tabaqui | Prompt fic four - 'I Was Born in a Summer Storm'

Prompt fic four - 'I Was Born in a Summer Storm'

tabaqui

Tuesday, November 24th, 2009 01:29 pm

But, before the fic, a big 'i'm sorry!' to

too_rational, who weeks ago gifted me with a PDF of Generation Landslide and the remix by

poisontaster. And i totally spaced on pimping it! I'm so sorry! Just click the link to her lj and the download. And again, thank you thank you, so much. They're lovely! :)

This is for

without_me, whose prompt was:Supernatural (Sam/Dean if that's a possibility, but no harm if not); On the day I was born, it rained.

So, because i'm a dork and left it so long, my usual beta (waves at

darkhavens) couldn't get to it. So if you see anything - feel free to speak up! Group-beta, why not?

On the day I was born, it rained.

John Winchester always thought, privately, that the thunderstorm that had sent the Kaw river over its banks the day Sam was born somehow informed his second son's disposition. 'Stormy' certainly characterized all the years from about fourteen to when Sam left; eighteen-going-on-fifty, stubborn tilt of his mother's chin and heartbreak in his gaze. Even before that, Sam seemed to have that Eeyore-gloomy cloud over his head, shoulders sagging down under an invisible weight. Thunderstorm scowl on his face that only ever totally went away when he was with Dean. Always Dean, sunshine to Sam's gloom.

The river overflowed, the streets became rushing creeks, and the power flickered off and on and off and on. Dean tells me I didn't even cry. Bet he did.

When Sam was four, five, six, and it was storming, he would pester Dean until Dean would heave a huge, put-upon sigh. And then they would both lay down under the window or in the doorway or on the porch, if they were lucky, and watch the clouds. Wait for the lightning to leap in jagged zigzags across the sky, actinic white, pale pink, electric blue. Sam would grin or laugh, breathing in long breaths like he was trying to draw the cool and heady storm air down to the bottom of his lungs. Like he was trying to absorb something vital. And after, he would crawl into bed and sleep, little curl of a smile in the corner of his mouth, insisting that the window be open, even if it was only a few inches. Soothed by thunderclaps like a lullaby, craziest kid Dean ever knew.

It rained in Kansas on the day my mother died. I looked at weather archives, newspapers, journals and diaries. I don't know if it rained in Lawrence, on my burning house – my burning mother. I imagine it sometimes, rain falling down, pooling on the sidewalk – beading on the burnished black of the car. On us, as we huddled there. Maybe trying to make us clean, after the ugliness. Maybe trying to wash it all away. Send the sins and the sorrows rushing away down the gutter, little burnt-black sailboats, lost in the tide.

The first time Jess went on a date with Sam Winchester, it rained. It started out fine, with Sam showing up five minutes early, flushed and flustered and carrying a worn canvas tote from Whole Foods, picnic on a student's salary. Ritz crackers, grapes, sparkling apple juice, bargain cheese. Knife stolen from the dining hall, cups by Solo, and a scratchy old wool Army blanket that smelled faintly of earth and Sam's aftershave.

When the food was gone and the juice had gotten spilled – no loss, it was nearly finished – Jess had kissed him. Discovered he looked like six-feet-something of sweet-faced pup but kissed like a wolf, all teeth and ferocity, fingers trembling on the back of her neck.

Right in the middle of it all, clouds rolled in and the temperature dropped and it was raining, a sideways slant of mercury-silver and Sam snatched up blanket and tote and Jess and they ran, laughing, to her dorm. He kissed her again and then let her go, and Jess went inside, shivering in her t-shirt, pushing wet hair off her cheeks. Watching as Sam draped the blanket carelessly over his arm and walked slowly away, turning his face up to the cloud-creamy sky. His hair nearly black, dripping off the ends onto his shoulders. Smiling, smiling, up at the rain.

It rained the night I died. I remember...Dean. Dean in the rain, his eyelashes wet from it, his hair; drops of rain like crystal, shimmering. Tears and rain, indistinguishable. The cold wetness of the earth striking up through my knees, the inferno-heat of the knife wound flaring out and then...nothing. Nothing. I swear, I could taste rain on my lips when I woke up.

The first time they were together again, after, Dean thought he'd go blind with it – deaf. Sam there, right there, warm and laughing. Dean's heart like thunder behind his ribs, the air electric with the pre-strike crackle of ozone and oxygen burning – igniting.

