Supernatural Fic: Swan Song
Title: Swan Song
Author: xaara
Rating: PG, gen
Timeline: Pre-series
Characters: Dean, Sam
Summary: The road just before Christmas, just before Stanford. Just before.
Swan Song
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost
--
This is freedom. Eight lanes and a guardrail. White dashes disappearing into the darkness like snuffed candles. Tank of gas, oil topped off, snowflakes drawing you forward as they splash and melt against the windows, tiny exultations. Swish of windshield wipers, of tires. Passing an eighteen-wheeler jackknifed on the median. No music, just the whisper of the snow, telling you things you already know, will never learn.
Sam asleep in the next seat, taking deep, even breaths. Dad asleep too, curled sideways in the back. A question mark, an unstrung bow.
Two days before Christmas, though it could be Christmas Eve, maybe. Passing cars loaded down with winter-cocooned children and presents going to homes with holly wreaths on the doorways and relatives dressed in red and green. Next rest stop thirty miles.
The quiet hums with exhaustion. Dad wanted to drive, but Dean volunteered instead. Didn’t want to sleep, he said, and besides Dad needed it more. Sleep these days means nightmares, anyway, though he didn’t tell Dad that. He likes to think only Sam knows. Dean glances over at Sam, relieved to see that his bandage is clean. Stopped bleeding then. They need to find somewhere to stop, rest for a day or two.
Sam stirs, rubs his eyes and shakes his head, slides back up along the seat. “Where are we?” he asks, voice tangled and lazy.
“Go back to sleep,” Dean says.
Sam looks at him with the disgusted expression that says who do you think you are?
But Dean’s read the essays. Who do you look up to and Who was your childhood hero and why in five hundred words. In some of them, Dean’s a mechanic, in others some sort of traveling salesman. Sam went easy on the details; after my mother died and brother are the only two that stayed consistent.
“Fine. Just don’t blame me when your arm gets infected and we have to steal antibiotics from another hospital. On Christmas. The baby Jesus will cry.”
Sam’s laugh is a warm thing, pinecones snapping in a bonfire. Dean looks away before Sam can see his grin, checks his mirrors. Can’t see a goddamn thing, but does it anyway, out of habit. Familiarity. The steering wheel is worn smooth beneath his fingers.
They lapse into silence. Dean listens to Dad breathe behind him, the occasional snore, snuffle, a rustle as he changes position and sinks back.
“Hey,” Sam says, “pull into the stop, quick. I want something to eat.”
Dean doesn’t answer, just nudges the car into the parking lot behind seven or eight tractor-trailers. He wonders whether he would’ve been a trucker, in some other life. Open road at two in the morning, sleeping in the back of the cab, honking at the kids who passed, pumping their fists in the air.
“Grab me a Coke or something,” he tells Sam, who nods and disappears into the building.
Dean gets out and leans on the hood, tasting the bite of the wind, the tickle of snowflakes down the back of his collar. He turns the collar up and hunches into his jacket. Longs for a bowl of oatmeal with syrup and butter, coffee, black. The wind whickers against the trees behind him. He stretches, shakes out the kinks in his knees. Settles back behind the wheel as Sam returns.
“Here,” Sam says, handing Dean something. It’s wrapped in a brochure that says Welcome to West Virginia! across the top and may or may not include a painting of a bear, tied in something that closely resembles a shoelace.
“The hell is this?” Dean asks.
“Just open it,” says Sam.
Dean unties the bow, his hands clumsy with cold. Unfolds the stiff brochure paper. Resting inside is a tiny dreamcatcher.
“Merry Christmas,” Sam says. “Or, you know, whatever. Just. I don’t know. They were selling them, and I thought maybe. Since....”
Oh. “I don’t--”
“Or whatever,” Sam says. His fingers fumble against one another; he looks away.
“No, I mean. It’s cool.” Dean touches the spider web center of the amulet. The leather wrapped around the outside catches against the calluses on his palm.
“Okay.” Sam still won’t meet his eyes. “Are we stopping somewhere soon?”
“Soon as I find a place.”
“Good.” Pause. “I’m just. I’m going to go back to sleep, I think.”
“Go for it,” Dean says. He’s still tense as he tucks the dreamcatcher into a shirt pocket and merges back onto the highway. Ten minutes later, he thinks Sam might be asleep, but he mutters anyway, “I hope, you know. I hope you get in.”
Sam doesn’t say anything, but he flinches and huddles more resolutely into the seat.
Right, Dean thinks.
Outside, the snow hisses by. Dean wonders what the weather’s like, a little farther on up the road.
