Last Fair Deal Gone Down, Winchester gen
Last Fair Deal Gone Down
Winchester gen, 1,736 words, G.
For undermistletoe, Day 22: Someone wins the lottery. Title from the Robert Johnson song of the same name.
Dean was hiding something.
Sam could tell, even if he was only ten. Sam knew his brother, knew the way his glance flicked downwards when he struggled to keep something out of his eyes, knew that Dean put extra ketchup on his fries and pretended to eat them with extra gusto when he was putting up a front. He didn't think Dad knew though, even though Dad had been home for three weeks straight.
Dean was hiding something, and Sam was going to figure out what it was.
"Quit staring at me like that," Dean said, and shifted in his seat across the dinner table. "You're such a freak."
"Don't call your brother a freak," Dad said, turning over a page of the newspaper. Sam kicked Dean under the table and narrowed his eyes.
It wasn't a new girlfriend, Sam was pretty sure. Dean didn't look nervous when he had a girlfriend, he just looked smug. Also, he usually told Sam about it, in enough detail that Sam had to leave the room and put a pillow over his face to drown out the images. And even though Dean had talked about it a million times, Sam was pretty sure he hadn't dropped out of high school. He still came to walk Sam home every day, anyway.
"Hey, you want ice cream, you better finish off those peas," Dean said from the sink, where he was already washing his plate.
"You bought ice cream?" Sam burst out, barely able to keep the excitement out of his voice. Dean always gets boring things at the grocery stuff, for lunches and stuff. Sam always has to put cookies back, even though Dean likes cookies even more than Sam. Sam couldn't even remember the last time Dean bought dessert. Which- he remembered, abruptly- is probably another sign that something weird is going on with his brother.
Dad folded the paper back up and looked pleased with Dean, even took a bowl of ice cream for himself.
"Thanks, Dean," Sam said, sticking the spoon into the drippy mess of chocolate. Dean ruffled his hair and then left him alone, and Sam figured he could find out what was wrong with Dean tomorrow.
---
"Hey, Sam, c'mere," Dean called, from the other room.
"I'm working," Sam huffed out. He still had two more pages of math homework to do, and Dean was the worst distraction ever.
"I got a surprise," Dean teased. "Come on, you little nerd."
Sam put down his pencil carefully between the pages and went over to their bedroom, where Dean was sitting cross-legged on his bed.
"So, little Sammy WInchester, have you been a very good boy this year?"
"Come on, Dean, what?"
Dean leaned over to dig underneath the bed, calling out a "spoilsport" as he went. "Here," he said, emerging, and thrust a box at Sam.
Sam eyed him suspiciously. Dean's presents usually verged on well-meaning but completely awful, like a book of dirty jokes.
"Take it," Dean said, shoving it into his stomach. "It's totally awesome, I promise."
Sam took the box and sat down on his bed, tearing off the tape cautiously. When he got the top off, Dean came over to lean on his shoulder and watch.
It was a pair of boots- brand new boots, boots that Sam could break in himself, boots that didn't have a big floppy hole at the front where Sam's toes would poke out, and when Sam pulled them out, he found a bunch of the latest comic books at the bottom, Spiderman and the Flash and even X-men.
"Dean," said Sam.
"You like?" Dean said, tongue between his teeth, biting at his lip. "It's good, right?"
"It's awesome," Sam said, and meant it. "But, you know, why?"
"You don't get enough nice stuff," Dean said, and he got that look in his eyes that usually meant he was thinking about Mom. "Besides, now you can stop whining about needing extra socks."
"Thanks, Dean," Sam said. Dean left for the kitchen, whistling as he went, and Sam flipped the boots over to check the price sticker at the bottom. Holy crap, that was like a week's groceries, Sam thought, and eyed the doorway even as he leaned over to slide them on.
---
"Hey, Sam," Dean said, pressing a couple of quarters into his hand. Sam was bored, waiting in line next to his brother at the convenience store."Go pick up some gumballs from the machine, will ya?"
"Sure," Sam said, except when Dean turned back to the guy behind the counter, Sam ran across the street. Dean hated gumballs, and he knew Sam didn't really like him either. Dean was just trying to get rid of him, so that he could- do something, and Sam was going to figure out what.
Sam ducked behind a mailbox and peered out at Dean when he came out. He was grinning, flicking a coin between his fingers, but he didn't really look any different.
When he saw Sam wasn't at the gumball machine, though, he stopped playing with the quarter and started looking nervous. Sam could see his hand move towards the knife he kept in his jacket, though he didn't pull it out.
