FIC: the walk toward (Supernatural, GEN, John)
Title: the walk toward
Fandom: Supernatural, GEN
Length: 1,050 words
Summary: John; set during the last part of episode 2X01
SPOILERS for episode (obviously *g*)
(GEN fic! I'm shocked! *hugs* to audrarose for the quick beta!)
the walk toward
by Sori
don’t lock your knees, his drill sergeant had yelled and the sound echoed across the blacktop, down the line of the formation, slicing through the heat and the oppressive smell of sweat and summer air. Boot camp graduation and John wearing fatigues with hastily pinned on rank and money in his pocket; an adult, all grown up, and tomorrow was the first day of the rest of his life. Eighteen, thinking he was thirty and -
Young, so young, and so long ago, in a time when John didn’t know about demons and reapers; when John hadn’t needed to make up for lifetimes of neglect in a two minute conversation by a hospital bed.
He walks down the hall away from Dean’s room and he doesn’t remember it being quite this shade of beige, doesn’t think he noticed earlier, as he had stumbled blindly toward the basement. Soothing to people that will never understand more than just what they’re able to see, but for John it’s a horrifying color, makes him think of Dean’s skin before, when it had been sickly and not far enough away from death.
you shouldn’t have had to, he’d told Dean, like that was enough, like that would say it all and mean it all; like Dean would be able to get from there to here with just those words. Another thing to damn him to hell, just in case he hadn’t fucked up enough, because instead of saying everything he’d needed to say, he’d whispered half-truths and then horrible truths, and words that would change Dean and Sam and everything between them.
The regret makes the walk all the longer, down the hallway and around the corner, not quite as far as the elevators that would go down one floor to the vending machines, but almost, close enough that he knows Sam will probably see, probably be the one to find him, and he hadn’t thought he had any room left for guilt but apparently he’d been wrong.
There’s an infinite amount possible, and he’s going to hog it all, holding it close and getting perverse comfort in knowing that for the moment he still feels something, he’s still alive and here and not gone.
John, you shouldn’t have, Mary had once giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. He’d grinned around the roses in one hand and tried not to clench his other hand too tightly around the ring box in his pocket. More nervous than he’d ever been before, even though he knew she’d say yes. Yes, yes, yes, despite him being 23 and fresh from the Marines with no house and no real home and only a small weekly pay check from Grogan’s Auto Shop.
yes, yes, yes and life had changed and suddenly there’d been a home and someone to come home to and later, not too much later, kids to love and the start of a life that he’d never imagined.
“Dr. Phelps, to the nurse’s station, Dr. Phelps to the...,” a voice says over the hospital PA system, too loud, too annoying, and he wishes for a second that it could sound like the sweet, lilting Kansas whisper that he hasn’t heard in almost twenty-three years. It’d make this all the harder, more painful, but maybe then he wouldn’t be cold and shivering and trying to pretend that this is exactly how things need to work within his master plan.
Seems like a man should get one last wish; one minute of peace in the last moments. But he’s used up his wish, he knows; a wish and a deal, one that will save one son and damn him in the heart of the other. Sam needs Dean, more than he needs his father; needs his brother like people need air, and John has failed at almost every damn thing in his life but he isn’t going to fail at this.
damnit, Dean, I told you to not let Sam fall asleep, he’d said years ago, probably more than once, as he’d stomped into another forgotten and dirty hotel room. He’d flung his coat, soot covered and blood stained, across an ugly green chair and dropped his Magnum on the dresser next to his journal. Sam had been curled up asleep under the covers on the queen bed farthest from the window, his little chest rising and falling in easy rhythm, a nasal two-year old snore breaking the silence. John had felt the fear, almost always present, wither a bit, fade just enough that he’d been able to breathe almost easy.
dad, it’s okay had been Dean’s quiet whisper, a small hand on a his shoulder, a fleeting, wistful memory of love and loss and even then, John hadn’t been able to resist closing his eyes and thinking of miracles.
Dean will hate him, if he doesn’t already, because John’s demanding everything that Dean is unable to give. Dean would die, walk through fire, defeat the world, and face down a room full of demons before he’d sit idly by and let family be hurt. Sam and John and Dean, all alive a hundred times over, because of that strength and John thinks this might end of being his biggest regret.
“Christ,” John says aloud, getting a strange, pitying look from the young couple that hurries by him in the hallway. He slows his steps, long enough to look back toward Dean’s room, toward the elevator, toward the final door near the end of the hall. Closes his eyes and remembers Mary’s laugher and Sam’s smile and Dean’s touch, solid and sure and strong enough.
He finds himself in front of the last door and can’t imagine where the time went; years and months and moments, all gone. Time up, he thinks, and he wants nothing more than to beg silently for more: another last conversation, another last touch, another last chance.
But today is not about what he wants.
Once last glance toward the past, one last thought to all the things that should have been, never will be, then he takes a breath and steps inside.
