Supernatural Fic: Frayed Ends of Sanity
May. 19th, 2006 09:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xaaraSo I've been sucked into Supernatural against my will. Even though horror movies freak me out and when I watched The Shining two Halloweens ago, I ended up curled up in a corner quaking with a friend. (He--the friend--was equally unbalanced at the time.) But oh man, I just watched the entire first season in the last three days, and it's pretty amazing.
Title: Frayed Ends of Sanity
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xaara
Rating: PG (language)
Characters: Sam & Dean Winchester
Spoilers: Tiny ones through episode 1.13 (Route 666)
Summary: A mildly AU future-fic, breaking off from canon after Route 666.
“Spirits?” Sam asks. “Ghosts? Evil pagan gods?”
“Nah,” says Dean. “Some dumbass kid thinks he summoned his mom.”
(Sincere apologies to Metallica for use of their song title as title of this fic.)
Frayed Ends of Sanity
Sam leaves once in each state in the midwest, again in most of the north half of the south. The longest he stays gone is forty-six hours, which Dean knows because he counts each and every one while pretending that poring through arrest records and suspicious deaths without his brother is not an immense pain in the ass.
“Hey,” Sam says, forty-six hours and seventeen minutes after he yells at Dean to get the fuck away with his stupid fucking Metallica. Not that Dean’s been counting the minutes, because that shit’s for chicks. He tries not to notice that their fights have been devolving into petty issues, mostly who gets to drive and who gets to pick the music and why Dean can never find a diner with crispy french fries.
Dean doesn’t have much of a taste for french fries, but apparently Sam is in a sort of permanent snit about them. Might be demonic possession, by the spirit of a thirteen-year-old girl who missed her middle school dance and killed herself as a result. First chance he gets, Dean means to look into it.
“Yo, bitch,” Dean says, to his brother who was gone for forty-six hours and seventeen minutes but is now back and settling his bag next to the seat across from Dean’s. “Nice of you to come to town. Been having some trouble with the locals, you know, usual shit.”
“Spirits?” Sam asks. “Ghosts? Evil pagan gods?”
“Nah,” says Dean. “Some dumbass kid thinks he summoned his mom.”
Sam almost doesn’t believe him. Dean can sense it without looking, read it as well as his own skepticism. He doesn’t turn his gaze up from the pages he’s scanning, doesn’t bother asking if Sam’s onboard, because Sam flips on his I-went-to-Stanford-lah-di-fuckin’-da voice and asks, “So what’s the plan?”
“I’m working on it,” Dean says, hearing Sam whisper the words along with him. He scowls and looks up into Sam’s blinding grin.
When Sam snatches the book out from under his fingers and sniffs it, Dean growls, “Dude, what the fuck?” but lets it go. And when Sam’s not looking, he might smile back a little.
--
“So the kid thinks he summoned his mother?” Sam asks for the hundredth time.
“No,” says Dean. “The last three point six million times you asked that same fucking question, I actually meant to say he summoned his dog. Called the thing ‘Bluther,’ easy mistake to make.”
Sam blinks at him and Dean wonders why he even tries. “Are we getting any closer to this thing?” he asks.
“Dunno,” says Sam. “But whatever it is, the kid’s mom is buried here.” The tip of Sam’s finger crinkles the map and Dean fights the urge to tell him to get over the drama bullshit already, just get in the car and drive and burn some bones.
They salt and kerosene up, make sure Dean has a book of matches and that his Zippo lights because he’s had some bad experiences with that in the past, and head out. Dean figures they can make it to the cemetery before nightfall. Figures it’ll be better that way. He’s not too certain that burning the bones will make it better anyway, because realistically, how many times has that been the end of the problem? But he has to try, and burning shit is always a good way to start an evening of fun and educational entertainment for the whole family.
They dig and dig and hit wood and smash it and salt and burn the body. “Well,” says Sam, “at least there’s not a possessed truck. Yet.”
Dean smacks Sam across the back of the head. Hard. “What the hell, man?” he hisses. “You want us to get our asses kicked by some freaky spirit that gets ideas in its head?”
“Just sayin’. Could be worse.”
Dean’s given up trying to explain to Sam exactly how stupid saying the words ‘could be worse’ while on a job is. He’s used the usual explanations about how remarks about traffic on a Sunday afternoon result in massive jams and how mentioning the lack of rain during a picnic is just about the surest way to get it to pour. Sam always has logical explanations, tells Dean they’re just random, that the latter outcome would be the same regardless of the former comment.
