Diffraction
Nov. 11th, 2010 01:51 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ohsamTitle: Diffraction
Author:![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=1)
twilightshours
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, for gore and a bit of language. I'd warn for other things but that would kinda ruin the point of the story, so read at your own risk!
Genre/Characters: (lots of) angst, H/C. Sam and Dean, Bobby.
Word count: 3,333
Summary: What they see in each other's eyes simultaneously twists both their guts. They both think, something is off. Something happened.
Spoilers: none- can go in any currently-aired season.
Author's Note: Happy Veterans Day! This one goes out to our two loving soldiers. I'll warn again for lots of angst, and I hope you guys enjoy in spite of it.
"S'pose I should be sayin' goodbye again," Bobby half-snorts, already somewhat better. S'pose, Sam echoes with a smile. The older hunter continues. "But that doesn't seem right."
"Nah," Dean barks leisurely with a grin. "Knowing us, we'll be back next week."
"Probably," Sam adds, louder, "with something else trailing behind us."
"Reckon so," Bobby smirks, "I trust you boys to always bring your shit to me."
They all laugh, the sound substantial and bright and warm. They can feel something coming.
"See you later, Bobby," the brothers both beam.
The sun rises.
"God," Dean sort of gasps out, like he just came up from a deep dive into a dark lake. They both feel that way - drowning for hours, and finally getting a lungful of air. "God." He can't say more, is just a fish out of water now.
"How did we," Sam starts out hesitant, manages to appear quiet and tentative even though he's breathing just as loudly and intensely as his brother, "how did we get out of that one?"
They're both looking at each other, at that moment, nostrils flaring and eyes wide, panicked. Their panting betrays the fact that they've been in the Impala for a while, like they are physically unable to catch their breaths. What they see in each other's eyes simultaneously twists both their guts. Goosebumps rise on their skin. They both think, something is off. Something happened.
Dean shifts as the air shifts. Says, "I don't know."
It had been a tough hunt. They both lack the pride not to admit it. It was definitely not a normal hunt; some rare beast not seen in the space of decades, too undocumented and unpredictable to fully research. Sam had been wary about taking the case from the start, to the point of being physically sick during the evenings. Dean, while leaning on the door frame while his brother puked up his dinner, reassured him with "It's just because you're a rookie" and other comforting phrases. It hadn't helped, but they continued on anyway. Not like they couldn't stop - lots of people were dying very quickly.
If Sam had said one thing about the hunt after, it would be that they weren't prepared. No amount of research could have got them ready, and they were on a short time allowance.
The monster itself was a quick shoot-down in terms of real time. In the brothers' minds, the chase had taken eternities. It had shown up (all teeth and fangs snarling spitting and stanch fur and massive size, huger than one and a half Sams) closer than they had calculated, only a few miles into the woods and a pretty clean path from the car. As soon as they claimed sight on it, they had hammered away with everything they brought: wood stakes, silver bullets, salt, holy water, herbs and spices and exorcisms and prayers and even a grenade, the thing kept coming.
In the end, Dean had managed to light it on fire, and while it was distracted Sam came with an axe and mangled away at its neck. They did a quick salt and burn before hightailing it back to the Impala.
The fight took maybe an hour at best. The walk back took close to three.
They both had sported a number of wounds from the thing; it had practically mauled them while they were scrabbling away at changing rounds and switching incantations. Concussions wracked them both from collisions with trees, bruises battered their bodies and lacerations licked at their limbs. The worst wounds were a large gash on Dean's back, from his shoulder bone down to his hip, and Sam had an equally long tear on the front of his torso, starting at his pectoral and nearing his gut. Both rips were deep and burning. They also had ferocious bite marks marring their arms and shoulders, and one even on Sam's calf. A little worse for wear was a huge understatement.
Despite their torments, they had limped back to the Impala successfully.
They decide to drive to Bobby's as soon as they feel better, too shell-shocked to think of going anywhere else. It's a long drive, too; their hunt had placed them in the north west corner of Washington.
It's a mutual decision, but Dean voices it first.
"We need to, uh."
"Get low," Sam supplies.
"Yeah. No. Get- stay low. We need to stay low for a bit." Dean looks a little confused at first, then cracks out into an awkward grin. "You needa work on your expressions, Sammy." It seems rehearsed, left-footed, almost, almost, but it manages to break the tension for a while. They still can't believe it. (That was too close. Too close.)
Luckily they had packed their duffels into the car before setting out on the hunt, the motel already covered. They drive and drive. Not completely healed (never will be) but they have to get there, to Bobby, to some place they can feel safe.
