fic: Backseat Drivers
I keep writing stuff. Why do I keep writing stuff?
Not that I'm complaining, but I'm not usually this productive. I don't know what to do with it all.
So here's some wee!chesters in a traffic jam. FUCK YEAH. (With thanks to my brother, whose feet kept us all entertained in the long car journeys.)
Backseat Drivers
G, pre-series.
*
“Is it,” Sammy declares after five minutes of thoughtful silence. He shifts uncomfortably in the backseat, peeling his bare back away from the upholstery. “Is it. A... parrot?”
John can’t see any parrots anywhere. He couldn’t see any porcupines either, or the pincushions, or the platypus. Pretty much all he can see is dirt and sky and cars, and the boys used those up two hours ago and then spent ten minutes arguing about whether or not ‘automobile’ was cheating.
Dean moved into the back an hour ago, and he’s had his feet in Sammy’s lap for about the same (sockless for forty minutes), which makes it all the easier for him to kick his brother in the face as he exclaims, “Wrong! Guess again!”
Sammy shrieks and bats Dean’s toes away, but he’s already dissolving into red-face giggles, pausing only to gasp out “Is it penis?”
Dean explodes with laughter too, waving his feet in the air and narrowly missing Sammy’s face again. Neither of them seem to care. John rests his forehead against the steering wheel and wonders what it would be like to have girls instead. Probably not a whole lot quieter, but surely there’d be less traffic-jam toilet humour?
“Penis,” Dean repeats weakly as the hilarity dies down, and the strangled noise Sammy makes cannot be good.
“Deep breaths, Sammy,” John sighs, sitting up. “Head between your legs.” He watches in the rearview mirror as Dean pulls his feet out of his brother’s lap and rests them on his bent-double back instead. Dean’s grinning wickedly, but John can see his toes wiggling in soothing little circles against Sammy’s shaking shoulders.
“Penis,” Sammy whispers from between his knees.
Girls, John decides, would definitely have less toilet humour. “Okay, guys,” he says, “I think that’s enough I-spy for the day.” Or the year.
“But dad!” Sammy’s head bobs back up again, knocking Dean’s feet into the window. Sammy ignores the pained cursing, eyes wide in indignation. “We need to know what Dean spied! Don’t you want to know what Dean spied, dad? I want to know what Dean spied! What if it was a poltergeist, dad?”
“You can’t see poltergeists, Sammy,” John points out, and as Sammy draws in a deep breath hastily adds, “Tell us what you spied, Dean.”
“Pterodactyl,” Dean mutters, rubbing his toes. Oh boy.
John closes his eyes in despair, and Sammy’s voice reaches a whole new octave of injustice: “That does not begin with a P, it doesn’t! It’s a T! You’re a cheater, Dean, you’re a dirty rotten cheater and you did not spy any pterodactyls and I hope one eats you-”
“Dad, tell Sammy pterodactyl starts with a P-“
“Dad, tell Dean he never spied one-“
“Boys,” John grinds out. “Quiet down so I can concentrate on the road.”
Sammy huffs, Dean throws a sock at him, and they lapse into silence. The car crawls forwards another couple of inches. Of course it’s too good to last.
“Dad,” Sammy says. “Dad. Dad. Hey, dad. Dad? I know you can hear me, dad. Dad. Dad, dad, dad-“
“Sammy, if this is anything to do with pterodactyls- don’t even, Dean- if this is anything to do with pterodactyls, you’re walking.” It’s the authoritative voice, the one he usually reserves for commands like ‘don’t move’ or ‘come here’ or ‘look after your brother’, and Dean’s mouth snaps shut guiltily while Sammy bites down on his lip.
“I’m thirsty, dad” he says in a small voice that twists in John’s stomach.
He sighs, leaning over Dean’s vacated passenger seat to fumble in the glove compartment. “Sorry, Sammy. I’m not mad at you, just tired.”
“Okay,” Sammy murmurs, summoning up a small smile as he catches the flask John tosses him.
John keeps an eye on the mirror, watching as Dean nudges Sammy with his toes and Sammy frowns down at his hands. “All right, son?”
“Yeah, dad,” Sammy remarks vaguely, looking surprised at the interruption, and as he draws in another deep breath John’s insides are torn between relief and ‘not again’. “Dad. Is this holy water? Is it okay to drink holy water?”
At least it’s not pterodactyls. “Dean, have you been telling your brother he’s a demon again?”
