ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2011-01-31 08:54 am
ratherastory) wrote2011-01-31 08:54 am
Entry tags:
Follow Me Home
Title: Follow Me Home
Prompt/Summary: Misplaced comment-fic written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hoodie_time Dean-focused h/c challenge. Dean is hurt and waiting for Sam. Original is here.
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 644
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: Stream-of-consciousness. No spoilers, not even swearing. Kind of random.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I've never written misplaced comment-fic before, but it seemed the thing to do at the time.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Unbeta'd, written off-the-cuff.
The early fall has always been Dean's favourite time of year. From where he is he can see the trees beginning to shift from green to gold to red, yellows and oranges and crimsons flaring bright against the brilliant blue. It's October, which means November hasn't happened yet, its stark grey outlines blurring with the first snowfall still mixed with rain. November is always a hazy shade of sorrow and leaving things behind, but October is filled with life and flickering flames of promise and colour. Sometimes the colours stay with him, like residual retinal imprints.
The ground is fragrant beneath him, the sharpness of the loam and the comforting scent of decomposing leaves —soft under fingers that scrape against the earth when he tries to make a fist. He moves his head a bit, leaves and twigs clinging to his hair, scratching a bit at his scalp. Scarlet drops catch his eye, almost the same shade as the leaves, but the leaves down here have turned brown with age, the passage of time. For a moment he thinks he might be mistaken. Maybe it's some sort of bug he doesn't recognize, but they don't move, just glisten in the afternoon sunlight.
His breath plumes above him, and he laughs a bit, huffs a bit harder and is rewarded with another white cloud, instantly gone. Maybe he can learn to blow smoke rings, minus the smoke. He doesn't feel cold. The trees stretch above him forever, beautiful and tall and strange, and just beyond them the sky looms, cloudless and stark. He manages to pull one hand up —the other is still trapped beneath him— and trails it along his side, and his fingertips come back scarlet.
“If your mother only knew, her heart would surely break in two.” He murmurs a half-forgotten rhyme to the air, “Sammy... pretty sure I'm dying.” The thought doesn't alarm him the way it might have once. There's a lot of blood.
When he opens his eyes again, the sky has lit up pink and mauve and red, and he can't move his hand anymore. He can see stars winking palely behind the sunset —they'll be bright as bright soon, and he's always liked looking at the stars. It'll be nice to watch them now, he thinks, so long as he can keep awake just long enough. He finds the North Star by habit, because that's the one that you follow when you're lost and you need to get home.
A crunching sound interrupts the quiet bustle of the woods, and then it's right near his head.
“Oh God, Dean...” Sam's on one knee, hands on Dean's face, cupping his jaw, stroking his forehead, fingers warm and sure. “Dean, can you hear me?”
“Sammy...” It's an exhalation more than a word, but Sam leans over to look directly in his eyes, expression relieved and worried all at once.
“Yeah, okay, okay good. I got you, Dean. It's not so bad, but I have to get you warm, okay?”
There's a crinkling noise, foil against cloth, and suddenly there's pain after hours of numbness, and Dean must make some sort of sound himself because Sam shushes him gently, big hands traveling down his body, gentle and strong. Dean's eyes water, but he can still see the stars through the tears.
“Was looking at the stars, Sammy.”
“What?”
“Found Polaris. Right up there. Remember?”
Sam's hand is back on his head, petting. “Yeah, of course I remember.”
He can't nod, but he smiles. “Good. It's important. It's the one you follow...”
“... when you're lost and need to get home,” Sam finishes quietly. “I know, Dean.”
His smiles widens, even as the edges of his vision start to go dark. “Works every time.”
Prompt/Summary: Misplaced comment-fic written for the
hoodie_time Dean-focused h/c challenge. Dean is hurt and waiting for Sam. Original is here.Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 644
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: Stream-of-consciousness. No spoilers, not even swearing. Kind of random.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I've never written misplaced comment-fic before, but it seemed the thing to do at the time.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Unbeta'd, written off-the-cuff.
