SPN - We Walked to the Sea, Just My Father and Me
Okay, I bagged on Manilow in The Misfits, but I love that line (the title) -- it's from Manilow's "Ships," and I've been wanting to use it forever. The Muse finally agreed, so there's this: Dean. A dream. An ocean, and a shadow that falls beside his on the sand.
They told him, "You have to be the one to end it." But he's just one man. And what lies ahead of him is too big.
CHARACTERS: Dean and John
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1075 words
WE WALKED TO THE SEA, JUST MY FATHER AND ME
By Carol Davis
People do it.
People love doing it.
Maybe he's weird, in yet another of the many ways the world has found to label him that way, but it's not something he's ever really gone out of his way to do. When there's an ocean within spitting distance, he doesn't run down hot asphalt, stumbling and pinwheeling as he pulls off his shoes and socks and rolls up the legs of his jeans so that he can hit the sand barefoot and giddy.
When there's an ocean within spitting distance, he worries about what the salt is going to do to the paint job on his car.
Nope. Walking on the beach. It's not him.
But here he is.
And that, down there? That's an ocean.
The air has a flat, damp tang to it, bears the smell of decaying life both plant and animal. Seagulls cry from high above him and he thinks, fleetingly, You shit on me and I'm gonna… but doesn't finish the thought.
He's never been drawn to the ocean. It's too big. Too unpredictable. He was raised mostly in landlocked places, saw both the Atlantic and the Pacific through a car window, so that they were no more real to him than the moon.
Besides: he saw The Perfect Storm.
He sees the shadow fall alongside his at the same moment he hears a voice say, "Doesn't happen like that all the time."
He doesn't turn. Doesn't look.
"Knew that about you before we got you out of diapers," the voice goes on.
"Knew what?" he asks quietly.
"Took you across town for a party. Friend of your mother's - party was at their parents' place. They had a pool out back. Your mother put you in a bathing suit and we were gonna dip you in the pool. But you started yelling, 'Too big! No, Daddy! Too big!"
"Was it?"
"It was a pool."
He looks out toward the horizon, across the ruffled blue-gray surface of miles of water. There's nothing out there, no boats, no buoys. Nothing between him and a sun that's sinking into a broad band of clouds but miles and miles of water.
When he looks down, he's barefoot. Standing in sand that's gritty between his toes.
"It's too big," he says.
A hand touches his shoulder, no more of a direction than the nudge of the salt-heavy breeze, but he takes a step forward, frowning, then another. He's never been one for doing this, just walking with the wind chafing his face, squinting against the sun, listening to the cries of the birds circling overhead. There's life in that ocean, he knows that, but when he glances that way it seems dark and empty and far too vast to wrap his mind around.
He doesn't turn, doesn't look, but there's a shadow alongside his as he walks along the waterline.
After a minute the water begins to lap at his feet, cold enough to make him try to sidestep it, but a hand on his arm holds him in place.
"It's just water, Dean."
"It's -"
"You learned to swim. You're not afraid of the water."
"There's too damn much of it."
He walks, jaw clenched so tight it sends little darts of pain up past his ears and down his neck. The air's not cold but that water is. He's ankle-deep in it now. Tide's coming in, he thinks, and looks down at what it's offering: fingers of seaweed, bits of broken shell, the remains of a small fish. The wind and the sun and the smell and that cold water - it's not appealing, any of it, and he begins to yearn for what he knows. His car. The swaybacked cocoon of a motel bed. The open road, any road.
He wants to get the hell away from here.
"It's just water."
"It's not -"
"Dean," the voice says. "You're not afraid of the water."
He turns. Turns hard. He can't see a face; there's nothing there but shadow, but somewhere in its depth is something he knows.
Someone he knows.
"I can't win this," he pleads. "It's too big."
The shadow looms over him, dwarfs him, and he remembers a man and a smile and a familiar smell. A man who could scoop him up as if he weighed nothing and hold him in close, so that that smell wrapped around him like a blanket.
"I taught you to swim," says the voice. "And I taught you to fight."
"I can't."
"You can."
"It's too big. Dad, it's too big."
For a moment all he's aware of is the grab of that cold water and the way the sand is dissolving beneath his feet.
Then there's an embrace. Warm, and solid.
"It's just water," the voice tells him. "It's nothing but water."
And he's alone.
He stands for a long while with the sea lapping against his legs. When he looks off down the sand there's a gull sitting there watching him, head cocked. The sun's close to the horizon now; in another few minutes it'll be dusk, and the air will start to grow cold.
Somehow, the surf doesn't seem as cold as it did.
It's just water.
Shit. He saw The Perfect Storm. Nobody came out of that sonofabitch alive.
"It's too big," he murmurs. "They told me it's gotta be me. That I gotta be the one to end it. But it's too big."
Dean, the voice says, from nowhere, and everywhere.
Dean.
He doesn't like the friggin' ocean. Never did. He's not one of those people who'd sell his left nut to have a big house on the beach. That's not his idea of awesome, having to look eternity in the face every single day.
It's too goddamn big.
And he's too small.
I taught you. Dean. I taught you to swim. And you love the water.
He did. A long time ago.
"You taught me," he whispers. "I…remember."
It's just water.
If you take it one stroke at a time, it's just water.
His shadow stretches out across the sand, by itself now, but he can feel a warm hand come to rest against his back.
There's love, and there's need, he thinks.
His father taught him that.
