only with worse luck and far less gold.
More "Alex and Lorelai Have Two Daddies" crack. Not exactly the crack I implied I would be writing, sadly, but crack nonetheless.
note: Coordinates are actually for Meriden, CT, but Wikipedia TOLD ME that's the best map location for Stars Hollow.
There Is No Place That Does Not See You
-"Archaic Torso of Apollo," Rainer Maria Rilke
Four days before Halloween, Ash texts Sam. The message is: "YED 41.32N 72.47W."
They're in Palatka, Florida, hunting a manifestation of Koschei the Deathless. The coordinates point to a tiny town in Connecticut with an unusually stupid name.
Sam tells Dean they have to go.
Dean looks up at their notes on the wall, photographs of seventeen young women who've gone missing, a topographical map of the bit of swamp where they think the spirit has hidden his soul.
"We can come back for this thing," Sam says, "but if the demon is--"
"Yeah, I know," Dean says, and pulls down his library print-outs on Russian emigration to eastern Florida.
("Did you ever go back for it?" Lorelai will ask, and Dean will shrug.
"It wasn't there anymore," he'll say. "Sometimes things move on."
"But it's okay," Sam will say. "Because we got you and your sister instead of some nasty monster's soul."
Alex will roll her eyes, working on her biology homework in the other room.)
It's been almost two years. Dean's knee still bugs him when the weather gets cold, when it's about to rain, when he's trying to sleep. He broke it, his leg trapped under a flipped car, wrenching himself two inches across a glass-strewn 7-11 parking lot, reaching for the Colt where the demon had dropped it when Sam tackled him. It was a long night.
It's been a long two years. Driving through Virginia, Florida eight hours behind them, Sam is asleep in the back seat. Dean thinks it was probably just fucking stupid to think he'd actually managed to kill that son of a bitch; gun that can kill anything his ass.
The problem, according to Sam, is that they didn't think to check multiple births.
Standing in front of the smoking ruins of Emily and Richard Cabot's house on November third, Dean says, "No, Sammy, the problem is that we fucked up again."
Sam looks stung. "How could I have known it wasn't dead?" he says.
"And the kids are fucking missing," Dean adds. "That's also the problem." He walks across the lawn, looking up at the blackened empty windows of the house. The roof is gone. The front door is boarded over. He looks over his shoulder and frowns at Sam, still standing on the scorched sidewalk. "You coming?"
They're arguing about whether or not it's safe to go inside when the fire marshal and the arson team from Hartford show up to do their official investigating.
Sam flashes a press pass, which at least keeps them from getting hauled in for questioning.
As they walk back to the car, Sam says, "We'll come back in a couple of days, okay."
Dean shrugs irritably, like Sam is trying to touch him or something, and doesn't answer.
("It's okay," Lorelai will say. "The first day was pretty fun."
Alex will come out of their room to say, "It was not!"
Sam will pat the space beside him on the couch and Alex will sit, leaning her head on his arm.
"Tell about the notes on the wall again," she'll say, and Dean will pull the old journal from under the coffee table and open it.)
It's been almost two years. Sam has a scar from that night too, but it's not especially painful and he forgets about it until the rare times he catches Dean rubbing tiger balm on his gnarled knee. The bullet went through the muscle of Sam's arm and into the demon's heart. It burned, like drinking holy water, being sprayed with it, when he was possessed. The sound of the shot played in his ears for hours afterwards, ringing with Dean screaming.
It's been a long two years. Sometimes, dreaming, all he can feel is the bullet going through; all he can think is not a mortal wound not a mortal wound it's not going to kill me. And a hand landing over his mouth wakes him up out of those dreams, Dean muttering sleepily: just a dream, Sammy.
Sam tapes two pieces of paper on the wall in their tiny room at the Dragonfly Inn. One is a photocopied newspaper article about the fire, with a picture of the Cabot family: older parents, tiny girls in matching plaid jumpers on their laps. The other is a photograph he printed off from the family website: just the children wearing dresses with fluffy skirts, sitting on the grass in their backyard, looking at something off to the side. One of them has flowers in her hair. It was their fifth birthday.
Sam and Dean look for the kids for two days. Sam questions family members and friends, thinking maybe someone just took them. He gets Ash to keep looking for signs of demonic activity. He feels sick, remembering the oily taste of the demon that possessed him. Dean keeps tabs on unidentified bodies found in the tri-state area.
