supernatural: highway kind
Highway Kind
post 2.01, dean/ofc, pg. 1400 words.
You were right about the end.
The queen of hearts had aces and spades tattooed on the inside of her wrists. Dean saw them when she dealt the cards, flashes of black ink when she curved her hands.
"It's just a name," she said, when Dean asked why, when he took her wrists in his hands. There were marks on his own from the teeth of goblin-men and when he swallowed, he could still almost taste the cinders-and-sulphur scent of their blood, of the smoke that curled up from their corpses. His boots were still damp with rain and wet soil. "You know that, better than most."
"How many hearts have you broken?" he asked, and she laughed, more at him than at the line, but that was okay; her laugh was brilliant and rich and her grin was wicked and hot.
He was meant to meet Dad at eight, but maybe he could be late.
"Cliches ain't gonna get you nowhere," she said. The table was small enough that she could touch his cheek without leaning forward.
"Not even if they're true?" he asked.
She made a humming noise low in her throat. "And how do you think it's going to end?" she asked. She had tarot cards across the table, but she wasn't reading his fortune. She'd said they were for show.
He drew in a breath. "Honestly?" he said, and gave his best heartbreaker's grin. "I try not to."
She shook her head. Her skin was warm and the light was orange with twilight; her shoulders were bare and her eyes were dark. He skinned his knuckles on the roughcut edge of the table when he stood, and her breath caught when he pressed his mouth against the hollow of her throat. When he kissed her the candles flickered.
He was kneeling on her bed when he caught her wrists a second time and asked, "Is this because you know what's gonna happen?" Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything either way, if she'd said yes or no, but she didn’t do either. She pulled back, and when she slapped him, he tasted blood and swallowed hard.
He opened his mouth to apologize, but her hands were soft and strong. She pushed him back and he fumbled with the front of her dress, didn't think about asking again.
--
The light's still on in Bobby’s kitchen when Dean looks up. He peels off his gloves, drops them onto the bench and leans there for a minute. Listens to the wind in the trees and the far-off creak of metal.
He's half tempted to stay outside, sleep in the back of the car, safe in the dark, metal and glass and the faint smell of blood underneath. Because it's familiar, and maybe to see how long Sam will wait.
Imagines staying out here until the car's fixed, rebuilt, the shift and heft of metal through his gloves, until his girl's running again. Until.
He imagines waking up to Sam panicking and decides against it.
Bobby's dog doesn't move when Dean steps over him to get inside. Sam looks up, though, when he opens the door.
Sam came out to tell Dean he was making dinner, sometime before it got dark. Dean thinks he came out again after, but he didn't turn around. Figured he'd wait until he felt less like kicking the shit out of something. Which is now, kind of. At the point where he doesn't crave violence so much as a shower and sleep, or maybe just the last.
Except for how Sam's looking at him, too goddamned hopeful, and scared. For Dean or of him, the distinction doesn't really matter.
So Dean leaves dirty footprints across the floor, drops into the chair across the table from Sam and starts unknotting his boots.
Sam swallows audibly, but Dean doesn't look up. "How's it coming?" Sam asks.
Dean finishes, shrugs. "'Sokay." It comes out hoarser than he'd expected. He reaches across to steal Sam's beer and Sam doesn't move to stop him.
Sam swallows. "Do you wanna, you know. I thought maybe we could talk about it."
Dean rubs a hand across his face. He should have seen this coming. He's far too tired for it. Shudder rippling down his spine and he hopes Sam doesn't see. "Sure."
"Okay," Sam says. Sounds a little surprised, leaning forward, and Dean can't. Can't.
He leans back. "Got the frame back to normal -- not twisted to hell, anyway -- but rebuilding the engine's gonna be a bitch and a half. You want me to get technical or should I just stop there?" He manages a smirk at the last minute, twists it into something like a smile, and Sam sighs.
--
He rested one hand on her hip and the other on her chest; the pounding of her heart echoed against his palm. Their skins were held together with sweat and gravity. The rain was still spattering at the window, but it was hot and humid. He could taste it, scorched and angry, at the back of his throat.
He swallowed. "Did you look at the cards?" he asked. She sighed. The bed creaked as she rolled over to face him, and in the dim her eyes were black.
"Cards are for amateurs," she said. "I didn't need to."
"What did they, what did you-- you know."
"There are some things you shouldn't know," she said, flat and final. He bit the inside of his cheek.
"That's cheery."
She kissed the side of his neck. "You think if you know what happens, you can change it?" He took a breath and she shook her head ever so slightly. "Honey, maybe that’s why I can't tell you."
