Fic Post: Clairvoyance, Supernatural
Feb. 16th, 2006 09:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stillaneI have neither excuse nor explanation for this one. This is your brain on insomnia? Not my usual, really. Short and strange, but hopefully interesting.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None (gen)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Not quite.
Feedback: Is snuggled like a firstborn child. Even if it's ugly.
Summary: The power or faculty of discerning objects not present to the senses; the ability to perceive matters beyond the range of ordinary perception.
Clairvoyance
He sees her, sometimes. He hasn’t told his brother. He doesn’t think he’d understand, or doesn’t want him to.
She’s there at the edges of his vision, every now and then. He catches glimpses of her in windows, in photographs, in random faces. Once, she stared back at him from a mirror in a motel in Oregon. His brother lay on the bed nearby, not sleeping but alive. He watched his hands move under the water, still not clean, until she was gone. He stays on the surface of that one.
The first time was in the eyes of something dark in Arizona. They wouldn’t meet for more than a decade yet. He didn’t know what she was, not then, and blood and pain and fear were more immediate. He was too young to understand what would come, even if the sight of his brother down and still and his father afraid whispered that they weren’t invincible. But when the battle was done (never the war, not for him), he recalled, and he remembered.
He’s good at that. Almost as good as he is at forgetting. His brother is better, though.
When he did meet her, it made him ache. Not a surprise, but it cut like one. He knew her on sight, recognized her meaning and definition, and yet still hadn’t guessed her role. Not until after, when it was set in time and in stone. He thought she was permanence and stability. Safety. Still loss, but one he could accept. It’s the most wrong he’s ever been.
She burned and she burns, and it’s too much and too late. He can’t save her. He can’t face her. He wants her to be more here so that he can make her go.
Sam sees her differently, he’s sure. He thinks maybe it’s moth and flame for Sam, although she’s the one pinned and fluttering and Sam’s the one drawn. It’s not like that for Dean. She’s light and he’s naked, trying to hide what he doesn’t want seen. That it’s mostly from himself makes no difference.
She’s in this tiny room, tonight, clear and present against the ancient paint and old smoke. Dean knows it, even if he refuses to see her. Sam is stretched between them, and Dean’s not letting go. His fingers are claws and his eyes are closed and she won’t have him tonight. Dean has always played for keeps, and Sam is that blue glass marble he won in second grade. He’s that house in Virginia where they stayed long enough to see their heights change on the wall. He’s the blanket that Dean keeps in the trunk in case of emergencies, and not at all because his small hands wore the silk off the edges. And Dean won’t lose. Not him.
He wishes she would glory in it, wrap herself in triumph and smile with teeth. Then he’d know she was weak. She isn’t, and she doesn’t. She’s just there, justthere, and she’s too close tonight. She waits, and that’s her strength. She always can.
She’s a flicker of white, and he doesn’t turn his head. Sam does, though. He makes a low sound, plea and pain, and his eyes stay closed as he curves himself toward her. Dean swallows and runs the tips of his fingers over Sam’s forehead, cool and insistent. Sam sighs and presses into the touch. Dean lets him.
It’s been hours since nothing woke Dean. He’s gotten used to the dreams, his own years ago and lately Sam’s, and sleeps through them more often than not. He always hears them, though, even when he doesn't. Not tonight. He’d opened his eyes to the dark and listened. Nothing out of place – a car on the highway, the faint tick of rain on pavement - and then what he didn’t hear caught him.
Dean was on his feet and over Sam by then, lights on, not needing his mind to control him. Instinct was sufficient, and it told him that the blue edges of Sam’s lips and the emptiness in his open eyes were wrong. His hands shook Sam fast and hard of their own accord. His mind arrived in time to recognize the hysteria in his voice, and be wise enough to stay out of it.
Sam breathed out, slow and hitching, and Dean froze. And then Sam blinked and took all the air between them deep into himself, and Dean let him because his chest was too tight to hold any anyway. He pulled Sam against his shoulder, hands clutching until Sam jerked away. Dean was still finding reassurances (lies to share) when Sam ground out his request. And again. He didn’t stop until the pen was digging into paper, pulling words and pictures out of his mind. Finally he stalled, and they fell from his hands. Dean caught him before his head met the nightstand, and laid him back down. Sam blinked at him slowly, shivering under the sweat on his skin.
Dean wrapped the blankets around him, pulled them up to his chin and felt the eyelashes against his palm as he pushed the hair from Sam’s eyes with his thumb. He’d waited, and then he’d though it safe enough to shudder his way through a breath. It wasn’t, though, and Sam arched and went rigid. Dean pinned his shoulders, fought him until there was no more fight beneath him. Sam lay gasping, and Dean shook.
