SPN FIC - One More Off the Bucket List
quickreaver invited me to create something to go along with this userpic:
and the Muse agreed to take the bait. (Heh.)
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1214 words
ONE MORE OFF THE BUCKET LIST
By Carol Davis
"Seriously, man. Out of every conceivable option - out of every possible option in the world, this is what you pick."
"It is," Sam said.
"And you do realize it's five o'clock in the morning."
"Yes, Dean. I think I realize that. You've pointed out the time to me at least once every five minutes since we got up. Yes, it's early. But there's no point to going if we don't go early."
"Or at all," Dean suggested.
Bribing him with coffee lured Dean out to the car. Bribing him with a sackful of fresh cherry Danish got him into the car. Then the enticements crapped out; Dean sat slouched in the driver's seat, sunglasses slid halfway down his nose, gazing placidly out across the motel parking lot as he worked on a huge mouthful of pastry.
"You think if we sit here long enough, I’m gonna change my mind?" Sam asked.
"Just giving you the option."
"Dude. Start the car."
"Or what?"
"Dammit, Dean, it's my turn!" And yeah, that came out a little too shrill - high enough in pitch to make Dean's right eyebrow arch sharply toward his hairline. Frowning, but careful to keep his tone under control, Sam went on, "Did I or did I not go on the Lex Luthor Drop of Doom with you eleven times the day before yesterday? I felt like my equilibrium would never come back."
"Wuss," Dean observed.
"We take turns. That was the agreement. You pick, then I pick. And whatever one of us picks, the other one has to go along with it. Fourteen hours at Magic Mountain? I feel like I've been through training for the space program. This is just -"
"Wildly freaking lame."
"No judgments. You pick, then I pick."
"It's a bucket list, Sam. Things you've wanted to do, your whole life. Not Lifestyles of the Lame and Half-assed."
When Sam didn't reply, Dean fished another Danish out of the bag, took an enormous bite, chewed a little, then washed it down with a big gulp of coffee. They sat in silence - at least, no one said anything; Dean created an entire symphony of noise as he demolished the rest of his breakfast - until the clock on the dash read 5:15. Then, with a mild shrug, Dean wadded up the now-empty paper bag and tossed it into the back seat, made a show of locating his keys, and started the car.
"You suck," Sam told him.
"Do not," Dean said. "Very much do not. I am up at five o'clock in the morning to drive to the beach so we can reinvent fishing. Something that's supposed to involve a lake, a boat, and prodigious quantities of beer."
"'Prodigious'?" Sam echoed.
"We got beer, right? 'Cause if there's no beer involved in this enterprise, I'm kicking your ass."
"You want beer at five o'clock in the morning."
"There's no beer?"
"Dean -" Sam said.
Dean dropped the car into drive and gunned it - clearly, so the roar of the engine would drown out anything Sam had to say. Seconds later he added a blast of AC/DC to the mix, and topped it off by singing at the top of his lungs. It was somewhat of a relief, though, that he made no attempt to drive somewhere other than the location Sam had chosen; nor did he take some ridiculously roundabout route to get there.
To Sam's surprise, after they'd pulled the necessary equipment out of the trunk, Dean gathered up more than half of it and set off for a spot that looked ideal for what Sam had had in mind.
They'd been standing in the rising morning heat for not quite an hour, shirts off, bare feet burrowed deeply into the sand, when Sam said, "You're miserable, right? This is your idea of the worst time ever."
Dean didn't seem to hear him.
Possibly, Dean was ignoring him.
Then Dean's shoulders shifted. He tipped his head back and let the brilliant southern California sunlight fall on his face for a moment before he adjusted his stance in the sand again, quickly reeled in his line and re-cast his lure way out into the surf.
Dean's mood, Sam decided after several minutes of pondering the question, might have had a lot to do with the fact that they'd collected the fishing gear from Rufus's cabin, after Sam had added this particular adventure to his half of their "Let's Do This" list. None of the gear was new; it was all well-used, and, more than likely, well-loved. More than that - it wasn't at all a stretch to imagine Rufus and Bobby out on some lake, or standing thigh-deep in a river, bickering like a couple of old women as they attempted to catch their dinner.
