original by kellifer_fic
Remix Title: Something in a Sunday
Remix Author: montisello
Original Story: Sunday Morning Coming Down
Original Author: kellifer_fic
Rating: PG
Pairings: None
Summary: Mary was the one to survive, Sam to hunt and Dean to leave.
Warnings: None
If Sam really tries, clenches his eyes closed and forces his brain down that long, dark road, he can remember before. At least he fools himself into thinking he can remember it, but then knowing his brain, maybe those memories are real. There are long afternoons where Sam goes back and forth, trusting and mistrusting himself, then gives it all over to the sheer sensation of the maybe memories.
Mom first, of course; in all things Sam had always put Mom first, and it's the same way here, only this Mom soft and yielding and singing quietly. No coldness, her usually implacable blue eyes warmed by a nearby fire. With Dad Sam never pushes the memories, just lets them come, and they're always tinged with warmth like an engine rumbling, or a breath on chapped hands during the winter. Subtle and nearly undetectable until it's gone. Sam never pushes it, let's go of them before his mind makes them up for him, because all he has now is Mom and Dean and before.
But that one memory he's sure of, that memory of Dean's face looming over him like a full moon, reflecting the light of the sun. Sam realizes he spends most of his time watching Dean, catching flickers of that light from his brother's face, and Dean is never one to hoard it, generous in giving him the scraps they have left. Mom, too, when her eyes go warmer, like the morning sky in early spring when the sun is returning, giving to Sam. Dean is usually shut out when Mom thaws, or he just doesn't see it, and the meager warmth is given to Sam.
Sam's watching Dean watch TV, knows from the clean jerks of Dean's fork from plate to mouth that something is up, something that had been building since Dean graduated high school. He's slumped in a chair catty corner to the couch, and Mom at the head of their little triangle, sitting at the table in the kitchen. She's going through junk mail lifted from the dumpster behind the apartment buildings, looking for credit card applications.
Someone hits a long fly ball on TV, and crowd noise builds and builds until it's deflated in a low groan as the center fielder catches the ball. It reminds Sam of Dean and Mom fighting.
"Ah, here we go." Mom's voice, light and wispy, like powdered snow. She's found a likely application. "Need a name, Dean. Something from 80's hair metal?"
Sam's eyes flick to Dean. Catches the muscle jumping in his jaw. Eyes back to his mother. The crowd noise builds.
"Lita Ford." Dean's willing to play along, and Sam relaxes. The noise dies down.
"Nope. Need a male name, Mutton."
And maybe it's the pet name that does it, but Dean comes off the couch, hands clenched around his plate. The fork clatters noisily to the floor. The crowd roars.
xxxxxxxxxx
Dean remembers Dad's voice the most.
A voice like a wool blanket, warm and scratchy and durable. A voice like the dark beer Dad used to drink, amber foam and black depths. A voice like the smoke rising from Caleb's cigarette, until Mom catches them and makes him put it out.
Dean remembers what Dad said to him. Look out for your mom. Said when Dad left for the garage, and Dean had felt so big, so important, kept an eye on mom and reported dutifully at the end of the day. It's okay to be sad, but suck up those tears. Said when Dean biffed it on his new trike, knees red and angry, and Dad's hand on his shoulder while he blinked hard and caught Dad blinking hard too. Be a good soldier. Said at bedtime, when Dad would come in with kisses and hugs, and Dean didn't know it would be last thing Dad ever said.
Which makes it all the harder to walk away, even though Dean knows Dad would not have liked this, Sam wild as a feral cat, Mom with her blue eyes cold and freezing, not the mother Dean remembers from before. Dean knows now that Dad was the fire she needed to thaw herself, to be herself. And if Dean left? He feels like he's the only warmth left, sometimes, trying to be the bonfire that was Dad, freezing in its absence. Sam and Mom only icy cold resolve, and Dean's tired of frostbite, wants only the easy warmth of Dad's voice.
Mom calls him Mutton, and it's such a reminder of before, with her voice echoing nearly forgotten warmth, that Dean breaks, stands suddenly. He has to breathe a moment, and he can feel Sam's eyes on him, measures out his words carefully. "I passed the certification test."
