You gotta go there to come back (Disillude remix) [Supernatural; Sam, Dean]
Title: You gotta go there to come back (Disillude remix)
Author: mikhale
Summary: The moments that taste of normalcy.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Non-spoilery
Title, Author and URL of original story: You gotta go there to come back, written by broadwriting / azewewish.
You gotta go there to come back (Disillude remix)
You can hear the rattle of the air conditioner alongside Dean's snoring. It's raining outside and the raindrops make that soft irregular pattering sound on the roof and the windowpane.
This moment, these hours taken as shelter from the rain. This night taken to satisfy your body's need for sleep.
It feels normal, surprisingly mundane.
If you try really hard, you can imagine that you're on a regular road trip with your brother. You've stopped for the day; a moment of foresight considering the weather. Or maybe, it's a matter of experience. You're two brothers who've been on the road long enough to know when the rain will fall. Maybe, you don't hunt creatures and things that emerge from the dark. Maybe you're adventurers of a different kind, of the mundane kind, ones who shoot pictures instead of ghosts even though Dean would rather die than be mistaken for a tourist.
Your hand smoothes the blanket around your waist and you turn to your side.
You see the handgun on the nightstand. Perhaps, it's just protection from ill-intentioned hitchhikers. The demonology book beside it Dean picked up from the lost-and-found of a gas station for kicks, something to pass the time, to amuse you both as the car takes you to your next destination. And maybe, the journal lying on top of that is a record of all the sights you've seen. Dean would most likely mockingly call it a ‘diary' but read everything you've written anyway.
Thunder crashes outside and you remember huddling against Dean, afraid of it. It's another moment of normal, a brother seeking protection. Except, you also remember Dean saying that you shouldn't be afraid. That you should be afraid of the other things out there - demons, ghosts, angry spirits.
You growl into the air, hands fisting around the blanket.
Normal is when you don't remember things too clearly.
Normal is when you refuse to remember them too well.
*
We were never normal, were we? You ask Dean over breakfast.
I'm eating my pancakes here, Sam, he says and stuffs his mouth just to prove his point.
There's syrup on the side of his mouth. You contemplate telling him but decide against it. No, it's just that. Well, I can't remember ever being normal, you know? And I just wanted something and...
You sigh. You know what? Never mind. It's stupid.
Normal's for suckers, anyway he says around his mouthful of pancakes.
I'm not a sucker you retort, little-brother-quick.
He swallows and smiles at you. Yeah, never said you were, Sammy. Except for that time when you got Nair all over your head. Man, you were a fugly, bald dork.
You laugh, throwing a balled-up napkin at him.
The waitress comes back to refill their coffee. As usual, Dean leers at her and calls her sweet thing and she giggles. Later, Dean gets up to pay your bill and comes back with a phone number on the receipt.
You go to the convenience store while Dean fills up the Impala. You get four cans of Mountain Dew, some Twinkies and a pack of those chocolate cupcake things that Dean likes. You pay and join Dean as he is returning the gas nozzle to its holder. You toss him the pack of cupcakes and he grins at you, says alright, Sammy!
You both get into the car and he looks torn between letting go of the cupcakes and turning the key in the ignition. You snicker and turn the key for him.
Fifty miles later, the cupcakes run out and Dean looks so pitiful that you laugh, laugh until you're sure you'll pass out.
Okay, we can stop for cupcakes later.
*
You switch seats when you stop for Dean's cupcakes.
The Impala always feels a little bit foreign to you. Driving her makes you feel like a little boy playing at grown-up, like you're counting down the seconds till Dean comes back and takes the wheel from you.
You're careful with her, driving like - as Dean would say - an old granny who's blind in one eye and has no sense of direction. Dean always had the most colorful albeit crude metaphors.
You keep Dean's words in your head as you navigate the streets. And then it's an open road, straight line and you press your foot down on the pedal. Dean's pretending to be asleep but you catch the tiny smirk on his face when the Impala purrs and lets loose.
