FIC: Underneath This Shroud (Dean) R
Title: Underneath This Shroud
Author: StarCrossdSparrow
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys. Woe.
Pairing: Dean, Sam/OFC if you're really picky
Word Count: 1200
Rating: R for swearing
Genre: General
Spoilers and/or Warnings: 1.01 "Pilot" - it's pre-season
Summary: Dean takes a few minutes to reflect in the face of an on-coming storm.
Author's Notes: Written for the One Year Anniversary Challenge at 60_minute_fics. My prompt year was 2001, and my song was "Stutter" by Joe. Also, my title and cut text were inspired by Patty Griffin's gorgeous song, "Rain." Thanks go to my dear, dear beta erin2326 - without her doing the heavy lifting, I wouldn't stand nearly as tall.
XxX
Dean leaned back on the hood of the Impala, resting his head on the windshield. Before him sat a littered lot and a blank movie screen gone grey-green in the twilight of the oncoming storm. Transistor support poles spread out in untidy rows, a legion of them waiting for a car, a radio, and an audience.
Not tonight, though. Probably not ever again, unless some whackjob rich dude decided to invest in drive-ins again. Not likely - why sit outside when you can have twenty-five screens of air-conditioned, seat-reclining, sticky-floored bliss? Dean snorted; he was a drive-in sort of guy. Another time, another place, a few more bucks in his pocket, maybe he could have owned the Twi-Lite Drive-In in Tilden, Texas. Fucking unlikely, though.
He turned his head until he could hear Van Morrison crooning from the speakers inside. He'd found the old mix tape under the seat a few months back, nearly demolished after his humongous brother had rammed the seat back too hard to accommodate for his freakish size. The case was shattered (Dean picked each shard of plastic out of the carpet, cursing Sam the entire time), but the liner notes were mostly whole. They were written in a girlish hand in pink ink; some of the i's were dotted with hearts, some of the fancy t's had little curlicues on the tail - a girl he didn't remember, but who'd obviously wanted him to.
Now, listening to the B-side of the cassette, he sort of wished he could remember who had given it to him. Whoever she was, she had pretty good taste. It was certainly an improvement over whatever he'd driven away from. Some ridiculous Top 40 "rap" blaring from a discount store boom box, competing with the roaring fire. Dean grunted and looked down at his hands. He had more cuts and splinters from helping his brother build that damn bonfire than he'd had in his whole career hunting. He looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a demon made of oak and twigs.
He'd hesitated to leave Sam's first party. He wasn't worried, not exactly; after all, he'd financed the blowout. Well, John J. Houston of Tuscaloosa had, but who was counting? It was Sammy's graduation present. A keg of Coors Light, the standard bottom-shelf lineup for the chicks, and whatever food Deli-icious on Main Street could whip up in three hours before they closed up shop for the storm. Dean had taken a plate of potato salad and a few slices of roast beef on his way out; he figured by the time he got back, there'd be nothing left, not after all of Sam's "friends" got to it.
They'd already started showing up as Dean finished tapping the keg. He'd never seen any of them at their little rented ranch house (way) off of 72; the only people he'd recognized were the two guys who'd shown up early to help. They'd been there before, studying and spouting factoids and statistics at each other until Dean's head ached from learning the fundamentals of physics by proxy. He hated vectors, and he didn't even know what they were.
After the Nerd Herd had shown, people began rolling in in waves. He recognized the chick Sam had taken to prom; a petite little thing, kind of lost looking, naive. He waved to her on his way out, and she smiled back shyly. Everyone else was new, though; apparently food and liquor was a recipe for instant popularity. Or maybe it was just the sudden equity people felt when they graduated together. Even the new kid was a friend, an old pal, someone "2 Good 2 B 4Gotten." Dean didn't know; he'd missed his high school graduation. A chupacabra in Chatanooga. Or maybe it was Charleston. Not that he cared.
But he hadn't wanted to intrude on Sam's little fiesta. He told his brother he didn't want to be the old guy at the party, though he'd even come up with an elaborate story about getting a scholarship to U of T for football, but then blowing out his knee in the fourth quarter of The Big Game. Such a tragedy. When Dean couldn't remember what U of T's team was even called, he decided to stick to being the silent partner and slipping out before things got rowdy.
He knew this was his and Sam's last night in this place. He couldn't hold Dad at bay anymore. He'd never ask Dean to come, but Dean could hear it in his voice during their strained phone conversations. Whatever he was hunting (it was the demon, it always was) was getting to him, wearing him down. He sounded thinner on the phone; Dean wasn't sure how that was possible, but it was. He knew when he caught up to him tomorrow night in the shack he'd been sleeping in outside of Memphis, he'd find his dad pale, drawn, and tired. John Winchester would never admit it, but he needed his sons, and Dean knew it.
