fic: The Heart Where I Have Roots (Supernatural; Sam and Dean; gen)
The Heart Where I Have Roots
Supernatural; Dean and Sam; g; spoilers for "Nightshifter"; 1,755 words
Dean's never been one to ignore reality, especially when it's hitting him in the face like a sledgehammer.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for the prompt (Fugitive by Indigo Girls) and the beta. Title from Pablo Neruda.
***
The Heart Where I Have Roots
They drive straight through for hours, west, angling a little south when they hit Madison, the sun the only benevolent thing at their backs. They don't speak. Dean ignores the pressure on his bladder, the growling of his stomach, the exhaustion that makes his eyes feel like they've shrunk to the size of wasabi peas--and makes them burn like them, too--for as long as he can.
Sam sits with the same shell-shocked look on his face the whole time, like even his super geek brain can't quite process what went down in the bank, and how screwed they really are.
They pull into a rest stop just outside of Waterloo, Iowa, and Dean tries not to read anything into that.
They both use the john and head for the Starbucks, still moving in synch, and it would be weird except that it's not, because everything else is so fucked up, but he and Sam? He and Sam are on the same goddamn page for once.
The coffee is hot and strong, tastes like it's been sitting in the pot all day, burning, but that's okay--he's been running on adrenaline for what feels like days, and it'll keep him awake when he finally crashes.
He buys sandwiches at the deli--ham and cheese, turkey club, pastrami on rye for later--and a couple of oranges, ostensibly to keep Sam from bitching about the lack of anything resembling vegetables in their diet, but mostly because he finds the smell comforting, hopeful even. He can never tell Sam that.
They head back to the car to eat--safer that way. There aren't many people in the rest stop, but Dean doesn't want to take any chances they don't have to.
"Don't want you to get scurvy," he says when Sam pulls an orange out of the bag and looks at him like he's lost his mind.
"I'm touched." And Dean's a little proud of how much sarcasm Sam's fit into those two words, and how underneath it, they're still true.
"Well, that's a polite way of putting it."
And damn if they don't almost sound normal, even though Dean's chest feels tight and he's taking quick shallow breaths because there's not enough air in the world to make that tightness ease. When the edges of his vision start to go yellow, he has to close his eyes for a minute.
"Dean." Sam's voice snaps him out of it. The rasp of Sam's breathing sets the rhythm for them both, and Dean sucks down air, sharp and cold with winter and exhaust and the incongruous scent of oranges, as Sam peels the skin away, eagerly digging into it with his fingers, nothing neat or fancy about it.
Dean remembers the first time Sam peeled an orange in one long scrolling piece--an impressive bit of artistry with the small paring knife he'd gotten for Christmas that year--how proud he was of himself, how he'd wanted to save it to show Dad, and how the motel room had smelled of oranges for days.
"S'good," Sam says around a mouthful of pulp, holding out a quarter to Dean. "Sweet."
He's right. When Dean bites into it, juice spurts against the roof of his mouth, sweet and perfect. He wraps the rest of his sandwich back up in foil, drops it onto the seat between them, and starts the car.
"We could be at Bobby's in another four hours," he says.
"You think it's safe to go there?"
He doesn't want to bring this trouble down on anyone, least of all Bobby, who's been there for everything since all this crazy shit started going down again back in November, but right now, he can't see any other choice. "I'm not--" He has to swallow hard before he can get the words out. "I'm not leaving the car anywhere else." Sam looks at him like he wants to argue, which is a surprise, because Dean knows he's got to be thinking the same thing. And Sam's never loved the car the way Dean does. "You know I'm right."
"Yeah." Sam glances out the window at the scrub-lined highway rolling by, then back at Dean. "Yeah." The look in his eyes is as lost and scared as it was when he was nine and convinced there was a monster under the bed, but Dean's run out of assurances, out of easy answers to hard problems. "You want me to drive for a while?"
Dean shakes his head, knows he couldn't take sitting in the passenger seat, giving up what little control he has left. And if it's the last time he gets to drive her, he wants it to last as long as possible. "Nah. I got it. Why don't you get some sleep?"
Sam snorts and shakes his head in disbelief at the notion, but half an hour later, he's slumped against the door, quiet snores whistling over the rumble of the engine and the low whine of rubber against asphalt, and Dean's alone with all the thoughts he's trying not to think.
