SPN gen ficlet - Beggars Would Ride - Teen Sam and Dean
One week till Easter holidays. *does the dance of exhaustion* The last month has been fairly insane at work, but at last we're winding down.
I managed to write another Passenger fic. This one was weird. It was the first one I wanted to write when I heard the song, and it was the one that gave me the most grief.
Previous Passenger fics - they're standalones, but work as companions to each other.
Familiar Lullabies
Driving Home
TITLE: Beggars Would Ride
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Teen Sam and Dean
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 1000 words. Set pre series. If wishes were horses, Sam.
Dean drums his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, humming something that might be Metallica, or possibly Supertramp. Kinda hard to tell with Dean.
Dean is happy, though. Relaxed, but a little buzzed too, the way he always is at the prospect of getting back to the hunt. Sam understands that excitement, but he doesn’t share it. He hasn’t for a while now.
He wishes he could. He wishes the dull rhythm knocking against his ribcage was the thrill of anticipation and not dread; that the slick trickle of sweat down his sides was from excitement and not guilt. He wishes-
“If wishes were horses, Sam.” Pastor Jim’s words earlier that evening. Yeah, with his luck, if wishes were horses, he’d probably get kicked in the head. He hadn’t said that to Pastor Jim, though. Not after what the man had done for him.
Sam shifts in the seat, the envelope in his jacket crinkling so loudly he wonders how Dean doesn’t hear it. But he’s too caught up in his tuneless intention to hit the road, and from the amount of swearing going on, Sam figures it’s Metallica rather than Goodbye Stranger.
He stretches out his left leg and jiggles his ankle experimentally, trying to encourage some feeling back into it. He finally gives in and rests his foot on the dash.
Dean’s reaction is swift and predictable. “Dude, move it or lose it.” He doesn’t even bother to take his eyes off the road as he delivers the threat.
Sam curls his lip in a scornful sneer, but he’s got enough sense to lift his foot. Dean just nods once, tacit approval of Sam’s decision to avoid amputation. Then he burps, long and loud and full of satisfaction.
“God, how much do I love Pastor Jim’s bitches.”
Sam’s knee connects sharply with the glove box. “Dean!” He tries to find appropriate words to express his disgust and fails miserably. “You can’t say stuff like that.”
Dean’s grin is pure evil. “What? He’s so got it made. All those women bringing him pies and casseroles and cookies. It’s like his own private harem.”
Sam snorts in disgust. “Yeah, I can totally see Mrs. Wendell doing the dance of the seven veils with her arthritic hip.”
Dean ponders that image. “Jesus, Sammy. You are one seriously fucked-up little freak.” His contempt doesn’t last long, however, and the asshole grin makes an unwelcome return. “Dude, whatever floats your boat.” Dean waggles his hand suggestively.
Sam resists the urge to slap his brother. Not like Dean needs any extra provocation to mock him. “Dean. They’re just being nice, looking after their pastor, you know.”
“So, what? They’re trying to get into God’s pants?” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Cos I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work like that.”
Sam is about to launch into a detailed and fairly negative assessment of the state of Dean’s mortal soul, when he realizes that Dean is laughing his ass off.
Dean takes a breath and looks over at him. “Sammy.” He says it softly, like an apology. “I’m kidding, man.”
It’s not like Sam doesn’t know that. He gets that Dean’s contented, that his brother wants to share the feeling. Sam nods and fakes a smile, then ducks down and pulls the map out of the glove box.
“We got far to go?”
Sam checks the map, even though he knows Dean spent a half-hour at the kitchen table this afternoon studying the route. He knows, because Pastor Jim spent that same half-hour in the kitchen with Dean, while Sam went through the mail that Pastor Jim kept for him in the study.
“Hundred and fifty, maybe.” Sam peers through the windshield. The night sky is almost black out here in the country, away from the skyglow of city lights. The stars are bright enough tonight to make out individual constellations.
“Dude, you see the yeti up there?” Dean’s tone is tinged with humor.
“It’s Ursa Minor, Dean.” Sam sits back in the passenger seat and folds the map. It’s a dumb game; they haven’t played it in years. Not since John Winchester stopped being Sam’s Orion.
Dean sighs. “You know, you’d think you’d be a better mood, asshole. You just got to spend the whole weekend geeking out in Pastor Jim’s library.”
“Yeah, and now we have to go back.” It’s out of him before he thinks, and he instantly wants to call the words back into his mouth when he sees Dean’s spine stiffen.
“Christ, Sammy. We’re not even home and you’re bitching already.”
“Home. Right.” Sam hears the words as if from someone else’s lips. “And which crappy motel would that be tonight?”
Dean’s fingers tighten on the wheel, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”
Sam hears the hurt behind the angry words, and he twists in his seat, unwilling to face his brother. He hears Pastor Jim’s voice again, the rebuke in it quiet but clear.
“You should tell them, Sam.”
“Are you going to?”
“Not my place, son. But you should. Give them time to get used to the idea.”
And he wants to, god, he wants to, but he’s already gone too far. He should have told Dean when he first applied, when it was still nothing more than a half-hoped-for dream. But he’s left it too late, he’s lied to them, gone behind both their backs, and if Dean has to choose a side now, Sam knows it won’t be his.
He looks out of the window at the dark skies again. He sees movement, and he’s not sure if it’s a comet or just a satellite. He watches for a moment, trying to decide if the trajectory is unpredictable, or something steady, moving between two points with an unfailing rhythm.
He leans against the window and the letter in his pocket crinkles and bunches, the corner jabbing sharply into his chest.