"Sam?" Dean called, ducking around to look behind the machine, and even if he was keeping secrets, he sounded so freaked out that Sam dusted himself off and stood up. "Sam?"
"I'm over here, Dean!"
Dean jogged over and smacked him in the chest. "What the hell where you doing over here? Tryin' to give me a heart attack, buddy?"
"Sorry, Dean," Sam said, and eyed him as Dean went back to grinning, pulling Sam in against his side in a loose, quick hug. That was Dean's fault, because Dean had taught him to pick pockets in the first place.
Sam pulled out the stack of tickets, all already scratched, but he barely got a look at them before Dean snatched them back.
"Just lotto tickets," Dean said, but he was nervous. "Don't tell Dad."
"Dean," Sam started, "It looked like all of those were winners. All of them."
"Got lucky-"
"What are you, faking them? Dad wouldn't like that," Sam said.
Dean let out a long breath. "Yeah, I'm faking them," but it was too easy, he'd agreed with a look of almost relief on his face. He wouldn't be relieved if Sam had really caught him.
---
When Dean fell asleep that night, he looked tired and sick, even though he'd been grinning wide all through dinner. As soon as he started that kind of half-snoring he always did when he was sick, Sam got up and rifled through his pockets.
$150. $100. $100. $500. Lottery tickets, all shapes and sizes, all winners, and they looked real. Not real like the forged ID's Dad made, which always looked like they were supposed to be two millimeters to the left, no matter how much he worked on them.
They looked real, and they were all winners, and Sam knew, absolutely knew, that Dean was doing something stupid.
"Wake up," Sam hissed, and punched his brother in the closest shoulder, hard. "Wake up and explain these, Dean."
"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean mumbled, running a hand over his face. "Go back to bed."
"Wake up, Dean!" Sam said. "Where did you get these? Was it a spell?"
Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, flicking on his table lamp. "What?" he said, still bleary.
"These!" Sam said, and thrust them in Dean's faces. "This isn't right. You did something dumb, I know it."
"Aw, shit," Dean said, looking at the tickets. "Leave it alone, Sam, okay?"
"No!" Sam hissed back, suddenly furious. "I'm not dumb! These are all winners, and every time we go to the convenience store, you look tired for two days. What are you doing? How do you get these? Is it a spell?"
"It wasn't a spell!" Dean said, standing up to pace.
"It was! I know it was!" Sam shouted back, loud enough that he might have woken Dad up, and pushed Dean backwards until they toppled off balance and fell onto the solitary desk. "I know it was."
"Sam," Dean said, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in against the sharp leather smell of Dean's jacket. "I'll go ask her to stop it. I will. Okay?"
"You're such a jerk," Sam said, and felt like a stupid baby when his lip wouldn't stop trembling, even when he pressed his mouth together as tight as he could.
Dean was shaking under him, just a little, like he always did when Sam got really upset- not just a little upset, not like when he fell off his bike- more like when Roger Atkins said Sam's mom didn't love him in the third grade, or when the jikininki followed Dad home from a hunt and swiped Sam right in the stomach and Dean had to drag Sam into the downstairs closet to hide while Dad fought it right in Sam's bedroom.
"You okay, Sammy? C'mon, c'mon," Dean said, pulling up the bottom of his shirt to wipe Sam's face, hands nervous and rough. "Quit crying, I'll ask her to take it off. C'mon, quit it."
"You better," Sam said, pulling back and swiping the back of his hand across his cheek. "Or I'll tell Dad. I really will."
"Brat," Dean said, and swiped him across his head. "Well, I shoulda known better than to mess with this kinda mojo, anyway." When Sam glanced up at his brother, Dean was looking grim, half-guilty and half-sad.
"It was only Dad's, like, first lesson," Sam said, and rolled his eyes. Dean was such a goddamn dumbass, he thought, but kept it to himself. For all Dean's swagger, his big-brother posturing, he always seemed a little weirded out when Sam used real swear words in front of him.
"I know," Dean said, flipping through the tickets. He looked young, even Sam's age, in his too-big pajamas, cast-offs from Dad. "I just got tired of- well, you know."
Sam took the tickets and put them on the desk carefully. "Night, Dean."
"Yeah, right," Dean said, nodding. "You got that test tomorrow, right? Night, Sam."
Sam waited until they were both back under their thin comforters and Dean had turned the light off again. "Thanks for the boots," he said, and closed his eyes.
