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feliciakwHey, gang. Locked post looking for feedback. Izhi? If you have time, I'd love a proper beta on this. (I'll send it via e-mail if you like.) But since you're, you know, all EMPLOYED and all, I understand if you don't have time.
This is my last ditch effort to get some fic written before the new season. I'm sure it will be totally Jossed or Gambled, or whatever the new term of the season is for fic to be rendered completely obsolete. And I'm sure Show will have a much better scene, with Jensen and Jared being awesome. Still, certain aspects of this have been eating at my brain for a long time, and so I wanted to finally get it on paper (so to speak) with possibility for public posting.
For those who know what's coming up, I don't. This is a best effort based on what little I do know.
If you see any glaring errors (grammatical or established canonical), please let me know.
Working (and probably final) title is "Wind of Change."
As far as anniversaries went, this one wasn’t half bad. A year of little league games, swimming at the local pool, and barbecues. Back to school supplies and football games. A real Thanksgiving spread, complete with a whole turkey, stuffing, and two kinds of pie. A few friends, because Lisa didn’t want to overwhelm him. A real Christmas tree and shopping with Ben for Lisa’s present, and shopping with Lisa for Ben’s. A new tool belt and the complete Led Zepplin on CD for him. Ben’s eleventh birthday. Lisa’s thirtieth. Dean’s thirty-second.
A steady job that paid okay. A place to come home to at the end of the day. A family.
And tonight, a cookout on the grill, a game of catch and bocce ball in the nice, flat yard that Lisa said was perfect for bocce (she was obviously unaware of the filled-in post hole about three feet in from the back fence). A couple of beers (soda for Ben) and talk of the best action flicks they’d ever seen.
Yeah, for an anniversary, it wasn’t bad.
Not like the one two days ago, when Dean had sent Lisa and Ben to the movies, treated himself to a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, pulled the tarp off the Impala, and sat drinking alone until he heard Lisa’s car in the driveway, and after putting Ben to bed, Lisa came out to the garage to usher him to bed, too. She didn’t say a word, just stroked his hair as she lay next to him, and promised things would be better in the morning.
Lisa was already back in the house, putting away the leftovers, getting ready to bring out dessert, and Ben was collecting the condiments while Dean doused the last dying embers of the grill. Twilight had set in, the first stars of the evening were starting to appear, and the street lights started to blink on. The air was comfortable, a bit cool but pleasantly so. Dean bumped Ben fondly with his elbow as the boy walked past, and Ben responded with a shove of the shoulders to Dean’s ribs.
A smile curled the corners of Dean’s lips. He felt mellow, relaxed, content in the moment, one moment at a time.
Then the street light on the corner flicker and went out.
The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickled. He looked with sharp eyes toward the darkened streetlight, and his body tensed, preparing for a fight. He knew he couldn’t possibly be seeing what he thought—what he knew—he was seeing.
A man—a very tall man—was standing in the shadow of the darkened lamp.
“Ben,” Dean said, his voice hard with an edge that allowed no discussion. He didn’t take his eyes off the figure. “Go into the house and tell your mother to get the shotgun from the top of our closet. She knows what to do. Then bring me my hunting knife and hand it out to me through the door. You and your mom stay inside and lock the doors until I say otherwise.”
Dean darted a glance at the boy beside him, and saw Ben watching the same figure. “Who is it?” Ben asked in a low voice.
Dean’s gaze returned to the stranger. “Go, Ben. Now.”
Ben left the tray on the patio table and dashed into the house. Dean heard Ben slide the screen door shut behind him, heard him call for Lisa.
The figure began to approach, slowly but confidently. A breeze kicked up, sending an additional chill across Dean’s neck. Dean shifted his position, placing himself between his home and family and the approaching threat.
“Dean?” Lisa was standing at the door, Dean knew, and he could hear the hesitation, the fear in her voice. But he didn’t turn to look at her.
“Lisa, stay inside the house. Go get my shotgun. I also need my knife.”
She didn’t say another word to him, just told Ben where Dean kept the hunting knife, then they were gone.
Dean hadn’t felt this naked in months. He’d finally gotten used to not carrying a knife, not packing his Colt. They still kept extra salt on hand; it was a cheap, easy, explainable precaution. But Ruby’s demon-killing Ginsu was with Bobby, and if the figure was who Dean feared it was, no knife would work on the creature anyway. Castiel possessed the only weapon that would work, and Dean hadn’t seen Cas in a year. The only weapon Dean had at his disposal was his silver hunting knife and his own blood, and he wasn’t sure even that would work.
“Dean, I found your knife.” Ben was only feet away, behind a screen door that was about as much protection as a piece of tissue paper against Hurricane Katrina. Dean stepped back the few steps it took, still facing the threat, and held his right hand open at his side. The screen door slid open, and Dean felt Ben place the hilt of the unsheathed knife in his hand. “Mom has your shotgun.”
