Random Sam & Dean
For mad_maeglin, who requested the Winchester boys and their angels comparing their favorite bits of Chuck's gospel. Unfortunately, the angels refused to make an appearance, and I seem to have written something actually serious as opposed to the obvious crack. But I like how it turned out, so hope it satisfies!
"No, wait, you have to listen to this."
Sam was still guffawing. Dean rolled over. "Dude. You are going to wear out the batteries on that flashlight. And then we're gonna be up shit creek and I'm gonna use you for a paddle."
"But this is classic!" Sam's voice had the light lilt of amusement in it. "The girls couldn't help but look. After all, two handsome strangers had just walked into their small town. Two handsome strangers with dangerous eyes and muscular, lithe bodies, with a confident air that said they knew a thing or two about life. "
"Wait, which one is that?" Dean reached over the back of the seat to grab it. "Dude, I don't even remembering that happening. Maybe Chuck just dreamed that one up during one of his drug trips."
"Oh. Because you've never walked into a bar looking super-confident, hoping to impress the local girls."
"It never worked that well."
Sam laughed. "Well, I think Chuck likes you better. He's always talking you up."
"What? Enough with that crap, Sammy. We should be sleeping."
Another snort-chuckle from the front seat. "I can't believe it took me this long to read these. They're awesome."
"Sammy. Bed."
"Bed, right. Sorry." Sam blew him a raspberry and turned to the side, angling his flashlight at the worn pages again.
Dean settled back down into the back seat and closed his eyes. Sam licked his finger, turned a page. The Impala sat silent in the middle of nowhereseville.
"Okay, I'll bite." Dean sat up. "Why, exactly, do you think Chuck likes me better?"
"Well, just listen to the way he describes you." Sam grabbed another of the clutch of books stashed in the front seat, flipped through the pages, and cleared his throat, "Ok, here, listen. 'Dean Winchester was the kind of guy everyone wants to be. Never mind the classic car and the firearms and the propensity for booze and women, he was a finely muscled, classically handsome man's man with mesmerizing eyes and a smile that could melt you or make you feel like the dumbest sap in the world. He never missed an opportunity to make a quick retort, and nothing fazed him. That why, when he came to the sheriff's office in the small Iowa town, nobody ever doubted that he was with the FBI. He just had a commanding enough face to pull it off."
"Chuck forgot to mention the fake IDs," Dean said with a snort. "They were more convincing than my commanding face."
"He mentions them sometimes," Sam said. "Just not in this scene."
"Anyway, nine times out of ten we're both playing FBI," Dean said. "So there's one scene when I'm alone, so what? That doesn't mean he has a mancrush on me or anything."
"Because whenever he describes me, he always mentions I have huge eyebrows," Sam muttered. "And the sideburns. He always mentions the sideburns. I'm really starting to think those were a bad idea."
Dean gave a chuff of laughter. "No comment."
"Anyway, I guess it makes sense when you think about it. You're the one who hooks up with a new girl in every town. You're like the ultimate escapist hero. I'm just the tall, awkward sidekick."
"With the freaky-ass powers," Dean reminded him. "That gets you the Twilight girls, doesn't it?"
"Oh, thanks." Sam rolled his eyes.
Dean was silent a moment. "So.... they're good books, then?"
Sam shrugged. "Not great literature, if that's what you mean. But I can see how you might like reading about us. If you're... you know. Not us."
"Hmm." Dean flicked a bit of dust off the dingy blanket and lay back down.
"Hey," he said after another moment.
"Hmm?"
"What does he say about Dad?"
Sam was silent a moment.
"Sam."
"I don't know, Dean. He talks about Dad like Dad was, you know? All stoic and mysterious and shit. I don't know, he usually says Dad's hair was shaggy, and that his eyes looked tired. Which was true, for the most part."
"Gimme one," Dean said.
"Of the books?"
"Yeah. One with Dad in it."
"You-- you sure about that?" Sam turned over his shoulder to squint at him.
"Yeah, I'm sure. Gimme one."
Sam was silent. Dean leaned forward. "Come on, Sammy. Let me see. You can't just keep them to yourself. It's... it's not fair."
The single syllable of Dean's name fell from Sam's mouth. He jerked into motion and passed Dean one of the books.
Dean turned over and found his lighter. Holding it aloft over the pages, he read.
"And then, someone called their names in a low voice.
"Dean turned first. Sam just after. Two sets of eyes filled with tears.
"No, three sets of eyes. The third belonged to the weathered, lean face of John Winchester.
"'Dad,' Dean choked out. His fists opened and closed uselessly.
"'Boys,' John said. A single syllable.
"And Dean ran to him. and John wrapped him up in the sort of embrace that only a father can give, that only a son knows the feeling of. It was warm and it was comforting and full of power and promise -- and the sort of affection that was never spoken but always known.
"A moment later, Sam knew it too. And despite everything, despite pain and rebellion and separation, there was one moment of pure joy.
"'It's damn nice to see you boys,' John said. And that was all the time they had before the demon attacked again.
"This time, when they ran for the Impala, it was as a family. And with the adrenaline pumping through their bodies and the bonds of family tying them together now, they had the strength and the speed to stay one step ahead."
Dean closed the book and took a long breath. He hadn't ever felt this warm and this close to tears at once. He clutched the book, held it against his pulsing heart, and twisted over to look at Sam.
