Fic: You can stretch right up and touch the sky
Wow, I never realized that I hadn't posted this story on LJ! I'm an idiot, apparently...
So, here it is, a fic from 2013, set in season 2 of Supernatural. I think it was for a challenge.
Title: You can stretch right up and touch the sky
Pairing: Gen, Sam and Dean (Season 2)
Rating: PG
Any warnings: some swearing
Summary: A Winchester-vacation turns out the way you'd expect it.
(title borrowed from Mungo Jerry's "In the summertime")
The heat was stifling. The flies were too lazy to buzz around, which would’ve been fine and perfect if it didn’t mean that they now walked wherever they wanted to go, crawling all over the sweaty body and leaving an echo of their movements on the exposed skin.
“I fucking hate this,” Dean cursed, but even his outrage lacked fire. Exhausted, he nearly swept his hand over his face, trying to get rid of the ghost-itch but stopped in time. “Sam, I’ll never listen to you ever again. You hear me? Never ever!”
“I hear ya.” Sam didn’t sound much more awake, more like he was talking in slow-motion. Or was that slow-sound? Dean didn’t have a clue and couldn’t care less. He was … well, he would be pissed if it wouldn’t take so much energy. He only had enough for some moderate annoyance, and so he tried to bring that across by glaring mildly.
“Right. So, let’s get this done before we melt.”
‘This’ was supposed to be their vacation. ‘This’ was supposed to be a week on the beach, nothing but pretty girls, sand and water, sleeping in and drinking cold drinks in a bar and maybe chatting up some of the pretty girls. ‘This’ was supposed to be FUN
But sadly, ‘this’ had turned into ’C’mon, Dean, we’ll visit the Haunted House - it’ll be fun’, and that ‘fun’ had turned into a real case.
Why Sam couldn’t have left well enough alone and old Mortimer Habernathy a howling old - dead - man who shifted books and closed doors was a mystery, and would forever stay one. Dean wouldn’t give Sam the satisfaction to ever ask for his reasons - bleeding heart that he was probably had felt sorry for the ghost.
Idiot.
“So… how’s the plan getting along?”
“I’m working on it, Dean!” Sam sounded slightly more annoyed. As he should, Dean thought unkindly. He supposed rattling him a little would get him to think faster. Even in this heat.
“It’s hot, Sam, I want to be on the beach. You promised me a beach!”
“I didn’t promise anything, Dean! It was your idea to go on this stupid vacation!”
“Ah, but do you see the problem here? This isn’t a fucking vacation! So get moving so I can go get my well-earned vacation!”
“How…” Sam stopped.
Oh yea, better stop before you say something stupid, like ‘how did you earn a vacation’ or something Dean thought. He didn’t say it out loud, but that might have been because he had to grab the root a bit harder so he wouldn’t slip further into the hole.
Which hole?
Oh, yeah. The hole that’d appeared when Old Habernathy removed the boards from the old, dried-up well, leaving them perfectly accessible for Dean to be dragged into. Or nearly dragged into. Because unlike Sam’s prediction - and Dean would never admit that he’d thought pretty much the same - the ghost wasn’t limited to the Haunted House. And he seemed pretty attached to his bones, which should be buried only a few feet from where the old well had opened up, where Dean was holding on to the root and where he might drop to his death because there would be no way to break his fall.
Interesting position, hanging halfway down a hole. He could see his brother from an entirely different point of view - did Sam always have these knobby knees?
“Could you maybe get me out of here now, Sammy?” Sweat wasn’t Dean’s friend, too often had he blown his chances with a pretty girl because he’d forgotten that running through a forest with a shotgun made him smell anything but lovely. And it certainly wasn’t helping him hold on to the root now, either. “Sam?”
“I’m on it, don’t worry!”
“I’m not worried,” Dean lied, but tried to relax. “I think my pants are slipping off.”
“That would be surprising.”
“Are you calling me fat?”
“No. Just … ah, shut up, Dean.”
“Pull me up, and I’ll shut up all day, Sam!” Still not worried at all. Feeling the root slide through your fingers? Nope, all’s well.
