fic: you are a house around which I am a wind (SPN; Sam/Dean; pg)
you are a house around which I am a wind
Supernatural; Dean/Sam; pg; 1,370 words
Dean spends hours every day searching for something, someone, before he remembers he's alone.
Thanks to mousapelli for brainstorming and to luzdeestrellas for handholding. Title from e.e. cummings.
~*~
you are a house around which I am a wind
The house has ten rooms. Dean counts them off in his head: kitchen, dining room, living room, sun room on the ground floor, three bedrooms and an office he doesn't use much anymore on the second floor. There are two bathrooms--one upstairs (eight steps, seafoam green carpeting stained and curling at the edges, wearing over the curve of the risers, pale underweave showing through; his knees ache early in the morning and on rainy days as he goes up and down), and one down, both with leaky faucets that need new washers and toilet handles that need jiggling or they run all night.
It's too big for two, and he's not two anymore, he's one (that's not right; that can't be right, and he spends hours every day searching for something, someone, before he remembers he's alone) and he wonders why he keeps it (wonders why he's here in the rare moments he remembers he's got somewhere else to be, before the house distracts him), and then he steps out onto the back deck and sees the yard, grass as green as the outfield at Wrigley on a beautiful June day. He's got vegetables planted along the right side of the house, and Sally's roses are climbing the trellis along the back fence.
Dean shakes his head. Not Sally. The name is on the tip of his tongue. He reaches for it, tongue tapping the roof of his mouth where it meets his front teeth, and the wind swirls around him, sending shivers down his spine.
Gotta winterize, he thinks, looking at the plants and then squinting up at the clear blue summer sky. Autumn's coming soon.
After he refreshes the salt lines at the doors and windows, he spends the afternoon puttering in the garden, the smell and feel of dirt so familiar, dark smudges of it caked in the grooves of his palms like it'll never come off. He doesn't wear gloves, doesn't mind the rough wood of the trowel against his calluses. He doesn't wear a hat either, his face and arms finally peeled and tanned after weeks of burns and blisters. His back twinges when he stands up, but it's a good pain, the ache of a hard day's work digging up graves. He shivers again, wondering where that thought came from.
Sally's not in the kitchen when he goes inside, but there's a note propped up against the salt and pepper shakers--Back soon. -S. The esses seem wrong somehow, swooping and curving where he expects straight lines and blocky letters.
He rummages around for the stockpot, boils some spaghetti, and sets two plates of it out on the table when it's done, but Sally doesn't show up for dinner.
Dean searches the house for her, goes through each room with a fine-tooth comb, looking in closets and under furniture, until he forgets what he's looking for and has to start all over again. He searches the bedrooms first--the master bedroom, then the kids' rooms. The room with the sailboat border gives him the shakes. He can taste smoke in the back of his throat. He closes his eyes and sees flames, feels the heat of them licking at his skin as he runs down the stairs and out the front door, the command don't look back echoing in his head. He stands on the front lawn, panting, arms folded against his chest like he's holding something, but they're always empty. That emptiness sends him to his knees every time, sharp pains of failure and loss clutching at his gut.
He passes out, cool grass tickling his skin, and wakes up in bed with no memory as to how he got there. The pillow on the other side has an indent, like whoever was sleeping there just got up a few minutes ago, but it's cool to the touch when he runs his fingers over the soft cotton pillow case. He lifts it to his face, and coughs at the musty smell, a faint hint of lavender and shampoo lingering beneath.
Gotta do laundry, he thinks, but somehow, he never does.
He spends the morning cleaning the upstairs bathroom, scrubbing grimy grout with a toothbrush before he tosses it down in disgust. There's no point. He's not staying. It's not his job.
The thoughts are strange, but he hears Sally calling his name before he can trace them to their source. He thumps down the stairs and into the kitchen, but she's already gone, same note on the table as before.
Could have made a pot of coffee first, he thinks, grumpy. He grinds the beans, finds the filter, and fills the machine with water, letting the routine of it settle him down. He drinks the coffee black and hot, hot enough to peel the skin off the roof of his mouth, and he scoffs at the need for milk and sugar, the fancy coffees Sally likes to order. But that's not right, either--Sally drinks tea, has a Royal Doulton tea set decorated with little pink flowers that she inherited from her grandmother. The pattern's been discontinued forever and occasionally one of the kids finds a piece on the internet and buys it for her.
Dean closes his eyes and shivers. The house is drafty and he's not as young as he used to be. He takes another sip of coffee, and again remembers teasing someone about having some coffee with his milk.
