(no subject)
Aug. 2nd, 2006 12:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elohveehigh hopes.
Supernatural. PG-13, gen. Winchester takes on fairytale favorites. Title from Pink Floyd.
Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon
Go down this road we've been so many times
Sam opens his eyes and sees corn. He dreamt of burning sunflower fields, the smoke rising up thick and yellow until he no longer knew the color of the sky. Dean's eyes are focused on the road, so intense Sam knows he's faking it.
You watching over me again? He's sick of this, sick of Dean treating him like he's a kid or a girl, like he'll crack at any minute. If John could brush off the ashes and start a crusade, so can he; fuck Dean and whatever he might think.
Don't flatter yourself, Sleeping Beauty.
Sam rolls his eyes and glares out the windshield. Where are we?
Dean shrugs. Somewhere. Nowhere. It doesn't matter. The road stretches out, flat and straight in front of him, like forever.
::
Outside Savannah, there's a widower who had four wives, who still has twelve daughters. In June, they start disappearing at night; he knows because he goes to their rooms and knocks three times on each door and they're hollow, empty. At daybreak, they return with muddy, tattered shoes and tired eyes. All summer it happens, until the night they don't come home at all.
They're southern princesses. A century back, and they'd have been belles, hoopskirts and parasols, white gloves and sweet tea in the afternoons. The fifth eldest is called Scarlett, but she never does see war or hunger.
Their bodies turn up one by one. The youngest is the last. Their throats are cut, their feet are tied, so they can't dance dance dance away. When they investigate, the police find the girls' missing jewelry, silver and gold and small, round-cut diamonds. The bracelets and rings mark a border, the outside of a trampled circle in an empty field.
Three days later, a sleek, black car pulls into the neighborhood and circles for nearly two weeks before it disappears.
If you hear the old ladies gossip, they'll tell you the strangers were dark knights, ragged wayward travelers, there to take the maidens' lives and virtue. Not many people listen.
::
- So the wolf says to the hunter, have some sympathy, and some taste.
- No he doesn't; he's a wolf. He doesn't know the word "sympathy".
- Yeah, well, you're nine. You're not s'posed to know it, either. Lemme tell the story, okay?
- Okay, fine.
- So the hunter's like, end of the line, you fuzzy bastard, and—
- He's a good guy. He doesn't cuss.
- Heat of the moment, Sammy. Let me tell the story. So, the hunter pulls out a forty-five, and—
- It's an axe, Dean.
- You wanna tell your own bedtime story?
- You're telling Red Riding Hood wrong.
- Aw, but my version's so much cooler…
::
Cin-der-el-la, dressed in yel-low, went downstairs to kiss her fel-low…
A set of blonde, six-year-old triplets jump rope on the cracked, chalk-covered sidewalk two stories down. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and tries to concentrate.
Can't we close the window?
Too fucking hot. Unless you wanna fix the A/C with your brain, psychic boy?
Sam shakes his head. Okay, let's try this again.
Dean holds up the throw pillow, waves it teasingly. C'mon, Sammy, what wouldn't you do for this lovely waste of upholstery? He isn't wrong. The ruffles are bigger than the pillow itself.
She made a mis-take and kissed a snake…
Sam grits his teeth and tries to reach out, concentrate on the pillow, making it jerk out of his brother's hands and—
Outside, the girls stop singing. Sam has a split second to think, Thank God, before the screaming starts.
Dean reaches the window first, and he just stares for a moment before he puts a hand to his forehead like he's got a migraine. Man, he says, you've really gotta get a handle on this psychic shit.
On the sidewalk, the girls scramble away from the giant snake that used to be their skipping rope. It hisses and snaps at their ankles as it slithers past and into the street. The girls run crying home.
::
Tell me a story, says Sammy, and he settles his head more comfortably in Dean's lap.
What kind of a story?
I dunno. Make something up.
There's a reason Dean got a check-minus in English on his elementary school report cards. He's never been much of a storyteller.
I don't know, Sammy. I dunno what to make up.
Sam heaves a sigh and tilts his head back to look at Dean with disappointed, round eyes. Then tell something we know.
There's a soft jingle by open window. There's a neighborhood cat, and all of the boarders have their own name for her. The Winchesters call her Isis for no reason at all. She leaps softly onto their sill and licks at her paw, watching them in a dignified sort of way. In the moonlight, she looks silver as the bell tied around her neck with a thin strip of ribbon. The girl in 12A gave it to her a week after John moved them in.
Sammy reaches out a hand and Isis drops into their room with a soft thump and another tinkle of the bell, and then she's curled beside them on the bed. Dean strokes along the curve of her back, and Sam pets her stomach and looks at his brother.