“You know I can’t!” And while it was kinda good to hear Sam was a bit rattled as well, it was also not making Dean feel better. Because Sam was right, he couldn’t help Dean. The only thing he’d been able to do was throw a circle of salt around himself and keep the ghost from shoving Sam into the well … as well. “I’m doing my best here, Dean.”
“Yeah, I know. Just… don’t… you know.”
Since Mr. Habernathy was a pretty smart ghost, he’d found out quickly that those two guys with the shotguns were out to burn his bones to send him off into the… wherever. So he’d attacked, right when Dean and Sam had realized they’d forgotten the salt in the car. Dean had gone to get it - stupid scissors! - and on his way back, Habernathy had taken his chance. And after he disposed of the salt-guns by ripping them out of Dean’s hand - Sam had left his own on the ground where it was easily swept away- and throwing both into the well, he’d attacked whenever Sam went towards Dean or the burial site.
So if Sam didn’t find something in his big brain to get them out of here, they’d be stuck until the sun rose. Assuming that Habernathy was indeed nocturnal and not one of the rare spirits that were able to manifest during the day. He was old enough, probably.
“Uhm… Sam, I’m not so sure if I can hold on until it’s morning.”
“I… Uh… I think I have an idea. You just… hang tight.”
“Funny, Sam. Really funny.”
But it was good to see his brother’s worried smile. Dean hated that he lived for those small shows of affection, he hated that he was such a desperate idiot sometimes. But ever since their dad had died, he felt so… empty. And lacking. Lacking purpose, lacking fun, lacking skill, lacking confidence. Lacking life. Seeing Sam was concerned changed that a bit. Because Sam needed him, needed his help, and if Sam was concerned about Dean, it also meant that there was still purpose and skill. As for the rest? Well, ‘fake it till you make it’ was a good motto, Dean thought.
“All right. So…Dean, whatever happens, just hang on. Ok?”
That didn’t sound ominous at all… “Sam?”
“Just hold on.”
And while Dean kept hanging around, sweating in the unbelievable heat of the night, Sam took the canister of salt and poured some of it in his hand. With more confidence than he should have, he stepped out of his safe circle.
“Sam!”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam murmured through his teeth, trying to spot the ghost before it knocked him out or down or whatever. He took a few steps in the direction of the gravesite, then started to walk towards it with purpose. If he was luring Habernathy or if he really thought he could make it, Dean wasn’t sure, but he spotted the telltale swish in the grass and felt the slight lowering of the temperature.
“Five o clock, Sam!”
And because they were trained well, Sam twisted and tossed the salt perfectly in time, hitting the ghost with it. He took the opportunity and dashed forward, around the small hedge and now Dean couldn’t see him anymore. Calling out would only distract him, and with gritted teeth, Dean tried to concentrate on holding on.
That sounded a lot easier than it actually was. He was sweating buckets by now and listening to Sam grunting and huffing, the ghost screeching in fury and maybe fear made him ache to step up and help his little brother. Not talking or yelling to him was even harder.
The swoosh of the accelerant in the grave was like an answer to a prayer Dean never said. His breathing slowed and the adrenalin was leaving his body - and with it the tension, and with the tension his grip. “Uh-oh,” he had time to say before gravity pulled on his legs and he felt himself losing the hold on his root, sliding over the grass into the well. “Sam! Sammy!”
He tried to dig his hands into the soil but it wasn’t enough. Stupid way to go, he thought and closed his eyes, swallowing down the sharp taste of fear and desperation.
Just when his fingers slipped over the edge, two huge paws grabbed his wrists, and he cried out in surprise. “Gotcha,” Sam muttered right in front of Dean, “I’ve got you. Won’t let you fall. I’ve got ya.”
**
“So, you two’re having fun down there?”
Sam grinned, watching Dean flirt with two cute surfer-girls. They seemed to want him to come into the water with them, and Sam would pay to see Dean on a surfboard. “Yeah, we nearly died, burned a corpse and now Dean’s trying to learn to surf.”
