Fic: This Bloody Road (Supernatural)
Mar. 6th, 2006 05:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosTitle: This Bloody Road
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: None
Spoilers for: "Shadows"
Warnings: Language, character death
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: Sam leaves behind something Dean can't get rid of, and isn't sure he'd want to.
Author's note: This went in an entirely different direction than I intended with the idea. Heh. :)
*****
This Bloody Road
*****
1.
Dean wishes he could measure it sometimes, wishes Sam had spread himself against some clear white wall somewhere out there in the world and traced the length of legs that went on forever and arms with extra reach. He wishes Sam had thought to record a copy of his walk on occasion, when he's walking down a sidewalk and spots the roll and swagger he's seen for years on glaringly different shoulders.
Someone should have documented those extra inches for posterity, Dean's thinking, because now that he's the one wreaking havoc with them at every fucking turn, the unfairness of it all burns and bleeds.
2.
There is this brief startling moment after the flash of light that switches the two of them, after Dean buries Sam and Dad and sits in the Impala in a suit that's not his, that he gets quite possibly the stupidest idea he's ever had.
Somewhere on the other side of some mystical divide, Sam's smiling and trying not to laugh, the words Well, that's saying a lot floating through Dean's mind like an errant balloon on the wind.
Dean stares in the rearview of the Impala for the longest time, pulls faces at himself and works his jaw around like he's testing the weight of a weapon in his grasp. He rumples the wild mane of hair on his head and swears he won't cut it like it's a goddamn benediction, then runs his hand over the stubble growing on his chin and silently swears with a cocky, teasing grin that he ain't cutting that, either.
The tears don't well up in his eyes in response to his reflection anymore, a small blessing but one for which he can't be grateful enough.
He narrows his eyes as he adjusts his tie, something choking off in his throat as he looks at himself in the mirror and thinks, I could have a normal life now.
The lie doesn't feel right, makes his stomach flip over and thud like it's being pummeled by a fucking monster.
Dean wonders with a stab of guilt if that's something left behind in this body by the previous owner, and realizes when the Impala's engine stops purring that he's driven himself to a bar. And maybe he's come to burn off nervous energy and maybe he hasn't, but he has a feeling choosing between a fuck, a fight, or a drink is just going to be that much harder from now on.
3.
That first night, Dean's curled up in the corner of the motel room staring at his hands, half a bottle of tequila already vanished without a trace if you're not counting the haze he's seeing the world through. And at any other time he might have had a hell of a lot of fun with something like this, practicing that puppy-dog smile in a mirror until he could get a girl to think she was picking him up rather than the other way around, cracking a knuckle or two on the jawline of some drunken redneck, swaggering into a bar or two like he owned the fucking place just by virtue of being the tallest bastard in the joint.
Somewhere in town there's a pair of slabs where his brother and father are spread out and cut open, and Dean's hands are freezing.
Another half bottle of tequila, he figures, and he won't be worrying about whether or not Sam might have bequeathed him something darker and more powerful than a handful of extra inches, a fresh start if he wants it, and the wrong scent filling in the air in the Impala like a curse.
4.
Dean trains whether he thinks Sam would like it or not, trying to readjust his stance and techniques with legs that go on forever and arms with extra reach. Nevada's where his training really picks up, because there's six guys in the pool hall who aren't half as good with a cue as he is and his first thought when one of them slams his fist down on the felt is to flash a wild smile and think, I can take 'em.
He can't, not really, but in the end it's the thought that counts, because somewhere Sam's shaking his head and holding in laughter at all this and next time Dean's going to remember that before he lets his fists fly.
5.
And he actually drives back to Stanford, because he's a first-rate idiot. He parks near the campus and tugs a baseball cap over his eyes and pictures what comes next.
Not getting out of the car, because the sidewalks fill with gorgeous co-eds and jocks and people twice as geeky as Sam could ever have been, and Dean isn't even sure if he knows these fucking people.
Not going up to see Sam's advisor with a string of mournful apologies and signing up for more law classes, because Dean has no delusions about the fact that if he can't fake his way through a conversation with one of Sam's friends, he definitely can't fake three years of pre-law.
Not trying to get a real job, making up what he can about college and hoping nobody ever asks for details, because it's one thing to pretend you're a private investigator who shares the same name as the lead singer of Quiet Riot and another to pretend you're smarter than you really are.
Two hours of sitting in the car later, the Impala's tires squeal as he pulls out in the direction of the highway.
An hour after that, he's perched on a stool at the counter of some greasy spoon with a red pen clenched between his teeth and the obituaries sperad out before him, wondering how many evil things he's got to kill to make up for taking the chance at a normal life Sam left him and doing this with it.
Dean presses his hand down on one of the newspapers, traces the fingers in bright red ink and stares at the outline as if he'll see where his old hands would fit into it.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: None
Spoilers for: "Shadows"
Warnings: Language, character death
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: Sam leaves behind something Dean can't get rid of, and isn't sure he'd want to.