Tell Puss in Boots, he says, and Dean nods. He tilts a cup of water to his lips, swallows once, and sets it back down on the nightstand with a click of glass on wood. He clears his throat and begins:
Once upon a time…
::
So maybe he hoped. Maybe he wished. Maybe he tried watching for shooting stars, lucky copper pennies, voodoo. Maybe. But he never wanted this. He wanted Sam back, yeah, but not angry at the world and more tangled and torn up inside than grandma's goddamned bucket of knitting yarn.
In the stories it's always three wishes. Three's a magic number, any new ager will tell you that. There's a balance to it, see, and that's why. That's why. But in real life, he learns, you only get one wish from the redneck genie trapped in the magic carburetor—no, really, swear to God—the one wearing the baseball cap and holding the Bud in one hand. You get one wish, and it'd better be good, son, 'cause that's all and then poof!—the chance is gone.
But there's this thing about wishes and the ones who grant them. Fate's a bitch that way: things never work out quite like you want.
::
Into the woods, Sam says, and he hands Dean a paper. Brother and sister missing. Not even a trail of breadcrumbs. This could be hard.
Dean scans the article, studies the yearbook pictures centered above the fold. And you laugh when I carry M&Ms, he says, handing the paper back. It's too quiet, Dean, he mimics, We're just not looking hard enough, they're always something—well, you wanted a job, Sammyboy.
Sam aims a light smack at the back of Dean's head. Shut up. Let's get to work.
::
There's no such thing as dragons. This they know.
They drive and they kill and they find rooms with beds and showers to wash the blood off their skins, but when they hear stories about dragons, because those myths exist, even here, they know there's nothing. They know it's just a brushfire and local imagination.
There's no such thing as dragons. Those myths mean they can lie back, rest.
Supernatural. PG-13, gen. Winchester takes on fairytale favorites. Title from Pink Floyd.
Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon
Go down this road we've been so many times
Sam opens his eyes and sees corn. He dreamt of burning sunflower fields, the smoke rising up thick and yellow until he no longer knew the color of the sky. Dean's eyes are focused on the road, so intense Sam knows he's faking it.
You watching over me again? He's sick of this, sick of Dean treating him like he's a kid or a girl, like he'll crack at any minute. If John could brush off the ashes and start a crusade, so can he; fuck Dean and whatever he might think.
Don't flatter yourself, Sleeping Beauty.
Sam rolls his eyes and glares out the windshield. Where are we?
Dean shrugs. Somewhere. Nowhere. It doesn't matter. The road stretches out, flat and straight in front of him, like forever.
::
Outside Savannah, there's a widower who had four wives, who still has twelve daughters. In June, they start disappearing at night; he knows because he goes to their rooms and knocks three times on each door and they're hollow, empty. At daybreak, they return with muddy, tattered shoes and tired eyes. All summer it happens, until the night they don't come home at all.
They're southern princesses. A century back, and they'd have been belles, hoopskirts and parasols, white gloves and sweet tea in the afternoons. The fifth eldest is called Scarlett, but she never does see war or hunger.
Their bodies turn up one by one. The youngest is the last. Their throats are cut, their feet are tied, so they can't dance dance dance away. When they investigate, the police find the girls' missing jewelry, silver and gold and small, round-cut diamonds. The bracelets and rings mark a border, the outside of a trampled circle in an empty field.
Three days later, a sleek, black car pulls into the neighborhood and circles for nearly two weeks before it disappears.
If you hear the old ladies gossip, they'll tell you the strangers were dark knights, ragged wayward travelers, there to take the maidens' lives and virtue. Not many people listen.
::
- So the wolf says to the hunter, have some sympathy, and some taste.
- No he doesn't; he's a wolf. He doesn't know the word "sympathy".
- Yeah, well, you're nine. You're not s'posed to know it, either. Lemme tell the story, okay?
- Okay, fine.
- So the hunter's like, end of the line, you fuzzy bastard, and—
- He's a good guy. He doesn't cuss.
- Heat of the moment, Sammy. Let me tell the story. So, the hunter pulls out a forty-five, and—
- It's an axe, Dean.
- You wanna tell your own bedtime story?
- You're telling Red Riding Hood wrong.
- Aw, but my version's so much cooler…
::
Cin-der-el-la, dressed in yel-low, went downstairs to kiss her fel-low…
A set of blonde, six-year-old triplets jump rope on the cracked, chalk-covered sidewalk two stories down. Sam squeezes his eyes shut and tries to concentrate.
Can't we close the window?
