commentary: "Epitaph"
Jul. 19th, 2007 01:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tigriswolfTitle: Epitaph
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Originally posted to fanfiction.net, crossposted to livejournal, deleted from both when I realized it was Mary-Sueish.
For tru_faith_lost
tru_faith_lostMy comments in purple.
Extra notes: the very first story, ever, of my Dean canon. And it’s not posted anywhere but here. *hee*
“For a hundred points, due Friday, you each have to come up with your own epitaph. Any questions?”
James Friedman waited a few minutes, studying each of his students, before smiling. “The rest of class is yours, as long as you’re quiet.” He walked to his desk and started grading long-overdue papers—the end of the quarter was next week, and every grade needed to be in, for the sake of the students.
The low roar of teenagers didn’t distract him from his purpose and, kind as he was, he wondered where on earth Grammar had hidden itself and what could used as a bribe to bring it back. I’ve had this thought frequently.
In everything but papers, James was an easy grader, but grammar was his passion. He’d explained at the beginning of the year—they were seniors, after all—that a certain number of errors automatically dropped a letter grade. If I were to ever become a teacher, this would, in fact, be my policy. I don’t think I’d be well-liked.
“Mr. Friedman?”
He looked up from Riley Marcom’s paper—the poor boy had just dropped into C range—to the best student of his class, Dean Winchester. Yes, I personally believe that Dean would excel in English.
A classic ‘rebel’ persona alienated and called to everyone he came into contact with, and half the school loved him. He attended school perhaps three-fourths of the time, and had enough imagination to spare. He maintained his A in English by being one of the greatest writers James had ever had the pleasure of meeting, and his passion was obvious if one knew what to look for. This paragraph seems so stilted to me now.
“Yes, Mr. Winchester?”
Dean was shifting nervously; he rarely questioned assignments, and this deviation from the norm intrigued James. While Dean didn’t complete every assignment, what he did finish was extraordinary. James didn’t often gossip with the other teachers, but for Dean he’d made an exception.
Rachel Davids, the Calculus teacher, apparently often lamented the talent going to waste in Dean. “That boy could do anything!” she’d told James fervently, backing it up with his midterm and other tests. “If he’d just apply himself, care more!”
And the art instructor, Georgiana Dubois, had shown every teacher in the school a painting Dean’d done, of his mother. Fully from memory, it was a haunting piece of work. “Dean could become more famous than Picasso,” George had enthused. “His talent could take him anywhere. I asked why he doesn’t paint more, and he said he had other things to do.”
Every coach in the school had been after Dean to join their team, from golf to swimming to football. He’d declined every offer with a smile and shrug. “Sorry,” he said kindly to each. “I have other things to do.”
The boy had raw talent in spades, and James had heard from the younger-grade teachers that his brother was the same.
Sometimes, over the course of the year, James had wondered if Dean and his brother were abused. Dean’d occasionally have bruises or limp, and there were shadows in his eyes, a deep pain that only added to his writing. James considered asking, more than once, and knew others had tried to speak to the boy. But Dean was a master at conversing, and he skillfully deflected all questions. He turned every conversation about him around, learned something of the questioner, and it wasn’t until later they’d realize what he’d done.
The drama instructor, Heather Salinas, had ranted for weeks in the teachers-lounge about Dean and how he’d gotten around her. “He could be the next big star!” she’d quietly shouted, pushed to the breaking point by this one student. “And that brother of his! Together—oh, I just want to strangle them!” Heather’d always had a penchant for the dramatic. Heather shows up again in a later story, that is actually still posted. Also, see what I mean about Mary-Sue? And I didn’t even realize it, till a reviewer pointed it out to me. *facepalm*
James quickly pulled his mind back to Dean, still standing in front of him, and the question softly asked. “Could I do something besides an epitaph? Maybe a paper on their history, instead?”
James studied Dean, cocking his head to the side. “Why?”
Dean licked his lips, looked away. “I just—I don’t...” He sighed, ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. “Never mind, Mr. Friedman.” Poor Dean. Can’t explain that he thinks too much about dying as it is.
