Fic: Hunger
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: FRT, for language
Characters: Dean, Sam
Setting: Season five; blanket spoilers.
Summary: Sam and Dean discuss hearing over a bowl of cereal.
09. Hunger
"What's it like? To hear?"
His brows draw tighter in confusion. Dude. You're the one with the full complement of senses. You tell me.
Sam shrugs. He's sitting at the foot of Dean's bed in his favorite pajamas, with his legs folded and nursing a bowl of cereal. It's a lot like the way things used to be, even though everything's changed so much. How does that proverb go? 'The more things change, the more things stay the same.' Somehow, he doesn't think trying to save your demon-blood addict brother from Lucifer's courting counts, but whatever.
"I just mean--you never talked about it, before. Which I get. I mean, you're that kind of guy, y'know? But now that you know what you're missing, do you--y'know--like it?"
Dean takes a moment to acknowledge that Sam says 'y'know' a lot. Like, a crazy amount of a lot. It's not Sam's favorite word ('Dean') or what he claims to be his favorite word ('defenestrate,' the crazy fucker, who is he trying to impress?), but it's definitely in the top ten of Sam's vocabulary. Maybe top five. Cas never says this, though, and he wonders what it sounds like.
Yeah, he signs, I like it. It's different.
Sam takes another spoonful of cereal and chews it over for a second. His forehead wrinkles in that way that means the deep, heartfelt expression is coming. They're gonna have a moment, and Sam is gonna turn this into a chick flick, and Dean scrambles about for something to stave off the inevitable but there's nothing, and then Sam says, wearing his best earnest face, "You're really deep, Dean. You know that?"
Dean throws a pillow at his head.
There's a small spill of fruit loops, followed by a desperate scramble for ammunition in the ensuing pillow fight, and finally a no-holds-barred war in which Sam only manages to save his cereal by abandoning it on the dresser as they pitch off the bed. Dean emerges victorious by virtue of Sam's gigantor legs and arms which bang against the frames in the narrow space between the beds, and claims the fruit loops as his prize.
Sam doesn't bother getting up from the floor. He lifts his hands up so Dean can see and signs, "Has Cas introduced you to music?"
No. What the hell do you think we do? We strategize. We don't visit the freaking opera.
"That's not--" Sam props himself up on his elbows, frowning. "I just mean, he talks to you, right? Can he show you other stuff?"
Dean thinks about it. He's never thought to ask before. At first, when it was new, maybe he would have because everything was new. But Cas had a stick shoved up his ass and didn't seem like the type to make frivolous concessions. And Dean could ask now, but it seems… insincere. Ungrateful, maybe. Hearing is never something he's really needed.
But there are a lot of cassettes in the shoebox in the footwell.
As he's considering it, Sam punches the bed and makes 'gimme' hands for his bowl of cereal. Dean takes another bite before passing it across, feeling the crunch of the cereal along his jaw. It has a sound, he knows, but one that he can't hear. Would it sound like Castiel's vowels, or his consonants? Or would it sound like something else?
He decides, Is music really that much different than talking?
Sam laughs. "Man. You have no idea."
Rating: FRT, for language
Characters: Dean, Sam
Setting: Season five; blanket spoilers.
Summary: Sam and Dean discuss hearing over a bowl of cereal.
09. Hunger
"What's it like? To hear?"
His brows draw tighter in confusion. Dude. You're the one with the full complement of senses. You tell me.
Sam shrugs. He's sitting at the foot of Dean's bed in his favorite pajamas, with his legs folded and nursing a bowl of cereal. It's a lot like the way things used to be, even though everything's changed so much. How does that proverb go? 'The more things change, the more things stay the same.' Somehow, he doesn't think trying to save your demon-blood addict brother from Lucifer's courting counts, but whatever.
"I just mean--you never talked about it, before. Which I get. I mean, you're that kind of guy, y'know? But now that you know what you're missing, do you--y'know--like it?"
Dean takes a moment to acknowledge that Sam says 'y'know' a lot. Like, a crazy amount of a lot. It's not Sam's favorite word ('Dean') or what he claims to be his favorite word ('defenestrate,' the crazy fucker, who is he trying to impress?), but it's definitely in the top ten of Sam's vocabulary. Maybe top five. Cas never says this, though, and he wonders what it sounds like.
Yeah, he signs, I like it. It's different.
Sam takes another spoonful of cereal and chews it over for a second. His forehead wrinkles in that way that means the deep, heartfelt expression is coming. They're gonna have a moment, and Sam is gonna turn this into a chick flick, and Dean scrambles about for something to stave off the inevitable but there's nothing, and then Sam says, wearing his best earnest face, "You're really deep, Dean. You know that?"
Dean throws a pillow at his head.
There's a small spill of fruit loops, followed by a desperate scramble for ammunition in the ensuing pillow fight, and finally a no-holds-barred war in which Sam only manages to save his cereal by abandoning it on the dresser as they pitch off the bed. Dean emerges victorious by virtue of Sam's gigantor legs and arms which bang against the frames in the narrow space between the beds, and claims the fruit loops as his prize.
Sam doesn't bother getting up from the floor. He lifts his hands up so Dean can see and signs, "Has Cas introduced you to music?"
No. What the hell do you think we do? We strategize. We don't visit the freaking opera.
"That's not--" Sam props himself up on his elbows, frowning. "I just mean, he talks to you, right? Can he show you other stuff?"
Dean thinks about it. He's never thought to ask before. At first, when it was new, maybe he would have because everything was new. But Cas had a stick shoved up his ass and didn't seem like the type to make frivolous concessions. And Dean could ask now, but it seems… insincere. Ungrateful, maybe. Hearing is never something he's really needed.
But there are a lot of cassettes in the shoebox in the footwell.
As he's considering it, Sam punches the bed and makes 'gimme' hands for his bowl of cereal. Dean takes another bite before passing it across, feeling the crunch of the cereal along his jaw. It has a sound, he knows, but one that he can't hear. Would it sound like Castiel's vowels, or his consonants? Or would it sound like something else?
He decides, Is music really that much different than talking?
Sam laughs. "Man. You have no idea."