Shadow Boxing - Springfling fic
Apr. 18th, 2017 02:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amberdreamsYay! The big reveals have happened so now I can claim my ficlet. It didn't get many comments on the com, but the ones that were made were lovely, so a big thank you to those who read it and liked it.
Here's the link to the story on
spnspringfling, but I'm reposting it here too, with a few minor corrections.
Title: Shadow Boxing
Pairing: Gen (Sam & Dean)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: unbetaed, somewhat random
Word count: c1200 "Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings - always darker, emptier and simpler." - Friedrich Nietzsche
First Sam leaves, and then Dad leaves too, and Dean is on his own for the first time. So maybe it’s not surprising that it takes him a while (yeah, okay, a long time) to adjust. He hunts – of course he does, it’s the only life he knows. Hunting monsters, saving people. It’s his only remaining motivation for carrying on, even if it’s a poor substitute for his heart’s true reason for being – keeping his family together and looking after Sam. Having failed at both, a small part of Dean believes his loneliness is deserved.
Dad texts him coordinates in lieu of conversation and Dean tells himself it's fine. He’s an adult now, this is all he needs.
Dean hadn’t realised how dangerous hunting is when you’re alone. Even more so when you’re not used to fighting solo. He unconsciously leaves his left side open because he’s too accustomed to a warm solid body at his shoulder covering him, just as Dean is always compensating for that never-present presence.
Sam.
Who is safely tucked away, miles from these freezing woods in Minnesota, no doubt enjoying long walks on the golden sands of the Pacific coast while Dean goes down for the second time, his ribs cracking like brittle ice with a sound louder than a pistol shot. Then all he can hear is his ragged panting and the low growls of the angry mother of the baby manticore he just killed, and all he can think is that he needs to train differently if this is going to be his life from now on.
He needs to purge Sam out from his body’s subconscious.
Just as soon as he kills this motherfucking monster and gets his sorry ass to Pastor Jim’s.
He barely makes it.
“I swear, you Winchesters will be the death of me,” Jim says, eyes wide and anxious under a furrowed brow, but Dean’s too busy folding like a headless corpse to come up with a witty retort.
A punctured lung and three broken ribs, plus post injury fever and infection exacerbated by the three hour drive from St John’s University to Blue Earth, are enough to keep Dean hospitalised for a month, pumped full of antibiotics and the good stuff. When he’s finally discharged, he’s laid up at Pastor Jim’s for another couple of weeks, before lack of activity sends him stir crazy and even Jim agrees he’s better off on the road again.
Six weeks downtime and John doesn’t call him. Dean knows Jim told John about Dean’s injuries and he pretends he doesn’t care about the radio-silence. He pretends all he’s waiting for is the next set of coordinates and a job to do, and shuts Jim down at the first sign of sympathy. He’s not made to stay in one place too long: he’s the epitome of Lee Marvin’s Wandering Star…and don’t ask how many times he’s watched Paint Your Wagon. Sue him, it’s a guilty pleasure.
He drives for nearly three days with minimal sleep before he’s near cross-eyed with exhaustion, but it’s worth it. Because when he finally stops at the first motel he sees after passing through Escondido, the air is warm and juniper-scented. It’s the middle of nowhere, but it’s California, and that’s all that matters. Dean steps out of his Baby and takes a deep breath. It feels like the first time he’s been able to breathe freely for longer than he can remember (since Sam left, a small voice says, but he’s well practiced at ignoring it), even though his ribs still creak when his lungs fill.
When he takes a moment to look, the motel is more up-market than he would usually go for. Its adobe walls are rough-hewn but appear new, an observation confirmed by the construction dust on the paving outside reception. He hesitates for a second, in half a mind to jump back into the Impala and find somewhere less salubrious, but the woman behind the desk catches his eye. Her welcoming smile together with a bone-deep tiredness lures Dean in.
Her name badge says she’s called Teodora. She’s hard to age; smooth high cheekbones and a sweep of glossy hair so dark a brown it’s almost black. Her eyes are unfathomable but kind. It says something about Dean’s state of mind that he doesn’t even think about flirting.
“Welcome to the Red Road Motel, Santa Ysabel” Teodora says, handing him a key swinging from a leather-bound, miniature dream-catcher. “There’s a sweat lodge round the back,” she adds with a considering look that makes Dean shift his feet, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Teodora of Santa Ysabel has a nice ring to it though, so Dean takes the key with his best smile and makes sure to thank her by name. He crashes hard as soon as he throws his body onto the bed and sleeps for twelve hours straight.
