SPN fic: Willing to fight
Title: Willing to fight
Author: maharetr
Disclaimer: Non mei, commodo operor non educo
Genre/Rating: Gen (wee!winchesters) PG
Word count: 751
Characters: Dean, John and Sam
Notes: Love and gratitude to vegetariansuhi, for everything. Thank you. x-posted to supernaturalfic
Somewhere far away, Dean can hear her singing. It's pitch black in his room: not even a pale flicker of movement when he waves his hand in front of his nose, but he knows exactly how many steps to cross the room, can anticipate the change in the texture of the carpets under his bare feet as he moves from bedroom to hallway.
There should be light here, coming up from the kitchen, because she would sing there in the afternoon sunlight, with the windows open and the breeze cooling the house. Instead it is cold, his toes numb enough that he feels uncertainly for each tread of the stairs. It's still dark, and she's still singing, still distant as he crosses the living room. Panic starts to seep into his veins: he should be able to see her from here, watch her shadow flicker across the hallway wall as she crosses back and forth across the kitchen doorway.
"Please," he gasps, more a sob than a word and she stops singing mid-word and is silent. The darkness and cold is complete. He waves his arms, trying to get his bearings, and the back of his left hand cracks against a wall hard enough to make him hiss with the pain, and he's bringing his other arm around to cradle the left when something grabs his wrist.
It's a hand, hot and clammy, and he screams, wrenching away. He manages two lunging strides before he smacks into the wall, face first this time with enough force to bloody his nose, pain sparking and hot dampness spreading over his lips, getting in his mouth when he opens it to scream.
"Mom," he cries, even though he knows she's not there anymore, maybe was never there. There's still noise, but it's the thing breathing, shuffling closer. "Mom."
"Hush," the thing snarls, and it's mom's words but the voice is mocking, too deep and rasping to pass for human. Dean tries to twist away, but it grabs his arm, harder, too-large fingers digging into his arm until he gasps in pain.
"It's all right," the thing rasps. There's a hand is against his mouth, jarring his nose, not trying to silence his sobs but wiping over his lips. It wants my blood, he thinks desperately, and then he's screaming and thrashing again, kicking with bare feet and clawing with his free hand.
"Dean!" The thing yells this time, but there's sudden light, blinding after the dark. He tries to throw up an arm to shield his eyes, but it's still holding him, pinning his arms, and he wails.
"Dean, Dean, it's all right."
"Mommy," he sobs, and tries one last time to wrench free, feeble with exhaustion. The thing lets go, but he has barely enough energy to curl away from it, and there's no space left for relief.
"It's dad, Dean."
The world shifts and reorders itself: the sheets are damp, clinging to his legs; the light is coming from the lamp beside the bed, and Dad leaning over him, cautiously. His hair is sticking up every which way, which would be funny except there are scratches on Dad's cheek and across his bare chest, reddening as Dean stares. Dad's still talking, low and soothing, but the sound of someone sniffling pulls at Dean's attention.
Sammy is standing over near the bathroom door, face red with tears and suppressed sobs, and Dad has to say: "It's okay, Sammy, he's awake now," before Sammy dashes at the bed, scrambling up and throwing himself at Dean. His sweaty hands are enough to make Dean flinch, but then he gets a hold of himself enough to hug Sammy back, taking comfort from the clinging embrace.
"You scared me," Sammy says between hitching breaths. Dean looks over at Dad, who's sitting on the edge of the bed and is paler than Sammy.
Dad's lips quirk upwards into what is nearly a smile. "That was some nightmare, buddy." Some of the scratches on Dad's chest are beading blood. Dean's shock must show on his face because Dad moves over, reaching out and wrapping his arms around the both of them.
"It's all right," he murmurs into Dean's hair, and Dean's pretty sure it's a real smile in his voice this time. "You're all flail and no technique, but we can work on that."
"We gotta fight the -- we gotta--," Dean's voice catches, and Dad squeezes him tighter.