He'd fallen asleep, book clutched in hand, snoring against the windowpane.
Dean laughed low to himself. He hunkered down in the back seat, held the book close, and did the same.
"No, wait, you have to listen to this."
Sam was still guffawing. Dean rolled over. "Dude. You are going to wear out the batteries on that flashlight. And then we're gonna be up shit creek and I'm gonna use you for a paddle."
"But this is classic!" Sam's voice had the light lilt of amusement in it. "The girls couldn't help but look. After all, two handsome strangers had just walked into their small town. Two handsome strangers with dangerous eyes and muscular, lithe bodies, with a confident air that said they knew a thing or two about life. "
"Wait, which one is that?" Dean reached over the back of the seat to grab it. "Dude, I don't even remembering that happening. Maybe Chuck just dreamed that one up during one of his drug trips."
"Oh. Because you've never walked into a bar looking super-confident, hoping to impress the local girls."
"It never worked that well."
Sam laughed. "Well, I think Chuck likes you better. He's always talking you up."
"What? Enough with that crap, Sammy. We should be sleeping."
Another snort-chuckle from the front seat. "I can't believe it took me this long to read these. They're awesome."
"Sammy. Bed."
"Bed, right. Sorry." Sam blew him a raspberry and turned to the side, angling his flashlight at the worn pages again.
Dean settled back down into the back seat and closed his eyes. Sam licked his finger, turned a page. The Impala sat silent in the middle of nowhereseville.
"Okay, I'll bite." Dean sat up. "Why, exactly, do you think Chuck likes me better?"
"Well, just listen to the way he describes you." Sam grabbed another of the clutch of books stashed in the front seat, flipped through the pages, and cleared his throat, "Ok, here, listen. 'Dean Winchester was the kind of guy everyone wants to be. Never mind the classic car and the firearms and the propensity for booze and women, he was a finely muscled, classically handsome man's man with mesmerizing eyes and a smile that could melt you or make you feel like the dumbest sap in the world. He never missed an opportunity to make a quick retort, and nothing fazed him. That why, when he came to the sheriff's office in the small Iowa town, nobody ever doubted that he was with the FBI. He just had a commanding enough face to pull it off."
"Chuck forgot to mention the fake IDs," Dean said with a snort. "They were more convincing than my commanding face."
"He mentions them sometimes," Sam said. "Just not in this scene."
"Anyway, nine times out of ten we're both playing FBI," Dean said. "So there's one scene when I'm alone, so what? That doesn't mean he has a mancrush on me or anything."
"Because whenever he describes me, he always mentions I have huge eyebrows," Sam muttered. "And the sideburns. He always mentions the sideburns. I'm really starting to think those were a bad idea."
Dean gave a chuff of laughter. "No comment."
"Anyway, I guess it makes sense when you think about it. You're the one who hooks up with a new girl in every town. You're like the ultimate escapist hero. I'm just the tall, awkward sidekick."
"With the freaky-ass powers," Dean reminded him. "That gets you the Twilight girls, doesn't it?"
"Oh, thanks." Sam rolled his eyes.
Dean was silent a moment. "So.... they're good books, then?"
Sam shrugged. "Not great literature, if that's what you mean. But I can see how you might like reading about us. If you're... you know. Not us."
"Hmm." Dean flicked a bit of dust off the dingy blanket and lay back down.
"Hey," he said after another moment.
"Hmm?"
"What does he say about Dad?"
Sam was silent a moment.
"Sam."
"I don't know, Dean. He talks about Dad like Dad was, you know? All stoic and mysterious and shit. I don't know, he usually says Dad's hair was shaggy, and that his eyes looked tired. Which was true, for the most part."
"Gimme one," Dean said.
"Of the books?"
"Yeah. One with Dad in it."
"You-- you sure about that?" Sam turned over his shoulder to squint at him.
"Yeah, I'm sure. Gimme one."
Sam was silent. Dean leaned forward. "Come on, Sammy. Let me see. You can't just keep them to yourself. It's... it's not fair."
The single syllable of Dean's name fell from Sam's mouth. He jerked into motion and passed Dean one of the books.
Dean turned over and found his lighter. Holding it aloft over the pages, he read.
"And then, someone called their names in a low voice.
"Dean turned first. Sam just after. Two sets of eyes filled with tears.
"No, three sets of eyes. The third belonged to the weathered, lean face of John Winchester.
"'Dad,' Dean choked out. His fists opened and closed uselessly.
"'Boys,' John said. A single syllable.
"And Dean ran to him. and John wrapped him up in the sort of embrace that only a father can give, that only a son knows the feeling of. It was warm and it was comforting and full of power and promise -- and the sort of affection that was never spoken but always known.
"A moment later, Sam knew it too. And despite everything, despite pain and rebellion and separation, there was one moment of pure joy.
"'It's damn nice to see you boys,' John said. And that was all the time they had before the demon attacked again.
"This time, when they ran for the Impala, it was as a family. And with the adrenaline pumping through their bodies and the bonds of family tying them together now, they had the strength and the speed to stay one step ahead."
Dean closed the book and took a long breath. He hadn't ever felt this warm and this close to tears at once. He clutched the book, held it against his pulsing heart, and twisted over to look at Sam.
He'd fallen asleep, book clutched in hand, snoring against the windowpane.
Dean laughed low to himself. He hunkered down in the back seat, held the book close, and did the same.