Smile like you mean it
Little fic thing inspired by the last episode, just getting in Dean's head a little bit. Any mistakes here are mine (unbeta'd).
Okay, Sam’s fear of clowns will never not be funny. It might be a little mean, but whatever. I mean, we fight normal people would find terrifying every day, and clowns scare the shit out of him. So I stood there, listened to him, and… sure enough, I laughed. I couldn’t help it He stood there, tense as hell, covered in glitter and looking like a twilight reject, recounting the entire thing like someone might retell a story of… well, a story of meeting a ghost, or some shit like that. Oh sure, it had been dangerous. I knew that. But it’s still freaking clowns.
Before you say it: planes are different. Clowns, 99.9% - or is that 99.8% now? Again, I say whatever. Most of the time, they’re safe. Planes are not.
…Where was I again?
Laughing at Sam, right. How the hell could I forget? Anyway, the seltzer bit…. Well, it pretty much finished me off. But it felt… it felt good. Really damned good. I mean, holy crap, I haven’t proper laughed from my gut like that since Cas… since the whorehouse thing. And it just makes me think:
Frank was right. Take it with a smile, and be a damned professional about this mess. It doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t make it okay. I don’t think anything ever will. But it makes it feel a lot more damned likely I’ll catch Dick frigging Roman. And… despite the bitch face, it’s the first time in a while that Sam’s not looked at me like I’ll break any damned second. Which is as annoying as hell, I can tell you that much.
So I’m just thinking. Maybe there’s something in this.
I’d found my reason to live to the end of the week, month, or whatever, already. Got a shit load of research in the latest piece of crap car that says that much.
And it looks like I might just have cracked the secret of smiling like I mean it.
All I need now is a way to keep the frigging black goo bastards dead. But for now?
Eh, two out of three ain’t bad.
Okay, Sam’s fear of clowns will never not be funny. It might be a little mean, but whatever. I mean, we fight normal people would find terrifying every day, and clowns scare the shit out of him. So I stood there, listened to him, and… sure enough, I laughed. I couldn’t help it He stood there, tense as hell, covered in glitter and looking like a twilight reject, recounting the entire thing like someone might retell a story of… well, a story of meeting a ghost, or some shit like that. Oh sure, it had been dangerous. I knew that. But it’s still freaking clowns.
Before you say it: planes are different. Clowns, 99.9% - or is that 99.8% now? Again, I say whatever. Most of the time, they’re safe. Planes are not.
…Where was I again?
Laughing at Sam, right. How the hell could I forget? Anyway, the seltzer bit…. Well, it pretty much finished me off. But it felt… it felt good. Really damned good. I mean, holy crap, I haven’t proper laughed from my gut like that since Cas… since the whorehouse thing. And it just makes me think:
Frank was right. Take it with a smile, and be a damned professional about this mess. It doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t make it okay. I don’t think anything ever will. But it makes it feel a lot more damned likely I’ll catch Dick frigging Roman. And… despite the bitch face, it’s the first time in a while that Sam’s not looked at me like I’ll break any damned second. Which is as annoying as hell, I can tell you that much.
So I’m just thinking. Maybe there’s something in this.
I’d found my reason to live to the end of the week, month, or whatever, already. Got a shit load of research in the latest piece of crap car that says that much.
And it looks like I might just have cracked the secret of smiling like I mean it.
All I need now is a way to keep the frigging black goo bastards dead. But for now?
Eh, two out of three ain’t bad.