fic: One Wing of Silence (Supernatural; Sam and Dean; pg)
One Wing of Silence
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; spoilers through 4.22 only; pg; 2,020 words
This is one secret he can help Sam keep.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas and angelgazing for looking it over and helping with the frantic title-scramble.
~*~
One Wing of Silence
The apocalypse is running them ragged, so when they get a chance to sleep in, they take it. Neither of them sleeps through the night, but Dean's determined to make up for what he loses in consecutive hours with naps throughout the day, especially when there's no place else they have to be. He wakes, huddled warm and drowsy under the covers, from a dream about giant carnivorous biscuits, and thinks about going to the diner down the street for some biscuits and gravy. His stomach gurgles, but he's not hungry enough yet to throw off the covers and demand food.
He rolls over and is about to go back to sleep--he thinks he can get back into that dream and turn the tables on those tasty yet vicious biscuits--when he hears Sam come out of the bathroom. Instead of the squeak and sigh of him getting back into bed, though, Dean hears the shuffle of him getting dressed and putting his shoes on.
The gurgle in his belly is replaced by nauseated dread, and he tenses, wondering what Sam is up to. He reminds himself that he trusts Sam again. He lies there quietly, eyes closed, trying to will himself back to sleep.
"I know you're awake," Sam says.
Dean yawns and stretches. "What's up, Sammy?"
"There's something I need to do."
"Toilet not working?" Dean jokes weakly, and is rewarded by a slight stretch of Sam's lips that can in no way be called a smile.
"I was going to leave a note," he says, "but you can come if you want."
Dean stands up and scrubs the sleep out of his eyes. He scratches his balls and says, "Gimme a minute."
Sam nods and sits down on his bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling loosely between.
Dean's not used to this transparent Sam anymore, the last year of lies and secrets making Dean doubt his read of him. He remembers when Sam was little, how open he was, sharing everything with Dean, to the point that Dean threatened to smother him with a pillow if he didn't shut up. He doesn't remember exactly when that changed, but it had, and Dean had missed it for so long he'd almost forgotten he'd ever had it. A Sam without secrets now is both achingly familiar and almost unrecognizable.
Dean showered before he fell into bed last night, so he just brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face. When he's done and dressed, he looks at the warm comfort of his bed and then back at Sam, who's still sitting there looking like he's a puppy that's just been kicked. Dean doesn't even bother to hide his gusty sigh. Sam ignores it.
"St. Albans cemetery," Sam says when they're standing in the parking lot and Dean's rethinking the whole plan, because Jesus fuck, it's cold, and he could be in bed, dreaming about giant biscuits. At least it's not raining. The sun is bright in the clear blue sky, bright and far away, and the wind whips through his clothes like a cat o'nine tails. It's the kind of vivid, bitter winter day that makes him believe that maybe they can actually win, actually save the world.
He shakes his head, blows into his cupped hands. "This a case?"
"No." Sam meets his gaze squarely.
Dean shrugs and hands him the keys. "Coffee first."
"Yeah, okay."
Dean leans against the window and dozes while Sam finds the nearest Dunkin Donuts and comes back with a shiny silver travel mug that he hands to Dean.
"They were having a giveaway," he says in response to Dean's raised eyebrow. Dean gives another shrug and takes a sip. The hot coffee feels good, wakes him up from the inside, brain slowly coming to life once the caffeine hits his bloodstream.
Sam puts on NPR while they're driving and Dean doesn't bother to complain. He doesn't know what's going on in Sam's thick head, but he's trying to be better about figuring it out without coming off like Dad.
They pull up to the gates of St. Albans cemetery and drive through like they belong there, like they're visitors instead of hunters, grave desecrators. Walking dead men.
Sam pulls into a parking spot and says, "I need to check something at the office."
Dean nods and fiddles with the radio while he waits. A funeral procession pulls in; he watches it with the dispassionate eye of a professional: the grieving widow dressed in formal black, adult children gathered around her with expressions ranging from devastated to bored, and the grandkids milling around, twitchy but subdued--they don't really know what's going on, but they know it's not anything good.
