Writing From the Inside

Title: The Gauntlet (Sparta Verse)
Author: lovesrain44
Rating: PG, Gen, violence, angst, hurt, but not a whole lot of comfort

Verse: Sparta Verse
Pairing: None
Word Count: 13,740

Summary:  Sam’s stitches come off and the crossbow training starts, much to Dean’s delight and Sam’s dismay. This story is a sequel to Soldier Son.

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Dean had both hands on the wheel as he guided the Impala over Wolf Creek Pass, some distance out of Durango, Colorado, and wondered, as he listened to the Eagles on the radio, what colitas was and if he’d know if he chanced to smell it on some dark, desert highway. Which this most certainly was not. It was a mountain highway, with mostly well-placed passing lanes, and plenty of markings about grades and recommended use of brakes, and the slightly whacky looking runaway truck lanes, which didn’t look like they’d be of use to anyone, let alone a rampant 18-wheeler. The sun was well set, with the high-altitude darkness coming on at an alarming rate. He looked over at Sam, who was buried in his map, but who didn’t quite need a flashlight yet. He wanted to ask, what is colitas, do you know, but then didn’t. He should know. It was in an Eagles song from the seventies, and probably had to do with something illegal. That or a plant commonly found in California. He didn’t know; didn’t want to broadcast his ignorance. So he drove on, he and Sam, in silence. ( Read more... )

“Yes, ma’am,” they said at the same time. And climbed back aboard the pontoon.

The rest of the float down the river was almost the same as the first part had been, except for the fact that the sun was now almost overhead, there was almost no shade except for the times when Kelly steered the pontoon right into the walls of the canyon. Which loomed up hard and red and made Dean’s mouth turn dry. He’d had enough, he really had. The canyon was redder than it had been that morning, the sky was bluer than it should be, and the heat was sucking every last bit of energy he had out of him.

Someone handed him a soda. It was Sam.

“Sam.”

It was an order. A direct one.

“It—it slipped. I was oiling it and it slipped.”

“When was this?”

For an answer, Sam looked over at the crossbow, now sitting on the table beside the couch, where no doubt Dean had been fondling it in private. “When you got—when you brought—” He sighed and stopped. Knew what was coming next.