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Watched the SPN season 1 finale last night
No, I'm not writing Supernatural fanfic. Whatever makes you think that?
This is just a little tiny taggy thing, a very small missing scene for the Season 1 finale, taking place near the end.
Just. A. Little. Tag.
Take care of your brother, his father had said. I'll be out in a minute.
The words to argue were on the tip of his tongue before he knew it. He wanted to know what John had to do in the house, though he suspected it was something to do with keeping the demon from following them. He wanted to know how long it would take, because something was broken in Dean and he could hear it every time his brother drew a breath.
But if there ever was a day to do as he was told -- quickly, quietly, without complaint -- now was that day. And Sam knew it.
His hands were infinitely gentle, settling his brother in the backseat of the Impala. But still he hurt him, without meaning to; and the worst part was the sounds that Dean made, tiny gasps, because he wouldn't cry out, even now.
No ... the worst part, the very worst part of the whole thing was knowing it had always been that way with Dean -- the way that things could hurt him, that Sam could hurt him, and still he wouldn't make a sound.
Just for the moment, they were alone, and if there ever was going to be a time to say something, now was the time. Something to fix what the demon had made wrong. The things it had shattered in Dean hadn't only been physical.
There had to be words to make it right, if only he could find them.
"Dean, I --"
"Go help Dad," Dean whispered, his bloody lips barely moving.
"He doesn't want me to. Dean --"
"Leg. Jesus. Ow."
Sam realized that he was kneeling on his brother's leg, half bent over him in the backseat. "Oh. Damn. Sorry." He shifted his weight, sliding backwards. He could no longer see Dean's eyes, just his profile in the Impala's harsh dome light. "Dean, listen --"
"Keys," Dean murmured. "Pocket."
"In a minute, Dean; what I'm trying to --"
"I know," Dean said, in a voice barely audible, but that effort was enough to bring fresh blood to glisten on his lips. Still, there was a ghost of a smile. "Keys, Sammy. Start the car."
Jaw tight, Sam fished in Dean's pocket for the keys. No, you don't know, and you won't let me say it. Just like you wouldn't let me say Thanks, before.
But the words weren't there. He couldn't find them. And he couldn't help thinking that maybe the reason why was because the demon had been, on some level, right -- that as much as he and Dad loved and needed Dean, Dean needed them more.
He couldn't make it right because it wasn't right, and would never be right again.
Sam slid backwards to the ground and shifted Dean's feet out of the way before slamming the car door. He opened the driver's door with more force than he intended. When he twisted the key, the rumble of the big engine was more comforting than it should have been -- the one familiar, comfortable thing in today's sea of horrors.
Sam hooked an arm over the back of the driver's seat and twisted around, looking towards the house just as the door slammed. He could see Dad's shape limping slowly towards them, and couldn't help a quick nervous twinge in the pit of his stomach. But no ... it was Dad. He couldn't believe otherwise. Couldn't let the demon take that away from them, too.
The time to talk in private dwindled to mere seconds. He could feel each of those seconds pressing in on him and then slipping away, taunting him with every word unspoken.
But he knew now, as Dean had known, that there were no words to fix this.
Instead he reached over the back of the seat and felt for Dean's hand in the dark. It was cold and sticky with half-dried blood. At first the fingers were unresponsive, and then they curled back around his.
Sometimes as small children, they had done this, when Sam was too old to want to be held, but needed a touch to ground him in a strange hotel room and chase the night terrors away. In the dark, they held hands until John reached the car. Sam felt Dean's fingers start to retreat from his own when their father opened the car door, but he quickly, obstinately, caught and held and squeezed harder.
He'd once, mistakenly, thought it was easy to get away from the Winchesters. He wasn't about to let Dean make that mistake, too.
This is just a little tiny taggy thing, a very small missing scene for the Season 1 finale, taking place near the end.
Just. A. Little. Tag.
Take care of your brother, his father had said. I'll be out in a minute.
