(fic) Good Luck Pieces - SPN
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write
Pairing or Characters Involved: Dean and Sam Winchester
Category: General, Wee!chesters
Rating: PG
Warning: None
Title: Good Luck Piece
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for the LiveJournal community, all_unwritten. Prompt 1352 - penny on the railroad tracks
“You stay there, Sammy,” Dean warned, frowning over his shoulder at his little brother who stared down at him from the embankment with worried eyes. “There’s glass and God knows what else down here.”
“Dean, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Dean puffed out his cheeks in frustration. Hell, he wasn’t stupid. Even he knew this wasn’t a good idea but he wasn’t going to let something like that stop him.
Hazel eyes scanned the tree line for the telltale smoke, but all was clear. Licking his lips nervously, he reached down and touched the metal rails just as Indians had done in bygone yesterdays. The metal vibrated under his hand, a sure sign of an approaching train.
He reached into his front pocket to make sure the pennies were still there but panic gripped his heart when his searching fingers found only pocket lint. With a whispered oath he dug deeper, then deeper still. Finally he breathed a sigh of relief when his fingers brushed the small copper coins, tucked into the deepest recesses of his pocket.
Word on the playground was that these babies could bring all kinds of luck - especially after they had been squished flat by a train.
And the Winchesters needed all the luck they could get.
His mind flashed back on his dad. Coming back to the motel room late at night with bruises, claw marks, his chest bound with white bandages to protect cracked ribs. And the worst part was his eyes… lost and haunted. Like he had looked upon the face of Hell.
And maybe he had.
The mournful wail of a train whistle sounded somewhere off in the distant pulled Dean from his thoughts. It was muffled with distance, but it was getting closer. If he was going to do this, he better hurry up or the pennies wouldn’t be the only things the train flattened.
The air by the tracks was alive with the scent of lush summery greenery and the drowsy drone of the seasons first mosquitoes. Dimly he could hear the almost oceanic sounds of the highway traffic. And under it all, more vibration than sound at this point, was the oncoming rumble of the train. He could feel the tremors of its approach through his sneakers.
“Dean,” He heard Sam yell, “Train!”
There was real fright in Sammy’s voice and when Dean looked up, his heart squeezed tight in his chest.
The engine was an old one and it belched steam into the air like some huge dragon as it bore down on him, wheels and pistons churning. The grill gleamed fiercely in the afternoon light. The whistle sounded again, an impossibly loud blast that rattled his eardrums. Someone, maybe the conductor, was waving his hands out one of the cab windows in an effort to warn him off.
Dean almost bolted right then and there, but the memory of his dad looking so used and abused stopped him. He couldn’t help his dad hunt down those evil sons of bitches, couldn’t even fire a gun, at least not yet. But he could do this. He could give his dad a piece of good luck. It might not be a lot, but it was the best he could do. For now.
Trying to swallow past the lump that had suddenly lodged itself into his throat, he stopped himself and, deliberately turned back to the track, knelt down and laid each penny down on the tracks, one by one. His fingers shook and a few of them slid off and into the gravel and weeds between the wooden slates. He hurriedly tweezed them up with his thumb and forefinger and put them back where they were supposed to be.
He laid them all out, fifteen shiny new pennies he had won in a game of pitch and toss during recess. The roar of the engine shook the universe and covered Dean’s whooping shriek of terror and triumph as he whirled and launched himself into the dense foliage that lined the tracks. As he turned to watch the monster’s passage something zinged past his face, burning a thin line of pain across his cheek.
He counted the train cars… fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… Twenty-nine, fifty-seven. Seventy-three all told. And when it passed, the world was quiet and trembling.
“Dean!” Sam scrambled down the embankment, slipping and sliding on the long grasses until he skidded to a halt before his brother. "You dummy! That train almost hit you-" His eyes flew open in horror and he pointed one accusing finger. “You’re bleeding.”
Frowning, Dean touched his fingertips to his cheek. They came away bloody. “What the…?”
“There, look! Over there,” Sam exclaimed, pointing toward a young sapling behind them. "See?"
The two brothers made their way to the tree and stared in awed silence at the sight of one flattened penny imbedded into the bark. Dean fished his pocketknife out of his back pocket and carefully dug the distorted coin out of the tree. It lay in his palm, Abe Lincoln’s familiar face stretched out like a magic mirror’s goofy reflection.
Dean grinned down at his little brother. “See, Sammy,” he laughed. “I told you these things were good luck.”