“That was one time!” Dean exclaims, sitting up straight, “One time!” and then Sammy’s gabbling over him, red-faced, “He hasn’t, dad, he hasn’t not in ages and I never really believed him anyway, you know, I was just thinking what if, dad, what if I drank holy water and then I said penis again?”
Dean whoops with laughter, false accusations forgotten. Sam throws the flask at him, shouting “Shut up, Dean,” and John can’t help the surge of pride as Dean catches it with one hand and keeps right on laughing.
“I hate you, Dean, I hate you so much and when we get to Pastor Jim’s I’ll get him to teach me something really nasty in Latin and then-“
“No nasty Latin outside of training,” John steps in, twisting around in the driver’s seat to eye them both sternly. “And holy water’s fine to drink, Sammy, or else don’t you think Dean would’ve been burnt a million times by now?”
Dean rolls his eyes, but Sammy looks content as he snatches the flask back and takes a sip. John catches a glimpse of him sticking his smokeless tongue out, cross-eyed, in the mirror before he turns back to the road. They move in inches, the lines of cars stretching out endlessly in either direction. It’s eerily silent, when the boys aren’t squabbling, people given up on honking and yelling hours ago in favour of waiting miserably for this hell to be over.
Probably a car crash, John contemplates, easing the car forwards. Hot weather, bright sun, long drives; maybe someone dozed off at the wheel. Or it could be a vengeful spirit- woman in white? They’re a bit low on supplies, but there’s plenty of salt and the boys are really coming along with their Latin...
“That old lady’s staring at me.”
“Probably never seen such a freakish face before.”
“She looks pretty bored. D’you think she’d like to play I-spy with us, Dean?”
“Sammy, don’t wave at her! You don’t know where she’s been!”
“So?”
“She could be a banshee, for all you know.”
“Don’t be stupid. Banshees can’t drive. Tell him banshees can’t drive, dad.”
“Banshees can’t drive, Dean,” John confirms wearily. Are girls this argumentative? He’s never really been around any enough to say, what with one thing and another.
“You don’t know that,” Dean’s arguing, one hand on Sammy’s head to keep him away from the window. “You don’t know that for sure. If you can learn to drive, I bet a banshee could.”
“Get off, get off, you’re stupid, what would a banshee want to drive for?” There’s scuffling, and name-calling, and a cut-off scream. When John glances up at the mirror again, Dean has Sammy pinned against him in a headlock, other hand twisted in his brother’s hair. They both need haircuts; they’ll have to make do with Jim’s scissors.
“Dean,” he says warningly, but Dean doesn’t even look up, his expression more serious, more focussed, than a fourteen year old boy should ever have to be.
“Nobody would expect a little old lady in an ugly car, would they?” he points out, and Sammy pauses in his struggling.
“She looks like Miss Thompson,” he begins doubtfully, almost questioning. Dean snorts, loosening his grip on Sammy’s neck and whispering something too low for John to hear. Whatever it was, it leaves Sammy shrieking “Shut up, Dean! You shouldn’t say things like that about teachers! You’re so gross!”
So then there’s more scuffling, and John twists around again, ready to break up a fight, but it turns out there isn’t one. Sammy’s still blushing, half on-top of Dean as he peers out the window, Dean’s hand still resting on the back of his head.
“Should we burn her?” Sammy whispers.
“No burning,” John cuts in, making them both jump. “New car rule, okay? No I-spy, no nasty Latin, and absolutely no burning.”
“Yes, dad,” they chorus automatically. Sammy slithers off of Dean, but remains slumped against his side, sneaking suspicious glances out the window every couple seconds. John follows his gaze, ready to offer an apologetic smile to whatever poor woman his boys are spying on today. Girls aren’t pyromaniacs, in general, are they.
He frowns. It’s summer, school’s out, and the cars around them are filled with harried-looking parents and their grumpy kids. No old ladies anywhere in sight. He double checks, turning around look out the other side just in case, and then clears his throat casually. They both look up, eyes wide- okay, maybe not so casual then.
“Say, boys,” he begins slowly, “where’s this old lady of yours?”
“She is not my old lady!” Sammy exclaims, but Dean frowns, points, saying, “She’s right over there, dad. In the old car.”
There’s no old car, and there’s no old lady, not anywhere.
John clears his throat again, mentally running through possibilities, tactics, weapons, while Sammy sits up straight and Dean begins to grin. “Okay, guys, maybe a little burning after all.”
Dean’s crowing with joy, and Sammy’s already down beneath the seats searching for the holy water. John grins, can’t help himself. No, they’re not girls and yes, they think penis is the funniest word on the whole damn planet, but they’re his boys. That’s good enough.
