Fic: It's not what you say, it's how you say it (SPN)
It's not what you say, it's how you say it
Words: 754
Spoilers/AN: Takes place right after Scarecrow; contains spoilers for The Usual Suspects and Hunted.
Summary: Now that Sam's sticking around Dean puts him to the test.
“Funkytown,” Dean says before taking a sip of beer. They’re in some small town bar in the middle of nowhere, but just about as far from Burkittsville as Dean could get in six and a half hours. Sam glances up at him, halfway through an article about a couple of kids disappearing on the outskirts of Iowa.
“It’s not actually a place, Dean,” he says when his brother looks at him expectantly. “It’s a state of mind.”
Dean rolls his eyes and kicks him in the shin. “Funny, smartass.” Sam winces and kicks him back but Dean moves his leg too quickly and his foot connects with the bottom of the booth instead. “Come on,” he says, ignoring Sam’s glare. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgot.”
“Uh,” Sam says, and is surprised when Dean actually looks disappointed.
“Funkytown, Sam.”
Won’t you take me to? He wants to say, but this is actually important to Dean so he stays quiet and tries to figure out what the hell his brother is talking about. It takes him a minute, but when it comes back to him it’s like flipping a switch. Cramped in the back of the Impala with Dean while Dad drives through the night, coming up with their own language just like when they were little, only this time it’s to say things like Dad’s possessed or-
“Someone has a gun on you,” he says and Dean grins wide.
“That’s m’boy.” He knocks Sam’s foot with his own and takes a long pull before saying, “Knew you had it in you, Hilts.”
Sam abandons the hope of ever finishing the article. “Dude,” he says because now he recognizes this for what it is. “I’m not twelve anymore, I think I can remember a few words.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugs, nonchalant. “You’ve been out of the game for a bit-”
“I just saved your ass,” he says because he still kind of hates it more than he’d like to when Dean thinks he can’t do the job.
Dean looks offended. “Dude, I had a plan.”
Sam grins and glances back down at the newspaper, saying, “Sure you did,” because it’ll piss Dean off and that’s the only excuse he’s ever needed to do anything.
Dean kicks him again and leans back in the booth. “Hey, it’s ok if you can’t remember, College Boy, I’ll just make you a nice little list you can carry in your wallet.”
Sam grits his teeth and answers, “Hilts means ‘get out’.”
“Where do you go?” he presses and Sam wonders, not for the first time, why he has prophetic dreams but still can’t make his brother’s head explode at will.
“Dean.”
“Yeah, that’s ok,” Dean says and shrugs again. “It’s been a few years, I’m sure you have lots more important things in that big head of yours now.”
“First motel in the yellow pages,” he growls, and then adds because he knows it’s the next question, “Register under Jim Rockford.”
“That’s right,” Dean says and grins in the way that always makes Sam sit up a little straighter, because at twenty-two he’s pretty much come to terms with the fact that he’ll do just about anything to make his older brother proud.
Sam rolls his eyes and tries to smother a smile. “Can I finish this now?”
“Sure thing, ace,” he says with that stupid ass smirk like he expects Sam to have forgotten this one, which just pisses him off more, only-
Shit. Sam glances down at the table and feels just a hint of panic when he draws a complete blank. Dean will never let him hear the end of it if he’s forgotten. “Come on, Sammy,” Dean taunts and Sam glares at him.
“Just shut up for a second,” he says because he knows it. He knows he does, it’s just-Dean snatches the pen from the middle of the table with a sigh and starts writing on one of the napkins. “No, Dean, stop,” he says and he knows he sounds all of eight. “I know it, just give me-”
Dean slides the napkin across the table and Sam glances down at the neat scrawl. Ace = Get me a beer, bitch. Sam kind of hates his brother. He scrunches the napkin up as angrily as he can and hurls it across the table, because it’s either that or his beer bottle and he’s only half finished. “You’re such an asshole,” he says and Dean grins like it’s the best compliment he’s ever received.
