HC Bingo - Prompt 1
Title: Get Away - part 1 of the 'Save Me Sioux Falls' verse
Prompt: Earth Blowing Up/Escaping to Space
Medium: fic
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1159
Summary: Save Me Sioux Falls is a four part fic in which Dean is suffering from amnesia and becomes separated from Sam and Castiel and starts living a completely normal life with no memory of his life as a hunter. This is the story of how he became parted from them in the first place.
If you laid on the ground and stared upwards at the sky when it snowed, you might be convinced that the stars were falling. It wasn't a hard, severe snow - but fat, fluffy somewhat out of season flakes were drifting downwards from the sky, the clouds from which they fell were lashed here and there by the branches that were desperately clinging to the last of the leaves - the woods were still and peaceful. The man blinked, the flakes brushing against his cheeks. It was odd to think that the bare earth could be so comfortable - and slowly, reluctantly, the man started to sit up, wincing at the sharp pain in his head and his side. He knew he had fallen - but not how. It could have been from a tree, from a higher elevation... or even just over his own feet. He ran his hand under his nose, sniffing. There wasn't much to indicate what had happened.
Lying on the ground, just out of his reach was a sawed-off shotgun. He leaned over, and, taking it carefully in his hands, the man found it as foreign as the woods he was sitting in. He wasn't ready to stand up - he was still assessing things. He set the gun down gently and looked at his hands as if for the first time. The knuckles on the left hand had a slight crookedness about them - at some point in the past, he'd broken several of those fingers - if not the whole hand. His right wasn't much better, a scar ran across the thumb - it was more pink that white - not all that old.
The man assessed the rest of himself - jeans, heavy wool socks, combat boots that looked old but the laces were new - several layers of shirts and one leather jacket. He pulled back the sleeve on his left arm and titled his head, frowning at the watch. The fall, the tumble - whatever he had taken had not broken the device. It told him that it was seven-thirty-five in the evening - and the date was November fourth. He ran a hand through his short hair and slowly rose to his feet, listening to the rest of the woods.
“Hello?” No one responded to his call - although he did hear a faint rustle in the distance - a deer, perhaps - or some other creature. He rubbed his head - there was a sore spot on it, as if when he fell he'd hit his head hard. That was when he realized something else - something more frightening than not knowing where he was. He did not know who he was. “No answers here...” He searched his pockets quickly and found only a lighter, a few rounds of shotgun shells, a small leather bag that was so tightly sealed he couldn't even begin to figure out what it was for (let alone how to open it) - and three dollars and forty-seven cents in change.
Leaning down, the man picked up the gun and started moving forward, the leaves crunching under his boots. He did not know where he was going - just away from where he had fallen. In the air, he caught the faint scent of wood burning - not the rage of a forest fire, but of a controlled blaze. The man headed in the direction that the scent seemed to come from. He would find civilization there. For some reason, the fact that his past was forgotten did not cause him to panic. Abruptly the tree line ended and he was looking down upon a massive field lying fallow - only the last errant stalks of corn, withered by weather remained - none of it reached the man's knees. The man could see two more fields stretching beyond this one - three full fields of resting earth. “These have to belong to someone...” It was getting darker and darker with each minute and the man started the journey downward, carefully making his way through a barbed wire fence and hoping for a sign of life anywhere... but there was nothing. He'd gotten to the third field when he saw massive shape that at one time might have been a tractor - but it was hard to tell. The fields had looked deceptively small from the edge of the woods. It was darker now... and the cold was starting to set in. The last fence was made of wood beams and the man carefully lifted himself over. A few yards away was a building that might have been a barn. Lowering himself back to the ground, he went to it and made his way inside.
The lack of light in the area told him that this place was abandoned - or for sale, perhaps? He carefully made his way to a ladder that led to a rather well stocked hay-loft. Okay, perhaps it's just storage.
The most logical thing to do, it seemed to him, was to lay down and rest for a while. Oddly enough, a blanket was lying on the straw - making him think of children swinging on ropes from a beam somewhere far above him. He took off his jacket, balled it into a pillow and laid down on the hay pulling the blanket over him.
He was on the edge of sleep when he felt something nudge against his face and then meow softly. “Wha...?” He opened his eyes questioningly and saw a lean cat sniffing him. A minute later, the fur-ball burrowed in the hay next to him and started to purr. “Crazy cat....” He blinked drowsily. “You can stay if you promise to kill the rats...” A minute later, the man started to snore. The cat watched the man for a moment before drifting off to sleep itself.
While they slept, the barn around them changed - the man had not seen its ruined form in the dark. What was in truth an abandoned farm was changing into a thriving one. The hay, the man and the cat were the only things that remained the same. The artist of this feat was standing on the wooden fence, moving their arms like a conductor before an orchestra. It was unnecessary, but the artist was having fun. When they finished they lowered their arms and rocked back and forth on their feet.
The man slept on, oblivious. He would not know it for many months - but the fall, this farm and the events that were to follow would be how Dean Winchester's life as a hunter ended.
The artist was an angel.
And the angel's name was Michael.
