to the major highways for a change, a dumb move even with the plates switched on the car, but he doesn't think he can take the back roads today. All those houses--homes--with their neat lawns and flower boxes in the windows. All those families tucked up safe inside, oblivious and happy.
Sam only asks once if he's okay. When Dean snaps back that he's "Fine, Sam, okay?" Sam pauses, like he's going to say something else. Dean shifts his eyes back to the road, and Sam just nods, curls up against the door with his jacket under his head.
Dean clicks off the radio and rolls his window down, lets the rush of the wind cool his cheeks, his burning eyes, the ache in his chest for things that were never meant to be his.