Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: Possibly confusing.
A/N: I think the warning said it all. Um? Don't ask? Concrit is nice, by the way. XD
Word Count: 638
Summary: This is how it starts.
It ends like this: a blow to the head, a quick fall to the floor and then darkness that doesn't creep from the edge of his vision but moves in so quick that he can't quite feel it coming. The floor is a hard and cold hand that catches him, if the blow hadn't put him out the ground would have.
That's the end. The beginning is just as painful though.
This is how it starts: a woman walks past a room that holds her youngest and sees something that shouldn't be there. She goes in, like any mother would do, and ends up dead and bleeding on the ceiling. All she can see is her baby, all she can feel is pain. She dies and the last thing she sees is the face of a smiling child and her husband running in to see what's wrong. She becomes fire and fire is so very hungry.
It spreads across the ceiling, the walls, it eats everything it can reach and then stretches out for more. She is never ending burn and stretch and want.
See? Just as painful if not more so.
This woman, this fire lady that's dead and no more, her children grow up to be men that followed behind their father like ducklings lined up until the youngest, her baby, breaks away in anger and hurt and need. He waddles off to do his own thing and tries to prove his independence while the oldest, her pride, stays in line and fights even harder. She's dead and no more, she's burning and hunger, but she knows like a mother knows that life is nothing but pain and fighting for her children. In between it all she wishes he had been the one to burn and hunger and stretch out for things he could no longer have.
The middle gets worse and gets better in various degrees. What's life without suffering or happiness?
Dean grows up and is a soldier. He follows orders, almost perfectly, he never questions, except when he does, and he always follows behind like the little duckling he used to be. She feels him from miles and miles and burning miles away and thinks that maybe he should follow less, question more, and waddle off to be his own man. There's pride in him for being so beautiful and strong and such a sweet sweet savior of people that don't know or do know but can't comprehend. He's his father's son and she loved the father so much and she loves the son even more.
And yet, from miles and miles away she burns and hungers and waits. She is still, and always will be, fire. Nothing but burning, flickering, blue-red-orange flames that never die.
There's more of course but it's another person's story to tell.
Sam grows up and wants more. He follows orders, because he has to, he never questions, because he gets no answers, and he follows behind like the little duckling he used to because that's all he can do at that moment. She feels him no matter how far away and thinks to herself that he should be more trusting, more open, more caring. That he should follow more orders, think of less unanswered questions, and follow behind like a good little duck. There's love in him for being so beautiful and strong and his own person that saves people in though he hates it. He's the almost perfect mix of him and her that she always hoped to have and she loves him even more for it.
There's miles and miles between them that burn and burn and burn while she waits. There's fire in the closet of a house so very far away where she waits and waits and waits covered in flames that never die.
(end?)