FIC: "Constant" (Supernatural, post-"Nightshifter", 1/1)
FIC: "Constant"
by LJ
Spoilers: Season 2, post-"Nightshifter"
Warning: Character death.
They've been lucky so far. Too lucky.
"Tell me again," Sam says. "What he said about Dad."
Dean tells him, just as he had told Sam minutes, hours, two days ago out of Milwaukee. Sam sees the half-truths in the words, wishes he'd been the one on the phone instead of Dean, but he's silent. This is the fourth time Dean's told him, and the words never change.
Nothing ever changes.
The sun starts to go down. They're in some state park - national park? Sam hadn't been paying attention - some campground abandoned in the chill of winter. There should have been snow on the ground - Sam didn't acclimate so well to California that he forgot what the rest of the country is like this time of year. The weather's been weird this year. Sam wonders if that's a sign. A sign of what's coming.
Dad would have known.
Dean finishes his recitation - Sam knows how easily those words burned themselves into his brother's brain - and the obvious words try to choke him.
"We can't go to the Roadhouse."
"No." Dean may flirt and charm when it suits him, but otherwise he's a man of few words.
Just like Dad.
"I mean," Sam continues, "if they knew all that about Dad and us, then they know about Ellen, about the other hunters. Or they will soon enough."
"Yeah." Succinct, that little word. It's classic Dean. So much in three vowels and a consonant. Two consonants. Whatever.
"I mean, we can't bring any more trouble to her door - they skirt the edge of the law enough as it is-"
"You think I don't know that, Sam?" Explosive, red-hot in anger. That was Dean, too. Dad was generally more mellow, calmer even in the most stressful situations. Like Sam.
The explosions must have been from Mom. Not that Sam can remember.
"Just shut up and let me think, all right?"
Sam nods, but he knows that Dean will come to the same conclusion that he has. They've been driving at night and they've been lucky.
Even Winchesters aren't supposed to be this lucky. He imagines those words in Ellen's voice. He wonders if it's anything like Mom's was.
They sit on the hood of the car - a rarity - and watch the sun finish sinking behind the mountains, in silence. Dean seems unwilling to admit what has to be said. Finally, Sam sighs and says it for him:
"We have to get rid of the car."
Dean doesn't bother nodding.
The Impala's been with them from the beginning. Sam's earliest memories involve this car - memories he'd gladly trade for just one of his mother. The car is practically a Winchester herself, a member of the family. Their - he searches for the phrase, stolen from some lit class he'd taken - their constant companion.
But it's conspicuous. It's fast and it's flashy and it purrs and growls like no modern car. Dean wouldn't stand for it to be any other way. It's black and so they've been driving at night - but one day they'll have to drive in the daylight, in the safety that sunshine provides from those things that go bump in the night -
The paint shines in sunlight. Dean wouldn't have it any other way.
The car should be in a museum, she's so beautiful.
Finally, Dean speaks. "Soon," he says. "Not tonight. But soon."
"Soon," Sam repeats. "Okay."
Three days and two close calls later, they pull into the parking lot of a drugstore. They argue in the hair care aisle until Dean declares that his hair will never be emo-goth black or head-lights bleach blonde so long as he lives, and grabs a baseball cap with a fish applique on it on his way out instead. They haven't shaved since Milwaukee and with the hat on, Sam thinks he almost looks like the kind of guy who'd wear a stupid hat like that.
Dean cuts his hair for him - chops it, really - with the scissors from the first aid kit. Sam checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. He can't remember the last time his hair was this short. His ears are cold, and he can feel every tiny breeze on his scalp. But he doesn't look like Sam Winchester.
Mission accomplished.
"It's time," he tells Dean. His brother's ears stick out from under the fish hat. "Yeah," Dean finally says. "It's time."
They allow themselves each a small dufflebag. Sam has Dad's journal, Dean has the jars of salt and holy water. Sam has a picture of Jess in his wallet, Dean has one of Dad behind the wheel of the Impala. It's so worn and yellowed that only a Winchester could tell. The name 'Winchester' is nowhere to be found on either of them.
Dean does the honors - he choses the location, he puts it in position, he leaves the radio on, receiving nothing but static, he leaves the keys in the ignition. They're Dad's keys, really, and there's nothing worth keeping: the keys to the gunlocks he'd bought when Sam was five (that idea had lasted all of two weeks before he'd needed Dean and Sammy to help him out on a hunt that went bad); the key to the safe deposit box in Lawrence with their birth certificates and Dad's medals and Mom's mom's engagement ring which was probably repossessed by the bank a decade ago; the key to the truck Dad had been driving when he and Dean had parted ways; a key to the house in Lawrence, now several owners out of date; and the original keys to the Impala, the master set from the dealership from which Dean's and Sam's copies had been made over the years.
