(no subject)
Title: Ashes in the Fall
Author: super_six_one
Fandom: Supernatural - Dean/Sam implied
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Just a series of related drabbles.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: None of this happened, nor do I insist it did in writing the events of this fictional story.
Notes: corporal-king asked for Supernatural drabbles based off the following prompts: suicide, AHBL pt. 1 café-scene revisited, drowning, needling. I wrote them, they’re not that great, but I sure as hell tried!
ashes in the fall
The piece is a pressure in Dean’s hands, all plastic and metal contours warm with the anticipation of a single shot.
A magazine, too much spring and not at all properly made, lays unaccompanied on the table at his side. The small metal casing is empty, its base directed towards him, an orange felt eye. Staring at him, at the stucco wall behind him, the ugly wallpaper hiding punches and kicks plastered over, spilled wine and cheap lipsticks for unfaithful husbands and greasy salesmen now faded pink adhesive peeling at the baseboards.
A mirror reflects the room in a broken, twisted sort of way. Somewhat stylishly broken up, the slabs of glass portray all the sins, all the long nights and the dark throes of passion Room Number 117 keeps held in behind a heavy Formica door painted white. It reflects a round in all its glory, deadly and winking by the light of a cheap florescent bulb screwed into a clay lamp.
One round.
A single bullet.
Like the Glock, it hums in its eagerness, done with the tight, hot grip of a shaking hand. He balances it on the magazine. It remains there for a long moment before tipping over and rolling to the middle of the table, where a crack has since split the fake wood down the middle. He lets it go, watches each revolution of brass and shining tip. The round finds rest an inch away from the edge. And for now, so does he.
:: :: ::
Sam doesn’t press the matter for days, remains quiet and withdrawn and so deathlike that Dean begins to wonder what he had brought back, if the man sitting in the passenger seat is all of his brother and not just some half-complete entity. A puzzle with lost pieces, a sketch incomplete. The thought sends icy fingers up and down Dean’s spine, but he forces the feeling down and tries to smile.
He feels the overwhelming desire to speak, to apologize again. Let his voice flood the cabin and drown them both in the utter sincerity of his words. Instead, he looks past the dusty windscreen glass, into the redwoods and brush of the Sierras, the campers and the sedans of families spending their spring holidays in the mountains. Though it’s only 3 in the afternoon, headlights bathe them underneath the thick canopy of needle and pine.
Eventually the two-lane highway twisting through the forest becomes a four-lane freeway. A straight shot to Eugene, a ghost tale and a supposed murder-suicide waiting for them on the deck of a decommissioned fishing boat. And it is then that he decides to speak.
“You know what I just realized I never got?” he asks.
Sam’s brows knit, his mouth pressed in a firm line before he decides to speak, “What’s that?”
“A burger and some goddamn pie.”
Sam looks at him for a moment before turning away, but Dean; Dean sees the smile on Sam’s face before his brother looks the other way.
:: :: ::
Captain Jeremiah Jacobson’s two sole victims were beautiful.
Amy and Lisa, Lisa and Amy. Inseparable.
Lovers, risk takers, non-believers, ungodly, trespassers, now two month’s dead.
It takes them two days to scrounge up enough information on the pious captain of the Belle, two minutes to convince Amy and Lisa’s parents to tell the truth with the help of a couple shining badges, and two seconds to realize Captain Jacobson thinks they’re sinners, sodomizers, going to hell, and going to hell right now.
Dean’s laugh falls short as the Captain throws Sam overboard, holds him under the freezing Pacific waters. All gray and choppy waves lapping up against a worn hull of a ghost ship. All Sam’s flailing arms and widening eyes beneath the three inches that separates him from the surface. All Dean and the sawed-off shotgun, the flick of a dollar lighter and a quick jump over the edge as the deck is engulfed in flame.
Once he hauls Sam up onto the pier, it takes him almost ninety seconds to get his brother breathing again. All the while, Dean is only thinking one thing: not again not again not again. But Sam pulls through, because that is The Deal. Dean’s lips remain pressed against Sam’s just a second too long, even as water pours from the other’s bluish lips like blood, even as timid breaths rack their bodies. And if Sam notices his brother’s hesitation, he says nothing. His arms embracing Dean speak all the words he cannot say.
:: :: ::
“You’re not still cold, are you? ‘Cause we can go back to the room, get you under those blankets, turn up the thermostat, maybe watch some shitty movies.” Dean’s words come out in a rush, all gritty in his mouth and so unpracticed.
Sam looks up from his supper with such an evil glare that makes Dean almost wish he could swallow the words back down, makes him regret taking a seat beside Sam rather than across as per usual, makes Dean want to run away. Possibly screaming. If that’s what it’d take to get his point across.
“Ask me that and I’m throwing this salt grinder at your fucking head,” Sam mutters around a mouthful of thick stew. He tears off a hunk of bread with fingers that are definitely not still shaking and shoves it into his already full mouth. He’s eating like Dean, like a starved pig in a storm, but hasn’t noticed yet.
“Dude, I’m just-”
“Worried,” Sam finishes. “Yeah, yeah.”
Dean, too proud to be miffed, only shifts his position, stretching his arm to the length the booth seat. Sam’s eye twitches as Dean’s arm falls heavy across his shoulders, but the flinch melts into what can only be passed as comfortableness, if such a word exists.
While Sam sinks further into the warmth that is his brother’s half-embrace, Dean plans out his wickedness. Such a simple plan. He breathes, drawls out, “Extra onions.”
“Dude, that’s awful,” Sam groans through his laughter, glorious laughter.
:: :: ::
So there we have it, the Four Prompts: suicide, AHBL pt. 1 café-scene revisited, drowning, needling. They’re all sort of related. Sort of.
Feel free to submit your own prompts if you’d like. I like a challenge.
