alwaysenduphere (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
alwaysenduphere) wrote2010-05-15 11:24 pm
alwaysenduphere) wrote2010-05-15 11:24 pm
Entry tags:
fic: movin' on
Sooo, episode codas are not something I usually write. Who am I kidding, writing is not some I usually do often. And yet here we are. Unbeta'ed, written on impulse, and now...posted. Meep.
Title: Movin' On
Character: Dean Winchester
Rating: PG
Summary: Obviously you've never been good at letting go.
Notes: coda to 5.22. 1,111 words. possible misuse of second person point of view. title slightly inspired by the Bad Company song of the same name.
You don't get the windshield fixed right away.
Lisa asks about it, once, shortly after you arrive on her doorstep in a heaping pile of your former self. You can't manage to form a full-sentence answer, not knowing where to start or how to finish explaining how everything you once knew as your world has been shifted and broken. Sam's name is all you can squeeze out, a one-word summary of heartbreak. You're glad when Lisa nods in understanding; you've got no other words left.
It's quiet around the house for a few weeks. You're not sure what exactly Lisa tells Ben when he first comes home from school to find you sitting at the kitchen table, but after his initial excitement at seeing you, he keeps his distance for awhile. Lisa and Ben don't tiptoe around you, necessarily, but you see them watching you closely, all 'handle with care, fragile contents may break at any time.' You can't blame them.
The impala sits in the same spot, untouched, for thirty-two days. On day thirty-three the garbage truck (which wakes you up every Thursday at 9 am whether you want to wake up or not) backs up too far and nicks the back taillight. You’re still in bed when you hear the metal-on-metal sound and know instantly what has happened, but you don’t get up until nearly seven hours later, when Ben bounds through the door, furious. You only go out to look after he insists on showing you the damage.
On Ben’s insistence, you take her to a garage to get fixed. They call with an estimate the next day and it’s only then you realize you have no way of paying. Lisa suggests you ask for a job instead and you scoff at the idea, at first. Getting out of bed is enough of a job. Promise me, Dean, echoes in your head every morning after she suggests it though, and six days after the phone call, Lisa drives you over to the garage so you can ask for a job in person. It’s one of the most exhausting days of your life, and that’s saying something. You get the job.
When summer comes and Ben’s home all the time, you start to feel antsy, and one night after you wake up crying, Lisa suggests a road trip. You think she means all three of you, but when the impala leaves the driveway at two am the next morning, you’re the only occupant. You don’t drive fast and you have no destination; you have no place to go. You simply drive until you run out of gas. It’s not a very long drive. The impala lurches to the side of the road, overgrown corn stalks on both sides and the soft silhouette of the town you just left barely on the horizon. The sky is clear and dark and you don’t feel like walking.
It’s too hot to sit on the hood, engine heat radiating off the black metal, so you pull out the old green cooler, empty save for a warm bottle of (you’re not sure how old)whiskey, and sit down. Half the bottle slides down your throat in an hour, and you sluggishly crawl up on the hood after it cools and stare off into space. You’re drunk and morose as is your natural state lately, and as the stars start to blend together, of course you’re thinking of Sam.
He used to point out constellations when you’d do this, and you’d listen proudly, impressed at his repository of knowledge, although you’d never say such a thing out loud without attaching a joke first. You could only ever see the Big Dipper when he pointed them out and he knew that, but he always pointed them all out anyway.
You miss Sam. It’s not news, you know, but while you’re staring straight into memory lane, you realize you’ve been trying to move on and pretend, instead of grieve and then move on. Obviously you’ve never been good at letting go.
When your phone rings, sunrise is on the horizon and you’ve been staring at the same cluster of stars for hours, trying to see something that isn’t there. Lisa’s not worried, she says, just checking to see if you need anything, and for a moment you wish you had the words to truly thank her for being so understanding. It’s pretty impressive considering the sheer lack of information you’ve actually shared with her. When she hangs up, you realize you never told her where you were, and she never asked.
You walk toward the lights and find a gas station. When you get back to Lisa’s house (your house now too, you suppose) she’s waiting for you on the couch, an old western playing quietly on the television. Neither of you speak as you sit down beside her, but after awhile she reaches over and takes your hand, and you let her. It’s the first physical contact you’ve had with her since the day you arrived.
When Ben wakes up, Lisa makes the three of you pancakes, and you eat them in silence. They’re burnt on the edges and they remind you of the numerous times Sam tried to make waffles at various motels’ breakfast set-ups and failed. You always made fun of him for messing up what you considered a simple process. You made fun of him for a lot of things, but he never changed what he did simply because you insulted him. For some reason the thought makes you laugh. You can’t remember the last time you laughed. When Ben asks why, and you respond with ‘just thinking about Sam’ it’s only the second time you’ve said his name out loud since you arrived, and once the word is out, a million more follow. You tell Ben and Lisa tales of Sam spilling milk, peeing his pants in public, tripping over gravestones and repeatedly getting choked by ghosts, embarrassing stories of both childhood and adulthood alike that would have your shins black and blue under the table if Sam were sitting across from you.
When you run out of stories and silence overtakes the table once again, Ben quietly asks how Sam died. By her reaction, you don’t think Lisa ever told him Sam was dead, but you’re not surprised he figured it out. It takes you a minute to form an answer, not enough words in the world to explain sacrifice to a child, even one as intelligent as Ben. Instead, you say the first full sentence that comes to mind, as cheesy as you know it must sound. “He saved the world.”
