fic: spn: hands split and bless on curving man
Title: Hands Split and Bless on Curving Man
Author: Rory
Rating: PG
Pairing: None
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 1170
Warning(s): None
Summary: Out of the Winchester family, Dean is the only one with the hands of a hunter. Teenchesters.
Disclaimer: Obviously I do not own Supernatural.
A/N: Random little drabble that got a bit out of hand.
Out of the Winchester family, Dean is the only one with the hands of a hunter.
Most people would expect to find them on John. Broad and strong, his beard a constant shadow on his ragged jaw, he was the epitome of what a hunter should look like. He had the scars, the worn clothes, the broken soul - all the usual tell tale signs. But his hands fell short of completing the picture. He had a mechanic's hands. Tough and nimble, they have a way of sorting through tiny nuts and bolts without a single hesitation. They're calloused in a way that somebody only gets from spending hours tightening screws. He's comfortable with a gun in his hands, but his fingers are shaped to hold a wrench. Even in Vietnam, his hands itched to tinker with the sergeant's jeep rather than clean his weapon. There's a slight hesitation anytime he goes to pull a trigger - so subtle that nobody but he notices. He's designed to twist his wrist, not curl his finger. He's a hunter, there's no denying that - but his hands still speak of an honest past.
Dean's the only one with the complete package.
It's no surprise that Sam is missing a hunter's set of hands. He's good - very good. He can dig up a grave and set fire to the bones and his hands won't hurt. They won't blister or ache or bleed. They're calloused - they have to be - but only in the way a boy's hands should be. From too much rough housing with his older brother, or from clenching his fists whenever he fights with his dad, or from the soccer he plays when nobody's looking. He has the hands of a student. More at home with a book or pen in his hand, Sam's fingers dance across a page without a single pause. They're delicate in a way a hunter's hands can never be - they've caressed tales and stories and adventures without having to bleed. They've traveled the world on the back of sentences. His hands are the ones that know how to express themselves - that can write for hours defining his life and all that's wrong with it. His hands have been protected, cradled, loved - they've been pushed aside when the heavy lifting is needed, and they've been encouraged to rest. Sam's a good hunter. One day he might be a great hunter. But his hands will always belong to those of a student.
Dean never had an option.
Mary is different. Her hands have been gone for years - burned up and turned to ash, nobody should know what her hands are like anymore. But that's a lie. When John drinks enough - but not too much - he'll tell his boys about how their mother had the hands of a healer. How she could touch a wound and make it better, how they would cry and her hands would stop them, how life would ache and she would fix it. When he's drunk he'll talk about the way her hand fit perfectly into his, how she would run her fingers through his hair, and wipe away whatever grime was on his face. And when John passes out from all the beer and the boys are tucked in bed, Sam will whisper into the dark and ask Dean if it's true. And in the dark Dean can pretend the question hasn't been asked, he can pretend that he doesn't tell his baby brother about his dearest memories. He can pretend that he doesn't talk about her fingers were delicate, like Sam's, and how they were quick like John's. He ignores the way he tells Sammy of the way they felt cool on his forehead when he had a fever, and the way they felt like safety when he was in her arms. She had the hands of a healer, a nurturer - a mother. And that doesn't surprise anybody.
Dean though. He's a hunter.
His hands feel awkward and clumsy when they hold a book. They're too big and have had too many broken fingers. He doesn't know how to show a book the respect Sam says they deserve - so he doesn't hold them often. They're a little bit more comfortable when holding a wrench - he finds it easier to wraps his broad fingers around the steering wheel. But there's a halting consciousness to it all - he enjoys it, but too often it feels like he's playing dress up. Like he's actively trying to be his dad and it makes his movements a little too jerky, a little too awkward. He's only fifteen years old, and he's just learning how to properly hold a girl. Because Dean has the hands of a hunter, because that's all he's ever been, it's all he'll ever be. There are scars that run over every which way across the back of his hands and his palms are so calloused that no two-bit psychic could even pretend to read his future. He was six years old when his dad gave him a gun to hold. It was like he'd found his home again - like before he was floating and suddenly he was grounded. Dean's never more at ease than when he has a gun in his hand or a knife or a shovel or a lighter. He's a soldier - more, he's a weapon.
But sometimes he forgets. Sometimes, for a fleeting second, he's something else. Something reminiscent of someone else.
Because sometimes Sammy comes home with a cut or a bruise, and Dean is there to make it better. His hard hands become pliant as he wipes away the blood and slips on the bandage. There are times when John has too much to drink, and he needs Dean's hands to be his guide - to take him to bed, to undress him, to comfort him in his pain. He can do that. His hands shift, they become softer, gentler, they caress when normally they would threaten. Sam does his homework like a good student, and Dean may not be able to help - may not know how too - but he can curve his hand and ruffle his brother's hair. One hand pull a needle through his dad's skin without hesitating, while the other presses down on John's chest like an anchor to hold on to, feeling his heartbeat and reassuring it.
He was six years old when his dad gave him a gun to hold. It's why he has the hands of a hunter. It was destined. Promised. Cultivated. But sometimes he's something else.
He was six when he held a gun for the first time. He was four when his dad gave him Sammy to guard. To protect. To love. To heal. To nurture.