Dean doesn’t believe in luck. He does, however, believe in a pretty fucking strong correlation between relief and imminent pain.
“Great,” he mutters, because he’s seen something moving in the mist and knows that in, oh, ten or so seconds, it’s going to be worse.
“What?” Sam says, on alert instantly, attuned to Dean’s tone.
“Behind that stand of trees,” Dean says. “Something moved. Looked like a long dress, dark color.” He waits a second, and then adds, “You’re such a fucking jackass sometimes,” for good measure.
“What’d I do?” Sam asks without losing any of his alert edge. Dean’s thankful for this, their ability to compartmentalize, to carry on a conversation while killing things without sacrificing either form of communication.
They’ve never been that good at conversation anyway. Not without movement and eye contact, slamming against walls and pillars and probably some yelling. “Stick with me,” Dean says, taking a cautious step forward. “You said it could be worse.”
The wind picks up, scrubbing the grass clean of dead leaves and stirring the tree branches overhead. There, ahead, movement again, looks like the same thing. Dean cocks his gun, aims it forward. “Hello?” he calls. “Anyone there?”
“Dane,” says a female voice from behind a sharply bent tree trunk ahead. “Dane.”
“’m Dean,” says Dean. “This is Sam. Don’t think you’re looking for us.”
She steps out from her hiding place, her dress, a deep green, torn and tattered about her. “Dane,” she says. “Have you seen Dane?”
“Got a last name?” Dean asks, feeling kind of stupid talking to a ghost or spirit or whateverthefuck he’s talking to. Not usually in the business of communing with the critters.
“Jacobson,” she whispers. “Dane Jacobson. Have you seen my son?”
“Jacobson,” Dean says, and turns to Sam. “Jacobson? Isn’t that the--”
“Kid,” says Sam. “Right.”
“Sorry, lady,” Dean says. “Can’t help you.”
She looks at him, then, takes a step forward and meet his eyes. “Dean,” she says, “please. My son. He’s in danger, I know he’s in danger, if you’ll just help me find him I can keep them away.”
There’s something seriously fucking fucked about this situation, much of which is bound up in how the ghost mom thing won’t let him look away, keeps staring into his eyes until he imagines he can see right through her, into her soul if he believed in that sort of thing. “Please,” she whispers. “Let me help my son.”
“Dean?” Sam asks, stepping towards them. “Dean? What’re you doing?”
The words barely register. Dean’s still staring at her, lost in her, and he sees something there that he would recognize anywhere, and he drops his shotgun.
“Dude, Dean, what’re you doing?” Sam says, sliding between his brother and the advancing spirit.
“Let her go, Sam,” Dean says. His mouth forms the words, and they come out in the right order, but they seem to speak through him. He’s not quite sure of anything anymore.
“Dean?”
“Let her go.” Dean blinks, once, and is free to look away. When he glances back, the woman is gone.
--
Sam drives them back, and sneaks looks at Dean while pretending to check the rear-view mirror until Dean sits straight up in his seat and says, “If you don’t quit fucking worrying about me and start worrying about the road, you can pull over right here and let me drive.”
“Is that Dean for ‘I’m all right, thank you Sam for being a concerned friend and family member and I will now sleep in peace and not disturb the driver?’ Because, you know, that’d be fine by me.”
“Fine,” says Dean.
“Fine,” says Sam.
They drive the rest of the way in silence.
--
The next morning, the paper features a tiny article about a fire in a nearby home. Dean reads it aloud: “Dane Jacobson, the son of a town resident away for the weekend, was driving home late from work when he claims he saw the ghost of his mother beckoning him into the woods. He pulled over for a few minutes and then continued on his way. When he arrived home, his entire house was engulfed in flame.
“Fire Chief Taylor Warren said, ‘The kid’s amazingly lucky. If he’d gotten home a few minutes earlier, the gas leak and spark that ignited the fire probably would’ve killed him.’
“’My mother saved me,’ said Jacobson. ‘If it hadn’t been for her, I’d be dead right now.’
“While the fire department has not ruled out arson as the cause of the fire, they currently do not suspect foul play.”
Sam leans back in his chair. “Shit,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Dean. “Don’t know what she’s clinging to, whether it’s the house or the kid, but either way, I think she’s safe to have around.”
“Probably,” says Sam. He sits up straighter. “What did she tell you, in the cemetery?” he asks. “How’d you know to let her go?”