"Yeah," he says. "I'll teach you how to fight."
Author: maharetr
Disclaimer: Non mei, commodo operor non educo
Genre/Rating: Gen (wee!winchesters) PG
Word count: 751
Characters: Dean, John and Sam
Notes: Love and gratitude to vegetariansuhi, for everything. Thank you. x-posted to supernaturalfic
Somewhere far away, Dean can hear her singing. It's pitch black in his room: not even a pale flicker of movement when he waves his hand in front of his nose, but he knows exactly how many steps to cross the room, can anticipate the change in the texture of the carpets under his bare feet as he moves from bedroom to hallway.
There should be light here, coming up from the kitchen, because she would sing there in the afternoon sunlight, with the windows open and the breeze cooling the house. Instead it is cold, his toes numb enough that he feels uncertainly for each tread of the stairs. It's still dark, and she's still singing, still distant as he crosses the living room. Panic starts to seep into his veins: he should be able to see her from here, watch her shadow flicker across the hallway wall as she crosses back and forth across the kitchen doorway.
"Please," he gasps, more a sob than a word and she stops singing mid-word and is silent. The darkness and cold is complete. He waves his arms, trying to get his bearings, and the back of his left hand cracks against a wall hard enough to make him hiss with the pain, and he's bringing his other arm around to cradle the left when something grabs his wrist.
It's a hand, hot and clammy, and he screams, wrenching away. He manages two lunging strides before he smacks into the wall, face first this time with enough force to bloody his nose, pain sparking and hot dampness spreading over his lips, getting in his mouth when he opens it to scream.
"Mom," he cries, even though he knows she's not there anymore, maybe was never there. There's still noise, but it's the thing breathing, shuffling closer. "Mom."
"Hush," the thing snarls, and it's mom's words but the voice is mocking, too deep and rasping to pass for human. Dean tries to twist away, but it grabs his arm, harder, too-large fingers digging into his arm until he gasps in pain.
"It's all right," the thing rasps. There's a hand is against his mouth, jarring his nose, not trying to silence his sobs but wiping over his lips. It wants my blood, he thinks desperately, and then he's screaming and thrashing again, kicking with bare feet and clawing with his free hand.
"Dean!" The thing yells this time, but there's sudden light, blinding after the dark. He tries to throw up an arm to shield his eyes, but it's still holding him, pinning his arms, and he wails.
"Dean, Dean, it's all right."
"Mommy," he sobs, and tries one last time to wrench free, feeble with exhaustion. The thing lets go, but he has barely enough energy to curl away from it, and there's no space left for relief.
"It's dad, Dean."
The world shifts and reorders itself: the sheets are damp, clinging to his legs; the light is coming from the lamp beside the bed, and Dad leaning over him, cautiously. His hair is sticking up every which way, which would be funny except there are scratches on Dad's cheek and across his bare chest, reddening as Dean stares. Dad's still talking, low and soothing, but the sound of someone sniffling pulls at Dean's attention.
Sammy is standing over near the bathroom door, face red with tears and suppressed sobs, and Dad has to say: "It's okay, Sammy, he's awake now," before Sammy dashes at the bed, scrambling up and throwing himself at Dean. His sweaty hands are enough to make Dean flinch, but then he gets a hold of himself enough to hug Sammy back, taking comfort from the clinging embrace.
"You scared me," Sammy says between hitching breaths. Dean looks over at Dad, who's sitting on the edge of the bed and is paler than Sammy.
Dad's lips quirk upwards into what is nearly a smile. "That was some nightmare, buddy." Some of the scratches on Dad's chest are beading blood. Dean's shock must show on his face because Dad moves over, reaching out and wrapping his arms around the both of them.
"It's all right," he murmurs into Dean's hair, and Dean's pretty sure it's a real smile in his voice this time. "You're all flail and no technique, but we can work on that."
"We gotta fight the -- we gotta--," Dean's voice catches, and Dad squeezes him tighter.
"Yeah," he says. "I'll teach you how to fight."