Supernatural fic - "Brightness Falls From the Air"
John, Dean and Sam - gen and totally PG.
Spoilers for the finale, but no speculation.
Originally posted at Supernaturalfic.
Title is from Summer's Last Will and Testament: A Litanty in Time of Plague by Thomas Nashe.
"We can just start again. We found the demon once before -" Whatever Sam's going to say next - think next - is knocked straight out of his head by the heart-stopping jolt of metal on metal. Jolt and crunch and screech - pop of shattering glass and the groan of struts and panels being warped violently out of true.
Noise building and building and shuddering right through Sam - building to something and he doesn't know what. He can't find the wheel - can't find the door - and then it all stops. Stops hard enough to snap his head forward into *oh god ow fuck hurts* and then back and Sam blinks up once at the headliner of the Impala, wondering why it's lit up like it is. Then the light all goes away.
And comes back.
"What's this? Dad, what's this?"
Dad's fingers are gentle, cupping around Sam's. He pulls Sam between his knees and Sam can feel the bristles of Dad's beard on his cheek.
"It's called a medal, son. It's a Purple Heart."
Sam strokes his fingers over the dull gold - the ribbon that is stiff and heavy. "Is it yours?"
"It is." Dad's fingers follow Sam's, touching the medal - tracing its lines. "I got it for fighting in Vietnam. That's a country across the ocean."
"Did you find it? Was it like - treasure?"
Dad laughs softly, his thumb rubbing over the dull face of the medal. "No, I kind of - won it, I guess."
"Because you were such a good fighter, right?" Sam asks, knowing the answer. Knowing it's 'cause his Dad is the best fighter ever. He hits every can or bottle he shoots at - his knife always goes right into the center of the bull and he always comes back from his hunting trips. Coming back means he won - Dean told him that, and Dean always tells him the truth.
"Yeah, 'cause I'm such a good fighter," Dad says, but his voice doesn’t sound happy - it sounds like when he talks about Mommy, thick and kind of...wobbly. Sam hates that voice - it makes his stomach all cold and tight.
"Do you have any more medals? Did you get a lot?"
"I got too many," Dad says, and Sam doesn't know how you can get too many of something that means you're good. But Dad's putting the medal away in the box, shuffling the other things that are inside and pulling out a round of dull olive-green metal that opens into -
"Wow, cool!"
"This is my compass - do you know how to read a compass?" Sam shakes his head and his dad rests his chin on Sam's shoulder a little. That always makes Sam feel...grown up. "Well, I'll show you. It's a good trick to know. If you have a compass, you'll never be lost."
Sam twists around a little, looking up at his dad and smiling - seeing his dad's eyes and then his mouth smile back. The screen door slams and Dean comes in, dropping his book bag and Sam holds the compass up, grinning. "Dean, lookee, Dad's gonna show me how not to be lost!"
"Not lost..." Sam mumbles. But then the light goes away again.
"Not everything," Sam says, and Dean feels a twist of warmth go through him - warmth that fights the cold creeping out from his belly. Sam's gaze locks on his for a moment - Sam's expression one that would normally mean trouble because it's that mulish 'that's my final word on it' expression. But this time it's for Dean - because of Dean, and Dean wants to reach up and put his hand on Sam's shoulder but he's so fucking weak.
And then there's nothing but noise - sideways motion - sickening shock of impact that Dean can't figure out or fight off and he's sliding on the leather of the seat and his head connects too hard with the door frame, shooting fire and spangles across his vision.
And then, thank Christ, it all stops and Dean tries to lift his head and pain - fire - explodes through his skull and down his back and across his shoulders and he makes a sobbing yip of sound. And then it blessedly all goes...away.
And comes back to the soft hiss and spit of an iron.
Dean sits on the edge of the kitchen chair, watching his dad iron a shirt. White shirt with a collar, something Dean almost never wears. Neither does dad, but today they're all gonna wear one. Dad picks up the shirt and turns it around - smoothes it over the towel he has laid out on the table.
