Fic: Climbing Up That Hill
Title: Climbing Up That Hill
Author: judith_88_g
Rating: PG-13 (just to be safe)
Genre: gen
Characters: Dean, John
Spoilers: 7x23
Word Count: 1500
Disclaimer: Still not mine. Don't lose my hope, though.
Summary: The feeling of death is prevailing, this adverse and desolate endless forest is not meant for the living, not meant for humans. It's a murky cheerless graveyard haunted by millions of things he spent pretty much all his life sending here.
A/N: Written for the mad_server's S7 Finale Meme, which is all kinds of awesome. Based on the prompt given by salacious_newt which can be read
Purgatory works in strange ways. Dean walks through an endless dark forest and finds the scene changing as he does; one moment he's alone in the woods, the next moment he finds himself as a teenager with John, or in Hell with Alistair, or as a child watching toddler!Sam sleep. It never lasts long, only a few moments, but each vision or whatever it is leaves him even more shaken. He isn't sure if there's some monster creep out there putting the voodoo on him or if this is just what happens in Purgatory, but either way, he doesn't like it and takes him off his guard when the real monsters show up.
It's pretty far from the original prompt and I'm sorry for that. It just wouldn't let me write itself any other way. Unbeta-ed.
Climbing Up That Hill
The cold and damp linger on his skin, creep into his limbs and alight deep inside in his chest suffusing him with constant inclemency. The feeling of warmth has become a distant embellished memory, not really clear beyond the fact that he used to revel in it, used to love turning his face towards the sun and basking in its rays like a cat. He vaguely remembers the feeling of the heated hood of the Impala underneath his back in those rare moments when they didn’t have any places to be. He usually tries not to think about that.
There is no sun in Purgatory, no moon either. It’s been long since Dean stopped peering into the bleak sky in search of any stars. There is no sense of orientation, no sense of time, only the ever present sense of being watched and hunted. There are days when the silence is deafening, bringing him on the verge of crying. For help, for Sam, for a shred of sanity, for yet another wicked thing to come out of the darkness and try to get him. It’s only the monsters that sometimes listen. It’s not a fair fight but that’s ok with him, it never was. He uses whatever he can extort out of these hostile woods, makes weapons which never last long, prepares traps, seeks for shelters, treats his wounds. Always on the move, trying to focus solely on survival.
Dean hasn’t seen Cas since that very first moment when they found themselves in here. He tried to call him, screaming his name till his voice would become hoarse and threaten to choke him. Then he stopped. Sometimes the thought of the angel’s presence somewhere near would crawl into his mind and the notion of the power that saved him from perdition would throb painfully close to the surface. There was a moment when he believed it was on his side, now he can’t tell anymore. Maybe Cas is dead, maybe just gone. He usually tries not to think about that either.
Wounds don’t heal well. Dean’s not sure whether the culprit is the damp air claiming possession of everything around or just Purgatory itself. However, he’s more inclined to believe in the latter. The feeling of death is prevailing, this adverse and desolate endless forest is not meant for the living, not meant for humans. It’s a murky cheerless graveyard haunted by millions of things he spent pretty much all his life sending here. Sometimes he thinks about his situation as a poetic justice but usually he simply forces himself to ignore the irony and stick to the things he has a say in.
***
He trudges for a long time before his knees buckle under him and he shakily falls down on the wet ground folding like a house of cards at the slightest breeze. There’s no way he could muster enough strength to haul himself up again. So much for finding a place secluded enough to rest. He stirs trying to find a more comfortable position, the slash in his side pulsing steadily with dull pain. He can barely see beyond smudgy hues of grey, too tired to do anything but lie down. The wendigo caught him off-guard, carved deep into his flesh but Dean can’t find it in himself to check how serious it is. He figured it was a matter of time. From the start of it, delaying the inevitable was pretty much all he could do. It’s not a sad notion, though, it’s just the way it is.
The dreary scenery swims away in raw waves, ebbing from his vision and leaving him cushioned in darkness and silence.
