SPN Fic: Saturday, the Twenty-Second of March
I stopped watching SPN years ago, and I'm wayyyyy far out of its fandom. But just for funsies, I revisited my Nazareth 'verse to spend time with characters I once loved. Here's what happened.
Genre: futurefic, fluff, wedding day
Characters: Dean/OFC, OFC, Sam
Rated: PG-13
Summary: In a couple of hours, Emma will be Dean's sister-in-law. Just this second, she's got a question for him.
Saturday, the Twenty-Second of March
“What do you look like?” Emma says, perching on the edge of the raw silk sofa.
“I look fine, okay?” Dean says, adjusting his tie. It’s a new tie, a gift from Maria and Emma’s grandmother. It says Perlis on the tag, and it’s got little crawfish all over it. “Maria said shave, so I shaved. She said suit, and I’m wearing a suit.”
It’s the house that’s putting him on the defensive. Mrs. Broussard - or Oma, as she prefers to be called - was very kind to provide two guest rooms, and God knows the place is comfortable. It was built in 1838, it’s got white columns, and the inside is a combination of sleek, state of the art appliances and antique French furniture. But Oma is under the impression that Sam and Dean are confirmed Catholics whose last name is Harrison. She has no suspicion whatsoever that, in the event of werewolves, they may one day melt down her family silver.
Dean cannot shake the feeling that her house will sneeze him out any minute now.
“No. I mean… Maria described you a little bit,” Emma explains, going a little pink under her professionally applied makeup. “But she’s biased.”
So that’s what this is about. Dean grins and bumps her shoulder. “I’m hot.”
She rolls her eyes. “I was hoping you would tell me something she hadn’t.”
“I’m really, blindingly hot.” Dean realizes what he’s just said, then decides the only way to stay on the right side of the line is to cross it twice. “You think it was the traumatic brain injury, but really it was me.”
He’s lucky Broussard women think he’s hilarious. Emma laughs, bumps him back, and says, “Oma said you were ‘an improvement to the scenery.’”
“Damn straight.”
“But you know,” she says carefully, “I mostly know you by your voice.”
This, right here, has been a source of awkwardness all week. After too many cocktails at Commander’s, Emma called Dean James by accident. Yesterday morning, half-asleep on this very sofa while Maria made coffee, she did it again. Dean hates the way Maria’s expression freezes every time it happens. “You really don’t sound that similar,” Maria said later. “I don’t understand how she can mistake you for him.”
But Dean knew James for a few days in 2008, a couple months before he died. He remembers the brashness and bravado, and he thinks he understands.
“I know you’re taller than James,” Emma says. “And you don’t reek of Axe.”
“He wore Axe? Really?”
“I always know when you come in a room,” she informs him, and her suppressed pride in this accomplishment reminds Dean of how young she really is. Twenty-one? Twenty-two? “If I smell leather, or that oil you use for your guns, I know it’s you.”
“The trick is subtlety. Just a dab on the neck and wrists.”
She smiles. “But I don’t have a face to put it all with.”
Dean takes his time, thinking about how to answer her. Three different cheap laughs pop into his head. He could even answer her real question, if he wanted. He settles for: “I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t look like anything special.”
“Well.” She turns to face him. He’s no longer unnerved by the way she just misses direct eye contact. “What colors are you?”
He laughs. “White. And brown. And I guess kind of pink in places.”
“And your eyes? Are they brown?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“No, don’t guess,” she says, and she digs in her tiny, impractical purse for something rounded and silver. “Here.”
It is a hand-mirror the size of her palm. Dean figures some sentimental value must be attached to the cover’s engraved initials; there is no other reason for her to carry a mirror. He pops it open. “Green. And brown. Brownish green. Look, do you want to just do the run-your-fingertips-over-my-face thing?”
“Huh. I’ve never done it before. I wonder if it’s a real thing.” She raises both hands. “Give me your face.”
He obligingly presses his forehead into her palms. Carefully she traces his eyebrows, delicately lays the pads of her fingers against his eyelids, runs her thumb down to the tip of his nose, and skims her knuckles down his cheeks. Then she sits back, contemplative, hands in her lap.
“So?”
“Your eyes and nose and mouth seem to be in the right places.”
“I told you. Hot.”
