ficlet!
"i will fix this, sookie! don't cry!"
"WHITE SAUCE LOOKS LIKE PUS."
lolz.
ahh, nice night in, poking at fic and watching gg, as one does. i will now go marinate in a hot bath. but first: this is not BFF's birthday fic. i hope y'all will forgive me another downer. these have nothing to do with the moods i'm in, i just love my little fatalists! *flaps*
With all the carnivores
SPN; gen; 402 words.
When Dean's told that Sam isn't waking up, the first thing he does is to run out to the car and unearth the battered box of the Ouija board, digging it out from underneath strata of weapons and dirty laundry. Turns out owning a store-bought "oracle" had come in handy more than once over the years; by now the box is falling apart, the corners soft and splitting, the cardboard stiff and rippled where Sam'd spilled 32oz of orange juice on it in the parking lot of an IHOP in Boise.
To expect it to work again is a little simple-minded, but they've made a career of hoping the same things work twice.
Sam looks peaceful in sleep, features relaxed, the gash across his brow stitched up and healing nicely. The pale blue of the gown and the sterile white of the sheets make his skin look golden, tanned instead of sunburned, etched with laugh lines rather than old scars. His chest heaves up and down evenly. He sleeps peacefully, for once.
Between them, laid out carefully on the roll-away table tucked over Sam's bed, the board and planchette stay obstinately silent, dreadfully still. Dean's fingertips on the plastic are starting to shake, despite the deep breaths that only serve to make him progressively more light-headed.
His brother's not here. His brother's not anywhere.
"He's not here because he's not dying, honey," Missouri informs Dean gently, the first thing she's said in an hour. She shifts in the blue vinyl armchair in the corner of the room, clutching her purse. She watches Dean watch Sam and knows that this is worse than dying, worse than missing. There, but not. Nowhere.
Dean calls Sam's name again, the note of despair in his voice increasingly shrill, but the planchette remains motionless. The next time Dean says Sam's name it's yelled, angry, pissed off, and Dean throws the thing against the nearest wall, listens with empty satisfaction as the cheap plastic snaps in half against the ugly paintjob. The pieces clatter down around the board, face down on the spotless linoleum. Ironically telling.
"WHITE SAUCE LOOKS LIKE PUS."
lolz.
ahh, nice night in, poking at fic and watching gg, as one does. i will now go marinate in a hot bath. but first: this is not BFF's birthday fic. i hope y'all will forgive me another downer. these have nothing to do with the moods i'm in, i just love my little fatalists! *flaps*
With all the carnivores
SPN; gen; 402 words.
When Dean's told that Sam isn't waking up, the first thing he does is to run out to the car and unearth the battered box of the Ouija board, digging it out from underneath strata of weapons and dirty laundry. Turns out owning a store-bought "oracle" had come in handy more than once over the years; by now the box is falling apart, the corners soft and splitting, the cardboard stiff and rippled where Sam'd spilled 32oz of orange juice on it in the parking lot of an IHOP in Boise.
To expect it to work again is a little simple-minded, but they've made a career of hoping the same things work twice.
Sam looks peaceful in sleep, features relaxed, the gash across his brow stitched up and healing nicely. The pale blue of the gown and the sterile white of the sheets make his skin look golden, tanned instead of sunburned, etched with laugh lines rather than old scars. His chest heaves up and down evenly. He sleeps peacefully, for once.
Between them, laid out carefully on the roll-away table tucked over Sam's bed, the board and planchette stay obstinately silent, dreadfully still. Dean's fingertips on the plastic are starting to shake, despite the deep breaths that only serve to make him progressively more light-headed.
His brother's not here. His brother's not anywhere.
"He's not here because he's not dying, honey," Missouri informs Dean gently, the first thing she's said in an hour. She shifts in the blue vinyl armchair in the corner of the room, clutching her purse. She watches Dean watch Sam and knows that this is worse than dying, worse than missing. There, but not. Nowhere.
Dean calls Sam's name again, the note of despair in his voice increasingly shrill, but the planchette remains motionless. The next time Dean says Sam's name it's yelled, angry, pissed off, and Dean throws the thing against the nearest wall, listens with empty satisfaction as the cheap plastic snaps in half against the ugly paintjob. The pieces clatter down around the board, face down on the spotless linoleum. Ironically telling.