The Boy by the Bier, for zana-zira
Title: The Boy by the Bier
Recipient: zana-zira
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,559
Warnings: Deals with grief around John's death.
Author's Notes: ZZ, I hope this lives up to the spirit of your excellent prompts. I had a lot of fun interpreting them and hope you enjoy the result! Thanks, as ever, to our lovely mods for making this happen year after year! <3
Summary: Dreaming alone is for other families.
Sam wanders through the aisles of a convenience store. He's not hungry, but he might be later. He and Dean will be on the road for some time; he has a sense of the highway climbing away from the ground into the stars, no more roadside diners to be found.
"Hey, that's pretty good." Dean's voice comes from the other side of the quiet store, gentle and sincere. As Sam goes to see, he passes shelves that are out of their correct order, the candy on the left side of the aisle instead of the right, chips and dip lined up on bottom shelves instead of top. The refrigerators on the back wall hum, but they don't look cold.
Kneeling on the linoleum by a newsstand is Dean, inspecting a doll held out to him by a young boy who sits on the floor nearby. The boy has dark brown hair and pale skin, and he holds a carving knife. By his feet are two wood figures, arms and legs sticking out. As Dean turns the doll over in his hands, Sam sees that it too is a wood figure.
"It's me, right?" Dean asks, grinning dreamily at the little man in his hand, which wears a smile and has tilted, stylized eyes carefully etched into the face.
"Uh-huh," says the little boy, who is Sam. Sam can tell the little boy is him. Dean always smiled at him that way when they were kids. The boy points at one of the other figurines. An approximation of a jacket collar frames the neck, and the hand holds a book-like square. "Dad," he says.
"I can tell. You're good at this, Sammy. Really good."
Dad doesn't have a face, and the third figure has only tilted eyes in the same style as the Dean figure, but bigger, lidless and wide. One hand holds a right angle, the other a square like Dad's. "This is me," the boy says, handing the third figure to Dean, who takes it with reverence, studying the workmanship.
"Did you make one of Mom?"
The little boy shakes his head. Dean's gentle smile takes on a pained cast, and Sam and the boy lower their eyes.
~~
When Sam raises his eyes, the convenience store is gone, the night sky his only ceiling. Stars speckle the darkness above, pinpricks of yellow light that might be the distant windows of all the convenience stores of his lifetime. It's a silly thought. Stars ought to mean more than random stops on a creased and coffee-stained atlas.
Down on earth, he and Dean are standing before Dad's bier. They haven't lit it yet. Sam wishes he were up there, browsing Slim Jims and deciding between Coke and iced tea. There in the sky. Dean stares forward, hard and rough and unmoving. If Sam touched him he might scrape his hand.
They wait and wait to burn the body. At length, a small figure peeks from behind the bier. The little boy from the store peers up at the stacked wood but is too short to see the figure wrapped on top. He clutches one of his carved figures and begins to moan and rock from side to side.
Sam waits for Dean to go to him, but Dean is rough stone, so it is left for Sam to approach himself. But the boy evades his arms and vanishes into the dark.
~~
"You know I never did any carving," Sam tells Dean. Dean is driving, and they ran out of conversation hours ago. Sam might have napped some, but he can't remember.
Dean frowns at him. "Okay, random."
"No, I had this dream where I did. But I didn't."
If Dean ever had that dream, he doesn't give any tell of recognition.
"Carving like wood and shit?"
"Yeah. Figurines." Sam laughs, wonders what it would be like to use a knife that way.
"I'd say go for it, but you'd get shavings all over the damn seat."
Sam has to admit that would be a pain.
~~
"You're good at this, Sam."
Sam is in the convenience store again, the pretzel and popcorn aisle. The windows are black with night, and no one is at the cashier station. He makes his way back to Dean and the little boy.
"I left out Mom," the boy says, forlorn. He stares down at the three figures on the floor, arranges them so that they stand in a close triangle, facing each other.
"She wouldn't mind. I knew her, right, kid? She'd love them all anyway."
