Put Out the Fire On Us
Put Out the Fire On Us || gen ||
Supernatural. PG.
Dean, Mary, et al. Implied John/Mary. 1010.
AU. What if the supernatural didn’t exist, and Sam was taken at aged three instead? What their lives could have been like, ala The Deep End of the Ocean. For anyone who hasn’t read TDEofO, it’s insanely subjective, which is why the novel is narrated by two different characters depending on the situation.
CLEARLY NOT MINE.
Later, when Dean tried to recall the memories surrounding that fateful afternoon, what he remembered most were the rushed hours that had preceded it.
It was ten years, easily ten years, from the day it happened to the day Dean finally looked at the photographs his mother had taken that morning - although God only knew why she had given them to him. He found the envelope tucked inside his college luggage, laid flat upon his pressed shirts, a splash of yellow against the dark stacks Dean himself had ironed.
Mary had never been one for housework, even before Sam’s disappearance, and she’d been practically catatonic for the better part of the decade that followed. When Dean was young his dad used to operate the washing machine and man the iron, and Mary would hang and collect the garments from the wire clothesline in their shady backyard. Sometimes - when Sam was otherwise occupied, and the baby was asleep - Mary would perch Dean on her hip and they would take the washing off together, spinning in concentric spirals until the dizziness became too much to handle standing up.
Mary would sprawl them out on the grass, her hair long and yellow, curling underneath Dean’s hands. “Don’t tell Dad,” she’d say, laughing, smearing sticky red kisses over his face. “Don’t tell Daddy we messed up perfectly good clothes by rolling around in the dirt.”
The photos themselves weren’t anything special, nothing like the monochromatic prints for which his mother had been famous. Mary had intended only to finish off the roll, the first few capturing the last moments of an unknown couple’s wedding, the rest just random shots of their house in Lawrence. There were eighteen photographs in all, and Dean laid them facedown on the bed, picking and turning them over as if he was playing a game of memory with his own fragmented past.
He traced clumsy fingers over an image of their old kitchen, light and airy, bathed in the soft golden gleam of dusk. A younger version of Dean sat with his knees tucked under his chin, feet bare on the marble countertop, fingers spread and covered in crumbs. He looked happy, a feat which had later escaped Dean for most of his teenaged life.
Back when his mother could actually function as a human being, Mary had baked sporadically. Mostly, she had baked banana bread; the sickly sweet scent of the overripe fruit was still enough, even a full decade later, to have Dean gagging on old memories whenever he happened upon it.
Once in a chemistry class he’d had as a sophomore, Dean had actually passed out from just the smell. They had been synthesising esters and his reaction of an alcohol and acetic acid had produced a compound with the distinctive odour of banana. His chest had gotten impossibly tight, not enough air inhaled despite his deep breaths.
When he’d come to, slumped against his bench, the nurse had already been notified, and that was it: mandatory counselling sessions for the freak that had random science-induced panic attacks.
The last picture from the roll was of their family, seemingly taken via the self-timer on Mary’s camera. His dad sat on the hood of the Impala, the baby tucked against his chest, one of her small hands caught in the chequered fabric of John’s shirt. Ruby’s other hand was reaching out for Mary, who had her own fingers outstretched, clutching at nothing more substantial than air. Mary was wearing a floating blue sundress, hair messily pulled into a knot at the base of her neck, looking harried and overheated in the mild August sun. Sam’s small body was in motion, evidently having successfully evaded capture by his mother. His chubby three year-old legs were moving him towards the rear of the car, towards Dean, sullen and pouting, hands crossed melodramatically over his faded batman t-shirt.
Dean hadn’t wanted to go to Wichita, had definitely not wanted to spend the five hour road trip with a crying baby or with an inquisitive Sam (who asked no less than five hundred questions every day). Dean hadn’t wanted to spend the entire trip baby-sitting his stupid siblings whilst his mother drank red wine, and just generally acted like a burgeoning alcoholic, at her tenth college reunion.
He had wanted to stay with his dad, wanted to spend the weekend at the auto-shop instead. He wanted to maybe help his dad rebuild an old car, or stay over at his Pappy’s, making the most of the limited time left he had to lie curled up on his grandfathers chest. He had told his mother so, that very morning, but it had been dismissed, airily forgotten with a flick of a careless hand. That was quintessential Mary behaviour; his demands lost in favour of rechecking their luggage, or cleaning up after Ruby, or finding Sammy’s favourite toy. Mary didn’t love Dean, at least not in the way she did John, and Sam, and baby Ruby.
Instead Dean sulked, hip pressed against the side of the boot, body turned towards Sam’s because even if he was frustrated with his brother, fed-up with the all the whining, he still adored him. It showed on his face, in his exasperated smile, eyes downcast and crinkled slightly at the corners.
Sammy’s face was blurred in the image, though his red t-shirt and bright blue shorts were as clear as anything else depicted in the tableau. Dean sat on his twin bed, alone in his dorm room, with fingers twisted into familiar worn sheets and stared at the photo.
He wondered if, all those many years ago, Sam’s eyes had already been filled with recrimination as he gazed towards Dean. He wondered if even then, before it had all gone down, Sam had already blamed Dean for getting him lost.
Dean would never really know, any hope of that had been taken alongside his brother: snatched away in a crowded room - a sea of people - whilst Dean drowned quietly in an ocean of guilt.
