![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
.ficlet [spn]: The Chapter of Not Dying a Second Time - (Dean, Sam) PG13
Title: The Chapter of Not Dying a Second Time
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating/Warnings: Eh. PG13. Bad words.
Disclaimers: The boys are property of the Hon. E. Kripke & CW.
Advertisements: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wordclaim50 challenge #37 (Gen).
Spoilers: For "In My Time of Dying," references to "Home" & "Faith." Takes place at some point after 2.01.
Notes: For the first time in possibly... ever, I got something finished ahead of schedule, so I had time to scribble out my first SPN fic *hides* I'm still trying to figure them out, and that's kind of the only purpose of this, so nothing exciting, just roadtrip contemplation.
Fic title from a chapter of the Egyptian Book of the Dead.
THE CHAPTER OF NOT DYING A SECOND TIME
You ever wonder what the hell is wrong with those people in horror movies, the ones who go down into the basement where the monster is, or go outside like they need to make sure the goddamn serial killer’s really out there?
“I mean, do you?” On road trips, time usually slurs into meaninglessness for Dean, time and space all one thing, something to get across, but now in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico, the seconds dissect themselves into hours.
“They’re fey,” Sam says distractedly, rubbing at his forehead.
Dean glances out at the road, makes sure Sam isn’t going to find the one tree on the edge of a New Mexico highway and plow into it. He has that tone of voice that says Not here right now, thanks for playing, Drink Coke. Try again.
“As in fairy?” Sam has something stupid on the tape deck, but Dean keeps his cake hole shut about that, or else Sam will get on his case about being a hypocrite and what’s wrong with something not written or sung by mullet-free artists?
“No, as in doomed.” Sam’s tone is an odd mixture of annoyance and despair. It sucks, you retard. Figure it out.
“If stupidity’s the leading cause of death, then yeah,” Dean says after a moment. It probably is, come to think of it. A lot of their jobs seem to follow a pattern: show up, talk to people, and when the monster or spirit or whatever kills someone else, they hear something like, And then Susie McFucktard disappeared in that old abandoned mine to look for her brother Moron McFucktard, so the cop went in to find her and all they found of him was a pile of bones and something we think is maybe his liver.
“Fey, Dean. Doomed to die.” Dean makes a mental note to kick Sam’s ass later, because despite the fact he’s taller, Sam’s still the younger one in this relationship, and that tone definitely constitutes conduct unbecoming a little brother. Sam’s rangy self is tucked into the driver’s seat, all coiled and impatient. “I read about it in… in Dad’s journal.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, in the part where, you know, he has all that stuff on funeral ritual and what makes vengeful spirits and… you know.” The part where, you know, he has all that stuff about how he wanted to be cremated.
Circle of salt around the pyre to keep the demons back, coins on either eye. He’d carved the runes and symbols on his father’s bier himself, his father’s orders – Dean, write these out: raido and algiz and kaunaz… There were more, but Dean can’t remember – and the wood itself: cedar and pine. They’d had hell getting their father’s body out of the hospital and then the funeral home, because who the hell would understand about cedar and pine, and why Dean had to carve runes to repel evil spirits?
“So what’d he say about being doomed?” Dean asks when the tire hum isn’t enough to fill the silence.
“Talking about a just death mostly, you know, dying when you’re supposed to.” Sam’s long fingers curl and clench around the wheel like strangling it. The dazzle of highway catches in his eyes. “Wrongful death, like suicide, isn’t just – and that’s what makes vengeful spirits… uh… Vengeful. I guess.” He shrugs. “But anyway, he said Missouri told him…”
Sam’s voice twists off on the explanation, about how the soul or the unconscious knows it’s time for it and the body to part ways, and guiding the body’s steps to where it’s supposed to die, stuff about the Book of Life and other things that get lost somewhere along the road, dropped off on the highwayside.
He’s died twice now, sort of. That’s two more times than most people live to tell about.
He also makes the mistake of mentioning this.
“You weren’t supposed to die,” Sam tells him, low and fierce, and it’s easy sometimes to forget that Sam can be like that, like their dad.
And there’s a lot he can say to that, more than a lot, fucking tons of words, seeing the reaper that first time and feeling himself die, and then the second time waking up, pit of wrongness in his stomach, knowing he didn’t belong there, here with the living.
“You drive like a fucking grandma,” Dean says instead.
Sam rolls his eyes. “What the hell am I supposed to do? I speed, you yell at me about fucking up the engine.”