Author's note: This went in an entirely different direction than I intended with the idea. Heh. :)
This Bloody Road
*****
Dean wishes he could measure it sometimes, wishes Sam had spread himself against some clear white wall somewhere out there in the world and traced the length of legs that went on forever and arms with extra reach. He wishes Sam had thought to record a copy of his walk on occasion, when he's walking down a sidewalk and spots the roll and swagger he's seen for years on glaringly different shoulders.
Someone should have documented those extra inches for posterity, Dean's thinking, because now that he's the one wreaking havoc with them at every fucking turn, the unfairness of it all burns and bleeds.
There is this brief startling moment after the flash of light that switches the two of them, after Dean buries Sam and Dad and sits in the Impala in a suit that's not his, that he gets quite possibly the stupidest idea he's ever had.
Somewhere on the other side of some mystical divide, Sam's smiling and trying not to laugh, the words Well, that's saying a lot floating through Dean's mind like an errant balloon on the wind.
Dean stares in the rearview of the Impala for the longest time, pulls faces at himself and works his jaw around like he's testing the weight of a weapon in his grasp. He rumples the wild mane of hair on his head and swears he won't cut it like it's a goddamn benediction, then runs his hand over the stubble growing on his chin and silently swears with a cocky, teasing grin that he ain't cutting that, either.
The tears don't well up in his eyes in response to his reflection anymore, a small blessing but one for which he can't be grateful enough.
He narrows his eyes as he adjusts his tie, something choking off in his throat as he looks at himself in the mirror and thinks, I could have a normal life now.
The lie doesn't feel right, makes his stomach flip over and thud like it's being pummeled by a fucking monster.
Dean wonders with a stab of guilt if that's something left behind in this body by the previous owner, and realizes when the Impala's engine stops purring that he's driven himself to a bar. And maybe he's come to burn off nervous energy and maybe he hasn't, but he has a feeling choosing between a fuck, a fight, or a drink is just going to be that much harder from now on.
That first night, Dean's curled up in the corner of the motel room staring at his hands, half a bottle of tequila already vanished without a trace if you're not counting the haze he's seeing the world through. And at any other time he might have had a hell of a lot of fun with something like this, practicing that puppy-dog smile in a mirror until he could get a girl to think she was picking him up rather than the other way around, cracking a knuckle or two on the jawline of some drunken redneck, swaggering into a bar or two like he owned the fucking place just by virtue of being the tallest bastard in the joint.
Somewhere in town there's a pair of slabs where his brother and father are spread out and cut open, and Dean's hands are freezing.
Another half bottle of tequila, he figures, and he won't be worrying about whether or not Sam might have bequeathed him something darker and more powerful than a handful of extra inches, a fresh start if he wants it, and the wrong scent filling in the air in the Impala like a curse.
Dean trains whether he thinks Sam would like it or not, trying to readjust his stance and techniques with legs that go on forever and arms with extra reach. Nevada's where his training really picks up, because there's six guys in the pool hall who aren't half as good with a cue as he is and his first thought when one of them slams his fist down on the felt is to flash a wild smile and think, I can take 'em.
He can't, not really, but in the end it's the thought that counts, because somewhere Sam's shaking his head and holding in laughter at all this and next time Dean's going to remember that before he lets his fists fly.
And he actually drives back to Stanford, because he's a first-rate idiot. He parks near the campus and tugs a baseball cap over his eyes and pictures what comes next.
Not getting out of the car, because the sidewalks fill with gorgeous co-eds and jocks and people twice as geeky as Sam could ever have been, and Dean isn't even sure if he knows these fucking people.
Not going up to see Sam's advisor with a string of mournful apologies and signing up for more law classes, because Dean has no delusions about the fact that if he can't fake his way through a conversation with one of Sam's friends, he definitely can't fake three years of pre-law.
Not trying to get a real job, making up what he can about college and hoping nobody ever asks for details, because it's one thing to pretend you're a private investigator who shares the same name as the lead singer of Quiet Riot and another to pretend you're smarter than you really are.
Two hours of sitting in the car later, the Impala's tires squeal as he pulls out in the direction of the highway.
An hour after that, he's perched on a stool at the counter of some greasy spoon with a red pen clenched between his teeth and the obituaries sperad out before him, wondering how many evil things he's got to kill to make up for taking the chance at a normal life Sam left him and doing this with it.
Dean presses his hand down on one of the newspapers, traces the fingers in bright red ink and stares at the outline as if he'll see where his old hands would fit into it.
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no subject
Date: 2006-03-07 11:50 pm (UTC)It's the scene where Dean and Sam went back to the old house, and that woman is listing all the problems the house has.
God, I really am a loser, aren't I?