nightmirrors (faege) wrote,

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Fic: Some People Pray for World Peace

Title: Some People Pray for World Peace
Characters: Sam
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: I want a world of pieces put back together and patched holes, darned socks and resoled shoes.
Notes: Sam's post-apocalypse thoughts.

No idea, really, where this came from, except that it was 2 a.m. last night and I was tired but couldn't sleep.

ETA: If you prefer podfic, elsewhere_kels recorded this here.

Crossposted to supernaturalfic, spn_gen, and sn_fic.


I want a world of pieces put back together and patched holes, darned socks and resoled shoes. I want ugly coffee mugs and cheap souvenirs and ratty teddy bears. On the second-hand fridge I want pictures where no one looks their best but their crazy faces look like them. I want weeds in the garden, patchy grass, faded paint, old concrete sidewalks. I want to hear creaky steps in the morning. At night, I want to hear crickets or rain or the silence of snow. I want mud tracked in and jackets slung over mismatched chairs, and a TV with weird colors and only the odd channels.

I used to want a pristine house, everything in its place. Boots in the mudroom, clothes in the hamper. I dreamt of a geranium-bordered lawn, china plates for special occasions, Oxford shirts and matching socks. Everything smelled fresh all the time. One day the kitchen would have stainless steel appliances and the walls would have new paint.

I thought I belonged in that picture-perfect place. I had it within my grasp. I might have even been happy there, once. Content, at least.

But I couldn’t fit there now. Maybe I never could and I just didn’t know it. I was raised with chipped bowls and hand-me-downs. I chalked sidewalks and then marked up wrinkled maps when I was old enough. I don’t like eating off china. It’s not really my thing.

I want a world full of lost and founds, the misplaced and the recycled. I want taped up and glued together and tied tight. I want the well-loved, the hard-loved, the sort of things that are loved because you don’t see what they are because you see what they mean. I want a world full of broken things that keep going long after they should have stopped.

So then, I can fit in.

Sam, get in the car, wouldja? What kind did you get me? Cherry? Man, I knew I kept you around for something. Here, hold on to it until I pull out of here and—keep your grabby hands away from that fork.

Thanks, God. Amen.
Tags: fiction, sam winchester [boy king], the addiction [supernatural]
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