“She’s a mother.” Dean shrugs, leafs through the newspaper. “She was just a mother, and she wanted to get back to her kid.”
Sam smiles a tiny, broken smile, and for a long instant Dean wants his own mother back so hard it hurts.
“I wish I could remember her.” Sam is studying his hands when Dean turns to look. “I mean, I wish I could remember her as more than this pillar of walking fire, you know?” He huffs an approximation of a laugh and picks at a healing wound across his left palm.
“Hey,” says Dean. He thinks words that are meant to comfort, meant to soothe and heal. He doesn’t say them.
He’s not built for that. He’s built small and powerful, built to hunt and destroy and move on to hunt and destroy more. He hasn’t read a novel since The Great Gatsby in high school and he hasn’t missed his mother in any way that didn’t translate into anger for nearly as long.
He wants her back. And he’s never going to get her back. She died protecting her family and destroyed the last remains of herself protecting them again. He can kill her killer, and kill every killer in the entire US of A, but she’s gone. Really fucking truly gone.
“Shit,” someone’s saying. “Shit, Dean. You okay?”
Dean opens his mouth to say something, to gripe at Sam for being such a woman again, but all that comes out is a choking sound, like he can’t quite decide whether to inhale or exhale.
“Breathe, Dean.” Sam’s arms wrap around him, warm and tight. “Breathe.”
Dean breathes, like a good little boy. He breathes, stops as a sob escapes him, breathes again. He fights to get away from Sam, to go to the bathroom and deal with this like a Winchester man should, but either Sam’s scrawny arms are a lot stronger than they look or Dean can’t muster the willpower to deal with him. He stays there for what seems like hours, bunched awkwardly against his brother’s chest, struggling for air.
Finally, he pushes away. “Jesus,” he says. His voice grates against his throat, low and coarse. “That was not something I want to repeat in the ever.”
Sam looks like he’s not sure whether to smile and play along or work his worried hen angle. He seems to decide on a compromise when he pats Dean’s shoulder and moves back, carefully not checking to make sure Dean’s all right.
The room remains silent for a few minutes before Dean retreats into the bathroom and splashes water on his face, dries it off without looking into the mirror, and crosses the room again on his way outside. He stares out at the town during its midmorning lull, noting out of habit all the places something could hide, the best vantage spots, likely places to keep prisoners. And then he lets it go, wipes his mind carefully clean of the place.
“Dean.” Sam’s walked out on the balcony behind him. “Hey man, I was thinking we could hit up the burger place, grab some food for the road.”
“Okay,” says Dean. He wants to stay out here, just a little while longer. Sometimes, in the tangle of frantic nights that has become his life, he forgets what it’s like to feel the sun warming his face. Just a little while longer. “Start packing,” he says. “I’ll be back in a second.”
Title: Frayed Ends of Sanity
Author:
xaaraRating: PG (language)
Characters: Sam & Dean Winchester
Spoilers: Tiny ones through episode 1.13 (Route 666)
Summary: A mildly AU future-fic, breaking off from canon after Route 666.
“Spirits?” Sam asks. “Ghosts? Evil pagan gods?”
“Nah,” says Dean. “Some dumbass kid thinks he summoned his mom.”
(Sincere apologies to Metallica for use of their song title as title of this fic.)
Frayed Ends of Sanity
Sam leaves once in each state in the midwest, again in most of the north half of the south. The longest he stays gone is forty-six hours, which Dean knows because he counts each and every one while pretending that poring through arrest records and suspicious deaths without his brother is not an immense pain in the ass.
“Hey,” Sam says, forty-six hours and seventeen minutes after he yells at Dean to get the fuck away with his stupid fucking Metallica. Not that Dean’s been counting the minutes, because that shit’s for chicks. He tries not to notice that their fights have been devolving into petty issues, mostly who gets to drive and who gets to pick the music and why Dean can never find a diner with crispy french fries.
Dean doesn’t have much of a taste for french fries, but apparently Sam is in a sort of permanent snit about them. Might be demonic possession, by the spirit of a thirteen-year-old girl who missed her middle school dance and killed herself as a result. First chance he gets, Dean means to look into it.
“Yo, bitch,” Dean says, to his brother who was gone for forty-six hours and seventeen minutes but is now back and settling his bag next to the seat across from Dean’s. “Nice of you to come to town. Been having some trouble with the locals, you know, usual shit.”
“Spirits?” Sam asks. “Ghosts? Evil pagan gods?”
