"I told her." He looked up at the sky – at the moon. Sharp lines of shadow and light over his face, transforming him for a moment into something not – quite – human. "Let's shag ass, little brother. Night's wastin'."
"Good night, Ellen," Sam breathed, warm on her cheek. Scent of musk and smoke and bay, his eyes catching the weak moonlight and glinting like a coyote's.
And Sam, come over all Ted Bundy-polite . . . it makes me wig, it does.
Catching his jaw in a hand with a silver ring on one finger, tilting it up and Dean's mouth on the skin underneath. Little whine of a noise from Sam, his hands sliding up under Dean's jacket while Dean's mouth slid up, as well – covered his brother's. Ellen wanted to shout at them to just stop it – to get out, go home, get away, as if they were a couple of stray dogs. But she didn't say anything. Didn't move at all while the kiss went on and on and then abruptly stopped, Dean laughing and Sam tipping his head back. Mouth open on a breathy little howl that made Dean cuff the side of Sam's head.
It's like they warp reality wherever they are--they make the piece of world they happen to be standing on uncertain, make people doubt what they know and believe and feel. Spreading unease just by their presence, by their happiness.
They're wrong . . . they don't fit. They're not animals, but they're not human enough for most people to be comfortable around. They're . . . wolves in people clothing, and anyone with the instincts god gave a flea'll never feel safe of comfortable around them.
She heard, months later, that whatever demon had started John Winchester on his mission had been killed. Utterly destroyed. They only took out half of Kansas doing it and the miles-wide, smoking crater that was left behind was in the news for weeks.
Their on Sunnydale, only a lot larger and with way, way more fatalities, I'm thinking.
John never made it out – that news got around fairly fast, as well.
To the relief of all who knew or had ever heard tell of him.
Ellen thought about them sometimes. Thought about what John had done to get his revenge – what he'd turned his sons into in the process. What they'd willingly become. She wondered if they'd ever dreamed of something else. Some other life.
Probably not. It's hard to imagine a life different from the one we live in. Most people can't manage it, too well. And if someone handed it to them on a silver platter, they wouldn't know what to do with it.
But then her mind would turn, inevitably, back to them in her yard under the moonlight. Scuffling around like puppies, nipping and snarling and laughing, so wrapped up in each other they hadn't bothered to notice her. So sure of their own immortality, and so...happy. Uncomplicated affection and joy that didn't need the world or her approval, just...each other. Not a bad way to be, she figured. Not so bad, after all.
Not if there's no other alternative, no. It's good that they've got each other, but that's probably all they'll ever have. I suppose in that case, it's good that each other seems to be enough. I don't imagine they have friends, or even comrades. And when one of them dies . . . the other's got nothing at all.
Jeebus.
I'm gonna have to take a few days before I read/comment on the other Wolfpack story.
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"Good night, Ellen," Sam breathed, warm on her cheek. Scent of musk and smoke and bay, his eyes catching the weak moonlight and glinting like a coyote's.
And Sam, come over all Ted Bundy-polite . . . it makes me wig, it does.
Catching his jaw in a hand with a silver ring on one finger, tilting it up and Dean's mouth on the skin underneath. Little whine of a noise from Sam, his hands sliding up under Dean's jacket while Dean's mouth slid up, as well – covered his brother's. Ellen wanted to shout at them to just stop it – to get out, go home, get away, as if they were a couple of stray dogs. But she didn't say anything. Didn't move at all while the kiss went on and on and then abruptly stopped, Dean laughing and Sam tipping his head back. Mouth open on a breathy little howl that made Dean cuff the side of Sam's head.
It's like they warp reality wherever they are--they make the piece of world they happen to be standing on uncertain, make people doubt what they know and believe and feel. Spreading unease just by their presence, by their happiness.
They're wrong . . . they don't fit. They're not animals, but they're not human enough for most people to be comfortable around. They're . . . wolves in people clothing, and anyone with the instincts god gave a flea'll never feel safe of comfortable around them.
She heard, months later, that whatever demon had started John Winchester on his mission had been killed. Utterly destroyed. They only took out half of Kansas doing it and the miles-wide, smoking crater that was left behind was in the news for weeks.
Their on Sunnydale, only a lot larger and with way, way more fatalities, I'm thinking.
John never made it out – that news got around fairly fast, as well.
To the relief of all who knew or had ever heard tell of him.
Ellen thought about them sometimes. Thought about what John had done to get his revenge – what he'd turned his sons into in the process. What they'd willingly become. She wondered if they'd ever dreamed of something else. Some other life.
Probably not. It's hard to imagine a life different from the one we live in. Most people can't manage it, too well. And if someone handed it to them on a silver platter, they wouldn't know what to do with it.
But then her mind would turn, inevitably, back to them in her yard under the moonlight. Scuffling around like puppies, nipping and snarling and laughing, so wrapped up in each other they hadn't bothered to notice her. So sure of their own immortality, and so...happy. Uncomplicated affection and joy that didn't need the world or her approval, just...each other. Not a bad way to be, she figured. Not so bad, after all.
Not if there's no other alternative, no. It's good that they've got each other, but that's probably all they'll ever have. I suppose in that case, it's good that each other seems to be enough. I don't imagine they have friends, or even comrades. And when one of them dies . . . the other's got nothing at all.
Jeebus.
I'm gonna have to take a few days before I read/comment on the other Wolfpack story.