Supernatural fic: Driving
Title: Driving
Author: Shealynn
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: They aren’t mine, but oh, how I wish they were…
Summary: (AU) The boys are on the road again. Dean seethes, remembers and muses.
Author’s Note: I read a lot of Wincest, and enjoy it…but I can’t get myself to write it. So, I changed their history a little bit. Not brothers-best friends… Sequel to Secrets(1), Restless(2) and Leaving(3). I've tried to make each part stand alone, though of course it will make more sense if you read them all.
Dean’s foot was heavy on the accelerator; his eyes were fixed on the road. He couldn’t wait to kill something. Anything. Anything to vent the bitter rage that roiled inside him, that screamed of betrayal; anything to quiet the insidious whispers that said he obviously wasn’t good enough. Not a good enough son, not a good enough friend. Neither of the people who really knew him could stand to stay by his side.
Dean had always known what kind of life was in store for him. He’d come to grips with being a freak a long time ago, had never even considered a picket fence and those two and a half kids that were touted as the American dream. He’d known from that first kill that he would be a hunter, an outsider-that he would die in some fantastic firefight and be buried in an unmarked grave. So he’d never made long-term goals for himself. It had always been about the next town, the next kill, the next girl.
He hadn’t realized how much he depended on the few constants in his life until they’d gone. Sam had left him for college. His dad had left him for God-knew-what.
Dean would never admit how much it had hurt, how being alone had brought back the nightmares of his mother’s death, nightmares he hadn’t had since he was twelve. Dean would never admit how he'd turn after a hunt to brag, forgetting that Sam was gone, that his father wasn't watching his back.
Sam was quiet in the passenger seat, reading the paper that Dean had bought in the last town. He’d hardly said a word since he’d followed Dean grudgingly to the car. Not since he'd made it perfectly clear how he felt about Dean and the life he led. We're not doing enough out here. I had a normal life, was looking at a damn future before you pulled me back into this shit!
Dean clenched his jaw at the remembered punch of those words. It was just as well that Sam was quiet. Dean wasn’t sure he could have a normal conversation yet. Sharp taunts were poised on his tongue, waiting for some small goad, one tiny slight, to be unleashed.
You're never going to find Jess's killer. Dad tried for 20 years and never found it.
You're never going to be normal. You can pretend. You can run away. It doesn't matter. The ghosts know you now. They'll never leave you alone.
The words would be payback, and they'd mask the fear that gnawed relentlessly at Dean. But anything that escaped his lips right now would just push Sam farther away, and Dean didn't want the gulf between them to get any wider.
Metallica filled the space between them, masking the tension and making the atmosphere almost normal. But Dean knew by the single minded attention that Sam was giving that newspaper that he felt it, too.
They’d put almost 50 miles behind them before Dean trusted himself to speak, after he'd crushed the hurt of Sam's words into that growing pile of emotions he ignored.
He flicked a finger at the paper in Sam's hand. “So, what do you think?”
Sam looked startled and maybe a little worried. “They’re saying wild animals, maybe a bear.”
"So, what do you think?" Dean repeated, trying to find a way back to their comfortable rivalry.
Sam shrugged and seemed to relax. "I doubt it. New York's got black bears, and the way they describe the wounds…it was bigger than that."
"Yeah, so…what? A werewolf?" Sam flinched at the words, and Dean silently cursed himself. His friend had never gotten over that gut deep reaction, a result of watching his mother get torn apart by one.
Sam had frozen the first two times they'd hunted Were's. Dean's father had worried they'd have to find somewhere else for the boy to live. And then, the third time, one had cornered Dean. He'd been 15 at the time, brash and foolish. His father had flushed the creature out and told Dean to wait for him so they could corner it together. But Dean had been eager to prove himself and gone after it alone. He'd tracked it back to the cabin, not realizing it had circled around. When it struck, it had thrown him through the screen door, tearing his gun and large strips of flesh from his hand.
He'd known, known he was dead, known that there was no way his father could get back in time, no way he could push the massive beast off him. Dean had closed his eyes and waited for the tearing pain in his throat.
Then he'd heard the sharp report of a gun and felt a warm spray of blood before the Were fell forward, it's dead eyes staring blankly into his.
Adrenaline had allowed Dean to push the corpse aside with some effort, and he'd gotten up to find Sam where the recoil of Dean's .44 Magnum had thrown him, against the wall. He'd had the gun clutched in a textbook grip, small hands dwarfed by the weapon. His narrow face had held a look of single-minded determination that Dean would never forget.
"No," Sam said, bringing Dean back to the present. "Not a werewolf. Full moon isn't for two weeks, and the coroner is estimating he's been dead about eight. Some internal organs missing-could be a haven for young."
Dean grimaced. "Something killed him for a nest?" He nodded. "That's possible."
"Could be a demon. Or hellhounds. If there's a portal there, it should be pretty easy to find." Sam looked back at the paper, shaking his head. "We need more information."
Dean smiled and raised an eyebrow. "What do you suggest, college-boy?"
"The autopsy is scheduled for this afternoon. We could pay a visit."
"That's not half-bad," Dean said with mocking surprise. He'd never been good with words; there was no way for him to tell Sam he'd missed him. All he could do was offer this comfortable ribbing and hope that Sam would recognize it as friendship.