***
The narrow, shotgunned with cones path is bending and twisting like a serpent meandering through the pines. Leading down. The hill isn’t steep but finding a place where his sturdy boots wouldn’t cause too much noise poses a serious challenge. It’s cool down here, beyond the canopy of needles, but the brisk air feels more refreshing than anything else. His walk is careful, senses strained and although he’s not cold, Dean can’t help but shudder every time he notices something seemingly out of the ordinary in the woods, his body automatically ready to charge or run. A mere ray of sunshine getting through the thick layer above his head, distorted and playful on the grass, is enough of a trigger. It’s just the sun, he tells himself then, but it changes nothing.
Behind the comb of trees he catches a glimpse of water. Its surface is still much lower than he stands but it glistens in the bright light alluringly, the sun not as threatening when it’s there out in the open instead of sneaking up on him. He can’t turn his eyes from the view, the flickering image filling his perception and making him feel dizzy from trying to chase the blindingly white splashes of light. The closer he gets the less deliberate his steps become. And suddenly Dean thinks he knows this place, these woods, this lake. One of the few sojourns in his life that actually mattered. Something feels off, something he can’t quite put his finger on but he dismisses it and runs, doesn’t care about the noise anymore, wants to reach the bottom of the hill as soon as possible.
It turns out to be much higher than Dean first thought and when he finally reaches the destination he’s soaked with sweat and panting. He doesn’t mind, his mouth twisted in a grin that seems beyond his control. The lake is small, guarded by the army of pines rearing up around it. He scans the coast longing to hear the well-known laughter but everything remains perfectly quiet. It takes him a while to acknowledge it.
Dean sits on the ground, his back against a tree trunk, face turned towards the still water. He spends ages there.
“It’s where you taught Sammy to swim, isn’t it?”
Dean turns right, where the voice is coming from and looks at his Dad standing on the shore in some distance.
“Wasn’t me,” Dean smiles shaking his head, “he barely let me stay while he taught himself. You know Sammy.”
“Well, he had his reasons. I remember him walking back home only in his briefs once or twice after all his clothes miraculously disappeared. Some sort of clothes-stealing monster hunting in these woods if memory serves me right.”
“It was a water monster with a taste for pansy clothes but the rest is right,” Dean beams at the memory. “Man, he was so easy then, it was almost pathetic.”
“He was seven,” John says in an austere tone but the smile keeps dancing in his features.
“Except here’s not there,” Dean adds almost as an afterthought.
John is quiet. He lowers himself to sit next to Dean, his back against the very same trunk. “How did you figure?”
“There are no birds here. I remember the little fucks wouldn’t shut up for the lives of them. Here’s too quiet. Empty.”
“Huh.”
Dean can feel John’s presence but keeps staring ahead. He’s afraid that if he looks at his Dad for too long he won’t be able to turn his eyes away ever again.
“At first Sammy swam with his head pretty much underwater, you know?” Dean laughs at the recollection. “He would lie on the surface, face down, holding his nose with one hand and flailing desperately the other one. If only he’d seen himself back then, I bet he wouldn’t have been so freakishly proud.”
“I reckon you being pretty proud yourself.”
Dean smiles but says nothing. He’s not sure how much time passes before he opens his mouth again and no matter how hard he tries the disenchanted note sounds clear even to him.
“It’s not heaven, isn’t it? It’s not over yet.”
“Could be. But no, it’s not.”
Dean smirks bitterly, “Heaven didn’t strike me as such a bright idea, you know. It still doesn’t. But sometimes, I just don’t know anymore. Seems like it’s my head underwater this time. I’m tired, Dad. Tired of keeping it up.”
“I know son. But it’s what makes all the difference.”
Dean lets himself look at his father. He’s exactly how he remembers him, big and strong, troubled but unwavering. He thinks staying here with Dad is more than he could dream of.
Standing up is an onerous process.
“Well, time to get the motor running, the fugly won’t kill itself,” Dean recites smugly but then falls serious again. “You think you can walk with me up that hill?” He asks and it’s as close to admission as he can ever get. “It’s higher than I remember.”
John’s smile is forlorn but reassuring nonetheless. “Sure, I can do that.”
Dean keeps abreast of his father and realizes that John’s pace is much more leisurely than it ever was.
***
He wakes up to the grim cold. The air, heavy with death, fear and pain, seems overwhelming, seems too much. Dean struggles to his feet leaning heavily against a tree trunk. He needs to find a shelter. His father’s smile is still painfully clear in his memory but for once he wants it to stay there, even if only for a little while. It’s the only source of light he has. The patches of silver dance in his vision while he shakily shambles into the woods.