Author: super_six_one
Fandom: Supernatural - Dean/Sam implied
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Just a series of related drabbles.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: None of this happened, nor do I insist it did in writing the events of this fictional story.
Notes: corporal-king asked for Supernatural drabbles based off the following prompts: suicide, AHBL pt. 1 café-scene revisited, drowning, needling. I wrote them, they’re not that great, but I sure as hell tried!
ashes in the fall
The piece is a pressure in Dean’s hands, all plastic and metal contours warm with the anticipation of a single shot.
A magazine, too much spring and not at all properly made, lays unaccompanied on the table at his side. The small metal casing is empty, its base directed towards him, an orange felt eye. Staring at him, at the stucco wall behind him, the ugly wallpaper hiding punches and kicks plastered over, spilled wine and cheap lipsticks for unfaithful husbands and greasy salesmen now faded pink adhesive peeling at the baseboards.
A mirror reflects the room in a broken, twisted sort of way. Somewhat stylishly broken up, the slabs of glass portray all the sins, all the long nights and the dark throes of passion Room Number 117 keeps held in behind a heavy Formica door painted white. It reflects a round in all its glory, deadly and winking by the light of a cheap florescent bulb screwed into a clay lamp.
One round.
A single bullet.
Like the Glock, it hums in its eagerness, done with the tight, hot grip of a shaking hand. He balances it on the magazine. It remains there for a long moment before tipping over and rolling to the middle of the table, where a crack has since split the fake wood down the middle. He lets it go, watches each revolution of brass and shining tip. The round finds rest an inch away from the edge. And for now, so does he.
:: :: ::
Sam doesn’t press the matter for days, remains quiet and withdrawn and so deathlike that Dean begins to wonder what he had brought back, if the man sitting in the passenger seat is all of his brother and not just some half-complete entity. A puzzle with lost pieces, a sketch incomplete. The thought sends icy fingers up and down Dean’s spine, but he forces the feeling down and tries to smile.
He feels the overwhelming desire to speak, to apologize again. Let his voice flood the cabin and drown them both in the utter sincerity of his words. Instead, he looks past the dusty windscreen glass, into the redwoods and brush of the Sierras, the campers and the sedans of families spending their spring holidays in the mountains. Though it’s only 3 in the afternoon, headlights bathe them underneath the thick canopy of needle and pine.
Eventually the two-lane highway twisting through the forest becomes a four-lane freeway. A straight shot to Eugene, a ghost tale and a supposed murder-suicide waiting for them on the deck of a decommissioned fishing boat. And it is then that he decides to speak.
“You know what I just realized I never got?” he asks.
Sam’s brows knit, his mouth pressed in a firm line before he decides to speak, “What’s that?”
“A burger and some goddamn pie.”
Sam looks at him for a moment before turning away, but Dean; Dean sees the smile on Sam’s face before his brother looks the other way.
:: :: ::
Captain Jeremiah Jacobson’s two sole victims were beautiful.
Amy and Lisa, Lisa and Amy. Inseparable.
Lovers, risk takers, non-believers, ungodly, trespassers, now two month’s dead.
It takes them two days to scrounge up enough information on the pious captain of the Belle, two minutes to convince Amy and Lisa’s parents to tell the truth with the help of a couple shining badges, and two seconds to realize Captain Jacobson thinks they’re sinners, sodomizers, going to hell, and going to hell right now.
Dean’s laugh falls short as the Captain throws Sam overboard, holds him under the freezing Pacific waters. All gray and choppy waves lapping up against a worn hull of a ghost ship. All Sam’s flailing arms and widening eyes beneath the three inches that separates him from the surface. All Dean and the sawed-off shotgun, the flick of a dollar lighter and a quick jump over the edge as the deck is engulfed in flame.
Once he hauls Sam up onto the pier, it takes him almost ninety seconds to get his brother breathing again. All the while, Dean is only thinking one thing: not again not again not again. But Sam pulls through, because that is The Deal. Dean’s lips remain pressed against Sam’s just a second too long, even as water pours from the other’s bluish lips like blood, even as timid breaths rack their bodies. And if Sam notices his brother’s hesitation, he says nothing. His arms embracing Dean speak all the words he cannot say.
:: :: ::
“You’re not still cold, are you? ‘Cause we can go back to the room, get you under those blankets, turn up the thermostat, maybe watch some shitty movies.” Dean’s words come out in a rush, all gritty in his mouth and so unpracticed.
Sam looks up from his supper with such an evil glare that makes Dean almost wish he could swallow the words back down, makes him regret taking a seat beside Sam rather than across as per usual, makes Dean want to run away. Possibly screaming. If that’s what it’d take to get his point across.
“Ask me that and I’m throwing this salt grinder at your fucking head,” Sam mutters around a mouthful of thick stew. He tears off a hunk of bread with fingers that are definitely not still shaking and shoves it into his already full mouth. He’s eating like Dean, like a starved pig in a storm, but hasn’t noticed yet.
“Dude, I’m just-”
“Worried,” Sam finishes. “Yeah, yeah.”
Dean, too proud to be miffed, only shifts his position, stretching his arm to the length the booth seat. Sam’s eye twitches as Dean’s arm falls heavy across his shoulders, but the flinch melts into what can only be passed as comfortableness, if such a word exists.
While Sam sinks further into the warmth that is his brother’s half-embrace, Dean plans out his wickedness. Such a simple plan. He breathes, drawls out, “Extra onions.”
“Dude, that’s awful,” Sam groans through his laughter, glorious laughter.
:: :: ::
So there we have it, the Four Prompts: suicide, AHBL pt. 1 café-scene revisited, drowning, needling. They’re all sort of related. Sort of.
Feel free to submit your own prompts if you’d like. I like a challenge.