There's a long moment, and Dean stares down at red-smeared plate in his hands. He hears the rustle of papers, the creak of Mom's chair. Can imagine the cool, level look he's getting right now. "Well, good. It'll come in handy if one of us gets hurt."
Sam moves in his chair, and Dean cocks his head and looks at him. Stop it, Sam mouths at him, and Dean frowns, breaks out of his freeze and walks into the kitchen. He doesn't look at his mother as he puts the plate in the sink, fills a tumbler with water.
"Didn't get it for that."
xxxxxxxxxx
Dean always his father's child.
Mary watches him, the shuttered look on his face as he goes to the sink, eyes opaque to her gaze. Standing with stiff shoulders, the glass tumbler in his hand looking suddenly brittle beneath his white knuckles. Mary feels the fight building, Dean always caught between pulling and pushing, hating the way his family teeters on the edge of knife, too small for the darkness they battle.
Sam in periphery, circling, circling, looking for a place to land, a tiny chink of his brother's attention on which to settle. Mary only has to glance at him to see the worry and hurt of being left behind in the shape of Sam's eyes. Sam always her child, her emotions on his face, and Mary wonders if that's only because John never got a chance with him.
She watches her boys, one always pulling away yet afraid to leave, one in her shadow and afraid to leave. John would have scolded her. She cares only in abstract way; an issue to be discussed and put to rest after the demon is dead. There's quite a list of them, if she thinks about it, starting when she chafed under her dad's watch, wanting something other than blood and darkness and hunting.
Her hands move among the envelopes and circulars on the table, the familiar coldness settling over her. "Then why did you get it?" There are times, watching Sam laugh with his whole body, watching Dean move under the Impala's hood, when something within her cracks like a glacier in too warm waters. She goes away then, practices with the knife, explodes glass bottles in some forgotten hayfield, until she's ice again.
Dean looks at her over his shoulder, the look in his eyes too rich and too heavy for her to decipher. "So I can help people. Maybe save lives."
She picks up the credit card application, puts it down. Scans the sales prices at Wal-Mart. John smiling at her over the table in the diner, drinking down vanilla milkshake and looking at her like she's everything. "What's wrong with the way you save lives now?"
The glass in Dean's hand cracks, and Mary thinks of ice again.
Remix Author: montisello
Original Story: Sunday Morning Coming Down
Original Author: kellifer_fic
Rating: PG
Pairings: None
Summary: Mary was the one to survive, Sam to hunt and Dean to leave.
Warnings: None
If Sam really tries, clenches his eyes closed and forces his brain down that long, dark road, he can remember before. At least he fools himself into thinking he can remember it, but then knowing his brain, maybe those memories are real. There are long afternoons where Sam goes back and forth, trusting and mistrusting himself, then gives it all over to the sheer sensation of the maybe memories.
Mom first, of course; in all things Sam had always put Mom first, and it's the same way here, only this Mom soft and yielding and singing quietly. No coldness, her usually implacable blue eyes warmed by a nearby fire. With Dad Sam never pushes the memories, just lets them come, and they're always tinged with warmth like an engine rumbling, or a breath on chapped hands during the winter. Subtle and nearly undetectable until it's gone. Sam never pushes it, let's go of them before his mind makes them up for him, because all he has now is Mom and Dean and before.
But that one memory he's sure of, that memory of Dean's face looming over him like a full moon, reflecting the light of the sun. Sam realizes he spends most of his time watching Dean, catching flickers of that light from his brother's face, and Dean is never one to hoard it, generous in giving him the scraps they have left. Mom, too, when her eyes go warmer, like the morning sky in early spring when the sun is returning, giving to Sam. Dean is usually shut out when Mom thaws, or he just doesn't see it, and the meager warmth is given to Sam.
Sam's watching Dean watch TV, knows from the clean jerks of Dean's fork from plate to mouth that something is up, something that had been building since Dean graduated high school. He's slumped in a chair catty corner to the couch, and Mom at the head of their little triangle, sitting at the table in the kitchen. She's going through junk mail lifted from the dumpster behind the apartment buildings, looking for credit card applications.
Someone hits a long fly ball on TV, and crowd noise builds and builds until it's deflated in a low groan as the center fielder catches the ball. It reminds Sam of Dean and Mom fighting.
