June Response: dramaticmuses
Title: Pieces of Home
Prompt Number/Prompt: 021. Home
Character/Fandom: Dean Winchester // Supernatural
Word Count: 944
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Spoilers for "Pilot," "In the Time of My Dying," "What is and What Never Should Be"
Summary: The more happy memories seemed to be drowned out by the last night he ever spent in a place he could call home, and the last time his mother ever put him to sleep.
Note: Hopefully, there'll be a lot of Dean this month from me. Because all of the prompts fit for him so well, and I've claimed him elsewhere, so--yeah.
Dean didn’t remember much of home. It could probably be considered the one thing he wanted more than anything, aside from really having one himself was more memories of the one he ran from all those years ago. He didn’t even have whole moments of his mother to hold onto. Just flashes of her smile or the sound of her laugh. The soft hum off a lullaby in his ear when he couldn’t sleep or the words she used to say to him as he put him to bed every night. The more happy memories seemed to be drowned out by the last night he ever spent in a place he could call home, and the last time his mother ever put him to sleep.
It played over and over in his mind like a bad horror movie, him wandering into the hallway to find out what was wrong, his father shoving Sam into his arms, telling him to take his brother outside and not to look back. Those were John’s first unspoken orders telling him to protect Sam. Four years old, and he was running out into the dark, away from the heat and the light and the screams, when all he wanted to do was go back into his room and curl up under the sheets, hoping that it was just and bad dream and it would all be over soon. That he would wake up, and run to his mother, who would hold him and soothe him back to sleep, telling him that everything was going to be just fine.
But Dad said run. And run he did. He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, his six month old brother in his arms, and more fear than he knew what to do with. Even when John picked him up and carried him all the way across the yard, knowing that his father was going to do his best to keep him safe, he was still scared. He wanted his mother. He wanted a soft voice and a gentle touch that would let him know he was safe. That he was home. When Mommy didn’t come out of the house, he knew something was very wrong. He didn’t ask though. He didn’t ask why they were leaving her behind, or if she was coming back, but John decided not to wait for him to ask before saying what he needed to say.
“I’m gonna need you to help me with Sam, now, Dean. He’s gonna be your responsibility. You’re gonna have to look after him, make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”
Take Sam, look out for Sam, protect Sam, save Sam. And he did it. Because Sam was his brother. Because most of the time, Sam was all he had. Sam was that last piece of home he had left. He had wandered through most of his life not having one place to call home, but he knew if he and his brother were together, they were off to a pretty good start. When it came to trying to save Sam, he would do anything and everything that he needed to not to lose home. Because he had already lost it once before, and it would break his heart to lose it again. And lose it again he did.
He knew that the djinn was behind this. It was always there, in the back of his mind, but he didn’t want to have to face it. He was stuck-although he didn’t really see it that way-in a world where he had his mom. There was a house with those goofy lawn gnomes that in this world he had probably given her endless grief about, but for him was just icing on the cake. He had a gorgeous girlfriend and a job and an apartment. But most of all, he had his mother. She was physically there. He could hold her and touch her, and she would make him lunch, and he could mow her lawn, and everything would be OK. It wasn’t perfect-he and Sam barely saw each other, and his father was still dead-but he had his mother. She was flesh and blood in front of him, not just some spirit watching over his shoulder like everyone told him she was. She was here, and she was home, and Goddamnit, what was so wrong with wanting that? He would have easily passed up all the lives he had saved just to have his mother back again. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was self-serving, but that was the way he felt.
And he also knew, that no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t stay. He couldn’t sit there, and let things stay the way they were. He had a responsibility. He didn’t understand why the weight of the world needed to rest on his shoulders. What was so damn special about him that he needed to carry it. Why he needed to give up one of the few things that made him feel like home in order to do what was right. But he did know that if he wasn’t going to do it, no one else would.
Now he has more solid memories of home. He has more than whispers of sensations of the soft stroke of her hand on his face or the sound of her voice in his ear. He can call the memories back, and let them play over and over in his mind, again and again. And most of the time, it hurt more than all those years of barely having anything at all.