It’s been like that since. Dean keeps one hand on Sam’s wrist, the pulse there fast and slow and sometimes not there, and waits for the next cycle. The steps become ritual. He touches his brother’s head in benediction, holds him down when the demons come, keeps the heartbeat under his fingers from escape. He tries every blessing and curse he knows, and finally settles on the name that is both. He repeats it until he’s far past hoarse.
He whispers leave him the fuck alone, and he’s not talking to her. She’s not the cause, just the symptom.
It’s Dean’s fault, and Sam’s. They see enough and they know enough that they should have understood. They should have been prepared. They shouldn’t have accepted such a gift. The child had meant it kindly, no malice in the act. They had saved her from death and maybe worse, and she had offered them all that she had to give in reward. She was young and powerful and not yet wise, but they only knew the first. Just a small thing in an alley, kept from a demon.
Just for a night, a single taste of their futures. Sam would see, and Dean would guard. They hadn’t thought she could. Had even laughed a little, indulgently, at this particular choice of venues. Dean joked about the lottery, and Sam smiled at her politely. They’d thought at worst it would be more of the same, and they were right, but offering Sam true sight was like commanding a bird to fly as high as it could go. Now, Dean is catching the feathers, waiting for the spiral fall.
The sky is going light when it stops. Between one beat and the next, all the tension leaves Sam’s body and he sighs. That quickly it’s over and he’s sleeping, and it’s another ten minutes before Dean begins to breathe too fast. He slides to the floor, back against the bed, bows his head and doesn’t bother to pretend that the ache in his chest is anything but what it is. He also doesn’t let go of Sam’s wrist.
When he pulls enough of himself together to stand, she’s on the bed. He freezes midway, just inches and Sam between them. Her hand is just above Sam’s chest, and her eyes only leave his face reluctantly. She drags them over to Dean, and this time he can’t look away. She smiles, soft and sad, and he understands her too well. She turns back to Sam, and he follows her gaze. A flicker at the corner of his eye tells him she’s gone.
When morning breaks, she’ll be outside staring in again. Never far, but Dean will take what he can get. He’ll pretend he can’t see her. So will Sam.
They’ll go on. It’s what they do, and what they do best. They’ll watch each other, because each is all the other has. They’ll follow the leads from this night, and they’ll make the world safer for people who aren’t them.
They can’t save everyone - not even everyone else – but Dean has never known how to stop trying.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None (gen)
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Not quite.
Feedback: Is snuggled like a firstborn child. Even if it's ugly.
Summary: The power or faculty of discerning objects not present to the senses; the ability to perceive matters beyond the range of ordinary perception.
Clairvoyance
He sees her, sometimes. He hasn’t told his brother. He doesn’t think he’d understand, or doesn’t want him to.
She’s there at the edges of his vision, every now and then. He catches glimpses of her in windows, in photographs, in random faces. Once, she stared back at him from a mirror in a motel in Oregon. His brother lay on the bed nearby, not sleeping but alive. He watched his hands move under the water, still not clean, until she was gone. He stays on the surface of that one.
The first time was in the eyes of something dark in Arizona. They wouldn’t meet for more than a decade yet. He didn’t know what she was, not then, and blood and pain and fear were more immediate. He was too young to understand what would come, even if the sight of his brother down and still and his father afraid whispered that they weren’t invincible. But when the battle was done (never the war, not for him), he recalled, and he remembered.
He’s good at that. Almost as good as he is at forgetting. His brother is better, though.
When he did meet her, it made him ache. Not a surprise, but it cut like one. He knew her on sight, recognized her meaning and definition, and yet still hadn’t guessed her role. Not until after, when it was set in time and in stone. He thought she was permanence and stability. Safety. Still loss, but one he could accept. It’s the most wrong he’s ever been.
She burned and she burns, and it’s too much and too late. He can’t save her. He can’t face her. He wants her to be more here so that he can make her go.
Sam sees her differently, he’s sure. He thinks maybe it’s moth and flame for Sam, although she’s the one pinned and fluttering and Sam’s the one drawn. It’s not like that for Dean. She’s light and he’s naked, trying to hide what he doesn’t want seen. That it’s mostly from himself makes no difference.
She’s in this tiny room, tonight, clear and present against the ancient paint and old smoke. Dean knows it, even if he refuses to see her. Sam is stretched between them, and Dean’s not letting go. His fingers are claws and his eyes are closed and she won’t have him tonight. Dean has always played for keeps, and Sam is that blue glass marble he won in second grade. He’s that house in Virginia where they stayed long enough to see their heights change on the wall. He’s the blanket that Dean keeps in the trunk in case of emergencies, and not at all because his small hands wore the silk off the edges. And Dean won’t lose. Not him.
