SPN FIC - Dustless
The trials are underway, and there's important research to be done. All day, every day.
Which isn't to say Dean can't devote a small portion of his attention to other matters. For instance -- what they might do after the Hellgates are closed. And how they might become... oh, say, filthy stinking rich.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 836 words
DUSTLESS
By Carol Davis
"You find it," Dean garbles around a mouthful of cheeseburger. "You lemme know."
Nobody else would have been able to figure out a word of that, Sam thinks; living with Dean is like living with someone who only speaks an obscure foreign language, or is vocally handicapped. But Dean's been talking around giant mouthfuls of food as far back as Sam can remember. Once upon a time, Dad would chide him for it.
These days, chiding Dean for something like that, when things are - well, both settled and relaxed, and completely terrifying?
You have to pick your battles, Sam figures.
"Find what?" he asks.
Dean makes a sweeping gesture with the burger, spraying a bit of his Special Sauce across the table. "Place was abandoned fifty years ago," he says, the words becoming somewhat clearer as he chews. "Yet, we walk in the door, and there's not a speck of dust in here. Been here a while now, and there's still no dust. That's not natural. You know? So I figure, they must've cast some kind of spell. Why bother with crap like dusting a bunch of shelves - hell, like eight thousand shelves - when you got important work to do?"
Sam shrugs, conceding the point.
"So. You find that baby, you let me know."
"And you'll do what with it?" Sam asks. "Since the place is already dust-free."
Smirking, Dean leans across the table. It's an expression Sam hasn't seen much of, these past few years, but he saw it with some frequency when Dean was a teenager. When the world still held the possibility of being Dean's oyster.
"Dude," Dean says.
Here it comes, Sam thinks.
"We get some little gadget," Dean says, his voice gone soft and conspiratorial. "I don't know, some cheap little thing. And we put the spell on it. Market that baby across the country. Hell, the whole world. Sammy! We'll be richer than that Facebook guy. Nobody is gonna not buy one. Even people who wouldn't dust if their life depended on it are gonna go for this."
Sam opens his mouth to reply, but Dean waves him off.
"It's perfect," he insists.
It really… sort of is.
"Somebody's gonna have to build them," Sam demurs.
Dean scowls at him across the table. "Dude. There's millions of people out of work in this country."
"So - we open a factory?"
"Yeah."
"And what happens when somebody finds out the thing doesn't actually do anything, unless we put the whammy on it?"
"It'll do something. We'll make it hum or something."
"And we do this, what, in between jobs?"
The shrug Dean produces is eloquent and messy, given that he seems to have forgotten he's holding a dripping cheeseburger. "Yeah, whatever. We'd only need to go in once in a while. Like, to the warehouse. Kinda figure it's not a complicated spell." With a slow, cat-in-the-sunshine smile, he settles back in his chair, visions of his glorious future obviously dancing in his mind like sugarplums. "We can be those mysterious guys behind the scenes. Up to our asses in cash."
"Then we'd need a celebrity spokesperson."
That makes Dean's eyes widen.
There's Special Sauce running down his arm.
"And a name," Sam says. "What're we gonna call it?"
"The DeanieGenie," his brother replies.
Sam doesn't stop choking for a good two minutes. Sips of his Coke, some energetic thumps on the back from Dean, pacing up and down alongside the table - nothing helps, until the spasms wear off by themselves. When he can finally breathe again, Sam wheezes, with tears dripping down his cheeks, "The DeanieGenie?"
"What? You don't think it's catchy?"
Nobody else would get it, Sam thinks. Nobody else would hear that one discordant note in Dean's voice; nobody else would see the glimmer of regret in his eyes, or remember that even when he was a kid, Dean was pretty sure nothing would ever go quite the way he planned. He'd never become an astronaut, or a star pitcher for the Cardinals. Would never invent that "something" that would boost car mileage a dozenfold, so Dad wouldn't need to spend so much of their precious cash on fuel.
Would never find his happily-ever-after.
Sam's heard this song a hundred times over the years. It's been a while since the last time - six or seven years, at least. Not since those first few months after the fire in Palo Alto, when Dean was trying so desperately to make his brother smile.
Maybe it's time to return the favor.
"I think it's a great idea, man," Sam says quietly. "It's awesome."
"Yeah?"
"We get the hellgates closed, we're definitely gonna go for it."
The moment's over (the dream's deferred, Sam thinks), but there's a certain relief in Dean's eyes: the one that always appears when he's secure in feeling It's you and me against the world.
He can give Dean that, Sam thinks.
Should always give Dean that.
At least that.
"Dessert?" he suggests, pushing his empty plate toward his brother.