*
They make it to Bobby's in record time, pulling into the old junkyard around three in the afternoon, and after a couple hours of driving into the sun instead of away from it, Dean's eyes are so tired he thinks they might sink right back into his head.
"Been expecting you," Bobby says, over the excited barking of his new puppy, which runs between their legs frenetically. "Think it'll be a day or two before the feds make their way out here."
"Wasn't planning on staying that long," Dean answers, and they shake hands. "Just long enough to take a piss and have a nap. Was hoping you could hide the Impala for us for a while, give us a loaner to get by."
"Should be able to manage that," Bobby says, and that's good enough for Dean.
He barely gets his boots off before he falls into the unmade bed in the spare room, unfolding the blanket laid at the foot and pulling it up over himself, breathing in the musty scent of the pillow before he's out like a light.
It's dark when he wakes, confused for a minute by the feel of another body in the bed with him. For a second he thinks he's still asleep and dreaming; then, he wonders if it's the puppy, but it's taking up way too much space. And it smells like oranges.
He rolls onto his back, stretches. "Sam?"
"Hey."
It's on the tip of his tongue--Something wrong with the other bed?--but then he remembers the last forty-eight hours, the surprised look on Ron's face when he died, and the stunned look on Sam's, frightened and full of guilt he shouldn't have to carry.
Instead, he yawns, keeps his eyes closed, comfortable in the dark. "What time is it?"
"Little after nine."
"Damn."
"Yeah."
"You get any sleep?"
"Couple hours."
He opens his eyes, takes in the thoughtful look on Sam's face, visible even in the darkness. "What?"
"What are we gonna do?"
"I'm still working on that. Any ideas in that big brain of yours you wanna share? 'Cause I'm all ears."
Sam shakes his head, shifts closer. "I got nothing."
Dean is tempted to give him a hug, pull him close and keep him safe and not let go, ever. "Yeah, well, that makes two of us."
"Dean--"
"We'll figure something out, Sammy. We always do." He closes his eyes, scrubs a hand over his face, through his hair. He forces himself not to panic, not to imagine what Dad would be saying now if he was alive. Of course, if Dad was alive, they probably wouldn't be in this mess in the first place, because Dean would really be dead, and the FBI would be paying attention to actual criminals.
Sam sits up, and Dean shivers, cold where he'd just been warm, and it's almost enough to make him reach for Sam, pull him back down to hide under the covers and pretend the world doesn't exist. But there's no percentage in that--the Feds will be at Bobby's door soon enough, and he and Sam can't be here when they arrive. Dean's never been one to ignore reality, especially when it's hitting him in the face like a sledgehammer.
Dean sits up. Sam is peeling another orange, this time with a knife, rind curling from his hands in one long spiral like a tongue of flame in the darkness, scent filling the air. When he's done, he holds half out to Dean, and they eat in silence, some kind of ritual Dean never knew they had, never knew they needed, until now.
*
They pack the new car--a white 1998 Chevy Cavalier, so dirty it might as well be gray, and indistinguishable from a million other dirty, white cars on the road, nothing special about it at all--with what little gear they have, and Dean's never really had a home, doesn't remember much about the house in Lawrence, most of his old memories replaced now with the more recent version of it he'd seen last year; the closest thing he's had is the Impala, and his heart clenches at the idea of leaving her behind, even with Bobby.
"We'll be back, baby," he whispers, running a hand over the sleek line of her hood. He hopes it's not a lie.
Sam waits patiently, wearing that goddamn sympathetic look he gives to grieving family members when they're doing interviews, and Dean wishes he had something appropriately snarky to say, but he's afraid even if he did, his voice might crack if he tried to say it.
They shake hands with Bobby again, and Dean pats the puppy on the head before getting into their new-old, soccer-mom sedan.
Dean turns the key in the ignition, adjusts the seat and the mirrors as the car warms up, and tells himself it doesn't matter where they are, as long as he and Sam are together. They'll figure out how to beat the feds, the demons, and anyone else who wants to take them on.
Dean makes himself breathe as they pull out of the yard, makes himself keep going, even though it feels like they're leaving the last member of their family behind. Sam stretches out one of his freakishly long arms and gently lays his hand on the back of Dean's neck, and Dean would swear his fingers still smell like oranges.
end
***
January 30, 2007
***
Feedback is adored.
