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I'm currently writing a Supernatural fic, and the last part is waiting to reveal itself. In the interim my brain's throwing up shiny distracting things that go nowhere, and in an effort to get it out of my head so I can get back to proper fic writing assignments, I'm throwing this out into the ether. Fly, damn you.
G-rated, gen, early first season, no spoilers. 250 words.
Salt
"Dude, if you could have anything, anything at all, right now, what would it be?"
Dean glances over. He still can't quite believe Sammy's here, lounging back in the passenger seat, eyes half closed. There are still shadows there, too many nights disrupted by nightmares, and Dean can't quite believe he'd ask that. Not so soon.
"We need some more rock salt," Dean says, because they do.
Sam makes an irritated noise in his throat and lobs something at him. It hits Dean's shoulder and lands on the seat between them: a packet of salt from the road house an hour back.
"That's what we need," Sam says. "What do you want?"
The words I want you to be happy, dance on his tongue, but Dean knows without a doubt that 'happiness' for Sam does not involve driving towards a hunt in the Impala with Dean. Better off without me… He's not quite that selfless.
He thinks: I want mom back, but that would mean rewriting twenty two years into something…normal, and Dean barely knows how to picture that.
He glances down at the phone between them, next to the salt packet. It's on, fully charged, and silent.
"I want to know Dad's okay," Dean says, and Sam starts. Whatever he thought Dean was going to say, that clearly wasn't it. Sam smiles, a little bitterly.
"Yeah. He probably won't want to know me, though."
I want this family back Dean thinks, and he's not sure what that means anymore.
G-rated, gen, early first season, no spoilers. 250 words.
Salt
"Dude, if you could have anything, anything at all, right now, what would it be?"
Dean glances over. He still can't quite believe Sammy's here, lounging back in the passenger seat, eyes half closed. There are still shadows there, too many nights disrupted by nightmares, and Dean can't quite believe he'd ask that. Not so soon.
"We need some more rock salt," Dean says, because they do.
Sam makes an irritated noise in his throat and lobs something at him. It hits Dean's shoulder and lands on the seat between them: a packet of salt from the road house an hour back.
"That's what we need," Sam says. "What do you want?"
The words I want you to be happy, dance on his tongue, but Dean knows without a doubt that 'happiness' for Sam does not involve driving towards a hunt in the Impala with Dean. Better off without me… He's not quite that selfless.
He thinks: I want mom back, but that would mean rewriting twenty two years into something…normal, and Dean barely knows how to picture that.
He glances down at the phone between them, next to the salt packet. It's on, fully charged, and silent.
"I want to know Dad's okay," Dean says, and Sam starts. Whatever he thought Dean was going to say, that clearly wasn't it. Sam smiles, a little bitterly.
"Yeah. He probably won't want to know me, though."
I want this family back Dean thinks, and he's not sure what that means anymore.
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