tigriswolf | five "Supernatural" unfinisheds (Reply)

I do not remember where I was going with this. No clue.

At the bottom of the trunk, there’re two golden tokens. They’re still sunshine burnished, not faded or bronzed by time.

If asked, neither the oldest nor youngest Winchester could say where they came from.

“Like the gun?” is what the most popular girl of the high school asked the newest student upon meeting him.

She couldn’t tell, but the skin around his eyes tightened and his smile was pasted on as he answered, “Yeah. Like the gun.”

She tossed her head, blond strands in her dark hair glinting in the light of the sun. “Welcome,” she said with a smile, offering one of her delicate hands.

He shook, still wearing his fake smile, and replied, “Thank you.”

Sometimes, it is really is a fairytale.

And sometimes it’s really not.

But it all really depends on is the point of view.

I'm pretty sure this was going to be an AU fic, but I can't recall from where.

When Dean burns, Sam screams and the demon cackles, Told ya.

It’s been three years, four months, one week, five days, twenty hours, eighteen minutes, and forty-seven seconds since Dad died.

Dean hasn’t said a word to Sam in seven hours and Sam hasn’t looked at Dean for a day.

The silence is stifling but neither will speak first.

Pride, Sam thinks. Dean, you’re too fucking proud.

But he still refuses to break the bitter quiet.

After… after… he just can’t—won’t—refuses—

Listen, boy, the demon purrs, I gave you the choice and you made it.

After…

You could have saved him, Samuel, but your pride soared too high.

After…

He closes his eyes and keens, falls to his knees, smells charred flesh and hears Dean’s dying oath.

For what you did to him, you bastard, I’ll see you in Hell.

And Sam doesn’t know if Dean meant the demon or him.

It’s been two years, seven months, three weeks, six days, twelve hours, twenty-seven minutes, and seventeen seconds since Dean died.

Sam sags against the wall and slides to the floor.

He’s been one step ahead of the demon for a while, now, but knows the bastard’s finally caught up.

An AU where Dean vanished the night Mary died.

If you’re not careful… you’ll lose your soul.

“Today in school,” Sammy says, taking a bite of his pizza, “the teacher asked us what we’re thankful for.”

John says, “Chew, swallow, talk,” and Sammy nods, finishes chewing and swallows with a big gulp. He takes a long sip of his Sprite and sets it down hard, sloshing some out over the table.

Quickly, Sammy grabs some napkins and starts patting the spill, with an embarrassed smile and softly muttered, “Sorry, Daddy.”

John nods and finishes cleaning up the spill, tossing the sodden napkins into the bin kept by the table for that purpose. It’s not Sammy’s fault and John knows it; few people who’d known him as a boy would believe the man he’s become.

He thanks Mary when he thinks about it at all.

“So, what’d you say?” John asks, picking up his pizza.

“I told her I’m thankful for Isis,” Sammy starts and the Wolfhound thumps her tail at the sound of her name. “And for your job and our money and the house and the school and my toys and the car—‘cause it’s a real cool car, Daddy—and the sky.”

Um... yeah. I'm pretty sure this would have ended with the boys going darkside.

Dean sighed as he felt the heat settle into his bones, chasing away the cold of the ghost. The sunlight bathed him and he could feel again, feel something other than the despair that particular spirit had brought with it.

“If you were a cat,” Sam laughed, “you’d be purring.”

Dean smirked and glanced his way. “If I were a cat, Sammy, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

John used to watch his sons quite a bit. Anytime he wasn’t on a hunt, he’d study them—their moods, their likes, their dislikes… how they acted with each other and other people.

Sam, he noticed, was eager to please, no matter whom. Teachers, neighbors, children—anyone he could, he’d try his best.

Dean would just shift—no other word for it—into whatever the person wanted to see. Whether it be a studious nerd to charm a teacher or the rebellious jerk to annoy the man looking for a fight, Dean could become the part.

It almost frightened John, in a way. He wondered what Dean might have turned out to be in another world.

John made a mistake when he picked hunting over safety. He’s always suspected it, but he it finally hits home and he knows it when Dean chooses the moon over the sun and just smiles.

Because, that’s something else John noticed, watching his boy’s all those years. Dean looked beautiful all the time, just alive and full of fire, but when the sun touched him—he glowed.

Dean loved the sun.

A ficlet from the 'shifter in "Skin"s pov. Would've ended up NotDean/Dean, I think.

He’s worn two-dozen skins over the years since he discovered his talent, always searching for one that he can keep, can make his own for the rest of his days. He travels from city to city, choosing victims and faces, trying to find someone to love him—but he never can get the part right, and they know something’s wrong.

Not even Mama could love him. The bitch shoved him away, refused to look at him. It was her fault he’s like this, hideous and deformed. Those drugs she did, it has to be the reason. Has to be.

He only ever kills four or five before moving on. Sometimes he kills the original skin, sometimes he doesn’t. It depends on his mood.

He never plans on hurting the women. He just wants someone to accept him, to love him, to want him.

And no one ever does.

When the two men break into his territory, he knows that he should kill them instantly. And he’s about to, about to reach out and snap the shorter one’s neck, when he sees the man’s face.

Now, that is a skin he could use.

He watches from less than twenty feet as the men slip out of his territory. He shadows the shorter one—Dean—and strikes.

Dean fights, of course, and well, but he’s wounded.