SPN FIC - Happy Birthday, Sammy
NOW. May 2, 2013.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 8.21
LENGTH: 412 words
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAMMY
By Carol Davis
Figures that they're not at home - the place with the great kitchen and all the ingredients Dean started stockpiling weeks ago.
That they're basically out in the middle of freaking Nowhere, Colorado, where there's no bakery, not even a supermarket with a bakery department, and when he went down to the restaurant and asked about a cake (even a cupcake, dammit), they looked at him like he's everything they loathe about non-Native people. Like he's something they found growing in the shower drain.
Grudgingly, and after he greased the skids with a couple of twenties from the diminishing stash in his wallet, they gave him what they've got.
"What's this?" Sam asks when Dean holds it out to him.
That ought to be evident, but maybe your eyesight's not that keen after your brain's been cooked.
"Corn muffin," Dean says.
"You brought me a corn muffin."
A forty-dollar corn muffin, Dean thinks.
Sam accepts it, at least, but he sits staring at it like he has no idea what the point is, and he's way too beat to parse it out. So this day is just a big honking success all the way around - and it's not likely to get much better. Not with the Scribe of the Lord turning out to be a remarkably uninformed guy in a cardigan.
"Thank you," Sam says quietly.
Okay, that's something. He didn't outright reject it, like all the other offers of food Dean has made over the past few days.
Then, to Dean's surprise, Sam struggles up out of his chair, sets the muffin down, and wraps his arms around his brother. There's no back-patting involved, no manly stuff, just a hug - the kind of hug Sam used to give out when he was a kid, tight, almost suffocating. When he finally steps back, there's a weird smile on his face.
And all of a sudden, it seems like time might be growing scarily short, like the clock's ticking again, like it was five years ago. Like things need to be said, and said quickly, before the opportunity evaporates and doesn't arise ever again.
Dean starts to shape the words: the ones he can't remember ever actually saying.
But before he can voice them, Sam lifts a hand, palm out, to silence him. He stands there looking at Dean with that odd little smile, glances down at the muffin for a moment, then says, barely loudly enough for Dean to hear him,
"I know."
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 8.21
LENGTH: 412 words
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAMMY
By Carol Davis
Figures that they're not at home - the place with the great kitchen and all the ingredients Dean started stockpiling weeks ago.
That they're basically out in the middle of freaking Nowhere, Colorado, where there's no bakery, not even a supermarket with a bakery department, and when he went down to the restaurant and asked about a cake (even a cupcake, dammit), they looked at him like he's everything they loathe about non-Native people. Like he's something they found growing in the shower drain.
Grudgingly, and after he greased the skids with a couple of twenties from the diminishing stash in his wallet, they gave him what they've got.
"What's this?" Sam asks when Dean holds it out to him.
That ought to be evident, but maybe your eyesight's not that keen after your brain's been cooked.
"Corn muffin," Dean says.
"You brought me a corn muffin."
A forty-dollar corn muffin, Dean thinks.
Sam accepts it, at least, but he sits staring at it like he has no idea what the point is, and he's way too beat to parse it out. So this day is just a big honking success all the way around - and it's not likely to get much better. Not with the Scribe of the Lord turning out to be a remarkably uninformed guy in a cardigan.
"Thank you," Sam says quietly.
Okay, that's something. He didn't outright reject it, like all the other offers of food Dean has made over the past few days.
Then, to Dean's surprise, Sam struggles up out of his chair, sets the muffin down, and wraps his arms around his brother. There's no back-patting involved, no manly stuff, just a hug - the kind of hug Sam used to give out when he was a kid, tight, almost suffocating. When he finally steps back, there's a weird smile on his face.
And all of a sudden, it seems like time might be growing scarily short, like the clock's ticking again, like it was five years ago. Like things need to be said, and said quickly, before the opportunity evaporates and doesn't arise ever again.
Dean starts to shape the words: the ones he can't remember ever actually saying.
But before he can voice them, Sam lifts a hand, palm out, to silence him. He stands there looking at Dean with that odd little smile, glances down at the muffin for a moment, then says, barely loudly enough for Dean to hear him,
"I know."
* * * * *