THE END
Pairing or Characters Involved: Dean and Sam Winchester
Category: General, Wee!chesters
Rating: PG
Warning: None
Title: Good Luck Piece
Author: yellowhorde
Notes: This was written for the LiveJournal community, all_unwritten. Prompt 1352 - penny on the railroad tracks
“You stay there, Sammy,” Dean warned, frowning over his shoulder at his little brother who stared down at him from the embankment with worried eyes. “There’s glass and God knows what else down here.”
“Dean, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Dean puffed out his cheeks in frustration. Hell, he wasn’t stupid. Even he knew this wasn’t a good idea but he wasn’t going to let something like that stop him.
Hazel eyes scanned the tree line for the telltale smoke, but all was clear. Licking his lips nervously, he reached down and touched the metal rails just as Indians had done in bygone yesterdays. The metal vibrated under his hand, a sure sign of an approaching train.
He reached into his front pocket to make sure the pennies were still there but panic gripped his heart when his searching fingers found only pocket lint. With a whispered oath he dug deeper, then deeper still. Finally he breathed a sigh of relief when his fingers brushed the small copper coins, tucked into the deepest recesses of his pocket.
Word on the playground was that these babies could bring all kinds of luck - especially after they had been squished flat by a train.
And the Winchesters needed all the luck they could get.
His mind flashed back on his dad. Coming back to the motel room late at night with bruises, claw marks, his chest bound with white bandages to protect cracked ribs. And the worst part was his eyes… lost and haunted. Like he had looked upon the face of Hell.
And maybe he had.
The mournful wail of a train whistle sounded somewhere off in the distant pulled Dean from his thoughts. It was muffled with distance, but it was getting closer. If he was going to do this, he better hurry up or the pennies wouldn’t be the only things the train flattened.
The air by the tracks was alive with the scent of lush summery greenery and the drowsy drone of the seasons first mosquitoes. Dimly he could hear the almost oceanic sounds of the highway traffic. And under it all, more vibration than sound at this point, was the oncoming rumble of the train. He could feel the tremors of its approach through his sneakers.
“Dean,” He heard Sam yell, “Train!”
There was real fright in Sammy’s voice and when Dean looked up, his heart squeezed tight in his chest.
The engine was an old one and it belched steam into the air like some huge dragon as it bore down on him, wheels and pistons churning. The grill gleamed fiercely in the afternoon light. The whistle sounded again, an impossibly loud blast that rattled his eardrums. Someone, maybe the conductor, was waving his hands out one of the cab windows in an effort to warn him off.
Dean almost bolted right then and there, but the memory of his dad looking so used and abused stopped him. He couldn’t help his dad hunt down those evil sons of bitches, couldn’t even fire a gun, at least not yet. But he could do this. He could give his dad a piece of good luck. It might not be a lot, but it was the best he could do. For now.
Trying to swallow past the lump that had suddenly lodged itself into his throat, he stopped himself and, deliberately turned back to the track, knelt down and laid each penny down on the tracks, one by one. His fingers shook and a few of them slid off and into the gravel and weeds between the wooden slates. He hurriedly tweezed them up with his thumb and forefinger and put them back where they were supposed to be.
He laid them all out, fifteen shiny new pennies he had won in a game of pitch and toss during recess. The roar of the engine shook the universe and covered Dean’s whooping shriek of terror and triumph as he whirled and launched himself into the dense foliage that lined the tracks. As he turned to watch the monster’s passage something zinged past his face, burning a thin line of pain across his cheek.
He counted the train cars… fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… Twenty-nine, fifty-seven. Seventy-three all told. And when it passed, the world was quiet and trembling.
“Dean!” Sam scrambled down the embankment, slipping and sliding on the long grasses until he skidded to a halt before his brother. "You dummy! That train almost hit you-" His eyes flew open in horror and he pointed one accusing finger. “You’re bleeding.”
Frowning, Dean touched his fingertips to his cheek. They came away bloody. “What the…?”
“There, look! Over there,” Sam exclaimed, pointing toward a young sapling behind them. "See?"
The two brothers made their way to the tree and stared in awed silence at the sight of one flattened penny imbedded into the bark. Dean fished his pocketknife out of his back pocket and carefully dug the distorted coin out of the tree. It lay in his palm, Abe Lincoln’s familiar face stretched out like a magic mirror’s goofy reflection.
Dean grinned down at his little brother. “See, Sammy,” he laughed. “I told you these things were good luck.”
THE END