Remembers laying salt lines in a different house, a series of houses--no, motel rooms, hundreds of them over the years.
Remembers runes and devil's traps and the meaning of the weird tattoo on his chest that Sally used to like to trace with her tongue.
The walls of the house explode in flames. The blast knocks him off his feet and he hits his head on the floor. The heat on his skin is too familiar; the smell of smoke chokes him.
"Dean!" A well-known voice yells. "Dean, are you all right?"
Dean blinks and opens his eyes. He's lying on his back on the dusty floor of the house, which is not on fire. It looks like it's been abandoned for years. Sam is leaning over him, huge hands wrapped around Dean's shoulders for a long moment before he starts checking for injuries.
"Sam?"
"I'm here, Dean. I'm right here."
Dean sits up slowly, rubbing the back of his head and blinking away the remnants of that other life. "What happened?" Sam helps him to his feet and doesn't let go even when he's upright again, swaying slightly.
"We were checking out the house and when I went out to the car to get the shovels, the house shut down tight and wouldn't let me back in." He shrugs and pushes a hand through his hair, nervous grimace on his face. He nods towards the front door, which looks like Sam took an axe to it. "I tried, but this guy Remick was one tough son of a bitch. So I found his grave and did the salt and burn."
Dean lets himself lean against Sam's solid warmth for a second, closes his eyes and noses at Sam's neck, breathing in the scents of sweat and dirt and smoke clinging to Sam's clothes and hair. The tension in his shoulders eases with each breath.
"Took you long enough," he says, lips brushing Sam's sweaty skin. "I was in there for days."
"It was only a couple of hours," Sam says, surprised. He dips his face down to capture Dean's mouth in a soft kiss, and Dean sighs into his mouth, lets the heat of it drive away the chill of Frank Remick's lonely life. "I worked as fast as I could."
"I knew something wasn't right, but he was strong. He missed his wife." Dean hates how vulnerable he sounds. He clears his throat and tries again. "I looked for you."
"And I found you." Sam kisses him again, then pulls back to press their foreheads together. "I'll always find you."
Dean reaches back past the ghost's borrowed memories, thinks of all the ways they've lost and found each other over the years, and smiles. "I know."
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/135613.html.
people have commented there.
Supernatural; Dean/Sam; pg; 1,370 words
Dean spends hours every day searching for something, someone, before he remembers he's alone.
Thanks to mousapelli for brainstorming and to luzdeestrellas for handholding. Title from e.e. cummings.
~*~
you are a house around which I am a wind
The house has ten rooms. Dean counts them off in his head: kitchen, dining room, living room, sun room on the ground floor, three bedrooms and an office he doesn't use much anymore on the second floor. There are two bathrooms--one upstairs (eight steps, seafoam green carpeting stained and curling at the edges, wearing over the curve of the risers, pale underweave showing through; his knees ache early in the morning and on rainy days as he goes up and down), and one down, both with leaky faucets that need new washers and toilet handles that need jiggling or they run all night.
It's too big for two, and he's not two anymore, he's one (that's not right; that can't be right, and he spends hours every day searching for something, someone, before he remembers he's alone) and he wonders why he keeps it (wonders why he's here in the rare moments he remembers he's got somewhere else to be, before the house distracts him), and then he steps out onto the back deck and sees the yard, grass as green as the outfield at Wrigley on a beautiful June day. He's got vegetables planted along the right side of the house, and Sally's roses are climbing the trellis along the back fence.
Dean shakes his head. Not Sally. The name is on the tip of his tongue. He reaches for it, tongue tapping the roof of his mouth where it meets his front teeth, and the wind swirls around him, sending shivers down his spine.
Gotta winterize, he thinks, looking at the plants and then squinting up at the clear blue summer sky. Autumn's coming soon.
After he refreshes the salt lines at the doors and windows, he spends the afternoon puttering in the garden, the smell and feel of dirt so familiar, dark smudges of it caked in the grooves of his palms like it'll never come off. He doesn't wear gloves, doesn't mind the rough wood of the trowel against his calluses. He doesn't wear a hat either, his face and arms finally peeled and tanned after weeks of burns and blisters. His back twinges when he stands up, but it's a good pain, the ache of a hard day's work digging up graves. He shivers again, wondering where that thought came from.
Sally's not in the kitchen when he goes inside, but there's a note propped up against the salt and pepper shakers--Back soon. -S. The esses seem wrong somehow, swooping and curving where he expects straight lines and blocky letters.
