SPN FIC - We Went Out to the Dock and Drank Champagne
Just a little interlude... Dean and his lady, on his 50th birthday.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Morgan
GENRE: Het
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 500 words
WE WENT OUT TO THE DOCK AND DRANK CHAMPAGNE
By Carol Davis
"You don't need to drink that, you know."
She'd insisted on all of this - this night, this gathering of everyone he knew who was within easy driving distance, and a few for whom the trip had been anything but easy. The balloons, the mountains of food, the cake, the crazily expensive champagne. She would have caved, he supposed (would have gone along with his murmured, "Don't have to do that"), if he had objected to it in anything other than that half-hearted way. He understood perfectly well, though, what had gone unsaid. That she needed to give him this thing. Needed to make a splash, just for him, and would have been hurt if he'd said a firmer no.
No, not hurt. Not that.
"You're goofy, you know that?" he said.
"I'd be upset, if I thought you meant that that was a bad thing."
He glanced down at the glass he was holding so gently and remembered other parties: the pre-auction show at Sarah Blake's father's gallery, the charity shindig he and Sam had attended with Bela Talbot. Sam's wedding. He'd gulped champagne at all of them, though it was far from being something he enjoyed, something he'd pick from anybody's list of options.
There'd been champagne on Mom's birthday, he remembered - in that other place, the one the djinn created.
"It's a milestone," Morgan said. Then: "There's Michelob, if you want it."
"I'm good."
Cold, he thought - there'd been little snow since the beginning of December, and the dock was clean, though a little slick with frozen lake-spray. He could see his breath condense as he spoke, and the warm light from the house was definitely attractive. But the speechifying and storytelling had gotten to be a little too much. Way too much, really, when a family dinner with the customary small cake would have been enough of a celebration.
But she'd wanted to give him all this, and he'd gone along for the ride.
"Are you?" she asked. "Are you good?"
They'd put a lot of mileage behind them, in not quite 23 years. A daughter, grown now, and engaged. A son, close to turning five. Births and deaths, divorces and weddings, and that mess in Chicago, a near-goodbye to the job he'd pursued for most of his life. He'd promised her he would take no more unreasonable risks, both of them aware that if the occasion demanded it, he would not stand by and let someone else lead the charge.
Funny, he thought, how you could just slide into being something you never saw yourself being. Husband. Father.
Upstanding member of the community.
He grinned at that, and sipped champagne from the delicate glass. Not something he would have chosen off a list - and maybe, none of this was. The grin gone crooked, he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close, glad for the way she curved against him, head on his shoulder, hair tickling his ear.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm really good."
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean and Morgan
GENRE: Het
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 500 words
WE WENT OUT TO THE DOCK AND DRANK CHAMPAGNE
By Carol Davis
"You don't need to drink that, you know."
She'd insisted on all of this - this night, this gathering of everyone he knew who was within easy driving distance, and a few for whom the trip had been anything but easy. The balloons, the mountains of food, the cake, the crazily expensive champagne. She would have caved, he supposed (would have gone along with his murmured, "Don't have to do that"), if he had objected to it in anything other than that half-hearted way. He understood perfectly well, though, what had gone unsaid. That she needed to give him this thing. Needed to make a splash, just for him, and would have been hurt if he'd said a firmer no.
No, not hurt. Not that.
"You're goofy, you know that?" he said.
"I'd be upset, if I thought you meant that that was a bad thing."
He glanced down at the glass he was holding so gently and remembered other parties: the pre-auction show at Sarah Blake's father's gallery, the charity shindig he and Sam had attended with Bela Talbot. Sam's wedding. He'd gulped champagne at all of them, though it was far from being something he enjoyed, something he'd pick from anybody's list of options.
There'd been champagne on Mom's birthday, he remembered - in that other place, the one the djinn created.
"It's a milestone," Morgan said. Then: "There's Michelob, if you want it."
"I'm good."
Cold, he thought - there'd been little snow since the beginning of December, and the dock was clean, though a little slick with frozen lake-spray. He could see his breath condense as he spoke, and the warm light from the house was definitely attractive. But the speechifying and storytelling had gotten to be a little too much. Way too much, really, when a family dinner with the customary small cake would have been enough of a celebration.
But she'd wanted to give him all this, and he'd gone along for the ride.
"Are you?" she asked. "Are you good?"
They'd put a lot of mileage behind them, in not quite 23 years. A daughter, grown now, and engaged. A son, close to turning five. Births and deaths, divorces and weddings, and that mess in Chicago, a near-goodbye to the job he'd pursued for most of his life. He'd promised her he would take no more unreasonable risks, both of them aware that if the occasion demanded it, he would not stand by and let someone else lead the charge.
Funny, he thought, how you could just slide into being something you never saw yourself being. Husband. Father.
Upstanding member of the community.
He grinned at that, and sipped champagne from the delicate glass. Not something he would have chosen off a list - and maybe, none of this was. The grin gone crooked, he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close, glad for the way she curved against him, head on his shoulder, hair tickling his ear.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm really good."
* * * * *