"She would?"
Sam scrutinizes Dean's face as he answers, decides it must be true.
~~
"You're such a freak," Dean says out of nowhere.
"Your face is a freak," Sam answers automatically. It's dark in their motel room, good blackout drapes here and no laptop monitors left on. Outside there are diesel trucks, but their noises are comforting in their familiarity.
"Why are you dreaming about whittling?"
"Why are you?" Sam asks.
Dean doesn't answer.
~~
Sam runs into the dark after the little boy, reaches his arms out where he sees only black and pulls the boy to him.
"I need that."
"No!" The little boy moans and rocks violently in Sam's arms.
"I'm sorry. Please." He pries the boy's fingers open and takes the figurine.
~~
"What's this?" Dean asks in the corner of the convenience store. Sam leaves his study of themed scratch-off tickets to find his brother and himself sitting together again on the floor. Dean holds the boy's left hand in his own, examining the thumb, where a raised, white scar bisects the pad.
The boy looks away, eyes cutting to his carving knife. "Don't tell Dad I slipped."
"You're okay," Dean says, scruffing the boy's hair. "Dad would still like your-"
"No, he'll be mad! Don't tell."
~~
Sam brings the figurine to Dean, who hasn't lit the bier. Dean won't touch it, though. "Put it up there," he says, not looking away from Dad's body.
"No, it's for you."
"I don't want it," Dean whispers.
"Yes, you do."
~~
Sam lies on his side until after midnight, watching his brother take shallow sleep-breaths. Then he closes his eyes.
~~
The fire sprinklers have come on inside the convenience store. Sam looks up from the magazine rack when he realizes there's no alarm. Just water falling thick and dissolving the glossy covers of Time, Rolling Stone, that porn rag Dean likes. He pushes his sopping bangs out of his eyes and goes to find Dean and the little boy, shoes squelching.
They're still sitting on the floor, where water is collecting in a puddle. The boy is shaking his head and Dean is cajoling him. "I promise, Dad will love these. Let's go show him now."
Sam swings his head around, in case John is here in the store, but he can see nothing past the water falling from the ceiling. Someone must have lit a fire.
~~
They waited too long, and now it's raining. The stars are still visible, though, and provide a shimmering effect for the sheets of water falling upon them.
Dean is crouched at the base of the bier, striking match after match, but not a single spark takes.
Sam clutches the figurine of their father and watches Dean strike match after match, for hours and hours in the rain.
"Dean," he says at last.
"Workin' here, Sammy."
This fire will never catch for Dean. Sam frowns down at the figure in his hands. He has to admit he caught something about his father's aspect in the set of the shoulders, the cast of his upturned jacket collar.
~~
Sam wakes to the sound of a knock at the motel door. The red numbers of the bedside clock show he only slept two hours since closing his eyes to Dean's still form. Dean is gone from the bed. Two more knocks on the door, two beats apart from each other. Of all their codes, that's one of Sam's favorites. It means Dean forgot his keycard and will be standing sheepishly on the other side.
At the threshold, though, Dean's face is pinched, eyes reddened. He mutters incoherently and pushes by Sam, but Sam finds himself blocking him. Dean could easily press past him anyway, but he stops and waits, not meeting Sam's gaze.
"You're not alone in this, Dean."
Dean shuffles his feet. "Apparently not."
Sam thinks of the figure of their father, wishes he could hand it to Dean to hold and keep. "We could just talk about him sometimes. Might help. Might help us both," he adds as an enticement.
Dean sniffs, seems surprised he let it out. "He's in Hell, and it's my fault, but all I can think of is how much I miss him."
Finally. Sam tries not to show surprise or relief that Dean gave him even those few words. "I do too." He sits on his bed, almost afraid the movement will spook Dean. But Dean sits too, on the end of his own bed, and stares down at the floor between his feet.
"You never knew how to deal with him," Dean reflects. "He'd have liked your damn wooden dolls if you'd let him see them."