They fall into the Impala, close the doors at the same time. It's a reverberating slam, once they shut, like it's condemning them both. Dean decides not to lock the doors. They've got enough damnation to last them the rest of their lives.
Neither wants to deal with new repercussions.
They're worn out and fatigued, but never stop - only once, for gas, at the dead of night, they don't even bother paying. Dean says he's too tired to fish his wallet out of his bag in the back seat. It's like they're gliding on air, inches above the pavement, and some intangible force is pushing them from behind. Compelling, compounding, contracting. They're tired, tired, tired.
It's so quiet, only the growling of the Impala accompanying them, and no one else. They took the interstate and nowhere roads, sticking out of towns and cities. Dean doesn't have the music on - he tried the radio earlier, but all that came out was static. He tries humming or singing occasionally but Sam shuts him up with a snort.
Sam doesn't say much aside from answering whatever question his brother throws at him, which isn't often. He just slumps against the fabric, his back close to touching the bottom of the seat. He stares out the window or at the dashboard or at Dean's knees, whichever way he's facing after the Impala turns. He's tired, tired, Dean can tell. His face is a shade off from gray and dark shadows overlap the bruises under his eyes, making him look like a sick raccoon. (Dean looks no better, he's sure.) But not once is he seen sleeping. The older brother wants to push the sleep into Sam, but he understands. They won't be able to sleep until they get to Bobby's, get safe. So they leave each other to mostly wallow in their thoughts.
The road feels like a dirge beneath them.
When daytime rolls around - they're on their second day? - the light barely touches them. They're out of it in a dreary way. If someone asks, they'll say they don't mean to set a mood like this, but it came on to them. Dean puts on sunglasses to keep the light and reflections from smacking his eyes out. Sam lets his hair fall over his face more than it already is.
Hours pass. Dean, naturally, gets antsy. He's eventually unnerved by Sam's silence, so he tries to begin again.
"Maybe you should try looking for a hunt. So we can get back on the road right after Bobby's."
Sam blinks at that, says, "Yeah." Another hour has passed before Dean realizes he never took his laptop out, never moved. Okay.
"You wanna hear a riddle?" Sam asks suddenly.
Dean doesn't question it, because it's his brother, what do either of them expect, and "Sure."
"A guy walks into a restaurant, orders some albatross soup. Takes one sip, then runs out and dives in front of a truck. What happened?"
Trust you to have the weirdest riddles, Dean almost says, but instead tries to play along. "Dunno, what?"
There's a long silence, and then Dean looks over to see Sam staring incredulously at him.
"What?"
"It's a riddle, you're supposed to guess. Yes or no questions." Sam smirks a little.
So more time passes, and more, and it's better for both of them even though it's morbid. Dean never solves it, gives up, but manages to make them both laugh a few times with his ridiculous questions. (Was the soup spiked? Was he possessed? Was the soup cursed? Was he a moron?)
The sun is setting on them again, on their last long stretch to the salvage yard, and they've got the windows peeled down. Light spills all over them, their hair lit up in halos and their bruises barely visible, just gilded over by the beams. They don't feel warm, chalking it up to the northern weather, the leather beneath their fingertips seeming to absorb the heat.
Dean looks straight ahead while Sam gazes up, up. There's growing clouds behind them, clear skies ahead. They'll outrun them. The sense of urgency hasn't fled, however. During the hushes, they both feel the panic bubble up almost to the brim. They won't talk about it, but they know each other. What happened, it'll always be on their minds, because Winchesters may do close, but this was close. And they aren't used to dealing with consequences that aren't in the long run.
Bobby will make them rationalize, help put them at ease, and Bobby is twenty miles away. Nineteen, eighteen.
They'd almost say the end is anti-climactic.
They arrive when the shadows are yards long, stretching on forever, and the feeling of twilight makes the brothers shiver in anticipation. They made it to Bobby's, but they're not instantly feeling better. (They aren't used to this - the uncertainty, the insecurity. The unexplainable feeling that puts them at unease, just makes them feel off. Makes them feel gray. They can't deal with gray.)
So they get out of the car, slam the doors to make their presence known. They lean against the Impala to soak up lost temperature and choose not to go inside just yet. Bobby comes out.
"Jesus, you boys sure know how to." He stops, stares, then picks up where he left off, "Startle a guy. Come on in."
The brothers slide off the metal frame and Bobby does this weird dancing motion in the doorway like he's freezing. He kicks the edge of the wall a few times, and Sam gives him this subtle questioning look, like he just missed part of a joke. Dean's downright bewildered. Bobby grumbles out some sort of response, turns and walks in. They follow him.