His stomach awakens him with a loud protest, and he rolls off the bed with a groan. He stinks and his mouth tastes worse than zombie brains, but he feels marginally better after a long hot shower – the water pressure is fantastic and he blesses the rain gods or whoever looks after the Reservation’s plumbing. His mood improves even further after he discovers there’s a family diner attached to the motel. Warm and replete after the largest plate of ham and eggs he’s ever seen, he ambles back towards his room. There’s nothing more significant on his mind than checking the TV’s porn options, until his attention is snagged by a low, domed building, tucked away behind one wing of the motel. This must be the sweat lodge Teodora mentioned.
The wooden door is closed and sports a pinned reminder. Dean reads it out loud with a grin. “You should not bring anything that is not natural into the Sweat Lodge, such as: watches, ear rings, gold, silver, eye glasses, false teeth,” he snorts, visualising a tray by the door full of teeth, gnashing with frustration at their exclusion. His hand is on the door. He’s curious, is all; just wants to take a peek inside.
Heat greets him as he enters, heavy with a combination of wood-smoke, sage and something sweet that reminds him of a home he can barely remember. He ducks his head to avoid the low roof; thinks he should really leave now, but doesn’t. Instead he moves farther inside, closing the door behind him even though the sweat is already springing up on his forehead and he can feel his skin reddening. There’s a pit in the centre of the bare earthen floor, filled with large rounded stones that hiss and steam as if someone is actively tending them, even though the room is empty.
He should be wary, but instead of threatened, Dean feels welcomed. Heat seeps into all his cracks, annealing and healing. His mind empty of thought Dean undresses, kicking off boots and jeans and shirts until he’s down to his boxers. Suddenly mindful of the instructions on the door, he undoes his watchstrap and places his ring and watch on top of his discarded clothes before sitting down, cross-legged, on the floor.
He closes his eyes.
In his self-imposed darkness, Dean’s component parts are reduced to a steady trickle of sweat as it runs freely down his body and feeds the red soil beneath him. The only sounds are the occasional hiss from the pit and Dean’s slow breathing as all the tension drains out of his shoulders and back. His lungs fill with smoke and herbs, and time becomes irrelevant.
He doesn’t think he sleeps or dreams but after a while awareness encroaches on his zen-like peace and his stiff knees let him know that he’s been motionless long enough. At first he moves molasses-slow, but something is telling him he’s out-stayed his welcome. He’s gripped by an unexplained urgency, the shadows gathering at the edges of the empty room like harbingers of doom. It’s a weird feeling, strong enough that he dresses with haste, not even taking the time to wipe off the sweat before pulling on his jeans and t shirt with a grimace as the material sticks to his skin.
Back in his motel room, Dean washes away the strangeness in his second shower of the day, and shakes his head. He’s an experienced hunter, not a green kid to be spooked by a few shadows. It doesn’t stop his heart jumping like a startled deer when his cell phone buzzes.
Dad. Finally. It’s coordinates, of course it is. That’s okay, because Dean clearly needs to get back on track, back to normal.
Outside, a dark contrast to the golden glow of the setting sun, a shadow sits in the shotgun seat of the Impala, waiting patiently for Dean. By the time Dean’s thrown his belongings into his duffle and checked out of the Red Road, the darkness of night has filled the Impala, rendering the shadow invisible. It isn’t until after Dean’s despatched the ghost in New Mexico and decides it’s time to follow through with his new Sam-free training regime that the shadow that’s ridden with him since Santa Ysabel is finally revealed.
Dean is at a deserted rest stop off the I-49. He’s trying some new moves, Capoeira-style, and attempting (badly) to compensate for the absence of his brother, when one of the many shadows cast by the brassy sun separates from it’s fellows and introduces itself. It’s tall, and so shock-headed skinny it looks like it’s been cast by a mop, and Dean isn’t reminded of the gaping Sam-shaped hole in his heart, not one tiny bit.
It’s like his entrance to the sweat lodge all over again. There’s no feeling of fear or wrongness, and though he’s sure Dad would be yelling at him to salt and burn the fucker, Dean spars with it instead.
Sure, it’s weird sparring with a opponent who can’t be touched, gripped or thrown, but Dean doesn’t mind. It becomes his new companion, part of his routine.