On the third day, they drive past the Cabots' house and there are no official vehicles out front. The yellow caution tape looks less foreboding than the morning after the fire.
Dean looks at Sam. Sam shrugs. They park across the street and duck under the tape.
They skirt the perimeter of the lot first. The heavy, acrid smell of the fire is almost gone; the last of it clings to the leafless, half-scorched trees in the backyard. The paint on a pink and white swing set is blistered on the side closest to the house.
Sam pokes around on the back porch, impatient to get inside.
Dean wipes dirt from the tiny window in the potting shed and looks inside.
At first he thinks it's just a clump of dried grass cuttings, but then it moves, looks up at him, and he sees. It's a little girl, hair and face filthy, and her sister clutched against her.
"Alexandra?" he shouts through the glass, and she screams.
("That's why she likes Dad better," Lorelai will say, laughing.
And Alex will say, "I do not," at the same time Sam says, "Of course it is."
"We don't play favourites in this family," Dean will say seriously, and Lorelai will nod.
"Sorry," she'll say, and Dean will tug her ponytail.
"Why do we tell this story every year?" Alex will mutter, and Sam will laugh.)
It's been almost two years. There was a series of day-long fights after Dean shot the demon--and Sam, the back of his head keeps reminding him. They fought about what to do next, first. Then they fought about what to do with the useless Colt. Then they fought about who always ended up with the lumpy bed. Then Sam said they were really fighting about Dad not being there to see they'd won, and Dean told him to shut the fuck up, and disappeared for the night. When he came back, he said they were really fighting about Sam wanting to leave now, again, and Sam, sitting up in his bed, still half-asleep, said: yeah.
It's been a long two years. Dean sits on the grass near the shed, watching Sam at the tiny window. Sam gestures and makes nice faces. Sometimes, Dean has to wonder why he asked Sam to stay--begged him, the reptilian voice insists.
"You scared them," Sam accuses eventually, slumping down beside him.
Dean rolls his eyes. "Their house burned down and their parents are dead; I am slightly less scary than that."
"They've been hiding in a shed for three days," Sam says. He leans his head back against the sorry-looking building. "I wonder what they've been eating."
"What does it matter?" Dean says. "They won't come out. The door is locked from the inside--who builds a goddamn shed that locks from the inside, anyway--"
"I sure am hungry," Sam says loudly.
Dean stops talking, his mouth open.
"Yes indeed," Sam shouts, "I could sure use some breakfast."
"What the hell, Sammy--"
"Pancakes," Sam says. He makes 'think, Dean' motions with his hands.
"Pancakes," Dean says. He snaps his fingers. "Yes!"
("I swear," Lorelai will say, later, when the story is over and they're tucked in their beds, "that really was the best pancake I've ever had. To this day."
"They were okay," Alex will say. She'll like the ones Daddy makes on special occasions better. He'll put apple slices and grapes on them to make happy faces, and Dad will always talk about how Daddy made these when he was little, and Daddy will always say he remembers Grandma Mary making them when Dad was just a baby.
Lorelai will say, "I miss riding on Dad's shoulders."
"I miss sitting in Daddy's lap while he drove the car."
"I miss Dad yelling at him when he caught you.")
It's been almost two years. Sam can count on one hand the number of times he's tried to talk to Dean about it. He knows talking would only screw everything up, though, so he always gives up easy. He examines the situation in his head, on his own, regularly. Thinks about how Dean always said he'd do anything for Sam; how Dean used to talk like he'd rather die than be alone; how Dean apologised twice a day after he shot Sam. He knows this isn't healthy, and they're doing it for the wrong reasons--and he always laughs at himself when he gets to that part of the conclusion, because: can there be a right reason to fuck your brother? The truth of it, anyway, past his second year psych analysis, is that he's happy, and Dean's as happy as he'll let himself be, and Sam is old enough now to accept his own selfishness.
It's been a long two years. The man at the diner looks at them incredulously when they order a dozen pancakes to go. Four chocolate chip, four blueberry, and four buttermilk. Sam grins at Dean as he hands over Sean Walkey's Mastercard.
End.
---
And NOW. REMIX.
eta: Here is wizened_cynic's half of this story, which was written a while back and is much better than this. The last scene is pretty much my favourite.