When Dean had pleaded Sam's case after another blowout fight almost three months before, John had looked at him like he was a traitor. Dean could almost hear his dad's thoughts: "We're in this together, Dean! Why can't you just be on my side?" But Dad had relented; he'd let him and Sam stay in Tilden until Sam graduated. He said he'd be better off hunting alone, that's how it was meant to be anyway. "No baggage," he'd said. It hadn't hurt Dean, not one bit. His dad didn't mean it.
Sam had been furious, however. It had sparked another hour of shouted curses, slammed doors, gunned engines, and had ended when Dean had to help his dad into bed and move his truck off the lawn. Maybe that's why John had let them stay in Texas while he chased down another wisp of a lead; he probably couldn't handle fighting with Sam anymore. Just listening to them fight wore Dean out.
He looked above the movie screen to the black sky. Storm clouds had been gathering for days, it seemed; Dean couldn't remember the last sunny day they'd seen. Every time he flipped on the radio, he heard the gleeful weathermen predicting dire rains, wind, flooding - it was the end of frickin' days as far as Doppler radar was concerned. A hurricane, coming up through the Gulf. Allison. That's what they called her. If Mike Shineline (obviously fated to be a rotund and cheerful weatherman) was to be believed, Allison would be brutal, probably cause a lot of property damage, maybe kill a few people.
The winds were kicking up now, but not much, and the ozone was tangible in the air, almost humming. It was a crisp smell, different from the way cities smelled before the rain; it was cleaner, mingled with soil and trees. The rain would be cleaner too, Dean knew.
He'd faced stronger stuff than Mother Nature before, but he'd never been allowed not to fight back. He was glad to just sit back and take it in, and he could hardly wait for the first drops to fall.
XxX
AN2: The event I chose from my 2001 list was Tropical Storm Allison (Dean calls her a hurricane; she never reached that strength). This is from Wikipedia.
[In Houston], 30,000 became homeless after the flooding destroyed 2,744 homes. Downtown Houston was inundated with flooding, causing severe damage to hospitals and businesses. 23 people died in Texas. Throughout its entire path, Allison caused $6.05 billion (2006 USD) in damage and 41 deaths. Aside from Texas, the places worst hit were Louisiana and southeastern Pennsylvania.
Following the storm, President George W. Bush declared 75 counties along Allison's path as disaster areas, which allowed the affected citizens to apply for aid. Allison is the only tropical storm to have its name retired without ever reaching hurricane strength.
Here's to remembering those lost.
Author: StarCrossdSparrow
Fandom: Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys. Woe.
Pairing: Dean, Sam/OFC if you're really picky
Word Count: 1200
Rating: R for swearing
Genre: General
Spoilers and/or Warnings: 1.01 "Pilot" - it's pre-season
Summary: Dean takes a few minutes to reflect in the face of an on-coming storm.
Author's Notes: Written for the One Year Anniversary Challenge at 60_minute_fics. My prompt year was 2001, and my song was "Stutter" by Joe. Also, my title and cut text were inspired by Patty Griffin's gorgeous song, "Rain." Thanks go to my dear, dear beta erin2326 - without her doing the heavy lifting, I wouldn't stand nearly as tall.
XxX
Dean leaned back on the hood of the Impala, resting his head on the windshield. Before him sat a littered lot and a blank movie screen gone grey-green in the twilight of the oncoming storm. Transistor support poles spread out in untidy rows, a legion of them waiting for a car, a radio, and an audience.
Not tonight, though. Probably not ever again, unless some whackjob rich dude decided to invest in drive-ins again. Not likely - why sit outside when you can have twenty-five screens of air-conditioned, seat-reclining, sticky-floored bliss? Dean snorted; he was a drive-in sort of guy. Another time, another place, a few more bucks in his pocket, maybe he could have owned the Twi-Lite Drive-In in Tilden, Texas. Fucking unlikely, though.
He turned his head until he could hear Van Morrison crooning from the speakers inside. He'd found the old mix tape under the seat a few months back, nearly demolished after his humongous brother had rammed the seat back too hard to accommodate for his freakish size. The case was shattered (Dean picked each shard of plastic out of the carpet, cursing Sam the entire time), but the liner notes were mostly whole. They were written in a girlish hand in pink ink; some of the i's were dotted with hearts, some of the fancy t's had little curlicues on the tail - a girl he didn't remember, but who'd obviously wanted him to.
Now, listening to the B-side of the cassette, he sort of wished he could remember who had given it to him. Whoever she was, she had pretty good taste. It was certainly an improvement over whatever he'd driven away from. Some ridiculous Top 40 "rap" blaring from a discount store boom box, competing with the roaring fire. Dean grunted and looked down at his hands. He had more cuts and splinters from helping his brother build that damn bonfire than he'd had in his whole career hunting. He looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a demon made of oak and twigs.
