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apocalypsosTitle: Can't Push It Underground
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,100 words, give or take
Pairing: Sam/Jess
Spoilers for: "Shadows", futurefic
Warnings: Character death, bad language
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: It's all about not going down without a fight, even if that fight doesn't involves guns or fists.
*****
Can't Push It Underground
*****
It wouldn't be so bad, Dean decides, if killing the thing that had murdered their mother hadn't made Sam twice as morose as normal.
"Aw, come on, Sammy," he says, picking up the fork full of lettuce and waving it in Sam's general direction. Sam glares at him and snatches the fork from midair, and Dean waits a moment for the usual snapped warning about making a scene in a public place before adding, "You're not any use to me like this. You keep acting like you need to get laid and I'm going to end up suggesting you try hitting on the waitress."
The chair Sam's sitting in scrapes loudly across the cafe's linoleum floor before he stomps out without a word, and Dean ignores the confused look directed towards their table by the waitress.
"It couldn't hurt," he mutters, and pokes at the cold food on the only plate on the table.
*****
Sam starts ignoring him like that's going to fucking help.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Dean grumbles to himself for the fourth time after Sam remains silent and distracted during the interview of a helpful and surprisingly spry old woman who warded off a werewolf with her cane, of all things. She doesn't see well, which is why she doesn't complain when Dean starts plucking expensive glass figurines off the mantel and dancing them in the air near Sam's face.
Halfway through questioning the old woman, Sam gets sick of Dean's childish antics and makes his escape.
And if there's one thing that Dean is sick of, it's these bullshit attempts to run away from him.
*****
Every night Dean comes to in the bed next to Sam's in some cheap motel is another night he opens his eyes to Sam in the next bed and a cascading fall of blonde curls draped over him, dirty familiar sounds from the other bed and and whispered endearments Dean's probably not supposed to be hearing.
Sometimes Dean goes and sometimes he stays, but when Dean doesn't go, it's because the kid's going to have to remember his big brother is still there eventually.
Besides, it stopped being creepy and started boring the hell out of Dean a long time ago, and that's saying something,
*****
Dean tells Sam about the poltergeist tearing apart the farmhouse and Sam ignores him.
Dean puts all of the weapons in the bathroom and Sam pretends he's not pissed off by it.
Dean shouts and cracks jokes and makes smarmy little comments about every halfway pretty woman he comes across and Sam never says a fucking word.
Once in a while, Dean even breaks out in a rendition of "I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am", but usually he chokes on the irony halfway through the first verse and desperately needs a beer after that.
*****
They run out of ammo slower now that there's only one of them to use it up, so the Impala doesn't pull up in front of Caleb's house for two weeks after Caleb expects to see it there. When it leaves, the trunk's full of guns, there's a care package from Caleb's wife in the backseat, and Sam's still not speaking to him.
Drastic times call for drastic measures, Dean thinks.
For the time being, though, screwing with the radio and leaving it on the first song featuring a killer guitar solo helps.
*****
The next time Dean and Sam are in the same room together -- number thirteen at the Swanson Inn -- Jess shows up.
Sam flinches as soon as he sees her like this, curled up in bed in that fucking pristine white gown she's apparently trapped in for all eternity. Dean wonders if that's their curse, having to wear the same goddamn clothes they died in like the world's most boring death shrouds. "Hi, Sam," she says, and her eyes twinkle and her lips tug upwards in this teasing smile and all Sam can do is stand there and make this weird throttled sound.
Dean stands back, doesn't say anything, lets it be Jess and Sam for the moment. He cleans the gun in his hand as if it's the only thing in the world, as if there's not something hard and painful going on across the room.
"You can't keep doing this to Dean," Jess says, pushing herself up into a sitting position.
Sam stares at her for a long time, like he's forgotten the other nights she's shown up in his bed, like this is the first time he's seen her since the night she rained from the ceiling as ashes and blood. "I can do whatever the hell I want to Dean," Sam says, all helpless and defensive.
When Dean cleans their weapons, regardless of whether or not it still counts as their weapons stash, it's like glorious white noise. It'll zone out anything, if you let it.
"Dean's dead," Sam says, and Jess gets to her bare feet with a serene expression on her face.
"Oh, baby." Her hand curves over Sam's cheek, and he turns into the caress like he always does.
"It's not Dean," she says, and Dean thinks, Anything gets zoned out, if you do it right..
It ends like it always does, with Sam's harsh intake of breath, with a ragged shudder of air that isn't any more real than the rest of him.
