Flashfic: Room for the Forsaken, PG
Room for the Forsaken
Summary: For the prompt by bitos at the current hoodie-time h/c winter/holiday meme: A hurt, delirious Dean crashes into the life of a small (perhaps grieving family) and disrupts their Christmas eve.
Warnings: Creepy
Note: Flashfic, largely unedited.
Absolute flashfic. No edits on this one.
__________________________
Room for the Forsaken
“Janie,” he says. “C’mon. Let’s just…go inside. Okay kid?”
She ignores him, one hand gripping the back of her neck above the knob of her spine. Her skin gleams, bare and shiny with the wet. The fine mist and single porch light lend everything an unreal cast.
He thins his lips.
“Janie.”
“You shut up,” she bites out, but soft. “Just…shut up.”
It smells of barren earth, pine needles, and damp. The sky is wreathed in thin clouds.
He shifts from foot to foot. Can feel the mist collecting on his nose, eyelashes, forehead. But he’ll stand here all night, if he has to.
“Go back inside, Matt.”
He doesn’t bother to respond. Doesn’t even move as she rounds on him, hair flying.
“Leave me alone! Can’t you just leave me the hell alone?”
He doesn’t look away. Not like he always used to.
“He was my dad too, Janie.”
“Go to hell,” she hisses, pressing her hands together, lips pulled back. Teeth white and shining.
“You need to come back inside,” he insists.
Janie turns sharply, away. Takes a step toward the trees. Another. Her shoes are all wrong for the weather, the season. Sinking into the dead, spongy ground.
“Janie-” he starts, and breaks off when movement in the pines flakes at the edge of his vision.
Janie makes a startled noise. Matt’s hand closes on her arm, so quickly he can barely even register it, nor the moment when he yanks his sister back, and steps in front of her.
The light from the porch doesn’t reach very far. Matt’s hair is plastered to his head. There’s a man standing at the edge of the yard, with a white face and red hands.
“I’m not dead,” the man says, and smiles, vacant and strange.
Matt rocks back a step. Behind him, Janie makes a thin, uneasy noise.
I can’t do it, Matt he thinks, as the man at the edge of the woods folds almost gracefully to his knees. I can’t.
--
He’s a big man, six feet of muscle, fat and bone. Heavy and compact, and it takes the two of them to haul him up, Janie under one shoulder and Matt under the other, and drag him as far as the porch. His hands leave rust-colored streaks on Janie’s arms.
They lower him down with a thump and his eyes flash open, then droop to half-mast. He gives another slack-faced smile, eyes wandering the edges of Janie’s face, her shoulders and then Matt’s arms and hands.
“You got a phone? What’s your name?”
It’s definitely blood on his hands. Fresh but not too fresh, caked under cracked fingernails, dulling to brown and flaking in some places. They rest in his lap and twitch faintly. His eyes close, open again. Slowly.
“…Winchester,” he manages, eventually, turning his head slightly to stare out toward the trees. “Winchester.”
“Okay,” Matt says, as Janie steps past the man to scurry into the house. “Is there someone we can call? Is there a number we can….” He fades into silence when Winchester makes a thin, hissing noise.
“No,” he whispers, eyes flicking from the trees to the light falling on the grass, and then to his hands. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Matt kneels down. Peers into the man’s face, pushes his head so that his face is bathed in the light. Winchester doesn’t resist, doesn’t squint. His jaw quivers, briefly, and that’s all.
“Shit,” Matt breathes.
Janie bangs out of the front door with a blanket-one of their Dad’s. Winchester doesn’t react to the noise. His eyes are already slipping shut again.
“He looks sick,” Janie says, “Jesus, like one of the guys at the center. We can’t leave him out here.”
Matt swallows. She’s right, he should be inside. It’s warm and dry in there. Still smells like their Dad’s cologne, like his bad cooking, like pine needles. End of the year. Christmases past. All that. Ghosts on the air.
Winchester is pale and as sick as any of the patients at Oaklawn on their worst days. Something deeper than bone, deeper than soul. Some huge and awful thing. Matt gets a hand under his shoulder and an arm around his back, and heaves.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Janie says, and kicks her muddy shoes to the side before holding the door wide for both of them.
--
Pockets are empty. Janie cleans his hands with a bucket of warm water and Winchester barely reacts. The blanket is heavy and scratchy-Matt knows from experience-but he makes no complaints and his breath is light and shallow.