He moves on from New Mexico to deal with a poltergeist in Waco, then on to another restless spirit in Arkansas, and in between the hunts he trains with his new partner. Something inside him is unwinding, and he knows he’s getting stronger with each new move he learns. The shadow is silent and never intrudes on his life outside their practice sessions, though Dean’s constantly aware of its presence. Weeks pass; then weeks turn into months and Dean realises he hasn’t heard anything from John in all that time. He’s in New Orleans, sweating in humidity so bad he’s changing his t shirts twice a day, when he finally decides to bite the bullet. He finishes the voodoo case he’s working and turns the Impala towards California.
The shadow sits beside him, a silent reassurance, all the way to Stanford. Dean thinks it has stayed in the car when he breaks into Sam’s apartment, so he’s surprised when it jumps him in Sam’s living room. They fight, a flurry of moves played out in the near-dark. Dean takes several hits before it dawns on him; this is no shadow. Sam’s pants are harsh in the enclosed space, Dean can feel the warmth rising from Sam’s skin and smell Sam’s sweat. It makes him grip Sam’s arms extra tight when he finally wraps his leg round Sam’s and throws his brother to the floor. Even though he’s only here because he’s worried to hell about Dad, he can’t stop smiling.
“Easy tiger,” he says, and teases some more when Sam turns a trick Dean doesn’t remember and his shadow never knew, in order to put Dean flat on his back.
Maybe it’s ironic that he has Sam back in his life just as he’s gotten Sam out of his head. Dean doesn’t know and refuses to worry either way. Sam sits by Dean’s side as they drive out of Stanford into the California sun, but even in that brightest of lights, Dean’s old sparring partner never reappears. Having Sam sitting beside him is the opposite of a nuclear explosion – the image of the person remains, while the shadow dies.
Dean isn’t sure how he feels about the shadow’s loss, but after Jessica burns, none of that matters any more. All that matters is Sam, and that is how Dean is completed.
Love is a trap. When it appears, we see only its light, not its shadows.
Paulo Coelho
Here's the link to the story on
spnspringfling, but I'm reposting it here too, with a few minor corrections.Shadow Boxing for keep_waking_up
Pairing: Gen (Sam & Dean)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: unbetaed, somewhat random
Word count: c1200
First Sam leaves, and then Dad leaves too, and Dean is on his own for the first time. So maybe it’s not surprising that it takes him a while (yeah, okay, a long time) to adjust. He hunts – of course he does, it’s the only life he knows. Hunting monsters, saving people. It’s his only remaining motivation for carrying on, even if it’s a poor substitute for his heart’s true reason for being – keeping his family together and looking after Sam. Having failed at both, a small part of Dean believes his loneliness is deserved.
Dad texts him coordinates in lieu of conversation and Dean tells himself it's fine. He’s an adult now, this is all he needs.
Dean hadn’t realised how dangerous hunting is when you’re alone. Even more so when you’re not used to fighting solo. He unconsciously leaves his left side open because he’s too accustomed to a warm solid body at his shoulder covering him, just as Dean is always compensating for that never-present presence.
Sam.
Who is safely tucked away, miles from these freezing woods in Minnesota, no doubt enjoying long walks on the golden sands of the Pacific coast while Dean goes down for the second time, his ribs cracking like brittle ice with a sound louder than a pistol shot. Then all he can hear is his ragged panting and the low growls of the angry mother of the baby manticore he just killed, and all he can think is that he needs to train differently if this is going to be his life from now on.
He needs to purge Sam out from his body’s subconscious.
Just as soon as he kills this motherfucking monster and gets his sorry ass to Pastor Jim’s.
He barely makes it.
“I swear, you Winchesters will be the death of me,” Jim says, eyes wide and anxious under a furrowed brow, but Dean’s too busy folding like a headless corpse to come up with a witty retort.
A punctured lung and three broken ribs, plus post injury fever and infection exacerbated by the three hour drive from St John’s University to Blue Earth, are enough to keep Dean hospitalised for a month, pumped full of antibiotics and the good stuff. When he’s finally discharged, he’s laid up at Pastor Jim’s for another couple of weeks, before lack of activity sends him stir crazy and even Jim agrees he’s better off on the road again.
Six weeks downtime and John doesn’t call him. Dean knows Jim told John about Dean’s injuries and he pretends he doesn’t care about the radio-silence. He pretends all he’s waiting for is the next set of coordinates and a job to do, and shuts Jim down at the first sign of sympathy. He’s not made to stay in one place too long: he’s the epitome of Lee Marvin’s Wandering Star…and don’t ask how many times he’s watched Paint Your Wagon. Sue him, it’s a guilty pleasure.