***
Supernatural; Dean and Sam; g; spoilers for "Nightshifter"; 1,755 words
Dean's never been one to ignore reality, especially when it's hitting him in the face like a sledgehammer.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for the prompt (Fugitive by Indigo Girls) and the beta. Title from Pablo Neruda.
***
The Heart Where I Have Roots
They drive straight through for hours, west, angling a little south when they hit Madison, the sun the only benevolent thing at their backs. They don't speak. Dean ignores the pressure on his bladder, the growling of his stomach, the exhaustion that makes his eyes feel like they've shrunk to the size of wasabi peas--and makes them burn like them, too--for as long as he can.
Sam sits with the same shell-shocked look on his face the whole time, like even his super geek brain can't quite process what went down in the bank, and how screwed they really are.
They pull into a rest stop just outside of Waterloo, Iowa, and Dean tries not to read anything into that.
They both use the john and head for the Starbucks, still moving in synch, and it would be weird except that it's not, because everything else is so fucked up, but he and Sam? He and Sam are on the same goddamn page for once.
The coffee is hot and strong, tastes like it's been sitting in the pot all day, burning, but that's okay--he's been running on adrenaline for what feels like days, and it'll keep him awake when he finally crashes.
He buys sandwiches at the deli--ham and cheese, turkey club, pastrami on rye for later--and a couple of oranges, ostensibly to keep Sam from bitching about the lack of anything resembling vegetables in their diet, but mostly because he finds the smell comforting, hopeful even. He can never tell Sam that.
They head back to the car to eat--safer that way. There aren't many people in the rest stop, but Dean doesn't want to take any chances they don't have to.
"Don't want you to get scurvy," he says when Sam pulls an orange out of the bag and looks at him like he's lost his mind.
"I'm touched." And Dean's a little proud of how much sarcasm Sam's fit into those two words, and how underneath it, they're still true.
"Well, that's a polite way of putting it."
And damn if they don't almost sound normal, even though Dean's chest feels tight and he's taking quick shallow breaths because there's not enough air in the world to make that tightness ease. When the edges of his vision start to go yellow, he has to close his eyes for a minute.
"Dean." Sam's voice snaps him out of it. The rasp of Sam's breathing sets the rhythm for them both, and Dean sucks down air, sharp and cold with winter and exhaust and the incongruous scent of oranges, as Sam peels the skin away, eagerly digging into it with his fingers, nothing neat or fancy about it.
Dean remembers the first time Sam peeled an orange in one long scrolling piece--an impressive bit of artistry with the small paring knife he'd gotten for Christmas that year--how proud he was of himself, how he'd wanted to save it to show Dad, and how the motel room had smelled of oranges for days.
"S'good," Sam says around a mouthful of pulp, holding out a quarter to Dean. "Sweet."
He's right. When Dean bites into it, juice spurts against the roof of his mouth, sweet and perfect. He wraps the rest of his sandwich back up in foil, drops it onto the seat between them, and starts the car.
"We could be at Bobby's in another four hours," he says.
"You think it's safe to go there?"
He doesn't want to bring this trouble down on anyone, least of all Bobby, who's been there for everything since all this crazy shit started going down again back in November, but right now, he can't see any other choice. "I'm not--" He has to swallow hard before he can get the words out. "I'm not leaving the car anywhere else." Sam looks at him like he wants to argue, which is a surprise, because Dean knows he's got to be thinking the same thing. And Sam's never loved the car the way Dean does. "You know I'm right."
"Yeah." Sam glances out the window at the scrub-lined highway rolling by, then back at Dean. "Yeah." The look in his eyes is as lost and scared as it was when he was nine and convinced there was a monster under the bed, but Dean's run out of assurances, out of easy answers to hard problems. "You want me to drive for a while?"
Dean shakes his head, knows he couldn't take sitting in the passenger seat, giving up what little control he has left. And if it's the last time he gets to drive her, he wants it to last as long as possible. "Nah. I got it. Why don't you get some sleep?"
Sam snorts and shakes his head in disbelief at the notion, but half an hour later, he's slumped against the door, quiet snores whistling over the rumble of the engine and the low whine of rubber against asphalt, and Dean's alone with all the thoughts he's trying not to think.