Bye.
note: Coordinates are actually for Meriden, CT, but Wikipedia TOLD ME that's the best map location for Stars Hollow.
There Is No Place That Does Not See You
-"Archaic Torso of Apollo," Rainer Maria Rilke
Four days before Halloween, Ash texts Sam. The message is: "YED 41.32N 72.47W."
They're in Palatka, Florida, hunting a manifestation of Koschei the Deathless. The coordinates point to a tiny town in Connecticut with an unusually stupid name.
Sam tells Dean they have to go.
Dean looks up at their notes on the wall, photographs of seventeen young women who've gone missing, a topographical map of the bit of swamp where they think the spirit has hidden his soul.
"We can come back for this thing," Sam says, "but if the demon is--"
"Yeah, I know," Dean says, and pulls down his library print-outs on Russian emigration to eastern Florida.
("Did you ever go back for it?" Lorelai will ask, and Dean will shrug.
"It wasn't there anymore," he'll say. "Sometimes things move on."
"But it's okay," Sam will say. "Because we got you and your sister instead of some nasty monster's soul."
Alex will roll her eyes, working on her biology homework in the other room.)
It's been almost two years. Dean's knee still bugs him when the weather gets cold, when it's about to rain, when he's trying to sleep. He broke it, his leg trapped under a flipped car, wrenching himself two inches across a glass-strewn 7-11 parking lot, reaching for the Colt where the demon had dropped it when Sam tackled him. It was a long night.
It's been a long two years. Driving through Virginia, Florida eight hours behind them, Sam is asleep in the back seat. Dean thinks it was probably just fucking stupid to think he'd actually managed to kill that son of a bitch; gun that can kill anything his ass.
The problem, according to Sam, is that they didn't think to check multiple births.
Standing in front of the smoking ruins of Emily and Richard Cabot's house on November third, Dean says, "No, Sammy, the problem is that we fucked up again."
Sam looks stung. "How could I have known it wasn't dead?" he says.
"And the kids are fucking missing," Dean adds. "That's also the problem." He walks across the lawn, looking up at the blackened empty windows of the house. The roof is gone. The front door is boarded over. He looks over his shoulder and frowns at Sam, still standing on the scorched sidewalk. "You coming?"
They're arguing about whether or not it's safe to go inside when the fire marshal and the arson team from Hartford show up to do their official investigating.
Sam flashes a press pass, which at least keeps them from getting hauled in for questioning.
As they walk back to the car, Sam says, "We'll come back in a couple of days, okay."
Dean shrugs irritably, like Sam is trying to touch him or something, and doesn't answer.
("It's okay," Lorelai will say. "The first day was pretty fun."
Alex will come out of their room to say, "It was not!"
Sam will pat the space beside him on the couch and Alex will sit, leaning her head on his arm.
"Tell about the notes on the wall again," she'll say, and Dean will pull the old journal from under the coffee table and open it.)
It's been almost two years. Sam has a scar from that night too, but it's not especially painful and he forgets about it until the rare times he catches Dean rubbing tiger balm on his gnarled knee. The bullet went through the muscle of Sam's arm and into the demon's heart. It burned, like drinking holy water, being sprayed with it, when he was possessed. The sound of the shot played in his ears for hours afterwards, ringing with Dean screaming.
It's been a long two years. Sometimes, dreaming, all he can feel is the bullet going through; all he can think is not a mortal wound not a mortal wound it's not going to kill me. And a hand landing over his mouth wakes him up out of those dreams, Dean muttering sleepily: just a dream, Sammy.
Sam tapes two pieces of paper on the wall in their tiny room at the Dragonfly Inn. One is a photocopied newspaper article about the fire, with a picture of the Cabot family: older parents, tiny girls in matching plaid jumpers on their laps. The other is a photograph he printed off from the family website: just the children wearing dresses with fluffy skirts, sitting on the grass in their backyard, looking at something off to the side. One of them has flowers in her hair. It was their fifth birthday.
Sam and Dean look for the kids for two days. Sam questions family members and friends, thinking maybe someone just took them. He gets Ash to keep looking for signs of demonic activity. He feels sick, remembering the oily taste of the demon that possessed him. Dean keeps tabs on unidentified bodies found in the tri-state area.