He'd hesitated to leave Sam's first party. He wasn't worried, not exactly; after all, he'd financed the blowout. Well, John J. Houston of Tuscaloosa had, but who was counting? It was Sammy's graduation present. A keg of Coors Light, the standard bottom-shelf lineup for the chicks, and whatever food Deli-icious on Main Street could whip up in three hours before they closed up shop for the storm. Dean had taken a plate of potato salad and a few slices of roast beef on his way out; he figured by the time he got back, there'd be nothing left, not after all of Sam's "friends" got to it.
They'd already started showing up as Dean finished tapping the keg. He'd never seen any of them at their little rented ranch house (way) off of 72; the only people he'd recognized were the two guys who'd shown up early to help. They'd been there before, studying and spouting factoids and statistics at each other until Dean's head ached from learning the fundamentals of physics by proxy. He hated vectors, and he didn't even know what they were.
After the Nerd Herd had shown, people began rolling in in waves. He recognized the chick Sam had taken to prom; a petite little thing, kind of lost looking, naive. He waved to her on his way out, and she smiled back shyly. Everyone else was new, though; apparently food and liquor was a recipe for instant popularity. Or maybe it was just the sudden equity people felt when they graduated together. Even the new kid was a friend, an old pal, someone "2 Good 2 B 4Gotten." Dean didn't know; he'd missed his high school graduation. A chupacabra in Chatanooga. Or maybe it was Charleston. Not that he cared.
But he hadn't wanted to intrude on Sam's little fiesta. He told his brother he didn't want to be the old guy at the party, though he'd even come up with an elaborate story about getting a scholarship to U of T for football, but then blowing out his knee in the fourth quarter of The Big Game. Such a tragedy. When Dean couldn't remember what U of T's team was even called, he decided to stick to being the silent partner and slipping out before things got rowdy.
He knew this was his and Sam's last night in this place. He couldn't hold Dad at bay anymore. He'd never ask Dean to come, but Dean could hear it in his voice during their strained phone conversations. Whatever he was hunting (it was the demon, it always was) was getting to him, wearing him down. He sounded thinner on the phone; Dean wasn't sure how that was possible, but it was. He knew when he caught up to him tomorrow night in the shack he'd been sleeping in outside of Memphis, he'd find his dad pale, drawn, and tired. John Winchester would never admit it, but he needed his sons, and Dean knew it.
When Dean had pleaded Sam's case after another blowout fight almost three months before, John had looked at him like he was a traitor. Dean could almost hear his dad's thoughts: "We're in this together, Dean! Why can't you just be on my side?" But Dad had relented; he'd let him and Sam stay in Tilden until Sam graduated. He said he'd be better off hunting alone, that's how it was meant to be anyway. "No baggage," he'd said. It hadn't hurt Dean, not one bit. His dad didn't mean it.
Sam had been furious, however. It had sparked another hour of shouted curses, slammed doors, gunned engines, and had ended when Dean had to help his dad into bed and move his truck off the lawn. Maybe that's why John had let them stay in Texas while he chased down another wisp of a lead; he probably couldn't handle fighting with Sam anymore. Just listening to them fight wore Dean out.
He looked above the movie screen to the black sky. Storm clouds had been gathering for days, it seemed; Dean couldn't remember the last sunny day they'd seen. Every time he flipped on the radio, he heard the gleeful weathermen predicting dire rains, wind, flooding - it was the end of frickin' days as far as Doppler radar was concerned. A hurricane, coming up through the Gulf. Allison. That's what they called her. If Mike Shineline (obviously fated to be a rotund and cheerful weatherman) was to be believed, Allison would be brutal, probably cause a lot of property damage, maybe kill a few people.
The winds were kicking up now, but not much, and the ozone was tangible in the air, almost humming. It was a crisp smell, different from the way cities smelled before the rain; it was cleaner, mingled with soil and trees. The rain would be cleaner too, Dean knew.
He'd faced stronger stuff than Mother Nature before, but he'd never been allowed not to fight back. He was glad to just sit back and take it in, and he could hardly wait for the first drops to fall.
XxX
AN2: The event I chose from my 2001 list was Tropical Storm Allison (Dean calls her a hurricane; she never reached that strength). This is from Wikipedia.
[In Houston], 30,000 became homeless after the flooding destroyed 2,744 homes. Downtown Houston was inundated with flooding, causing severe damage to hospitals and businesses. 23 people died in Texas. Throughout its entire path, Allison caused $6.05 billion (2006 USD) in damage and 41 deaths. Aside from Texas, the places worst hit were Louisiana and southeastern Pennsylvania.
Following the storm, President George W. Bush declared 75 counties along Allison's path as disaster areas, which allowed the affected citizens to apply for aid. Allison is the only tropical storm to have its name retired without ever reaching hurricane strength.
Here's to remembering those lost.