Picturing that, Sam suddenly missed the two old men terribly. Too, he missed the man who'd taught him and Dean to fish on a long-ago rainy weekend, at a tiny lake in the Adirondacks.
All these years later, it was easy to recall sitting on the damp bottom of an old boat, gingerly touching the feathers and bright colors of a tray full of lures, listening to the rhythmic lap of water against old wood.
Could be, Dean's thoughts were running along the same lines.
"We can go," Sam offered.
Once more, Dean didn't reply right away. Then he turned to Sam and produced a lazy smile. "Nah," he said quietly. "We're good. Nice day - not too hot. Nice breeze. Feels good. Nothing's chasing our asses. We can hang out for a while. See if anything bites."
"You sure?"
Dean looked up and down the beach. One other person was fishing, with considerably more luck than they'd had. How that was possible when the man was less than fifty yards away, Sam wasn't sure, but he wasn't tempted to worry about it. He and Dean weren't trying to catch dinner. Weren't trying to catch anything, really.
Though, actually, they were.
"Thanks for doing this," Sam told his brother.
"What? Yeah, you owe me big time. Making me stand out here like this. This is some serious freaking torture, Sammy."
"No vomiting involved," Sam pointed out.
"You and your damn girly stomach."
"Eleven times, Dean. The Drop of Death. Eleven times."
"Could've made it an even dozen if you hadn't ralphed all over the ticket guy. I told you not to eat a big meal before we -"
"Dean," Sam said.
Dean smiled again, then chuckled softly. His face and shoulders had already begun to turn rosy from the sun, and his freckles stood out in sharp relief, something that always served to make him look a lot younger than he was. "Yeah," he said, and he sounded mellow, relaxed. "I get it. Let's kick this thing in the ass. Website said there's some big-assed fish out there."
"Sharks," Sam said.
"Yeah?"
Amused by the thought of his brother reeling in a great white, Sam picked up the Mountain Dew he'd half-burrowed into the sand and took a long swallow. "Next one's better," he told Dean as he returned the can to its nest. "Next thing I picked."
"There gonna be puking?"
In any event, Sam thought, there'd be something to remember. "Could be," he said, and grinned.
* * * * *
and the Muse agreed to take the bait. (Heh.)
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1214 words
ONE MORE OFF THE BUCKET LIST
By Carol Davis
"Seriously, man. Out of every conceivable option - out of every possible option in the world, this is what you pick."
"It is," Sam said.
"And you do realize it's five o'clock in the morning."
"Yes, Dean. I think I realize that. You've pointed out the time to me at least once every five minutes since we got up. Yes, it's early. But there's no point to going if we don't go early."
"Or at all," Dean suggested.
Bribing him with coffee lured Dean out to the car. Bribing him with a sackful of fresh cherry Danish got him into the car. Then the enticements crapped out; Dean sat slouched in the driver's seat, sunglasses slid halfway down his nose, gazing placidly out across the motel parking lot as he worked on a huge mouthful of pastry.
"You think if we sit here long enough, I’m gonna change my mind?" Sam asked.
"Just giving you the option."
"Dude. Start the car."
"Or what?"
"Dammit, Dean, it's my turn!" And yeah, that came out a little too shrill - high enough in pitch to make Dean's right eyebrow arch sharply toward his hairline. Frowning, but careful to keep his tone under control, Sam went on, "Did I or did I not go on the Lex Luthor Drop of Doom with you eleven times the day before yesterday? I felt like my equilibrium would never come back."
"Wuss," Dean observed.
"We take turns. That was the agreement. You pick, then I pick. And whatever one of us picks, the other one has to go along with it. Fourteen hours at Magic Mountain? I feel like I've been through training for the space program. This is just -"
"Wildly freaking lame."
"No judgments. You pick, then I pick."
"It's a bucket list, Sam. Things you've wanted to do, your whole life. Not Lifestyles of the Lame and Half-assed."
When Sam didn't reply, Dean fished another Danish out of the bag, took an enormous bite, chewed a little, then washed it down with a big gulp of coffee. They sat in silence - at least, no one said anything; Dean created an entire symphony of noise as he demolished the rest of his breakfast - until the clock on the dash read 5:15. Then, with a mild shrug, Dean wadded up the now-empty paper bag and tossed it into the back seat, made a show of locating his keys, and started the car.
