Intrusive Thoughts (M, for adult themes).
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, mention of John Winchester.
Summary: "So, all this . . . it never keeps you up at night?" Sam asked. "You're never afraid?". "No, not really." When Sam reached under the pillow and pointedly held the knife aloft, Dean just took it back. "That's not fear," he said. "That's precaution." (S01E04, "Phantom Traveler")
540 words.
Characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. No copright infringement intended.
I write for love only.
Part of the Backroads and Detours series.
Someone’s trying to get in.
Dean hears the awkward fumbling of a key tried against an unwilling lock.
It’s Sam. He knows it’s Sam, just having a bit of trouble opening the door for some reason, but somehow the sound reminds him of other motels, other towns, other times . . . His muscles automatically tense, and he thinks about the knife under the pillow.
From an early age he got into the habit of keeping a weapon close to hand. He knew the things Dad hunted, what was out there in the dark; it was simple precaution to be prepared. But he also learned young that werewolves and skin-walkers weren’t the only threat. Sometimes the predators were way closer to home.
Minnesota, summer of ’94, the night manager knew there were two kids by themselves in number 15. Second night, he got drunk enough to try his luck, opened the door to see Dean flanking Sam’s bed, gun in hand. He stood in the frame swaying for a minute, staring, assessing, thought better of it and stumbled away. Dean pushed the table in front of the door and sat there the rest of the night, until he heard the distant but unmistakeable rumble of the Impala’s engine just after dawn. He never said anything to Dad. No need. They checked out the same morning, so everything was fine. That time.
Dean’s eyes are open. The intruder’s inside now, just the other side of the partition. Dean has a sense of the size, the shape, hovering there behind him, scanning him through the smoked glass. Instinctively his hand reaches under the pillow.
It isn’t an intruder, it’s Sam. He knows that. Sam’s bed’s empty for one thing, and he can smell coffee. Intruders don’t bring coffee. (Though why Sam’s standing perving at him through the glass instead of just coming right in is a question for another time.)
It wasn’t always an outsider trying to get in. Sometimes after a hunt, if Dad had trouble getting the key in the door, it meant he was tired and exhausted, or worse. And sometimes it meant he’d stopped off on the way back, after what he’d seen, done, for a drink or three . . . Sometimes Dean would have to help his father to bed, help him off with his jacket and stuff, check his body for injuries, dress them sometimes . . . and drunks are heavy, clumsy, over affectionate . . . After Mom, Dad was never that demonstrative except when he’d been drinking, but then he could get a little clingy, hold on to Dean too hard, kiss on his head and stuff . . . not that he thought, even for a moment, that Dad would ever lay a hand on either of them, but even as a kid the over-familiar intimacy of it all made him uncomfortable, and he didn’t know why that was.
“Morning sunshine!”
Dean’s limbs jerk and his head snaps round to greet his brother. It’s Sam. Of course, it is. He knew that. He makes himself let go of the knife. Still, the adrenaline spike is all dressed up with no place to go. He can’t seem to get it to level out, and he doesn’t know why that is.
Another question for another time.
.
Summary: "So, all this . . . it never keeps you up at night?" Sam asked. "You're never afraid?". "No, not really." When Sam reached under the pillow and pointedly held the knife aloft, Dean just took it back. "That's not fear," he said. "That's precaution." (S01E04, "Phantom Traveler")
540 words.
Characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. No copright infringement intended.
I write for love only.
Part of the Backroads and Detours series.
Someone’s trying to get in.
Dean hears the awkward fumbling of a key tried against an unwilling lock.
It’s Sam. He knows it’s Sam, just having a bit of trouble opening the door for some reason, but somehow the sound reminds him of other motels, other towns, other times . . . His muscles automatically tense, and he thinks about the knife under the pillow.
From an early age he got into the habit of keeping a weapon close to hand. He knew the things Dad hunted, what was out there in the dark; it was simple precaution to be prepared. But he also learned young that werewolves and skin-walkers weren’t the only threat. Sometimes the predators were way closer to home.
Minnesota, summer of ’94, the night manager knew there were two kids by themselves in number 15. Second night, he got drunk enough to try his luck, opened the door to see Dean flanking Sam’s bed, gun in hand. He stood in the frame swaying for a minute, staring, assessing, thought better of it and stumbled away. Dean pushed the table in front of the door and sat there the rest of the night, until he heard the distant but unmistakeable rumble of the Impala’s engine just after dawn. He never said anything to Dad. No need. They checked out the same morning, so everything was fine. That time.
Dean’s eyes are open. The intruder’s inside now, just the other side of the partition. Dean has a sense of the size, the shape, hovering there behind him, scanning him through the smoked glass. Instinctively his hand reaches under the pillow.
It isn’t an intruder, it’s Sam. He knows that. Sam’s bed’s empty for one thing, and he can smell coffee. Intruders don’t bring coffee. (Though why Sam’s standing perving at him through the glass instead of just coming right in is a question for another time.)
It wasn’t always an outsider trying to get in. Sometimes after a hunt, if Dad had trouble getting the key in the door, it meant he was tired and exhausted, or worse. And sometimes it meant he’d stopped off on the way back, after what he’d seen, done, for a drink or three . . . Sometimes Dean would have to help his father to bed, help him off with his jacket and stuff, check his body for injuries, dress them sometimes . . . and drunks are heavy, clumsy, over affectionate . . . After Mom, Dad was never that demonstrative except when he’d been drinking, but then he could get a little clingy, hold on to Dean too hard, kiss on his head and stuff . . . not that he thought, even for a moment, that Dad would ever lay a hand on either of them, but even as a kid the over-familiar intimacy of it all made him uncomfortable, and he didn’t know why that was.
“Morning sunshine!”
Dean’s limbs jerk and his head snaps round to greet his brother. It’s Sam. Of course, it is. He knew that. He makes himself let go of the knife. Still, the adrenaline spike is all dressed up with no place to go. He can’t seem to get it to level out, and he doesn’t know why that is.
Another question for another time.
.