Author: judith_88_g
Rating: PG-13 (just to be safe)
Genre: gen
Characters: Dean, John
Spoilers: 7x23
Word Count: 1500
Disclaimer: Still not mine. Don't lose my hope, though.
Summary: The feeling of death is prevailing, this adverse and desolate endless forest is not meant for the living, not meant for humans. It's a murky cheerless graveyard haunted by millions of things he spent pretty much all his life sending here.
A/N: Written for the mad_server's S7 Finale Meme, which is all kinds of awesome. Based on the prompt given by salacious_newt which can be read
Purgatory works in strange ways. Dean walks through an endless dark forest and finds the scene changing as he does; one moment he's alone in the woods, the next moment he finds himself as a teenager with John, or in Hell with Alistair, or as a child watching toddler!Sam sleep. It never lasts long, only a few moments, but each vision or whatever it is leaves him even more shaken. He isn't sure if there's some monster creep out there putting the voodoo on him or if this is just what happens in Purgatory, but either way, he doesn't like it and takes him off his guard when the real monsters show up.
It's pretty far from the original prompt and I'm sorry for that. It just wouldn't let me write itself any other way. Unbeta-ed.
Climbing Up That Hill
The cold and damp linger on his skin, creep into his limbs and alight deep inside in his chest suffusing him with constant inclemency. The feeling of warmth has become a distant embellished memory, not really clear beyond the fact that he used to revel in it, used to love turning his face towards the sun and basking in its rays like a cat. He vaguely remembers the feeling of the heated hood of the Impala underneath his back in those rare moments when they didn’t have any places to be. He usually tries not to think about that.
There is no sun in Purgatory, no moon either. It’s been long since Dean stopped peering into the bleak sky in search of any stars. There is no sense of orientation, no sense of time, only the ever present sense of being watched and hunted. There are days when the silence is deafening, bringing him on the verge of crying. For help, for Sam, for a shred of sanity, for yet another wicked thing to come out of the darkness and try to get him. It’s only the monsters that sometimes listen. It’s not a fair fight but that’s ok with him, it never was. He uses whatever he can extort out of these hostile woods, makes weapons which never last long, prepares traps, seeks for shelters, treats his wounds. Always on the move, trying to focus solely on survival.
Dean hasn’t seen Cas since that very first moment when they found themselves in here. He tried to call him, screaming his name till his voice would become hoarse and threaten to choke him. Then he stopped. Sometimes the thought of the angel’s presence somewhere near would crawl into his mind and the notion of the power that saved him from perdition would throb painfully close to the surface. There was a moment when he believed it was on his side, now he can’t tell anymore. Maybe Cas is dead, maybe just gone. He usually tries not to think about that either.
Wounds don’t heal well. Dean’s not sure whether the culprit is the damp air claiming possession of everything around or just Purgatory itself. However, he’s more inclined to believe in the latter. The feeling of death is prevailing, this adverse and desolate endless forest is not meant for the living, not meant for humans. It’s a murky cheerless graveyard haunted by millions of things he spent pretty much all his life sending here. Sometimes he thinks about his situation as a poetic justice but usually he simply forces himself to ignore the irony and stick to the things he has a say in.
***
He trudges for a long time before his knees buckle under him and he shakily falls down on the wet ground folding like a house of cards at the slightest breeze. There’s no way he could muster enough strength to haul himself up again. So much for finding a place secluded enough to rest. He stirs trying to find a more comfortable position, the slash in his side pulsing steadily with dull pain. He can barely see beyond smudgy hues of grey, too tired to do anything but lie down. The wendigo caught him off-guard, carved deep into his flesh but Dean can’t find it in himself to check how serious it is. He figured it was a matter of time. From the start of it, delaying the inevitable was pretty much all he could do. It’s not a sad notion, though, it’s just the way it is.
The dreary scenery swims away in raw waves, ebbing from his vision and leaving him cushioned in darkness and silence.
***
The narrow, shotgunned with cones path is bending and twisting like a serpent meandering through the pines. Leading down. The hill isn’t steep but finding a place where his sturdy boots wouldn’t cause too much noise poses a serious challenge. It’s cool down here, beyond the canopy of needles, but the brisk air feels more refreshing than anything else. His walk is careful, senses strained and although he’s not cold, Dean can’t help but shudder every time he notices something seemingly out of the ordinary in the woods, his body automatically ready to charge or run. A mere ray of sunshine getting through the thick layer above his head, distorted and playful on the grass, is enough of a trigger. It’s just the sun, he tells himself then, but it changes nothing.