Winchester gen, 1,736 words, G.
For undermistletoe, Day 22: Someone wins the lottery. Title from the Robert Johnson song of the same name.
Dean was hiding something.
Sam could tell, even if he was only ten. Sam knew his brother, knew the way his glance flicked downwards when he struggled to keep something out of his eyes, knew that Dean put extra ketchup on his fries and pretended to eat them with extra gusto when he was putting up a front. He didn't think Dad knew though, even though Dad had been home for three weeks straight.
Dean was hiding something, and Sam was going to figure out what it was.
"Quit staring at me like that," Dean said, and shifted in his seat across the dinner table. "You're such a freak."
"Don't call your brother a freak," Dad said, turning over a page of the newspaper. Sam kicked Dean under the table and narrowed his eyes.
It wasn't a new girlfriend, Sam was pretty sure. Dean didn't look nervous when he had a girlfriend, he just looked smug. Also, he usually told Sam about it, in enough detail that Sam had to leave the room and put a pillow over his face to drown out the images. And even though Dean had talked about it a million times, Sam was pretty sure he hadn't dropped out of high school. He still came to walk Sam home every day, anyway.
"Hey, you want ice cream, you better finish off those peas," Dean said from the sink, where he was already washing his plate.
"You bought ice cream?" Sam burst out, barely able to keep the excitement out of his voice. Dean always gets boring things at the grocery stuff, for lunches and stuff. Sam always has to put cookies back, even though Dean likes cookies even more than Sam. Sam couldn't even remember the last time Dean bought dessert. Which- he remembered, abruptly- is probably another sign that something weird is going on with his brother.
Dad folded the paper back up and looked pleased with Dean, even took a bowl of ice cream for himself.
"Thanks, Dean," Sam said, sticking the spoon into the drippy mess of chocolate. Dean ruffled his hair and then left him alone, and Sam figured he could find out what was wrong with Dean tomorrow.
---
"Hey, Sam, c'mere," Dean called, from the other room.
"I'm working," Sam huffed out. He still had two more pages of math homework to do, and Dean was the worst distraction ever.
"I got a surprise," Dean teased. "Come on, you little nerd."
Sam put down his pencil carefully between the pages and went over to their bedroom, where Dean was sitting cross-legged on his bed.
"So, little Sammy WInchester, have you been a very good boy this year?"
"Come on, Dean, what?"
Dean leaned over to dig underneath the bed, calling out a "spoilsport" as he went. "Here," he said, emerging, and thrust a box at Sam.
Sam eyed him suspiciously. Dean's presents usually verged on well-meaning but completely awful, like a book of dirty jokes.
"Take it," Dean said, shoving it into his stomach. "It's totally awesome, I promise."
Sam took the box and sat down on his bed, tearing off the tape cautiously. When he got the top off, Dean came over to lean on his shoulder and watch.
It was a pair of boots- brand new boots, boots that Sam could break in himself, boots that didn't have a big floppy hole at the front where Sam's toes would poke out, and when Sam pulled them out, he found a bunch of the latest comic books at the bottom, Spiderman and the Flash and even X-men.
"Dean," said Sam.
"You like?" Dean said, tongue between his teeth, biting at his lip. "It's good, right?"
"It's awesome," Sam said, and meant it. "But, you know, why?"
"You don't get enough nice stuff," Dean said, and he got that look in his eyes that usually meant he was thinking about Mom. "Besides, now you can stop whining about needing extra socks."
"Thanks, Dean," Sam said. Dean left for the kitchen, whistling as he went, and Sam flipped the boots over to check the price sticker at the bottom. Holy crap, that was like a week's groceries, Sam thought, and eyed the doorway even as he leaned over to slide them on.
---
"Hey, Sam," Dean said, pressing a couple of quarters into his hand. Sam was bored, waiting in line next to his brother at the convenience store."Go pick up some gumballs from the machine, will ya?"
"Sure," Sam said, except when Dean turned back to the guy behind the counter, Sam ran across the street. Dean hated gumballs, and he knew Sam didn't really like him either. Dean was just trying to get rid of him, so that he could- do something, and Sam was going to figure out what.
Sam ducked behind a mailbox and peered out at Dean when he came out. He was grinning, flicking a coin between his fingers, but he didn't really look any different.
When he saw Sam wasn't at the gumball machine, though, he stopped playing with the quarter and started looking nervous. Sam could see his hand move towards the knife he kept in his jacket, though he didn't pull it out.