It comes out of nowhere but it grabs your eye. You slow down the car. The patch of green, green grass looks inviting. Familiar like an old memory you've treasured but your mind won't say what island it's got it buried in. There are patches of what looks like dandelions and marigolds. You can almost feel them in your hand.
You look at Dean, grinning because there's this sudden rush of joy, like the memory's been unlocked and the treasure is nothing but happiness. You tilt your head to the field outside. You wanna?
You don't even wait for Dean to answer when you scrabble for the lock and the handle, opening the door. The creak that comes a split-second later tells you that Dean is racing for the field as well.
You're laughing and you don't know why. It's just that the grass is saying come, laugh, embrace, happy. Dean tackles you and you both go down. You stuff grass in his shirt and he pushes your face in a patch of dandelions, fluff getting caught in your hair. You're breathless from too much laughter and you can taste the grass on your tongue.
Later, when you're both exhausted and lying down side by side on the grass, looking at the clouds in the sky, you point one out and say your dirty boxers, Dean. Dean growls, points to another one and says your laptop open on your porn.
You smile and close your eyes.
Hey Dean, about the thing I said earlier, you say and Dean groans.
I'm busy smelling the daises here, Sam. Any more chick shit and we might as well grow tits, Dean says and pushes himself up on his elbow, looking at you, smirking. You'd make one fugly chick, Sam.
You ask him anyway. Was there a time when you felt, you know, normal?
Dean lies back on the grass again and he's probably ignoring you. You're about to ask again when he answers suddenly.
It was kinda like this. I was nine, ten. Can't really remember. I skipped making breakfast and went out to a field and you were following me. You looked like a monkey. I think we were playing hooky. You picked flowers.
Dean looks at you, grinning. You were already such a girl when you were five.
You scowl and then punch him in the shoulder. Shut up, Dean.
You can't remember following Dean to a field, looking like a monkey. You can't remember if you did pick flowers or if Dean's making it up again. You can't remember if you were ever normal. But you're surprised to realize that it doesn't matter now.
You'll remember this.
Author: mikhale
Summary: The moments that taste of normalcy.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Warnings: None.
Spoilers: Non-spoilery
Title, Author and URL of original story: You gotta go there to come back, written by broadwriting / azewewish.
You gotta go there to come back (Disillude remix)
You can hear the rattle of the air conditioner alongside Dean's snoring. It's raining outside and the raindrops make that soft irregular pattering sound on the roof and the windowpane.
This moment, these hours taken as shelter from the rain. This night taken to satisfy your body's need for sleep.
It feels normal, surprisingly mundane.
If you try really hard, you can imagine that you're on a regular road trip with your brother. You've stopped for the day; a moment of foresight considering the weather. Or maybe, it's a matter of experience. You're two brothers who've been on the road long enough to know when the rain will fall. Maybe, you don't hunt creatures and things that emerge from the dark. Maybe you're adventurers of a different kind, of the mundane kind, ones who shoot pictures instead of ghosts even though Dean would rather die than be mistaken for a tourist.
Your hand smoothes the blanket around your waist and you turn to your side.
You see the handgun on the nightstand. Perhaps, it's just protection from ill-intentioned hitchhikers. The demonology book beside it Dean picked up from the lost-and-found of a gas station for kicks, something to pass the time, to amuse you both as the car takes you to your next destination. And maybe, the journal lying on top of that is a record of all the sights you've seen. Dean would most likely mockingly call it a ‘diary' but read everything you've written anyway.
Thunder crashes outside and you remember huddling against Dean, afraid of it. It's another moment of normal, a brother seeking protection. Except, you also remember Dean saying that you shouldn't be afraid. That you should be afraid of the other things out there - demons, ghosts, angry spirits.
You growl into the air, hands fisting around the blanket.
Normal is when you don't remember things too clearly.
Normal is when you refuse to remember them too well.
*
We were never normal, were we? You ask Dean over breakfast.