"Why do we have to wear these shirts? They're all...scratchy," Dean says. Dad holds the iron out and Dean licks his finger - touches the flat bottom of the iron quickquickquick. There's the faint sizzle of moisture boiling to steam and Dad smiles and starts to iron again, slow around the buttons.
"Because, this is a special day for Pastor Jim - it's not respectful to show up in our everyday clothes."
"We go over there in everyday clothes all the time," Dean objects, and his Dad's tongue pokes out just the tiniest bit as he maneuvers around a button, smoothing away creases. It's just like Sammy does when he tries so hard to stay in the lines in the coloring books and Dean glances over at Sammy where he's lying on the floor, box of twenty-four colors spread out around him. He's coloring a lizard flying a kite and yeah - his tongue's poking out, just a little, and it makes Dean grin.
"Well, today's different. They're dedicating the new building."
"What's dedi-cating?" Dean asks. Dad puts the iron down and picks up the shirt. He holds it at arms length, surveying it carefully. It's like when he's made a new spirit-trap, or cleaned a gun; slow and thorough once-over.
"It's when something's been made for a special purpose, and everybody comes to say they agree with that purpose." Dad lays the shirt over the back of Dean's chair and picks up the next shirt. The last one, smallest one, for Sammy. It's got a worn spot on the cuff that Dad looks at for a minute - smoothes with his finger, frowning a little.
"Like you have that knife that's for skinwalkers only," Dean says, and tests the iron again, shivering in pleasurable tension at the almost-burn of it on his finger.
Dad looks up at Dean for a moment, the iron pressing down, huffing out clean-scented steam. "That's right. This new building is Pastor Jim's new church. He's worked really hard to make it nice and to make sure it's a good place - a safe place." Dad smoothes the back of the shirt, efficient strokes, and Dean rocks forward a little on the chair, his hands on the edge, his sneakered feet hooked over a rung.
"How's ironing a shirt respectful, though?" Dean wonders, and Dad carefully works around the seam of the collar.
"It shows we took the time to be a little fancier because we think what Pastor Jim is doing is important. And it shows that we think Pastor Jim's important, because we're doing something we might not like to do all that much."
"Yeah, I hate wearing button shirts," Dean says.
"Me too," Sammy echoes, not looking up from blue sky and yellow kite.
"But...I like Pastor Jim. I can wear a button shirt if it's for him."
Dad looks up and smiles at him - finishes the sleeve of Sammy's shirt with a flourish. "That's good, Dean. You'll make Pastor Jim happy, standing up straight in a nice, clean shirt."
Dean sits straighter in the chair, smiling up at his dad. His likes the idea of making Pastor Jim happy - whenever they go over there, Jim always has those oatmeal cookies with icing on them for him and Sammy, and he always lets them take down all his little stone bears and play with them.
"I'll dedicate my shirt to Pastor Jim," Dean says, inspiration striking. "And only wear it on special church days." This is the first time there's ever been a special day, so they probably don't happen very often.
"I think I will, too," Dad says. He looks at his own shirt, with the black and grey tie lying over the collar. "You're one smart cookie, Dean."
"I wanna cookie!" Sammy says, still not looking up, and Dad laughs.
"And you're a bottomless pit," Dad calls, and Dean gets up to get cookies, frowning when the light flickers and fades and comes back all slanted, cut with curling wisps of smoke.
"Bottomless pit..." Dean says, as the smoke curls over black and the lights go out again.
John's looking at his second son - strangest son - a mixture of pride and frustration coming up hot and heavy in his chest. He sees Sam's gaze in the mirror - knows he's looking right at Dean. That Dean is looking back. Closer than most brothers - grown to it like some kind of ornamental vine. Clipped and encouraged this way, not that way, until they're wound around each other so tightly there's no separating them. But there's nothing ornamental about his boys.
