krisomniac (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
krisomniac) wrote2007-03-19 12:36 pm
krisomniac) wrote2007-03-19 12:36 pm
Entry tags:
- dean,
- fic,
- gen,
- sam,
- supernatural
Supernatural fic: Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth (PG, gen)
Title: Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
krisomniac
Rating, Warning, Pairing: PG, reaper!Dean, gen
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit nor copyright infringement intended. Title from Primitive Radio Gods
Authors Note: Just silly, rambly schmoop for your Monday enjoyment. ~680 words
Summary: Dean thinks about the thousand different ways it could happen.
Hey, Sam, he thinks, You know how I was always saying you can't kill death? Well, funny thing happens when you try, then scratches out the conversation in his head and starts it over again.
I like those glasses, man. They suit you.
Sam-- as embarrassed by compliments as when he was a gangly kid-- would look down and smile, fine lines creasing the corners of his eyes, teeth still white despite the grey in his hair. He'd lace his long fingers together and apart.
The professor thing, this whole-- He imagines taking one of the books haphazardly piled on Sam's desk and gesturing with it for emphasis. Life. It suits you. Always knew it would.
He's done it a million times. Maybe more. This conversation shouldn't be so hard.
I still look out for you, Sammy, even if you don't-- He growls under his breath and tries again. Hi.
Sam would look at him funny, head tilted like an overgrown puppy. Yeah, it's me. I would've come sooner, but…
Probably better that he didn't.
It's not so bad. He'd grin at Sam's skepticism. I don't get to blow shit up anymore, but when shit blows, you can bet I'm there.
Sam might laugh at that. Then again, it's been years and worries, pain and love and a life Dean was never going to be a part of; he might not find it funny at all.
What else could I do? You were going to-- It wasn't a choice. Sam's never been able to resist asking why. And some things will never change. I had a promise to keep.
He turns and paces the empty road, trying to think of something else to say. I found Dad, a while back…. Yeah, he is. Now. He imagines resting a hand on Sam's shoulder, listening to the whispered question, telling Sam the same thing he told Mom and Dad when they asked about their baby and his young wife. I think they're happy.
He swallows. You will.
He's watched Sam's family grow over the years, was there when the kids were born, listened to Sam sing them to bed at night-- never anything too private, though with a body like Maggie's, he's been sorely tempted. He wonders if Sam will ask to see them, to say goodbye.
I can't let you do that. Dean's seen what happens when you break the rules, not that he hasn't considered trying. More than once. Course I'll look after them.
Dean opens the car door and gets in. He looks over at the empty seat beside him. It may be his playground, it may be nothing more than the physical representation of something that only exists in his memory, but of the countless souls he's invited in, only Sam will recognize the faint smell of greasy hamburgers that lingers in the upholstery, will smile when he sees the dark stain on the dash, will complain about the music on his final road trip. He makes sure it's perfect, carving the echoes of stakeouts and arguments, dust and blood into the fabric of the frame like photographs faded and yellowed over time.
The engine roars to life, and he drives slowly to the building where it happens.
I can't-- Dean shakes his head in response to the imagined question. Sam won't ask whether Dean can come with him, won't have to. Visions or not, he's always been damn near psychic about knowing things like that.
He pulls up in front of the arched doorway, walks slowly up the stone steps. Students brush past him without looking, bags of books slung over their shoulders, discussing papers or parties, or where they're planning to go have lunch. He closes his eyes in the sunlight of the window outside Sam's office and lets the everyday sounds wash over him, running over the thousand ways this has played out in his head. He thinks of the thousand conversations, quips, fights, and wonders if it will be the same.
He only knocks once on the door, then lets himself in.
All things considered, it wasn't a bad way to go.
Hey, Sammy, he says.
Sam doesn't even look surprised.
Author:
krisomniacRating, Warning, Pairing: PG, reaper!Dean, gen
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit nor copyright infringement intended. Title from Primitive Radio Gods
Authors Note: Just silly, rambly schmoop for your Monday enjoyment. ~680 words
Summary: Dean thinks about the thousand different ways it could happen.
Hey, Sam, he thinks, You know how I was always saying you can't kill death? Well, funny thing happens when you try, then scratches out the conversation in his head and starts it over again.
I like those glasses, man. They suit you.
Sam-- as embarrassed by compliments as when he was a gangly kid-- would look down and smile, fine lines creasing the corners of his eyes, teeth still white despite the grey in his hair. He'd lace his long fingers together and apart.
The professor thing, this whole-- He imagines taking one of the books haphazardly piled on Sam's desk and gesturing with it for emphasis. Life. It suits you. Always knew it would.
He's done it a million times. Maybe more. This conversation shouldn't be so hard.
I still look out for you, Sammy, even if you don't-- He growls under his breath and tries again. Hi.
Sam would look at him funny, head tilted like an overgrown puppy. Yeah, it's me. I would've come sooner, but…
Probably better that he didn't.
It's not so bad. He'd grin at Sam's skepticism. I don't get to blow shit up anymore, but when shit blows, you can bet I'm there.
Sam might laugh at that. Then again, it's been years and worries, pain and love and a life Dean was never going to be a part of; he might not find it funny at all.
What else could I do? You were going to-- It wasn't a choice. Sam's never been able to resist asking why. And some things will never change. I had a promise to keep.
He turns and paces the empty road, trying to think of something else to say. I found Dad, a while back…. Yeah, he is. Now. He imagines resting a hand on Sam's shoulder, listening to the whispered question, telling Sam the same thing he told Mom and Dad when they asked about their baby and his young wife. I think they're happy.
He swallows. You will.
He's watched Sam's family grow over the years, was there when the kids were born, listened to Sam sing them to bed at night-- never anything too private, though with a body like Maggie's, he's been sorely tempted. He wonders if Sam will ask to see them, to say goodbye.
I can't let you do that. Dean's seen what happens when you break the rules, not that he hasn't considered trying. More than once. Course I'll look after them.
Dean opens the car door and gets in. He looks over at the empty seat beside him. It may be his playground, it may be nothing more than the physical representation of something that only exists in his memory, but of the countless souls he's invited in, only Sam will recognize the faint smell of greasy hamburgers that lingers in the upholstery, will smile when he sees the dark stain on the dash, will complain about the music on his final road trip. He makes sure it's perfect, carving the echoes of stakeouts and arguments, dust and blood into the fabric of the frame like photographs faded and yellowed over time.
The engine roars to life, and he drives slowly to the building where it happens.
I can't-- Dean shakes his head in response to the imagined question. Sam won't ask whether Dean can come with him, won't have to. Visions or not, he's always been damn near psychic about knowing things like that.
He pulls up in front of the arched doorway, walks slowly up the stone steps. Students brush past him without looking, bags of books slung over their shoulders, discussing papers or parties, or where they're planning to go have lunch. He closes his eyes in the sunlight of the window outside Sam's office and lets the everyday sounds wash over him, running over the thousand ways this has played out in his head. He thinks of the thousand conversations, quips, fights, and wonders if it will be the same.
He only knocks once on the door, then lets himself in.
All things considered, it wasn't a bad way to go.
Hey, Sammy, he says.
Sam doesn't even look surprised.
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