Dean knew that the sawed-off would be useless against the thing in front of him, but he wanted Lisa to feel protected, to at least be able to cover her and Ben’s escape.
“Okay. Now close the door and lock it.” He was torn. Should he keep them inside the house, or should he tell them to sneak out to the garage, jump into Lisa’s sedan, and gun it to Sioux Falls?
But Dean’s time was up. He slid the blade of his knife across the palm of his left hand. “Now, Ben.” He heard Ben gasp as blood began to drip on the concrete patio. Then he heard the glass door slide shut, saw the inside lights click off.
Sam stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the lawn torches and patio light.
“Dean.”
Dean had no idea how he was going to paint the banishing sigil with whatever it was standing right in front of him. He couldn’t turn his back, and he couldn’t move fast enough. Dean raised the knife, took a defensive stance. “Whatever you want, you leave them out of this.”
Sam remained where he stood.
“You do whatever you want to me, but you stay the hell away from them, you sonuvabitch.”
“Dean, it’s me.” The figure in front of him held his hands out to his side, no doubt intending the gesture to be non-threatening.
“Like hell,” Dean said. “Who are you?”
“Dean, please. I . . . I’ve wanted to see you for so long. I’ve missed you, man.”
Dean fought the catch in his throat. He never thought he’d hear that voice again. But this couldn’t be his brother. Sam was locked in Lucifer’s cage where no one could reach him.
“No. You’re not Sam.” But the creature in front of him didn’t carry himself like Lucifer did. Of course, Lucifer was the Prince of Lies. “What are you?”
“Dean, it’s me. Please.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
Dean felt the sting of open flesh on his left palm, felt the drip of blood from his wrist. He quirked an eyebrow.
“You were going to paint a banishing sigil,” Sam said, pointing to Dean’s hand. “I promise you, Dean, it’s me. Go ahead. I’m not an angel. I'm not Lucifer.”
Dean didn’t move.
“I don’t think Lisa will appreciate the tag on the side of her house, though.” The corner of Sam's mouth twitched upward.
“We’re talking about re-siding the house next summer anyway.”
“Go ahead.”
Damn, but Dean wished he had someone watching his back. Rather than step backward toward the house and turn his back to the stranger who wore Sam’s face, he stepped forward to the table. Shoving his knife in his belt, he emptied the serving tray with a swipe and quickly drew a sigil on its surface. Tipping it vertical, he slapped his hand on the blood design, but nothing happened.
Sam stood impassive.
“Okay, so you’re not an angel.” What Dean wouldn’t have given for some holy water right then. Well, he’d always been a master of improvisation. His hand darted out and snatched the glass salt shaker. In a blur of motion, he smashed it against the table, sending the white granules scattering across the surface. Dean picked up as much has he could and threw it at his visitor. It wasn’t much, and a stiff gust carried it away.
Sam stepped to the opposite side of the table, and Dean’s knife was quickly back in the bloodstained grip of his dominant hand. Sam raised his hands in a conciliatory motion, then slowly reached to drag his fingers through the salt. He then touched his salt-covered fingers to his tongue, making a face that almost made Dean choke with memory.
“Not an angel, not a demon.” Dean did not relax his guard one iota.
Sam pulled up his sleeve and held out his arm. Dean’s blade flashed, slicing a smooth line across Sam’s forearm. Red welled in the blade’s wake, but the skin did not burn, blister, or crack, Sam’s reaction little more than a flinch.
“Dean, it’s really me.”
Hazel eyes met green, and for the first time in a year, Dean felt a weight lift from his heart. The breeze quieted.
“Why? . . . How?” Dean’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper, tears welling in his throat.
“It’s a long story. A . . . very long story. But right now, I need your help.”
The rush of emotions that slammed into Dean nearly took him off his feet. He wanted to embrace his brother in a crushing hug, but he didn’t dare. Not yet. He tensed when Sam stepped around the table, stepped up to him, and made the decision for him. He pulled Dean into a crushing embrace of his own, and Dean found himself returning it just as fiercely.
Sam was back. Somehow, through circumstances Dean wasn’t ready to contemplate, Sam was back. And asking for help.
Dean broke the embrace, and stepped back, breaking contact. “No.” His tone was firm, decisive.
“Dean—”
“I don’t hunt anymore. I’m not leaving Lisa and Ben.”
“Dean, you know what’s out there. I can’t do this alone.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I don’t want to.”
~finis~
This is my last ditch effort to get some fic written before the new season. I'm sure it will be totally Jossed or Gambled, or whatever the new term of the season is for fic to be rendered completely obsolete. And I'm sure Show will have a much better scene, with Jensen and Jared being awesome. Still, certain aspects of this have been eating at my brain for a long time, and so I wanted to finally get it on paper (so to speak) with possibility for public posting.