"Sam?" Dean called, ducking around to look behind the machine, and even if he was keeping secrets, he sounded so freaked out that Sam dusted himself off and stood up. "Sam?"
"I'm over here, Dean!"
Dean jogged over and smacked him in the chest. "What the hell where you doing over here? Tryin' to give me a heart attack, buddy?"
"Sorry, Dean," Sam said, and eyed him as Dean went back to grinning, pulling Sam in against his side in a loose, quick hug. That was Dean's fault, because Dean had taught him to pick pockets in the first place.
Sam pulled out the stack of tickets, all already scratched, but he barely got a look at them before Dean snatched them back.
"Just lotto tickets," Dean said, but he was nervous. "Don't tell Dad."
"Dean," Sam started, "It looked like all of those were winners. All of them."
"Got lucky-"
"What are you, faking them? Dad wouldn't like that," Sam said.
Dean let out a long breath. "Yeah, I'm faking them," but it was too easy, he'd agreed with a look of almost relief on his face. He wouldn't be relieved if Sam had really caught him.
---
When Dean fell asleep that night, he looked tired and sick, even though he'd been grinning wide all through dinner. As soon as he started that kind of half-snoring he always did when he was sick, Sam got up and rifled through his pockets.
$150. $100. $100. $500. Lottery tickets, all shapes and sizes, all winners, and they looked real. Not real like the forged ID's Dad made, which always looked like they were supposed to be two millimeters to the left, no matter how much he worked on them.
They looked real, and they were all winners, and Sam knew, absolutely knew, that Dean was doing something stupid.
"Wake up," Sam hissed, and punched his brother in the closest shoulder, hard. "Wake up and explain these, Dean."
"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean mumbled, running a hand over his face. "Go back to bed."
"Wake up, Dean!" Sam said. "Where did you get these? Was it a spell?"
Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed, flicking on his table lamp. "What?" he said, still bleary.
"These!" Sam said, and thrust them in Dean's faces. "This isn't right. You did something dumb, I know it."
"Aw, shit," Dean said, looking at the tickets. "Leave it alone, Sam, okay?"
"No!" Sam hissed back, suddenly furious. "I'm not dumb! These are all winners, and every time we go to the convenience store, you look tired for two days. What are you doing? How do you get these? Is it a spell?"
"It wasn't a spell!" Dean said, standing up to pace.
"It was! I know it was!" Sam shouted back, loud enough that he might have woken Dad up, and pushed Dean backwards until they toppled off balance and fell onto the solitary desk. "I know it was."
"Sam," Dean said, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in against the sharp leather smell of Dean's jacket. "I'll go ask her to stop it. I will. Okay?"
"You're such a jerk," Sam said, and felt like a stupid baby when his lip wouldn't stop trembling, even when he pressed his mouth together as tight as he could.
Dean was shaking under him, just a little, like he always did when Sam got really upset- not just a little upset, not like when he fell off his bike- more like when Roger Atkins said Sam's mom didn't love him in the third grade, or when the jikininki followed Dad home from a hunt and swiped Sam right in the stomach and Dean had to drag Sam into the downstairs closet to hide while Dad fought it right in Sam's bedroom.
"You okay, Sammy? C'mon, c'mon," Dean said, pulling up the bottom of his shirt to wipe Sam's face, hands nervous and rough. "Quit crying, I'll ask her to take it off. C'mon, quit it."
"You better," Sam said, pulling back and swiping the back of his hand across his cheek. "Or I'll tell Dad. I really will."
"Brat," Dean said, and swiped him across his head. "Well, I shoulda known better than to mess with this kinda mojo, anyway." When Sam glanced up at his brother, Dean was looking grim, half-guilty and half-sad.
"It was only Dad's, like, first lesson," Sam said, and rolled his eyes. Dean was such a goddamn dumbass, he thought, but kept it to himself. For all Dean's swagger, his big-brother posturing, he always seemed a little weirded out when Sam used real swear words in front of him.
"I know," Dean said, flipping through the tickets. He looked young, even Sam's age, in his too-big pajamas, cast-offs from Dad. "I just got tired of- well, you know."
Sam took the tickets and put them on the desk carefully. "Night, Dean."
"Yeah, right," Dean said, nodding. "You got that test tomorrow, right? Night, Sam."
Sam waited until they were both back under their thin comforters and Dean had turned the light off again. "Thanks for the boots," he said, and closed his eyes.