Response to Challenge #7: 'Sudden Downpour'
Author: tabaqui
Title: Sudden Downpour
Characters: Sam/Dean *mostly implied*
Rating: Adult
Spoilers: For 'Nightmare', a little.
Sitting in a Perkins in Florida about a half-hour before dawn, watching the water condense and run down the sides of Dean's glass. Sam's watching every little trail, utterly spaced. Seventeen hours in the Impala and his back feels like origami - some kind of brittle parchment folded in impossible ways.
The rumble-purr of the engine and the sonorous thump-ba-bump of Dean's music has worked its way into Sam's bones - into his brain and now he's half-awake, half-asleep - too dazed to read the menu that Dean's pushing at him.
"Dude. You awake?"
Sam blinks and puts his finger out - rubs it over a droplet-trail, feeling the chill. It's cold in the air conditioning and Sam's shivering just a little, his t-shirt still damp from the humid air outside. He's glad he snagged his hoodie off the seat as they came in - restaurants are always sub-zero, it seems.
"Saaaa-am!" Dean sing-songs and Sam finally looks up at him as Dean picks up his glass and takes a long drink through the straw.
"Yeah, what?" Sam says, and Dean makes an impatient noise, blowing bubbles.
"You're doing the zombie thing, Sam. You hungry or what?"
"I dunno," Sam mumbles. He opens his menu and stares at it. The pictures of the food look unreal - like a fifties advertisement. Too perfect, too bright. The lights overhead buzz ever so slightly, a steady subsonic drone that blends with the whir of the fans and the rumble from the highway. White noise that hisses and builds until Sam has to put his hands over his ears, hunching in his seat.
"Sam - Sam -" Dean's fingers are warm and damp and strong on Sam's wrist and Sam sucks in a breath and lets his hand slide up into his hair. Trying to make himself look marginally less like a nut case. The noise abruptly dies away to nothing - to normal - and he looks up at Dean through the fringe of disordered hair he keeps meaning to cut.
"I'm okay. Just...I dunno. Leftovers, I guess." Four days earlier, Sam had had a vision. First time since Max, and it hadn't gotten easier. Dead kids, screaming, blood... Demon, of course, but one they knew how to kill. They'd got there on time, at least - saved the kids. Sam would never forget the sight of Dean, streaked with gore and mud, festooned with screaming children. Handing the oldest his salt-loaded shotgun and telling him go ahead, shoot the fucker. The dying demon had hissed, the kid had pulled the trigger and then the little red-headed girl had demanded her turn. By the time they were all done shooting - seven kids - nobody was screaming anymore and Dean was the hero of the day.
Which suited Sam fine, 'cause his vision headache had been like a buzz saw to the back of his skull and if the fucking kids hadn't shut up soon he might have started screaming right along with them.
But that's half a state away and they're following vague leads from a website or two. The headache is long gone but something else seems to be there instead.
Dean reckons the visions and the moment of telekinesis in Max's house kind of - burned Sam out. Like he'd had to suddenly lift a car or run fifteen miles at top speed and he was still recovering. Sam doesn't know but it sounds plausible. Pushing that door open had been like flexing a long-dormant muscle. Sudden push and then a flare and burn. And a lingering ache that had lasted for days. Nothing happened with the kids, so Sam's wondering if the visions will become a regular thing now. He really kind of hopes not, even though they'd saved the kids.
"You need to eat," Dean says, too-hearty voice and a flap of the menu. "Eggs, bacon, potatoes...and pancakes. And toast. Grease and fat, buddy, that'll fix you right up." He's grinning, slurping his orange juice and Sam feels an unexpected surge of hunger. Suddenly, food sounds good.
"Yeah, maybe you're right," Sam says. It starts to rain outside - that crazy kind of Florida downpour that seems to come out of nowhere and Sam watches the rain hit the window and slide down; hit and slide in silver-blue trails and Sam follows one with his gaze like he did with his finger on Dean's glass. Someone hurries by outside - older guy with a scruffy beard, turning to look inside and for one moment Sam's face and the man's face merge - reflection and visage sliding across each other and Sam can see his dad.