The words to argue were on the tip of his tongue before he knew it. He wanted to know what John had to do in the house, though he suspected it was something to do with keeping the demon from following them. He wanted to know how long it would take, because something was broken in Dean and he could hear it every time his brother drew a breath.
But if there ever was a day to do as he was told -- quickly, quietly, without complaint -- now was that day. And Sam knew it.
His hands were infinitely gentle, settling his brother in the backseat of the Impala. But still he hurt him, without meaning to; and the worst part was the sounds that Dean made, tiny gasps, because he wouldn't cry out, even now.
No ... the worst part, the very worst part of the whole thing was knowing it had always been that way with Dean -- the way that things could hurt him, that Sam could hurt him, and still he wouldn't make a sound.
Just for the moment, they were alone, and if there ever was going to be a time to say something, now was the time. Something to fix what the demon had made wrong. The things it had shattered in Dean hadn't only been physical.
There had to be words to make it right, if only he could find them.
"Dean, I --"
"Go help Dad," Dean whispered, his bloody lips barely moving.
"He doesn't want me to. Dean --"
"Leg. Jesus. Ow."
Sam realized that he was kneeling on his brother's leg, half bent over him in the backseat. "Oh. Damn. Sorry." He shifted his weight, sliding backwards. He could no longer see Dean's eyes, just his profile in the Impala's harsh dome light. "Dean, listen --"
"Keys," Dean murmured. "Pocket."
"In a minute, Dean; what I'm trying to --"
"I know," Dean said, in a voice barely audible, but that effort was enough to bring fresh blood to glisten on his lips. Still, there was a ghost of a smile. "Keys, Sammy. Start the car."
Jaw tight, Sam fished in Dean's pocket for the keys. No, you don't know, and you won't let me say it. Just like you wouldn't let me say Thanks, before.
But the words weren't there. He couldn't find them. And he couldn't help thinking that maybe the reason why was because the demon had been, on some level, right -- that as much as he and Dad loved and needed Dean, Dean needed them more.
He couldn't make it right because it wasn't right, and would never be right again.
Sam slid backwards to the ground and shifted Dean's feet out of the way before slamming the car door. He opened the driver's door with more force than he intended. When he twisted the key, the rumble of the big engine was more comforting than it should have been -- the one familiar, comfortable thing in today's sea of horrors.
Sam hooked an arm over the back of the driver's seat and twisted around, looking towards the house just as the door slammed. He could see Dad's shape limping slowly towards them, and couldn't help a quick nervous twinge in the pit of his stomach. But no ... it was Dad. He couldn't believe otherwise. Couldn't let the demon take that away from them, too.
The time to talk in private dwindled to mere seconds. He could feel each of those seconds pressing in on him and then slipping away, taunting him with every word unspoken.
But he knew now, as Dean had known, that there were no words to fix this.
Instead he reached over the back of the seat and felt for Dean's hand in the dark. It was cold and sticky with half-dried blood. At first the fingers were unresponsive, and then they curled back around his.
Sometimes as small children, they had done this, when Sam was too old to want to be held, but needed a touch to ground him in a strange hotel room and chase the night terrors away. In the dark, they held hands until John reached the car. Sam felt Dean's fingers start to retreat from his own when their father opened the car door, but he quickly, obstinately, caught and held and squeezed harder.
He'd once, mistakenly, thought it was easy to get away from the Winchesters. He wasn't about to let Dean make that mistake, too.
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Hopefully it's not the start of a trend. Writing fic for two shows at once could conceivably drive me mad. ;p
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um all kidding aside, good luck with your original fics too. :) Personally, I'm glad you got a bug for SGA, I've really enjoyed all your stories in this fandom and I think as a writer you've grown during this last year. So I don't think feeling passionate about SGA has been a complete waste. :)
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I certainly don't think it's a waste, and I *have* learned a lot about writing over the last year. Having my stories beta'd has been absolutely invaluable, too.
p.s.
Re: p.s.
Small world!
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