No where left to walk.
--End--
Fandom: Supernatural, GEN
Length: 1,050 words
Summary: John; set during the last part of episode 2X01
SPOILERS for episode (obviously *g*)
(GEN fic! I'm shocked! *hugs* to audrarose for the quick beta!)
the walk toward
by Sori
don’t lock your knees, his drill sergeant had yelled and the sound echoed across the blacktop, down the line of the formation, slicing through the heat and the oppressive smell of sweat and summer air. Boot camp graduation and John wearing fatigues with hastily pinned on rank and money in his pocket; an adult, all grown up, and tomorrow was the first day of the rest of his life. Eighteen, thinking he was thirty and -
Young, so young, and so long ago, in a time when John didn’t know about demons and reapers; when John hadn’t needed to make up for lifetimes of neglect in a two minute conversation by a hospital bed.
He walks down the hall away from Dean’s room and he doesn’t remember it being quite this shade of beige, doesn’t think he noticed earlier, as he had stumbled blindly toward the basement. Soothing to people that will never understand more than just what they’re able to see, but for John it’s a horrifying color, makes him think of Dean’s skin before, when it had been sickly and not far enough away from death.
you shouldn’t have had to, he’d told Dean, like that was enough, like that would say it all and mean it all; like Dean would be able to get from there to here with just those words. Another thing to damn him to hell, just in case he hadn’t fucked up enough, because instead of saying everything he’d needed to say, he’d whispered half-truths and then horrible truths, and words that would change Dean and Sam and everything between them.
The regret makes the walk all the longer, down the hallway and around the corner, not quite as far as the elevators that would go down one floor to the vending machines, but almost, close enough that he knows Sam will probably see, probably be the one to find him, and he hadn’t thought he had any room left for guilt but apparently he’d been wrong.
There’s an infinite amount possible, and he’s going to hog it all, holding it close and getting perverse comfort in knowing that for the moment he still feels something, he’s still alive and here and not gone.
John, you shouldn’t have, Mary had once giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. He’d grinned around the roses in one hand and tried not to clench his other hand too tightly around the ring box in his pocket. More nervous than he’d ever been before, even though he knew she’d say yes. Yes, yes, yes, despite him being 23 and fresh from the Marines with no house and no real home and only a small weekly pay check from Grogan’s Auto Shop.
yes, yes, yes and life had changed and suddenly there’d been a home and someone to come home to and later, not too much later, kids to love and the start of a life that he’d never imagined.
“Dr. Phelps, to the nurse’s station, Dr. Phelps to the...,” a voice says over the hospital PA system, too loud, too annoying, and he wishes for a second that it could sound like the sweet, lilting Kansas whisper that he hasn’t heard in almost twenty-three years. It’d make this all the harder, more painful, but maybe then he wouldn’t be cold and shivering and trying to pretend that this is exactly how things need to work within his master plan.
Seems like a man should get one last wish; one minute of peace in the last moments. But he’s used up his wish, he knows; a wish and a deal, one that will save one son and damn him in the heart of the other. Sam needs Dean, more than he needs his father; needs his brother like people need air, and John has failed at almost every damn thing in his life but he isn’t going to fail at this.
damnit, Dean, I told you to not let Sam fall asleep, he’d said years ago, probably more than once, as he’d stomped into another forgotten and dirty hotel room. He’d flung his coat, soot covered and blood stained, across an ugly green chair and dropped his Magnum on the dresser next to his journal. Sam had been curled up asleep under the covers on the queen bed farthest from the window, his little chest rising and falling in easy rhythm, a nasal two-year old snore breaking the silence. John had felt the fear, almost always present, wither a bit, fade just enough that he’d been able to breathe almost easy.
dad, it’s okay had been Dean’s quiet whisper, a small hand on a his shoulder, a fleeting, wistful memory of love and loss and even then, John hadn’t been able to resist closing his eyes and thinking of miracles.
Dean will hate him, if he doesn’t already, because John’s demanding everything that Dean is unable to give. Dean would die, walk through fire, defeat the world, and face down a room full of demons before he’d sit idly by and let family be hurt. Sam and John and Dean, all alive a hundred times over, because of that strength and John thinks this might end of being his biggest regret.
“Christ,” John says aloud, getting a strange, pitying look from the young couple that hurries by him in the hallway. He slows his steps, long enough to look back toward Dean’s room, toward the elevator, toward the final door near the end of the hall. Closes his eyes and remembers Mary’s laugher and Sam’s smile and Dean’s touch, solid and sure and strong enough.
He finds himself in front of the last door and can’t imagine where the time went; years and months and moments, all gone. Time up, he thinks, and he wants nothing more than to beg silently for more: another last conversation, another last touch, another last chance.
But today is not about what he wants.
Once last glance toward the past, one last thought to all the things that should have been, never will be, then he takes a breath and steps inside.
No where left to walk.
--End--