After - SN fanfic - PG13
Jul. 3rd, 2006 11:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tigriswolfFandom: "Supernatural"
Disclaimer: not my characters. just for fun.
Warnings: sometime after season 1
Pairings: John/Mary, Sam/Jess
Rated: PG-13
Wordcount: 970
Point of view: third
Notes: It is possible to wake oneself up by sobbing. Just so you know.
Dean never thought about after for one very simple reason: there wouldn’t be one.
He’s known that as long as he’s known his name.
---It began in fire. It’s only right it ends the same.
---
Sam always thought about after. He made up stories about their adventures—they were better than Han Solo and Indiana Jones and Batman and Wolverine rolled into one, SamandDean, like one person, the best superheroes ever. They saved kids and mommas and dogs and the world—Dad was always in the background, their home base. They’d go to him for patching up and advice and stories of Mom.
Slowly, Sam’s thoughts of after changed. He imagined… a life without blood or pain or death. He imagined… a true home. A place that felt lived in, not an endless supply of hotels and apartments, empty rooms filled with nothing but false promises. He wanted safety and security, no more bruises or scars.
Sam’s after became a longing for the home he couldn’t remember but Dean would tell him about if he asked.
---It began with blood. It’s only right ends the same.
---
John’s after was only ever one thing: deep, comforting sleep with Mary in his arms.
He wouldn’t live past the finish of his quest. He wouldn’t see the lives his sons would make for themselves.
And he’s always been okay with that, because even right after that November night he was bone-tired. So, so weary… for twenty-three years, all he ever wanted was to touch her one more time.
His after will be with her for eternity.
---It began because of sacrifice. It could only ever end the same.
---
Sam woke in a sterile hospital room that smelled like starched death. Bobby slouched in the chair next to the window, Dad’s journal held loosely in his hands. Sam catalogued his wounds on autopilot, only one thought playing in his mind like a broken record: Where’s Dean? Where’s Dean? Where’s Dean?
His right leg was broken. So were three of his ribs. And his left wrist. His whole body felt tender.
“You were beat to hell, boy,” Bobby’s rough voice said and Sam focused on him. “You killed it, though, the three’a ya. Somehow.” Bobby sat up straight, stretching and groaning. He reached over and placed the journal on the bed.
“Dad?” Sam tried. His throat ached and burned when the word came out.
Bobby shook his head. “I… I had him cremated, Sam,” he said. “There wasn’t enough, really, to bury.”
Sam closed his eyes and remembered to breathe. It hurt, hurt more he could imagine.
Bobby answered his next question before he could force himself to ask.
“He’s gone.”
---It began with love. Love alone would be able to see it done at last.
---
Sam woke again days later. There was nothing to wake for—Dad was dead. Dean—
The quest, the crusade, the vengeance—done. Why should he wake to a world where he had nothing?
Because he had to know.
Bobby was there when he opened his eyes. “What do you remember?” he asked.
“It trapped us in Lawrence, in the house,” Sam whispered. “Dad had the gun. It… it’d possessed a child, a little blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl in a pink dress. I think… I think it expected him to hesitate, you know?” He glanced up at Bobby, who nodded. “But he didn’t. He shot her straight between her sky-blue eyes.” Sam closed his eyes and rubbed them tiredly with his right hand. “And all its children—I think they were its kids—attacked us. They tore Dad apart. And Dean…”
At last, the sobs came. He turned away from Bobby as well he could and fell apart.
---Dean had known he wouldn’t have an after. There’s only so much a body can take before it gives out.
The soul’s the same.
---
Sometimes, Sam dreams of his parents, dancing in the sky. Mom wears her wedding gown with her golden hair flowing down her back. Dad wears jeans and a dark T-shirt, both stained with oil. They whirl and twirl and kiss and laugh and smile.
Sam’s never seen his dad so happy and young. He’d only seen his mom once that he remembers, and she’d looked so weary—but here, here with Dad—
Sam always wakes from the dream with tears in his eyes.
---
Sam moves to Florida and stays away from fire.
---
Sometimes, he dreams of his childhood with Dean. Dreams of pranks and fights and blood and pain. Dreams of gentle hands stitching him up and a soft voice saying, “It’ll be okay, Sammy.”
He wakes himself up sobbing because of those.
Sam moves to Florida and hates the sight of blood.
---
Sometimes, he dreams of Jessica. She smiles and laughs and tells him to live, because too many people have died for him to give up.
He wakes knowing she’s right.
Sam moves to Florida, goes back to school, gets a job as a paralegal, and finally becomes a lawyer.
Sam moves to Florida and never goes to the beach, never hangs out with people his own age, choosing instead to talk with old men who share stories of days long ago.
Sam moves to Florida and watches the sun rise every day.
Sam moves to Florida and tells people his name is Dean Johnson.
---
Sam moves to Florida and exorcises his first ghost three months later.
---
Bobby drives the Impala down and flies back home. Sam’s never been as good with cars as Dean, but he knows that doesn’t matter.
It’s been a year since he woke and he stares at Dean’s baby with hazy eyes.
If he looks just right—
---Maybe Dean has an after, after all.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-06 01:05 am (UTC)And, too, your work appeals most strongly (I think) to a different segment of the fanfic community that is a little less chatty and a little more artistically/literarily inclined. So the people who are most blown away by what you write aren't necessarily just happypants because you hit their personal sqee in a legible manner; but rather, they're a little intimidated because you've just written something so stark and powerful and dangerously fierce that they sometimes think, crap, I'll bet she hears how great she is all the time, if I don't have anything better than "wow" to say, maybe I'd just better keep it to myself.
Don't know for sure that this is happening, but I see some signs that make me think that maybe it is. I know I, personally, am less inclined to just say "wow, that was great" or something else relatively generic to someone who really blows me away on a "great writer" level than I am to someone who just tells me a good story in good Sam and Dean voice. And I'm not very easy to intimidate, nor particularly worried that someone might not give a shit what my opinion is.
Does that make sense?
Anyways. Her comment is in public view over at my LJ in resonse to my rec post ... you could go ever there and reply to her statements in person if you want. Bet she'd comment all to hell and gone on your work in the future if you did that. :D
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-06 01:25 am (UTC)That was well-thought out and very in-depth.
I wish I could speak in a different language well enough to say "Thank you" again and sound cool.
Yes, it makes sense. I know that I often don't leave a comment on someone like trollprincess' or maygra's fics because they're just so mindblowingly _good_ that I can't think of a way to say just how damned awesome it was.
To think that someone could feel that way about me... it's a bit heady.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-06 02:04 am (UTC)And yet, very true. ;)
I figured you'd know what I meant.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-06 02:26 am (UTC)