When Dean lifts his head again, they're gone, the room glaringly empty and cold. He thinks about turning up the heat or throwing on a jacket but the .45 in his hands is warm enough against his skin.
Tomorrow morning, he'll get up and pack the Impala for the next job, careful to mind the sulking ghost of his baby brother in the passenger seat, and the cycle will start all over again.
And Dean wonders if he can keep this up, if he can keep on dealing with the oh-so-special psychic present Sam left behind that makes dead people have fucking soap operas in his motel rooms all the goddamn time.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,100 words, give or take
Pairing: Sam/Jess
Spoilers for: "Shadows", futurefic
Warnings: Character death, bad language
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: It's all about not going down without a fight, even if that fight doesn't involves guns or fists.
Can't Push It Underground
*****
It wouldn't be so bad, Dean decides, if killing the thing that had murdered their mother hadn't made Sam twice as morose as normal.
"Aw, come on, Sammy," he says, picking up the fork full of lettuce and waving it in Sam's general direction. Sam glares at him and snatches the fork from midair, and Dean waits a moment for the usual snapped warning about making a scene in a public place before adding, "You're not any use to me like this. You keep acting like you need to get laid and I'm going to end up suggesting you try hitting on the waitress."
The chair Sam's sitting in scrapes loudly across the cafe's linoleum floor before he stomps out without a word, and Dean ignores the confused look directed towards their table by the waitress.
"It couldn't hurt," he mutters, and pokes at the cold food on the only plate on the table.
Sam starts ignoring him like that's going to fucking help.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Dean grumbles to himself for the fourth time after Sam remains silent and distracted during the interview of a helpful and surprisingly spry old woman who warded off a werewolf with her cane, of all things. She doesn't see well, which is why she doesn't complain when Dean starts plucking expensive glass figurines off the mantel and dancing them in the air near Sam's face.
Halfway through questioning the old woman, Sam gets sick of Dean's childish antics and makes his escape.
And if there's one thing that Dean is sick of, it's these bullshit attempts to run away from him.
Every night Dean comes to in the bed next to Sam's in some cheap motel is another night he opens his eyes to Sam in the next bed and a cascading fall of blonde curls draped over him, dirty familiar sounds from the other bed and and whispered endearments Dean's probably not supposed to be hearing.
Sometimes Dean goes and sometimes he stays, but when Dean doesn't go, it's because the kid's going to have to remember his big brother is still there eventually.
Besides, it stopped being creepy and started boring the hell out of Dean a long time ago, and that's saying something,
Dean tells Sam about the poltergeist tearing apart the farmhouse and Sam ignores him.
Dean puts all of the weapons in the bathroom and Sam pretends he's not pissed off by it.
Dean shouts and cracks jokes and makes smarmy little comments about every halfway pretty woman he comes across and Sam never says a fucking word.
Once in a while, Dean even breaks out in a rendition of "I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am", but usually he chokes on the irony halfway through the first verse and desperately needs a beer after that.
They run out of ammo slower now that there's only one of them to use it up, so the Impala doesn't pull up in front of Caleb's house for two weeks after Caleb expects to see it there. When it leaves, the trunk's full of guns, there's a care package from Caleb's wife in the backseat, and Sam's still not speaking to him.
Drastic times call for drastic measures, Dean thinks.
For the time being, though, screwing with the radio and leaving it on the first song featuring a killer guitar solo helps.
The next time Dean and Sam are in the same room together -- number thirteen at the Swanson Inn -- Jess shows up.
Sam flinches as soon as he sees her like this, curled up in bed in that fucking pristine white gown she's apparently trapped in for all eternity. Dean wonders if that's their curse, having to wear the same goddamn clothes they died in like the world's most boring death shrouds. "Hi, Sam," she says, and her eyes twinkle and her lips tug upwards in this teasing smile and all Sam can do is stand there and make this weird throttled sound.
Dean stands back, doesn't say anything, lets it be Jess and Sam for the moment. He cleans the gun in his hand as if it's the only thing in the world, as if there's not something hard and painful going on across the room.
"You can't keep doing this to Dean," Jess says, pushing herself up into a sitting position.
Sam stares at her for a long time, like he's forgotten the other nights she's shown up in his bed, like this is the first time he's seen her since the night she rained from the ceiling as ashes and blood. "I can do whatever the hell I want to Dean," Sam says, all helpless and defensive.
