salt what now?
You'd think the first thing I'd write after DH would be....well....an after DH fic. Huh.
Anyway. Supernatural fic! My first, even, so I'm naturally anxious and twitchy and not wanting to post it.
I'm also a masochist though, so there ya go. I give this to watchersprout because its her fault I'll never look at salt without thinking of demons.
Seriously. Funny story bout that, involving a tip, salt, and an imagined dilemma. But it might offend someone. Damn.
Title: Soldier’s Things
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: Not mine. Oh, how I wish.
Warning: Angst. Alas. Spoilers for Season 2 finale.
AN: First SPN fic. Ficlet. Whatever. Title taken from a Tom Waits song.
Summary: A year, a box, a realization.
One year, Sam thought, and hated it as he did.
One year was what had been given, through slight of hand and bargaining and in the optimist’s light it seemed like more than enough to time to undue the deal that Dean so easily made. Easily, unthinkingly, and stupidly if Sam could add his own personal opinion to the list.
But one year in the grand scheme of things was nothing. The two years they had been on the road; the four years they had been apart. The eighteen they had known when there was nothing but them and Dad and dirt roads mixed with endless highways. Years they could count now, after the fact, but never measured at the time.
Perspectives changed with priorities when there was a schedule, and new regrets could form based on nothing but the fact.
One year, to whatever end.
Sam wanted to hit his brother a hundred times over for this new mess he had made-sacrifice and desperation and maybe something darker-and the only thing that stopped him was just one more simple fact. That Dean would roll with it, slip in a throw of his own, and grin through a bruised face because didn’t brothers always fight?
And it would all just be a waste of minutes they needed.
However resigned Dean might look when his brother brought it up, as if it were a bother to dwell on the affair. Or how amused he was by the weight of Sam’s duffle bag, filled with new books and new notes, all of deals and devils and final ends. Sam didn’t buy the act, not always if ever, and was strangely happy when he couldn’t.
There were signs, each one filed away as a hope that they would fight this. That there was a reason to, no matter how worn out they felt or how much Dean claimed that it was alright. Small signs, true, but they were enough.
Like when Dean’s hands would clench the Impala’s steering wheel like he’d prefer to never have to let go. When he stayed awake longer than he had to, just to talk or sit or listen. Telling without saying the words, it’s what made the act that much easier to see through.
Still, sometimes, Sam wondered and worried and his fingers twisted into the cheap paper of the fast-food bad he was carrying.
He found Dean sitting on the edge of his bed, looking dazed but still alert enough to around at his the sound of his brother’s arrival. He nearly upset the box on his lap, an old faded Doc Marten’s box that might have been Dean’s or may have been their father’s. It might have been nobody’s, another necessity picked up along the way.
“I know we don’t have a lot of cash but I think we could manage to get you some new boots,” Sam said, eyebrows raised, as he closed the door behind him and tossed the bag onto the table.
“I heard the vintage look was in,” Dean grinned and, copying his brother, tossed his own burden onto the bed behind him. “Now I just need to find me some bleach and a ripped Bowie shirt.”
“Dude. No.” Sam was vaguely horrified and wondered if the older Winchester had actually gone through any unfortunate phases while they’d been separated.
Dean just looked like he had accomplished another goal on his To-Do list.
“So what’s in it, really?”
Green eyes squinted at him. “It’s a shoebox, Sammy. Take your time now. It’ll come to you and then we can get ice cream.”
Sam rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, trying to steal patience from it. “Yeah, except you don’t wear Doc Martens.”
“A person can have more than one pair of shoes,” Dean muttered.
“And people can have more than three sets of clothing, but you’re pretty stubborn about that one.”
There was really no arguing about that and they both knew it. Sam felt momentarily smug. “So, what’s in the box?”
“Nothing, okay? Jesus. Just a bunch of junk.” Dean grabbed the item in questions and rattled it before dropping it again. “See? Nothing. So drop it, Sam.” Rubbing the back of his head in exasperation, Dean stood and glanced around. “I’m gonna find some food…fried, greasy, and onion-y.”
Sam grimaced, not bothering to mention the food he had just brought back but instead watching his brother walk off. The door clicked shut and a breath later Sam reached for the recent cause of argument without hesitation. It clanked and shuffled as its contents moved within their cardboard confinement.
Bracing himself for no reason, he opened it.
Nothing. Junk. Pieces of string. Pressed pennies and an old switch-blade razor. A lock of hair tied up then seal in a plastic bag and tarnished silver medal on a leather string.
Damaged empty bullets and a small wooden cross.
Nothing. Things that couldn’t buy them a shared drink but that Dean had carried around for who knows how long, when the only other things he owned were cassettes, weapons, and his car.
Thoughts momentarily flickered to a whole apartment, shelves and closets and creature comforts. Strung together through college alone. Gone by fire, now, but all those things had been his.
He didn’t look up when he heard the door open, mere minutes later and half-expected. Sam hadn’t heard the roar of an engine or the blast of loud music that Dean clung to like a Bible. He could have waited until his brother was asleep or gone for the night but time was everything now and Dean only had a year and…
And twenty-eight years took up as much room as two boots.
“What’s in the box, Dean?” Sam asked again, voice somber and quiet. He finally glanced towards his brother, struck by the reversal of positions, an image twisted to a different view.
Tired, resigned. The one and only glimpse of regret that Sam would ever see on his brother’s face.