I'm eating my pancakes here, Sam, he says and stuffs his mouth just to prove his point.
There's syrup on the side of his mouth. You contemplate telling him but decide against it. No, it's just that. Well, I can't remember ever being normal, you know? And I just wanted something and...
You sigh. You know what? Never mind. It's stupid.
Normal's for suckers, anyway he says around his mouthful of pancakes.
I'm not a sucker you retort, little-brother-quick.
He swallows and smiles at you. Yeah, never said you were, Sammy. Except for that time when you got Nair all over your head. Man, you were a fugly, bald dork.
You laugh, throwing a balled-up napkin at him.
The waitress comes back to refill their coffee. As usual, Dean leers at her and calls her sweet thing and she giggles. Later, Dean gets up to pay your bill and comes back with a phone number on the receipt.
You go to the convenience store while Dean fills up the Impala. You get four cans of Mountain Dew, some Twinkies and a pack of those chocolate cupcake things that Dean likes. You pay and join Dean as he is returning the gas nozzle to its holder. You toss him the pack of cupcakes and he grins at you, says alright, Sammy!
You both get into the car and he looks torn between letting go of the cupcakes and turning the key in the ignition. You snicker and turn the key for him.
Fifty miles later, the cupcakes run out and Dean looks so pitiful that you laugh, laugh until you're sure you'll pass out.
Okay, we can stop for cupcakes later.
*
You switch seats when you stop for Dean's cupcakes.
The Impala always feels a little bit foreign to you. Driving her makes you feel like a little boy playing at grown-up, like you're counting down the seconds till Dean comes back and takes the wheel from you.
You're careful with her, driving like - as Dean would say - an old granny who's blind in one eye and has no sense of direction. Dean always had the most colorful albeit crude metaphors.
You keep Dean's words in your head as you navigate the streets. And then it's an open road, straight line and you press your foot down on the pedal. Dean's pretending to be asleep but you catch the tiny smirk on his face when the Impala purrs and lets loose.
It comes out of nowhere but it grabs your eye. You slow down the car. The patch of green, green grass looks inviting. Familiar like an old memory you've treasured but your mind won't say what island it's got it buried in. There are patches of what looks like dandelions and marigolds. You can almost feel them in your hand.
You look at Dean, grinning because there's this sudden rush of joy, like the memory's been unlocked and the treasure is nothing but happiness. You tilt your head to the field outside. You wanna?
You don't even wait for Dean to answer when you scrabble for the lock and the handle, opening the door. The creak that comes a split-second later tells you that Dean is racing for the field as well.
You're laughing and you don't know why. It's just that the grass is saying come, laugh, embrace, happy. Dean tackles you and you both go down. You stuff grass in his shirt and he pushes your face in a patch of dandelions, fluff getting caught in your hair. You're breathless from too much laughter and you can taste the grass on your tongue.
Later, when you're both exhausted and lying down side by side on the grass, looking at the clouds in the sky, you point one out and say your dirty boxers, Dean. Dean growls, points to another one and says your laptop open on your porn.
You smile and close your eyes.
Hey Dean, about the thing I said earlier, you say and Dean groans.
I'm busy smelling the daises here, Sam. Any more chick shit and we might as well grow tits, Dean says and pushes himself up on his elbow, looking at you, smirking. You'd make one fugly chick, Sam.
You ask him anyway. Was there a time when you felt, you know, normal?
Dean lies back on the grass again and he's probably ignoring you. You're about to ask again when he answers suddenly.
It was kinda like this. I was nine, ten. Can't really remember. I skipped making breakfast and went out to a field and you were following me. You looked like a monkey. I think we were playing hooky. You picked flowers.
Dean looks at you, grinning. You were already such a girl when you were five.
You scowl and then punch him in the shoulder. Shut up, Dean.
You can't remember following Dean to a field, looking like a monkey. You can't remember if you did pick flowers or if Dean's making it up again. You can't remember if you were ever normal. But you're surprised to realize that it doesn't matter now.
You'll remember this.