“You’re not hurt?” he asks the man, again and again, and Winchester only shakes his head, murmurs, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, until the words have no more meaning.
Maybe they never had any meaning.
--
There’s no dinner this year. No Christmas eve. No presents. Janie’d torn the tree down three days ago and the decorations followed shortly after, and now everything’s in the garbage where it damn well belongs. Instead there’s Winchester, slumped in the half-dark living room, and Matt standing in the light of the kitchen with the phone in his hand, thumb hovering over the second one of 911.
“He could be bleeding to death,” Matt says.
“I don’t want them back here,” Janie hisses.
Bitter. So sharp it stings.
“What if he dies?”
“Then he’ll die where it’s quiet, and dark. Not there. Not like that. No one should have to die like that.”
He cuts his eyes at her.
“We can’t make that decision for him. We don’t even know his first name.”
He pushes the button and nothing happens. Looks to the wall and sees Janie’s unplugged the phone.
“Christ!” he blurts. She bangs a fist on the wall, hollow and loud.
“There’ll be blood everywhere,” she snarls, and spins away and storms into the dining room, and up the stairs. Probably to hide all the other phone receivers.
He goes into the living room. Listens to Winchester breathe. Faint and hissing, like it hurts. But not like a physical pain.
Matt’s learned to tell the difference.
“What’s your name?” he asks again, softly, into the dark. Hears the breath hitch, soft. The damp gasp, like a memory’s been stirred that never should have been.
“Dean,” he hears, and then, “Dean Winchester.”
And that’s all.
--
The banging on the back door wakes them all. Janie comes flying down the stairs, still in her pajamas, hands and mouth trembling. Matt jackknifes up from the kitchen table and in the living room some animal groans, life leaking out on snow.
Matt staggers to the door, only half aware, peers through the fading gingham curtains at the shoulder, arms, neck of a man awash in the light and rain.
“Hello?” a strange voice calls from the other side. “Is anyone home? I’m looking for my brother.”
“Open it, Matt,” Janie says from the doorway.
So Matt does.
The man on the porch is big but hunching his shoulders slightly, as if he’s ashamed of it. He gives a rueful smile at odds with his broad shoulders and long, rain-damp hair.
“Hi,” he says, and pushes the draggling strands out of his face. “Um. Hi? I’m looking for my-”
“Dean,” Matt interrupts, and the man blinks. “Winchester? Your brother?”
The man blinks, looks faintly stunned.
“There…there was an accident,” he manages, voice thin. “He walked away from-”
“He’s here,” Janie says. “But I didn’t hear any accident.”
“I-on the road.” The man turns, waves vaguely past the trees, in the direction of the highway. Miles away. “We-the car. We hit the guardrail, I think. I woke up…Dean was gone. Is he…he here? My brother, is he here?”
Janie grunts. “I just said he was.”
But Matt can see it now, the faint trickle of blood on the side of the new man’s face. He glances at the clock. Two A.M. Sighs and gestures the new man inside.
“He’s in the living room,” he says. “Just banged up, I think. I’m sorry. I should’ve called an ambulance.”
“No,” the big man says. “No, it’s okay.”
Matt starts to trail after the man into the dark maw of the room, but Janie’s hand on his arm forestalls him. She shakes her head but doesn’t look at his face.
Matt turns away to shut the door. Faintly he hears the new man’s voice, more distant than it should be.
Dean. Hey, Dean. C’mon, open your eyes. C’mon, please?
Dean says something. It might be Sammy?
That’s good. That’s real good.
No. You…I saw you. You were…
I’m fine, Dean. And so are you. It’s fine, okay? Everything’s fine now.
“No,” Janie whispers, and this time it’s Matt who grabs her, stops her from moving forward.
C’mon, Dean, we gotta go. We need to get outta these people’s house.
‘M tired, Sam.
It’s okay. We’re getting out. We gotta go, man.
There’s the noise of a body moving, the sound of slithering cloth. The blanket falling to the floor. A grunt from Dean, another reassuring murmur from Sam. A handful of footsteps, moving away from the kitchen. Towards the front door.
But the door doesn’t open.
“Matt,” Janie says, faintly. “Mathew.”
He stands with his fingers clamped on his sister’s arm. Waiting, though he doesn’t know for what. Until he’s sure. Until the silence is too big for either of them.
They go into the room together, and Matt flicks on the nearest lamp. The blanket is crumpled on the floor. The room smells of engine oil, old blood, whiskey, and pine.