They glint in the light of the sunset.
"Ready?" Sam asks hesitantly. He can feel his ears turning red in the cold.
"No," Dean answers, but he releases the parking brake and slams the door anyway. The car barely, almost imperceivably moves forward. Dean puts his shoulder into the job and pushes from behind.
Sam could swear that Dean is asking the Impala for forgiveness, but any words his brother might be saying are drowned out by the sudden sound of music from the car radio.
Sam swears it's Metallica.
He says nothing, simply stares as Dean does at the tail lights of the Impala as she creeps, slowly, wraithlike in the growing darkness, towards the cliff edge. She hangs, precariously, for a moment and he swears that Dean is ready to step forward, but-
then-
she falls.
He rushes forward, past Dean, and stands at the cliff's edge. He's the only witness. Weeks from now, he'll have to tell Dean how she fell, how she hit the rock face with sickening crunches and at last fell into the water. How he could still hear Metallica as she sunk. How the last thing he saw was the tail lights, illuminating the murky depths.
But not now. Not today.
When it's finished, he steps away from the cliff and turns toward Dean. His brother is standing there, stock-still, eyes closed, hardly breathing. "Dean?"
"Is it done?"
"Yeah." The word escapes his mouth. He's been with Dean too long.
His brother opens his eyes. They're cold. Dead.
Dad's eyes used to look like that sometimes. Dad always got better, though.
Sam isn't worried about getting caught by the police or the FBI. He knows that they won't understand how the ends justified the means. Hell he's not even afraid of dying on a hunt, that some demon will get the better of him. Even in California, he knew better than to think he would die quietly, in his sleep, at a ripe old age. As much as he tried to deny it, he was still a Winchester then, and he's certianly still one now. He's not even afraid of what the yellow-eyed demon has in store for him. Not today.
"Let's go," Dean says, picking up his duffle and Sam does likewise.
They walk.
Dean has made promises to him, to their dad, but now he makes a promise to Dean. Silently, without words, without Dean knowing. It's how he's always made promises to him before. Dean doesn't handle words easily.
But the hell if this will be the last straw. The hell if this will be what breaks him.
When they were little, it was always Dean's job to keep Sam safe.
It's about time he kept Dean safe for a change.
[END]
by LJ
Spoilers: Season 2, post-"Nightshifter"
Warning: Character death.
They've been lucky so far. Too lucky.
"Tell me again," Sam says. "What he said about Dad."
Dean tells him, just as he had told Sam minutes, hours, two days ago out of Milwaukee. Sam sees the half-truths in the words, wishes he'd been the one on the phone instead of Dean, but he's silent. This is the fourth time Dean's told him, and the words never change.
Nothing ever changes.
The sun starts to go down. They're in some state park - national park? Sam hadn't been paying attention - some campground abandoned in the chill of winter. There should have been snow on the ground - Sam didn't acclimate so well to California that he forgot what the rest of the country is like this time of year. The weather's been weird this year. Sam wonders if that's a sign. A sign of what's coming.
Dad would have known.
Dean finishes his recitation - Sam knows how easily those words burned themselves into his brother's brain - and the obvious words try to choke him.
"We can't go to the Roadhouse."
"No." Dean may flirt and charm when it suits him, but otherwise he's a man of few words.
Just like Dad.
"I mean," Sam continues, "if they knew all that about Dad and us, then they know about Ellen, about the other hunters. Or they will soon enough."
"Yeah." Succinct, that little word. It's classic Dean. So much in three vowels and a consonant. Two consonants. Whatever.
"I mean, we can't bring any more trouble to her door - they skirt the edge of the law enough as it is-"
"You think I don't know that, Sam?" Explosive, red-hot in anger. That was Dean, too. Dad was generally more mellow, calmer even in the most stressful situations. Like Sam.
The explosions must have been from Mom. Not that Sam can remember.
"Just shut up and let me think, all right?"
Sam nods, but he knows that Dean will come to the same conclusion that he has. They've been driving at night and they've been lucky.
Even Winchesters aren't supposed to be this lucky. He imagines those words in Ellen's voice. He wonders if it's anything like Mom's was.
They sit on the hood of the car - a rarity - and watch the sun finish sinking behind the mountains, in silence. Dean seems unwilling to admit what has to be said. Finally, Sam sighs and says it for him:
"We have to get rid of the car."
Dean doesn't bother nodding.