“Nah,” says Dean. “Some dumbass kid thinks he summoned his mom.”
Sam almost doesn’t believe him. Dean can sense it without looking, read it as well as his own skepticism. He doesn’t turn his gaze up from the pages he’s scanning, doesn’t bother asking if Sam’s onboard, because Sam flips on his I-went-to-Stanford-lah-di-fuckin’-da voice and asks, “So what’s the plan?”
“I’m working on it,” Dean says, hearing Sam whisper the words along with him. He scowls and looks up into Sam’s blinding grin.
When Sam snatches the book out from under his fingers and sniffs it, Dean growls, “Dude, what the fuck?” but lets it go. And when Sam’s not looking, he might smile back a little.
--
“So the kid thinks he summoned his mother?” Sam asks for the hundredth time.
“No,” says Dean. “The last three point six million times you asked that same fucking question, I actually meant to say he summoned his dog. Called the thing ‘Bluther,’ easy mistake to make.”
Sam blinks at him and Dean wonders why he even tries. “Are we getting any closer to this thing?” he asks.
“Dunno,” says Sam. “But whatever it is, the kid’s mom is buried here.” The tip of Sam’s finger crinkles the map and Dean fights the urge to tell him to get over the drama bullshit already, just get in the car and drive and burn some bones.
They salt and kerosene up, make sure Dean has a book of matches and that his Zippo lights because he’s had some bad experiences with that in the past, and head out. Dean figures they can make it to the cemetery before nightfall. Figures it’ll be better that way. He’s not too certain that burning the bones will make it better anyway, because realistically, how many times has that been the end of the problem? But he has to try, and burning shit is always a good way to start an evening of fun and educational entertainment for the whole family.
They dig and dig and hit wood and smash it and salt and burn the body. “Well,” says Sam, “at least there’s not a possessed truck. Yet.”
Dean smacks Sam across the back of the head. Hard. “What the hell, man?” he hisses. “You want us to get our asses kicked by some freaky spirit that gets ideas in its head?”
“Just sayin’. Could be worse.”
Dean’s given up trying to explain to Sam exactly how stupid saying the words ‘could be worse’ while on a job is. He’s used the usual explanations about how remarks about traffic on a Sunday afternoon result in massive jams and how mentioning the lack of rain during a picnic is just about the surest way to get it to pour. Sam always has logical explanations, tells Dean they’re just random, that the latter outcome would be the same regardless of the former comment.
Dean doesn’t believe in luck. He does, however, believe in a pretty fucking strong correlation between relief and imminent pain.
“Great,” he mutters, because he’s seen something moving in the mist and knows that in, oh, ten or so seconds, it’s going to be worse.
“What?” Sam says, on alert instantly, attuned to Dean’s tone.
“Behind that stand of trees,” Dean says. “Something moved. Looked like a long dress, dark color.” He waits a second, and then adds, “You’re such a fucking jackass sometimes,” for good measure.
“What’d I do?” Sam asks without losing any of his alert edge. Dean’s thankful for this, their ability to compartmentalize, to carry on a conversation while killing things without sacrificing either form of communication.
They’ve never been that good at conversation anyway. Not without movement and eye contact, slamming against walls and pillars and probably some yelling. “Stick with me,” Dean says, taking a cautious step forward. “You said it could be worse.”
The wind picks up, scrubbing the grass clean of dead leaves and stirring the tree branches overhead. There, ahead, movement again, looks like the same thing. Dean cocks his gun, aims it forward. “Hello?” he calls. “Anyone there?”
“Dane,” says a female voice from behind a sharply bent tree trunk ahead. “Dane.”
“’m Dean,” says Dean. “This is Sam. Don’t think you’re looking for us.”
She steps out from her hiding place, her dress, a deep green, torn and tattered about her. “Dane,” she says. “Have you seen Dane?”
“Got a last name?” Dean asks, feeling kind of stupid talking to a ghost or spirit or whateverthefuck he’s talking to. Not usually in the business of communing with the critters.
“Jacobson,” she whispers. “Dane Jacobson. Have you seen my son?”
“Jacobson,” Dean says, and turns to Sam. “Jacobson? Isn’t that the--”
“Kid,” says Sam. “Right.”
“Sorry, lady,” Dean says. “Can’t help you.”
She looks at him, then, takes a step forward and meet his eyes. “Dean,” she says, “please. My son. He’s in danger, I know he’s in danger, if you’ll just help me find him I can keep them away.”