-The End-
_________________
Down There by the Train
Summary: For the prompt by bitos at the current hoodie-time h/c winter/holiday meme: A hurt, delirious Dean crashes into the life of a small (perhaps grieving family) and disrupts their Christmas eve.
Warnings: Creepy
Note: Flashfic, largely unedited.
Absolute flashfic. No edits on this one.
__________________________
Room for the Forsaken
“Janie,” he says. “C’mon. Let’s just…go inside. Okay kid?”
She ignores him, one hand gripping the back of her neck above the knob of her spine. Her skin gleams, bare and shiny with the wet. The fine mist and single porch light lend everything an unreal cast.
He thins his lips.
“Janie.”
“You shut up,” she bites out, but soft. “Just…shut up.”
It smells of barren earth, pine needles, and damp. The sky is wreathed in thin clouds.
He shifts from foot to foot. Can feel the mist collecting on his nose, eyelashes, forehead. But he’ll stand here all night, if he has to.
“Go back inside, Matt.”
He doesn’t bother to respond. Doesn’t even move as she rounds on him, hair flying.
“Leave me alone! Can’t you just leave me the hell alone?”
He doesn’t look away. Not like he always used to.
“He was my dad too, Janie.”
“Go to hell,” she hisses, pressing her hands together, lips pulled back. Teeth white and shining.
“You need to come back inside,” he insists.
Janie turns sharply, away. Takes a step toward the trees. Another. Her shoes are all wrong for the weather, the season. Sinking into the dead, spongy ground.
“Janie-” he starts, and breaks off when movement in the pines flakes at the edge of his vision.
Janie makes a startled noise. Matt’s hand closes on her arm, so quickly he can barely even register it, nor the moment when he yanks his sister back, and steps in front of her.
The light from the porch doesn’t reach very far. Matt’s hair is plastered to his head. There’s a man standing at the edge of the yard, with a white face and red hands.
“I’m not dead,” the man says, and smiles, vacant and strange.
Matt rocks back a step. Behind him, Janie makes a thin, uneasy noise.
I can’t do it, Matt he thinks, as the man at the edge of the woods folds almost gracefully to his knees. I can’t.
--
He’s a big man, six feet of muscle, fat and bone. Heavy and compact, and it takes the two of them to haul him up, Janie under one shoulder and Matt under the other, and drag him as far as the porch. His hands leave rust-colored streaks on Janie’s arms.
They lower him down with a thump and his eyes flash open, then droop to half-mast. He gives another slack-faced smile, eyes wandering the edges of Janie’s face, her shoulders and then Matt’s arms and hands.
“You got a phone? What’s your name?”
It’s definitely blood on his hands. Fresh but not too fresh, caked under cracked fingernails, dulling to brown and flaking in some places. They rest in his lap and twitch faintly. His eyes close, open again. Slowly.
“…Winchester,” he manages, eventually, turning his head slightly to stare out toward the trees. “Winchester.”
“Okay,” Matt says, as Janie steps past the man to scurry into the house. “Is there someone we can call? Is there a number we can….” He fades into silence when Winchester makes a thin, hissing noise.
“No,” he whispers, eyes flicking from the trees to the light falling on the grass, and then to his hands. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Matt kneels down. Peers into the man’s face, pushes his head so that his face is bathed in the light. Winchester doesn’t resist, doesn’t squint. His jaw quivers, briefly, and that’s all.
“Shit,” Matt breathes.
Janie bangs out of the front door with a blanket-one of their Dad’s. Winchester doesn’t react to the noise. His eyes are already slipping shut again.
“He looks sick,” Janie says, “Jesus, like one of the guys at the center. We can’t leave him out here.”
Matt swallows. She’s right, he should be inside. It’s warm and dry in there. Still smells like their Dad’s cologne, like his bad cooking, like pine needles. End of the year. Christmases past. All that. Ghosts on the air.
Winchester is pale and as sick as any of the patients at Oaklawn on their worst days. Something deeper than bone, deeper than soul. Some huge and awful thing. Matt gets a hand under his shoulder and an arm around his back, and heaves.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Janie says, and kicks her muddy shoes to the side before holding the door wide for both of them.
--
Pockets are empty. Janie cleans his hands with a bucket of warm water and Winchester barely reacts. The blanket is heavy and scratchy-Matt knows from experience-but he makes no complaints and his breath is light and shallow.
“You’re not hurt?” he asks the man, again and again, and Winchester only shakes his head, murmurs, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, until the words have no more meaning.