She smiles, twisting her fingers in her skirt and just barely rocking on the edge of the sofa. Maria says it’s a nervous habit that Emma developed after the third unsuccessful surgery, when Daddy stopped yelling at the doctors and finally purchased a white cane. Back and forth, almost imperceptibly. “You don’t look like him,” she blurts out. “Do you?”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You really think your sister’s that messed up?”
Distaste flickers across her face. “Ugh. No, of course not.” She sighs, head dropping low, and the curls pinned high on her head all tip forward at once. “I’m sorry.”
Dean’s not supposed to wrinkle his suit, and Emma’s not supposed to muss her dress. But he puts his arm around her and gives her a quick squeeze anyway. She even gets a kiss right on her hairline, which was a terrible idea, because now his lips taste like hairspray.
“I miss him. I mean, I always do, but I miss him more today.”
Maria said the same thing the other night, tipsy in the cab on the way home from Commander’s. “I wish my brother were here.”
Sam and Dean glanced at each other over her head.
“He could have given me away,” Maria murmured. It was the nicest thing they’d ever heard her say about James, whom she normally spoke of in frosty sarcasm or diplomatic platitudes. “You know, since Daddy won’t.”
Her father had responded to the wedding invitation on linen stationery: Mr. James Lee Broussard, Sr. regrets that he is unable to accept the kind invitation of Miss Broussard and Mr. Harrison for Saturday, the twenty-second of March.
Just occasionally, the Broussards make the Winchesters look healthy and functional.
“I wish James could be here too,” Dean tells Emma. Despite his personal opinion of the man, this is not a lie. John Winchester equipped his sons with a very specialized skill set, including the ability to care about people who were, objectively, kind of assholes.
God knows the thought has crossed Dean’s mind more than once in the past few days, God damn, Dad would get a kick out of this, if he could be here to see it.
“Thanks,” Emma whispers, and she squeezes him back.
“You ready?” Sam says from the foyer.
“No, I’m not ready!” Emma yelps, jumping to her feet. “Where are my shoes?”
“Relax, you’re riding with the bride,” Sam reminds her, checking his pockets and pulling out car keys. “And I saw some silver high heels at the top of the stairs.”
Dean gives her a gentle shove between the shoulder blades. “Get it together, kiddo. I’ll see you at the church.”
Her stocking feet whisper-whisper on the wood floors, and she scurries away upstairs.
“Let’s go get you married,” Sam calls over his shoulder, and leads the way out the front door.
Genre: futurefic, fluff, wedding day
Characters: Dean/OFC, OFC, Sam
Rated: PG-13
Summary: In a couple of hours, Emma will be Dean's sister-in-law. Just this second, she's got a question for him.
Saturday, the Twenty-Second of March
“What do you look like?” Emma says, perching on the edge of the raw silk sofa.
“I look fine, okay?” Dean says, adjusting his tie. It’s a new tie, a gift from Maria and Emma’s grandmother. It says Perlis on the tag, and it’s got little crawfish all over it. “Maria said shave, so I shaved. She said suit, and I’m wearing a suit.”
It’s the house that’s putting him on the defensive. Mrs. Broussard - or Oma, as she prefers to be called - was very kind to provide two guest rooms, and God knows the place is comfortable. It was built in 1838, it’s got white columns, and the inside is a combination of sleek, state of the art appliances and antique French furniture. But Oma is under the impression that Sam and Dean are confirmed Catholics whose last name is Harrison. She has no suspicion whatsoever that, in the event of werewolves, they may one day melt down her family silver.
Dean cannot shake the feeling that her house will sneeze him out any minute now.
“No. I mean… Maria described you a little bit,” Emma explains, going a little pink under her professionally applied makeup. “But she’s biased.”
So that’s what this is about. Dean grins and bumps her shoulder. “I’m hot.”
She rolls her eyes. “I was hoping you would tell me something she hadn’t.”
“I’m really, blindingly hot.” Dean realizes what he’s just said, then decides the only way to stay on the right side of the line is to cross it twice. “You think it was the traumatic brain injury, but really it was me.”
He’s lucky Broussard women think he’s hilarious. Emma laughs, bumps him back, and says, “Oma said you were ‘an improvement to the scenery.’”
“Damn straight.”
“But you know,” she says carefully, “I mostly know you by your voice.”
This, right here, has been a source of awkwardness all week. After too many cocktails at Commander’s, Emma called Dean James by accident. Yesterday morning, half-asleep on this very sofa while Maria made coffee, she did it again. Dean hates the way Maria’s expression freezes every time it happens. “You really don’t sound that similar,” Maria said later. “I don’t understand how she can mistake you for him.”
