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xaaraTitle: Yesterday, and Days Before
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xaara
Rating: G, gen
Timeline: pre-series & pilot
Characters: Dean, Sam
Summary: He’s not going to write a book.
Notes: This was originally written for my little sister’s birthday. When I pulled it out to give to her, it decided it was incomplete and would not be ignored. So here you go,miliani_2000. A few days late, but for you just the same. With love.
Yesterday, and Days Before
The cabin is a squat thing, ethereal smell of dog and mildew in the back rooms. Crane flies stumble gangly-legged against the lights outside. Dean swats at something that buzzes past his ear, shivering at the disturbance of cool air against his neck.
Sam’s swimming in the lake again. His strokes carry him past where Dean can hear the splash. Sometimes, he goes out for hours while Dean watches, eyes for nothing but the bunch and flex of summer-dark skin. When the late afternoon sun stretches his finger-shadows into threads that twine with the woods, Dean calls his brother home, book of Apache mythology open and unread on his lap.
Dad’s gone, out on some errand with Caleb. Told them to stay put until he got back. Dean wants nothing more than to get the fuck out of this state, head east maybe. Back to where he can feel the rumble of the ocean in his chest. Would do him good to drive a few days, coy resistance of the gas pedal underfoot, the road whispering truth in ancient languages Dean has always understood.
He’s not going to write a book. Sam’s told him he should, given him a leather-bound journal that lives carefully tucked in the bottom of Dean’s duffel, blank. Almost blank. Across the first page, scrawled in blue: Dean’s phone number. He’d intended to give it to a friend with good weapons connections, but hesitated, wrote the number on a long-pocketed receipt instead. It felt wrong, somehow, to tear the page out. Like interrupting a story before it began.
Thousands of miles later, the ink on that first page still reads Dean W., still tells a half-story that no one else could decipher. The rest of the page is smooth and just off-white. One corner of the cover has been creased and dogeared. He’s sure Sam has forgotten giving it.
“Hey,” Sam says, climbing the shore, toweling his hair. “Come on, you’ve been reading that thing for days. Not like you’re getting any further along.”
“I’m reading it,” Dean says. He closes the book, marking his page with a hand tucked against the fold of the spine. The ink rises like a fingerprint against the thin skin at his wrist.
Sam shrugs, already past. “Whatever,” he says. “We got anything to eat?”
There’s a moment when Dean wants to tell Sam about the journal. Wants to say, it’s always been you, little brother. If I wrote my story, it would be pages and pages of you.
Sam comes back out of the house, bread and knife in one hand, jar of peanut butter in the other. “You eat all the rest of the apples?” he asks.
“No,” says Dean. “I left you some.”
--
He’s wondered, on occasion, how he would begin.
My name is Dean Winchester, and I hunt things that you’ve never heard of.
Bleeding on the backseat, wound not so deep but ragged and hurts like fuck and Sam’s face over him blinking on and off as they pass streetlamps. Flash. Dean, don’t do this, Dean. Flash. I’m sorry, I didn’t—flash—I didn’t mean, I’m not—flash—no, Dean, stay awake stay awake.
My name is Dean Winchester, and all of my scars have stories that begin and end after midnight.
“Your brother’s gone,” Dad says, and Dean thinks, no.
“I thought that might happen eventually,” he says around the bile at the back of his throat. Each word burns.
Dad looks down at his hands, twists his wedding band from his finger. It’s the first time Dean’s ever seen the ring off. The skin it covers looks strange without the protection of gold. White and sickly. Surrender. “Stanford, huh?”
Dean swallows, forces a, “Yeah.”
“Damn good school.” Quiet. “He’s always been a smart kid.”
“Yeah.”
Silence, for a moment. “There’s something lupine killing people in Nevada,” Dad says finally. “Maybe we. Fuck, I don’t know.” He rubs a thumb over the ring before sliding it back in place.
“Okay,” says Dean. “Okay.”