"You suck," Sam told him.
"Do not," Dean said. "Very much do not. I am up at five o'clock in the morning to drive to the beach so we can reinvent fishing. Something that's supposed to involve a lake, a boat, and prodigious quantities of beer."
"'Prodigious'?" Sam echoed.
"We got beer, right? 'Cause if there's no beer involved in this enterprise, I'm kicking your ass."
"You want beer at five o'clock in the morning."
"There's no beer?"
"Dean -" Sam said.
Dean dropped the car into drive and gunned it - clearly, so the roar of the engine would drown out anything Sam had to say. Seconds later he added a blast of AC/DC to the mix, and topped it off by singing at the top of his lungs. It was somewhat of a relief, though, that he made no attempt to drive somewhere other than the location Sam had chosen; nor did he take some ridiculously roundabout route to get there.
To Sam's surprise, after they'd pulled the necessary equipment out of the trunk, Dean gathered up more than half of it and set off for a spot that looked ideal for what Sam had had in mind.
They'd been standing in the rising morning heat for not quite an hour, shirts off, bare feet burrowed deeply into the sand, when Sam said, "You're miserable, right? This is your idea of the worst time ever."
Dean didn't seem to hear him.
Possibly, Dean was ignoring him.
Then Dean's shoulders shifted. He tipped his head back and let the brilliant southern California sunlight fall on his face for a moment before he adjusted his stance in the sand again, quickly reeled in his line and re-cast his lure way out into the surf.
Dean's mood, Sam decided after several minutes of pondering the question, might have had a lot to do with the fact that they'd collected the fishing gear from Rufus's cabin, after Sam had added this particular adventure to his half of their "Let's Do This" list. None of the gear was new; it was all well-used, and, more than likely, well-loved. More than that - it wasn't at all a stretch to imagine Rufus and Bobby out on some lake, or standing thigh-deep in a river, bickering like a couple of old women as they attempted to catch their dinner.
Picturing that, Sam suddenly missed the two old men terribly. Too, he missed the man who'd taught him and Dean to fish on a long-ago rainy weekend, at a tiny lake in the Adirondacks.
All these years later, it was easy to recall sitting on the damp bottom of an old boat, gingerly touching the feathers and bright colors of a tray full of lures, listening to the rhythmic lap of water against old wood.
Could be, Dean's thoughts were running along the same lines.
"We can go," Sam offered.
Once more, Dean didn't reply right away. Then he turned to Sam and produced a lazy smile. "Nah," he said quietly. "We're good. Nice day - not too hot. Nice breeze. Feels good. Nothing's chasing our asses. We can hang out for a while. See if anything bites."
"You sure?"
Dean looked up and down the beach. One other person was fishing, with considerably more luck than they'd had. How that was possible when the man was less than fifty yards away, Sam wasn't sure, but he wasn't tempted to worry about it. He and Dean weren't trying to catch dinner. Weren't trying to catch anything, really.
Though, actually, they were.
"Thanks for doing this," Sam told his brother.
"What? Yeah, you owe me big time. Making me stand out here like this. This is some serious freaking torture, Sammy."
"No vomiting involved," Sam pointed out.
"You and your damn girly stomach."
"Eleven times, Dean. The Drop of Death. Eleven times."
"Could've made it an even dozen if you hadn't ralphed all over the ticket guy. I told you not to eat a big meal before we -"
"Dean," Sam said.
Dean smiled again, then chuckled softly. His face and shoulders had already begun to turn rosy from the sun, and his freckles stood out in sharp relief, something that always served to make him look a lot younger than he was. "Yeah," he said, and he sounded mellow, relaxed. "I get it. Let's kick this thing in the ass. Website said there's some big-assed fish out there."
"Sharks," Sam said.
"Yeah?"
Amused by the thought of his brother reeling in a great white, Sam picked up the Mountain Dew he'd half-burrowed into the sand and took a long swallow. "Next one's better," he told Dean as he returned the can to its nest. "Next thing I picked."
"There gonna be puking?"
In any event, Sam thought, there'd be something to remember. "Could be," he said, and grinned.
* * * * *