The laughter from the phone made the rock lift from his heart a little, the one that had taken residence ever since he’d nearly lost his brother to something as mundane as a hole in the ground. Sure, Dean was fine, just a few scratches. But Sam couldn’t shake the image of watching Dean slide into the earth, seeing him close his eyes as if he were certain that he’d not survive. He couldn’t forget that look of quiet resignation and in his dreams, he was always too slow, always that millisecond to late, always watching Dean fall or lie broken on the bottom of the well.
”God, I’d pay to see him surf”, Jo cackled, and Sam smiled along with her.
The temperature was still high, but out here by the ocean, it was perfect. Their car would be an oven in the evening, but right now, Sam was determined to forget about what might have been and concentrate on what was.
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. How’s Ellen?”
”Grumpy and mean. We’re drowning in rain right now, and I’m not sure if I really can bear the unfairness of you two having sun and being on the beach.”
“I hear ya… can’t believe it either.” Dean and him on an actual vacation? That was indeed a rare thing. Sam couldn’t remember a time they went on some real vacation at all - even when their dad had taken them somewhere cool or nice, he’d always insisted on training them. Less so, but never quitting it altogether.
”So, when will you be back up here?”
“Not sure, Jo. Might be a week, might be tomorrow. Never know what will come up.”
Jo sighed. ”Never in one place for long. Sometimes, the life of a drifter sounds so romantic. Mostly whenever the weather is particularly awful around here.”
“Hm,” he hummed, not agreeing but too lazy to argue his point. “I have to go. Send Ellen our best, will ya?” Jo agreed and hung up, and Sam lay back to let the warmth soak into his skin and bones.
He might have drifted off a bit, until something cold hit his chest. “Old Lazypants… I can’t believe you’re related to me. We’re at the perfect beach within the reach of perfect chicks, and all you do is sleep?”
The cold thing was a popsicle, and despite his griping, Dean just sat down next to Sam and opened his own.
They sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the waves and listening to the laughter, and right then, right there, Sam had never felt so much at home. Sometimes, Dean’s ideas weren’t all that bad. A lazy day now and then in the sun was just the thing they needed.
~~ The end
So, here it is, a fic from 2013, set in season 2 of Supernatural. I think it was for a challenge.
Title: You can stretch right up and touch the sky
Pairing: Gen, Sam and Dean (Season 2)
Rating: PG
Any warnings: some swearing
Summary: A Winchester-vacation turns out the way you'd expect it.
(title borrowed from Mungo Jerry's "In the summertime")
The heat was stifling. The flies were too lazy to buzz around, which would’ve been fine and perfect if it didn’t mean that they now walked wherever they wanted to go, crawling all over the sweaty body and leaving an echo of their movements on the exposed skin.
“I fucking hate this,” Dean cursed, but even his outrage lacked fire. Exhausted, he nearly swept his hand over his face, trying to get rid of the ghost-itch but stopped in time. “Sam, I’ll never listen to you ever again. You hear me? Never ever!”
“I hear ya.” Sam didn’t sound much more awake, more like he was talking in slow-motion. Or was that slow-sound? Dean didn’t have a clue and couldn’t care less. He was … well, he would be pissed if it wouldn’t take so much energy. He only had enough for some moderate annoyance, and so he tried to bring that across by glaring mildly.
“Right. So, let’s get this done before we melt.”
‘This’ was supposed to be their vacation. ‘This’ was supposed to be a week on the beach, nothing but pretty girls, sand and water, sleeping in and drinking cold drinks in a bar and maybe chatting up some of the pretty girls. ‘This’ was supposed to be FUN
But sadly, ‘this’ had turned into ’C’mon, Dean, we’ll visit the Haunted House - it’ll be fun’, and that ‘fun’ had turned into a real case.
Why Sam couldn’t have left well enough alone and old Mortimer Habernathy a howling old - dead - man who shifted books and closed doors was a mystery, and would forever stay one. Dean wouldn’t give Sam the satisfaction to ever ask for his reasons - bleeding heart that he was probably had felt sorry for the ghost.
Idiot.
“So… how’s the plan getting along?”