"Bobby," Dean starts, clearing his throat a bit, "we went up against something pretty big."
"Yeah? How did that fare?"
"Well, we got it, and got out, but we just." Dean feels awkward. Sam hasn't said anything.
"Feel off?" Bobby suggests. "Yeah, that's what big hunts like that one will do to you. You guys look like hell."
They look down, it seems for the first time, taking in their marred and bloody clothes. Like chastised children, they duck their heads.
"Ah. Sorry about that. We fixed up, we just didn't - clean up. We were in a hurry. Can we stay for the night?" Dean fidgets like he's going to take off his jacket, but there's no where to put it. Sam picks at the hems of his sleeves.
"You boys don't need to ask. I'll go ahead and fix up the room for you, just stay here and don't... stain anything. You got clean clothes?"
"Not really," Sam pipes up unhelpfully, evoking a groan from their friend.
"Okay. Okay, just. Don't worry about gettin' the sheets dirty," and he hobbles off.
"Huh," Dean blurts out more than a few minutes after he's gone. "Bobby seems awful... lenient. For being Bobby."
"Yeah," Sam agrees. He's been staring around the room like something's going to leap out of the bookshelves. "Dean, does-"
But Bobby interrupts, coming in while rubbing his eyes and complaining about damn dust. "You're set," he says, and Sam is gone before Dean can even turn and ask for him to finish. He breaths out a goodnight for the both of them and goes after his brother's shadow.
They're tired, tired. Both collapse into their beds simultaneously, shut their eyes simultaneously, exhale simultaneously. Their sleep, however, is jagged and jarred. Each time fallen under consciousness is interruption by disturbances - from a branch hitting a car outside to a slight shift in air temperature. Restless, they toss and finally turn to face each other, stare for what might be half the night. They get up.
They pace endlessly through the house. They feel loud, but Bobby doesn't wake up.
There's nothing really to do in the middle of the night, so the old hunter comes into the kitchen the next morning to find them sitting at the table and staring out the window.
The brothers look up at his entrance, grimacing. "Bobby," Sam starts, ever-hesitant, "you look terrible." Sam was right; Bobby's eyes were red and puffy, bags deep and dark under them, and stubble tracked over his wrinkled face.
"How hurt were you two after the hunt?" Bobby inquires while grabbing coffee and leaning against the door frame. He ignores Sam's comment.
They list off all their injuries, backtracking and rewinding and forgetting a few along the way. They insist they feel fine, despite being tired - all the pains have receded to deep yet shallow aches. Like they're there, permanently, but only as faint reminders of what they experienced. Like every other scar they've received.
"So how do you feel?" Bobby asks after waiting through his whole cup for them to finish.
"We told you, we feel fine," Dean frowns.
"No, but how do you feel," the man tries again. This time they don't bother replying, just cock their heads to the side. Bobby sighs.
"Keep tight, I'll be right back." He tramps outside, his footsteps heavy and loud, a stark contrast to Sam and Dean's mute midnight wanderings.
When he comes back, he looks even worse than before. His skin is sheet white and clammy, his throat consistently working to swallow again and again.
"Jeez Bobby, you look like you've seen a banshee or something," Dean quips, then stands abruptly. "Have you?"
"Dean," Bobby inhales, "Sam," he exhales. "Come outside, something you needa see." He walks back out.
Dean's on his heels, almost outside when he looks back to see Sam standing but not moving an inch.
"Sammy?" The younger brother's looking sick, his eyes wide and pupils shot, his frame visibly trembling. He looks about as likely to walk as a dead man.
"Dean, I don't..."
"Sam? Come on, we've got to go. Bobby says there's something out there. It could be-" Well, it could be anything, he thinks. A spirit or demon or archangel or even Bobby's doppelganger. And that thought sends him backing up, tripping back to when they first got here - Bobby was acting off the whole time. Could he be - ? Dean looks down, sees where the salt line should have been, where it isn't. Only a few granules of salt dust the edges of the frame. Possessed? A shapeshifter?
"Sam, we have to go."
Bobby's by the Impala, and Dean is wary as he approaches slowly - all his weapons are in the car. Sam follows Dean, looking cautious and confused and two seconds away from fleeing.
"Bobby?"
"In the car," he says, and it's catched and shaky and weak. Deans thoughts scatter. What if we brought something back with us? What if something attached itself to the car? How long has it been around? What if-?