He turned to return to his seat and James held out a hand. “Dean.” The boy paused and glanced back. “I understand you don’t want to do this assignment, but I still expect it to shine.”
A small smile flitted across Dean’s face before fading quickly. “Of course, Mr. Friedman.”
James truly loved teaching, but sometimes it just sucked. No if’s, and’s, or but’s it just completely sucked, to the n’th degree. After grading over two hundred papers—which, perhaps a fourth were even worth it—he wondered if anything he’d said all year even sunk into their tiny little skulls.
And then he finally reached Dean Winchester’s paper, and it made everything worthwhile.
Dean had chosen—one of the handful given a choice—to write his paper on the history of the vampire in literature. It was ten pages long, without a single grammatical mistake—quite a feat. The content itself was amazing; Dean clearly knew his topic. I’m pretty sure I wrote this before “Dead Man’s Blood” aired.
It was truly a tragedy that Dean had other goals in mind for his life; he could go anywhere in the world that he wanted.
Friday rolled around. Dean had been absent both Wednesday and Thursday, and finally appeared on Friday with bruises, a limp, and a horrible scratch across his forehead. He gave a jaunty smile and sank into his seat, pulling out a drawing pad and pencil, ignoring all questions.
James wanted to shake him, to demand answers, to help him out of whatever situation he was in. Later, James resolved he’d ask the brother’s teachers if he was the same condition, or anywhere close to it.
Instead he stood at his podium and said, “Now, volunteers to present your epitaphs.” Only because he was watching Dean did he see the stiffening of his shoulders. Dean hated being the center of attention—which was odd, given his natural attributes. He had a marvelous speaking voice, though, and when he presented anything, the entire room focused on him, almost unconsciously.
Carrie Reynolds asked to go first; she was second in this hour, and in the top ten grade-wise. She cleared her throat nervously and kept her eyes on her paper as she read, “Here lies Carrie, daughter and friend, honest and true.” She handed James her paper and slunk back to her seat; she, too, hated being in the front of the class.
Slowly, like teeth being pulled, the rest of the students presented their epitaphs. It was exactly what James had expected; some had obviously put thought into it, agonized over it—it was hard, choosing a few words to summarize your life, your soul, your passions. Others just as obviously penned theirs a few hours before.
And finally only Dean remained. He put down his pencil, shut his notebook, reached into his backpack for his epitaph, slid from his desk, and strode to the front. The class quieted as he stood before them, silent and still but for breathing. They all knew he was the best, and shockingly, none of them hated him. Unless he actively disliked you, the whole school had learned in the course of the one year he’d been there, you just couldn’t hate Dean Winchester. Aww, my boy. *hugs him*
He took a deep breath and said softly, gazing at a spot on the wall, seeing something no one else could, “I lived for you and have now died for you. I pray you rest gently and wait long to join me.”
He handed his paper to James, who said, “Well done.” It certainly wasn’t what James had expected—but honestly, what had he expected? “Who’s it about?” Sammy. Duh.
Dean just smiled. Needless to say, he got an A.
Four weeks later, with half a month to graduation, Dean and his little brother were pulled from the school.
James saved all of Dean’s papers, and even requested some of his drawings from George. He kept them all in a folder in his office, just knowing he’d meet that boy again. My Senior Comp teacher kept one of my papers; she still reads it to her classes as an example of what to do.
Ten years later, he and his wife moved to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, for some inane reason. Victoria was an engineer, and a job opportunity reared its head; a two thousand dollar pay raise wasn’t anything to scoff at, especially with his teacher’s salary. A pay raise isn’t inane; why did I pick that word?
He and Victoria were shopping in the Mall of Louisiana, for Christmas presents to send back to their children—twenty year old Emily and twenty-two year old Greg—when James saw him. Victoria kept walking, but James froze, watching Dean Winchester swat the back of his brother’s head, laughing.