Sam comes back and says, "Come on. Section four, row eight." He's got one of those green cones and a bouquet of flowers in his left hand. When Dean doesn't get out of the car right away, he says, "You can wait here."
"I'm coming," Dean answers, and heaves himself out of the passenger seat.
The gravel crunches under the soles of their boots, rocks and ice left over from various storms that blew through in late November, the winter a cold and snowy one already, one for the record books; the newscasters keep blathering on about El Niño and climate change, but don't seem to have caught on that it's the apocalypse.
They reach section four, row eight pretty quickly, passing a guy about Bobby's age putting flowers in front of a rose marble angel, and a different funeral party coming back from the fresh grave. The grass is brown and patchy, and the air's too cold for the scent of flowers or newly turned earth to carry.
Sam stops in front of a grave. The headstone is new, the carving still sharp and bright against the grey marble. It says, Cynthia McClellan, beloved wife, August 8, 1979-May 18, 2009.
Dean wonders if she was the dental hygienist Lilith was wearing when she died, or the coma patient Ruby was riding. He'd thought those bodies had been destroyed in the blast when Lucifer was set free, but maybe not. He tries not to think about how she was his age, and didn't make it to thirty either, but there are no angels waiting to bring her back to life.
Sam shoves the flowers at Dean, who grabs them in surprise. They're a sad, wilted bunch of Montauk daisies and black-eyed Susans. Sam squats down, pulls the trowel out of his jacket pocket, and digs a small hole in the frozen earth. He shoves the pointy end of the green cone in, and pats the dirt around its base so it won't fall over.
"Shit," he says, straightening up and brushing the dirt off his hands. "Shit. I forgot to get water." He's still wearing the kicked puppy look, forehead furrowed and eyes bright.
Dean reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out his flask of holy water, and offers it to Sam, who takes it with a shy, sad smile, head ducked so his bangs fall over his forehead and into his eyes.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
Sam fills the cone halfway with water and then puts the flowers in; fiddling with them doesn't make them any less wilted or sad, and finally he gives up and stands.
They stand there in silence for a few long awkward minutes. Dean keeps his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat and tries not to shiver as the wind finds its way through his coat and down the back of his neck. Sam's got that faraway look in his eyes, and Dean wonders if he's praying, if he still does that, now that they know God's missing (if he exists at all) and his angels are major dicks with wings.
Finally, Sam says, "I'm sorry."
Dean opens his mouth to respond before he realizes Sam's not talking to him.
Sam reaches out, runs his fingers over the cross carved in the center of the headstone, and then turns abruptly, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed in his pockets against the wind. Dean follows quietly.
When they're back in the car, Dean says, "That jacket warm enough?"
Sam looks over at him, startled. "What? Yeah. I've got about eight layers on underneath. It's fine."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Let me know if it's not. Can't have you sidelined from the apocalypse by swine flu or something." He makes a mental note to find out which fake IDs would be most likely to get them vaccinated, just in case.
"It's H1N1, and that's not how you get it." Sam glances at him again, looking more like himself.
"Whatever. Keep your eyes on the road. You damage my car, I'm taking it out of your hide."
"Yeah, yeah. Can't hurt me too much. Need me for the apocalypse, remember?"
Dean groans. "I keep trying to forget, but no one will let me." He sneaks a glance over at Sam and feels a little burst of warmth at the amused look on his face. "Drop me at the motel and go get me breakfast," Dean says as they drive past the diner. "Pancakes and bacon. And maybe some hash browns. Biscuits and gravy, if they've got 'em."
Sam shakes his head and snorts, but Dean can see his mouth curve up into a smile. "Okay."
While Sam's gone, Dean pulls out his laptop and searches. It doesn't take him long. He skims the articles quickly, picking out the important points: Cindy McClellan's body was found in the trunk of a burnt-out Mustang in the parking lot of St. Mary's in Ilchester, Maryland. The FBI isn't commenting on the case, but the local tabloids list all the salacious details, including the fact that she was exsanguinated, dead before the explosion, and that there were satanic symbols drawn on the inside of the trunk where she was found.