Sam huffs a laugh. He guesses they'll never know.
End.
Recipient: zana-zira
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,559
Warnings: Deals with grief around John's death.
Author's Notes: ZZ, I hope this lives up to the spirit of your excellent prompts. I had a lot of fun interpreting them and hope you enjoy the result! Thanks, as ever, to our lovely mods for making this happen year after year! <3
Summary: Dreaming alone is for other families.
Sam wanders through the aisles of a convenience store. He's not hungry, but he might be later. He and Dean will be on the road for some time; he has a sense of the highway climbing away from the ground into the stars, no more roadside diners to be found.
"Hey, that's pretty good." Dean's voice comes from the other side of the quiet store, gentle and sincere. As Sam goes to see, he passes shelves that are out of their correct order, the candy on the left side of the aisle instead of the right, chips and dip lined up on bottom shelves instead of top. The refrigerators on the back wall hum, but they don't look cold.
Kneeling on the linoleum by a newsstand is Dean, inspecting a doll held out to him by a young boy who sits on the floor nearby. The boy has dark brown hair and pale skin, and he holds a carving knife. By his feet are two wood figures, arms and legs sticking out. As Dean turns the doll over in his hands, Sam sees that it too is a wood figure.
"It's me, right?" Dean asks, grinning dreamily at the little man in his hand, which wears a smile and has tilted, stylized eyes carefully etched into the face.
"Uh-huh," says the little boy, who is Sam. Sam can tell the little boy is him. Dean always smiled at him that way when they were kids. The boy points at one of the other figurines. An approximation of a jacket collar frames the neck, and the hand holds a book-like square. "Dad," he says.
"I can tell. You're good at this, Sammy. Really good."
Dad doesn't have a face, and the third figure has only tilted eyes in the same style as the Dean figure, but bigger, lidless and wide. One hand holds a right angle, the other a square like Dad's. "This is me," the boy says, handing the third figure to Dean, who takes it with reverence, studying the workmanship.
"Did you make one of Mom?"
The little boy shakes his head. Dean's gentle smile takes on a pained cast, and Sam and the boy lower their eyes.
~~
When Sam raises his eyes, the convenience store is gone, the night sky his only ceiling. Stars speckle the darkness above, pinpricks of yellow light that might be the distant windows of all the convenience stores of his lifetime. It's a silly thought. Stars ought to mean more than random stops on a creased and coffee-stained atlas.
Down on earth, he and Dean are standing before Dad's bier. They haven't lit it yet. Sam wishes he were up there, browsing Slim Jims and deciding between Coke and iced tea. There in the sky. Dean stares forward, hard and rough and unmoving. If Sam touched him he might scrape his hand.
They wait and wait to burn the body. At length, a small figure peeks from behind the bier. The little boy from the store peers up at the stacked wood but is too short to see the figure wrapped on top. He clutches one of his carved figures and begins to moan and rock from side to side.
Sam waits for Dean to go to him, but Dean is rough stone, so it is left for Sam to approach himself. But the boy evades his arms and vanishes into the dark.
~~
"You know I never did any carving," Sam tells Dean. Dean is driving, and they ran out of conversation hours ago. Sam might have napped some, but he can't remember.
Dean frowns at him. "Okay, random."
"No, I had this dream where I did. But I didn't."
If Dean ever had that dream, he doesn't give any tell of recognition.
"Carving like wood and shit?"
"Yeah. Figurines." Sam laughs, wonders what it would be like to use a knife that way.
"I'd say go for it, but you'd get shavings all over the damn seat."
Sam has to admit that would be a pain.
~~
"You're good at this, Sam."
Sam is in the convenience store again, the pretzel and popcorn aisle. The windows are black with night, and no one is at the cashier station. He makes his way back to Dean and the little boy.
"I left out Mom," the boy says, forlorn. He stares down at the three figures on the floor, arranges them so that they stand in a close triangle, facing each other.
"She wouldn't mind. I knew her, right, kid? She'd love them all anyway."
"She would?"