*
Not that I'm complaining, but I'm not usually this productive. I don't know what to do with it all.
So here's some wee!chesters in a traffic jam. FUCK YEAH. (With thanks to my brother, whose feet kept us all entertained in the long car journeys.)
Backseat Drivers
G, pre-series.
*
“Is it,” Sammy declares after five minutes of thoughtful silence. He shifts uncomfortably in the backseat, peeling his bare back away from the upholstery. “Is it. A... parrot?”
John can’t see any parrots anywhere. He couldn’t see any porcupines either, or the pincushions, or the platypus. Pretty much all he can see is dirt and sky and cars, and the boys used those up two hours ago and then spent ten minutes arguing about whether or not ‘automobile’ was cheating.
Dean moved into the back an hour ago, and he’s had his feet in Sammy’s lap for about the same (sockless for forty minutes), which makes it all the easier for him to kick his brother in the face as he exclaims, “Wrong! Guess again!”
Sammy shrieks and bats Dean’s toes away, but he’s already dissolving into red-face giggles, pausing only to gasp out “Is it penis?”
Dean explodes with laughter too, waving his feet in the air and narrowly missing Sammy’s face again. Neither of them seem to care. John rests his forehead against the steering wheel and wonders what it would be like to have girls instead. Probably not a whole lot quieter, but surely there’d be less traffic-jam toilet humour?
“Penis,” Dean repeats weakly as the hilarity dies down, and the strangled noise Sammy makes cannot be good.
“Deep breaths, Sammy,” John sighs, sitting up. “Head between your legs.” He watches in the rearview mirror as Dean pulls his feet out of his brother’s lap and rests them on his bent-double back instead. Dean’s grinning wickedly, but John can see his toes wiggling in soothing little circles against Sammy’s shaking shoulders.
“Penis,” Sammy whispers from between his knees.
Girls, John decides, would definitely have less toilet humour. “Okay, guys,” he says, “I think that’s enough I-spy for the day.” Or the year.
“But dad!” Sammy’s head bobs back up again, knocking Dean’s feet into the window. Sammy ignores the pained cursing, eyes wide in indignation. “We need to know what Dean spied! Don’t you want to know what Dean spied, dad? I want to know what Dean spied! What if it was a poltergeist, dad?”
“You can’t see poltergeists, Sammy,” John points out, and as Sammy draws in a deep breath hastily adds, “Tell us what you spied, Dean.”
“Pterodactyl,” Dean mutters, rubbing his toes. Oh boy.
John closes his eyes in despair, and Sammy’s voice reaches a whole new octave of injustice: “That does not begin with a P, it doesn’t! It’s a T! You’re a cheater, Dean, you’re a dirty rotten cheater and you did not spy any pterodactyls and I hope one eats you-”
“Dad, tell Sammy pterodactyl starts with a P-“
“Dad, tell Dean he never spied one-“
“Boys,” John grinds out. “Quiet down so I can concentrate on the road.”
Sammy huffs, Dean throws a sock at him, and they lapse into silence. The car crawls forwards another couple of inches. Of course it’s too good to last.
“Dad,” Sammy says. “Dad. Dad. Hey, dad. Dad? I know you can hear me, dad. Dad. Dad, dad, dad-“
“Sammy, if this is anything to do with pterodactyls- don’t even, Dean- if this is anything to do with pterodactyls, you’re walking.” It’s the authoritative voice, the one he usually reserves for commands like ‘don’t move’ or ‘come here’ or ‘look after your brother’, and Dean’s mouth snaps shut guiltily while Sammy bites down on his lip.
“I’m thirsty, dad” he says in a small voice that twists in John’s stomach.
He sighs, leaning over Dean’s vacated passenger seat to fumble in the glove compartment. “Sorry, Sammy. I’m not mad at you, just tired.”
“Okay,” Sammy murmurs, summoning up a small smile as he catches the flask John tosses him.
John keeps an eye on the mirror, watching as Dean nudges Sammy with his toes and Sammy frowns down at his hands. “All right, son?”
“Yeah, dad,” Sammy remarks vaguely, looking surprised at the interruption, and as he draws in another deep breath John’s insides are torn between relief and ‘not again’. “Dad. Is this holy water? Is it okay to drink holy water?”
At least it’s not pterodactyls. “Dean, have you been telling your brother he’s a demon again?”
“That was one time!” Dean exclaims, sitting up straight, “One time!” and then Sammy’s gabbling over him, red-faced, “He hasn’t, dad, he hasn’t not in ages and I never really believed him anyway, you know, I was just thinking what if, dad, what if I drank holy water and then I said penis again?”