For those who know what's coming up, I don't. This is a best effort based on what little I do know.
If you see any glaring errors (grammatical or established canonical), please let me know.
Working (and probably final) title is "Wind of Change."
As far as anniversaries went, this one wasn’t half bad. A year of little league games, swimming at the local pool, and barbecues. Back to school supplies and football games. A real Thanksgiving spread, complete with a whole turkey, stuffing, and two kinds of pie. A few friends, because Lisa didn’t want to overwhelm him. A real Christmas tree and shopping with Ben for Lisa’s present, and shopping with Lisa for Ben’s. A new tool belt and the complete Led Zepplin on CD for him. Ben’s eleventh birthday. Lisa’s thirtieth. Dean’s thirty-second.
A steady job that paid okay. A place to come home to at the end of the day. A family.
And tonight, a cookout on the grill, a game of catch and bocce ball in the nice, flat yard that Lisa said was perfect for bocce (she was obviously unaware of the filled-in post hole about three feet in from the back fence). A couple of beers (soda for Ben) and talk of the best action flicks they’d ever seen.
Yeah, for an anniversary, it wasn’t bad.
Not like the one two days ago, when Dean had sent Lisa and Ben to the movies, treated himself to a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue, pulled the tarp off the Impala, and sat drinking alone until he heard Lisa’s car in the driveway, and after putting Ben to bed, Lisa came out to the garage to usher him to bed, too. She didn’t say a word, just stroked his hair as she lay next to him, and promised things would be better in the morning.
Lisa was already back in the house, putting away the leftovers, getting ready to bring out dessert, and Ben was collecting the condiments while Dean doused the last dying embers of the grill. Twilight had set in, the first stars of the evening were starting to appear, and the street lights started to blink on. The air was comfortable, a bit cool but pleasantly so. Dean bumped Ben fondly with his elbow as the boy walked past, and Ben responded with a shove of the shoulders to Dean’s ribs.
A smile curled the corners of Dean’s lips. He felt mellow, relaxed, content in the moment, one moment at a time.
Then the street light on the corner flicker and went out.
The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickled. He looked with sharp eyes toward the darkened streetlight, and his body tensed, preparing for a fight. He knew he couldn’t possibly be seeing what he thought—what he knew—he was seeing.
A man—a very tall man—was standing in the shadow of the darkened lamp.
“Ben,” Dean said, his voice hard with an edge that allowed no discussion. He didn’t take his eyes off the figure. “Go into the house and tell your mother to get the shotgun from the top of our closet. She knows what to do. Then bring me my hunting knife and hand it out to me through the door. You and your mom stay inside and lock the doors until I say otherwise.”
Dean darted a glance at the boy beside him, and saw Ben watching the same figure. “Who is it?” Ben asked in a low voice.
Dean’s gaze returned to the stranger. “Go, Ben. Now.”
Ben left the tray on the patio table and dashed into the house. Dean heard Ben slide the screen door shut behind him, heard him call for Lisa.
The figure began to approach, slowly but confidently. A breeze kicked up, sending an additional chill across Dean’s neck. Dean shifted his position, placing himself between his home and family and the approaching threat.
“Dean?” Lisa was standing at the door, Dean knew, and he could hear the hesitation, the fear in her voice. But he didn’t turn to look at her.
“Lisa, stay inside the house. Go get my shotgun. I also need my knife.”
She didn’t say another word to him, just told Ben where Dean kept the hunting knife, then they were gone.
Dean hadn’t felt this naked in months. He’d finally gotten used to not carrying a knife, not packing his Colt. They still kept extra salt on hand; it was a cheap, easy, explainable precaution. But Ruby’s demon-killing Ginsu was with Bobby, and if the figure was who Dean feared it was, no knife would work on the creature anyway. Castiel possessed the only weapon that would work, and Dean hadn’t seen Cas in a year. The only weapon Dean had at his disposal was his silver hunting knife and his own blood, and he wasn’t sure even that would work.
“Dean, I found your knife.” Ben was only feet away, behind a screen door that was about as much protection as a piece of tissue paper against Hurricane Katrina. Dean stepped back the few steps it took, still facing the threat, and held his right hand open at his side. The screen door slid open, and Dean felt Ben place the hilt of the unsheathed knife in his hand. “Mom has your shotgun.”
Dean knew that the sawed-off would be useless against the thing in front of him, but he wanted Lisa to feel protected, to at least be able to cover her and Ben’s escape.
“Okay. Now close the door and lock it.” He was torn. Should he keep them inside the house, or should he tell them to sneak out to the garage, jump into Lisa’s sedan, and gun it to Sioux Falls?