Sam scrutinizes Dean's face as he answers, decides it must be true.
~~
"You're such a freak," Dean says out of nowhere.
"Your face is a freak," Sam answers automatically. It's dark in their motel room, good blackout drapes here and no laptop monitors left on. Outside there are diesel trucks, but their noises are comforting in their familiarity.
"Why are you dreaming about whittling?"
"Why are you?" Sam asks.
Dean doesn't answer.
~~
Sam runs into the dark after the little boy, reaches his arms out where he sees only black and pulls the boy to him.
"I need that."
"No!" The little boy moans and rocks violently in Sam's arms.
"I'm sorry. Please." He pries the boy's fingers open and takes the figurine.
~~
"What's this?" Dean asks in the corner of the convenience store. Sam leaves his study of themed scratch-off tickets to find his brother and himself sitting together again on the floor. Dean holds the boy's left hand in his own, examining the thumb, where a raised, white scar bisects the pad.
The boy looks away, eyes cutting to his carving knife. "Don't tell Dad I slipped."
"You're okay," Dean says, scruffing the boy's hair. "Dad would still like your-"
"No, he'll be mad! Don't tell."
~~
Sam brings the figurine to Dean, who hasn't lit the bier. Dean won't touch it, though. "Put it up there," he says, not looking away from Dad's body.
"No, it's for you."
"I don't want it," Dean whispers.
"Yes, you do."
~~
Sam lies on his side until after midnight, watching his brother take shallow sleep-breaths. Then he closes his eyes.
~~
The fire sprinklers have come on inside the convenience store. Sam looks up from the magazine rack when he realizes there's no alarm. Just water falling thick and dissolving the glossy covers of Time, Rolling Stone, that porn rag Dean likes. He pushes his sopping bangs out of his eyes and goes to find Dean and the little boy, shoes squelching.
They're still sitting on the floor, where water is collecting in a puddle. The boy is shaking his head and Dean is cajoling him. "I promise, Dad will love these. Let's go show him now."
Sam swings his head around, in case John is here in the store, but he can see nothing past the water falling from the ceiling. Someone must have lit a fire.
~~
They waited too long, and now it's raining. The stars are still visible, though, and provide a shimmering effect for the sheets of water falling upon them.
Dean is crouched at the base of the bier, striking match after match, but not a single spark takes.
Sam clutches the figurine of their father and watches Dean strike match after match, for hours and hours in the rain.
"Dean," he says at last.
"Workin' here, Sammy."
This fire will never catch for Dean. Sam frowns down at the figure in his hands. He has to admit he caught something about his father's aspect in the set of the shoulders, the cast of his upturned jacket collar.
~~
Sam wakes to the sound of a knock at the motel door. The red numbers of the bedside clock show he only slept two hours since closing his eyes to Dean's still form. Dean is gone from the bed. Two more knocks on the door, two beats apart from each other. Of all their codes, that's one of Sam's favorites. It means Dean forgot his keycard and will be standing sheepishly on the other side.
At the threshold, though, Dean's face is pinched, eyes reddened. He mutters incoherently and pushes by Sam, but Sam finds himself blocking him. Dean could easily press past him anyway, but he stops and waits, not meeting Sam's gaze.
"You're not alone in this, Dean."
Dean shuffles his feet. "Apparently not."
Sam thinks of the figure of their father, wishes he could hand it to Dean to hold and keep. "We could just talk about him sometimes. Might help. Might help us both," he adds as an enticement.
Dean sniffs, seems surprised he let it out. "He's in Hell, and it's my fault, but all I can think of is how much I miss him."
Finally. Sam tries not to show surprise or relief that Dean gave him even those few words. "I do too." He sits on his bed, almost afraid the movement will spook Dean. But Dean sits too, on the end of his own bed, and stares down at the floor between his feet.
"You never knew how to deal with him," Dean reflects. "He'd have liked your damn wooden dolls if you'd let him see them."
Sam huffs a laugh. He guesses they'll never know.
End.