comment fic: One Word (SPN, gen)
Sep. 26th, 2010 10:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kassidy62There's a comment fic meme going on over at fleshflutter's LJ (go there! It's fun, and there's good stuff to read) re: Sam and Dean's reunion for S6, and I thought I'd post my addition here as well.
Edit: I forgot the prompt! "It is raining/snowing/weathering of your choice, and Dean stops for a hitchhiker, who turns out to be Sam."
One Word
It's dark, and the rain's coming down like a bitch on the little back road Dean's driving. He squints through the windshield between splats of water coming down faster than the wipers can clear, trying to make out whatever the hell's on the other side of the window, succeeding only slightly. Up ahead the road curves like a pebbled black snake, splayed out before the orange smear-glow of a street light, coming closer.
A lone, tall shadow stands by the road, black, streetlight outlining it like a cutout.
He used to pick up hitchhikers sometimes, give them a lift if they needed it. That was a long time ago. Before Lisa and Ben. But anyone out on this dark stretch in this weather is either desperate or nuts, and besides, for all that the shadow's tall and broad, it looks hunched against the weather. Miserable.
He pulls the truck over just before he reaches the figure, missing the deep chug of the Impala like always. He thinks he sees the guy raising his head, or maybe he's just lowering his shoulders from around his ears. Hard to tell.
Dean blinks.
Tall, small waist, broad shoulders. Long legs, spread just a little.
His mind stutters, stops, something rising up from the dark inside him, whispering to him. He shakes his head, denies it, but it's no use. This has never been buried so far down that he ever forgot it was there. Not even close.
Dean steps out of the truck, the windshield wipers slinging water. He doesn't blink, though the rain's falling in fat rushed drops harder than ever. He stands beside the open door, fingers wrapped around the top of the door, dead white, bones near breaking.
He tries to speak. One word.
He can't.
If it isn't, if the thrumming beat of blood in his neck, tapping in his ears is wrong, he's not sure he can get back inside the truck. He's not sure he can get in, put it in drive, push the gas petal back to Ben and Lisa. Because as ridiculous as it sounds, this shadow before him is more substantial to him than anything has been since the day the pit opened and took everything away (away where Dean couldn't touch, scream, punch, change, help, beg it will it make it be okay).
In front of him, the figure raises a hand, sweeps it through wet hair and takes a hesitant step forward.
But Dean can't move.
Edit: I forgot the prompt! "It is raining/snowing/weathering of your choice, and Dean stops for a hitchhiker, who turns out to be Sam."
One Word
It's dark, and the rain's coming down like a bitch on the little back road Dean's driving. He squints through the windshield between splats of water coming down faster than the wipers can clear, trying to make out whatever the hell's on the other side of the window, succeeding only slightly. Up ahead the road curves like a pebbled black snake, splayed out before the orange smear-glow of a street light, coming closer.
A lone, tall shadow stands by the road, black, streetlight outlining it like a cutout.
He used to pick up hitchhikers sometimes, give them a lift if they needed it. That was a long time ago. Before Lisa and Ben. But anyone out on this dark stretch in this weather is either desperate or nuts, and besides, for all that the shadow's tall and broad, it looks hunched against the weather. Miserable.
He pulls the truck over just before he reaches the figure, missing the deep chug of the Impala like always. He thinks he sees the guy raising his head, or maybe he's just lowering his shoulders from around his ears. Hard to tell.
Dean blinks.
Tall, small waist, broad shoulders. Long legs, spread just a little.
His mind stutters, stops, something rising up from the dark inside him, whispering to him. He shakes his head, denies it, but it's no use. This has never been buried so far down that he ever forgot it was there. Not even close.
Dean steps out of the truck, the windshield wipers slinging water. He doesn't blink, though the rain's falling in fat rushed drops harder than ever. He stands beside the open door, fingers wrapped around the top of the door, dead white, bones near breaking.
He tries to speak. One word.
He can't.
If it isn't, if the thrumming beat of blood in his neck, tapping in his ears is wrong, he's not sure he can get back inside the truck. He's not sure he can get in, put it in drive, push the gas petal back to Ben and Lisa. Because as ridiculous as it sounds, this shadow before him is more substantial to him than anything has been since the day the pit opened and took everything away (away where Dean couldn't touch, scream, punch, change, help, beg it will it make it be okay).
In front of him, the figure raises a hand, sweeps it through wet hair and takes a hesitant step forward.
But Dean can't move.