One step at a time, he walks away from the touch of that warm hand.
Walks forward into the surf, leans into the water and begins to swim toward the horizon.
* * * * *
(Note to myself: spn_gen entry here)
They told him, "You have to be the one to end it." But he's just one man. And what lies ahead of him is too big.
CHARACTERS: Dean and John
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1075 words
WE WALKED TO THE SEA, JUST MY FATHER AND ME
By Carol Davis
People do it.
People love doing it.
Maybe he's weird, in yet another of the many ways the world has found to label him that way, but it's not something he's ever really gone out of his way to do. When there's an ocean within spitting distance, he doesn't run down hot asphalt, stumbling and pinwheeling as he pulls off his shoes and socks and rolls up the legs of his jeans so that he can hit the sand barefoot and giddy.
When there's an ocean within spitting distance, he worries about what the salt is going to do to the paint job on his car.
Nope. Walking on the beach. It's not him.
But here he is.
And that, down there? That's an ocean.
The air has a flat, damp tang to it, bears the smell of decaying life both plant and animal. Seagulls cry from high above him and he thinks, fleetingly, You shit on me and I'm gonna… but doesn't finish the thought.
He's never been drawn to the ocean. It's too big. Too unpredictable. He was raised mostly in landlocked places, saw both the Atlantic and the Pacific through a car window, so that they were no more real to him than the moon.
Besides: he saw The Perfect Storm.
He sees the shadow fall alongside his at the same moment he hears a voice say, "Doesn't happen like that all the time."
He doesn't turn. Doesn't look.
"Knew that about you before we got you out of diapers," the voice goes on.
"Knew what?" he asks quietly.
"Took you across town for a party. Friend of your mother's - party was at their parents' place. They had a pool out back. Your mother put you in a bathing suit and we were gonna dip you in the pool. But you started yelling, 'Too big! No, Daddy! Too big!"
"Was it?"
"It was a pool."
He looks out toward the horizon, across the ruffled blue-gray surface of miles of water. There's nothing out there, no boats, no buoys. Nothing between him and a sun that's sinking into a broad band of clouds but miles and miles of water.
When he looks down, he's barefoot. Standing in sand that's gritty between his toes.
"It's too big," he says.
A hand touches his shoulder, no more of a direction than the nudge of the salt-heavy breeze, but he takes a step forward, frowning, then another. He's never been one for doing this, just walking with the wind chafing his face, squinting against the sun, listening to the cries of the birds circling overhead. There's life in that ocean, he knows that, but when he glances that way it seems dark and empty and far too vast to wrap his mind around.
He doesn't turn, doesn't look, but there's a shadow alongside his as he walks along the waterline.
After a minute the water begins to lap at his feet, cold enough to make him try to sidestep it, but a hand on his arm holds him in place.
"It's just water, Dean."
"It's -"
"You learned to swim. You're not afraid of the water."
"There's too damn much of it."
He walks, jaw clenched so tight it sends little darts of pain up past his ears and down his neck. The air's not cold but that water is. He's ankle-deep in it now. Tide's coming in, he thinks, and looks down at what it's offering: fingers of seaweed, bits of broken shell, the remains of a small fish. The wind and the sun and the smell and that cold water - it's not appealing, any of it, and he begins to yearn for what he knows. His car. The swaybacked cocoon of a motel bed. The open road, any road.
He wants to get the hell away from here.
"It's just water."
"It's not -"
"Dean," the voice says. "You're not afraid of the water."
He turns. Turns hard. He can't see a face; there's nothing there but shadow, but somewhere in its depth is something he knows.
Someone he knows.
"I can't win this," he pleads. "It's too big."
The shadow looms over him, dwarfs him, and he remembers a man and a smile and a familiar smell. A man who could scoop him up as if he weighed nothing and hold him in close, so that that smell wrapped around him like a blanket.
"I taught you to swim," says the voice. "And I taught you to fight."
"I can't."
"You can."
"It's too big. Dad, it's too big."
For a moment all he's aware of is the grab of that cold water and the way the sand is dissolving beneath his feet.
Then there's an embrace. Warm, and solid.
"It's just water," the voice tells him. "It's nothing but water."
And he's alone.
He stands for a long while with the sea lapping against his legs. When he looks off down the sand there's a gull sitting there watching him, head cocked. The sun's close to the horizon now; in another few minutes it'll be dusk, and the air will start to grow cold.
Somehow, the surf doesn't seem as cold as it did.
It's just water.
Shit. He saw The Perfect Storm. Nobody came out of that sonofabitch alive.
"It's too big," he murmurs. "They told me it's gotta be me. That I gotta be the one to end it. But it's too big."
Dean, the voice says, from nowhere, and everywhere.
Dean.
He doesn't like the friggin' ocean. Never did. He's not one of those people who'd sell his left nut to have a big house on the beach. That's not his idea of awesome, having to look eternity in the face every single day.
It's too goddamn big.
And he's too small.
I taught you. Dean. I taught you to swim. And you love the water.
He did. A long time ago.
"You taught me," he whispers. "I…remember."
It's just water.
If you take it one stroke at a time, it's just water.
His shadow stretches out across the sand, by itself now, but he can feel a warm hand come to rest against his back.
There's love, and there's need, he thinks.
His father taught him that.
One step at a time, he walks away from the touch of that warm hand.
Walks forward into the surf, leans into the water and begins to swim toward the horizon.
* * * * *
(Note to myself: spn_gen entry here)