“You’re supposed to pull over at the next gas station and let me drive.”
Sam rolls his eyes again.
“Dude, you fucking look like an extra from The Exorcist. Fucking quit it already.”
“Whatever.” Sam rolls his eyes again so the irises vanish.
“Okay, pull over now – and don’t fucking do that again.”
Sam pulls over onto the shoulder and puts the car in park, rolls his eyes defiantly as he climbs out. Dean stomps over to the driver’s side, careful to give Sam a meaningful shove along the way, and flings himself in, changes out Sam’s idiot emo rock for something decent.
“Not Metallica,” Sam’s head collapses theatrically against the window, thunk against the edge of the glass and that’ll probably leave a mark.
“Cake hole, Sammy.” Dean wags a finger at him, boosts the volume for good measure.
“I’ve got a headache.”
“Don’t worry honey, I wasn’t asking for sex.” The Impala bounces back out onto the asphalt in a cloud of red desert dust. And then because he has to look out for Sam: “Is this a PMS headache or a Shining headache?”
“It’s a ‘I’ve been staring at the goddamn highway for six hours and I’m not wearing sunglasses’ headache.” Sam’s eyebrows draw together, barely visible under their shelf of dark hair. Dean doesn’t know how Sam manages to sprawl in the confines of the front seat, but he does, arms and legs practically everywhere, like tentacles.
Dean lets Sam know exactly how big a pansy he is before turning down the music a bit. And that’s just wrong, because Metallica’s supposed to be played loud. He makes sure Sam knows that too.
Sam’s body loosens next to him, one arm dangling off the seat back, left knee perilously close to the gearshift.
“You weren’t supposed to die,” Sam reminds him. Stupid steel-trap of his brain, and Dean could have sworn he’d navigated them away from this topic.
“Yeah, well, the people in the movies are still fucking idiots,” he tells his little brother.
Sam mutters something about Darwin awards and dozes off.
Dean drives on autopilot, no point to actually driving out here where state roads are straight arrows, nothing to do but let time and space blur together, signposts and seconds.
The road, the thoughts loop back:
He’s died twice now, sort of. That’s two more times than most people live to tell about.
-end-
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating/Warnings: Eh. PG13. Bad words.
Disclaimers: The boys are property of the Hon. E. Kripke & CW.
Advertisements: For
wordclaim50 challenge #37 (Gen).Spoilers: For "In My Time of Dying," references to "Home" & "Faith." Takes place at some point after 2.01.
Notes: For the first time in possibly... ever, I got something finished ahead of schedule, so I had time to scribble out my first SPN fic *hides* I'm still trying to figure them out, and that's kind of the only purpose of this, so nothing exciting, just roadtrip contemplation.
Fic title from a chapter of the Egyptian Book of the Dead.
THE CHAPTER OF NOT DYING A SECOND TIME
You ever wonder what the hell is wrong with those people in horror movies, the ones who go down into the basement where the monster is, or go outside like they need to make sure the goddamn serial killer’s really out there?
“I mean, do you?” On road trips, time usually slurs into meaninglessness for Dean, time and space all one thing, something to get across, but now in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico, the seconds dissect themselves into hours.
“They’re fey,” Sam says distractedly, rubbing at his forehead.
Dean glances out at the road, makes sure Sam isn’t going to find the one tree on the edge of a New Mexico highway and plow into it. He has that tone of voice that says Not here right now, thanks for playing, Drink Coke. Try again.
“As in fairy?” Sam has something stupid on the tape deck, but Dean keeps his cake hole shut about that, or else Sam will get on his case about being a hypocrite and what’s wrong with something not written or sung by mullet-free artists?
“No, as in doomed.” Sam’s tone is an odd mixture of annoyance and despair. It sucks, you retard. Figure it out.
“If stupidity’s the leading cause of death, then yeah,” Dean says after a moment. It probably is, come to think of it. A lot of their jobs seem to follow a pattern: show up, talk to people, and when the monster or spirit or whatever kills someone else, they hear something like, And then Susie McFucktard disappeared in that old abandoned mine to look for her brother Moron McFucktard, so the cop went in to find her and all they found of him was a pile of bones and something we think is maybe his liver.
“Fey, Dean. Doomed to die.” Dean makes a mental note to kick Sam’s ass later, because despite the fact he’s taller, Sam’s still the younger one in this relationship, and that tone definitely constitutes conduct unbecoming a little brother. Sam’s rangy self is tucked into the driver’s seat, all coiled and impatient. “I read about it in… in Dad’s journal.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, in the part where, you know, he has all that stuff on funeral ritual and what makes vengeful spirits and… you know.” The part where, you know, he has all that stuff about how he wanted to be cremated.