Behind the comb of trees he catches a glimpse of water. Its surface is still much lower than he stands but it glistens in the bright light alluringly, the sun not as threatening when it’s there out in the open instead of sneaking up on him. He can’t turn his eyes from the view, the flickering image filling his perception and making him feel dizzy from trying to chase the blindingly white splashes of light. The closer he gets the less deliberate his steps become. And suddenly Dean thinks he knows this place, these woods, this lake. One of the few sojourns in his life that actually mattered. Something feels off, something he can’t quite put his finger on but he dismisses it and runs, doesn’t care about the noise anymore, wants to reach the bottom of the hill as soon as possible.
It turns out to be much higher than Dean first thought and when he finally reaches the destination he’s soaked with sweat and panting. He doesn’t mind, his mouth twisted in a grin that seems beyond his control. The lake is small, guarded by the army of pines rearing up around it. He scans the coast longing to hear the well-known laughter but everything remains perfectly quiet. It takes him a while to acknowledge it.
Dean sits on the ground, his back against a tree trunk, face turned towards the still water. He spends ages there.
“It’s where you taught Sammy to swim, isn’t it?”
Dean turns right, where the voice is coming from and looks at his Dad standing on the shore in some distance.
“Wasn’t me,” Dean smiles shaking his head, “he barely let me stay while he taught himself. You know Sammy.”
“Well, he had his reasons. I remember him walking back home only in his briefs once or twice after all his clothes miraculously disappeared. Some sort of clothes-stealing monster hunting in these woods if memory serves me right.”
“It was a water monster with a taste for pansy clothes but the rest is right,” Dean beams at the memory. “Man, he was so easy then, it was almost pathetic.”
“He was seven,” John says in an austere tone but the smile keeps dancing in his features.
“Except here’s not there,” Dean adds almost as an afterthought.
John is quiet. He lowers himself to sit next to Dean, his back against the very same trunk. “How did you figure?”
“There are no birds here. I remember the little fucks wouldn’t shut up for the lives of them. Here’s too quiet. Empty.”
“Huh.”
Dean can feel John’s presence but keeps staring ahead. He’s afraid that if he looks at his Dad for too long he won’t be able to turn his eyes away ever again.
“At first Sammy swam with his head pretty much underwater, you know?” Dean laughs at the recollection. “He would lie on the surface, face down, holding his nose with one hand and flailing desperately the other one. If only he’d seen himself back then, I bet he wouldn’t have been so freakishly proud.”
“I reckon you being pretty proud yourself.”
Dean smiles but says nothing. He’s not sure how much time passes before he opens his mouth again and no matter how hard he tries the disenchanted note sounds clear even to him.
“It’s not heaven, isn’t it? It’s not over yet.”
“Could be. But no, it’s not.”
Dean smirks bitterly, “Heaven didn’t strike me as such a bright idea, you know. It still doesn’t. But sometimes, I just don’t know anymore. Seems like it’s my head underwater this time. I’m tired, Dad. Tired of keeping it up.”
“I know son. But it’s what makes all the difference.”
Dean lets himself look at his father. He’s exactly how he remembers him, big and strong, troubled but unwavering. He thinks staying here with Dad is more than he could dream of.
Standing up is an onerous process.
“Well, time to get the motor running, the fugly won’t kill itself,” Dean recites smugly but then falls serious again. “You think you can walk with me up that hill?” He asks and it’s as close to admission as he can ever get. “It’s higher than I remember.”
John’s smile is forlorn but reassuring nonetheless. “Sure, I can do that.”
Dean keeps abreast of his father and realizes that John’s pace is much more leisurely than it ever was.
***
He wakes up to the grim cold. The air, heavy with death, fear and pain, seems overwhelming, seems too much. Dean struggles to his feet leaning heavily against a tree trunk. He needs to find a shelter. His father’s smile is still painfully clear in his memory but for once he wants it to stay there, even if only for a little while. It’s the only source of light he has. The patches of silver dance in his vision while he shakily shambles into the woods.