Ficlet: "In a Week" timestamp
Prequel of sorts for 5. In a Week.
It takes a week for Sam to realize no reaper's coming for them: a week of Dean being too obsessed with the damage being inflicted on the Impala's interior to really notice that, well, they're dead, and it looks like this time it's going to stick.
Kind of funny, isn't it, Sam finally interjects, because eventually Dean's bitching gets to be too much for even him.
No, it's not, Dean retorts, and if he was still alive he'd be expansive in his frustration. But he's dead, so his corpse just eases back a bit more into the crook of the door hinge, dislodging Sam enough in the process so that his head can slide down onto Dean's shoulder more securely. She's bound to rust from this, and it's going to wreck havoc with her electronics.
Dean, Sam counters, because while it's better than just about all of the alternatives, he'd rather not spend eternity listening to Dean complain about his car. And some of that must come through with that one word, because Dean finally falls silent. For the first time since they died, Sam can properly appreciate the forest surrounding them, the quiet isolation of their final resting place, nothing but the woodland animals to keep them company.
It's kind of nice.
After a long while of no sound aside from the wind blowing through leaves and scattered birdcalls, Dean grumbles, Well, are you going to enlighten me?
Hm? Sam's been contemplating an arthritic daddy-long-legs as it hesitates down the length of his right leg.
I'm biting--what's kind of funny? Dean's tone is slightly sullen, but that's the way he is when cranky--Sam's long since stopped taking it personally.
Oh, just that our first case together after Stanford was a wendigo, and all these years later we got taken down by another wendigo. What're the odds of that? The daddy-long-legs clambers down the hem of Sam's jeans and begins a circuitous route away from their bodies, into the deep shadows of the forest floor.
Pretty damn small, I'd guess. Dean's chin settles a little closer against the back of Sam's head. Think this is it for us?
Would you mind if it were?
Somewhere off in the distance a blue jay is screaming about thieves; across the clearing from where they are, a squirrel rummages through the thick leaves trying to remember where he buried his dinner; the lowering sun filters through the summer leaves, staining all the visible world a deep, shifting green.
Guess not, Dean answers after a while. But if you'd just waited 5 seconds before collapsing so I'd had time to close the door--
Sam's dead, so he can't whack Dean on the arm. But that's okay, because Dean's also dead and so can't whack him when he laughs long and helpless and joyful.
It takes a week for Sam to realize no reaper's coming for them: a week of Dean being too obsessed with the damage being inflicted on the Impala's interior to really notice that, well, they're dead, and it looks like this time it's going to stick.
Kind of funny, isn't it, Sam finally interjects, because eventually Dean's bitching gets to be too much for even him.
No, it's not, Dean retorts, and if he was still alive he'd be expansive in his frustration. But he's dead, so his corpse just eases back a bit more into the crook of the door hinge, dislodging Sam enough in the process so that his head can slide down onto Dean's shoulder more securely. She's bound to rust from this, and it's going to wreck havoc with her electronics.
Dean, Sam counters, because while it's better than just about all of the alternatives, he'd rather not spend eternity listening to Dean complain about his car. And some of that must come through with that one word, because Dean finally falls silent. For the first time since they died, Sam can properly appreciate the forest surrounding them, the quiet isolation of their final resting place, nothing but the woodland animals to keep them company.
It's kind of nice.
After a long while of no sound aside from the wind blowing through leaves and scattered birdcalls, Dean grumbles, Well, are you going to enlighten me?
Hm? Sam's been contemplating an arthritic daddy-long-legs as it hesitates down the length of his right leg.
I'm biting--what's kind of funny? Dean's tone is slightly sullen, but that's the way he is when cranky--Sam's long since stopped taking it personally.
Oh, just that our first case together after Stanford was a wendigo, and all these years later we got taken down by another wendigo. What're the odds of that? The daddy-long-legs clambers down the hem of Sam's jeans and begins a circuitous route away from their bodies, into the deep shadows of the forest floor.
Pretty damn small, I'd guess. Dean's chin settles a little closer against the back of Sam's head. Think this is it for us?
Would you mind if it were?
Somewhere off in the distance a blue jay is screaming about thieves; across the clearing from where they are, a squirrel rummages through the thick leaves trying to remember where he buried his dinner; the lowering sun filters through the summer leaves, staining all the visible world a deep, shifting green.
Guess not, Dean answers after a while. But if you'd just waited 5 seconds before collapsing so I'd had time to close the door--
Sam's dead, so he can't whack Dean on the arm. But that's okay, because Dean's also dead and so can't whack him when he laughs long and helpless and joyful.