Sam's beside him now, clutching onto his brother's jacket, looking all the more like a spooked deer. Dean grabs his brother in turn and drags him closer, up to Bobby. (They might not have killed the thing after all, it might have followed them, it's spirit might be haunting the car, haunting them, it might - it - it -)
It's them.
They barely make it back to the car. Sheer determination leads them, and they help each other keep standing. Soaked with blood, baptized in it. Sam falls every few steps, his torn leg refusing to support him, and Dean abandons the weapons for fear of them jostling his wounds and making him pass out for a few seconds (again). They lay a crimson trail from the fire of the corpse to their destination, the stench of ash and death and dying suffocating them. With one arm, they clutch each other - Sam uses his other to put pressure against his torso, keep something from falling out. Dean's free arm is dangling limply at his side.
They fall into the Impala, close the doors at the same time.
It's cold, but their bodies stopped shivering two miles ago. They're way beyond shock, too far.
They hold on to each other, and stare at each other, and smile, and cry. They think simultaneously, this is it. (They think, this sucks.) They don't want it to end, but - neither fear death. They know the end to every road.
They're overwhelmed and overworn. They're tired, so tired. Overcome, they lean towards each other (always gravitating towards each other) and their foreheads come together. The blood matting their hair sticks and joins and connects them. They look at their counterpart, their brother, they're brothers.
Dean decides not to lock the doors. (Neither wants to deal with new repercussions.) He knows that if he did, they wouldn't be getting out.
It's silent for a long time, and everyone just stares at the two bodies lying in the front seat.
They're positioned carelessly, the drive no doubt moving them through bumps and turns. Sam's mostly on the floor, slouched down under the view of the window, his back half-on the seat while his legs twist in odd angles at the cramped space under the glove box. His head is swiveled to the left. It touches Dean's, who is lying almost completely on the seat, both legs hanging off under the steering wheel and one arm underneath him. The other limb is stretched towards Sam, hooking under his back. One of Sam's own arms is still gripping faintly to Dean's shirt, near his collarbone. Their eyes are closed.
Blood, meanwhile, paints the interior of the Impala, with a few handprints and streaks extending to the outside doors and side mirrors. It's odor is overpowering, enveloping the entire car.
Bobby's still trying to keep it together, but a few small sobs escape him.
"Bobby," Dean croaks out. Sam jerks lightly at the sound of his brother's voice, snapped out of his distant gaze.
"Bobby," Dean tries again. Sam continues for him, softly, quietly.
"You know we can't stay - here," he just above whispers, earning a hum of agreement from Dean. They all know what's being implied - salt, lighter fluid, matches, valedictory.
Bobby jerk-nods, a few tears falling and his nose beginning to get runny. He opens his mouth, closes it. He nods again, this time combining the action with a head shake. Draws in a shaky breath.
"Bobby," Dean says. "We have to go."
"S'pose I should be sayin' goodbye again," Bobby half-snorts, already somewhat better. S'pose, Sam echoes with a smile. The older hunter continues. "But that doesn't seem right."
"Nah," Dean barks leisurely with a grin. "Knowing us, we'll be back next week."
"Probably," Sam adds, louder, "with something else trailing behind us."
"Reckon so," Bobby smirks, "I trust you boys to always bring your shit to me."
They all laugh, the sound substantial and bright and warm. They can feel something coming. This time, it won't be a tragedy.
"See you later, Bobby," the brothers both beam.
The sun rises.
Author:
twilightshours Rating/Warnings: PG-13, for gore and a bit of language. I'd warn for other things but that would kinda ruin the point of the story, so read at your own risk!
Genre/Characters: (lots of) angst, H/C. Sam and Dean, Bobby.
Word count: 3,333
Summary: What they see in each other's eyes simultaneously twists both their guts. They both think, something is off. Something happened.
Spoilers: none- can go in any currently-aired season.
Author's Note: Happy Veterans Day! This one goes out to our two loving soldiers. I'll warn again for lots of angst, and I hope you guys enjoy in spite of it.
"S'pose I should be sayin' goodbye again," Bobby half-snorts, already somewhat better. S'pose, Sam echoes with a smile. The older hunter continues. "But that doesn't seem right."
"Nah," Dean barks leisurely with a grin. "Knowing us, we'll be back next week."
"Probably," Sam adds, louder, "with something else trailing behind us."
"Reckon so," Bobby smirks, "I trust you boys to always bring your shit to me."
They all laugh, the sound substantial and bright and warm. They can feel something coming.
"See you later, Bobby," the brothers both beam.
The sun rises.