Maybe they never had any meaning.
--
There’s no dinner this year. No Christmas eve. No presents. Janie’d torn the tree down three days ago and the decorations followed shortly after, and now everything’s in the garbage where it damn well belongs. Instead there’s Winchester, slumped in the half-dark living room, and Matt standing in the light of the kitchen with the phone in his hand, thumb hovering over the second one of 911.
“He could be bleeding to death,” Matt says.
“I don’t want them back here,” Janie hisses.
Bitter. So sharp it stings.
“What if he dies?”
“Then he’ll die where it’s quiet, and dark. Not there. Not like that. No one should have to die like that.”
He cuts his eyes at her.
“We can’t make that decision for him. We don’t even know his first name.”
He pushes the button and nothing happens. Looks to the wall and sees Janie’s unplugged the phone.
“Christ!” he blurts. She bangs a fist on the wall, hollow and loud.
“There’ll be blood everywhere,” she snarls, and spins away and storms into the dining room, and up the stairs. Probably to hide all the other phone receivers.
He goes into the living room. Listens to Winchester breathe. Faint and hissing, like it hurts. But not like a physical pain.
Matt’s learned to tell the difference.
“What’s your name?” he asks again, softly, into the dark. Hears the breath hitch, soft. The damp gasp, like a memory’s been stirred that never should have been.
“Dean,” he hears, and then, “Dean Winchester.”
And that’s all.
--
The banging on the back door wakes them all. Janie comes flying down the stairs, still in her pajamas, hands and mouth trembling. Matt jackknifes up from the kitchen table and in the living room some animal groans, life leaking out on snow.
Matt staggers to the door, only half aware, peers through the fading gingham curtains at the shoulder, arms, neck of a man awash in the light and rain.
“Hello?” a strange voice calls from the other side. “Is anyone home? I’m looking for my brother.”
“Open it, Matt,” Janie says from the doorway.
So Matt does.
The man on the porch is big but hunching his shoulders slightly, as if he’s ashamed of it. He gives a rueful smile at odds with his broad shoulders and long, rain-damp hair.
“Hi,” he says, and pushes the draggling strands out of his face. “Um. Hi? I’m looking for my-”
“Dean,” Matt interrupts, and the man blinks. “Winchester? Your brother?”
The man blinks, looks faintly stunned.
“There…there was an accident,” he manages, voice thin. “He walked away from-”
“He’s here,” Janie says. “But I didn’t hear any accident.”
“I-on the road.” The man turns, waves vaguely past the trees, in the direction of the highway. Miles away. “We-the car. We hit the guardrail, I think. I woke up…Dean was gone. Is he…he here? My brother, is he here?”
Janie grunts. “I just said he was.”
But Matt can see it now, the faint trickle of blood on the side of the new man’s face. He glances at the clock. Two A.M. Sighs and gestures the new man inside.
“He’s in the living room,” he says. “Just banged up, I think. I’m sorry. I should’ve called an ambulance.”
“No,” the big man says. “No, it’s okay.”
Matt starts to trail after the man into the dark maw of the room, but Janie’s hand on his arm forestalls him. She shakes her head but doesn’t look at his face.
Matt turns away to shut the door. Faintly he hears the new man’s voice, more distant than it should be.
Dean. Hey, Dean. C’mon, open your eyes. C’mon, please?
Dean says something. It might be Sammy?
That’s good. That’s real good.
No. You…I saw you. You were…
I’m fine, Dean. And so are you. It’s fine, okay? Everything’s fine now.
“No,” Janie whispers, and this time it’s Matt who grabs her, stops her from moving forward.
C’mon, Dean, we gotta go. We need to get outta these people’s house.
‘M tired, Sam.
It’s okay. We’re getting out. We gotta go, man.
There’s the noise of a body moving, the sound of slithering cloth. The blanket falling to the floor. A grunt from Dean, another reassuring murmur from Sam. A handful of footsteps, moving away from the kitchen. Towards the front door.
But the door doesn’t open.
“Matt,” Janie says, faintly. “Mathew.”
He stands with his fingers clamped on his sister’s arm. Waiting, though he doesn’t know for what. Until he’s sure. Until the silence is too big for either of them.
They go into the room together, and Matt flicks on the nearest lamp. The blanket is crumpled on the floor. The room smells of engine oil, old blood, whiskey, and pine.
-The End-
_________________
Down There by the Train