“I’m working on it, Dean!” Sam sounded slightly more annoyed. As he should, Dean thought unkindly. He supposed rattling him a little would get him to think faster. Even in this heat.
“It’s hot, Sam, I want to be on the beach. You promised me a beach!”
“I didn’t promise anything, Dean! It was your idea to go on this stupid vacation!”
“Ah, but do you see the problem here? This isn’t a fucking vacation! So get moving so I can go get my well-earned vacation!”
“How…” Sam stopped.
Oh yea, better stop before you say something stupid, like ‘how did you earn a vacation’ or something Dean thought. He didn’t say it out loud, but that might have been because he had to grab the root a bit harder so he wouldn’t slip further into the hole.
Which hole?
Oh, yeah. The hole that’d appeared when Old Habernathy removed the boards from the old, dried-up well, leaving them perfectly accessible for Dean to be dragged into. Or nearly dragged into. Because unlike Sam’s prediction - and Dean would never admit that he’d thought pretty much the same - the ghost wasn’t limited to the Haunted House. And he seemed pretty attached to his bones, which should be buried only a few feet from where the old well had opened up, where Dean was holding on to the root and where he might drop to his death because there would be no way to break his fall.
Interesting position, hanging halfway down a hole. He could see his brother from an entirely different point of view - did Sam always have these knobby knees?
“Could you maybe get me out of here now, Sammy?” Sweat wasn’t Dean’s friend, too often had he blown his chances with a pretty girl because he’d forgotten that running through a forest with a shotgun made him smell anything but lovely. And it certainly wasn’t helping him hold on to the root now, either. “Sam?”
“I’m on it, don’t worry!”
“I’m not worried,” Dean lied, but tried to relax. “I think my pants are slipping off.”
“That would be surprising.”
“Are you calling me fat?”
“No. Just … ah, shut up, Dean.”
“Pull me up, and I’ll shut up all day, Sam!” Still not worried at all. Feeling the root slide through your fingers? Nope, all’s well.
“You know I can’t!” And while it was kinda good to hear Sam was a bit rattled as well, it was also not making Dean feel better. Because Sam was right, he couldn’t help Dean. The only thing he’d been able to do was throw a circle of salt around himself and keep the ghost from shoving Sam into the well … as well. “I’m doing my best here, Dean.”
“Yeah, I know. Just… don’t… you know.”
Since Mr. Habernathy was a pretty smart ghost, he’d found out quickly that those two guys with the shotguns were out to burn his bones to send him off into the… wherever. So he’d attacked, right when Dean and Sam had realized they’d forgotten the salt in the car. Dean had gone to get it - stupid scissors! - and on his way back, Habernathy had taken his chance. And after he disposed of the salt-guns by ripping them out of Dean’s hand - Sam had left his own on the ground where it was easily swept away- and throwing both into the well, he’d attacked whenever Sam went towards Dean or the burial site.
So if Sam didn’t find something in his big brain to get them out of here, they’d be stuck until the sun rose. Assuming that Habernathy was indeed nocturnal and not one of the rare spirits that were able to manifest during the day. He was old enough, probably.
“Uhm… Sam, I’m not so sure if I can hold on until it’s morning.”
“I… Uh… I think I have an idea. You just… hang tight.”
“Funny, Sam. Really funny.”
But it was good to see his brother’s worried smile. Dean hated that he lived for those small shows of affection, he hated that he was such a desperate idiot sometimes. But ever since their dad had died, he felt so… empty. And lacking. Lacking purpose, lacking fun, lacking skill, lacking confidence. Lacking life. Seeing Sam was concerned changed that a bit. Because Sam needed him, needed his help, and if Sam was concerned about Dean, it also meant that there was still purpose and skill. As for the rest? Well, ‘fake it till you make it’ was a good motto, Dean thought.
“All right. So…Dean, whatever happens, just hang on. Ok?”
That didn’t sound ominous at all… “Sam?”
“Just hold on.”
And while Dean kept hanging around, sweating in the unbelievable heat of the night, Sam took the canister of salt and poured some of it in his hand. With more confidence than he should have, he stepped out of his safe circle.