"God," Dean sort of gasps out, like he just came up from a deep dive into a dark lake. They both feel that way - drowning for hours, and finally getting a lungful of air. "God." He can't say more, is just a fish out of water now.
"How did we," Sam starts out hesitant, manages to appear quiet and tentative even though he's breathing just as loudly and intensely as his brother, "how did we get out of that one?"
They're both looking at each other, at that moment, nostrils flaring and eyes wide, panicked. Their panting betrays the fact that they've been in the Impala for a while, like they are physically unable to catch their breaths. What they see in each other's eyes simultaneously twists both their guts. Goosebumps rise on their skin. They both think, something is off. Something happened.
Dean shifts as the air shifts. Says, "I don't know."
It had been a tough hunt. They both lack the pride not to admit it. It was definitely not a normal hunt; some rare beast not seen in the space of decades, too undocumented and unpredictable to fully research. Sam had been wary about taking the case from the start, to the point of being physically sick during the evenings. Dean, while leaning on the door frame while his brother puked up his dinner, reassured him with "It's just because you're a rookie" and other comforting phrases. It hadn't helped, but they continued on anyway. Not like they couldn't stop - lots of people were dying very quickly.
If Sam had said one thing about the hunt after, it would be that they weren't prepared. No amount of research could have got them ready, and they were on a short time allowance.
The monster itself was a quick shoot-down in terms of real time. In the brothers' minds, the chase had taken eternities. It had shown up (all teeth and fangs snarling spitting and stanch fur and massive size, huger than one and a half Sams) closer than they had calculated, only a few miles into the woods and a pretty clean path from the car. As soon as they claimed sight on it, they had hammered away with everything they brought: wood stakes, silver bullets, salt, holy water, herbs and spices and exorcisms and prayers and even a grenade, the thing kept coming.
In the end, Dean had managed to light it on fire, and while it was distracted Sam came with an axe and mangled away at its neck. They did a quick salt and burn before hightailing it back to the Impala.
The fight took maybe an hour at best. The walk back took close to three.
They both had sported a number of wounds from the thing; it had practically mauled them while they were scrabbling away at changing rounds and switching incantations. Concussions wracked them both from collisions with trees, bruises battered their bodies and lacerations licked at their limbs. The worst wounds were a large gash on Dean's back, from his shoulder bone down to his hip, and Sam had an equally long tear on the front of his torso, starting at his pectoral and nearing his gut. Both rips were deep and burning. They also had ferocious bite marks marring their arms and shoulders, and one even on Sam's calf. A little worse for wear was a huge understatement.
Despite their torments, they had limped back to the Impala successfully.
They decide to drive to Bobby's as soon as they feel better, too shell-shocked to think of going anywhere else. It's a long drive, too; their hunt had placed them in the north west corner of Washington.
It's a mutual decision, but Dean voices it first.
"We need to, uh."
"Get low," Sam supplies.
"Yeah. No. Get- stay low. We need to stay low for a bit." Dean looks a little confused at first, then cracks out into an awkward grin. "You needa work on your expressions, Sammy." It seems rehearsed, left-footed, almost, almost, but it manages to break the tension for a while. They still can't believe it. (That was too close. Too close.)
Luckily they had packed their duffels into the car before setting out on the hunt, the motel already covered. They drive and drive. Not completely healed (never will be) but they have to get there, to Bobby, to some place they can feel safe.
They fall into the Impala, close the doors at the same time. It's a reverberating slam, once they shut, like it's condemning them both. Dean decides not to lock the doors. They've got enough damnation to last them the rest of their lives.
Neither wants to deal with new repercussions.
They're worn out and fatigued, but never stop - only once, for gas, at the dead of night, they don't even bother paying. Dean says he's too tired to fish his wallet out of his bag in the back seat. It's like they're gliding on air, inches above the pavement, and some intangible force is pushing them from behind. Compelling, compounding, contracting. They're tired, tired, tired.
It's so quiet, only the growling of the Impala accompanying them, and no one else. They took the interstate and nowhere roads, sticking out of towns and cities. Dean doesn't have the music on - he tried the radio earlier, but all that came out was static. He tries humming or singing occasionally but Sam shuts him up with a snort.
Sam doesn't say much aside from answering whatever question his brother throws at him, which isn't often. He just slumps against the fabric, his back close to touching the bottom of the seat. He stares out the window or at the dashboard or at Dean's knees, whichever way he's facing after the Impala turns. He's tired, tired, Dean can tell. His face is a shade off from gray and dark shadows overlap the bruises under his eyes, making him look like a sick raccoon. (Dean looks no better, he's sure.) But not once is he seen sleeping. The older brother wants to push the sleep into Sam, but he understands. They won't be able to sleep until they get to Bobby's, get safe. So they leave each other to mostly wallow in their thoughts.