*He's me. Dad's...me. And I'm him, twenty-two years ago. Woman we loved dead and...Dean. Dean's the bridge. He's the only thing that connects the three of us. Four of us, maybe five. He's all I have left of mom, what he remembers... Was gonna introduce Dean and Jess one day. Was gonna show her...tell him... God. I wanted...*
"I wanted you to be friends, you know?" Sam says, and Dean looks up from dripping juice onto his straw wrapper. Making the accordioned paper squirm and grow. Sam had loved that trick as a kid.
"Friends with who?"
"With Jess. I... I didn't talk about you guys much but I thought - one day - we could -" Sam makes a helpless sort of gesture with his hands and Dean slides the straw back into the glass, watching him. Then the waitress comes up and Dean orders enough food for five guys - they're flush, for once - and Sam leans back and stares at the rain; at his reflection, that's wavering and warped and utterly unfamiliar.
*I'm my father's son,* he thinks, and looks over at Dean when Dean's boot knocks into his ankle. "Ow, fuck! What?"
"Zombie," Dean says, making Sam's straw paper wiggle. White worm in a puddle of juice and Sam looks away.
"I think you'd have liked Jess," Sam says, and Dean purses his lips slightly, watching the paper worm.
"Maybe. She was cute. She have a sister?"
"No," Sam says, instant indignation. And then he slumps a little - reaches for his own juice and takes a sip. "No, she was an only child. I should have..." *Called her folks, told them - everything. Promised them I'd...avenge...* "Did Dad ever... I mean, I know mom's parents are dead, but -"
"Sam, what are you talking about?" Dean says, and he looks confused and a little pissed off. Baffled look of a thwarted lion and Sam sighs.
"I was just thinking how me and dad have...this. The same, you know? Mom and Jess...we both have that on our heads. And we've both got you."
"And I'm, what, some kind of consolation prize?" Dean looks more than pissed off now - he looks kind of hurt and Sam wishes his mouth wouldn't just say things, sometimes.
"No, you're..." Sam can't even begin to put into words what Dean is. All he knows for sure is that despite his own desire for vengeance - for some sort of ending to all of this - neither he nor his dad is totally sane about it. Under it all - down deep at the most basic level, though - Dean is. And they need him. "You're the wind beneath our wings," Sam says finally, grinning, because Bette Midler is emoting over the in-house system and Sam knows that Dean...knows.
Even as he rolls his eyes and makes a disgusted face, flopping back in the booth and kicking Sam's ankle again. "You're such a fucking girl, Sammy."
"Did I ever tell you...you're me heee-roo..." Sam warbles, delighted by the look of intense horror and embarrassment on Dean's face. Delighted by the slow push of Dean's boot into the side of his sneaker. "You're everything..."
But Dean's had enough - flicks ice at Sam and Sam ducks and laughs and flicks ice back - tries to look like he's being good when the waitress stops to put syrup and ketchup and a little basket of single-serve jelly tubs on their table.
"Dibs on the apricot," Sam says, diving for the basket but Dean beats him to it - holds it up where Sam can't reach, his other hand groping through the little packets. "Dude, you don't even like apricot!"
"'Cause apricot is jelly for girls," Dean says, smirking. Sam pelts him with sugar and Sweet'n'Low and Dean fires back with grape and strawberry and mixed berry jelly until the waitress arrives with a tray full of food and a sour look.
"Sorry," Dean mumbles, hastily shoving the basket to the back of the table.
"We're sorry," Sam says. While Dean's busy rearranging his bacon - he doesn't like it to get syrup on it - Sam snags the basket back and holds three apricot jellies triumphantly aloft.
"Ha!" he crows.
Dean rolls his eyes. "You are so weak, dude."
"Got my jelly, though," Sam says, peeling back the foil cover and digging in with his knife. The rain has stopped, the clouds breaking apart under a steady easterly wind. The sun is rising just off Dean's left shoulder, cotton-candy pinks and yellows and the sun itself a fierce orange, reflected a thousand, thousand times in every puddle and drop and diamond-chip of leftover rain. It glints in ruddy gold off Dean's hair and picks out the stubble on his jaw - makes shadows in the creases from Dean's grin.
Sam spreads his toast with jelly and smiles to himself and totally doesn't mind when Dean takes one of his sausage links. *I'm my father's son but that doesn't matter as much as this. None of it matters as much as this,* Sam thinks, and bites into his toast. The jelly is delicious.