But Dean knew James for a few days in 2008, a couple months before he died. He remembers the brashness and bravado, and he thinks he understands.
“I know you’re taller than James,” Emma says. “And you don’t reek of Axe.”
“He wore Axe? Really?”
“I always know when you come in a room,” she informs him, and her suppressed pride in this accomplishment reminds Dean of how young she really is. Twenty-one? Twenty-two? “If I smell leather, or that oil you use for your guns, I know it’s you.”
“The trick is subtlety. Just a dab on the neck and wrists.”
She smiles. “But I don’t have a face to put it all with.”
Dean takes his time, thinking about how to answer her. Three different cheap laughs pop into his head. He could even answer her real question, if he wanted. He settles for: “I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t look like anything special.”
“Well.” She turns to face him. He’s no longer unnerved by the way she just misses direct eye contact. “What colors are you?”
He laughs. “White. And brown. And I guess kind of pink in places.”
“And your eyes? Are they brown?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“No, don’t guess,” she says, and she digs in her tiny, impractical purse for something rounded and silver. “Here.”
It is a hand-mirror the size of her palm. Dean figures some sentimental value must be attached to the cover’s engraved initials; there is no other reason for her to carry a mirror. He pops it open. “Green. And brown. Brownish green. Look, do you want to just do the run-your-fingertips-over-my-face thing?”
“Huh. I’ve never done it before. I wonder if it’s a real thing.” She raises both hands. “Give me your face.”
He obligingly presses his forehead into her palms. Carefully she traces his eyebrows, delicately lays the pads of her fingers against his eyelids, runs her thumb down to the tip of his nose, and skims her knuckles down his cheeks. Then she sits back, contemplative, hands in her lap.
“So?”
“Your eyes and nose and mouth seem to be in the right places.”
“I told you. Hot.”
She smiles, twisting her fingers in her skirt and just barely rocking on the edge of the sofa. Maria says it’s a nervous habit that Emma developed after the third unsuccessful surgery, when Daddy stopped yelling at the doctors and finally purchased a white cane. Back and forth, almost imperceptibly. “You don’t look like him,” she blurts out. “Do you?”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You really think your sister’s that messed up?”
Distaste flickers across her face. “Ugh. No, of course not.” She sighs, head dropping low, and the curls pinned high on her head all tip forward at once. “I’m sorry.”
Dean’s not supposed to wrinkle his suit, and Emma’s not supposed to muss her dress. But he puts his arm around her and gives her a quick squeeze anyway. She even gets a kiss right on her hairline, which was a terrible idea, because now his lips taste like hairspray.
“I miss him. I mean, I always do, but I miss him more today.”
Maria said the same thing the other night, tipsy in the cab on the way home from Commander’s. “I wish my brother were here.”
Sam and Dean glanced at each other over her head.
“He could have given me away,” Maria murmured. It was the nicest thing they’d ever heard her say about James, whom she normally spoke of in frosty sarcasm or diplomatic platitudes. “You know, since Daddy won’t.”
Her father had responded to the wedding invitation on linen stationery: Mr. James Lee Broussard, Sr. regrets that he is unable to accept the kind invitation of Miss Broussard and Mr. Harrison for Saturday, the twenty-second of March.
Just occasionally, the Broussards make the Winchesters look healthy and functional.
“I wish James could be here too,” Dean tells Emma. Despite his personal opinion of the man, this is not a lie. John Winchester equipped his sons with a very specialized skill set, including the ability to care about people who were, objectively, kind of assholes.
God knows the thought has crossed Dean’s mind more than once in the past few days, God damn, Dad would get a kick out of this, if he could be here to see it.
“Thanks,” Emma whispers, and she squeezes him back.
“You ready?” Sam says from the foyer.
“No, I’m not ready!” Emma yelps, jumping to her feet. “Where are my shoes?”
“Relax, you’re riding with the bride,” Sam reminds her, checking his pockets and pulling out car keys. “And I saw some silver high heels at the top of the stairs.”
Dean gives her a gentle shove between the shoulder blades. “Get it together, kiddo. I’ll see you at the church.”
Her stocking feet whisper-whisper on the wood floors, and she scurries away upstairs.
“Let’s go get you married,” Sam calls over his shoulder, and leads the way out the front door.