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glorious_spoonTitle: Knowing
Pairings: Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Dean, dreams, and Fate. S1, drabble-ish
It's never been a big deal.
He's not like Sam. He doesn't have freaky psychic fits and he can't throw people across the room with his mind. He's not special. It's not like he ever sees anything useful, anyway. It's all just more of the same shit, different day. Himself, five, ten, fifteen years from now, doing the same thing he's always done. Saving people, hunting things.
Going gray and slow and scarred, getting wrinkles around his eyes and sitting in the back of some bar with Sammy, who's starting to go gray himself and looks more like Dad every day, bitching about the music and downing a few to soothe the joints that never stop aching these days.
He doesn't mind those ones.
Sometimes there's a pretty dark-haired woman and a nice house in the kind of neighborhood he hasn't lived in since Mom died. Sometimes, there's a kid.
Sometimes, he's pointing the Colt at Sammy in a sunny courtyard. Sam smiles, and it's like something else is looking out through his eyes, something old and dead and evil and the trigger is slippery-hot under Dean's finger and--
Sometimes, he's buried alive, beating his hands against the inside of a wooden coffin until it gives way to damp earth and choking and gasping and the worst thing is, the worst thing is, it's a relief. It's better than--
And then he wakes up, and Sam's there in the other bed, snoring like a chainsaw. Or sitting cross-legged, all pointy knees and elbows, impossibly tall and still gangly as a teenager and Dean, I think Dad might have gone to Louisiana, if we wanted to we could get there by nightfall.
If Dad wanted us to know where he was, he'd tell us.
I just think we should--
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Sometimes, he's curled on a motel bed, shaking and sobbing and a Sam who looks like he's gained about fifty pounds of muscle watches him with a gentle contempt that makes Dean cringe away, reach for a bottle, the heat of whiskey to burn away--
--what? he thinks. To burn away what?
Sometimes, you're better off not knowing, but Dean's never had that luxury.
Pairings: Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Dean, dreams, and Fate. S1, drabble-ish
It's never been a big deal.
He's not like Sam. He doesn't have freaky psychic fits and he can't throw people across the room with his mind. He's not special. It's not like he ever sees anything useful, anyway. It's all just more of the same shit, different day. Himself, five, ten, fifteen years from now, doing the same thing he's always done. Saving people, hunting things.
Going gray and slow and scarred, getting wrinkles around his eyes and sitting in the back of some bar with Sammy, who's starting to go gray himself and looks more like Dad every day, bitching about the music and downing a few to soothe the joints that never stop aching these days.
He doesn't mind those ones.
Sometimes there's a pretty dark-haired woman and a nice house in the kind of neighborhood he hasn't lived in since Mom died. Sometimes, there's a kid.
Sometimes, he's pointing the Colt at Sammy in a sunny courtyard. Sam smiles, and it's like something else is looking out through his eyes, something old and dead and evil and the trigger is slippery-hot under Dean's finger and--
Sometimes, he's buried alive, beating his hands against the inside of a wooden coffin until it gives way to damp earth and choking and gasping and the worst thing is, the worst thing is, it's a relief. It's better than--
And then he wakes up, and Sam's there in the other bed, snoring like a chainsaw. Or sitting cross-legged, all pointy knees and elbows, impossibly tall and still gangly as a teenager and Dean, I think Dad might have gone to Louisiana, if we wanted to we could get there by nightfall.
If Dad wanted us to know where he was, he'd tell us.
I just think we should--
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Sometimes, he's curled on a motel bed, shaking and sobbing and a Sam who looks like he's gained about fifty pounds of muscle watches him with a gentle contempt that makes Dean cringe away, reach for a bottle, the heat of whiskey to burn away--
--what? he thinks. To burn away what?
Sometimes, you're better off not knowing, but Dean's never had that luxury.