He rummages around for the stockpot, boils some spaghetti, and sets two plates of it out on the table when it's done, but Sally doesn't show up for dinner.
Dean searches the house for her, goes through each room with a fine-tooth comb, looking in closets and under furniture, until he forgets what he's looking for and has to start all over again. He searches the bedrooms first--the master bedroom, then the kids' rooms. The room with the sailboat border gives him the shakes. He can taste smoke in the back of his throat. He closes his eyes and sees flames, feels the heat of them licking at his skin as he runs down the stairs and out the front door, the command don't look back echoing in his head. He stands on the front lawn, panting, arms folded against his chest like he's holding something, but they're always empty. That emptiness sends him to his knees every time, sharp pains of failure and loss clutching at his gut.
He passes out, cool grass tickling his skin, and wakes up in bed with no memory as to how he got there. The pillow on the other side has an indent, like whoever was sleeping there just got up a few minutes ago, but it's cool to the touch when he runs his fingers over the soft cotton pillow case. He lifts it to his face, and coughs at the musty smell, a faint hint of lavender and shampoo lingering beneath.
Gotta do laundry, he thinks, but somehow, he never does.
He spends the morning cleaning the upstairs bathroom, scrubbing grimy grout with a toothbrush before he tosses it down in disgust. There's no point. He's not staying. It's not his job.
The thoughts are strange, but he hears Sally calling his name before he can trace them to their source. He thumps down the stairs and into the kitchen, but she's already gone, same note on the table as before.
Could have made a pot of coffee first, he thinks, grumpy. He grinds the beans, finds the filter, and fills the machine with water, letting the routine of it settle him down. He drinks the coffee black and hot, hot enough to peel the skin off the roof of his mouth, and he scoffs at the need for milk and sugar, the fancy coffees Sally likes to order. But that's not right, either--Sally drinks tea, has a Royal Doulton tea set decorated with little pink flowers that she inherited from her grandmother. The pattern's been discontinued forever and occasionally one of the kids finds a piece on the internet and buys it for her.
Dean closes his eyes and shivers. The house is drafty and he's not as young as he used to be. He takes another sip of coffee, and again remembers teasing someone about having some coffee with his milk.
Remembers laying salt lines in a different house, a series of houses--no, motel rooms, hundreds of them over the years.
Remembers runes and devil's traps and the meaning of the weird tattoo on his chest that Sally used to like to trace with her tongue.
The walls of the house explode in flames. The blast knocks him off his feet and he hits his head on the floor. The heat on his skin is too familiar; the smell of smoke chokes him.
"Dean!" A well-known voice yells. "Dean, are you all right?"
Dean blinks and opens his eyes. He's lying on his back on the dusty floor of the house, which is not on fire. It looks like it's been abandoned for years. Sam is leaning over him, huge hands wrapped around Dean's shoulders for a long moment before he starts checking for injuries.
"Sam?"
"I'm here, Dean. I'm right here."
Dean sits up slowly, rubbing the back of his head and blinking away the remnants of that other life. "What happened?" Sam helps him to his feet and doesn't let go even when he's upright again, swaying slightly.
"We were checking out the house and when I went out to the car to get the shovels, the house shut down tight and wouldn't let me back in." He shrugs and pushes a hand through his hair, nervous grimace on his face. He nods towards the front door, which looks like Sam took an axe to it. "I tried, but this guy Remick was one tough son of a bitch. So I found his grave and did the salt and burn."
Dean lets himself lean against Sam's solid warmth for a second, closes his eyes and noses at Sam's neck, breathing in the scents of sweat and dirt and smoke clinging to Sam's clothes and hair. The tension in his shoulders eases with each breath.
"Took you long enough," he says, lips brushing Sam's sweaty skin. "I was in there for days."
"It was only a couple of hours," Sam says, surprised. He dips his face down to capture Dean's mouth in a soft kiss, and Dean sighs into his mouth, lets the heat of it drive away the chill of Frank Remick's lonely life. "I worked as fast as I could."
"I knew something wasn't right, but he was strong. He missed his wife." Dean hates how vulnerable he sounds. He clears his throat and tries again. "I looked for you."
"And I found you." Sam kisses him again, then pulls back to press their foreheads together. "I'll always find you."
Dean reaches back past the ghost's borrowed memories, thinks of all the ways they've lost and found each other over the years, and smiles. "I know."
end
~*~
Feedback is adored.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/135613.html.
people have commented there.