He drives for nearly three days with minimal sleep before he’s near cross-eyed with exhaustion, but it’s worth it. Because when he finally stops at the first motel he sees after passing through Escondido, the air is warm and juniper-scented. It’s the middle of nowhere, but it’s California, and that’s all that matters. Dean steps out of his Baby and takes a deep breath. It feels like the first time he’s been able to breathe freely for longer than he can remember (since Sam left, a small voice says, but he’s well practiced at ignoring it), even though his ribs still creak when his lungs fill.
When he takes a moment to look, the motel is more up-market than he would usually go for. Its adobe walls are rough-hewn but appear new, an observation confirmed by the construction dust on the paving outside reception. He hesitates for a second, in half a mind to jump back into the Impala and find somewhere less salubrious, but the woman behind the desk catches his eye. Her welcoming smile together with a bone-deep tiredness lures Dean in.
Her name badge says she’s called Teodora. She’s hard to age; smooth high cheekbones and a sweep of glossy hair so dark a brown it’s almost black. Her eyes are unfathomable but kind. It says something about Dean’s state of mind that he doesn’t even think about flirting.
“Welcome to the Red Road Motel, Santa Ysabel” Teodora says, handing him a key swinging from a leather-bound, miniature dream-catcher. “There’s a sweat lodge round the back,” she adds with a considering look that makes Dean shift his feet, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Teodora of Santa Ysabel has a nice ring to it though, so Dean takes the key with his best smile and makes sure to thank her by name. He crashes hard as soon as he throws his body onto the bed and sleeps for twelve hours straight.
His stomach awakens him with a loud protest, and he rolls off the bed with a groan. He stinks and his mouth tastes worse than zombie brains, but he feels marginally better after a long hot shower – the water pressure is fantastic and he blesses the rain gods or whoever looks after the Reservation’s plumbing. His mood improves even further after he discovers there’s a family diner attached to the motel. Warm and replete after the largest plate of ham and eggs he’s ever seen, he ambles back towards his room. There’s nothing more significant on his mind than checking the TV’s porn options, until his attention is snagged by a low, domed building, tucked away behind one wing of the motel. This must be the sweat lodge Teodora mentioned.
The wooden door is closed and sports a pinned reminder. Dean reads it out loud with a grin. “You should not bring anything that is not natural into the Sweat Lodge, such as: watches, ear rings, gold, silver, eye glasses, false teeth,” he snorts, visualising a tray by the door full of teeth, gnashing with frustration at their exclusion. His hand is on the door. He’s curious, is all; just wants to take a peek inside.
Heat greets him as he enters, heavy with a combination of wood-smoke, sage and something sweet that reminds him of a home he can barely remember. He ducks his head to avoid the low roof; thinks he should really leave now, but doesn’t. Instead he moves farther inside, closing the door behind him even though the sweat is already springing up on his forehead and he can feel his skin reddening. There’s a pit in the centre of the bare earthen floor, filled with large rounded stones that hiss and steam as if someone is actively tending them, even though the room is empty.
He should be wary, but instead of threatened, Dean feels welcomed. Heat seeps into all his cracks, annealing and healing. His mind empty of thought Dean undresses, kicking off boots and jeans and shirts until he’s down to his boxers. Suddenly mindful of the instructions on the door, he undoes his watchstrap and places his ring and watch on top of his discarded clothes before sitting down, cross-legged, on the floor.
He closes his eyes.
In his self-imposed darkness, Dean’s component parts are reduced to a steady trickle of sweat as it runs freely down his body and feeds the red soil beneath him. The only sounds are the occasional hiss from the pit and Dean’s slow breathing as all the tension drains out of his shoulders and back. His lungs fill with smoke and herbs, and time becomes irrelevant.
He doesn’t think he sleeps or dreams but after a while awareness encroaches on his zen-like peace and his stiff knees let him know that he’s been motionless long enough. At first he moves molasses-slow, but something is telling him he’s out-stayed his welcome. He’s gripped by an unexplained urgency, the shadows gathering at the edges of the empty room like harbingers of doom. It’s a weird feeling, strong enough that he dresses with haste, not even taking the time to wipe off the sweat before pulling on his jeans and t shirt with a grimace as the material sticks to his skin.