My name is Dean Winchester, and when I was four years old, I carried my brother from a burning house. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done.
--
Sam won’t talk to him. Won’t talk to anyone, won’t do anything but sit or pace.
“Sammy,” Dean tries again. Receives a glare for his efforts. The muscle between his shoulders aches like it’s been knotted for days. His eyelids still scrape smoke-rough when he blinks.
This is all we have, he wants to say, all we’ve ever had. He flexes his fingers. Clenches them into a fist, watching the play of tendons across the back of his hand. “Come on, man, they’re—”
“There wasn’t enough of her to fill a casket,” Sam says. “She was. And there wasn’t even. In the end.”
Palms open on Sam’s shoulders, now. Shoulders warm and wide as a fresh-turned field. Death in preparation for something new, something uncurling towards the sun.
“She didn’t know,” Sam whispers. “I never told her.”
Dean thinks about a blank journal. Stories he can never tell between the pages. Stories that should be written in blood and sweat, in silver and moonlight. “It’s okay,” he says, murmurs as Sam shatters around him. Into him.
My name is Dean Winchester, he writes later that night, watching Sam sleep for the first time in days.
He sets down the pen and tucks the journal back away. We made it, he thinks. Crosses his arms and slouches in the chair, eyes never leaving his brother. The room is uncomfortable, chilly. Dean pulls himself in more tightly, sucks in a breath and holds it.
Little sounds: ventilation whirring, an insomniac next door, cricket giving it a last go outside the window. The rush of Sam’s breathing, rustle and creak as he shifts. Dean leans forward, listening. Imagines, in the darkness, that he can hear Sam’s heartbeat, the movement of the blood they share. He places a hand in the center of Sam’s chest, feels the steady, living thrum of his brother beneath.
Retreats, pulls his hand back to himself and snugs it against his side. Looks at his bag, at the corner of the journal half-hidden beneath a roll of flannel. Not tonight, he thinks. But maybe. Soon.
Author:
xaaraRating: G, gen
Timeline: pre-series & pilot
Characters: Dean, Sam
Summary: He’s not going to write a book.
Notes: This was originally written for my little sister’s birthday. When I pulled it out to give to her, it decided it was incomplete and would not be ignored. So here you go,
miliani_2000. A few days late, but for you just the same. With love.Yesterday, and Days Before
The cabin is a squat thing, ethereal smell of dog and mildew in the back rooms. Crane flies stumble gangly-legged against the lights outside. Dean swats at something that buzzes past his ear, shivering at the disturbance of cool air against his neck.
Sam’s swimming in the lake again. His strokes carry him past where Dean can hear the splash. Sometimes, he goes out for hours while Dean watches, eyes for nothing but the bunch and flex of summer-dark skin. When the late afternoon sun stretches his finger-shadows into threads that twine with the woods, Dean calls his brother home, book of Apache mythology open and unread on his lap.
Dad’s gone, out on some errand with Caleb. Told them to stay put until he got back. Dean wants nothing more than to get the fuck out of this state, head east maybe. Back to where he can feel the rumble of the ocean in his chest. Would do him good to drive a few days, coy resistance of the gas pedal underfoot, the road whispering truth in ancient languages Dean has always understood.
He’s not going to write a book. Sam’s told him he should, given him a leather-bound journal that lives carefully tucked in the bottom of Dean’s duffel, blank. Almost blank. Across the first page, scrawled in blue: Dean’s phone number. He’d intended to give it to a friend with good weapons connections, but hesitated, wrote the number on a long-pocketed receipt instead. It felt wrong, somehow, to tear the page out. Like interrupting a story before it began.
Thousands of miles later, the ink on that first page still reads Dean W., still tells a half-story that no one else could decipher. The rest of the page is smooth and just off-white. One corner of the cover has been creased and dogeared. He’s sure Sam has forgotten giving it.
“Hey,” Sam says, climbing the shore, toweling his hair. “Come on, you’ve been reading that thing for days. Not like you’re getting any further along.”