Dean's stomach lurches, but he swallows back the bile, takes a long sip of his now-cold coffee to wash it down.
Even though he has his own laptop now, he clears the history, just in case. He pulls out his phone and calls Bobby, tells him Cindy McClellan might be in need of a preemptive salt and burn and to pass it onto the nearest hunter. When Bobby asks why they can't do it themselves, Dean says, "I don't think that'd be a good idea," and Bobby must hear something in his voice, because he doesn't push. "Thanks, Bobby." He ends the call and is pulling up ESPN on the laptop when Sam comes back.
"Pancakes and bacon and hash browns," he says, putting a large brown shopping bag on the table.
"Biscuits and gravy? I dreamt about it, you know. It was a good dream." Dean makes little Homer Simpson noises and rubs his hungry belly.
Sam nods and laughs. "Biscuits and gravy, though if I have to worry about H1N1, you should probably be concerned about cholesterol."
Dean smiles at him, and it's genuine, if a little sad. "Thanks, Sam."
"No problem. Even got more coffee."
"Awesome." Dean puts the laptop aside and starts unpacking breakfast.
The food is still hot and it all smells good as Dean dishes out a plate for himself and one for Sam. Sam shucks his jacket and his hoodie and starts sorting through the napkins and plastic silverware. He reaches up and puts a cold hand on the back of Dean's neck, and Dean jumps, surprised.
"What the fuck was that for?"
Sam just grins and bumps his arm companionably. Unlike the chill of his hands, Sam's body is warm through the flannel, and Dean can't help grinning back despite the shiver down his spine. They spend a few quiet moments getting settled and digging into the food, which really is as good as it smells. Dean might even moan a little bit when he bites into a strip of crispy bacon.
"So what's next?" Dean asks around a mouthful of biscuits and gravy, and sits back to listen as Sam outlines their next hunt.
end
~*~
Note: Title and cut-tag from Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XLIV (trans. unknown)
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/83416.html.
people have commented there.
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; spoilers through 4.22 only; pg; 2,020 words
This is one secret he can help Sam keep.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas and angelgazing for looking it over and helping with the frantic title-scramble.
~*~
One Wing of Silence
The apocalypse is running them ragged, so when they get a chance to sleep in, they take it. Neither of them sleeps through the night, but Dean's determined to make up for what he loses in consecutive hours with naps throughout the day, especially when there's no place else they have to be. He wakes, huddled warm and drowsy under the covers, from a dream about giant carnivorous biscuits, and thinks about going to the diner down the street for some biscuits and gravy. His stomach gurgles, but he's not hungry enough yet to throw off the covers and demand food.
He rolls over and is about to go back to sleep--he thinks he can get back into that dream and turn the tables on those tasty yet vicious biscuits--when he hears Sam come out of the bathroom. Instead of the squeak and sigh of him getting back into bed, though, Dean hears the shuffle of him getting dressed and putting his shoes on.
The gurgle in his belly is replaced by nauseated dread, and he tenses, wondering what Sam is up to. He reminds himself that he trusts Sam again. He lies there quietly, eyes closed, trying to will himself back to sleep.
"I know you're awake," Sam says.
Dean yawns and stretches. "What's up, Sammy?"
"There's something I need to do."
"Toilet not working?" Dean jokes weakly, and is rewarded by a slight stretch of Sam's lips that can in no way be called a smile.
"I was going to leave a note," he says, "but you can come if you want."
Dean stands up and scrubs the sleep out of his eyes. He scratches his balls and says, "Gimme a minute."
Sam nods and sits down on his bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling loosely between.
Dean's not used to this transparent Sam anymore, the last year of lies and secrets making Dean doubt his read of him. He remembers when Sam was little, how open he was, sharing everything with Dean, to the point that Dean threatened to smother him with a pillow if he didn't shut up. He doesn't remember exactly when that changed, but it had, and Dean had missed it for so long he'd almost forgotten he'd ever had it. A Sam without secrets now is both achingly familiar and almost unrecognizable.