The road feels like a dirge beneath them.
When daytime rolls around - they're on their second day? - the light barely touches them. They're out of it in a dreary way. If someone asks, they'll say they don't mean to set a mood like this, but it came on to them. Dean puts on sunglasses to keep the light and reflections from smacking his eyes out. Sam lets his hair fall over his face more than it already is.
Hours pass. Dean, naturally, gets antsy. He's eventually unnerved by Sam's silence, so he tries to begin again.
"Maybe you should try looking for a hunt. So we can get back on the road right after Bobby's."
Sam blinks at that, says, "Yeah." Another hour has passed before Dean realizes he never took his laptop out, never moved. Okay.
"You wanna hear a riddle?" Sam asks suddenly.
Dean doesn't question it, because it's his brother, what do either of them expect, and "Sure."
"A guy walks into a restaurant, orders some albatross soup. Takes one sip, then runs out and dives in front of a truck. What happened?"
Trust you to have the weirdest riddles, Dean almost says, but instead tries to play along. "Dunno, what?"
There's a long silence, and then Dean looks over to see Sam staring incredulously at him.
"What?"
"It's a riddle, you're supposed to guess. Yes or no questions." Sam smirks a little.
So more time passes, and more, and it's better for both of them even though it's morbid. Dean never solves it, gives up, but manages to make them both laugh a few times with his ridiculous questions. (Was the soup spiked? Was he possessed? Was the soup cursed? Was he a moron?)
The sun is setting on them again, on their last long stretch to the salvage yard, and they've got the windows peeled down. Light spills all over them, their hair lit up in halos and their bruises barely visible, just gilded over by the beams. They don't feel warm, chalking it up to the northern weather, the leather beneath their fingertips seeming to absorb the heat.
Dean looks straight ahead while Sam gazes up, up. There's growing clouds behind them, clear skies ahead. They'll outrun them. The sense of urgency hasn't fled, however. During the hushes, they both feel the panic bubble up almost to the brim. They won't talk about it, but they know each other. What happened, it'll always be on their minds, because Winchesters may do close, but this was close. And they aren't used to dealing with consequences that aren't in the long run.
Bobby will make them rationalize, help put them at ease, and Bobby is twenty miles away. Nineteen, eighteen.
They'd almost say the end is anti-climactic.
They arrive when the shadows are yards long, stretching on forever, and the feeling of twilight makes the brothers shiver in anticipation. They made it to Bobby's, but they're not instantly feeling better. (They aren't used to this - the uncertainty, the insecurity. The unexplainable feeling that puts them at unease, just makes them feel off. Makes them feel gray. They can't deal with gray.)
So they get out of the car, slam the doors to make their presence known. They lean against the Impala to soak up lost temperature and choose not to go inside just yet. Bobby comes out.
"Jesus, you boys sure know how to." He stops, stares, then picks up where he left off, "Startle a guy. Come on in."
The brothers slide off the metal frame and Bobby does this weird dancing motion in the doorway like he's freezing. He kicks the edge of the wall a few times, and Sam gives him this subtle questioning look, like he just missed part of a joke. Dean's downright bewildered. Bobby grumbles out some sort of response, turns and walks in. They follow him.
"Bobby," Dean starts, clearing his throat a bit, "we went up against something pretty big."
"Yeah? How did that fare?"
"Well, we got it, and got out, but we just." Dean feels awkward. Sam hasn't said anything.
"Feel off?" Bobby suggests. "Yeah, that's what big hunts like that one will do to you. You guys look like hell."
They look down, it seems for the first time, taking in their marred and bloody clothes. Like chastised children, they duck their heads.
"Ah. Sorry about that. We fixed up, we just didn't - clean up. We were in a hurry. Can we stay for the night?" Dean fidgets like he's going to take off his jacket, but there's no where to put it. Sam picks at the hems of his sleeves.
"You boys don't need to ask. I'll go ahead and fix up the room for you, just stay here and don't... stain anything. You got clean clothes?"
"Not really," Sam pipes up unhelpfully, evoking a groan from their friend.
"Okay. Okay, just. Don't worry about gettin' the sheets dirty," and he hobbles off.
"Huh," Dean blurts out more than a few minutes after he's gone. "Bobby seems awful... lenient. For being Bobby."