* * * * *
Which isn't to say Dean can't devote a small portion of his attention to other matters. For instance -- what they might do after the Hellgates are closed. And how they might become... oh, say, filthy stinking rich.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 836 words
DUSTLESS
By Carol Davis
"You find it," Dean garbles around a mouthful of cheeseburger. "You lemme know."
Nobody else would have been able to figure out a word of that, Sam thinks; living with Dean is like living with someone who only speaks an obscure foreign language, or is vocally handicapped. But Dean's been talking around giant mouthfuls of food as far back as Sam can remember. Once upon a time, Dad would chide him for it.
These days, chiding Dean for something like that, when things are - well, both settled and relaxed, and completely terrifying?
You have to pick your battles, Sam figures.
"Find what?" he asks.
Dean makes a sweeping gesture with the burger, spraying a bit of his Special Sauce across the table. "Place was abandoned fifty years ago," he says, the words becoming somewhat clearer as he chews. "Yet, we walk in the door, and there's not a speck of dust in here. Been here a while now, and there's still no dust. That's not natural. You know? So I figure, they must've cast some kind of spell. Why bother with crap like dusting a bunch of shelves - hell, like eight thousand shelves - when you got important work to do?"
Sam shrugs, conceding the point.
"So. You find that baby, you let me know."
"And you'll do what with it?" Sam asks. "Since the place is already dust-free."
Smirking, Dean leans across the table. It's an expression Sam hasn't seen much of, these past few years, but he saw it with some frequency when Dean was a teenager. When the world still held the possibility of being Dean's oyster.
"Dude," Dean says.
Here it comes, Sam thinks.
"We get some little gadget," Dean says, his voice gone soft and conspiratorial. "I don't know, some cheap little thing. And we put the spell on it. Market that baby across the country. Hell, the whole world. Sammy! We'll be richer than that Facebook guy. Nobody is gonna not buy one. Even people who wouldn't dust if their life depended on it are gonna go for this."
Sam opens his mouth to reply, but Dean waves him off.
"It's perfect," he insists.
It really… sort of is.
"Somebody's gonna have to build them," Sam demurs.
Dean scowls at him across the table. "Dude. There's millions of people out of work in this country."
"So - we open a factory?"
"Yeah."
"And what happens when somebody finds out the thing doesn't actually do anything, unless we put the whammy on it?"
"It'll do something. We'll make it hum or something."
"And we do this, what, in between jobs?"
The shrug Dean produces is eloquent and messy, given that he seems to have forgotten he's holding a dripping cheeseburger. "Yeah, whatever. We'd only need to go in once in a while. Like, to the warehouse. Kinda figure it's not a complicated spell." With a slow, cat-in-the-sunshine smile, he settles back in his chair, visions of his glorious future obviously dancing in his mind like sugarplums. "We can be those mysterious guys behind the scenes. Up to our asses in cash."
"Then we'd need a celebrity spokesperson."
That makes Dean's eyes widen.
There's Special Sauce running down his arm.
"And a name," Sam says. "What're we gonna call it?"
"The DeanieGenie," his brother replies.
Sam doesn't stop choking for a good two minutes. Sips of his Coke, some energetic thumps on the back from Dean, pacing up and down alongside the table - nothing helps, until the spasms wear off by themselves. When he can finally breathe again, Sam wheezes, with tears dripping down his cheeks, "The DeanieGenie?"
"What? You don't think it's catchy?"
Nobody else would get it, Sam thinks. Nobody else would hear that one discordant note in Dean's voice; nobody else would see the glimmer of regret in his eyes, or remember that even when he was a kid, Dean was pretty sure nothing would ever go quite the way he planned. He'd never become an astronaut, or a star pitcher for the Cardinals. Would never invent that "something" that would boost car mileage a dozenfold, so Dad wouldn't need to spend so much of their precious cash on fuel.
Would never find his happily-ever-after.
Sam's heard this song a hundred times over the years. It's been a while since the last time - six or seven years, at least. Not since those first few months after the fire in Palo Alto, when Dean was trying so desperately to make his brother smile.
Maybe it's time to return the favor.
"I think it's a great idea, man," Sam says quietly. "It's awesome."
"Yeah?"
"We get the hellgates closed, we're definitely gonna go for it."
The moment's over (the dream's deferred, Sam thinks), but there's a certain relief in Dean's eyes: the one that always appears when he's secure in feeling It's you and me against the world.
He can give Dean that, Sam thinks.
Should always give Dean that.
At least that.
"Dessert?" he suggests, pushing his empty plate toward his brother.
* * * * *