*
They make it to Bobby's in record time, pulling into the old junkyard around three in the afternoon, and after a couple hours of driving into the sun instead of away from it, Dean's eyes are so tired he thinks they might sink right back into his head.
"Been expecting you," Bobby says, over the excited barking of his new puppy, which runs between their legs frenetically. "Think it'll be a day or two before the feds make their way out here."
"Wasn't planning on staying that long," Dean answers, and they shake hands. "Just long enough to take a piss and have a nap. Was hoping you could hide the Impala for us for a while, give us a loaner to get by."
"Should be able to manage that," Bobby says, and that's good enough for Dean.
He barely gets his boots off before he falls into the unmade bed in the spare room, unfolding the blanket laid at the foot and pulling it up over himself, breathing in the musty scent of the pillow before he's out like a light.
It's dark when he wakes, confused for a minute by the feel of another body in the bed with him. For a second he thinks he's still asleep and dreaming; then, he wonders if it's the puppy, but it's taking up way too much space. And it smells like oranges.
He rolls onto his back, stretches. "Sam?"
"Hey."
It's on the tip of his tongue--Something wrong with the other bed?--but then he remembers the last forty-eight hours, the surprised look on Ron's face when he died, and the stunned look on Sam's, frightened and full of guilt he shouldn't have to carry.
Instead, he yawns, keeps his eyes closed, comfortable in the dark. "What time is it?"
"Little after nine."
"Damn."
"Yeah."
"You get any sleep?"
"Couple hours."
He opens his eyes, takes in the thoughtful look on Sam's face, visible even in the darkness. "What?"
"What are we gonna do?"
"I'm still working on that. Any ideas in that big brain of yours you wanna share? 'Cause I'm all ears."
Sam shakes his head, shifts closer. "I got nothing."
Dean is tempted to give him a hug, pull him close and keep him safe and not let go, ever. "Yeah, well, that makes two of us."
"Dean--"
"We'll figure something out, Sammy. We always do." He closes his eyes, scrubs a hand over his face, through his hair. He forces himself not to panic, not to imagine what Dad would be saying now if he was alive. Of course, if Dad was alive, they probably wouldn't be in this mess in the first place, because Dean would really be dead, and the FBI would be paying attention to actual criminals.
Sam sits up, and Dean shivers, cold where he'd just been warm, and it's almost enough to make him reach for Sam, pull him back down to hide under the covers and pretend the world doesn't exist. But there's no percentage in that--the Feds will be at Bobby's door soon enough, and he and Sam can't be here when they arrive. Dean's never been one to ignore reality, especially when it's hitting him in the face like a sledgehammer.
Dean sits up. Sam is peeling another orange, this time with a knife, rind curling from his hands in one long spiral like a tongue of flame in the darkness, scent filling the air. When he's done, he holds half out to Dean, and they eat in silence, some kind of ritual Dean never knew they had, never knew they needed, until now.
*
They pack the new car--a white 1998 Chevy Cavalier, so dirty it might as well be gray, and indistinguishable from a million other dirty, white cars on the road, nothing special about it at all--with what little gear they have, and Dean's never really had a home, doesn't remember much about the house in Lawrence, most of his old memories replaced now with the more recent version of it he'd seen last year; the closest thing he's had is the Impala, and his heart clenches at the idea of leaving her behind, even with Bobby.
"We'll be back, baby," he whispers, running a hand over the sleek line of her hood. He hopes it's not a lie.
Sam waits patiently, wearing that goddamn sympathetic look he gives to grieving family members when they're doing interviews, and Dean wishes he had something appropriately snarky to say, but he's afraid even if he did, his voice might crack if he tried to say it.
They shake hands with Bobby again, and Dean pats the puppy on the head before getting into their new-old, soccer-mom sedan.
Dean turns the key in the ignition, adjusts the seat and the mirrors as the car warms up, and tells himself it doesn't matter where they are, as long as he and Sam are together. They'll figure out how to beat the feds, the demons, and anyone else who wants to take them on.
Dean makes himself breathe as they pull out of the yard, makes himself keep going, even though it feels like they're leaving the last member of their family behind. Sam stretches out one of his freakishly long arms and gently lays his hand on the back of Dean's neck, and Dean would swear his fingers still smell like oranges.
end
***
January 30, 2007
***
Feedback is adored.
***