Title: Mirror Men
Pairings/Warnings: None. PG-13
Summary: Three men. One Car. Lifetimes reflected in the Impala’s rear view mirror.
Authors Note: Written for spnland’s write a ficlet from the POV of an inanimate object Challenge (which it lost). This is also a drabble style of my own invention. Years ago myfeetshowit challenged her friends list to write a 369: 'The 69er is similar to a drabble, except you only get 69 words for your story. The 369 is an expansion on the 69er. Three 69ers that share a common theme or subject. Each 69er has to stand completely alone, and each has its own title. The entire 369 has a title as well.'. I thought at the time I could do a ‘360’ instead, with each set of 120 words circling the same subject. It’s taken this long to write one (although, in my head, I’d thought a true 360 should be one scene from three points of view and this isn’t that), Maybe next time.
This starts with John and may still end there. Anything could happen, and it has already. Life and death are two sides of the same Styx coin and all that matters is the call.
Glass, looking backward, saw the shadow of a death that clung. His thoughts closed, his eyes fathomless wells filled by grief and fear; mirrors of endless depth that reflected no longer, only watched, waited, monitored, processed.
He kept his own counsel, did John; his motives kept close, private, shielded from his boys. These weren’t secrets, not really, yet he never told; secrecy a lifestyle, not a choice.
Although he’s gone; he remains somehow, filling the car with his presence; still steering the lives of his sons.
The secrets Dean keeps are his; deep, personal hurts that are no one else’s damn business. Lies of omission play dumb of an emptiness he never admits; Dean lives in the things he doesn’t say.
He’s not the same man; eyes, once sparkling with humour and adventure, are tight and haunted, troubled. Hell changed him, robbed his damaged soul of some unknown piece and threw it on the fires of the Pit. A smile may still visit his lips, but it’s feigned; shallow and fleeting, any happiness a mask tissue thin. Pinched, tired, bone-weary, he never finds the true rest he seeks.
He turns away, not wanting to see what his eyes betray: he wants to die, but he can’t.
Sam’s a furnace. All fire and flame and flare. Rage unvented. Angry enough for both of them, he is a wild fire that never goes out, only smoulders within.
Through the dark he thinks of blood, revenge and redemption; secret sins he doesn’t dare confess. He’s not a freak. He’s not a monster. He’d done the right thing! Yet when he looks up from the road he’s not sure it’s himself he sees anymore; he stares into the mirror and Lucifer stares back, cloaked in Sam’s own darkness. Sam was made for this, the devil repeats.
Sam knows what he still could yet become, what road destiny has chosen for him.
But right now it’s time for him to drive.