Age had been kind to Dean, had made him more beautiful, if that were possible. Yeah. You seen pictures of late-teens Jensen and compared them with now? It should be impossible. Age had gifted him with more wisdom, and also—James saw it clearly now—made him more of a predator. Some of the kids way back then had spoken of the fear they sometimes felt in his presence; one of the more poetic ones had said it might be described as the fear an antelope feels before it sees the lion, the fear that can’t be explained but must be heeded. I like that description. James had always wondered about that; now, however, seeing these two men side by side, he understood. Can you imagine being at the top of the food chain at school and then messing with Dean? *hee*
There had always been a darkness to Dean, a darkness that made itself known only through his writings. He held onto his temper at school, never got in fights; some of the alphas had tried to anger him, to suss him out; he took and took and never made any move back. Dean was a loner, quiet, and could talk himself out of anything. He could talk himself into anything, too, and James wondered what he’d been at other schools, what other roles he’d tried out before settling on the one he had senior year.
Dean would have made a great actor; Of course, James thought, watching Dean and his brother, what was he then but an actor? Dean’s an actor, ya’ll. Always has been.
Victoria walked back to where he’d stopped. “What is it?” she asked, handing him the bag she’d been carrying and fixing her ponytail. She followed his eyes and said, “Who’re they, Jim?”
“An old student,” he answered, finally looking at her and smiling. “C’mon, Tor. Don’t we still have a lot of shopping to do?”
She smiled in response and took back her bag, placing her hand in his. “I know where that jacket Em wants can be found.”
“Good,” he said, kissing the side of her head. “Let’s go get it before someone else claims it.” I always like giving my OCs their own lives, you know?
Later that night, long after Victoria had gone to bed, James pulled out his folder of Dean’s papers. Um, yeah… that’s actually kind of creepy. He wondered what Dean had done with his life, what he was that required so much danger. As he gently removed everything, one piece fluttered to the floor. He reached and picked it up, scanning it as he laid it on top of the pile.
I lived for you and have now died for you. I pray you rest gently and wait long to join me. I don’t remember how I came up with that; I wish I did.
He smiled; Dean Winchester had been an enigma wrapped in a mystery(my mom calls me that), and would probably remain so until he died. True, yo. Even the person he’s closest to in the world can’t quite figure him out. James pondered for a moment, before heading up to bed, if Sam would make sure Dean’s epitaph was what he’d written. And if Dean even remembered writing it.
James recalled a paper Dean had written on John Keats, the glee when he’d discovered what the poet’s epitaph had been: Here lies one whose name was writ in water. Awesome epitaph, if a bit depressing.
James had asked, serious and joking, “Do you think your name is writ in water, Dean?”
Dean had thought for a minute, gaze turning inward, and then responded, “Isn’t everyone written in water? Just some people are written in puddles that quickly evaporate, and others in the ocean, so that even after their name has washed away, it was still there, you know?” Dean ran through that statement and then laughed. “That made no sense, did it?” No, it really doesn’t.
James smiled in response. “It was a good thought.”
Dean incorporated his little tangent into the paper and not for this first time in this particular student’s case, James wished he gave bonus.
All the way until they moved to Baton Rouge, James would read excerpt’s from Dean’s papers as motivation for his students to equal or surpass; not surprisingly, none could. Victoria finally told him to stop complaining at the dinner table, that he was too hard on the poor kids, and that, surely, Dean couldn’t have been as good as all that.
He gave her just the Keats’ paper to read, and she swore she fell in love. After, she even had one of his paintings framed and hung over the mantle. It was the last one he’d painted for George, of a sunset over mountains—like a thousand others and yet completely unique. He’d incorporated layers, somehow; George said it took him three class-periods to paint it, and he’d almost cried while doing so.
“There was so much pain in him, Jim,” she told him, almost crying herself, weeks after Dean had left. “Why didn’t any of us do anything?”
James placed a hand on her shoulder, wishing he had a good answer.
