Supernatural fic: Almost Normal
I thought it would be nice to finish the year by being an active, writing fandom member. I've managed to write so little this year that I was very pleased to discover another muse (or perhaps it's my angst muse that has found another outlet). Supernatural has pretties (OMG the pretties have invaded my brain) with ISSUES and lots of breeding ground for angst. All hail Supernatural!
Title: Almost Normal
Author: Titta
Pairing: none
Rating: PG
Spoilers: none
Warnings: Angst
Summary: He's not so much of a freak anymore.
Notes: Takes place sometime in the future.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to WB and other copyright holders. I'm just playing with the pretties.
ETA: beta by the big enabler winterlive. Sorry about forgetting to add this originally!
ETA2: edited a couple a small boo-boos cynaera pointed out to me.
He keeps his scarab necklace and his cell phone in the back of his underwear drawer. That's where normal people keep their dirty secrets, isn't it? The phone's turned off, and its battery must have run out weeks ago, but sometimes, usually late at night when he can't sleep, he takes them both out and rubs his thumb over the amulet while staring at the phone. He thinks about what would happen if he turned it back on - if the battery still had juice - and was connected to the world again. He never does, and not just because he knows the battery's dead.
Most nights he can sleep. His body's getting used to the farm work, and it's not as exhausting as it was in the beginning, but it is still physically taxing, and he makes sure he pushes himself every day. Just enough to require his full concentration during the day and to make his body crave rest when the sun sets.
Sundays, when working is usually not an option, are harder. While Margie is in town for church and socializing, he tinkers with this and that under the hood of the Impala. He keeps his tools, rags and fluids on a shelf in the shed where the car is parked, and never really needs to open the trunk, or go inside the car. He leaves the shed doors wide open to get as much sunlight in there as possible. That makes working easier, of course, but the bright light also reflects from the dusty windows of the car, and even if he accidentally sometimes looks that way, he can't really see anything but his own reflection. He's good at ignoring that.
Sunday afternoons, he goes running. He changes his boots for old running shoes and just takes off in his grease-stained t-shirt and jeans. He makes his way across Margie's fields, then along a rutted, little-used dirt road until he gets to the forest nearby. He likes the forest - it's green and cool and shady and, this time of the year, it's his alone. He can wear his dirty clothes there without scandalizing the locals; can run as if he's got hellhounds on his tail without anybody being the wiser. So he runs and runs and runs, until it's time to head back to the house for a shower and dinner. Usually he manages to sleep at least a few hours on Sunday nights, too.
He wears his hair longer than it's ever been before. He uses a bandana to keep it out of his eyes when he's working, but all other times it hangs down on his face, helps to hide the scars a little. His hands are also different these days. They have more calluses, different calluses than before. For some reason, digging up graves does different things to your hands than shovelling manure. He doesn't really care about the reasons why, he's just glad to notice the differences. He doesn't think about why that is, either.
He doesn't think much at all these days, if he can help it; not those kinds of thoughts, anyway. He used to avoid certain topics, even though he was thinking about them, and maybe he sometimes should have talked. These days, he doesn't really have anyone but Margie to talk to, and Margie's good at keeping up a conversation without much help from him. Besides, Margie doesn't ask awkward questions, and if she talks about family matters, it's about someone else's family, and as soon as he starts feeling uncomfortable, she moves on to another subject.
He doesn't listen to music anymore. Margie often has a radio on in the kitchen, but he's learned to just tune it out and not pay any attention to what the whiny voices are singing about. He doesn't read the paper or watch TV, but he does read books. The local library is well-stocked with books on farming, gardening, animal care and even pickup truck maintenance. He might not have a fancy formal education, but he knows how to read up on things to get a job done.
He's not so much of a freak anymore, either. He still doesn't have a house or a phone or a bank account, but he's got a steady job, he's been sleeping in the same bed long enough to not have to wonder where he is when he wakes up, and he's got most of his wages stashed away - some of it in his room and the rest in an empty baking soda can under the hood of the Impala.
He's not really normal, but when he drives Margie's pickup truck into town it blends in with all the other pickup trucks, and the only ones staring at his face are kids and people who haven't seen him before. He's heard people call him hard-working, with respect in their voices, and everyone he meets greets him civilly. He knows that tongues are wagging behind his back, but as long as Margie doesn't mind and nobody's trying to order him to leave town, he doesn't care.
One day he looks up and sees a black sedan driving along the main road. It's heading west, out of town, and there's nothing remarkable about it. He looks just long enough to make sure he doesn't recognize it and then goes back to his work.
