broadwriting | FIC: "The Ghost In You" 1/1 (Dean & Sam Winchester) Supernatural FP

Title: "The Ghost In You"
Author: Brenda (

azewewish)
Fandom: Supernatural
Featuring: Dean & Sam Winchester
Rating: PG
Summary: You lose track over the years, decades, of how often you feel him, at your back, by your side, just out of sight but undeniably there. Gen-fic.
Disclaimer: Not my playground. All rights belong to Eric Kripke, the CW and Wonderland Productions, not me.
Notes: Written for the

spn_remix - the original fic was Hello, Darkness by

meredevachon. All quotes are from "Because I Could Not Stop For Death" by Emily Dickinson. Spoilers for S2.

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—

The first time you think you see Dean, you're sure you're imagining things. A throwback to when you were controlled by The Demon, when your mind was controlled by forces more powerful than your own, a lingering echo of when you were Luke Skywalker to Dean's Han Solo. Dean would have loved the comparison.

But Dean's been gone a long time. One day, you might get used to it.

It's during a mission, one Bobby told you about: a routine haunting, should have been easy. And it was, until the spirit fought back. The girl made it. Her boyfriend wasn't so lucky.

You kneel there in the abandoned warehouse, drenched in a stranger's blood, watching helplessly as the light fades from once bright eyes, your own stinging with unshed tears; for a moment, you can swear you feel Dean beside you. For a moment, his strong hand clasps your shoulder, offering comfort, and you can almost smell leather and spearmint in the air, drowning out the sickly rich copper scent of death.

For a moment, you can hear Dean's voice murmuring to you: Hold on, it's alright, Sammy. It's alright.

You cling to the lie until the tight grip on your hand goes slack and the last breath leaves a too-young body.

The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality

The second time, you're on the highway, between jobs, just driving, maybe in Nebraska, maybe Iowa, you're not sure. It's not quite dawn when you see the flashing lights just ahead, too many for a simple traffic cop, and you slow to a crawl, then stop, as the cars in front of you do the same. An accident – speeding, asleep at the wheel, blown tire – too many variables to count, but you've seen enough death to know what it looks like, no matter what the cause.

While you're waiting to inch by the bevy of ambulances, fire trucks and police cars, you smell him. Spearmint and leather. Hear the creaking of the seat next to you. And the radio, of its own accord, flips on. Led Zeppelin's "Dazed and Confused".

I see you kept the car, you hear him say, and you're afraid to glance towards the passenger seat.

You're afraid you're going crazy. You're afraid you aren't.

You said you'd haunt me otherwise, you reply out loud, wondering if you should laugh at the irony or cry.

The low chuckle whispers in the space between you and the windshield. Your throat moves as you try to swallow the lump.

Who says I'm not, he asks, almost like he's reading your mind. Mysterious ways, dude, mysterious ways.

The scent and the warmth stay with you until you're past the accident and on the open road once again. The radio goes silent. You don't bother to turn it back on.

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—

The third time, it's another mission, and so much time has passed that you'd almost forgotten the first two times. You're married now, to a woman you think Dad and Dean would have liked (she's nothing like Jess, but like so many memories, Jess is starting to fade) with a small son who's your pride and joy. Your wife doesn't know, of course, what you do when you go off on your 'business trips', and you'll never tell her.

Just another lie in a long family tradition of them.

You exorcized the demon, but the old man it chose as a host couldn't handle the strain to his heart. It's shades of Meg all over again, and suddenly, for the first time in forever, it seems, you miss your father and brother so much you can't breathe.

Then it's like Dean's beside you, or so it feels, arm around your shoulders as you shake and rock beside the body lying on the floor.

It'll be alright, Sammy. The voice is close, warm.

No, it won't, you reply, hating yourself for leaning into the empty comfort, the protection that hasn't been there for years. It won't be alright. Whatever I do, it's not enough.

You're saving people.

Not enough, you say, and brush a hand across the old man's eyelids, gently closing them. Then, quietly, wondering why you're bothering, wondering why it matters: I have a son now.

Yeah? And you can almost feel Dean's wide smile somewhere deep in your soul. What's his name?

Johnathan. Johnathan Dean.

Helluva name to saddle with a kid.

We have a helluva family.

Years later, when Johnny's burning with fever, you can almost see Dean's shadow shaking his head at you and whispering: Not yet. You've never been more terrified in your entire life, but you've never felt more safe.

Johnny's fever breaks by morning.

We passed the fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

You lose track over the years, decades, of how often you feel him, at your back, by your side, just out of sight but undeniably there. Through missions too numerous to count, in every day life, a life you tried so hard to live as fully as possible, Dean's a guardian angel shielding you, comforting you in your time of need, watching over you always.

The night you finally see him – fully, for the first time since the night he'd slipped away from you to honor his bargain – you understand what he truly is, and why he'd only ever appeared, ghost-like, out of the corner of your eye.

You understand, but it doesn't stop the anger from flooding through you in a torrent of regret and lost chances. I can't believe you chose this, you tell him, ignoring the hitch in your breath at finally gazing upon him again. He looks like he hasn't aged a day. You suppose that makes sense.

It could've been worse, trust me, he replies with a shrug that's one part insouciance, one part defiance, and all Dean.

It's time, he says then, and his smile is one you've never seen before. Patient in a way that you'd never associate with your brash, headstrong brother, but beautiful enough that it tugs at long dormant heartstrings.

The anger leaves you as suddenly as it appeared. You're too old for grudges that mean nothing in the end, and too grateful for the chance to find the one thing you thought you'd lost.

I'm not scared, you reply, and (mostly) mean it.

I know.

Johnny's getting married next month.

I know. I'm sorry. He ducks his head, and his smile this time is one of familiarity. I held off as long as I could.

You wonder what comes next. If the white light you've read about is true. If there is a God out there, if there's peace at the end of it all. You ask in a hushed, hopeful voice: You...you think I'll see Mom and Dad?

There's a long pause before he answers. I hope so, Sammy. I really do.

But you're not joining us. It's not a question.

'Fraid not.

Somehow, you're not surprised. He's tied into this life now, and you want to ask him if it was worth it, if this servitude was worth the sacrifice. If your life had been worth it. But you already know his answer; you always have.

You'll find a way out of this deal, Dean, you say instead. My money's on you. It always has been.

Dean touches you then, a light brush of fingers, and it's easier than you would have ever believed possible to step forward into your brother's embrace. To lay your forehead against his and relinquish control, regret, life. You fix your son's face, open and young, still so young and full of promise, in your mind's eye and say the first prayer of protection you can think of. You know he'll be alright – he has the best of the Winchesters in him – Dad's strength, Dean's loyalty, your smarts – and you and your wife have given him a solid foundation for the rest.

I'll keep an eye out, Dean tells you, and you smile because you know he will. Protecting the family as always.

You take one last, long, cleansing breath. Murmur one last word of love for your wife. And let yourself go.

Dean will take care of you.

Since then—'tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day

Current Mood: accomplished

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From:

x5vale.livejournal.com

awwww...*cries*

So intense.

Beautiful.

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