Supernatural. PG.
Dean, Mary, et al. Implied John/Mary. 1010.
AU. What if the supernatural didn’t exist, and Sam was taken at aged three instead? What their lives could have been like, ala The Deep End of the Ocean. For anyone who hasn’t read TDEofO, it’s insanely subjective, which is why the novel is narrated by two different characters depending on the situation.
CLEARLY NOT MINE.
Later, when Dean tried to recall the memories surrounding that fateful afternoon, what he remembered most were the rushed hours that had preceded it.
It was ten years, easily ten years, from the day it happened to the day Dean finally looked at the photographs his mother had taken that morning - although God only knew why she had given them to him. He found the envelope tucked inside his college luggage, laid flat upon his pressed shirts, a splash of yellow against the dark stacks Dean himself had ironed.
Mary had never been one for housework, even before Sam’s disappearance, and she’d been practically catatonic for the better part of the decade that followed. When Dean was young his dad used to operate the washing machine and man the iron, and Mary would hang and collect the garments from the wire clothesline in their shady backyard. Sometimes - when Sam was otherwise occupied, and the baby was asleep - Mary would perch Dean on her hip and they would take the washing off together, spinning in concentric spirals until the dizziness became too much to handle standing up.
Mary would sprawl them out on the grass, her hair long and yellow, curling underneath Dean’s hands. “Don’t tell Dad,” she’d say, laughing, smearing sticky red kisses over his face. “Don’t tell Daddy we messed up perfectly good clothes by rolling around in the dirt.”
The photos themselves weren’t anything special, nothing like the monochromatic prints for which his mother had been famous. Mary had intended only to finish off the roll, the first few capturing the last moments of an unknown couple’s wedding, the rest just random shots of their house in Lawrence. There were eighteen photographs in all, and Dean laid them facedown on the bed, picking and turning them over as if he was playing a game of memory with his own fragmented past.
He traced clumsy fingers over an image of their old kitchen, light and airy, bathed in the soft golden gleam of dusk. A younger version of Dean sat with his knees tucked under his chin, feet bare on the marble countertop, fingers spread and covered in crumbs. He looked happy, a feat which had later escaped Dean for most of his teenaged life.
Back when his mother could actually function as a human being, Mary had baked sporadically. Mostly, she had baked banana bread; the sickly sweet scent of the overripe fruit was still enough, even a full decade later, to have Dean gagging on old memories whenever he happened upon it.
Once in a chemistry class he’d had as a sophomore, Dean had actually passed out from just the smell. They had been synthesising esters and his reaction of an alcohol and acetic acid had produced a compound with the distinctive odour of banana. His chest had gotten impossibly tight, not enough air inhaled despite his deep breaths.
When he’d come to, slumped against his bench, the nurse had already been notified, and that was it: mandatory counselling sessions for the freak that had random science-induced panic attacks.
The last picture from the roll was of their family, seemingly taken via the self-timer on Mary’s camera. His dad sat on the hood of the Impala, the baby tucked against his chest, one of her small hands caught in the chequered fabric of John’s shirt. Ruby’s other hand was reaching out for Mary, who had her own fingers outstretched, clutching at nothing more substantial than air. Mary was wearing a floating blue sundress, hair messily pulled into a knot at the base of her neck, looking harried and overheated in the mild August sun. Sam’s small body was in motion, evidently having successfully evaded capture by his mother. His chubby three year-old legs were moving him towards the rear of the car, towards Dean, sullen and pouting, hands crossed melodramatically over his faded batman t-shirt.
Dean hadn’t wanted to go to Wichita, had definitely not wanted to spend the five hour road trip with a crying baby or with an inquisitive Sam (who asked no less than five hundred questions every day). Dean hadn’t wanted to spend the entire trip baby-sitting his stupid siblings whilst his mother drank red wine, and just generally acted like a burgeoning alcoholic, at her tenth college reunion.
He had wanted to stay with his dad, wanted to spend the weekend at the auto-shop instead. He wanted to maybe help his dad rebuild an old car, or stay over at his Pappy’s, making the most of the limited time left he had to lie curled up on his grandfathers chest. He had told his mother so, that very morning, but it had been dismissed, airily forgotten with a flick of a careless hand. That was quintessential Mary behaviour; his demands lost in favour of rechecking their luggage, or cleaning up after Ruby, or finding Sammy’s favourite toy. Mary didn’t love Dean, at least not in the way she did John, and Sam, and baby Ruby.
Instead Dean sulked, hip pressed against the side of the boot, body turned towards Sam’s because even if he was frustrated with his brother, fed-up with the all the whining, he still adored him. It showed on his face, in his exasperated smile, eyes downcast and crinkled slightly at the corners.
Sammy’s face was blurred in the image, though his red t-shirt and bright blue shorts were as clear as anything else depicted in the tableau. Dean sat on his twin bed, alone in his dorm room, with fingers twisted into familiar worn sheets and stared at the photo.
He wondered if, all those many years ago, Sam’s eyes had already been filled with recrimination as he gazed towards Dean. He wondered if even then, before it had all gone down, Sam had already blamed Dean for getting him lost.
Dean would never really know, any hope of that had been taken alongside his brother: snatched away in a crowded room - a sea of people - whilst Dean drowned quietly in an ocean of guilt.