Prompt Number/Prompt: 021. Home
Character/Fandom: Dean Winchester // Supernatural
Word Count: 944
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Spoilers for "Pilot," "In the Time of My Dying," "What is and What Never Should Be"
Summary: The more happy memories seemed to be drowned out by the last night he ever spent in a place he could call home, and the last time his mother ever put him to sleep.
Note: Hopefully, there'll be a lot of Dean this month from me. Because all of the prompts fit for him so well, and I've claimed him elsewhere, so--yeah.
Dean didn’t remember much of home. It could probably be considered the one thing he wanted more than anything, aside from really having one himself was more memories of the one he ran from all those years ago. He didn’t even have whole moments of his mother to hold onto. Just flashes of her smile or the sound of her laugh. The soft hum off a lullaby in his ear when he couldn’t sleep or the words she used to say to him as he put him to bed every night. The more happy memories seemed to be drowned out by the last night he ever spent in a place he could call home, and the last time his mother ever put him to sleep.
It played over and over in his mind like a bad horror movie, him wandering into the hallway to find out what was wrong, his father shoving Sam into his arms, telling him to take his brother outside and not to look back. Those were John’s first unspoken orders telling him to protect Sam. Four years old, and he was running out into the dark, away from the heat and the light and the screams, when all he wanted to do was go back into his room and curl up under the sheets, hoping that it was just and bad dream and it would all be over soon. That he would wake up, and run to his mother, who would hold him and soothe him back to sleep, telling him that everything was going to be just fine.
But Dad said run. And run he did. He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, his six month old brother in his arms, and more fear than he knew what to do with. Even when John picked him up and carried him all the way across the yard, knowing that his father was going to do his best to keep him safe, he was still scared. He wanted his mother. He wanted a soft voice and a gentle touch that would let him know he was safe. That he was home. When Mommy didn’t come out of the house, he knew something was very wrong. He didn’t ask though. He didn’t ask why they were leaving her behind, or if she was coming back, but John decided not to wait for him to ask before saying what he needed to say.
“I’m gonna need you to help me with Sam, now, Dean. He’s gonna be your responsibility. You’re gonna have to look after him, make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”
Take Sam, look out for Sam, protect Sam, save Sam. And he did it. Because Sam was his brother. Because most of the time, Sam was all he had. Sam was that last piece of home he had left. He had wandered through most of his life not having one place to call home, but he knew if he and his brother were together, they were off to a pretty good start. When it came to trying to save Sam, he would do anything and everything that he needed to not to lose home. Because he had already lost it once before, and it would break his heart to lose it again. And lose it again he did.
He knew that the djinn was behind this. It was always there, in the back of his mind, but he didn’t want to have to face it. He was stuck-although he didn’t really see it that way-in a world where he had his mom. There was a house with those goofy lawn gnomes that in this world he had probably given her endless grief about, but for him was just icing on the cake. He had a gorgeous girlfriend and a job and an apartment. But most of all, he had his mother. She was physically there. He could hold her and touch her, and she would make him lunch, and he could mow her lawn, and everything would be OK. It wasn’t perfect-he and Sam barely saw each other, and his father was still dead-but he had his mother. She was flesh and blood in front of him, not just some spirit watching over his shoulder like everyone told him she was. She was here, and she was home, and Goddamnit, what was so wrong with wanting that? He would have easily passed up all the lives he had saved just to have his mother back again. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was self-serving, but that was the way he felt.
And he also knew, that no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t stay. He couldn’t sit there, and let things stay the way they were. He had a responsibility. He didn’t understand why the weight of the world needed to rest on his shoulders. What was so damn special about him that he needed to carry it. Why he needed to give up one of the few things that made him feel like home in order to do what was right. But he did know that if he wasn’t going to do it, no one else would.
Now he has more solid memories of home. He has more than whispers of sensations of the soft stroke of her hand on his face or the sound of her voice in his ear. He can call the memories back, and let them play over and over in his mind, again and again. And most of the time, it hurt more than all those years of barely having anything at all.