Read the next one: Nightmare
Author: Shealynn
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: They aren’t mine, but oh, how I wish they were…
Summary: (AU) The boys are on the road again. Dean seethes, remembers and muses.
Author’s Note: I read a lot of Wincest, and enjoy it…but I can’t get myself to write it. So, I changed their history a little bit. Not brothers-best friends… Sequel to Secrets(1), Restless(2) and Leaving(3). I've tried to make each part stand alone, though of course it will make more sense if you read them all.
Dean’s foot was heavy on the accelerator; his eyes were fixed on the road. He couldn’t wait to kill something. Anything. Anything to vent the bitter rage that roiled inside him, that screamed of betrayal; anything to quiet the insidious whispers that said he obviously wasn’t good enough. Not a good enough son, not a good enough friend. Neither of the people who really knew him could stand to stay by his side.
Dean had always known what kind of life was in store for him. He’d come to grips with being a freak a long time ago, had never even considered a picket fence and those two and a half kids that were touted as the American dream. He’d known from that first kill that he would be a hunter, an outsider-that he would die in some fantastic firefight and be buried in an unmarked grave. So he’d never made long-term goals for himself. It had always been about the next town, the next kill, the next girl.
He hadn’t realized how much he depended on the few constants in his life until they’d gone. Sam had left him for college. His dad had left him for God-knew-what.
Dean would never admit how much it had hurt, how being alone had brought back the nightmares of his mother’s death, nightmares he hadn’t had since he was twelve. Dean would never admit how he'd turn after a hunt to brag, forgetting that Sam was gone, that his father wasn't watching his back.
Sam was quiet in the passenger seat, reading the paper that Dean had bought in the last town. He’d hardly said a word since he’d followed Dean grudgingly to the car. Not since he'd made it perfectly clear how he felt about Dean and the life he led. We're not doing enough out here. I had a normal life, was looking at a damn future before you pulled me back into this shit!
Dean clenched his jaw at the remembered punch of those words. It was just as well that Sam was quiet. Dean wasn’t sure he could have a normal conversation yet. Sharp taunts were poised on his tongue, waiting for some small goad, one tiny slight, to be unleashed.
You're never going to find Jess's killer. Dad tried for 20 years and never found it.
You're never going to be normal. You can pretend. You can run away. It doesn't matter. The ghosts know you now. They'll never leave you alone.
The words would be payback, and they'd mask the fear that gnawed relentlessly at Dean. But anything that escaped his lips right now would just push Sam farther away, and Dean didn't want the gulf between them to get any wider.
Metallica filled the space between them, masking the tension and making the atmosphere almost normal. But Dean knew by the single minded attention that Sam was giving that newspaper that he felt it, too.
They’d put almost 50 miles behind them before Dean trusted himself to speak, after he'd crushed the hurt of Sam's words into that growing pile of emotions he ignored.
He flicked a finger at the paper in Sam's hand. “So, what do you think?”
Sam looked startled and maybe a little worried. “They’re saying wild animals, maybe a bear.”
"So, what do you think?" Dean repeated, trying to find a way back to their comfortable rivalry.
Sam shrugged and seemed to relax. "I doubt it. New York's got black bears, and the way they describe the wounds…it was bigger than that."
"Yeah, so…what? A werewolf?" Sam flinched at the words, and Dean silently cursed himself. His friend had never gotten over that gut deep reaction, a result of watching his mother get torn apart by one.
Sam had frozen the first two times they'd hunted Were's. Dean's father had worried they'd have to find somewhere else for the boy to live. And then, the third time, one had cornered Dean. He'd been 15 at the time, brash and foolish. His father had flushed the creature out and told Dean to wait for him so they could corner it together. But Dean had been eager to prove himself and gone after it alone. He'd tracked it back to the cabin, not realizing it had circled around. When it struck, it had thrown him through the screen door, tearing his gun and large strips of flesh from his hand.
He'd known, known he was dead, known that there was no way his father could get back in time, no way he could push the massive beast off him. Dean had closed his eyes and waited for the tearing pain in his throat.
Then he'd heard the sharp report of a gun and felt a warm spray of blood before the Were fell forward, it's dead eyes staring blankly into his.
Adrenaline had allowed Dean to push the corpse aside with some effort, and he'd gotten up to find Sam where the recoil of Dean's .44 Magnum had thrown him, against the wall. He'd had the gun clutched in a textbook grip, small hands dwarfed by the weapon. His narrow face had held a look of single-minded determination that Dean would never forget.
"No," Sam said, bringing Dean back to the present. "Not a werewolf. Full moon isn't for two weeks, and the coroner is estimating he's been dead about eight. Some internal organs missing-could be a haven for young."
Dean grimaced. "Something killed him for a nest?" He nodded. "That's possible."
"Could be a demon. Or hellhounds. If there's a portal there, it should be pretty easy to find." Sam looked back at the paper, shaking his head. "We need more information."
Dean smiled and raised an eyebrow. "What do you suggest, college-boy?"
"The autopsy is scheduled for this afternoon. We could pay a visit."
"That's not half-bad," Dean said with mocking surprise. He'd never been good with words; there was no way for him to tell Sam he'd missed him. All he could do was offer this comfortable ribbing and hope that Sam would recognize it as friendship.
Read the next one: Nightmare