There’s something seriously fucking fucked about this situation, much of which is bound up in how the ghost mom thing won’t let him look away, keeps staring into his eyes until he imagines he can see right through her, into her soul if he believed in that sort of thing. “Please,” she whispers. “Let me help my son.”
“Dean?” Sam asks, stepping towards them. “Dean? What’re you doing?”
The words barely register. Dean’s still staring at her, lost in her, and he sees something there that he would recognize anywhere, and he drops his shotgun.
“Dude, Dean, what’re you doing?” Sam says, sliding between his brother and the advancing spirit.
“Let her go, Sam,” Dean says. His mouth forms the words, and they come out in the right order, but they seem to speak through him. He’s not quite sure of anything anymore.
“Dean?”
“Let her go.” Dean blinks, once, and is free to look away. When he glances back, the woman is gone.
--
Sam drives them back, and sneaks looks at Dean while pretending to check the rear-view mirror until Dean sits straight up in his seat and says, “If you don’t quit fucking worrying about me and start worrying about the road, you can pull over right here and let me drive.”
“Is that Dean for ‘I’m all right, thank you Sam for being a concerned friend and family member and I will now sleep in peace and not disturb the driver?’ Because, you know, that’d be fine by me.”
“Fine,” says Dean.
“Fine,” says Sam.
They drive the rest of the way in silence.
--
The next morning, the paper features a tiny article about a fire in a nearby home. Dean reads it aloud: “Dane Jacobson, the son of a town resident away for the weekend, was driving home late from work when he claims he saw the ghost of his mother beckoning him into the woods. He pulled over for a few minutes and then continued on his way. When he arrived home, his entire house was engulfed in flame.
“Fire Chief Taylor Warren said, ‘The kid’s amazingly lucky. If he’d gotten home a few minutes earlier, the gas leak and spark that ignited the fire probably would’ve killed him.’
“’My mother saved me,’ said Jacobson. ‘If it hadn’t been for her, I’d be dead right now.’
“While the fire department has not ruled out arson as the cause of the fire, they currently do not suspect foul play.”
Sam leans back in his chair. “Shit,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Dean. “Don’t know what she’s clinging to, whether it’s the house or the kid, but either way, I think she’s safe to have around.”
“Probably,” says Sam. He sits up straighter. “What did she tell you, in the cemetery?” he asks. “How’d you know to let her go?”
“She’s a mother.” Dean shrugs, leafs through the newspaper. “She was just a mother, and she wanted to get back to her kid.”
Sam smiles a tiny, broken smile, and for a long instant Dean wants his own mother back so hard it hurts.
“I wish I could remember her.” Sam is studying his hands when Dean turns to look. “I mean, I wish I could remember her as more than this pillar of walking fire, you know?” He huffs an approximation of a laugh and picks at a healing wound across his left palm.
“Hey,” says Dean. He thinks words that are meant to comfort, meant to soothe and heal. He doesn’t say them.
He’s not built for that. He’s built small and powerful, built to hunt and destroy and move on to hunt and destroy more. He hasn’t read a novel since The Great Gatsby in high school and he hasn’t missed his mother in any way that didn’t translate into anger for nearly as long.
He wants her back. And he’s never going to get her back. She died protecting her family and destroyed the last remains of herself protecting them again. He can kill her killer, and kill every killer in the entire US of A, but she’s gone. Really fucking truly gone.
“Shit,” someone’s saying. “Shit, Dean. You okay?”
Dean opens his mouth to say something, to gripe at Sam for being such a woman again, but all that comes out is a choking sound, like he can’t quite decide whether to inhale or exhale.
“Breathe, Dean.” Sam’s arms wrap around him, warm and tight. “Breathe.”
Dean breathes, like a good little boy. He breathes, stops as a sob escapes him, breathes again. He fights to get away from Sam, to go to the bathroom and deal with this like a Winchester man should, but either Sam’s scrawny arms are a lot stronger than they look or Dean can’t muster the willpower to deal with him. He stays there for what seems like hours, bunched awkwardly against his brother’s chest, struggling for air.
Finally, he pushes away. “Jesus,” he says. His voice grates against his throat, low and coarse. “That was not something I want to repeat in the ever.”
Sam looks like he’s not sure whether to smile and play along or work his worried hen angle. He seems to decide on a compromise when he pats Dean’s shoulder and moves back, carefully not checking to make sure Dean’s all right.