Circle of salt around the pyre to keep the demons back, coins on either eye. He’d carved the runes and symbols on his father’s bier himself, his father’s orders – Dean, write these out: raido and algiz and kaunaz… There were more, but Dean can’t remember – and the wood itself: cedar and pine. They’d had hell getting their father’s body out of the hospital and then the funeral home, because who the hell would understand about cedar and pine, and why Dean had to carve runes to repel evil spirits?
“So what’d he say about being doomed?” Dean asks when the tire hum isn’t enough to fill the silence.
“Talking about a just death mostly, you know, dying when you’re supposed to.” Sam’s long fingers curl and clench around the wheel like strangling it. The dazzle of highway catches in his eyes. “Wrongful death, like suicide, isn’t just – and that’s what makes vengeful spirits… uh… Vengeful. I guess.” He shrugs. “But anyway, he said Missouri told him…”
Sam’s voice twists off on the explanation, about how the soul or the unconscious knows it’s time for it and the body to part ways, and guiding the body’s steps to where it’s supposed to die, stuff about the Book of Life and other things that get lost somewhere along the road, dropped off on the highwayside.
He’s died twice now, sort of. That’s two more times than most people live to tell about.
He also makes the mistake of mentioning this.
“You weren’t supposed to die,” Sam tells him, low and fierce, and it’s easy sometimes to forget that Sam can be like that, like their dad.
And there’s a lot he can say to that, more than a lot, fucking tons of words, seeing the reaper that first time and feeling himself die, and then the second time waking up, pit of wrongness in his stomach, knowing he didn’t belong there, here with the living.
“You drive like a fucking grandma,” Dean says instead.
Sam rolls his eyes. “What the hell am I supposed to do? I speed, you yell at me about fucking up the engine.”
“You’re supposed to pull over at the next gas station and let me drive.”
Sam rolls his eyes again.
“Dude, you fucking look like an extra from The Exorcist. Fucking quit it already.”
“Whatever.” Sam rolls his eyes again so the irises vanish.
“Okay, pull over now – and don’t fucking do that again.”
Sam pulls over onto the shoulder and puts the car in park, rolls his eyes defiantly as he climbs out. Dean stomps over to the driver’s side, careful to give Sam a meaningful shove along the way, and flings himself in, changes out Sam’s idiot emo rock for something decent.
“Not Metallica,” Sam’s head collapses theatrically against the window, thunk against the edge of the glass and that’ll probably leave a mark.
“Cake hole, Sammy.” Dean wags a finger at him, boosts the volume for good measure.
“I’ve got a headache.”
“Don’t worry honey, I wasn’t asking for sex.” The Impala bounces back out onto the asphalt in a cloud of red desert dust. And then because he has to look out for Sam: “Is this a PMS headache or a Shining headache?”
“It’s a ‘I’ve been staring at the goddamn highway for six hours and I’m not wearing sunglasses’ headache.” Sam’s eyebrows draw together, barely visible under their shelf of dark hair. Dean doesn’t know how Sam manages to sprawl in the confines of the front seat, but he does, arms and legs practically everywhere, like tentacles.
Dean lets Sam know exactly how big a pansy he is before turning down the music a bit. And that’s just wrong, because Metallica’s supposed to be played loud. He makes sure Sam knows that too.
Sam’s body loosens next to him, one arm dangling off the seat back, left knee perilously close to the gearshift.
“You weren’t supposed to die,” Sam reminds him. Stupid steel-trap of his brain, and Dean could have sworn he’d navigated them away from this topic.
“Yeah, well, the people in the movies are still fucking idiots,” he tells his little brother.
Sam mutters something about Darwin awards and dozes off.
Dean drives on autopilot, no point to actually driving out here where state roads are straight arrows, nothing to do but let time and space blur together, signposts and seconds.
The road, the thoughts loop back:
He’s died twice now, sort of. That’s two more times than most people live to tell about.
-end-
no subject
And the 'Moron Mcfucktard' which cracked me up because it's so true.
It causes me to wonder if people in horror movies have ever actually watched horror movies, because hello? Going into the abandoned mine/creepy farmhouse/dark basement/unlit apartment? NOT SMART AND YOU DESERVE TO DIE.
Because he is legally dead, thanks to the shifter in "Skin."
*g* So how many lives does Dean Winchester have?