He wishes she would glory in it, wrap herself in triumph and smile with teeth. Then he’d know she was weak. She isn’t, and she doesn’t. She’s just there, justthere, and she’s too close tonight. She waits, and that’s her strength. She always can.
She’s a flicker of white, and he doesn’t turn his head. Sam does, though. He makes a low sound, plea and pain, and his eyes stay closed as he curves himself toward her. Dean swallows and runs the tips of his fingers over Sam’s forehead, cool and insistent. Sam sighs and presses into the touch. Dean lets him.
It’s been hours since nothing woke Dean. He’s gotten used to the dreams, his own years ago and lately Sam’s, and sleeps through them more often than not. He always hears them, though, even when he doesn't. Not tonight. He’d opened his eyes to the dark and listened. Nothing out of place – a car on the highway, the faint tick of rain on pavement - and then what he didn’t hear caught him.
Dean was on his feet and over Sam by then, lights on, not needing his mind to control him. Instinct was sufficient, and it told him that the blue edges of Sam’s lips and the emptiness in his open eyes were wrong. His hands shook Sam fast and hard of their own accord. His mind arrived in time to recognize the hysteria in his voice, and be wise enough to stay out of it.
Sam breathed out, slow and hitching, and Dean froze. And then Sam blinked and took all the air between them deep into himself, and Dean let him because his chest was too tight to hold any anyway. He pulled Sam against his shoulder, hands clutching until Sam jerked away. Dean was still finding reassurances (lies to share) when Sam ground out his request. And again. He didn’t stop until the pen was digging into paper, pulling words and pictures out of his mind. Finally he stalled, and they fell from his hands. Dean caught him before his head met the nightstand, and laid him back down. Sam blinked at him slowly, shivering under the sweat on his skin.
Dean wrapped the blankets around him, pulled them up to his chin and felt the eyelashes against his palm as he pushed the hair from Sam’s eyes with his thumb. He’d waited, and then he’d though it safe enough to shudder his way through a breath. It wasn’t, though, and Sam arched and went rigid. Dean pinned his shoulders, fought him until there was no more fight beneath him. Sam lay gasping, and Dean shook.
It’s been like that since. Dean keeps one hand on Sam’s wrist, the pulse there fast and slow and sometimes not there, and waits for the next cycle. The steps become ritual. He touches his brother’s head in benediction, holds him down when the demons come, keeps the heartbeat under his fingers from escape. He tries every blessing and curse he knows, and finally settles on the name that is both. He repeats it until he’s far past hoarse.
He whispers leave him the fuck alone, and he’s not talking to her. She’s not the cause, just the symptom.
It’s Dean’s fault, and Sam’s. They see enough and they know enough that they should have understood. They should have been prepared. They shouldn’t have accepted such a gift. The child had meant it kindly, no malice in the act. They had saved her from death and maybe worse, and she had offered them all that she had to give in reward. She was young and powerful and not yet wise, but they only knew the first. Just a small thing in an alley, kept from a demon.
Just for a night, a single taste of their futures. Sam would see, and Dean would guard. They hadn’t thought she could. Had even laughed a little, indulgently, at this particular choice of venues. Dean joked about the lottery, and Sam smiled at her politely. They’d thought at worst it would be more of the same, and they were right, but offering Sam true sight was like commanding a bird to fly as high as it could go. Now, Dean is catching the feathers, waiting for the spiral fall.
The sky is going light when it stops. Between one beat and the next, all the tension leaves Sam’s body and he sighs. That quickly it’s over and he’s sleeping, and it’s another ten minutes before Dean begins to breathe too fast. He slides to the floor, back against the bed, bows his head and doesn’t bother to pretend that the ache in his chest is anything but what it is. He also doesn’t let go of Sam’s wrist.
When he pulls enough of himself together to stand, she’s on the bed. He freezes midway, just inches and Sam between them. Her hand is just above Sam’s chest, and her eyes only leave his face reluctantly. She drags them over to Dean, and this time he can’t look away. She smiles, soft and sad, and he understands her too well. She turns back to Sam, and he follows her gaze. A flicker at the corner of his eye tells him she’s gone.
When morning breaks, she’ll be outside staring in again. Never far, but Dean will take what he can get. He’ll pretend he can’t see her. So will Sam.
They’ll go on. It’s what they do, and what they do best. They’ll watch each other, because each is all the other has. They’ll follow the leads from this night, and they’ll make the world safer for people who aren’t them.
They can’t save everyone - not even everyone else – but Dean has never known how to stop trying.