The room remains silent for a few minutes before Dean retreats into the bathroom and splashes water on his face, dries it off without looking into the mirror, and crosses the room again on his way outside. He stares out at the town during its midmorning lull, noting out of habit all the places something could hide, the best vantage spots, likely places to keep prisoners. And then he lets it go, wipes his mind carefully clean of the place.
“Dean.” Sam’s walked out on the balcony behind him. “Hey man, I was thinking we could hit up the burger place, grab some food for the road.”
“Okay,” says Dean. He wants to stay out here, just a little while longer. Sometimes, in the tangle of frantic nights that has become his life, he forgets what it’s like to feel the sun warming his face. Just a little while longer. “Start packing,” he says. “I’ll be back in a second.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 07:50 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 08:38 am (UTC)Thanks. :) Their dynamic is so specific that it's hard to capture sometimes, which just makes it that much more fun to try.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 08:39 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 09:14 am (UTC)As for the song title for the title..I do it all the time. Titles aren't actually copyrightable..that's why there are so many songs out there with the same name..different content, but same names. Sorry some info just gets stuck in my head...and if that particular law changed sorry for the bad info.
Awesome job. Loved this side of Dean.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 10:27 am (UTC)Hehe, I wasn't actually worried about the title, but thanks for the info. I simply think Metallica hadn't quite anticipated this use for their songwriting. ;)
Thanks for reading and reviewing!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 10:04 am (UTC)Dean doesn’t have much of a taste for french fries, but apparently Sam is in a sort of permanent snit about them. Might be demonic possession, by the spirit of a thirteen-year-old girl who missed her middle school dance and killed herself as a result. First chance he gets, Dean means to look into it. Hee!
“Yo, bitch,” Dean says, to his brother who was gone for forty-six hours and seventeen minutes but is now back and settling his bag next to the seat across from Dean’s. Oh, just perfect.
But he has to try, and burning shit is always a good way to start an evening of fun and educational entertainment for the whole family. Oh, I love him so.
Dean doesn’t believe in luck. He does, however, believe in a pretty fucking strong correlation between relief and imminent pain. You phrased this just right.
He’s not built for that. He’s built small and powerful, built to hunt and destroy and move on to hunt and destroy more. He hasn’t read a novel since The Great Gatsby in high school and he hasn’t missed his mother in any way that didn’t translate into anger for nearly as long.
He wants her back. And he’s never going to get her back. She died protecting her family and destroyed the last remains of herself protecting them again. He can kill her killer, and kill every killer in the entire US of A, but she’s gone. Really fucking truly gone. Oh, DEAN!
Sometimes, in the tangle of frantic nights that has become his life, he forgets what it’s like to feel the sun warming his face. Just a little while longer. “Start packing,” he says. “I’ll be back in a second.” This is such a lovely image.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 10:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 10:16 am (UTC)one teeny teeny quibble - you saw hell house, right? sam's arms ain't scrawny. :D
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 10:22 am (UTC)(And yeah, Sam's arms are far from scrawny. Dean, however, in his infinite wisdom and disinclination to see Sam as anything except his baby brother a lot of the time, might disagree. ;) )
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 12:14 pm (UTC)(point. very good point, in fact. fine, dean, your little brother has scrawny arms. he's STILL taller than you. :D )
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 01:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 10:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 12:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-19 07:41 pm (UTC)There are several lines that I really, really liked, but his bit: He’s not built for that. He’s built small and powerful, built to hunt and destroy and move on to hunt and destroy more. He hasn’t read a novel since The Great Gatsby in high school and he hasn’t missed his mother in any way that didn’t translate into anger for nearly as long. was my favorite.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-20 06:41 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-31 02:05 am (UTC)yet to see him show an emotional reaction towards that specific incident
except in 'Home'.
You did a wonderful job and your voices are excellent.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-03 10:34 am (UTC)Okay, this is probably more than you bargained for in saying We all know that Dean loves his mother, but bear with me for a second. I have this theory about that; namely, that he doesn't really remember her that well. I mean, what do you remember about your parents from when you were four? That they existed, probably, but my only real memories from that time are of highly traumatic experiences. So while I think Dean remembers that he had a mother, and that she loved him, and that she died (which death he didn't see--he was nowhere near Sam's room when John came out and told him to run), I also think he is, in a lot of ways, fighting in the memory of something he wishes he could have had rather than something he's lost.
If that makes any sense.
But anyway, thanks for reading and reviewing. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-17 02:52 am (UTC)