If the Thrill Is Gone
Title: If the Thrill Is Gone
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1200
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Dean and John, the morning after Dean quit highschool. It doesn't go as Dean expected.
Here, have some good-daddy!John for a change. Yeah, I don't even know...
Art Post @ annartism
The smell finally lures him out of the house.
The smell and the fact that his batteries died and he can’t use his Walkman to fight the crickets anymore. He’s tired of Alice Cooper's School’s Out, anyway. It kind of made him chuckle the first couple of times, but now it only leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
The heat smacks him in the face like a sack of bricks. It’s at least ninety degrees and the sun’s only been up for a couple of hours. Dad’s bent over the ancient grill Sammy found in the garage when they first moved in three weeks ago. His shirt is already sticking to his back, dark with sweat under his neck and arms.
There’s a can of lighter fluid in the overgrown grass next to his bare feet and their green cooler between two mismatched lawn chairs with the paint peeling off and this is really, really not what Dean was expecting.
He chews on his lower lip for all of two milliseconds before - fucking OW. Right. Split, bruised-up where that kid Josh caught him in the jaw.
Sammy is going to ask around during lunch today. He promised it with a dark glare at Dean and his icepack because “you broke his arm, asshat. You should be praying his parents don’t press charges.”
Three weeks is probably the fastest he’s ever managed to get himself expelled. A month short of graduation in a town so full of angry spirits that they couldn’t leave and find him a new school if he actually gave half a shit about some piece of paper.
Mom would have cared, whispers that quiet voice in the back of his head that just fuckin’ loves to turn up out of the blue and ruin his day.
Mom would have wanted him to finish school and Dad cares a whole fucking lot about what Mom would have wanted.
Dean wipes the palms of his hands on his nylon trunks and just doesn’t know where to go from here.
He listens to the crickets that Sam loves so much. Dad threatened to load up his shotgun and shoot the things one by one when they first moved in but Sam thinks they’re the coolest thing ever. They only come out every fifteen years or so, his teacher told him and in Sam’s book any insect that’s older than him is just a damn miracle of nature that needs to be protected and fawned over and what not.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Dad says just as Dean leans back to rest his hip against the Impala in the driveway.
She is gleaming in the morning sun, the paintjob so overheated already that Dean can see the shimmer just above the hood, which, yes, very likely too hot to touch with threadbare swim trunks as his first, last and only line of protection. Dean steps away from the car and keeps looking at the stain on the back of Dad’s t-shirt, dread suddenly rising in the back of his throat.
“Hungry? We got burgers.”
He doesn’t sound mad.
Didn’t really sound mad yesterday either, not even when they called him into the principal’s office to tell him Dean could just fuck off and finish his senior year anywhere but Adairsville, Georgia.
Dean blinks against the bright sunlight.
“Sure,” he says and Dad shoots him a quick glance over his shoulder before he goes back to moving the patties around on the grill.
Dean tries to take a deep breath through his nose. It’s not just that it’s hot. No, the humidity has got to be up somewhere around ninety percent. Makes him feel like he’s breathing through a fuckin’ straw.
His lip itches where sweat keeps running into the fresh cut.
“Run inside and get us some bread, will ya?” Dad has to raise his voice to be heard over the incessant chirping.
Dean does as he’s told.
They put the bread on the grill, next to the burgers until it’s almost too dark, the way Sammy hates it because of the chemicals in the smoke from burning coals and how they cause cancer or something.
Their house didn’t come with plates, so they use a couple of napkins from the diner they went to when they first moved in. Dean likes the whole eating without dishes thing. Especially since it’s summer and they can eat outside and it's a whole lot like he imagines camping trips would have felt like.
“’sh good,” Dean says and makes sure he chews on the side of his mouth that isn’t sore.
Dad licks his fingers and throws two more patties onto the grill.