But Dean’s time was up. He slid the blade of his knife across the palm of his left hand. “Now, Ben.” He heard Ben gasp as blood began to drip on the concrete patio. Then he heard the glass door slide shut, saw the inside lights click off.
Sam stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the lawn torches and patio light.
“Dean.”
Dean had no idea how he was going to paint the banishing sigil with whatever it was standing right in front of him. He couldn’t turn his back, and he couldn’t move fast enough. Dean raised the knife, took a defensive stance. “Whatever you want, you leave them out of this.”
Sam remained where he stood.
“You do whatever you want to me, but you stay the hell away from them, you sonuvabitch.”
“Dean, it’s me.” The figure in front of him held his hands out to his side, no doubt intending the gesture to be non-threatening.
“Like hell,” Dean said. “Who are you?”
“Dean, please. I . . . I’ve wanted to see you for so long. I’ve missed you, man.”
Dean fought the catch in his throat. He never thought he’d hear that voice again. But this couldn’t be his brother. Sam was locked in Lucifer’s cage where no one could reach him.
“No. You’re not Sam.” But the creature in front of him didn’t carry himself like Lucifer did. Of course, Lucifer was the Prince of Lies. “What are you?”
“Dean, it’s me. Please.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
Dean felt the sting of open flesh on his left palm, felt the drip of blood from his wrist. He quirked an eyebrow.
“You were going to paint a banishing sigil,” Sam said, pointing to Dean’s hand. “I promise you, Dean, it’s me. Go ahead. I’m not an angel. I'm not Lucifer.”
Dean didn’t move.
“I don’t think Lisa will appreciate the tag on the side of her house, though.” The corner of Sam's mouth twitched upward.
“We’re talking about re-siding the house next summer anyway.”
“Go ahead.”
Damn, but Dean wished he had someone watching his back. Rather than step backward toward the house and turn his back to the stranger who wore Sam’s face, he stepped forward to the table. Shoving his knife in his belt, he emptied the serving tray with a swipe and quickly drew a sigil on its surface. Tipping it vertical, he slapped his hand on the blood design, but nothing happened.
Sam stood impassive.
“Okay, so you’re not an angel.” What Dean wouldn’t have given for some holy water right then. Well, he’d always been a master of improvisation. His hand darted out and snatched the glass salt shaker. In a blur of motion, he smashed it against the table, sending the white granules scattering across the surface. Dean picked up as much has he could and threw it at his visitor. It wasn’t much, and a stiff gust carried it away.
Sam stepped to the opposite side of the table, and Dean’s knife was quickly back in the bloodstained grip of his dominant hand. Sam raised his hands in a conciliatory motion, then slowly reached to drag his fingers through the salt. He then touched his salt-covered fingers to his tongue, making a face that almost made Dean choke with memory.
“Not an angel, not a demon.” Dean did not relax his guard one iota.
Sam pulled up his sleeve and held out his arm. Dean’s blade flashed, slicing a smooth line across Sam’s forearm. Red welled in the blade’s wake, but the skin did not burn, blister, or crack, Sam’s reaction little more than a flinch.
“Dean, it’s really me.”
Hazel eyes met green, and for the first time in a year, Dean felt a weight lift from his heart. The breeze quieted.
“Why? . . . How?” Dean’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper, tears welling in his throat.
“It’s a long story. A . . . very long story. But right now, I need your help.”
The rush of emotions that slammed into Dean nearly took him off his feet. He wanted to embrace his brother in a crushing hug, but he didn’t dare. Not yet. He tensed when Sam stepped around the table, stepped up to him, and made the decision for him. He pulled Dean into a crushing embrace of his own, and Dean found himself returning it just as fiercely.
Sam was back. Somehow, through circumstances Dean wasn’t ready to contemplate, Sam was back. And asking for help.
Dean broke the embrace, and stepped back, breaking contact. “No.” His tone was firm, decisive.
“Dean—”
“I don’t hunt anymore. I’m not leaving Lisa and Ben.”
“Dean, you know what’s out there. I can’t do this alone.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I don’t want to.”
~finis~
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-09-05 12:52 am (UTC)Personally?
“Dean, you don't know what’s out there. I can’t do this alone.”
"Yes, I do and yes, you can."
etc.
Yes, I'm spammy with the comment edits. Sorry.
Date: 2010-09-05 01:03 am (UTC)You've definitely given me a good alternate read. This will take some consideration. *chews*
And I'm glad you liked it.
Re: Yes, I'm spammy with the comment edits. Sorry.
Date: 2010-09-05 01:16 am (UTC)I have no spoilers. :)
Re: Yes, I'm spammy with the comment edits. Sorry.
Date: 2010-09-05 01:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-09-05 03:06 am (UTC)Not sure I'll have time for a beta, but shoot it my way anyway and I'll try. :)