The angel does not lament the loss of his true vessel - the one he currently has is not all that bad. How he got it however, is a story for another day.
Prompt: Earth Blowing Up/Escaping to Space
Medium: fic
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1159
Summary: Save Me Sioux Falls is a four part fic in which Dean is suffering from amnesia and becomes separated from Sam and Castiel and starts living a completely normal life with no memory of his life as a hunter. This is the story of how he became parted from them in the first place.
If you laid on the ground and stared upwards at the sky when it snowed, you might be convinced that the stars were falling. It wasn't a hard, severe snow - but fat, fluffy somewhat out of season flakes were drifting downwards from the sky, the clouds from which they fell were lashed here and there by the branches that were desperately clinging to the last of the leaves - the woods were still and peaceful. The man blinked, the flakes brushing against his cheeks. It was odd to think that the bare earth could be so comfortable - and slowly, reluctantly, the man started to sit up, wincing at the sharp pain in his head and his side. He knew he had fallen - but not how. It could have been from a tree, from a higher elevation... or even just over his own feet. He ran his hand under his nose, sniffing. There wasn't much to indicate what had happened.
Lying on the ground, just out of his reach was a sawed-off shotgun. He leaned over, and, taking it carefully in his hands, the man found it as foreign as the woods he was sitting in. He wasn't ready to stand up - he was still assessing things. He set the gun down gently and looked at his hands as if for the first time. The knuckles on the left hand had a slight crookedness about them - at some point in the past, he'd broken several of those fingers - if not the whole hand. His right wasn't much better, a scar ran across the thumb - it was more pink that white - not all that old.
The man assessed the rest of himself - jeans, heavy wool socks, combat boots that looked old but the laces were new - several layers of shirts and one leather jacket. He pulled back the sleeve on his left arm and titled his head, frowning at the watch. The fall, the tumble - whatever he had taken had not broken the device. It told him that it was seven-thirty-five in the evening - and the date was November fourth. He ran a hand through his short hair and slowly rose to his feet, listening to the rest of the woods.
“Hello?” No one responded to his call - although he did hear a faint rustle in the distance - a deer, perhaps - or some other creature. He rubbed his head - there was a sore spot on it, as if when he fell he'd hit his head hard. That was when he realized something else - something more frightening than not knowing where he was. He did not know who he was. “No answers here...” He searched his pockets quickly and found only a lighter, a few rounds of shotgun shells, a small leather bag that was so tightly sealed he couldn't even begin to figure out what it was for (let alone how to open it) - and three dollars and forty-seven cents in change.
Leaning down, the man picked up the gun and started moving forward, the leaves crunching under his boots. He did not know where he was going - just away from where he had fallen. In the air, he caught the faint scent of wood burning - not the rage of a forest fire, but of a controlled blaze. The man headed in the direction that the scent seemed to come from. He would find civilization there. For some reason, the fact that his past was forgotten did not cause him to panic. Abruptly the tree line ended and he was looking down upon a massive field lying fallow - only the last errant stalks of corn, withered by weather remained - none of it reached the man's knees. The man could see two more fields stretching beyond this one - three full fields of resting earth. “These have to belong to someone...” It was getting darker and darker with each minute and the man started the journey downward, carefully making his way through a barbed wire fence and hoping for a sign of life anywhere... but there was nothing. He'd gotten to the third field when he saw massive shape that at one time might have been a tractor - but it was hard to tell. The fields had looked deceptively small from the edge of the woods. It was darker now... and the cold was starting to set in. The last fence was made of wood beams and the man carefully lifted himself over. A few yards away was a building that might have been a barn. Lowering himself back to the ground, he went to it and made his way inside.
The lack of light in the area told him that this place was abandoned - or for sale, perhaps? He carefully made his way to a ladder that led to a rather well stocked hay-loft. Okay, perhaps it's just storage.
The most logical thing to do, it seemed to him, was to lay down and rest for a while. Oddly enough, a blanket was lying on the straw - making him think of children swinging on ropes from a beam somewhere far above him. He took off his jacket, balled it into a pillow and laid down on the hay pulling the blanket over him.
He was on the edge of sleep when he felt something nudge against his face and then meow softly. “Wha...?” He opened his eyes questioningly and saw a lean cat sniffing him. A minute later, the fur-ball burrowed in the hay next to him and started to purr. “Crazy cat....” He blinked drowsily. “You can stay if you promise to kill the rats...” A minute later, the man started to snore. The cat watched the man for a moment before drifting off to sleep itself.
While they slept, the barn around them changed - the man had not seen its ruined form in the dark. What was in truth an abandoned farm was changing into a thriving one. The hay, the man and the cat were the only things that remained the same. The artist of this feat was standing on the wooden fence, moving their arms like a conductor before an orchestra. It was unnecessary, but the artist was having fun. When they finished they lowered their arms and rocked back and forth on their feet.
The man slept on, oblivious. He would not know it for many months - but the fall, this farm and the events that were to follow would be how Dean Winchester's life as a hunter ended.
The artist was an angel.
And the angel's name was Michael.
The angel does not lament the loss of his true vessel - the one he currently has is not all that bad. How he got it however, is a story for another day.