John lets his eyes drift shut, listening to Sam - 'hospital...demon...start again....' And then something slams into his side like a sledgehammer - like a snorting, thundering bull. Heat - pressure - sickening motion that won't stop and won't stop and stops, hard enough to snap John's skull into the shattered frame of the car. Light, so blinding bright in his eyes - cutting into his brain like a saw and John closes his eyes - feels the cool rush of blood somewhere on his throat - face. He lets the darkness swirl over him, dancing with sparks of blue, red and green. Tightening around him like a shroud.
And expanding, a rose of white and yellow sparks.
"Oh, wow, look at that! Dad, look at that!"
Dean is yanking his arm - pointing - and John looks. Watches the firework flare and fade while three more climb beneath it - explode like chrysanthemums of blue and green and violet.
"I wanna see 'em from the top of the Ferris Wheel!" Sam says, tugging John another way and John obediently goes, palm to sticky palm with Dean. Sam's hands are wholly occupied by the giant stuffed dog John won at the shooting gallery. It only took him two dollars to figure out the screwed-up sights and correct his aim, and Dean has a bandana tied around each knee - Metallica and Led Zeppelin and John has to shake his head at the juxtaposition.
The line for the Ferris Wheel is short - everyone's watching the firework show - and John hands over the tickets to the carnie, his gaze skimming the greasy levers and gears - the worn paint. Safe enough, he supposes. Safer than last week, and the demon playing possum in some sweet young thing. John shakes off that thought and looks down at his boys.
"You want me to come with you?"
"Nah, we can do it, Dad," Dean says - so quick, anymore, to assert his independence. Twelve going on twenty and it makes John's chest ache, sometimes.
"Here, you hold Dean," Sam says, pushing the hairy dog-of-no-breed into John's arms and John laughs.
"His name's Dean?"
"Yeah - he looks just like him!" Sam says, grinning up at John - ducking the half-hearted swat Dean aims at his head.
"He looks more like you than me, shaggy dog," Dean says, and Sam blows his bangs out of his face and they both trot up the steps - settle into the seat. The carnie locks the bar across and John steps back - moves a few paces away. Watches the wheel turn and his boys turn with it - glide up and up into the night.
The fireworks are popping and booming behind him, throwing bright bursts of light and long shadows over the grounds. John doesn't quite squash the internal flinch that happens at every crump and whistle. It's too much like over there, and not enough, and his boys are coming down.
Riding the slope and waving like mad - pointing at the fireworks, grinning like two crazy kids. Like two normal kids, and John watches them slide up and away, up and away. Tries not to let the clutch of melancholy show on his face, because his boys are already going away, in tiny steps and hops, never to return.
When the ride is over and his boys run to him, pushing and laughing and talking all over each other, John feels the urge to hug them close - hard - tight. To never let go. He'd carry them both on his shoulders if Dean wouldn't die of embarrassment. Sam might let him, still. For another year or so. Instead, he pushes the Dean-dog into Sam's arms and puts his hands on Dean's broad shoulder - Sam's still-soft one.
"Was it fun?" he asks, steering them toward the gate - toward their current, temporary home.
"It was great!"
"It was like flying," Sam says, rubbing Dean-dog's nose. "My stomach kept going up and then coming down."
"As long as it stays down," John says, and Dean laughs.
"Can we get a funnel cake? With strawberries?" Dean says, and John glances at the sliver of moon that's coming up on the horizon - at the curling sheet of cloud coming in from the east.
"Funnel cake!" Sam shouts, and makes Dean-dog beg, working the floppy paws.
"Yeah, okay - we've got time for funnel cakes," John says and Dean whoops - Dean-dog-Sam howls and John feels like he's flying, too. Feels lighter than air, and as tall as a tree. It's insane, how perfect his boys make him feel sometimes. How invincible and how right.
"All the time in the world," Sam says, echoing someone, John can tell, and he smoothes his fingers over Sam's dark, ruffled hair - bumps Dean with his hip.
"Time..." John whispers, and the fireworks fade into blackness.