Title: Movin' On
Character: Dean Winchester
Rating: PG
Summary: Obviously you've never been good at letting go.
Notes: coda to 5.22. 1,111 words. possible misuse of second person point of view. title slightly inspired by the Bad Company song of the same name.
You don't get the windshield fixed right away.
Lisa asks about it, once, shortly after you arrive on her doorstep in a heaping pile of your former self. You can't manage to form a full-sentence answer, not knowing where to start or how to finish explaining how everything you once knew as your world has been shifted and broken. Sam's name is all you can squeeze out, a one-word summary of heartbreak. You're glad when Lisa nods in understanding; you've got no other words left.
It's quiet around the house for a few weeks. You're not sure what exactly Lisa tells Ben when he first comes home from school to find you sitting at the kitchen table, but after his initial excitement at seeing you, he keeps his distance for awhile. Lisa and Ben don't tiptoe around you, necessarily, but you see them watching you closely, all 'handle with care, fragile contents may break at any time.' You can't blame them.
The impala sits in the same spot, untouched, for thirty-two days. On day thirty-three the garbage truck (which wakes you up every Thursday at 9 am whether you want to wake up or not) backs up too far and nicks the back taillight. You’re still in bed when you hear the metal-on-metal sound and know instantly what has happened, but you don’t get up until nearly seven hours later, when Ben bounds through the door, furious. You only go out to look after he insists on showing you the damage.
On Ben’s insistence, you take her to a garage to get fixed. They call with an estimate the next day and it’s only then you realize you have no way of paying. Lisa suggests you ask for a job instead and you scoff at the idea, at first. Getting out of bed is enough of a job. Promise me, Dean, echoes in your head every morning after she suggests it though, and six days after the phone call, Lisa drives you over to the garage so you can ask for a job in person. It’s one of the most exhausting days of your life, and that’s saying something. You get the job.
When summer comes and Ben’s home all the time, you start to feel antsy, and one night after you wake up crying, Lisa suggests a road trip. You think she means all three of you, but when the impala leaves the driveway at two am the next morning, you’re the only occupant. You don’t drive fast and you have no destination; you have no place to go. You simply drive until you run out of gas. It’s not a very long drive. The impala lurches to the side of the road, overgrown corn stalks on both sides and the soft silhouette of the town you just left barely on the horizon. The sky is clear and dark and you don’t feel like walking.
It’s too hot to sit on the hood, engine heat radiating off the black metal, so you pull out the old green cooler, empty save for a warm bottle of (you’re not sure how old)whiskey, and sit down. Half the bottle slides down your throat in an hour, and you sluggishly crawl up on the hood after it cools and stare off into space. You’re drunk and morose as is your natural state lately, and as the stars start to blend together, of course you’re thinking of Sam.
He used to point out constellations when you’d do this, and you’d listen proudly, impressed at his repository of knowledge, although you’d never say such a thing out loud without attaching a joke first. You could only ever see the Big Dipper when he pointed them out and he knew that, but he always pointed them all out anyway.
You miss Sam. It’s not news, you know, but while you’re staring straight into memory lane, you realize you’ve been trying to move on and pretend, instead of grieve and then move on. Obviously you’ve never been good at letting go.
When your phone rings, sunrise is on the horizon and you’ve been staring at the same cluster of stars for hours, trying to see something that isn’t there. Lisa’s not worried, she says, just checking to see if you need anything, and for a moment you wish you had the words to truly thank her for being so understanding. It’s pretty impressive considering the sheer lack of information you’ve actually shared with her. When she hangs up, you realize you never told her where you were, and she never asked.
You walk toward the lights and find a gas station. When you get back to Lisa’s house (your house now too, you suppose) she’s waiting for you on the couch, an old western playing quietly on the television. Neither of you speak as you sit down beside her, but after awhile she reaches over and takes your hand, and you let her. It’s the first physical contact you’ve had with her since the day you arrived.
When Ben wakes up, Lisa makes the three of you pancakes, and you eat them in silence. They’re burnt on the edges and they remind you of the numerous times Sam tried to make waffles at various motels’ breakfast set-ups and failed. You always made fun of him for messing up what you considered a simple process. You made fun of him for a lot of things, but he never changed what he did simply because you insulted him. For some reason the thought makes you laugh. You can’t remember the last time you laughed. When Ben asks why, and you respond with ‘just thinking about Sam’ it’s only the second time you’ve said his name out loud since you arrived, and once the word is out, a million more follow. You tell Ben and Lisa tales of Sam spilling milk, peeing his pants in public, tripping over gravestones and repeatedly getting choked by ghosts, embarrassing stories of both childhood and adulthood alike that would have your shins black and blue under the table if Sam were sitting across from you.
When you run out of stories and silence overtakes the table once again, Ben quietly asks how Sam died. By her reaction, you don’t think Lisa ever told him Sam was dead, but you’re not surprised he figured it out. It takes you a minute to form an answer, not enough words in the world to explain sacrifice to a child, even one as intelligent as Ben. Instead, you say the first full sentence that comes to mind, as cheesy as you know it must sound. “He saved the world.”