Too fucking hot. Unless you wanna fix the A/C with your brain, psychic boy?
Sam shakes his head. Okay, let's try this again.
Dean holds up the throw pillow, waves it teasingly. C'mon, Sammy, what wouldn't you do for this lovely waste of upholstery? He isn't wrong. The ruffles are bigger than the pillow itself.
She made a mis-take and kissed a snake…
Sam grits his teeth and tries to reach out, concentrate on the pillow, making it jerk out of his brother's hands and—
Outside, the girls stop singing. Sam has a split second to think, Thank God, before the screaming starts.
Dean reaches the window first, and he just stares for a moment before he puts a hand to his forehead like he's got a migraine. Man, he says, you've really gotta get a handle on this psychic shit.
On the sidewalk, the girls scramble away from the giant snake that used to be their skipping rope. It hisses and snaps at their ankles as it slithers past and into the street. The girls run crying home.
::
Tell me a story, says Sammy, and he settles his head more comfortably in Dean's lap.
What kind of a story?
I dunno. Make something up.
There's a reason Dean got a check-minus in English on his elementary school report cards. He's never been much of a storyteller.
I don't know, Sammy. I dunno what to make up.
Sam heaves a sigh and tilts his head back to look at Dean with disappointed, round eyes. Then tell something we know.
There's a soft jingle by open window. There's a neighborhood cat, and all of the boarders have their own name for her. The Winchesters call her Isis for no reason at all. She leaps softly onto their sill and licks at her paw, watching them in a dignified sort of way. In the moonlight, she looks silver as the bell tied around her neck with a thin strip of ribbon. The girl in 12A gave it to her a week after John moved them in.
Sammy reaches out a hand and Isis drops into their room with a soft thump and another tinkle of the bell, and then she's curled beside them on the bed. Dean strokes along the curve of her back, and Sam pets her stomach and looks at his brother.
Tell Puss in Boots, he says, and Dean nods. He tilts a cup of water to his lips, swallows once, and sets it back down on the nightstand with a click of glass on wood. He clears his throat and begins:
Once upon a time…
::
So maybe he hoped. Maybe he wished. Maybe he tried watching for shooting stars, lucky copper pennies, voodoo. Maybe. But he never wanted this. He wanted Sam back, yeah, but not angry at the world and more tangled and torn up inside than grandma's goddamned bucket of knitting yarn.
In the stories it's always three wishes. Three's a magic number, any new ager will tell you that. There's a balance to it, see, and that's why. That's why. But in real life, he learns, you only get one wish from the redneck genie trapped in the magic carburetor—no, really, swear to God—the one wearing the baseball cap and holding the Bud in one hand. You get one wish, and it'd better be good, son, 'cause that's all and then poof!—the chance is gone.
But there's this thing about wishes and the ones who grant them. Fate's a bitch that way: things never work out quite like you want.
::
Into the woods, Sam says, and he hands Dean a paper. Brother and sister missing. Not even a trail of breadcrumbs. This could be hard.
Dean scans the article, studies the yearbook pictures centered above the fold. And you laugh when I carry M&Ms, he says, handing the paper back. It's too quiet, Dean, he mimics, We're just not looking hard enough, they're always something—well, you wanted a job, Sammyboy.
Sam aims a light smack at the back of Dean's head. Shut up. Let's get to work.
::
There's no such thing as dragons. This they know.
They drive and they kill and they find rooms with beds and showers to wash the blood off their skins, but when they hear stories about dragons, because those myths exist, even here, they know there's nothing. They know it's just a brushfire and local imagination.
There's no such thing as dragons. Those myths mean they can lie back, rest.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 11:27 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 05:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 04:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 05:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 04:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 05:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 04:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 05:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 05:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 05:54 pm (UTC)(And omgwtf, I wrote gen that wasn't really pre-slash disguised as gen but really genfic and Papa's not even in it. *makes no sense to self*)
*clings to you* ♥
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 06:56 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-02 07:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-03 03:24 am (UTC)But there's this thing about wishes and the ones who grant them. Fate's a bitch that way: things never work out quite like you want.
Oh, very nice. I really like the tone throughout, always a hint of darkness even in the lighter sections, but this is the one that really got me in the gut.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-03 10:39 am (UTC)Thank you. I'm glad you liked. :O)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-03 04:21 pm (UTC)- He's a good guy. He doesn't cuss.
Ah, I could sooo see them saying that...LOL! It was very creative, I loved it.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-03 10:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-03 11:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-06 08:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-06 09:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-21 04:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-21 08:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-23 04:30 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-23 04:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-13 07:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-13 08:56 pm (UTC)