Good Intentions

May 05, 2008 15:44


>>Good Intentions

TITLE: Good Intentions
AUTHOR:
ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: for all things Supernatural up to 3.14
GENRE: gen
CHARACTERS: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester
SUMMARY: You wouldn’t believe me if I told you anyway. It’ll make more sense in the end.
RATING: pg13
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh. 
DISCLAIMER: I own just the words and the intentions really. Rather, I suspect the Winchesters own me.
NOTE: covers 
found_fic_spn challenge 32. And is mainly a birthday fic for
phantomas, who wanted something with John Winchester in it. I hope you like it, love.
NOTE2: beta by cookie-sweet
tiffosis.

Be happy while you’re living
for you’re a long time dead.
Scottish Proverb.

“It’s paved with them, you know,” John says looking at the ground, backside resting against the cooling metal covering the engine. Dean nods at Sam’s incredulous face.

“It is, Sam. I’ve been there.”

He’s right next to his father, leaning against the Impala, both like statues cut out of the same marble, from the rolled up sleeves down to the slight tilt of the head and the spark in the eyes.

The Impala is glinting in the sun, as bright as the grin Dean throws his father.

Sam’s frown is still dubious.

“You mean, like… paved?” He waves the subject away and the frown is smooth skin again. “You’re just screwing with me guys.”

He’s standing across them, legs wide apart like a big sturdy tree; he rocks on the balls of his feet as if in sync to the wind, some strange choreography that has him moving in tandem with the lush big trees around them, but every once in a while his hand moves to touch either John or Dean, as if flesh touching flesh is proof of life.

It’s warm. It’s peaceful. If they stick out their tongues they could catch the scent of summer in their mouths.

They don’t. Their eyes are locked to each other and the road stretching away, because only family and miles matter.

“No, Sam, not exactly like paved,” John says. His head still carries the tilt, and he’s looking at his younger son lopsided, all love and dimples.

“But you just said ‘it’s paved with them, you know.’ Those were your exact words, Dad.”

“Figure of speech,” John replies without missing a beat. Sam rolls his eyes.

“It’s either paved, or it isn’t.”

“It’s not like that,” Dean quietly says. “It’s hard to explain. It’s just that sometimes… sometimes in Hell you feel others. Don’t you remember?”

“No,” Sam says. “That part is a blur.”

“Their pain, Sammy. Their pleading,” John explains. “People are always trying to explain how they have good reason to do what they did and how they don’t deserve to be in Hell.”

Sam lets his eyes sweep from his father to his brother and his mouth is one clenched line.

“Sometimes they don’t deserve it, boys, but they have hell of a good reason,” John says quietly as if reading his thoughts. “Sometimes they really do. And they wouldn’t change that choice.”

“And sometimes they deserve it even if they’re the good guys,” Dean says. “It’s like dating.”

John’s head swerves to him.

“Come again?”

“Well, it’s like, you hook up with this chick and you have an awesome time but that’s about it. And the next day she shows up with flowers at your door and doesn’t understand that it’s not meant to go on.”

Sam dips his chin in the air.

“And that is relevant because?”

“Every girl has the potential to become a bouquet-carrying beast, that’s what I’m saying. Just like everyone has the potential to go to Hell. Good intentions and all that.”

“Dean?” Sam says. “Don’t do metaphors. Please.”

“Thing is,” John says shoving his hands in his pockets, “after all these hours we still haven’t got a damn clue why we are here. Or how we’re here. It’s… it’s nuts.”

“I know, Dad,” Dean replies. His eyes begin to glimmer and his voice grows more quiet. “I’m still afraid that nothing of this is real. That I’m just a djin’s soda. That everything’s fake, like that phone call. That I’m not here with you or Sam. That it’s just a dream or a Trickster.”

Sam frowns at the last word.

“What djin?” John asks. “What phonecall? What Trickster?”

“Long story, Dad. And I still think we should call Bobby.”

“No, Dean,” Sam says. “If we call, he’ll think we’re the Crocotta or something.”

Dean shrugs.

“Fine. So we’ll just show up at his doorstep and give him a heart attack.”

“And get our asses full of rocksalt,” John sighs then looks at the sky. “We’re wasting daylight. Let’s go.”

“Yessir.”

Dean moves to open the door when John grabs him by the shoulder, the other hand already on Sam.

“I don’t know how we got here, boys. Or why. And I don’t think I care either.”

The embrace lasts for seconds. It seems to last forever.

Then the Impala’s engine rumbles, and then she’s conquering the road once more.

….

The black car is getting smaller in the distance when two shapes materialize as if they’d been standing there all along, hidden and created by the shadow and the light the tree leaves are throwing.

“Let’s hope they get it right this time,” the Trickster says. “I can’t keep on making the same loop, it’s starting to get boring. If you want Azazel and Lilith out of the way, I just don’t see why you don’t do it yourself.”

“Patience, my friend,” the man replies. He’s beautiful and radiant like a morning star. His suit is a dark muted silk. “They’re learning.”

“They’re learning too much,” the Trickster chuckles. “Sam brought Hell down to get Dean back. Without me you’d be toast.”

“We’d all be toast. The whole damned world.” The man reaches inside his jacket and pulls out two cigars. One he gives to his companion; the other lights up as soon as it touches his mouth. He inhales, pure pleasure written over his perfect face.

“Why do you think The Powers That Be never interfere?”

“Evil is always more proactive?”

“Evil and good… relative terms,” the man says. “The world is defined by binaries. If you want light, you’ve got to have shadows.”

“And you can’t have shadows without the light.”

“Something like that. Tell me, Loki, why’d you let them keep their memories?”

“They’ll fade the minute the sun sets. The timeline will start again.”

“You gave them a day of joy.”

“Of confusion really. You know me. Good intentions aren’t really my thing, Lord.”

“Ah… but they are mine. Good intentions,” he muses. “Couldn’t pave my kingdom without them. At least the Winchesters got that part right.”

The breeze moves through the trees. Summer moves on. The world moves on as time starts unfolding.

Then they are gone.

-The End.

SIDENOTE: Uhm. Don’t even ask me what I was thinking. Cuz seriously? I have no fucking clue.

john winchester, fanfic, dean winchester, sam winchester

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