“How my old man used to make ‘em,” he says. “Toast ‘n meat and ketchup. All that extra crap they try and put on your burger these days..?” He makes a face that makes the skin around his eyes crinkle and laughs.
There’s an extra drawl to his words. Less heartland, more Southern than usual and it occurs to Dean for the first time that he has no idea where his father is from.
He should really ask about that sometime.
Dad’s lawn chair creaks when he leans back to look at Dean with that soft sort of frown he uses when he isn’t really mad but not exactly happy with his boys either.
Dean twists his napkin between his fingers, resists the urge to start chewing on his lips again.
“I’m not going back,” he says.
Don’t say that, the little voice hisses. Don’t do that, you fucking idiot. Dean tries to ignore it, but the voice has a point, it usually does.
Dad’s eyebrows twitch closer together and it takes real effort to hold his gaze.
“There’s always gonna be some asshole who says shit about you or Sammy or Mom and I’m always gonna beat him bloody,” Dean says quietly over the way his chest tries to cramp up and keep the words in. “I’m not going back.”
This time Dad looks away. He nods his head and fishes a beer out of the cooler between their chairs.
“Long as you’re sure.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dad nods again, says, “okay, then,” and drops the bottle in Dean’s lap.
The air is still lead-heavy but somehow breathing doesn’t feel like hard work anymore.
Dean tilts his head back and lets the beer run down his throat, cool him from the inside out.
“So, we gonna burn some Confederate ghosts tonight?” he asks with a grin that spreads all over his face.
Dad opens his bottle on his chair’s armrest so white paint and little splinters of wood float down into the grass.
“Don’t need a diploma to handle a gun.” He grins back, shaking his head and Dean is just gonna tell himself that he’s imagining the tint of sadness in his eyes.
They sit in their mismatched lawn chairs, eating burgers from a grill that’s falling apart with burned toast and ketchup stolen from McDonalds, drinking beer at eleven thirty in the morning.
Sammy would scoff and shake his head and mumble about his fuckin’ hick family.
Dean grins broader and opens a second pack of ketchup.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1200
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Dean and John, the morning after Dean quit highschool. It doesn't go as Dean expected.
Here, have some good-daddy!John for a change. Yeah, I don't even know...
Art Post @ annartism
The smell finally lures him out of the house.
The smell and the fact that his batteries died and he can’t use his Walkman to fight the crickets anymore. He’s tired of Alice Cooper's School’s Out, anyway. It kind of made him chuckle the first couple of times, but now it only leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
The heat smacks him in the face like a sack of bricks. It’s at least ninety degrees and the sun’s only been up for a couple of hours. Dad’s bent over the ancient grill Sammy found in the garage when they first moved in three weeks ago. His shirt is already sticking to his back, dark with sweat under his neck and arms.
There’s a can of lighter fluid in the overgrown grass next to his bare feet and their green cooler between two mismatched lawn chairs with the paint peeling off and this is really, really not what Dean was expecting.
He chews on his lower lip for all of two milliseconds before - fucking OW. Right. Split, bruised-up where that kid Josh caught him in the jaw.
Sammy is going to ask around during lunch today. He promised it with a dark glare at Dean and his icepack because “you broke his arm, asshat. You should be praying his parents don’t press charges.”
Three weeks is probably the fastest he’s ever managed to get himself expelled. A month short of graduation in a town so full of angry spirits that they couldn’t leave and find him a new school if he actually gave half a shit about some piece of paper.
Mom would have cared, whispers that quiet voice in the back of his head that just fuckin’ loves to turn up out of the blue and ruin his day.
Mom would have wanted him to finish school and Dad cares a whole fucking lot about what Mom would have wanted.
Dean wipes the palms of his hands on his nylon trunks and just doesn’t know where to go from here.
He listens to the crickets that Sam loves so much. Dad threatened to load up his shotgun and shoot the things one by one when they first moved in but Sam thinks they’re the coolest thing ever. They only come out every fifteen years or so, his teacher told him and in Sam’s book any insect that’s older than him is just a damn miracle of nature that needs to be protected and fawned over and what not.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Dad says just as Dean leans back to rest his hip against the Impala in the driveway.