Originally entered at https://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/200171.html - comment where you please!
Spoilers for the finale, but no speculation.
Originally posted at Supernaturalfic.
Title is from Summer's Last Will and Testament: A Litanty in Time of Plague by Thomas Nashe.
"We can just start again. We found the demon once before -" Whatever Sam's going to say next - think next - is knocked straight out of his head by the heart-stopping jolt of metal on metal. Jolt and crunch and screech - pop of shattering glass and the groan of struts and panels being warped violently out of true.
Noise building and building and shuddering right through Sam - building to something and he doesn't know what. He can't find the wheel - can't find the door - and then it all stops. Stops hard enough to snap his head forward into *oh god ow fuck hurts* and then back and Sam blinks up once at the headliner of the Impala, wondering why it's lit up like it is. Then the light all goes away.
And comes back.
"What's this? Dad, what's this?"
Dad's fingers are gentle, cupping around Sam's. He pulls Sam between his knees and Sam can feel the bristles of Dad's beard on his cheek.
"It's called a medal, son. It's a Purple Heart."
Sam strokes his fingers over the dull gold - the ribbon that is stiff and heavy. "Is it yours?"
"It is." Dad's fingers follow Sam's, touching the medal - tracing its lines. "I got it for fighting in Vietnam. That's a country across the ocean."
"Did you find it? Was it like - treasure?"
Dad laughs softly, his thumb rubbing over the dull face of the medal. "No, I kind of - won it, I guess."
"Because you were such a good fighter, right?" Sam asks, knowing the answer. Knowing it's 'cause his Dad is the best fighter ever. He hits every can or bottle he shoots at - his knife always goes right into the center of the bull and he always comes back from his hunting trips. Coming back means he won - Dean told him that, and Dean always tells him the truth.
"Yeah, 'cause I'm such a good fighter," Dad says, but his voice doesn’t sound happy - it sounds like when he talks about Mommy, thick and kind of...wobbly. Sam hates that voice - it makes his stomach all cold and tight.
"Do you have any more medals? Did you get a lot?"
"I got too many," Dad says, and Sam doesn't know how you can get too many of something that means you're good. But Dad's putting the medal away in the box, shuffling the other things that are inside and pulling out a round of dull olive-green metal that opens into -
"Wow, cool!"
"This is my compass - do you know how to read a compass?" Sam shakes his head and his dad rests his chin on Sam's shoulder a little. That always makes Sam feel...grown up. "Well, I'll show you. It's a good trick to know. If you have a compass, you'll never be lost."
Sam twists around a little, looking up at his dad and smiling - seeing his dad's eyes and then his mouth smile back. The screen door slams and Dean comes in, dropping his book bag and Sam holds the compass up, grinning. "Dean, lookee, Dad's gonna show me how not to be lost!"
"Not lost..." Sam mumbles. But then the light goes away again.
"Not everything," Sam says, and Dean feels a twist of warmth go through him - warmth that fights the cold creeping out from his belly. Sam's gaze locks on his for a moment - Sam's expression one that would normally mean trouble because it's that mulish 'that's my final word on it' expression. But this time it's for Dean - because of Dean, and Dean wants to reach up and put his hand on Sam's shoulder but he's so fucking weak.
And then there's nothing but noise - sideways motion - sickening shock of impact that Dean can't figure out or fight off and he's sliding on the leather of the seat and his head connects too hard with the door frame, shooting fire and spangles across his vision.
And then, thank Christ, it all stops and Dean tries to lift his head and pain - fire - explodes through his skull and down his back and across his shoulders and he makes a sobbing yip of sound. And then it blessedly all goes...away.
And comes back to the soft hiss and spit of an iron.
Dean sits on the edge of the kitchen chair, watching his dad iron a shirt. White shirt with a collar, something Dean almost never wears. Neither does dad, but today they're all gonna wear one. Dad picks up the shirt and turns it around - smoothes it over the towel he has laid out on the table.
