SPN FIC - It Is the Cold That's Huge
Just a tiny glimpse... Dean. Hypothermia.
CHARACTERS: Dean
GENRE: Gen (hurt!Dean)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 400 words
IT IS THE COLD THAT'S HUGE
By Carol Davis
Not a hallucination, you understand. It's just a memory, this image of Dad sitting on a fallen log ten or twelve feet away, calm as a freaking Buddha as you freeze your ass off in the snow.
"Pay attention," he says.
But that's way beyond reach. Paying attention. Wanting to pay attention. The pain's slipped away, and there's nothing but quiet around you: the whisper of snow, the soft rustle of a five-mile-an-hour wind. A beautiful thing, after all that screaming. The shouting. The arguing. Quiet as a church, you think - as still as Pastor Jim's church once was, during the week, when you'd take refuge there, sit in a pew and listen to the absence of sound for as long as the day would allow.
Tired, you think.
The snow's soft beneath you, as comfortable as any bed.
Are you paying attention? Dad's voice asks.
Hell, no, you think.
They were long ago - Dad's master classes in how to keep your ass alive. Social Services would have slammed the lid on him if they knew about the shit he pulled, all in the name of surviving. How to get out of a burning building. How to get out of a car, underwater.
How not to freeze to death.
But the crazy bastard's not here now.
He didn't goddamn SURVIVE.
And the snow's falling. Jeans and boots and a couple of layers of shirts underneath an army surplus jacket aren't enough to insulate you from twelve-degree air. Shouldn't've come out here, you think, but maybe that's wrong. Maybe coming out here was exactly what you should have done. It's quiet here, the first real peace you've had in months. There's nobody harassing you out here, nobody finding fault. Sweet Christ, the peace is a beautiful thing.
Your right hand, ungloved, lies splayed on the snow, drained of blood, blue-white.
That's not good, you think.
None of this is good. The blood. The lack of pain. But fear's a long way off, the way it would be if you were lying in bed, surrendering to sleep, warm and fed and content. Listening to a murmur of voices from downstairs. There were times you'd hear them talking about some very dire shit, and yet you couldn't bring yourself to care, to worry.
Sleep.
Five minutes, you think. Five minutes, and then you'll reevaluate. Sort this thing out.
There's time.
There's always time.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean
GENRE: Gen (hurt!Dean)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 400 words
IT IS THE COLD THAT'S HUGE
By Carol Davis
Not a hallucination, you understand. It's just a memory, this image of Dad sitting on a fallen log ten or twelve feet away, calm as a freaking Buddha as you freeze your ass off in the snow.
"Pay attention," he says.
But that's way beyond reach. Paying attention. Wanting to pay attention. The pain's slipped away, and there's nothing but quiet around you: the whisper of snow, the soft rustle of a five-mile-an-hour wind. A beautiful thing, after all that screaming. The shouting. The arguing. Quiet as a church, you think - as still as Pastor Jim's church once was, during the week, when you'd take refuge there, sit in a pew and listen to the absence of sound for as long as the day would allow.
Tired, you think.
The snow's soft beneath you, as comfortable as any bed.
Are you paying attention? Dad's voice asks.
Hell, no, you think.
They were long ago - Dad's master classes in how to keep your ass alive. Social Services would have slammed the lid on him if they knew about the shit he pulled, all in the name of surviving. How to get out of a burning building. How to get out of a car, underwater.
How not to freeze to death.
But the crazy bastard's not here now.
He didn't goddamn SURVIVE.
And the snow's falling. Jeans and boots and a couple of layers of shirts underneath an army surplus jacket aren't enough to insulate you from twelve-degree air. Shouldn't've come out here, you think, but maybe that's wrong. Maybe coming out here was exactly what you should have done. It's quiet here, the first real peace you've had in months. There's nobody harassing you out here, nobody finding fault. Sweet Christ, the peace is a beautiful thing.
Your right hand, ungloved, lies splayed on the snow, drained of blood, blue-white.
That's not good, you think.
None of this is good. The blood. The lack of pain. But fear's a long way off, the way it would be if you were lying in bed, surrendering to sleep, warm and fed and content. Listening to a murmur of voices from downstairs. There were times you'd hear them talking about some very dire shit, and yet you couldn't bring yourself to care, to worry.
Sleep.
Five minutes, you think. Five minutes, and then you'll reevaluate. Sort this thing out.
There's time.
There's always time.
* * * * *