“I’m reading it,” Dean says. He closes the book, marking his page with a hand tucked against the fold of the spine. The ink rises like a fingerprint against the thin skin at his wrist.
Sam shrugs, already past. “Whatever,” he says. “We got anything to eat?”
There’s a moment when Dean wants to tell Sam about the journal. Wants to say, it’s always been you, little brother. If I wrote my story, it would be pages and pages of you.
Sam comes back out of the house, bread and knife in one hand, jar of peanut butter in the other. “You eat all the rest of the apples?” he asks.
“No,” says Dean. “I left you some.”
--
He’s wondered, on occasion, how he would begin.
My name is Dean Winchester, and I hunt things that you’ve never heard of.
Bleeding on the backseat, wound not so deep but ragged and hurts like fuck and Sam’s face over him blinking on and off as they pass streetlamps. Flash. Dean, don’t do this, Dean. Flash. I’m sorry, I didn’t—flash—I didn’t mean, I’m not—flash—no, Dean, stay awake stay awake.
My name is Dean Winchester, and all of my scars have stories that begin and end after midnight.
“Your brother’s gone,” Dad says, and Dean thinks, no.
“I thought that might happen eventually,” he says around the bile at the back of his throat. Each word burns.
Dad looks down at his hands, twists his wedding band from his finger. It’s the first time Dean’s ever seen the ring off. The skin it covers looks strange without the protection of gold. White and sickly. Surrender. “Stanford, huh?”
Dean swallows, forces a, “Yeah.”
“Damn good school.” Quiet. “He’s always been a smart kid.”
“Yeah.”
Silence, for a moment. “There’s something lupine killing people in Nevada,” Dad says finally. “Maybe we. Fuck, I don’t know.” He rubs a thumb over the ring before sliding it back in place.
“Okay,” says Dean. “Okay.”
My name is Dean Winchester, and when I was four years old, I carried my brother from a burning house. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done.
--
Sam won’t talk to him. Won’t talk to anyone, won’t do anything but sit or pace.
“Sammy,” Dean tries again. Receives a glare for his efforts. The muscle between his shoulders aches like it’s been knotted for days. His eyelids still scrape smoke-rough when he blinks.
This is all we have, he wants to say, all we’ve ever had. He flexes his fingers. Clenches them into a fist, watching the play of tendons across the back of his hand. “Come on, man, they’re—”
“There wasn’t enough of her to fill a casket,” Sam says. “She was. And there wasn’t even. In the end.”
Palms open on Sam’s shoulders, now. Shoulders warm and wide as a fresh-turned field. Death in preparation for something new, something uncurling towards the sun.
“She didn’t know,” Sam whispers. “I never told her.”
Dean thinks about a blank journal. Stories he can never tell between the pages. Stories that should be written in blood and sweat, in silver and moonlight. “It’s okay,” he says, murmurs as Sam shatters around him. Into him.
My name is Dean Winchester, he writes later that night, watching Sam sleep for the first time in days.
He sets down the pen and tucks the journal back away. We made it, he thinks. Crosses his arms and slouches in the chair, eyes never leaving his brother. The room is uncomfortable, chilly. Dean pulls himself in more tightly, sucks in a breath and holds it.
Little sounds: ventilation whirring, an insomniac next door, cricket giving it a last go outside the window. The rush of Sam’s breathing, rustle and creak as he shifts. Dean leans forward, listening. Imagines, in the darkness, that he can hear Sam’s heartbeat, the movement of the blood they share. He places a hand in the center of Sam’s chest, feels the steady, living thrum of his brother beneath.
Retreats, pulls his hand back to himself and snugs it against his side. Looks at his bag, at the corner of the journal half-hidden beneath a roll of flannel. Not tonight, he thinks. But maybe. Soon.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-07 03:41 pm (UTC)Pretty.
Very nice, thank you.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-08 06:49 pm (UTC)