Dean whoops with laughter, false accusations forgotten. Sam throws the flask at him, shouting “Shut up, Dean,” and John can’t help the surge of pride as Dean catches it with one hand and keeps right on laughing.
“I hate you, Dean, I hate you so much and when we get to Pastor Jim’s I’ll get him to teach me something really nasty in Latin and then-“
“No nasty Latin outside of training,” John steps in, twisting around in the driver’s seat to eye them both sternly. “And holy water’s fine to drink, Sammy, or else don’t you think Dean would’ve been burnt a million times by now?”
Dean rolls his eyes, but Sammy looks content as he snatches the flask back and takes a sip. John catches a glimpse of him sticking his smokeless tongue out, cross-eyed, in the mirror before he turns back to the road. They move in inches, the lines of cars stretching out endlessly in either direction. It’s eerily silent, when the boys aren’t squabbling, people given up on honking and yelling hours ago in favour of waiting miserably for this hell to be over.
Probably a car crash, John contemplates, easing the car forwards. Hot weather, bright sun, long drives; maybe someone dozed off at the wheel. Or it could be a vengeful spirit- woman in white? They’re a bit low on supplies, but there’s plenty of salt and the boys are really coming along with their Latin...
“That old lady’s staring at me.”
“Probably never seen such a freakish face before.”
“She looks pretty bored. D’you think she’d like to play I-spy with us, Dean?”
“Sammy, don’t wave at her! You don’t know where she’s been!”
“So?”
“She could be a banshee, for all you know.”
“Don’t be stupid. Banshees can’t drive. Tell him banshees can’t drive, dad.”
“Banshees can’t drive, Dean,” John confirms wearily. Are girls this argumentative? He’s never really been around any enough to say, what with one thing and another.
“You don’t know that,” Dean’s arguing, one hand on Sammy’s head to keep him away from the window. “You don’t know that for sure. If you can learn to drive, I bet a banshee could.”
“Get off, get off, you’re stupid, what would a banshee want to drive for?” There’s scuffling, and name-calling, and a cut-off scream. When John glances up at the mirror again, Dean has Sammy pinned against him in a headlock, other hand twisted in his brother’s hair. They both need haircuts; they’ll have to make do with Jim’s scissors.
“Dean,” he says warningly, but Dean doesn’t even look up, his expression more serious, more focussed, than a fourteen year old boy should ever have to be.
“Nobody would expect a little old lady in an ugly car, would they?” he points out, and Sammy pauses in his struggling.
“She looks like Miss Thompson,” he begins doubtfully, almost questioning. Dean snorts, loosening his grip on Sammy’s neck and whispering something too low for John to hear. Whatever it was, it leaves Sammy shrieking “Shut up, Dean! You shouldn’t say things like that about teachers! You’re so gross!”
So then there’s more scuffling, and John twists around again, ready to break up a fight, but it turns out there isn’t one. Sammy’s still blushing, half on-top of Dean as he peers out the window, Dean’s hand still resting on the back of his head.
“Should we burn her?” Sammy whispers.
“No burning,” John cuts in, making them both jump. “New car rule, okay? No I-spy, no nasty Latin, and absolutely no burning.”
“Yes, dad,” they chorus automatically. Sammy slithers off of Dean, but remains slumped against his side, sneaking suspicious glances out the window every couple seconds. John follows his gaze, ready to offer an apologetic smile to whatever poor woman his boys are spying on today. Girls aren’t pyromaniacs, in general, are they.
He frowns. It’s summer, school’s out, and the cars around them are filled with harried-looking parents and their grumpy kids. No old ladies anywhere in sight. He double checks, turning around look out the other side just in case, and then clears his throat casually. They both look up, eyes wide- okay, maybe not so casual then.
“Say, boys,” he begins slowly, “where’s this old lady of yours?”
“She is not my old lady!” Sammy exclaims, but Dean frowns, points, saying, “She’s right over there, dad. In the old car.”
There’s no old car, and there’s no old lady, not anywhere.
John clears his throat again, mentally running through possibilities, tactics, weapons, while Sammy sits up straight and Dean begins to grin. “Okay, guys, maybe a little burning after all.”
Dean’s crowing with joy, and Sammy’s already down beneath the seats searching for the holy water. John grins, can’t help himself. No, they’re not girls and yes, they think penis is the funniest word on the whole damn planet, but they’re his boys. That’s good enough.
*