Sometimes, over the years, James thought about Dean at random moments. He retired, traveled the world with Victoria, finally wrote the novel he’d always wanted to write that never got published, became a grandpa.
He lived the life he’d never dreamed about but completely loved. Love that sentence!
Out of all his students, Dean had been that one people talk about, the one that changes your life forever.
He read Dean’s papers every now and then, studied his paintings, tried to figure the boy out. Victoria went with the obsession, tried her best to help him, and finally got out of the way, contenting herself with gardening in the unbelievable Louisiana weather.
At last, more than thirty years after Dean’s senior year, James burned himself out, put away the folder, and resolved to only look at the paintings whenever they crossed his line of sight. ‘bout time!
But the boy’s epitaph wouldn’t leave his mind. He sometimes wondered what he’d do if he came across a stone that had those words inscribed on it.
I lived for you and have now died for you. I pray you rest gently and wait long to join me.
Well, tru? Hope it’s what you wanted.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-19 08:34 pm (UTC)Thanks for sharing.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-19 10:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-20 01:39 am (UTC)Anyway, I know this is not one of your faves anymore, but I gotta say that this story was the one I read that made you one of my hands-down faves.
Still get achy when I think about that teacher walking through the cemetery looking for that Epitaph. You should write one where he finds it. Maybe meets Sam. Could be dark, like maybe he doesn't realize Sam's evil until Sam uses his blood to work some hoodoo on Dean, LOL.
Where I think of this stuff, I shall never know.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-20 12:27 pm (UTC)I'm glad you still like this one.
... and a fun idea. Hmm...
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-20 12:36 pm (UTC)And you better damned well write that, LOL.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-20 12:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-20 12:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-20 02:45 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-20 12:37 pm (UTC)Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-27 02:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-27 02:17 pm (UTC)You still haven't let me know which one you want...
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-31 08:55 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-01 06:54 am (UTC)I’m pretty sure I wrote this before “Dead Man’s Blood” aired.
Yes, you certainly did, it was one of the first fics I read in the first few days of reading them and I started reading on April 13th, 2006, which was a full week before Dead Man's Blood aired. :-)
Also, see what I mean about Mary-Sue? And I didn’t even realize it, till a reviewer pointed it out to me. *facepalm*
Dude, nothing in this story is Mary-Sue, and my Mary-Sue meters are hyper-sensitive. Dean's good at everything because he's Dean, and he's good at everything because he has to be. Also, I've had every single one of those teachers, including a "Mr. Friedman" who I actually bumped into a couple months ago and who asked me how my writing was going. I hadn't seen him for 15 years.
Re: "writ in water" analogy No, it really doesn’t.
Yes, it really does. People are impermanent whether they take part in the world in a small way or a huge way. People who write their names in puddles, while they are writing and for a time after, the effect seems relatively impressive. Ripples from one side of the puddle to the other. But they don't go beyond the puddle. The puddle dries up, and reforms elsewhere, uneffected, or joins the sea.
People who write their names in the sea, it doesn't really seem like they make a big impression at all. The visible ripples are hidden by waves, they spread out and out until they can't be seen, and it seems like there's no effect because it isn't as easily noticed. But the ocean doesn't dry up, and the smallest ripple keeps going whether it's seen or not, adding to other ripples to become waves, or just vibrating quietly in the deep, never dying. No one sees them, or notices them, but they're there.
It seemed to me like Dean was talking about the hunting life. People write their name in a puddle in a normal life. They get a job, they find a partner, they have kids, and they die. Life goes on, the puddle dries up and moves on, and their effect is, for the most part limited to their immediate surroundings. Hunters write their names in the ocean, where no one sees, and the ripples they leave have effects long after they've moved on, in the lives they've saved and the evils they've stopped for no other reason than it needed to be done and no one else was doing it. Impermanent permanence.
That's what I got out of the "writ in water" analogy. It made sense to me. Maybe not the sense you originally intended, but it made sense, and was awesome. :-)
Heh, sorry for babbling. *slinks away*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-01 01:19 pm (UTC)