There wasn't anything he could say to that; he knew better than to try. He closed his eyes and she settled against him. Rise and fall of her chest under his hand and it was easy to not think about what she said. Nobody'd ever promised him a long life, after all, and it wasn't like he expected one.
In the morning, he said, "I gotta go, I guess I don't need to tell you where," even though she hadn't asked him to stay. When she reached up to touch his face, the sleeve of her robe fell back; the ace burned clear and bright, and he bit his lip.
"Not that you'd tell the truth, anyway," she said, not unkindly, and he ducked his head. Her rooms smelled of cedar and chrism; he hadn't noticed, before. The raw places on his knuckles itched.
"I," he began, and she nodded.
"I know."
"Right." He paused at the door, looked back with one hand on the doorknob. "Look, can't you just-- does he come back?"
One corner of her mouth turned up. "Travel safe, Dean," she said.
--
There's a deck of cards on the table from a game Dean missed. Dog-eared, coffee-stained, smudged with fingerprints in the corners. He picks it up mostly to avoid looking at Sam, to keep his hands busy. Keep him from digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands; he thinks that would probably worry Sam.
"Dad would," Sam begins. Dean grits his teeth.
Shuffles, cuts the deck, and the queen of hearts stares at him.
"Dean," Sam says. Cards scattered across the table, on the floor. Dean doesn't know where that one went, doesn't want to look.
"I'm tired, Sammy," he says, pushing back from the table. "Going to bed."
"Yeah," Sam says. "Okay."
He reaches out tentatively when Dean passes, one hand raised like he's going to grab Dean's wrist or touch his shoulder. He doesn't, though, and Dean ignores him. Doesn't look back.
Thinks about what would happen if he did.
Grief spilling out all over. Tear them both open to bone, and nobody around to put things right. Put them back together again. Fix them, fix him, fix this.
It takes a minute for the light to come on in the bathroom, takes longer for the water to run hot. The oil smudged on the inside of his wrists comes off easily.
He turns off the tap. Shakes.
Somewhere else in the house Bobby is sleeping and Sam is waiting and there's something bruised and hollow and terrible where his heart should be, Dean thinks. When he looks in the mirror and sees.
And he knows. Knows.
This is what it's like to have been dead. This is what it costs to come back.
This is what it's like to live, after, and he wonders how long it's been coming.
He wonders what it will cost to put right.
-end-
post 2.01, dean/ofc, pg. 1400 words.
You were right about the end.
The queen of hearts had aces and spades tattooed on the inside of her wrists. Dean saw them when she dealt the cards, flashes of black ink when she curved her hands.
"It's just a name," she said, when Dean asked why, when he took her wrists in his hands. There were marks on his own from the teeth of goblin-men and when he swallowed, he could still almost taste the cinders-and-sulphur scent of their blood, of the smoke that curled up from their corpses. His boots were still damp with rain and wet soil. "You know that, better than most."
"How many hearts have you broken?" he asked, and she laughed, more at him than at the line, but that was okay; her laugh was brilliant and rich and her grin was wicked and hot.
He was meant to meet Dad at eight, but maybe he could be late.
"Cliches ain't gonna get you nowhere," she said. The table was small enough that she could touch his cheek without leaning forward.
"Not even if they're true?" he asked.
She made a humming noise low in her throat. "And how do you think it's going to end?" she asked. She had tarot cards across the table, but she wasn't reading his fortune. She'd said they were for show.
He drew in a breath. "Honestly?" he said, and gave his best heartbreaker's grin. "I try not to."
She shook her head. Her skin was warm and the light was orange with twilight; her shoulders were bare and her eyes were dark. He skinned his knuckles on the roughcut edge of the table when he stood, and her breath caught when he pressed his mouth against the hollow of her throat. When he kissed her the candles flickered.
He was kneeling on her bed when he caught her wrists a second time and asked, "Is this because you know what's gonna happen?" Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything either way, if she'd said yes or no, but she didn’t do either. She pulled back, and when she slapped him, he tasted blood and swallowed hard.
He opened his mouth to apologize, but her hands were soft and strong. She pushed him back and he fumbled with the front of her dress, didn't think about asking again.
--
The light's still on in Bobby’s kitchen when Dean looks up. He peels off his gloves, drops them onto the bench and leans there for a minute. Listens to the wind in the trees and the far-off creak of metal.
He's half tempted to stay outside, sleep in the back of the car, safe in the dark, metal and glass and the faint smell of blood underneath. Because it's familiar, and maybe to see how long Sam will wait.
Imagines staying out here until the car's fixed, rebuilt, the shift and heft of metal through his gloves, until his girl's running again. Until.