On the third day, they drive past the Cabots' house and there are no official vehicles out front. The yellow caution tape looks less foreboding than the morning after the fire.
Dean looks at Sam. Sam shrugs. They park across the street and duck under the tape.
They skirt the perimeter of the lot first. The heavy, acrid smell of the fire is almost gone; the last of it clings to the leafless, half-scorched trees in the backyard. The paint on a pink and white swing set is blistered on the side closest to the house.
Sam pokes around on the back porch, impatient to get inside.
Dean wipes dirt from the tiny window in the potting shed and looks inside.
At first he thinks it's just a clump of dried grass cuttings, but then it moves, looks up at him, and he sees. It's a little girl, hair and face filthy, and her sister clutched against her.
"Alexandra?" he shouts through the glass, and she screams.
("That's why she likes Dad better," Lorelai will say, laughing.
And Alex will say, "I do not," at the same time Sam says, "Of course it is."
"We don't play favourites in this family," Dean will say seriously, and Lorelai will nod.
"Sorry," she'll say, and Dean will tug her ponytail.
"Why do we tell this story every year?" Alex will mutter, and Sam will laugh.)
It's been almost two years. There was a series of day-long fights after Dean shot the demon--and Sam, the back of his head keeps reminding him. They fought about what to do next, first. Then they fought about what to do with the useless Colt. Then they fought about who always ended up with the lumpy bed. Then Sam said they were really fighting about Dad not being there to see they'd won, and Dean told him to shut the fuck up, and disappeared for the night. When he came back, he said they were really fighting about Sam wanting to leave now, again, and Sam, sitting up in his bed, still half-asleep, said: yeah.
It's been a long two years. Dean sits on the grass near the shed, watching Sam at the tiny window. Sam gestures and makes nice faces. Sometimes, Dean has to wonder why he asked Sam to stay--begged him, the reptilian voice insists.
"You scared them," Sam accuses eventually, slumping down beside him.
Dean rolls his eyes. "Their house burned down and their parents are dead; I am slightly less scary than that."
"They've been hiding in a shed for three days," Sam says. He leans his head back against the sorry-looking building. "I wonder what they've been eating."
"What does it matter?" Dean says. "They won't come out. The door is locked from the inside--who builds a goddamn shed that locks from the inside, anyway--"
"I sure am hungry," Sam says loudly.
Dean stops talking, his mouth open.
"Yes indeed," Sam shouts, "I could sure use some breakfast."
"What the hell, Sammy--"
"Pancakes," Sam says. He makes 'think, Dean' motions with his hands.
"Pancakes," Dean says. He snaps his fingers. "Yes!"
("I swear," Lorelai will say, later, when the story is over and they're tucked in their beds, "that really was the best pancake I've ever had. To this day."
"They were okay," Alex will say. She'll like the ones Daddy makes on special occasions better. He'll put apple slices and grapes on them to make happy faces, and Dad will always talk about how Daddy made these when he was little, and Daddy will always say he remembers Grandma Mary making them when Dad was just a baby.
Lorelai will say, "I miss riding on Dad's shoulders."
"I miss sitting in Daddy's lap while he drove the car."
"I miss Dad yelling at him when he caught you.")
It's been almost two years. Sam can count on one hand the number of times he's tried to talk to Dean about it. He knows talking would only screw everything up, though, so he always gives up easy. He examines the situation in his head, on his own, regularly. Thinks about how Dean always said he'd do anything for Sam; how Dean used to talk like he'd rather die than be alone; how Dean apologised twice a day after he shot Sam. He knows this isn't healthy, and they're doing it for the wrong reasons--and he always laughs at himself when he gets to that part of the conclusion, because: can there be a right reason to fuck your brother? The truth of it, anyway, past his second year psych analysis, is that he's happy, and Dean's as happy as he'll let himself be, and Sam is old enough now to accept his own selfishness.
It's been a long two years. The man at the diner looks at them incredulously when they order a dozen pancakes to go. Four chocolate chip, four blueberry, and four buttermilk. Sam grins at Dean as he hands over Sean Walkey's Mastercard.
End.
---
And NOW. REMIX.
eta: Here is wizened_cynic's half of this story, which was written a while back and is much better than this. The last scene is pretty much my favourite.
Bye.