Dean showered before he fell into bed last night, so he just brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face. When he's done and dressed, he looks at the warm comfort of his bed and then back at Sam, who's still sitting there looking like he's a puppy that's just been kicked. Dean doesn't even bother to hide his gusty sigh. Sam ignores it.
"St. Albans cemetery," Sam says when they're standing in the parking lot and Dean's rethinking the whole plan, because Jesus fuck, it's cold, and he could be in bed, dreaming about giant biscuits. At least it's not raining. The sun is bright in the clear blue sky, bright and far away, and the wind whips through his clothes like a cat o'nine tails. It's the kind of vivid, bitter winter day that makes him believe that maybe they can actually win, actually save the world.
He shakes his head, blows into his cupped hands. "This a case?"
"No." Sam meets his gaze squarely.
Dean shrugs and hands him the keys. "Coffee first."
"Yeah, okay."
Dean leans against the window and dozes while Sam finds the nearest Dunkin Donuts and comes back with a shiny silver travel mug that he hands to Dean.
"They were having a giveaway," he says in response to Dean's raised eyebrow. Dean gives another shrug and takes a sip. The hot coffee feels good, wakes him up from the inside, brain slowly coming to life once the caffeine hits his bloodstream.
Sam puts on NPR while they're driving and Dean doesn't bother to complain. He doesn't know what's going on in Sam's thick head, but he's trying to be better about figuring it out without coming off like Dad.
They pull up to the gates of St. Albans cemetery and drive through like they belong there, like they're visitors instead of hunters, grave desecrators. Walking dead men.
Sam pulls into a parking spot and says, "I need to check something at the office."
Dean nods and fiddles with the radio while he waits. A funeral procession pulls in; he watches it with the dispassionate eye of a professional: the grieving widow dressed in formal black, adult children gathered around her with expressions ranging from devastated to bored, and the grandkids milling around, twitchy but subdued--they don't really know what's going on, but they know it's not anything good.
Sam comes back and says, "Come on. Section four, row eight." He's got one of those green cones and a bouquet of flowers in his left hand. When Dean doesn't get out of the car right away, he says, "You can wait here."
"I'm coming," Dean answers, and heaves himself out of the passenger seat.
The gravel crunches under the soles of their boots, rocks and ice left over from various storms that blew through in late November, the winter a cold and snowy one already, one for the record books; the newscasters keep blathering on about El Niño and climate change, but don't seem to have caught on that it's the apocalypse.
They reach section four, row eight pretty quickly, passing a guy about Bobby's age putting flowers in front of a rose marble angel, and a different funeral party coming back from the fresh grave. The grass is brown and patchy, and the air's too cold for the scent of flowers or newly turned earth to carry.
Sam stops in front of a grave. The headstone is new, the carving still sharp and bright against the grey marble. It says, Cynthia McClellan, beloved wife, August 8, 1979-May 18, 2009.
Dean wonders if she was the dental hygienist Lilith was wearing when she died, or the coma patient Ruby was riding. He'd thought those bodies had been destroyed in the blast when Lucifer was set free, but maybe not. He tries not to think about how she was his age, and didn't make it to thirty either, but there are no angels waiting to bring her back to life.
Sam shoves the flowers at Dean, who grabs them in surprise. They're a sad, wilted bunch of Montauk daisies and black-eyed Susans. Sam squats down, pulls the trowel out of his jacket pocket, and digs a small hole in the frozen earth. He shoves the pointy end of the green cone in, and pats the dirt around its base so it won't fall over.
"Shit," he says, straightening up and brushing the dirt off his hands. "Shit. I forgot to get water." He's still wearing the kicked puppy look, forehead furrowed and eyes bright.
Dean reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out his flask of holy water, and offers it to Sam, who takes it with a shy, sad smile, head ducked so his bangs fall over his forehead and into his eyes.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
Sam fills the cone halfway with water and then puts the flowers in; fiddling with them doesn't make them any less wilted or sad, and finally he gives up and stands.