"Ah, here we go." Mom's voice, light and wispy, like powdered snow. She's found a likely application. "Need a name, Dean. Something from 80's hair metal?"
Sam's eyes flick to Dean. Catches the muscle jumping in his jaw. Eyes back to his mother. The crowd noise builds.
"Lita Ford." Dean's willing to play along, and Sam relaxes. The noise dies down.
"Nope. Need a male name, Mutton."
And maybe it's the pet name that does it, but Dean comes off the couch, hands clenched around his plate. The fork clatters noisily to the floor. The crowd roars.
xxxxxxxxxx
Dean remembers Dad's voice the most.
A voice like a wool blanket, warm and scratchy and durable. A voice like the dark beer Dad used to drink, amber foam and black depths. A voice like the smoke rising from Caleb's cigarette, until Mom catches them and makes him put it out.
Dean remembers what Dad said to him. Look out for your mom. Said when Dad left for the garage, and Dean had felt so big, so important, kept an eye on mom and reported dutifully at the end of the day. It's okay to be sad, but suck up those tears. Said when Dean biffed it on his new trike, knees red and angry, and Dad's hand on his shoulder while he blinked hard and caught Dad blinking hard too. Be a good soldier. Said at bedtime, when Dad would come in with kisses and hugs, and Dean didn't know it would be last thing Dad ever said.
Which makes it all the harder to walk away, even though Dean knows Dad would not have liked this, Sam wild as a feral cat, Mom with her blue eyes cold and freezing, not the mother Dean remembers from before. Dean knows now that Dad was the fire she needed to thaw herself, to be herself. And if Dean left? He feels like he's the only warmth left, sometimes, trying to be the bonfire that was Dad, freezing in its absence. Sam and Mom only icy cold resolve, and Dean's tired of frostbite, wants only the easy warmth of Dad's voice.
Mom calls him Mutton, and it's such a reminder of before, with her voice echoing nearly forgotten warmth, that Dean breaks, stands suddenly. He has to breathe a moment, and he can feel Sam's eyes on him, measures out his words carefully. "I passed the certification test."
There's a long moment, and Dean stares down at red-smeared plate in his hands. He hears the rustle of papers, the creak of Mom's chair. Can imagine the cool, level look he's getting right now. "Well, good. It'll come in handy if one of us gets hurt."
Sam moves in his chair, and Dean cocks his head and looks at him. Stop it, Sam mouths at him, and Dean frowns, breaks out of his freeze and walks into the kitchen. He doesn't look at his mother as he puts the plate in the sink, fills a tumbler with water.
"Didn't get it for that."
xxxxxxxxxx
Dean always his father's child.
Mary watches him, the shuttered look on his face as he goes to the sink, eyes opaque to her gaze. Standing with stiff shoulders, the glass tumbler in his hand looking suddenly brittle beneath his white knuckles. Mary feels the fight building, Dean always caught between pulling and pushing, hating the way his family teeters on the edge of knife, too small for the darkness they battle.
Sam in periphery, circling, circling, looking for a place to land, a tiny chink of his brother's attention on which to settle. Mary only has to glance at him to see the worry and hurt of being left behind in the shape of Sam's eyes. Sam always her child, her emotions on his face, and Mary wonders if that's only because John never got a chance with him.
She watches her boys, one always pulling away yet afraid to leave, one in her shadow and afraid to leave. John would have scolded her. She cares only in abstract way; an issue to be discussed and put to rest after the demon is dead. There's quite a list of them, if she thinks about it, starting when she chafed under her dad's watch, wanting something other than blood and darkness and hunting.
Her hands move among the envelopes and circulars on the table, the familiar coldness settling over her. "Then why did you get it?" There are times, watching Sam laugh with his whole body, watching Dean move under the Impala's hood, when something within her cracks like a glacier in too warm waters. She goes away then, practices with the knife, explodes glass bottles in some forgotten hayfield, until she's ice again.
Dean looks at her over his shoulder, the look in his eyes too rich and too heavy for her to decipher. "So I can help people. Maybe save lives."
She picks up the credit card application, puts it down. Scans the sales prices at Wal-Mart. John smiling at her over the table in the diner, drinking down vanilla milkshake and looking at her like she's everything. "What's wrong with the way you save lives now?"
The glass in Dean's hand cracks, and Mary thinks of ice again.