"Why do we have to wear these shirts? They're all...scratchy," Dean says. Dad holds the iron out and Dean licks his finger - touches the flat bottom of the iron quickquickquick. There's the faint sizzle of moisture boiling to steam and Dad smiles and starts to iron again, slow around the buttons.
"Because, this is a special day for Pastor Jim - it's not respectful to show up in our everyday clothes."
"We go over there in everyday clothes all the time," Dean objects, and his Dad's tongue pokes out just the tiniest bit as he maneuvers around a button, smoothing away creases. It's just like Sammy does when he tries so hard to stay in the lines in the coloring books and Dean glances over at Sammy where he's lying on the floor, box of twenty-four colors spread out around him. He's coloring a lizard flying a kite and yeah - his tongue's poking out, just a little, and it makes Dean grin.
"Well, today's different. They're dedicating the new building."
"What's dedi-cating?" Dean asks. Dad puts the iron down and picks up the shirt. He holds it at arms length, surveying it carefully. It's like when he's made a new spirit-trap, or cleaned a gun; slow and thorough once-over.
"It's when something's been made for a special purpose, and everybody comes to say they agree with that purpose." Dad lays the shirt over the back of Dean's chair and picks up the next shirt. The last one, smallest one, for Sammy. It's got a worn spot on the cuff that Dad looks at for a minute - smoothes with his finger, frowning a little.
"Like you have that knife that's for skinwalkers only," Dean says, and tests the iron again, shivering in pleasurable tension at the almost-burn of it on his finger.
Dad looks up at Dean for a moment, the iron pressing down, huffing out clean-scented steam. "That's right. This new building is Pastor Jim's new church. He's worked really hard to make it nice and to make sure it's a good place - a safe place." Dad smoothes the back of the shirt, efficient strokes, and Dean rocks forward a little on the chair, his hands on the edge, his sneakered feet hooked over a rung.
"How's ironing a shirt respectful, though?" Dean wonders, and Dad carefully works around the seam of the collar.
"It shows we took the time to be a little fancier because we think what Pastor Jim is doing is important. And it shows that we think Pastor Jim's important, because we're doing something we might not like to do all that much."
"Yeah, I hate wearing button shirts," Dean says.
"Me too," Sammy echoes, not looking up from blue sky and yellow kite.
"But...I like Pastor Jim. I can wear a button shirt if it's for him."
Dad looks up and smiles at him - finishes the sleeve of Sammy's shirt with a flourish. "That's good, Dean. You'll make Pastor Jim happy, standing up straight in a nice, clean shirt."
Dean sits straighter in the chair, smiling up at his dad. His likes the idea of making Pastor Jim happy - whenever they go over there, Jim always has those oatmeal cookies with icing on them for him and Sammy, and he always lets them take down all his little stone bears and play with them.
"I'll dedicate my shirt to Pastor Jim," Dean says, inspiration striking. "And only wear it on special church days." This is the first time there's ever been a special day, so they probably don't happen very often.
"I think I will, too," Dad says. He looks at his own shirt, with the black and grey tie lying over the collar. "You're one smart cookie, Dean."
"I wanna cookie!" Sammy says, still not looking up, and Dad laughs.
"And you're a bottomless pit," Dad calls, and Dean gets up to get cookies, frowning when the light flickers and fades and comes back all slanted, cut with curling wisps of smoke.
"Bottomless pit..." Dean says, as the smoke curls over black and the lights go out again.
John's looking at his second son - strangest son - a mixture of pride and frustration coming up hot and heavy in his chest. He sees Sam's gaze in the mirror - knows he's looking right at Dean. That Dean is looking back. Closer than most brothers - grown to it like some kind of ornamental vine. Clipped and encouraged this way, not that way, until they're wound around each other so tightly there's no separating them. But there's nothing ornamental about his boys.