The early fall has always been Dean's favourite time of year. From where he is he can see the trees beginning to shift from green to gold to red, yellows and oranges and crimsons flaring bright against the brilliant blue. It's October, which means November hasn't happened yet, its stark grey outlines blurring with the first snowfall still mixed with rain. November is always a hazy shade of sorrow and leaving things behind, but October is filled with life and flickering flames of promise and colour. Sometimes the colours stay with him, like residual retinal imprints.
The ground is fragrant beneath him, the sharpness of the loam and the comforting scent of decomposing leaves —soft under fingers that scrape against the earth when he tries to make a fist. He moves his head a bit, leaves and twigs clinging to his hair, scratching a bit at his scalp. Scarlet drops catch his eye, almost the same shade as the leaves, but the leaves down here have turned brown with age, the passage of time. For a moment he thinks he might be mistaken. Maybe it's some sort of bug he doesn't recognize, but they don't move, just glisten in the afternoon sunlight.
His breath plumes above him, and he laughs a bit, huffs a bit harder and is rewarded with another white cloud, instantly gone. Maybe he can learn to blow smoke rings, minus the smoke. He doesn't feel cold. The trees stretch above him forever, beautiful and tall and strange, and just beyond them the sky looms, cloudless and stark. He manages to pull one hand up —the other is still trapped beneath him— and trails it along his side, and his fingertips come back scarlet.
“If your mother only knew, her heart would surely break in two.” He murmurs a half-forgotten rhyme to the air, “Sammy... pretty sure I'm dying.” The thought doesn't alarm him the way it might have once. There's a lot of blood.
When he opens his eyes again, the sky has lit up pink and mauve and red, and he can't move his hand anymore. He can see stars winking palely behind the sunset —they'll be bright as bright soon, and he's always liked looking at the stars. It'll be nice to watch them now, he thinks, so long as he can keep awake just long enough. He finds the North Star by habit, because that's the one that you follow when you're lost and you need to get home.
A crunching sound interrupts the quiet bustle of the woods, and then it's right near his head.
“Oh God, Dean...” Sam's on one knee, hands on Dean's face, cupping his jaw, stroking his forehead, fingers warm and sure. “Dean, can you hear me?”
“Sammy...” It's an exhalation more than a word, but Sam leans over to look directly in his eyes, expression relieved and worried all at once.
“Yeah, okay, okay good. I got you, Dean. It's not so bad, but I have to get you warm, okay?”
There's a crinkling noise, foil against cloth, and suddenly there's pain after hours of numbness, and Dean must make some sort of sound himself because Sam shushes him gently, big hands traveling down his body, gentle and strong. Dean's eyes water, but he can still see the stars through the tears.
“Was looking at the stars, Sammy.”
“What?”
“Found Polaris. Right up there. Remember?”
Sam's hand is back on his head, petting. “Yeah, of course I remember.”
He can't nod, but he smiles. “Good. It's important. It's the one you follow...”
“... when you're lost and need to get home,” Sam finishes quietly. “I know, Dean.”
His smiles widens, even as the edges of his vision start to go dark. “Works every time.”
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If I look at this real hard and at just the right angle, it will bear no resemblance to a deathfic, right? Because there's nothing ominous about "it's not so bad" coming from Winchesters.
I love the detached feel of this, how everything is both so vivid and so far away to Dean, and of course I love that Sam finds him and it feels utterly unsurprising, like it should be.
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I miss my boys being together in a way that feels natural and totally unsurprising, as you said. So I'm writing fic about it instead.
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Blood loss does funny things, doesn't it? :)
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Also very nice that Dean was watching the stars, keeping awake just long enough.
Sad but with a hopefully happy ending.
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*hides*
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*totally ignores canon in favour of her own fantasy*
*cuddles the boys*
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Thank you!
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*conveniently ignores canon*
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Dean makes me want to write schmoop...
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I made it, too!
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Thank you so much!
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This is nicely lyrical.
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Love so much!
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Plus
North star *sigh* just my kind of poignant.
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Glad you liked it! :)
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Glad you liked it!