Back in his motel room, Dean washes away the strangeness in his second shower of the day, and shakes his head. He’s an experienced hunter, not a green kid to be spooked by a few shadows. It doesn’t stop his heart jumping like a startled deer when his cell phone buzzes.
Dad. Finally. It’s coordinates, of course it is. That’s okay, because Dean clearly needs to get back on track, back to normal.
Outside, a dark contrast to the golden glow of the setting sun, a shadow sits in the shotgun seat of the Impala, waiting patiently for Dean. By the time Dean’s thrown his belongings into his duffle and checked out of the Red Road, the darkness of night has filled the Impala, rendering the shadow invisible. It isn’t until after Dean’s despatched the ghost in New Mexico and decides it’s time to follow through with his new Sam-free training regime that the shadow that’s ridden with him since Santa Ysabel is finally revealed.
Dean is at a deserted rest stop off the I-49. He’s trying some new moves, Capoeira-style, and attempting (badly) to compensate for the absence of his brother, when one of the many shadows cast by the brassy sun separates from it’s fellows and introduces itself. It’s tall, and so shock-headed skinny it looks like it’s been cast by a mop, and Dean isn’t reminded of the gaping Sam-shaped hole in his heart, not one tiny bit.
It’s like his entrance to the sweat lodge all over again. There’s no feeling of fear or wrongness, and though he’s sure Dad would be yelling at him to salt and burn the fucker, Dean spars with it instead.
Sure, it’s weird sparring with a opponent who can’t be touched, gripped or thrown, but Dean doesn’t mind. It becomes his new companion, part of his routine.
He moves on from New Mexico to deal with a poltergeist in Waco, then on to another restless spirit in Arkansas, and in between the hunts he trains with his new partner. Something inside him is unwinding, and he knows he’s getting stronger with each new move he learns. The shadow is silent and never intrudes on his life outside their practice sessions, though Dean’s constantly aware of its presence. Weeks pass; then weeks turn into months and Dean realises he hasn’t heard anything from John in all that time. He’s in New Orleans, sweating in humidity so bad he’s changing his t shirts twice a day, when he finally decides to bite the bullet. He finishes the voodoo case he’s working and turns the Impala towards California.
The shadow sits beside him, a silent reassurance, all the way to Stanford. Dean thinks it has stayed in the car when he breaks into Sam’s apartment, so he’s surprised when it jumps him in Sam’s living room. They fight, a flurry of moves played out in the near-dark. Dean takes several hits before it dawns on him; this is no shadow. Sam’s pants are harsh in the enclosed space, Dean can feel the warmth rising from Sam’s skin and smell Sam’s sweat. It makes him grip Sam’s arms extra tight when he finally wraps his leg round Sam’s and throws his brother to the floor. Even though he’s only here because he’s worried to hell about Dad, he can’t stop smiling.
“Easy tiger,” he says, and teases some more when Sam turns a trick Dean doesn’t remember and his shadow never knew, in order to put Dean flat on his back.
Maybe it’s ironic that he has Sam back in his life just as he’s gotten Sam out of his head. Dean doesn’t know and refuses to worry either way. Sam sits by Dean’s side as they drive out of Stanford into the California sun, but even in that brightest of lights, Dean’s old sparring partner never reappears. Having Sam sitting beside him is the opposite of a nuclear explosion – the image of the person remains, while the shadow dies.
Dean isn’t sure how he feels about the shadow’s loss, but after Jessica burns, none of that matters any more. All that matters is Sam, and that is how Dean is completed.
Love is a trap. When it appears, we see only its light, not its shadows.
Paulo Coelho
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2017-04-18 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-04-19 12:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-04-19 03:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-04-19 12:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-04-18 08:02 pm (UTC)I didn't read any springfling fic at the comm, because I don't seem to have the time, so I'm just happy that people repost. :)
no subject
Date: 2017-04-19 04:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-04-18 08:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-04-19 04:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-04-18 09:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-04-19 04:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-04-19 03:41 pm (UTC)You have really captured Dean here, and I can believe this is exactly how he felt at the time. Thank goodness that at least Pastor Jim was there for him, especially when he was so badly injured. His shadow companion made me think of Peter Pan, and that Dean's sweat lodge session conjured him up not from his own shadow but from Sam's.
Loved it!
no subject
Date: 2017-04-19 04:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-04-20 08:47 am (UTC)