She is gleaming in the morning sun, the paintjob so overheated already that Dean can see the shimmer just above the hood, which, yes, very likely too hot to touch with threadbare swim trunks as his first, last and only line of protection. Dean steps away from the car and keeps looking at the stain on the back of Dad’s t-shirt, dread suddenly rising in the back of his throat.
“Hungry? We got burgers.”
He doesn’t sound mad.
Didn’t really sound mad yesterday either, not even when they called him into the principal’s office to tell him Dean could just fuck off and finish his senior year anywhere but Adairsville, Georgia.
Dean blinks against the bright sunlight.
“Sure,” he says and Dad shoots him a quick glance over his shoulder before he goes back to moving the patties around on the grill.
Dean tries to take a deep breath through his nose. It’s not just that it’s hot. No, the humidity has got to be up somewhere around ninety percent. Makes him feel like he’s breathing through a fuckin’ straw.
His lip itches where sweat keeps running into the fresh cut.
“Run inside and get us some bread, will ya?” Dad has to raise his voice to be heard over the incessant chirping.
Dean does as he’s told.
They put the bread on the grill, next to the burgers until it’s almost too dark, the way Sammy hates it because of the chemicals in the smoke from burning coals and how they cause cancer or something.
Their house didn’t come with plates, so they use a couple of napkins from the diner they went to when they first moved in. Dean likes the whole eating without dishes thing. Especially since it’s summer and they can eat outside and it's a whole lot like he imagines camping trips would have felt like.
“’sh good,” Dean says and makes sure he chews on the side of his mouth that isn’t sore.
Dad licks his fingers and throws two more patties onto the grill.
“How my old man used to make ‘em,” he says. “Toast ‘n meat and ketchup. All that extra crap they try and put on your burger these days..?” He makes a face that makes the skin around his eyes crinkle and laughs.
There’s an extra drawl to his words. Less heartland, more Southern than usual and it occurs to Dean for the first time that he has no idea where his father is from.
He should really ask about that sometime.
Dad’s lawn chair creaks when he leans back to look at Dean with that soft sort of frown he uses when he isn’t really mad but not exactly happy with his boys either.
Dean twists his napkin between his fingers, resists the urge to start chewing on his lips again.
“I’m not going back,” he says.
Don’t say that, the little voice hisses. Don’t do that, you fucking idiot. Dean tries to ignore it, but the voice has a point, it usually does.
Dad’s eyebrows twitch closer together and it takes real effort to hold his gaze.
“There’s always gonna be some asshole who says shit about you or Sammy or Mom and I’m always gonna beat him bloody,” Dean says quietly over the way his chest tries to cramp up and keep the words in. “I’m not going back.”
This time Dad looks away. He nods his head and fishes a beer out of the cooler between their chairs.
“Long as you’re sure.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dad nods again, says, “okay, then,” and drops the bottle in Dean’s lap.
The air is still lead-heavy but somehow breathing doesn’t feel like hard work anymore.
Dean tilts his head back and lets the beer run down his throat, cool him from the inside out.
“So, we gonna burn some Confederate ghosts tonight?” he asks with a grin that spreads all over his face.
Dad opens his bottle on his chair’s armrest so white paint and little splinters of wood float down into the grass.
“Don’t need a diploma to handle a gun.” He grins back, shaking his head and Dean is just gonna tell himself that he’s imagining the tint of sadness in his eyes.
They sit in their mismatched lawn chairs, eating burgers from a grill that’s falling apart with burned toast and ketchup stolen from McDonalds, drinking beer at eleven thirty in the morning.
Sammy would scoff and shake his head and mumble about his fuckin’ hick family.
Dean grins broader and opens a second pack of ketchup.