Half an hour later, the same car pulls up in their yard. He puts down his rake and takes a few unhurried steps toward the car. Sun is reflecting from its windshield, and he can't see who's inside, and he's hit by a sudden urge to go get his shotgun. The driver's door opens, and his father steps out. He's frozen in his tracks, and for long moments they just stare at each other.
He can't read his father's face. John says just one word - "Dean" - and he can't read the tone of voice either. John starts moving toward him, and he's taking steps back until he realizes how stupid that is and just turns to walk away. He can hear Margie's worried voice from the steps of the house calling "Ray, what's going on?" and then there's another voice calling for Dean, and it freezes him in place again. He knows then that he's either finally lost his mind or he's dealing with something really bad, and either way he needs his shotgun, or even just one of the remaining handguns would be good.
When he gets his head back in gear and tries to move again there's a strong hand on his shoulder, and his father's voice saying "Dean" in a commanding tone of voice that means "Stop!" But it looks like he's done obeying Dad, and he tries to twist away from the hold. There are two hands grabbing at him then, and it's about to turn into a serious tussle when that other voice calls out again with "What the hell do you think you're doing, Dean?" He can't help it, he turns his head toward the voice and looks at Sam and loses his footing and goes down, landing hard on his ass.
It's like he's hit his head hard, although he's sitting upright, isn't he? His back's not even touching the ground, let alone his head. The world seems a little tilted somehow, and he wants to put his hands on the ground to steady himself, but he can't make his body move at all. He just sits there, staring down at his lap where his hands seem to be shaking. There are voices around him, but they are distant and vague; he can't make out any words, and doesn't have the will to try. He's shaken from his thoughts by a warm hand gently grabbing his chin and turning his head, and then he's looking Sam in the eye, and he can't breathe, and he only realizes he's been muttering something the whole time when he runs out of air, and then everything goes grey and hazy.
He wakes up slowly - it takes a really long time for his vision to clear enough for him to see that he's in his own bed. It takes even longer for the warmth all along one side of his body to register, but when it does it feels familiar somehow. He turns his head and sees Sam with his head propped on his hand looking down at him. By the time he realizes that he should probably say something, Sam's already talking. "Dean, I'm not dead, okay?" The voice is quiet but forceful enough that it gets an "okay" out of him.
"You got me to the hospital on time, Dean. The doctors were able to save me."
He hears the words, but they don't really mean anything to him. For a while, Sam looks at him as if expecting a reply, then simply wraps an arm around his chest and presses his head gently against his cheek. Sam feels warm and safe and smells comforting. "We're going to get some help for you, too," Sam whispers in his ear. He looks at the last rays of sunlight play along the ceiling and doesn't think.
Title: Almost Normal
Author: Titta
Pairing: none
Rating: PG
Spoilers: none
Warnings: Angst
Summary: He's not so much of a freak anymore.
Notes: Takes place sometime in the future.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to WB and other copyright holders. I'm just playing with the pretties.
ETA: beta by the big enabler winterlive. Sorry about forgetting to add this originally!
ETA2: edited a couple a small boo-boos cynaera pointed out to me.
He keeps his scarab necklace and his cell phone in the back of his underwear drawer. That's where normal people keep their dirty secrets, isn't it? The phone's turned off, and its battery must have run out weeks ago, but sometimes, usually late at night when he can't sleep, he takes them both out and rubs his thumb over the amulet while staring at the phone. He thinks about what would happen if he turned it back on - if the battery still had juice - and was connected to the world again. He never does, and not just because he knows the battery's dead.
Most nights he can sleep. His body's getting used to the farm work, and it's not as exhausting as it was in the beginning, but it is still physically taxing, and he makes sure he pushes himself every day. Just enough to require his full concentration during the day and to make his body crave rest when the sun sets.
Sundays, when working is usually not an option, are harder. While Margie is in town for church and socializing, he tinkers with this and that under the hood of the Impala. He keeps his tools, rags and fluids on a shelf in the shed where the car is parked, and never really needs to open the trunk, or go inside the car. He leaves the shed doors wide open to get as much sunlight in there as possible. That makes working easier, of course, but the bright light also reflects from the dusty windows of the car, and even if he accidentally sometimes looks that way, he can't really see anything but his own reflection. He's good at ignoring that.
Sunday afternoons, he goes running. He changes his boots for old running shoes and just takes off in his grease-stained t-shirt and jeans. He makes his way across Margie's fields, then along a rutted, little-used dirt road until he gets to the forest nearby. He likes the forest - it's green and cool and shady and, this time of the year, it's his alone. He can wear his dirty clothes there without scandalizing the locals; can run as if he's got hellhounds on his tail without anybody being the wiser. So he runs and runs and runs, until it's time to head back to the house for a shower and dinner. Usually he manages to sleep at least a few hours on Sunday nights, too.
