SPN gen ficlet - Familiar lullabies - pre-series Sam, John and Dean

Mar 18, 2007 00:07

This is the first of a short series of ficlets for my 50scenes prompts. They're inspired by 'Passenger Seat' by Death Cab for Cutie. This one is for prompt #28 - lullaby

TITLE: Familiar Lullabies
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Young Sam, John and Dean
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 1000 words. The first time Sam gets to sit in the passenger seat.



It feels weird to be up here, in the passenger seat.

This is Dean’s space. Not always, but times when they’ve no choice but to drive through the night, Dean gets to sit up front. Sam stretches out in the back, wrapped in the plaid throw, with Dad’s heavy leather jacket balled under his cheek and the low hum of Dad and Dean and the radio’s crackle-hiss lulling him along the miles of never-ending night.

Tonight, though, it’s Dean in the back. His snores are soft, and his chest is easier now, thanks to the cough syrup Dad forced down his throat. Sam feels some sympathy for his brother, mainly because he’d suffered the same treatment a week ago, and he's pretty sure that when he inhales he can still taste traces of liquorice-flavored fire.

Dean’s protests that he was fine, really--it’s just a cold, Dad--were steamrollered into discontented submission, and Dad had made him stretch out in the backseat. Dad was proved right, though. Dean had fallen asleep way before they’d even hit the highway.

So that’s how Sam gets to be in the passenger seat, with the radio turned down low, tuned to some country station, the soft music a familiar companion. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open, but he knows he has to, because he’s shotgun now. He’s got a job to do; he’s got to prove to Dad he’s as good a soldier as Dean.

He reaches over and rolls the window down a little, the heavy-scented cool breeze ruffling through his hair.

“You warm, son?” Dad’s voice is soft, pitched low enough not to disturb Dean.

Sam nods. He knows a verbal answer is expected, but he’s not great at lying to Dad. Truth is he’s cold, but it’ll keep him alert and awake, and that’s what Dad needs right now.

“Yessir,” he mumbles, and he thinks he’s probably got away with the lie, as Dad clicks off the heater and nods to the map on the dash.

“You want to check our position?”

Sam sits up straighter in the seat. That’s Dean’s job. Keeping Dad on the right road. He leans forwards and lifts the map, runs his finger along the fold Dean made earlier. He grabs his flashlight and squints at the map, scans it for symbols, numbers; anything that will give him a clue to where they are.

I-70; somewhere east of Denver as far as he can figure. They’d hit the interchange a while back, the short sharp curves sending Sam slewing into the passenger door, hard enough to leave a bruise on his shoulder. He tracks his finger along the map.

“Think it’s a pretty straight route through to Limon,” he offers tentatively.

Dad nods, and Sam hears the soft scrape of his palm stroking over his bristled chin. “How far d’you reckon?”

Sam splays his hand along the route, measuring the journey in fingertip inches, the way he’s seen Dean do. “Maybe ninety miles?” he guesses hopefully.

“Good job.” Dad says it firmly, and settles a hand on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing briefly. Sam blushes, hearing pride in Dad’s tone, the one he uses when Dean shoots every bottle off the fence, or takes a minute off his best mile time, or picks a lock blindfolded. Sam isn’t used to hearing that tone directed at him, though.

He folds the map carefully and puts it back in the glove box. Dad gives his shoulder a final pat, then lifts his hand, refastens it on the wheel. Sam misses its heavy warmth on his collar bone, and he shivers, and tries hard not to let Dad see it.

He does, though. Dad doesn’t miss a trick. He just smiles a little, and then the heater clicks back on. Sam blushes at being found out, and reaches over to roll up the window. He presses his cheek against the glass, just for a moment, and looks up into the sky. It’s a clear night, dark enough to count the stars.

He remembers when they were little, and Dean and him would lie squished together in the backseat and see who could find the most constellations. Dean would make up his own names for them--See, Sammy, that’s John Winchester’s belt, right there--and Sam would laugh and tell him--that’s not the proper name, Dean, don’t be so dumb. Of course, he realizes now that Dean already knew, but back then his big brother would just grin and point out that Ursa Minor really did look more like a yeti than a bear.

“Orion bag himself that yeti, then?” There’s a chuckle in Dad’s voice, and Sam jumps, wonders if maybe he’d dozed off and started talking in his sleep again. Then he figures that Dad probably just overheard them back then, when they thought they were being stealthy and cool and were so obviously not.

“Not yet,” he answers and lets his head fall against the seatback. Warm air licks at his face, heat curling lazily around his ankles, sapping any willpower he’d previously possessed. A yawn stretches against his unwilling jaw, and Sam feels it click with the effort to stay closed.

“We got ninety miles of straight road, son.” Dad keeps his eyes ahead, but he reaches down with one hand, drops Sam’s seat back a little. Sam’s feet come up off the floor, high enough to rest on the dash if he wanted. “You should get some shut-eye. Gonna need you sharp when we hit the next interchange.”

Sam wants to protest, tell Dad he’s not tired, he’s fine, he can keep him company, but Dad’s made it an order, softly spoken, but firm. And Sam has no choice but to obey.

Sam closes his eyes, and hears the low thrum of the engine, the soft murmur of the radio. Dad’s fingers tip-tap a light rhythm on the steering wheel, accompanied by Dean’s snuffling snores.

It’s a familiar lullaby; the only one he’s ever needed.

50scenes, supernatural fic, pre-series

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