Fic: No Answer in the Dust
Aug. 27th, 2010 08:58 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
summergen-mod.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
spn_summergenType of Submission: Fiction
Title: No Answer in the Dust
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
apreludetoanend
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_summergen
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Stanford's to the west and Blackwater Ridge is to the east. They're in Colorado, chasing shadows just outside of somewhere Dad's never been, and Dean says, "You wanna drive for a while?"
No Answer in the Dust
They're in Colorado, chasing shadows just outside of somewhere Dad's never been, and Dean says, "You wanna drive for a while?"
That’s how it is now. You wanna get some dinner, you wanna change the channel. You wanna drive.
Dean's never handed over the wheel in his life. Not willingly.
But Sam doesn't drive. Sam doesn't drive, and Dean doesn't say, don't you dare move the seat back, and nothing changes.
Sam doesn't say, you sure you're big enough to ride up front there, short stuff? and Dean doesn't short-sheet his bed at the next three motels they blow through and Sam doesn't shortchange Dean's height by a foot on his favorite ID.
Sam stretches.
He stays in the passenger seat and stretches, knee to shoulder, all of him that's got room to move. He's still wearing his nightmare on his face.
Dean says, "Just thought you might want to," says, "never mind," but doesn't mean it. Never mind. Never mind that Dean's the same kind of damaged. Got rock bottom and twenty-two years under his belt, and he knows a few things about it. Knows this isn't over. It's barely started.
Sam's got a different take on the situation. He's fine, he's perfectly okay.
Of course he is.
Dean doesn't disagree, doesn't say, saying it don't make it true. Doesn't comment at all because it's his own fault for asking.
The answer's always the same. Sam's okay, he's fine.
He's fine when his eyes won't stay open in the middle of the day. When he's too tired to eat. He's fine when the nightmares won't let him sleep, and he's fine when they won't let him go. When Dean can't wake him up with words, when it takes hands and arms and force. When Dean sits there on the edge of the bed until they both catch their breath, when he stays until Sam falls asleep again, or doesn't.
He's just fine.
A week of this, and they're still going in circles. Eskimos have forty words for ice, and Dean can't find a way to say, be straight with me, dude, what's going on in your head?
Can't find a question Sam won't answer with lies like fine and okay, can’t ask it straight until he knows Sam won’t blow him off.
He wants to ask about the dreams. He wants to ask about the scars, two half inch slices behind Sam’s elbow that weren’t there when he was eighteen.
He wants to ask, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he makes up stories. Kitchen accident. Bug bite gone wrong. Vampire bunny.
Dean’s got a few new scars of his own. A gash across his back from when he thought he had backup but didn’t, a girl he might have loved. He’s got more than a few, but he doesn’t ask and he doesn’t tell, and when the road bends toward a rest stop, he hits the brake and steers along the curve.
Sam doesn’t question it, just heads for the men’s room when they stop.
Dean takes his coffee black and his coffee takes a layer of flesh off of his throat and Sam's still in the bathroom ten minutes later. Dean doesn't go in. He doesn't go in and then he does, and then he goes back out and pounds his fist on the door.
He says, "Speed it up, Sally," and, "coffee's getting cold." He says, "You want a snack or anything?"
He heads for the vending machine without waiting for an answer.
Two days ago, Sam came home with dirt on his hands. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust kind of dirt. Grave dirt.
He never said anything about a funeral.
After, he came home with dirt on his hands, and he washed his fingernails and his knuckles and his face.
Dean washed his dress shirt and tie.
The water turned brown, then clear, then brown again. They were raised on this. On scrubbing at dirt and blood until the water runs clear, on finding their answers underground. In dust and old bones and splintered wood, but not this time. There aren't any answers buried. There aren't any answers.
There's a hole in the ground, dirt above and below and down a motel drain.
Sam's shirt dripped down into the tub all night. He never said anything about a funeral and Dean didn't tag along to watch his baby brother cry.
He called Dad again. He calls Dad again. Every day. There's no answer, but he calls every day.
He hates that ring after a while. Can’t stand listening to it, but he calls to make sure it’s still there. Calls to make sure someone’s paying the bill, someone’s charging the battery.
Someone always is.
Sam comes out of the bathroom clean-faced and damp around the edges. He comes out and stares west. Just stares, like Dean's holding out a piece of cardboard, like Dean’s offering him a bag of peanuts when what he really wants is California. To go back, to find everything they missed and add it to everything they didn't and somehow have it make sense.
He shakes his head in Dean’s direction. Dean pockets the nuts and hopes to hell that Dad's journal really is the thread that's going to lead them to the needle in this haystack because right now, it's everything they've got.
They have to find Dad. Find Dad, find out what happened to Jess. Find Dad, get revenge.
Find Dad and just stop. Just stop for a minute, stop shuffling what little family he has left in and out of his life one person at a time. Spend an hour or two in the same room for once. That shouldn’t be too much to ask. Not after everything they’ve been through.
He says, "Come on, Sammy." Says, "Get in." Pulls out and points the car east again. Still.
Toward 35-111. Toward answers.