John lets his eyes drift shut, listening to Sam - 'hospital...demon...start again....' And then something slams into his side like a sledgehammer - like a snorting, thundering bull. Heat - pressure - sickening motion that won't stop and won't stop and stops, hard enough to snap John's skull into the shattered frame of the car. Light, so blinding bright in his eyes - cutting into his brain like a saw and John closes his eyes - feels the cool rush of blood somewhere on his throat - face. He lets the darkness swirl over him, dancing with sparks of blue, red and green. Tightening around him like a shroud.
And expanding, a rose of white and yellow sparks.
"Oh, wow, look at that! Dad, look at that!"
Dean is yanking his arm - pointing - and John looks. Watches the firework flare and fade while three more climb beneath it - explode like chrysanthemums of blue and green and violet.
"I wanna see 'em from the top of the Ferris Wheel!" Sam says, tugging John another way and John obediently goes, palm to sticky palm with Dean. Sam's hands are wholly occupied by the giant stuffed dog John won at the shooting gallery. It only took him two dollars to figure out the screwed-up sights and correct his aim, and Dean has a bandana tied around each knee - Metallica and Led Zeppelin and John has to shake his head at the juxtaposition.
The line for the Ferris Wheel is short - everyone's watching the firework show - and John hands over the tickets to the carnie, his gaze skimming the greasy levers and gears - the worn paint. Safe enough, he supposes. Safer than last week, and the demon playing possum in some sweet young thing. John shakes off that thought and looks down at his boys.
"You want me to come with you?"
"Nah, we can do it, Dad," Dean says - so quick, anymore, to assert his independence. Twelve going on twenty and it makes John's chest ache, sometimes.
"Here, you hold Dean," Sam says, pushing the hairy dog-of-no-breed into John's arms and John laughs.
"His name's Dean?"
"Yeah - he looks just like him!" Sam says, grinning up at John - ducking the half-hearted swat Dean aims at his head.
"He looks more like you than me, shaggy dog," Dean says, and Sam blows his bangs out of his face and they both trot up the steps - settle into the seat. The carnie locks the bar across and John steps back - moves a few paces away. Watches the wheel turn and his boys turn with it - glide up and up into the night.
The fireworks are popping and booming behind him, throwing bright bursts of light and long shadows over the grounds. John doesn't quite squash the internal flinch that happens at every crump and whistle. It's too much like over there, and not enough, and his boys are coming down.
Riding the slope and waving like mad - pointing at the fireworks, grinning like two crazy kids. Like two normal kids, and John watches them slide up and away, up and away. Tries not to let the clutch of melancholy show on his face, because his boys are already going away, in tiny steps and hops, never to return.
When the ride is over and his boys run to him, pushing and laughing and talking all over each other, John feels the urge to hug them close - hard - tight. To never let go. He'd carry them both on his shoulders if Dean wouldn't die of embarrassment. Sam might let him, still. For another year or so. Instead, he pushes the Dean-dog into Sam's arms and puts his hands on Dean's broad shoulder - Sam's still-soft one.
"Was it fun?" he asks, steering them toward the gate - toward their current, temporary home.
"It was great!"
"It was like flying," Sam says, rubbing Dean-dog's nose. "My stomach kept going up and then coming down."
"As long as it stays down," John says, and Dean laughs.
"Can we get a funnel cake? With strawberries?" Dean says, and John glances at the sliver of moon that's coming up on the horizon - at the curling sheet of cloud coming in from the east.
"Funnel cake!" Sam shouts, and makes Dean-dog beg, working the floppy paws.
"Yeah, okay - we've got time for funnel cakes," John says and Dean whoops - Dean-dog-Sam howls and John feels like he's flying, too. Feels lighter than air, and as tall as a tree. It's insane, how perfect his boys make him feel sometimes. How invincible and how right.
"All the time in the world," Sam says, echoing someone, John can tell, and he smoothes his fingers over Sam's dark, ruffled hair - bumps Dean with his hip.
"Time..." John whispers, and the fireworks fade into blackness.
Originally entered at https://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/200171.html - comment where you please!