“Sam!”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam murmured through his teeth, trying to spot the ghost before it knocked him out or down or whatever. He took a few steps in the direction of the gravesite, then started to walk towards it with purpose. If he was luring Habernathy or if he really thought he could make it, Dean wasn’t sure, but he spotted the telltale swish in the grass and felt the slight lowering of the temperature.
“Five o clock, Sam!”
And because they were trained well, Sam twisted and tossed the salt perfectly in time, hitting the ghost with it. He took the opportunity and dashed forward, around the small hedge and now Dean couldn’t see him anymore. Calling out would only distract him, and with gritted teeth, Dean tried to concentrate on holding on.
That sounded a lot easier than it actually was. He was sweating buckets by now and listening to Sam grunting and huffing, the ghost screeching in fury and maybe fear made him ache to step up and help his little brother. Not talking or yelling to him was even harder.
The swoosh of the accelerant in the grave was like an answer to a prayer Dean never said. His breathing slowed and the adrenalin was leaving his body - and with it the tension, and with the tension his grip. “Uh-oh,” he had time to say before gravity pulled on his legs and he felt himself losing the hold on his root, sliding over the grass into the well. “Sam! Sammy!”
He tried to dig his hands into the soil but it wasn’t enough. Stupid way to go, he thought and closed his eyes, swallowing down the sharp taste of fear and desperation.
Just when his fingers slipped over the edge, two huge paws grabbed his wrists, and he cried out in surprise. “Gotcha,” Sam muttered right in front of Dean, “I’ve got you. Won’t let you fall. I’ve got ya.”
**
“So, you two’re having fun down there?”
Sam grinned, watching Dean flirt with two cute surfer-girls. They seemed to want him to come into the water with them, and Sam would pay to see Dean on a surfboard. “Yeah, we nearly died, burned a corpse and now Dean’s trying to learn to surf.”
The laughter from the phone made the rock lift from his heart a little, the one that had taken residence ever since he’d nearly lost his brother to something as mundane as a hole in the ground. Sure, Dean was fine, just a few scratches. But Sam couldn’t shake the image of watching Dean slide into the earth, seeing him close his eyes as if he were certain that he’d not survive. He couldn’t forget that look of quiet resignation and in his dreams, he was always too slow, always that millisecond to late, always watching Dean fall or lie broken on the bottom of the well.
”God, I’d pay to see him surf”, Jo cackled, and Sam smiled along with her.
The temperature was still high, but out here by the ocean, it was perfect. Their car would be an oven in the evening, but right now, Sam was determined to forget about what might have been and concentrate on what was.
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. How’s Ellen?”
”Grumpy and mean. We’re drowning in rain right now, and I’m not sure if I really can bear the unfairness of you two having sun and being on the beach.”
“I hear ya… can’t believe it either.” Dean and him on an actual vacation? That was indeed a rare thing. Sam couldn’t remember a time they went on some real vacation at all - even when their dad had taken them somewhere cool or nice, he’d always insisted on training them. Less so, but never quitting it altogether.
”So, when will you be back up here?”
“Not sure, Jo. Might be a week, might be tomorrow. Never know what will come up.”
Jo sighed. ”Never in one place for long. Sometimes, the life of a drifter sounds so romantic. Mostly whenever the weather is particularly awful around here.”
“Hm,” he hummed, not agreeing but too lazy to argue his point. “I have to go. Send Ellen our best, will ya?” Jo agreed and hung up, and Sam lay back to let the warmth soak into his skin and bones.
He might have drifted off a bit, until something cold hit his chest. “Old Lazypants… I can’t believe you’re related to me. We’re at the perfect beach within the reach of perfect chicks, and all you do is sleep?”
The cold thing was a popsicle, and despite his griping, Dean just sat down next to Sam and opened his own.
They sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the waves and listening to the laughter, and right then, right there, Sam had never felt so much at home. Sometimes, Dean’s ideas weren’t all that bad. A lazy day now and then in the sun was just the thing they needed.
~~ The end