Words: 754
Spoilers/AN: Takes place right after Scarecrow; contains spoilers for The Usual Suspects and Hunted.
Summary: Now that Sam's sticking around Dean puts him to the test.
“Funkytown,” Dean says before taking a sip of beer. They’re in some small town bar in the middle of nowhere, but just about as far from Burkittsville as Dean could get in six and a half hours. Sam glances up at him, halfway through an article about a couple of kids disappearing on the outskirts of Iowa.
“It’s not actually a place, Dean,” he says when his brother looks at him expectantly. “It’s a state of mind.”
Dean rolls his eyes and kicks him in the shin. “Funny, smartass.” Sam winces and kicks him back but Dean moves his leg too quickly and his foot connects with the bottom of the booth instead. “Come on,” he says, ignoring Sam’s glare. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgot.”
“Uh,” Sam says, and is surprised when Dean actually looks disappointed.
“Funkytown, Sam.”
Won’t you take me to? He wants to say, but this is actually important to Dean so he stays quiet and tries to figure out what the hell his brother is talking about. It takes him a minute, but when it comes back to him it’s like flipping a switch. Cramped in the back of the Impala with Dean while Dad drives through the night, coming up with their own language just like when they were little, only this time it’s to say things like Dad’s possessed or-
“Someone has a gun on you,” he says and Dean grins wide.
“That’s m’boy.” He knocks Sam’s foot with his own and takes a long pull before saying, “Knew you had it in you, Hilts.”
Sam abandons the hope of ever finishing the article. “Dude,” he says because now he recognizes this for what it is. “I’m not twelve anymore, I think I can remember a few words.”
“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugs, nonchalant. “You’ve been out of the game for a bit-”
“I just saved your ass,” he says because he still kind of hates it more than he’d like to when Dean thinks he can’t do the job.
Dean looks offended. “Dude, I had a plan.”
Sam grins and glances back down at the newspaper, saying, “Sure you did,” because it’ll piss Dean off and that’s the only excuse he’s ever needed to do anything.
Dean kicks him again and leans back in the booth. “Hey, it’s ok if you can’t remember, College Boy, I’ll just make you a nice little list you can carry in your wallet.”
Sam grits his teeth and answers, “Hilts means ‘get out’.”
“Where do you go?” he presses and Sam wonders, not for the first time, why he has prophetic dreams but still can’t make his brother’s head explode at will.
“Dean.”
“Yeah, that’s ok,” Dean says and shrugs again. “It’s been a few years, I’m sure you have lots more important things in that big head of yours now.”
“First motel in the yellow pages,” he growls, and then adds because he knows it’s the next question, “Register under Jim Rockford.”
“That’s right,” Dean says and grins in the way that always makes Sam sit up a little straighter, because at twenty-two he’s pretty much come to terms with the fact that he’ll do just about anything to make his older brother proud.
Sam rolls his eyes and tries to smother a smile. “Can I finish this now?”
“Sure thing, ace,” he says with that stupid ass smirk like he expects Sam to have forgotten this one, which just pisses him off more, only-
Shit. Sam glances down at the table and feels just a hint of panic when he draws a complete blank. Dean will never let him hear the end of it if he’s forgotten. “Come on, Sammy,” Dean taunts and Sam glares at him.
“Just shut up for a second,” he says because he knows it. He knows he does, it’s just-Dean snatches the pen from the middle of the table with a sigh and starts writing on one of the napkins. “No, Dean, stop,” he says and he knows he sounds all of eight. “I know it, just give me-”
Dean slides the napkin across the table and Sam glances down at the neat scrawl. Ace = Get me a beer, bitch. Sam kind of hates his brother. He scrunches the napkin up as angrily as he can and hurls it across the table, because it’s either that or his beer bottle and he’s only half finished. “You’re such an asshole,” he says and Dean grins like it’s the best compliment he’s ever received.