They stand there in silence for a few long awkward minutes. Dean keeps his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat and tries not to shiver as the wind finds its way through his coat and down the back of his neck. Sam's got that faraway look in his eyes, and Dean wonders if he's praying, if he still does that, now that they know God's missing (if he exists at all) and his angels are major dicks with wings.
Finally, Sam says, "I'm sorry."
Dean opens his mouth to respond before he realizes Sam's not talking to him.
Sam reaches out, runs his fingers over the cross carved in the center of the headstone, and then turns abruptly, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed in his pockets against the wind. Dean follows quietly.
When they're back in the car, Dean says, "That jacket warm enough?"
Sam looks over at him, startled. "What? Yeah. I've got about eight layers on underneath. It's fine."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Let me know if it's not. Can't have you sidelined from the apocalypse by swine flu or something." He makes a mental note to find out which fake IDs would be most likely to get them vaccinated, just in case.
"It's H1N1, and that's not how you get it." Sam glances at him again, looking more like himself.
"Whatever. Keep your eyes on the road. You damage my car, I'm taking it out of your hide."
"Yeah, yeah. Can't hurt me too much. Need me for the apocalypse, remember?"
Dean groans. "I keep trying to forget, but no one will let me." He sneaks a glance over at Sam and feels a little burst of warmth at the amused look on his face. "Drop me at the motel and go get me breakfast," Dean says as they drive past the diner. "Pancakes and bacon. And maybe some hash browns. Biscuits and gravy, if they've got 'em."
Sam shakes his head and snorts, but Dean can see his mouth curve up into a smile. "Okay."
While Sam's gone, Dean pulls out his laptop and searches. It doesn't take him long. He skims the articles quickly, picking out the important points: Cindy McClellan's body was found in the trunk of a burnt-out Mustang in the parking lot of St. Mary's in Ilchester, Maryland. The FBI isn't commenting on the case, but the local tabloids list all the salacious details, including the fact that she was exsanguinated, dead before the explosion, and that there were satanic symbols drawn on the inside of the trunk where she was found.
Dean's stomach lurches, but he swallows back the bile, takes a long sip of his now-cold coffee to wash it down.
Even though he has his own laptop now, he clears the history, just in case. He pulls out his phone and calls Bobby, tells him Cindy McClellan might be in need of a preemptive salt and burn and to pass it onto the nearest hunter. When Bobby asks why they can't do it themselves, Dean says, "I don't think that'd be a good idea," and Bobby must hear something in his voice, because he doesn't push. "Thanks, Bobby." He ends the call and is pulling up ESPN on the laptop when Sam comes back.
"Pancakes and bacon and hash browns," he says, putting a large brown shopping bag on the table.
"Biscuits and gravy? I dreamt about it, you know. It was a good dream." Dean makes little Homer Simpson noises and rubs his hungry belly.
Sam nods and laughs. "Biscuits and gravy, though if I have to worry about H1N1, you should probably be concerned about cholesterol."
Dean smiles at him, and it's genuine, if a little sad. "Thanks, Sam."
"No problem. Even got more coffee."
"Awesome." Dean puts the laptop aside and starts unpacking breakfast.
The food is still hot and it all smells good as Dean dishes out a plate for himself and one for Sam. Sam shucks his jacket and his hoodie and starts sorting through the napkins and plastic silverware. He reaches up and puts a cold hand on the back of Dean's neck, and Dean jumps, surprised.
"What the fuck was that for?"
Sam just grins and bumps his arm companionably. Unlike the chill of his hands, Sam's body is warm through the flannel, and Dean can't help grinning back despite the shiver down his spine. They spend a few quiet moments getting settled and digging into the food, which really is as good as it smells. Dean might even moan a little bit when he bites into a strip of crispy bacon.
"So what's next?" Dean asks around a mouthful of biscuits and gravy, and sits back to listen as Sam outlines their next hunt.
end
~*~
Note: Title and cut-tag from Pablo Neruda's Sonnet XLIV (trans. unknown)
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/83416.html.
people have commented there.