"Yeah," Sam agrees. He's been staring around the room like something's going to leap out of the bookshelves. "Dean, does-"
But Bobby interrupts, coming in while rubbing his eyes and complaining about damn dust. "You're set," he says, and Sam is gone before Dean can even turn and ask for him to finish. He breaths out a goodnight for the both of them and goes after his brother's shadow.
They're tired, tired. Both collapse into their beds simultaneously, shut their eyes simultaneously, exhale simultaneously. Their sleep, however, is jagged and jarred. Each time fallen under consciousness is interruption by disturbances - from a branch hitting a car outside to a slight shift in air temperature. Restless, they toss and finally turn to face each other, stare for what might be half the night. They get up.
They pace endlessly through the house. They feel loud, but Bobby doesn't wake up.
There's nothing really to do in the middle of the night, so the old hunter comes into the kitchen the next morning to find them sitting at the table and staring out the window.
The brothers look up at his entrance, grimacing. "Bobby," Sam starts, ever-hesitant, "you look terrible." Sam was right; Bobby's eyes were red and puffy, bags deep and dark under them, and stubble tracked over his wrinkled face.
"How hurt were you two after the hunt?" Bobby inquires while grabbing coffee and leaning against the door frame. He ignores Sam's comment.
They list off all their injuries, backtracking and rewinding and forgetting a few along the way. They insist they feel fine, despite being tired - all the pains have receded to deep yet shallow aches. Like they're there, permanently, but only as faint reminders of what they experienced. Like every other scar they've received.
"So how do you feel?" Bobby asks after waiting through his whole cup for them to finish.
"We told you, we feel fine," Dean frowns.
"No, but how do you feel," the man tries again. This time they don't bother replying, just cock their heads to the side. Bobby sighs.
"Keep tight, I'll be right back." He tramps outside, his footsteps heavy and loud, a stark contrast to Sam and Dean's mute midnight wanderings.
When he comes back, he looks even worse than before. His skin is sheet white and clammy, his throat consistently working to swallow again and again.
"Jeez Bobby, you look like you've seen a banshee or something," Dean quips, then stands abruptly. "Have you?"
"Dean," Bobby inhales, "Sam," he exhales. "Come outside, something you needa see." He walks back out.
Dean's on his heels, almost outside when he looks back to see Sam standing but not moving an inch.
"Sammy?" The younger brother's looking sick, his eyes wide and pupils shot, his frame visibly trembling. He looks about as likely to walk as a dead man.
"Dean, I don't..."
"Sam? Come on, we've got to go. Bobby says there's something out there. It could be-" Well, it could be anything, he thinks. A spirit or demon or archangel or even Bobby's doppelganger. And that thought sends him backing up, tripping back to when they first got here - Bobby was acting off the whole time. Could he be - ? Dean looks down, sees where the salt line should have been, where it isn't. Only a few granules of salt dust the edges of the frame. Possessed? A shapeshifter?
"Sam, we have to go."
Bobby's by the Impala, and Dean is wary as he approaches slowly - all his weapons are in the car. Sam follows Dean, looking cautious and confused and two seconds away from fleeing.
"Bobby?"
"In the car," he says, and it's catched and shaky and weak. Deans thoughts scatter. What if we brought something back with us? What if something attached itself to the car? How long has it been around? What if-?
Sam's beside him now, clutching onto his brother's jacket, looking all the more like a spooked deer. Dean grabs his brother in turn and drags him closer, up to Bobby. (They might not have killed the thing after all, it might have followed them, it's spirit might be haunting the car, haunting them, it might - it - it -)
It's them.
They barely make it back to the car. Sheer determination leads them, and they help each other keep standing. Soaked with blood, baptized in it. Sam falls every few steps, his torn leg refusing to support him, and Dean abandons the weapons for fear of them jostling his wounds and making him pass out for a few seconds (again). They lay a crimson trail from the fire of the corpse to their destination, the stench of ash and death and dying suffocating them. With one arm, they clutch each other - Sam uses his other to put pressure against his torso, keep something from falling out. Dean's free arm is dangling limply at his side.
They fall into the Impala, close the doors at the same time.
It's cold, but their bodies stopped shivering two miles ago. They're way beyond shock, too far.
They hold on to each other, and stare at each other, and smile, and cry. They think simultaneously, this is it. (They think, this sucks.) They don't want it to end, but - neither fear death. They know the end to every road.
They're overwhelmed and overworn. They're tired, so tired. Overcome, they lean towards each other (always gravitating towards each other) and their foreheads come together. The blood matting their hair sticks and joins and connects them. They look at their counterpart, their brother, they're brothers.
