:D
Hey, flist! Are you having a good day? I am! And when I'm having a good day, I like to write REALLY DEPRESSING SHIT. So let me ruin your nice day with some gratuitous SPN deathfic! WHEE.
Risin' Sun Goin' Down
SPN, Dean, PG, 219 words. Spoiler for AHBL2.
"He died on impact," is the best they can offer him. "He never saw it coming."
Dean hears it like a dirty secret, whispered syllables sibilant in his ear. He flinches. What the hell do they know about what Sam did or didn't see coming, on his way to get the Chinese take-out that wouldn't deliver? Dean wanted extra egg rolls, and no almonds in his Soo Guy. Dean fucking hates almonds.
"Sign here."
There are lines with X's next to them, little sticky flags asking him to confirm his claim to Sam's body. With the precision of someone unused to coloring inside the lines, Dean signs his real name, so seldom used that the loops of it are foreign, juvenile. Rounded and legible. It has the finality of kissing a demon at a crossroad, only there is nothing gained, only lost. Dean never expected he'd be signing his death warrant so literally.
He drives back to their motel room, alone except for Sam's wallet in his lap. He parks the car in the light, right outside their door. Inside, he sits with his back to the headboard, his boots in the tangle of sheets that still smell like his brother--and waits.
With any luck, the feds will get him before the black dogs do. He doesn't think he could wait that long.
Risin' Sun Goin' Down
SPN, Dean, PG, 219 words. Spoiler for AHBL2.
"He died on impact," is the best they can offer him. "He never saw it coming."
Dean hears it like a dirty secret, whispered syllables sibilant in his ear. He flinches. What the hell do they know about what Sam did or didn't see coming, on his way to get the Chinese take-out that wouldn't deliver? Dean wanted extra egg rolls, and no almonds in his Soo Guy. Dean fucking hates almonds.
"Sign here."
There are lines with X's next to them, little sticky flags asking him to confirm his claim to Sam's body. With the precision of someone unused to coloring inside the lines, Dean signs his real name, so seldom used that the loops of it are foreign, juvenile. Rounded and legible. It has the finality of kissing a demon at a crossroad, only there is nothing gained, only lost. Dean never expected he'd be signing his death warrant so literally.
He drives back to their motel room, alone except for Sam's wallet in his lap. He parks the car in the light, right outside their door. Inside, he sits with his back to the headboard, his boots in the tangle of sheets that still smell like his brother--and waits.
With any luck, the feds will get him before the black dogs do. He doesn't think he could wait that long.