Dean is always a hunter. But sometimes he has his mother's hands.
Author: Rory
Rating: PG
Pairing: None
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 1170
Warning(s): None
Summary: Out of the Winchester family, Dean is the only one with the hands of a hunter. Teenchesters.
Disclaimer: Obviously I do not own Supernatural.
A/N: Random little drabble that got a bit out of hand.
Out of the Winchester family, Dean is the only one with the hands of a hunter.
Most people would expect to find them on John. Broad and strong, his beard a constant shadow on his ragged jaw, he was the epitome of what a hunter should look like. He had the scars, the worn clothes, the broken soul - all the usual tell tale signs. But his hands fell short of completing the picture. He had a mechanic's hands. Tough and nimble, they have a way of sorting through tiny nuts and bolts without a single hesitation. They're calloused in a way that somebody only gets from spending hours tightening screws. He's comfortable with a gun in his hands, but his fingers are shaped to hold a wrench. Even in Vietnam, his hands itched to tinker with the sergeant's jeep rather than clean his weapon. There's a slight hesitation anytime he goes to pull a trigger - so subtle that nobody but he notices. He's designed to twist his wrist, not curl his finger. He's a hunter, there's no denying that - but his hands still speak of an honest past.
Dean's the only one with the complete package.
It's no surprise that Sam is missing a hunter's set of hands. He's good - very good. He can dig up a grave and set fire to the bones and his hands won't hurt. They won't blister or ache or bleed. They're calloused - they have to be - but only in the way a boy's hands should be. From too much rough housing with his older brother, or from clenching his fists whenever he fights with his dad, or from the soccer he plays when nobody's looking. He has the hands of a student. More at home with a book or pen in his hand, Sam's fingers dance across a page without a single pause. They're delicate in a way a hunter's hands can never be - they've caressed tales and stories and adventures without having to bleed. They've traveled the world on the back of sentences. His hands are the ones that know how to express themselves - that can write for hours defining his life and all that's wrong with it. His hands have been protected, cradled, loved - they've been pushed aside when the heavy lifting is needed, and they've been encouraged to rest. Sam's a good hunter. One day he might be a great hunter. But his hands will always belong to those of a student.
Dean never had an option.
Mary is different. Her hands have been gone for years - burned up and turned to ash, nobody should know what her hands are like anymore. But that's a lie. When John drinks enough - but not too much - he'll tell his boys about how their mother had the hands of a healer. How she could touch a wound and make it better, how they would cry and her hands would stop them, how life would ache and she would fix it. When he's drunk he'll talk about the way her hand fit perfectly into his, how she would run her fingers through his hair, and wipe away whatever grime was on his face. And when John passes out from all the beer and the boys are tucked in bed, Sam will whisper into the dark and ask Dean if it's true. And in the dark Dean can pretend the question hasn't been asked, he can pretend that he doesn't tell his baby brother about his dearest memories. He can pretend that he doesn't talk about her fingers were delicate, like Sam's, and how they were quick like John's. He ignores the way he tells Sammy of the way they felt cool on his forehead when he had a fever, and the way they felt like safety when he was in her arms. She had the hands of a healer, a nurturer - a mother. And that doesn't surprise anybody.
Dean though. He's a hunter.
His hands feel awkward and clumsy when they hold a book. They're too big and have had too many broken fingers. He doesn't know how to show a book the respect Sam says they deserve - so he doesn't hold them often. They're a little bit more comfortable when holding a wrench - he finds it easier to wraps his broad fingers around the steering wheel. But there's a halting consciousness to it all - he enjoys it, but too often it feels like he's playing dress up. Like he's actively trying to be his dad and it makes his movements a little too jerky, a little too awkward. He's only fifteen years old, and he's just learning how to properly hold a girl. Because Dean has the hands of a hunter, because that's all he's ever been, it's all he'll ever be. There are scars that run over every which way across the back of his hands and his palms are so calloused that no two-bit psychic could even pretend to read his future. He was six years old when his dad gave him a gun to hold. It was like he'd found his home again - like before he was floating and suddenly he was grounded. Dean's never more at ease than when he has a gun in his hand or a knife or a shovel or a lighter. He's a soldier - more, he's a weapon.
But sometimes he forgets. Sometimes, for a fleeting second, he's something else. Something reminiscent of someone else.
Because sometimes Sammy comes home with a cut or a bruise, and Dean is there to make it better. His hard hands become pliant as he wipes away the blood and slips on the bandage. There are times when John has too much to drink, and he needs Dean's hands to be his guide - to take him to bed, to undress him, to comfort him in his pain. He can do that. His hands shift, they become softer, gentler, they caress when normally they would threaten. Sam does his homework like a good student, and Dean may not be able to help - may not know how too - but he can curve his hand and ruffle his brother's hair. One hand pull a needle through his dad's skin without hesitating, while the other presses down on John's chest like an anchor to hold on to, feeling his heartbeat and reassuring it.
He was six years old when his dad gave him a gun to hold. It's why he has the hands of a hunter. It was destined. Promised. Cultivated. But sometimes he's something else.
He was six when he held a gun for the first time. He was four when his dad gave him Sammy to guard. To protect. To love. To heal. To nurture.
Dean is always a hunter. But sometimes he has his mother's hands.