Dean decides not to lock the doors. (Neither wants to deal with new repercussions.) He knows that if he did, they wouldn't be getting out.
It's silent for a long time, and everyone just stares at the two bodies lying in the front seat.
They're positioned carelessly, the drive no doubt moving them through bumps and turns. Sam's mostly on the floor, slouched down under the view of the window, his back half-on the seat while his legs twist in odd angles at the cramped space under the glove box. His head is swiveled to the left. It touches Dean's, who is lying almost completely on the seat, both legs hanging off under the steering wheel and one arm underneath him. The other limb is stretched towards Sam, hooking under his back. One of Sam's own arms is still gripping faintly to Dean's shirt, near his collarbone. Their eyes are closed.
Blood, meanwhile, paints the interior of the Impala, with a few handprints and streaks extending to the outside doors and side mirrors. It's odor is overpowering, enveloping the entire car.
Bobby's still trying to keep it together, but a few small sobs escape him.
"Bobby," Dean croaks out. Sam jerks lightly at the sound of his brother's voice, snapped out of his distant gaze.
"Bobby," Dean tries again. Sam continues for him, softly, quietly.
"You know we can't stay - here," he just above whispers, earning a hum of agreement from Dean. They all know what's being implied - salt, lighter fluid, matches, valedictory.
Bobby jerk-nods, a few tears falling and his nose beginning to get runny. He opens his mouth, closes it. He nods again, this time combining the action with a head shake. Draws in a shaky breath.
"Bobby," Dean says. "We have to go."
"S'pose I should be sayin' goodbye again," Bobby half-snorts, already somewhat better. S'pose, Sam echoes with a smile. The older hunter continues. "But that doesn't seem right."
"Nah," Dean barks leisurely with a grin. "Knowing us, we'll be back next week."
"Probably," Sam adds, louder, "with something else trailing behind us."
"Reckon so," Bobby smirks, "I trust you boys to always bring your shit to me."
They all laugh, the sound substantial and bright and warm. They can feel something coming. This time, it won't be a tragedy.
"See you later, Bobby," the brothers both beam.
The sun rises.
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Date: 2010-11-11 09:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-13 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-11 12:11 pm (UTC)Is it wrong that I found this sort of a happy ending? Sadly, Sam and Dean dying together in a non-damning way is pretty much the best we can ever hope for them, especially now we know they will be together in Heaven. They even got to say goodbye to Bobby! Anyway, that was really interesting and different, I enjoyed it a lot.
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Date: 2010-11-13 09:48 pm (UTC)Thanks so much!
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Date: 2010-11-11 12:16 pm (UTC)Excellently-written, poignant piece. Wonderful job. :)
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Date: 2010-11-13 09:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-11 01:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-13 09:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-11 01:58 pm (UTC)Beautiful.
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Date: 2010-11-13 09:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-11 02:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-13 09:42 pm (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2010-11-11 03:04 pm (UTC)I wish I could come up with something better. How's "This story profoundly affected me"? Because it did.
Just awesome. I just don't know if I should feel actually good, or rather bawl my eyes out.
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Date: 2010-11-13 09:36 pm (UTC)I wish I could've made it happier, haha. I hate reading sad fics. But I'm glad it profoundly affected you - that's one of my goals. :)
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Date: 2010-11-11 03:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-11 07:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-11 05:12 pm (UTC)Is there more to the albatross riddle? Because I couldn't figure out its significance.
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Date: 2010-11-11 07:15 pm (UTC)Well, aside from me just wanting to throw it in there, I figured the riddle itself sorta mirrored the fic. Did you look up the answer to it? -There are a lot of different ways of telling the riddle, but it all goes about the same. The man goes through something tragic, but doesn't find out until later. And Sam, who I think was more attuned to what was happening/picked up on it a little, subconsciously rephrases their own situation through that riddle. Does that help?
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Date: 2010-11-11 06:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-13 09:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-11 10:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-13 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-12 05:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-13 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-12 04:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-13 09:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-13 01:44 pm (UTC)Can I ask you something? How did you get the plain white background? On all of my entries on my lj, it shows the stories against my theme background and I'd just really like to know how to do this.
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Date: 2010-11-13 09:33 pm (UTC)Ahhh, I have no idea hahaha. I'm pretty new to LJ - I just post to the community, and not to my actual journal, so it doesn't have the background of my actual journal. I think if it was cross-posted it would be different. But I'm not certain; you'll probably have to ask someone more experienced. Sorry!
no subject
Date: 2010-11-29 07:15 pm (UTC)