He wears his hair longer than it's ever been before. He uses a bandana to keep it out of his eyes when he's working, but all other times it hangs down on his face, helps to hide the scars a little. His hands are also different these days. They have more calluses, different calluses than before. For some reason, digging up graves does different things to your hands than shovelling manure. He doesn't really care about the reasons why, he's just glad to notice the differences. He doesn't think about why that is, either.
He doesn't think much at all these days, if he can help it; not those kinds of thoughts, anyway. He used to avoid certain topics, even though he was thinking about them, and maybe he sometimes should have talked. These days, he doesn't really have anyone but Margie to talk to, and Margie's good at keeping up a conversation without much help from him. Besides, Margie doesn't ask awkward questions, and if she talks about family matters, it's about someone else's family, and as soon as he starts feeling uncomfortable, she moves on to another subject.
He doesn't listen to music anymore. Margie often has a radio on in the kitchen, but he's learned to just tune it out and not pay any attention to what the whiny voices are singing about. He doesn't read the paper or watch TV, but he does read books. The local library is well-stocked with books on farming, gardening, animal care and even pickup truck maintenance. He might not have a fancy formal education, but he knows how to read up on things to get a job done.
He's not so much of a freak anymore, either. He still doesn't have a house or a phone or a bank account, but he's got a steady job, he's been sleeping in the same bed long enough to not have to wonder where he is when he wakes up, and he's got most of his wages stashed away - some of it in his room and the rest in an empty baking soda can under the hood of the Impala.
He's not really normal, but when he drives Margie's pickup truck into town it blends in with all the other pickup trucks, and the only ones staring at his face are kids and people who haven't seen him before. He's heard people call him hard-working, with respect in their voices, and everyone he meets greets him civilly. He knows that tongues are wagging behind his back, but as long as Margie doesn't mind and nobody's trying to order him to leave town, he doesn't care.
One day he looks up and sees a black sedan driving along the main road. It's heading west, out of town, and there's nothing remarkable about it. He looks just long enough to make sure he doesn't recognize it and then goes back to his work.
Half an hour later, the same car pulls up in their yard. He puts down his rake and takes a few unhurried steps toward the car. Sun is reflecting from its windshield, and he can't see who's inside, and he's hit by a sudden urge to go get his shotgun. The driver's door opens, and his father steps out. He's frozen in his tracks, and for long moments they just stare at each other.
He can't read his father's face. John says just one word - "Dean" - and he can't read the tone of voice either. John starts moving toward him, and he's taking steps back until he realizes how stupid that is and just turns to walk away. He can hear Margie's worried voice from the steps of the house calling "Ray, what's going on?" and then there's another voice calling for Dean, and it freezes him in place again. He knows then that he's either finally lost his mind or he's dealing with something really bad, and either way he needs his shotgun, or even just one of the remaining handguns would be good.
When he gets his head back in gear and tries to move again there's a strong hand on his shoulder, and his father's voice saying "Dean" in a commanding tone of voice that means "Stop!" But it looks like he's done obeying Dad, and he tries to twist away from the hold. There are two hands grabbing at him then, and it's about to turn into a serious tussle when that other voice calls out again with "What the hell do you think you're doing, Dean?" He can't help it, he turns his head toward the voice and looks at Sam and loses his footing and goes down, landing hard on his ass.
It's like he's hit his head hard, although he's sitting upright, isn't he? His back's not even touching the ground, let alone his head. The world seems a little tilted somehow, and he wants to put his hands on the ground to steady himself, but he can't make his body move at all. He just sits there, staring down at his lap where his hands seem to be shaking. There are voices around him, but they are distant and vague; he can't make out any words, and doesn't have the will to try. He's shaken from his thoughts by a warm hand gently grabbing his chin and turning his head, and then he's looking Sam in the eye, and he can't breathe, and he only realizes he's been muttering something the whole time when he runs out of air, and then everything goes grey and hazy.
He wakes up slowly - it takes a really long time for his vision to clear enough for him to see that he's in his own bed. It takes even longer for the warmth all along one side of his body to register, but when it does it feels familiar somehow. He turns his head and sees Sam with his head propped on his hand looking down at him. By the time he realizes that he should probably say something, Sam's already talking. "Dean, I'm not dead, okay?" The voice is quiet but forceful enough that it gets an "okay" out of him.
"You got me to the hospital on time, Dean. The doctors were able to save me."
He hears the words, but they don't really mean anything to him. For a while, Sam looks at him as if expecting a reply, then simply wraps an arm around his chest and presses his head gently against his cheek. Sam feels warm and safe and smells comforting. "We're going to get some help for you, too," Sam whispers in his ear. He looks at the last rays of sunlight play along the ceiling and doesn't think.