He imagines waking up to Sam panicking and decides against it.
Bobby's dog doesn't move when Dean steps over him to get inside. Sam looks up, though, when he opens the door.
Sam came out to tell Dean he was making dinner, sometime before it got dark. Dean thinks he came out again after, but he didn't turn around. Figured he'd wait until he felt less like kicking the shit out of something. Which is now, kind of. At the point where he doesn't crave violence so much as a shower and sleep, or maybe just the last.
Except for how Sam's looking at him, too goddamned hopeful, and scared. For Dean or of him, the distinction doesn't really matter.
So Dean leaves dirty footprints across the floor, drops into the chair across the table from Sam and starts unknotting his boots.
Sam swallows audibly, but Dean doesn't look up. "How's it coming?" Sam asks.
Dean finishes, shrugs. "'Sokay." It comes out hoarser than he'd expected. He reaches across to steal Sam's beer and Sam doesn't move to stop him.
Sam swallows. "Do you wanna, you know. I thought maybe we could talk about it."
Dean rubs a hand across his face. He should have seen this coming. He's far too tired for it. Shudder rippling down his spine and he hopes Sam doesn't see. "Sure."
"Okay," Sam says. Sounds a little surprised, leaning forward, and Dean can't. Can't.
He leans back. "Got the frame back to normal -- not twisted to hell, anyway -- but rebuilding the engine's gonna be a bitch and a half. You want me to get technical or should I just stop there?" He manages a smirk at the last minute, twists it into something like a smile, and Sam sighs.
--
He rested one hand on her hip and the other on her chest; the pounding of her heart echoed against his palm. Their skins were held together with sweat and gravity. The rain was still spattering at the window, but it was hot and humid. He could taste it, scorched and angry, at the back of his throat.
He swallowed. "Did you look at the cards?" he asked. She sighed. The bed creaked as she rolled over to face him, and in the dim her eyes were black.
"Cards are for amateurs," she said. "I didn't need to."
"What did they, what did you-- you know."
"There are some things you shouldn't know," she said, flat and final. He bit the inside of his cheek.
"That's cheery."
She kissed the side of his neck. "You think if you know what happens, you can change it?" He took a breath and she shook her head ever so slightly. "Honey, maybe that’s why I can't tell you."
There wasn't anything he could say to that; he knew better than to try. He closed his eyes and she settled against him. Rise and fall of her chest under his hand and it was easy to not think about what she said. Nobody'd ever promised him a long life, after all, and it wasn't like he expected one.
In the morning, he said, "I gotta go, I guess I don't need to tell you where," even though she hadn't asked him to stay. When she reached up to touch his face, the sleeve of her robe fell back; the ace burned clear and bright, and he bit his lip.
"Not that you'd tell the truth, anyway," she said, not unkindly, and he ducked his head. Her rooms smelled of cedar and chrism; he hadn't noticed, before. The raw places on his knuckles itched.
"I," he began, and she nodded.
"I know."
"Right." He paused at the door, looked back with one hand on the doorknob. "Look, can't you just-- does he come back?"
One corner of her mouth turned up. "Travel safe, Dean," she said.
--
There's a deck of cards on the table from a game Dean missed. Dog-eared, coffee-stained, smudged with fingerprints in the corners. He picks it up mostly to avoid looking at Sam, to keep his hands busy. Keep him from digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands; he thinks that would probably worry Sam.
"Dad would," Sam begins. Dean grits his teeth.
Shuffles, cuts the deck, and the queen of hearts stares at him.
"Dean," Sam says. Cards scattered across the table, on the floor. Dean doesn't know where that one went, doesn't want to look.
"I'm tired, Sammy," he says, pushing back from the table. "Going to bed."
"Yeah," Sam says. "Okay."
He reaches out tentatively when Dean passes, one hand raised like he's going to grab Dean's wrist or touch his shoulder. He doesn't, though, and Dean ignores him. Doesn't look back.
Thinks about what would happen if he did.
Grief spilling out all over. Tear them both open to bone, and nobody around to put things right. Put them back together again. Fix them, fix him, fix this.
It takes a minute for the light to come on in the bathroom, takes longer for the water to run hot. The oil smudged on the inside of his wrists comes off easily.
He turns off the tap. Shakes.
Somewhere else in the house Bobby is sleeping and Sam is waiting and there's something bruised and hollow and terrible where his heart should be, Dean thinks. When he looks in the mirror and sees.
And he knows. Knows.
This is what it's like to have been dead. This is what it costs to come back.
This is what it's like to live, after, and he wonders how long it's been coming.
He wonders what it will cost to put right.
-end-