They're in Colorado, chasing the blunt edge of a storm cloud down the road, and Dean doesn't say anything at all.
Title: No Answer in the Dust
Author:
apreludetoanendRecipient:
spn_summergenRating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Stanford's to the west and Blackwater Ridge is to the east. They're in Colorado, chasing shadows just outside of somewhere Dad's never been, and Dean says, "You wanna drive for a while?"
They're in Colorado, chasing shadows just outside of somewhere Dad's never been, and Dean says, "You wanna drive for a while?"
That’s how it is now. You wanna get some dinner, you wanna change the channel. You wanna drive.
Dean's never handed over the wheel in his life. Not willingly.
But Sam doesn't drive. Sam doesn't drive, and Dean doesn't say, don't you dare move the seat back, and nothing changes.
Sam doesn't say, you sure you're big enough to ride up front there, short stuff? and Dean doesn't short-sheet his bed at the next three motels they blow through and Sam doesn't shortchange Dean's height by a foot on his favorite ID.
Sam stretches.
He stays in the passenger seat and stretches, knee to shoulder, all of him that's got room to move. He's still wearing his nightmare on his face.
Dean says, "Just thought you might want to," says, "never mind," but doesn't mean it. Never mind. Never mind that Dean's the same kind of damaged. Got rock bottom and twenty-two years under his belt, and he knows a few things about it. Knows this isn't over. It's barely started.
Sam's got a different take on the situation. He's fine, he's perfectly okay.
Of course he is.
Dean doesn't disagree, doesn't say, saying it don't make it true. Doesn't comment at all because it's his own fault for asking.
The answer's always the same. Sam's okay, he's fine.
He's fine when his eyes won't stay open in the middle of the day. When he's too tired to eat. He's fine when the nightmares won't let him sleep, and he's fine when they won't let him go. When Dean can't wake him up with words, when it takes hands and arms and force. When Dean sits there on the edge of the bed until they both catch their breath, when he stays until Sam falls asleep again, or doesn't.
He's just fine.
A week of this, and they're still going in circles. Eskimos have forty words for ice, and Dean can't find a way to say, be straight with me, dude, what's going on in your head?
Can't find a question Sam won't answer with lies like fine and okay, can’t ask it straight until he knows Sam won’t blow him off.
He wants to ask about the dreams. He wants to ask about the scars, two half inch slices behind Sam’s elbow that weren’t there when he was eighteen.
He wants to ask, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he makes up stories. Kitchen accident. Bug bite gone wrong. Vampire bunny.
Dean’s got a few new scars of his own. A gash across his back from when he thought he had backup but didn’t, a girl he might have loved. He’s got more than a few, but he doesn’t ask and he doesn’t tell, and when the road bends toward a rest stop, he hits the brake and steers along the curve.
Sam doesn’t question it, just heads for the men’s room when they stop.
Dean takes his coffee black and his coffee takes a layer of flesh off of his throat and Sam's still in the bathroom ten minutes later. Dean doesn't go in. He doesn't go in and then he does, and then he goes back out and pounds his fist on the door.
He says, "Speed it up, Sally," and, "coffee's getting cold." He says, "You want a snack or anything?"
He heads for the vending machine without waiting for an answer.
Two days ago, Sam came home with dirt on his hands. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust kind of dirt. Grave dirt.
He never said anything about a funeral.
After, he came home with dirt on his hands, and he washed his fingernails and his knuckles and his face.
Dean washed his dress shirt and tie.
The water turned brown, then clear, then brown again. They were raised on this. On scrubbing at dirt and blood until the water runs clear, on finding their answers underground. In dust and old bones and splintered wood, but not this time. There aren't any answers buried. There aren't any answers.
There's a hole in the ground, dirt above and below and down a motel drain.
Sam's shirt dripped down into the tub all night. He never said anything about a funeral and Dean didn't tag along to watch his baby brother cry.
He called Dad again. He calls Dad again. Every day. There's no answer, but he calls every day.
He hates that ring after a while. Can’t stand listening to it, but he calls to make sure it’s still there. Calls to make sure someone’s paying the bill, someone’s charging the battery.
Someone always is.
Sam comes out of the bathroom clean-faced and damp around the edges. He comes out and stares west. Just stares, like Dean's holding out a piece of cardboard, like Dean’s offering him a bag of peanuts when what he really wants is California. To go back, to find everything they missed and add it to everything they didn't and somehow have it make sense.
He shakes his head in Dean’s direction. Dean pockets the nuts and hopes to hell that Dad's journal really is the thread that's going to lead them to the needle in this haystack because right now, it's everything they've got.
They have to find Dad. Find Dad, find out what happened to Jess. Find Dad, get revenge.
Find Dad and just stop. Just stop for a minute, stop shuffling what little family he has left in and out of his life one person at a time. Spend an hour or two in the same room for once. That shouldn’t be too much to ask. Not after everything they’ve been through.
He says, "Come on, Sammy." Says, "Get in." Pulls out and points the car east again. Still.
Toward 35-111. Toward answers.
They're in Colorado, chasing the blunt edge of a storm cloud down the road, and Dean doesn't say anything at all.
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