Author: xaara
Rating: PG, gen
Timeline: Pre-series
Characters: Dean, Sam
Summary: The road just before Christmas, just before Stanford. Just before.
Swan Song
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost
--
This is freedom. Eight lanes and a guardrail. White dashes disappearing into the darkness like snuffed candles. Tank of gas, oil topped off, snowflakes drawing you forward as they splash and melt against the windows, tiny exultations. Swish of windshield wipers, of tires. Passing an eighteen-wheeler jackknifed on the median. No music, just the whisper of the snow, telling you things you already know, will never learn.
Sam asleep in the next seat, taking deep, even breaths. Dad asleep too, curled sideways in the back. A question mark, an unstrung bow.
Two days before Christmas, though it could be Christmas Eve, maybe. Passing cars loaded down with winter-cocooned children and presents going to homes with holly wreaths on the doorways and relatives dressed in red and green. Next rest stop thirty miles.
The quiet hums with exhaustion. Dad wanted to drive, but Dean volunteered instead. Didn’t want to sleep, he said, and besides Dad needed it more. Sleep these days means nightmares, anyway, though he didn’t tell Dad that. He likes to think only Sam knows. Dean glances over at Sam, relieved to see that his bandage is clean. Stopped bleeding then. They need to find somewhere to stop, rest for a day or two.
Sam stirs, rubs his eyes and shakes his head, slides back up along the seat. “Where are we?” he asks, voice tangled and lazy.
“Go back to sleep,” Dean says.
Sam looks at him with the disgusted expression that says who do you think you are?
But Dean’s read the essays. Who do you look up to and Who was your childhood hero and why in five hundred words. In some of them, Dean’s a mechanic, in others some sort of traveling salesman. Sam went easy on the details; after my mother died and brother are the only two that stayed consistent.
“Fine. Just don’t blame me when your arm gets infected and we have to steal antibiotics from another hospital. On Christmas. The baby Jesus will cry.”
Sam’s laugh is a warm thing, pinecones snapping in a bonfire. Dean looks away before Sam can see his grin, checks his mirrors. Can’t see a goddamn thing, but does it anyway, out of habit. Familiarity. The steering wheel is worn smooth beneath his fingers.
They lapse into silence. Dean listens to Dad breathe behind him, the occasional snore, snuffle, a rustle as he changes position and sinks back.
“Hey,” Sam says, “pull into the stop, quick. I want something to eat.”
Dean doesn’t answer, just nudges the car into the parking lot behind seven or eight tractor-trailers. He wonders whether he would’ve been a trucker, in some other life. Open road at two in the morning, sleeping in the back of the cab, honking at the kids who passed, pumping their fists in the air.
“Grab me a Coke or something,” he tells Sam, who nods and disappears into the building.
Dean gets out and leans on the hood, tasting the bite of the wind, the tickle of snowflakes down the back of his collar. He turns the collar up and hunches into his jacket. Longs for a bowl of oatmeal with syrup and butter, coffee, black. The wind whickers against the trees behind him. He stretches, shakes out the kinks in his knees. Settles back behind the wheel as Sam returns.
“Here,” Sam says, handing Dean something. It’s wrapped in a brochure that says Welcome to West Virginia! across the top and may or may not include a painting of a bear, tied in something that closely resembles a shoelace.
“The hell is this?” Dean asks.
“Just open it,” says Sam.
Dean unties the bow, his hands clumsy with cold. Unfolds the stiff brochure paper. Resting inside is a tiny dreamcatcher.
“Merry Christmas,” Sam says. “Or, you know, whatever. Just. I don’t know. They were selling them, and I thought maybe. Since....”
Oh. “I don’t--”
“Or whatever,” Sam says. His fingers fumble against one another; he looks away.
“No, I mean. It’s cool.” Dean touches the spider web center of the amulet. The leather wrapped around the outside catches against the calluses on his palm.
“Okay.” Sam still won’t meet his eyes. “Are we stopping somewhere soon?”
“Soon as I find a place.”
“Good.” Pause. “I’m just. I’m going to go back to sleep, I think.”
“Go for it,” Dean says. He’s still tense as he tucks the dreamcatcher into a shirt pocket and merges back onto the highway. Ten minutes later, he thinks Sam might be asleep, but he mutters anyway, “I hope, you know. I hope you get in.”
Sam doesn’t say anything, but he flinches and huddles more resolutely into the seat.
Right, Dean thinks.
Outside, the snow hisses by. Dean wonders what the weather’s like, a little farther on up the road.