And Sam – Sam like a lightning rod, like the lightning itself, so much energy and heat and life, just under his skin. Purifying his blood, eliminating all taint, and Dean had to bite and lick, had to taste and touch and wallow, dazzled and overwhelmed. When they were both spent, gasping, tidal scent of the sea and old iron saturating the room, Sam got up. Opened the curtains and the window and breathed, long and deep. It was raining outside, slow and sweet, low murmur of thunder far away. Like pillow-talk, the sky to the earth, and Dean lifted his head and then his hand, waiting, and Sam came back to him again.

When Dean was gone – dead in the ground, cold as the clods – it seemed as if it didn't rain once. It seemed – I seemed – as tinder-dry and friable as something long dead. As apt to burst into flame as the dry bones I dug, the dry books I pored over. Friction made heat and I exploded, burning – always burning. Burning with shame and with guilt, with hate and with despair. Burning demons out of the husks they inhabited, my eyes like cinders, my teeth shattered stone. I was dying of drought, and the blood I swallowed did nothing to ease me. Nothing at all.

Dean felt dry all over, imagining the earth that had held him – half drowned him. Imagining its rasping touch, the way his throat had burned, scorched by Hell's fires and then by dust, sucking up every drop of moisture, layering him like a mummy.

He'd gotten in the shower as soon as he could and just stood there, drinking , gasping. Rubbing handfuls of water over and over his face, trying to revive the bone-dry dust of his blood and his heart. And then Sam was slipping in, dim blue of the stall, lone shaft of pure-white sunlight sparking along the floor, making the clouded curtain glow. And Sam – like some god of the river, his skin amber-blue in the murky light, his eyes clouded. Sam kissing him as if he'd never let go, his mouth wet with water – with tears. Pouring his love and his need and his life into Dean with every kiss and every hitched breath and every long, slow push of his body and finally.... Finally, whatever last, dry damming in Dean's soul gave way, subsumed under the flood that was Sam, Sam, Sam, and Dean knew – finally, truly – he was alive.

The power in the blood was like a hurricane. Like the most perfect storm – like a wild and raging tempest. End of the world intensity, whirlwinds and hailstones in my brain, my blood like the boiling, creasting clouds. I swear there was lightning at my fingertips, arching out to slay every demon – every dragon. I could have stood on a mountain top and brought all of heaven crashing down, phosphoric waves. But even that hallucinogenic glory was dimmed by what came forth from the final seal.

Lucifer rising was like being in the very heart of a claw of lightning – like being drowned in light, deafened by a noise so huge and so deep it was beyond hearing. Dean could only feel it, thunder in his bones, shaking them apart.

They stole a car and drove half the night – took shelter in a listing, abandoned house, ducking in under the crooked porch as the rain came down. Curling together, an hour of sleep snatched from the chaos, woken by the storm catching up to them, crash and boom, and rain like a million rattling knives. Sam tasted like rain, his skin chilled and his eyes storm-wet, and Dean held onto him until the panicked tympani of their hearts could settle and slow and become only a whisper. Held and was held, breathing in slow rhythm, foreheads touching, fingertips sunk deep. Knowing they were the center – the eye – of a storm so huge it could wipe the Earth clean. Could scour the world to dust and bones, and leave nothing behind.

Long moments of simply being, Sam and Dean, and then Dean lifted his head, and Sam did, and his teeth flashed, lightning white in the stormy air. Quick as lightning, too, and Dean let his own lips draw back in something that was closer to a snarl than a smile.

"Lot of noise," Dean said, and Sam huffed out a breath, not quite laughing.

Straightening his shoulders and then letting them fall again, little-boy look from under tangled bangs. "I'm so...sorry, Dean. For not listening –"

"Sam. Sammy, don't. It's...." Dean sighed – shook his head. "It's over, Sam. Done. In the past. Right now, storm's coming. Biggest one yet." Dean tipped his chin up, settling his shoulders, fists in his pockets. "You game?"

"You know I am," Sam said. They turned, shoulder to shoulder, and walked out into the rain.

I aint scared of lightning
Come on and do your worst
If they gave degrees
For cheating destiny
Then man
I got a first

No I aint scared of lightning
It's the same old empty threat
I've been standing proud
Beneath the gathering cloud
And man
I ain't dead yet
No I ain't scared of lightning
And thunder never killed
I was born in a summer storm
I live there still
Yeah I was born in a summer storm
I live there still.

Tom McRae - I Ain't Scared of Lightning

In a couple hours, we're out of here, to spend a couple days at my mom's house. My sister is in from NC for a visit, and we're having a sorta-kinda turkey day and family hang-out time. See you all laterz! :)

ETA: I think this fic is a little...strange? But it was what came to mind....

Tags:

prompts,
spn

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