He hadn’t realized that getting into Stanford would hurt this much.
I managed to write another Passenger fic. This one was weird. It was the first one I wanted to write when I heard the song, and it was the one that gave me the most grief.
Previous Passenger fics - they're standalones, but work as companions to each other.
Familiar Lullabies
Driving Home
TITLE: Beggars Would Ride
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Teen Sam and Dean
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 1000 words. Set pre series. If wishes were horses, Sam.
Dean drums his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, humming something that might be Metallica, or possibly Supertramp. Kinda hard to tell with Dean.
Dean is happy, though. Relaxed, but a little buzzed too, the way he always is at the prospect of getting back to the hunt. Sam understands that excitement, but he doesn’t share it. He hasn’t for a while now.
He wishes he could. He wishes the dull rhythm knocking against his ribcage was the thrill of anticipation and not dread; that the slick trickle of sweat down his sides was from excitement and not guilt. He wishes-
“If wishes were horses, Sam.” Pastor Jim’s words earlier that evening. Yeah, with his luck, if wishes were horses, he’d probably get kicked in the head. He hadn’t said that to Pastor Jim, though. Not after what the man had done for him.
Sam shifts in the seat, the envelope in his jacket crinkling so loudly he wonders how Dean doesn’t hear it. But he’s too caught up in his tuneless intention to hit the road, and from the amount of swearing going on, Sam figures it’s Metallica rather than Goodbye Stranger.
He stretches out his left leg and jiggles his ankle experimentally, trying to encourage some feeling back into it. He finally gives in and rests his foot on the dash.
Dean’s reaction is swift and predictable. “Dude, move it or lose it.” He doesn’t even bother to take his eyes off the road as he delivers the threat.
Sam curls his lip in a scornful sneer, but he’s got enough sense to lift his foot. Dean just nods once, tacit approval of Sam’s decision to avoid amputation. Then he burps, long and loud and full of satisfaction.
“God, how much do I love Pastor Jim’s bitches.”
Sam’s knee connects sharply with the glove box. “Dean!” He tries to find appropriate words to express his disgust and fails miserably. “You can’t say stuff like that.”
Dean’s grin is pure evil. “What? He’s so got it made. All those women bringing him pies and casseroles and cookies. It’s like his own private harem.”
Sam snorts in disgust. “Yeah, I can totally see Mrs. Wendell doing the dance of the seven veils with her arthritic hip.”
Dean ponders that image. “Jesus, Sammy. You are one seriously fucked-up little freak.” His contempt doesn’t last long, however, and the asshole grin makes an unwelcome return. “Dude, whatever floats your boat.” Dean waggles his hand suggestively.
Sam resists the urge to slap his brother. Not like Dean needs any extra provocation to mock him. “Dean. They’re just being nice, looking after their pastor, you know.”
“So, what? They’re trying to get into God’s pants?” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Cos I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work like that.”
Sam is about to launch into a detailed and fairly negative assessment of the state of Dean’s mortal soul, when he realizes that Dean is laughing his ass off.
Dean takes a breath and looks over at him. “Sammy.” He says it softly, like an apology. “I’m kidding, man.”
It’s not like Sam doesn’t know that. He gets that Dean’s contented, that his brother wants to share the feeling. Sam nods and fakes a smile, then ducks down and pulls the map out of the glove box.
“We got far to go?”
Sam checks the map, even though he knows Dean spent a half-hour at the kitchen table this afternoon studying the route. He knows, because Pastor Jim spent that same half-hour in the kitchen with Dean, while Sam went through the mail that Pastor Jim kept for him in the study.
“Hundred and fifty, maybe.” Sam peers through the windshield. The night sky is almost black out here in the country, away from the skyglow of city lights. The stars are bright enough tonight to make out individual constellations.
“Dude, you see the yeti up there?” Dean’s tone is tinged with humor.
“It’s Ursa Minor, Dean.” Sam sits back in the passenger seat and folds the map. It’s a dumb game; they haven’t played it in years. Not since John Winchester stopped being Sam’s Orion.
Dean sighs. “You know, you’d think you’d be a better mood, asshole. You just got to spend the whole weekend geeking out in Pastor Jim’s library.”
“Yeah, and now we have to go back.” It’s out of him before he thinks, and he instantly wants to call the words back into his mouth when he sees Dean’s spine stiffen.
“Christ, Sammy. We’re not even home and you’re bitching already.”
“Home. Right.” Sam hears the words as if from someone else’s lips. “And which crappy motel would that be tonight?”
Dean’s fingers tighten on the wheel, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”
Sam hears the hurt behind the angry words, and he twists in his seat, unwilling to face his brother. He hears Pastor Jim’s voice again, the rebuke in it quiet but clear.
“You should tell them, Sam.”
“Are you going to?”
“Not my place, son. But you should. Give them time to get used to the idea.”
And he wants to, god, he wants to, but he’s already gone too far. He should have told Dean when he first applied, when it was still nothing more than a half-hoped-for dream. But he’s left it too late, he’s lied to them, gone behind both their backs, and if Dean has to choose a side now, Sam knows it won’t be his.
He looks out of the window at the dark skies again. He sees movement, and he’s not sure if it’s a comet or just a satellite. He watches for a moment, trying to decide if the trajectory is unpredictable, or something steady, moving between two points with an unfailing rhythm.
He leans against the window and the letter in his pocket crinkles and bunches, the corner jabbing sharply into his chest.
He hadn’t realized that getting into Stanford would hurt this much.