The Impala's been with them from the beginning. Sam's earliest memories involve this car - memories he'd gladly trade for just one of his mother. The car is practically a Winchester herself, a member of the family. Their - he searches for the phrase, stolen from some lit class he'd taken - their constant companion.
But it's conspicuous. It's fast and it's flashy and it purrs and growls like no modern car. Dean wouldn't stand for it to be any other way. It's black and so they've been driving at night - but one day they'll have to drive in the daylight, in the safety that sunshine provides from those things that go bump in the night -
The paint shines in sunlight. Dean wouldn't have it any other way.
The car should be in a museum, she's so beautiful.
Finally, Dean speaks. "Soon," he says. "Not tonight. But soon."
"Soon," Sam repeats. "Okay."
Three days and two close calls later, they pull into the parking lot of a drugstore. They argue in the hair care aisle until Dean declares that his hair will never be emo-goth black or head-lights bleach blonde so long as he lives, and grabs a baseball cap with a fish applique on it on his way out instead. They haven't shaved since Milwaukee and with the hat on, Sam thinks he almost looks like the kind of guy who'd wear a stupid hat like that.
Dean cuts his hair for him - chops it, really - with the scissors from the first aid kit. Sam checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. He can't remember the last time his hair was this short. His ears are cold, and he can feel every tiny breeze on his scalp. But he doesn't look like Sam Winchester.
Mission accomplished.
"It's time," he tells Dean. His brother's ears stick out from under the fish hat. "Yeah," Dean finally says. "It's time."
They allow themselves each a small dufflebag. Sam has Dad's journal, Dean has the jars of salt and holy water. Sam has a picture of Jess in his wallet, Dean has one of Dad behind the wheel of the Impala. It's so worn and yellowed that only a Winchester could tell. The name 'Winchester' is nowhere to be found on either of them.
Dean does the honors - he choses the location, he puts it in position, he leaves the radio on, receiving nothing but static, he leaves the keys in the ignition. They're Dad's keys, really, and there's nothing worth keeping: the keys to the gunlocks he'd bought when Sam was five (that idea had lasted all of two weeks before he'd needed Dean and Sammy to help him out on a hunt that went bad); the key to the safe deposit box in Lawrence with their birth certificates and Dad's medals and Mom's mom's engagement ring which was probably repossessed by the bank a decade ago; the key to the truck Dad had been driving when he and Dean had parted ways; a key to the house in Lawrence, now several owners out of date; and the original keys to the Impala, the master set from the dealership from which Dean's and Sam's copies had been made over the years.
They glint in the light of the sunset.
"Ready?" Sam asks hesitantly. He can feel his ears turning red in the cold.
"No," Dean answers, but he releases the parking brake and slams the door anyway. The car barely, almost imperceivably moves forward. Dean puts his shoulder into the job and pushes from behind.
Sam could swear that Dean is asking the Impala for forgiveness, but any words his brother might be saying are drowned out by the sudden sound of music from the car radio.
Sam swears it's Metallica.
He says nothing, simply stares as Dean does at the tail lights of the Impala as she creeps, slowly, wraithlike in the growing darkness, towards the cliff edge. She hangs, precariously, for a moment and he swears that Dean is ready to step forward, but-
then-
she falls.
He rushes forward, past Dean, and stands at the cliff's edge. He's the only witness. Weeks from now, he'll have to tell Dean how she fell, how she hit the rock face with sickening crunches and at last fell into the water. How he could still hear Metallica as she sunk. How the last thing he saw was the tail lights, illuminating the murky depths.
But not now. Not today.
When it's finished, he steps away from the cliff and turns toward Dean. His brother is standing there, stock-still, eyes closed, hardly breathing. "Dean?"
"Is it done?"
"Yeah." The word escapes his mouth. He's been with Dean too long.
His brother opens his eyes. They're cold. Dead.
Dad's eyes used to look like that sometimes. Dad always got better, though.
Sam isn't worried about getting caught by the police or the FBI. He knows that they won't understand how the ends justified the means. Hell he's not even afraid of dying on a hunt, that some demon will get the better of him. Even in California, he knew better than to think he would die quietly, in his sleep, at a ripe old age. As much as he tried to deny it, he was still a Winchester then, and he's certianly still one now. He's not even afraid of what the yellow-eyed demon has in store for him. Not today.
"Let's go," Dean says, picking up his duffle and Sam does likewise.
They walk.
Dean has made promises to him, to their dad, but now he makes a promise to Dean. Silently, without words, without Dean knowing. It's how he's always made promises to him before. Dean doesn't handle words easily.
But the hell if this will be the last straw. The hell if this will be what breaks him.
When they were little, it was always Dean's job to keep Sam safe.
It's about time he kept Dean safe for a change.
[END]