Title: Sudden Downpour
Characters: Sam/Dean *mostly implied*
Rating: Adult
Spoilers: For 'Nightmare', a little.
Sitting in a Perkins in Florida about a half-hour before dawn, watching the water condense and run down the sides of Dean's glass. Sam's watching every little trail, utterly spaced. Seventeen hours in the Impala and his back feels like origami - some kind of brittle parchment folded in impossible ways.
The rumble-purr of the engine and the sonorous thump-ba-bump of Dean's music has worked its way into Sam's bones - into his brain and now he's half-awake, half-asleep - too dazed to read the menu that Dean's pushing at him.
"Dude. You awake?"
Sam blinks and puts his finger out - rubs it over a droplet-trail, feeling the chill. It's cold in the air conditioning and Sam's shivering just a little, his t-shirt still damp from the humid air outside. He's glad he snagged his hoodie off the seat as they came in - restaurants are always sub-zero, it seems.
"Saaaa-am!" Dean sing-songs and Sam finally looks up at him as Dean picks up his glass and takes a long drink through the straw.
"Yeah, what?" Sam says, and Dean makes an impatient noise, blowing bubbles.
"You're doing the zombie thing, Sam. You hungry or what?"
"I dunno," Sam mumbles. He opens his menu and stares at it. The pictures of the food look unreal - like a fifties advertisement. Too perfect, too bright. The lights overhead buzz ever so slightly, a steady subsonic drone that blends with the whir of the fans and the rumble from the highway. White noise that hisses and builds until Sam has to put his hands over his ears, hunching in his seat.
"Sam - Sam -" Dean's fingers are warm and damp and strong on Sam's wrist and Sam sucks in a breath and lets his hand slide up into his hair. Trying to make himself look marginally less like a nut case. The noise abruptly dies away to nothing - to normal - and he looks up at Dean through the fringe of disordered hair he keeps meaning to cut.
"I'm okay. Just...I dunno. Leftovers, I guess." Four days earlier, Sam had had a vision. First time since Max, and it hadn't gotten easier. Dead kids, screaming, blood... Demon, of course, but one they knew how to kill. They'd got there on time, at least - saved the kids. Sam would never forget the sight of Dean, streaked with gore and mud, festooned with screaming children. Handing the oldest his salt-loaded shotgun and telling him go ahead, shoot the fucker. The dying demon had hissed, the kid had pulled the trigger and then the little red-headed girl had demanded her turn. By the time they were all done shooting - seven kids - nobody was screaming anymore and Dean was the hero of the day.
Which suited Sam fine, 'cause his vision headache had been like a buzz saw to the back of his skull and if the fucking kids hadn't shut up soon he might have started screaming right along with them.
But that's half a state away and they're following vague leads from a website or two. The headache is long gone but something else seems to be there instead.
Dean reckons the visions and the moment of telekinesis in Max's house kind of - burned Sam out. Like he'd had to suddenly lift a car or run fifteen miles at top speed and he was still recovering. Sam doesn't know but it sounds plausible. Pushing that door open had been like flexing a long-dormant muscle. Sudden push and then a flare and burn. And a lingering ache that had lasted for days. Nothing happened with the kids, so Sam's wondering if the visions will become a regular thing now. He really kind of hopes not, even though they'd saved the kids.
"You need to eat," Dean says, too-hearty voice and a flap of the menu. "Eggs, bacon, potatoes...and pancakes. And toast. Grease and fat, buddy, that'll fix you right up." He's grinning, slurping his orange juice and Sam feels an unexpected surge of hunger. Suddenly, food sounds good.
"Yeah, maybe you're right," Sam says. It starts to rain outside - that crazy kind of Florida downpour that seems to come out of nowhere and Sam watches the rain hit the window and slide down; hit and slide in silver-blue trails and Sam follows one with his gaze like he did with his finger on Dean's glass. Someone hurries by outside - older guy with a scruffy beard, turning to look inside and for one moment Sam's face and the man's face merge - reflection and visage sliding across each other and Sam can see his dad.