“Damn near everything.”
Anyway. Supernatural fic! My first, even, so I'm naturally anxious and twitchy and not wanting to post it.
I'm also a masochist though, so there ya go. I give this to watchersprout because its her fault I'll never look at salt without thinking of demons.
Seriously. Funny story bout that, involving a tip, salt, and an imagined dilemma. But it might offend someone. Damn.
Title: Soldier’s Things
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: Not mine. Oh, how I wish.
Warning: Angst. Alas. Spoilers for Season 2 finale.
AN: First SPN fic. Ficlet. Whatever. Title taken from a Tom Waits song.
Summary: A year, a box, a realization.
One year, Sam thought, and hated it as he did.
One year was what had been given, through slight of hand and bargaining and in the optimist’s light it seemed like more than enough to time to undue the deal that Dean so easily made. Easily, unthinkingly, and stupidly if Sam could add his own personal opinion to the list.
But one year in the grand scheme of things was nothing. The two years they had been on the road; the four years they had been apart. The eighteen they had known when there was nothing but them and Dad and dirt roads mixed with endless highways. Years they could count now, after the fact, but never measured at the time.
Perspectives changed with priorities when there was a schedule, and new regrets could form based on nothing but the fact.
One year, to whatever end.
Sam wanted to hit his brother a hundred times over for this new mess he had made-sacrifice and desperation and maybe something darker-and the only thing that stopped him was just one more simple fact. That Dean would roll with it, slip in a throw of his own, and grin through a bruised face because didn’t brothers always fight?
And it would all just be a waste of minutes they needed.
However resigned Dean might look when his brother brought it up, as if it were a bother to dwell on the affair. Or how amused he was by the weight of Sam’s duffle bag, filled with new books and new notes, all of deals and devils and final ends. Sam didn’t buy the act, not always if ever, and was strangely happy when he couldn’t.
There were signs, each one filed away as a hope that they would fight this. That there was a reason to, no matter how worn out they felt or how much Dean claimed that it was alright. Small signs, true, but they were enough.
Like when Dean’s hands would clench the Impala’s steering wheel like he’d prefer to never have to let go. When he stayed awake longer than he had to, just to talk or sit or listen. Telling without saying the words, it’s what made the act that much easier to see through.
Still, sometimes, Sam wondered and worried and his fingers twisted into the cheap paper of the fast-food bad he was carrying.
He found Dean sitting on the edge of his bed, looking dazed but still alert enough to around at his the sound of his brother’s arrival. He nearly upset the box on his lap, an old faded Doc Marten’s box that might have been Dean’s or may have been their father’s. It might have been nobody’s, another necessity picked up along the way.
“I know we don’t have a lot of cash but I think we could manage to get you some new boots,” Sam said, eyebrows raised, as he closed the door behind him and tossed the bag onto the table.
“I heard the vintage look was in,” Dean grinned and, copying his brother, tossed his own burden onto the bed behind him. “Now I just need to find me some bleach and a ripped Bowie shirt.”
“Dude. No.” Sam was vaguely horrified and wondered if the older Winchester had actually gone through any unfortunate phases while they’d been separated.
Dean just looked like he had accomplished another goal on his To-Do list.
“So what’s in it, really?”
Green eyes squinted at him. “It’s a shoebox, Sammy. Take your time now. It’ll come to you and then we can get ice cream.”
Sam rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, trying to steal patience from it. “Yeah, except you don’t wear Doc Martens.”
“A person can have more than one pair of shoes,” Dean muttered.
“And people can have more than three sets of clothing, but you’re pretty stubborn about that one.”
There was really no arguing about that and they both knew it. Sam felt momentarily smug. “So, what’s in the box?”
“Nothing, okay? Jesus. Just a bunch of junk.” Dean grabbed the item in questions and rattled it before dropping it again. “See? Nothing. So drop it, Sam.” Rubbing the back of his head in exasperation, Dean stood and glanced around. “I’m gonna find some food…fried, greasy, and onion-y.”
Sam grimaced, not bothering to mention the food he had just brought back but instead watching his brother walk off. The door clicked shut and a breath later Sam reached for the recent cause of argument without hesitation. It clanked and shuffled as its contents moved within their cardboard confinement.
Bracing himself for no reason, he opened it.
Nothing. Junk. Pieces of string. Pressed pennies and an old switch-blade razor. A lock of hair tied up then seal in a plastic bag and tarnished silver medal on a leather string.
Damaged empty bullets and a small wooden cross.
Nothing. Things that couldn’t buy them a shared drink but that Dean had carried around for who knows how long, when the only other things he owned were cassettes, weapons, and his car.
Thoughts momentarily flickered to a whole apartment, shelves and closets and creature comforts. Strung together through college alone. Gone by fire, now, but all those things had been his.
He didn’t look up when he heard the door open, mere minutes later and half-expected. Sam hadn’t heard the roar of an engine or the blast of loud music that Dean clung to like a Bible. He could have waited until his brother was asleep or gone for the night but time was everything now and Dean only had a year and…
And twenty-eight years took up as much room as two boots.
“What’s in the box, Dean?” Sam asked again, voice somber and quiet. He finally glanced towards his brother, struck by the reversal of positions, an image twisted to a different view.
Tired, resigned. The one and only glimpse of regret that Sam would ever see on his brother’s face.
“Damn near everything.”