When Dean cleans their weapons, regardless of whether or not it still counts as their weapons stash, it's like glorious white noise. It'll zone out anything, if you let it.
"Dean's dead," Sam says, and Jess gets to her bare feet with a serene expression on her face.
"Oh, baby." Her hand curves over Sam's cheek, and he turns into the caress like he always does.
"It's not Dean," she says, and Dean thinks, Anything gets zoned out, if you do it right..
It ends like it always does, with Sam's harsh intake of breath, with a ragged shudder of air that isn't any more real than the rest of him.
When Dean lifts his head again, they're gone, the room glaringly empty and cold. He thinks about turning up the heat or throwing on a jacket but the .45 in his hands is warm enough against his skin.
Tomorrow morning, he'll get up and pack the Impala for the next job, careful to mind the sulking ghost of his baby brother in the passenger seat, and the cycle will start all over again.
And Dean wonders if he can keep this up, if he can keep on dealing with the oh-so-special psychic present Sam left behind that makes dead people have fucking soap operas in his motel rooms all the goddamn time.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 06:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 06:26 am (UTC)Sam stares at her for a long time, like he's forgotten the other nights she's shown up in his bed, like this is the first time he's seen her since the night she rained from the ceiling as ashes and blood. "I can do whatever the hell I want to Dean," Sam says, all helpless and defensive. The imagery in "rained from the ceiling as ashes and blood" is amazing, and the idea of Sammy's voice helpless and defensive is perfect. I loved this line.
And the ending? The last two lines? OMG, *loves*! This is just amazing!
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 07:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 07:04 am (UTC)"It's not Dean," she says, and Dean thinks, Anything gets zoned out, if you do it right..
Oh...oh wow...just...Man, that specifically just got me. This fic was sharply written, perfectly in character, and deargodthankyou for giving my brain a break from logic homework. *loves*
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 07:04 am (UTC)I liked that Jess was there. It worked well with her.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 07:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 09:17 am (UTC)Excellent and wonderful.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 01:09 pm (UTC)Very clever, but also very grounded in character, particularly Dean's impatience with being ignored. And I loved that you brought Jess into it. I long for more Jessfic.
Terrific, thanks for sharing it!
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 02:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 02:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 03:15 pm (UTC)See, this is all the good reasons to not read warnings, for the pure - wtf?! moment.
Oh dear god, what the hell is going on? Dean just treats that all as normal?
Oh yeah, you provide the twist in the tail, the 'wtf?!? moments' in plenty.
And that is why, you are just... very, very cool.
*grins*
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 04:31 pm (UTC)This was really sad and bittersweet, and just so right.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 09:24 pm (UTC)You break me every. single. time. How do you do it??!??
*curls up into a broken little ball*
Owwwwww. But in the best way possible.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 10:11 pm (UTC)But, oh, it was a lovely read. This line right here: "...like this is the first time he's seen her since the night she rained from the ceiling as ashes and blood." is amazing. You always have the right way to make words sound just so...right.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 10:29 pm (UTC)This: And Dean wonders if he can keep this up, if he can keep on dealing with the oh-so-special psychic present Sam left behind that makes dead people have fucking soap operas in his motel rooms all the goddamn time.
...Damn, you're good.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 10:37 pm (UTC)Yeah, okay, ow.
Wonderful. Poetic and painful and just excellent.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-26 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:21 am (UTC)And thanks!
no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:22 am (UTC)(I saw Muse in concert a year ago. Awesome. *G*)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:24 am (UTC)Thanks so much! :)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:26 am (UTC)Nice choice.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:29 am (UTC)And thanks! :)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-27 12:31 am (UTC)Heh. One of these days, I'm just going to come out and make an icon that says, "The one thing I've learned from writing Supernatural fanfic is that if the Winchesters had a puppy, I would kick it." I'm so mean to them. *cuddles my boys*
And thanks! :)
no subject
Date: 2006-03-31 10:09 pm (UTC)Oh, that's a suckerpunch. Very tricksy, very well done.
*sniffles*
no subject
Date: 2006-04-01 09:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-04 11:37 am (UTC)I had no idea what was going to happen until the "It's not Dean" line and it hit me like a punch in the chest. Seriously, *OUCH*.
The last two paragraphs almost made me cry.
Absolutely brilliant work. Definately going into my favourites straight away.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-28 05:04 am (UTC)That was awesome.
*loves*
no subject
Date: 2006-10-10 06:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-02 02:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-29 04:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-28 06:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-20 05:06 pm (UTC)