*He's me. Dad's...me. And I'm him, twenty-two years ago. Woman we loved dead and...Dean. Dean's the bridge. He's the only thing that connects the three of us. Four of us, maybe five. He's all I have left of mom, what he remembers... Was gonna introduce Dean and Jess one day. Was gonna show her...tell him... God. I wanted...*
"I wanted you to be friends, you know?" Sam says, and Dean looks up from dripping juice onto his straw wrapper. Making the accordioned paper squirm and grow. Sam had loved that trick as a kid.
"Friends with who?"
"With Jess. I... I didn't talk about you guys much but I thought - one day - we could -" Sam makes a helpless sort of gesture with his hands and Dean slides the straw back into the glass, watching him. Then the waitress comes up and Dean orders enough food for five guys - they're flush, for once - and Sam leans back and stares at the rain; at his reflection, that's wavering and warped and utterly unfamiliar.
*I'm my father's son,* he thinks, and looks over at Dean when Dean's boot knocks into his ankle. "Ow, fuck! What?"
"Zombie," Dean says, making Sam's straw paper wiggle. White worm in a puddle of juice and Sam looks away.
"I think you'd have liked Jess," Sam says, and Dean purses his lips slightly, watching the paper worm.
"Maybe. She was cute. She have a sister?"
"No," Sam says, instant indignation. And then he slumps a little - reaches for his own juice and takes a sip. "No, she was an only child. I should have..." *Called her folks, told them - everything. Promised them I'd...avenge...* "Did Dad ever... I mean, I know mom's parents are dead, but -"
"Sam, what are you talking about?" Dean says, and he looks confused and a little pissed off. Baffled look of a thwarted lion and Sam sighs.
"I was just thinking how me and dad have...this. The same, you know? Mom and Jess...we both have that on our heads. And we've both got you."
"And I'm, what, some kind of consolation prize?" Dean looks more than pissed off now - he looks kind of hurt and Sam wishes his mouth wouldn't just say things, sometimes.
"No, you're..." Sam can't even begin to put into words what Dean is. All he knows for sure is that despite his own desire for vengeance - for some sort of ending to all of this - neither he nor his dad is totally sane about it. Under it all - down deep at the most basic level, though - Dean is. And they need him. "You're the wind beneath our wings," Sam says finally, grinning, because Bette Midler is emoting over the in-house system and Sam knows that Dean...knows.
Even as he rolls his eyes and makes a disgusted face, flopping back in the booth and kicking Sam's ankle again. "You're such a fucking girl, Sammy."
"Did I ever tell you...you're me heee-roo..." Sam warbles, delighted by the look of intense horror and embarrassment on Dean's face. Delighted by the slow push of Dean's boot into the side of his sneaker. "You're everything..."
But Dean's had enough - flicks ice at Sam and Sam ducks and laughs and flicks ice back - tries to look like he's being good when the waitress stops to put syrup and ketchup and a little basket of single-serve jelly tubs on their table.
"Dibs on the apricot," Sam says, diving for the basket but Dean beats him to it - holds it up where Sam can't reach, his other hand groping through the little packets. "Dude, you don't even like apricot!"
"'Cause apricot is jelly for girls," Dean says, smirking. Sam pelts him with sugar and Sweet'n'Low and Dean fires back with grape and strawberry and mixed berry jelly until the waitress arrives with a tray full of food and a sour look.
"Sorry," Dean mumbles, hastily shoving the basket to the back of the table.
"We're sorry," Sam says. While Dean's busy rearranging his bacon - he doesn't like it to get syrup on it - Sam snags the basket back and holds three apricot jellies triumphantly aloft.
"Ha!" he crows.
Dean rolls his eyes. "You are so weak, dude."
"Got my jelly, though," Sam says, peeling back the foil cover and digging in with his knife. The rain has stopped, the clouds breaking apart under a steady easterly wind. The sun is rising just off Dean's left shoulder, cotton-candy pinks and yellows and the sun itself a fierce orange, reflected a thousand, thousand times in every puddle and drop and diamond-chip of leftover rain. It glints in ruddy gold off Dean's hair and picks out the stubble on his jaw - makes shadows in the creases from Dean's grin.
Sam spreads his toast with jelly and smiles to himself and totally doesn't mind when Dean takes one of his sausage links. *I'm my father's son but that doesn't matter as much as this. None of it matters as much as this,* Sam thinks, and bites into his toast. The jelly is delicious.