new SPN ficlet: gen
estrella30 asked for porny schmoopy thankful Sam/Dean, and I tried, but I couldn't do it. (Fortunately, impertinence was able to pull it off, and how. *g*) What I ended up with instead was the gen Sam and Dean version of Thanksgiving dinner. With their own special brand of schmoop. Heh.
It should have been an easy job: dig up the bones, salt and burn them, and put an end to the nasty spirit that had moved into 1778 Amarind Place. But the bones were in a crawlspace beneath the house, which made the whole thing an exercise in frustration. Sam was pretty sure stabbing at dirt with a trowel while laying on his belly beside Dean in an 18-inch space qualified as the most annoying job ever.
Not to mention the fact that the spirit was currently delivering intermittent blows to his head that bloodied his nose and made his eyes water.
"Dean," he mumbled, pushing tiny amounts of dirt back at his brother, who grunted in response. "Are we there yet?"
A snort of laughter, and then: "Shut up and dig, bitch."
**
Three hours later, they emerged from the basement muddy and bruised, smelling of lighter fluid and singed gently around the ears - which, in Sam's case, were ringing like cathedral bells, thanks to the phantom boxer. Dean wiped a hand over his face, which appeared to move the dirt around but did nothing to actually remove it.
"Is it over? Are you boys all right?"
Sam glanced up and saw their anxious host there, her blind eyes blank, but the rest of her face animated with worry. "Yes ma'am, we're just fine," he said.
Her smile eased the anxiety away from her expression. "Thank God. I...I don't know how to thank you. You were right about everything. You just don't know...what it's been like..." Her voice faltered, and she reached out a hand toward them. Sam wiped his right hand off on the skin of his belly, which was the cleanest place on his entire body at that moment, and took her warm fingers in his own. "Will you boys stay for dinner?"
Dean was staring at the rolls on the dining room table like he might swallow them whole, basket and all. Sam could tell he wanted to stay, but they were a mess. He said, "We really should get cleaned up and go."
"Well, how you look doesn't bother me," she said, smiling. Sam turned a sideways grin on Dean, who might have grinned back; it was hard to tell, since even his teeth were dirty. "Besides, it's Thanksgiving, and I'm guessing you boys aren't anywhere near home."
Just like that, the smile on Dean's face vanished. Sam watched him for a moment, caught up in the realization that he had forgotten it was Thanksgiving, Which had never happened before. Even when they were apart, Sam had spared a few minutes each Thanksgiving to be thankful his family was safe out there, somewhere.
Safe and alive.
He thought of sitting down at this nice lady's table, eating turkey and dressing and keeping her company, and the hollow feeling opened up in his chest again. It wasn't like he and Dad and Dean had ever been much for sit-down dinners, or holidays in general, but at least they had all been together. Usually. Except for the last few years.
That hollow space expanded, and Sam tried to drag himself away from the simmering should haves and could haves that spelled bad son in his lexicon of guilt. Just then Dean glanced at him, and then at Mrs. Maxwell, and said, "Thank you anyway. But we really do have to go."
**
Sam drove them back to the motel; Dean sat quietly next to him, scratching every so often at the dirt caked on his skin. Sam resisted the temptation to try and start a conversation he knew Dean was absolutely not going to participate in. Just the fact that Dean turned down free food was clue number one that his headspace was as weird as Sam's.
He let Dean make the mad dash for the first shower without even a fight. It seemed pointless to argue about something so stupid at that moment. Instead he perched on the edge of the bed and stared at the dark TV screen.
A memory hit him then, of being eight years old and eating a turkey-shaped mound of Spam that Dean and Dad had pressed together with their hands, Sam giggling like crazy when Dean toothpicked two pieces of licorice on as eyes while some football game droned in the background. They had been in an apartment then, with furniture that wasn't theirs. Sam had been wearing Dean's hand-me-down jeans, which were too big for him. They hadn't had anything at all of their own, and yet they had felt like they had everything.
"Shower's all yours," Dean said, emerging from the bathroom.
He took a long time in the shower, let the hot water pound the chill of distant memories out of his skin. Once he started thinking about Thanksgivings past, he couldn't stop. So many moments he hadn't thought about in years: Dean showing him how to draw a turkey using an outline of his own hand as the feathers - that had been when Sam was four, or maybe five; sitting in a bar with Dean the year before Stanford and eating peanuts and popcorn for dinner with beer chasers, until the second-shift waitress got suspicious and carded him; Dad stopping at a roadside diner to buy them plates of turkey with a horrifyingly yellow gravy which tasted so good, Sam could have licked it out of the pan.
Not like they had ever been normal, but they had been a family, and their version had worked for them, most of the time. Which counted for something.
He finished toweling off and was yanking his jeans on when he heard the door slam. "Oh you did not leave me here, you fucker," he muttered. They hadn't passed any bars on the way back, but trust Dean to find the one open joint within fifty miles. He yanked open the door to find Dean on the other side of it.
"You about finished in there, princess? 'Cause I've got dinner." There was something about his expression...his eyes were shining with mischief, and Sam raised his eyebrows in response.
"You found someplace that was open?"
"There's always someplace open," Dean answered over his shoulder.
Sam grabbed his shirt and followed Dean into the room, where he found Dean sitting on the edge of his bed, peering into the depths of a newly-acquired brown paper bag. "Grocery store?" he asked, flinging himself onto his own bed.
"Quik-E-Mart," Dean answered. "Watch and be amazed."
"Oh, I can't wait." Sam crossed his legs under him and gave Dean his full attention.
"We start with the salad," Dean said, and from the depths of the bag, produced a bag of dried wasabi peas. Sam grinned and caught them in an outstretched hand. "And then we move on to the important stuff."
"Turkey?" Sam said hopefully.
"Potatoes," Dean answered, as a huge bag of Ruffles materialized.
Sam ripped open his salad, fished two peas out of the package and tossed them into his mouth, then pointed at Dean. "There's something wrong with that picture," he said, crunching the peas.
Dean nodded, looking thoughtfully at the bag. "You're right," he said. He popped the bag, releasing air, and then squashed it mercilessly between his hands, stuffing it under his arm for good measure before passing it off to Sam. "Mashed to order."
"Thanks," Sam said, and pawed up a handful of broken chips. He crammed them into his mouth and watched with interest as Dean lifted out a jar of pickled green beans.
"Vegetables," he said, banging the top of the jar on the nightstand and tossing it to Sam to open. "And cranberries for good measure."
"Chocolate covered cranberries do not go with pickled green beans, Dean."
"They do on Thanksgiving."
"Dude, where's the turkey?" Sam brushed a copious fall of chips off his chest where they had scattered and reached in for more.
"Patience, Sammy!" Out came a package of turkey hot dogs.
"There you go," Sam said, reaching for it. "That's more like it." He dug out a cold dog and took a bite, regarding Dean thoughtfully as he chewed. "You get any rolls?"
"Oh ye of little faith," Dean answered, with a reproachful look, and fired a package of Twinkies at Sam's face. It smacked into his forehead and dropped into his lap with a plop.
"Oh yeah," Sam said, as he rubbed the sting of plastic burn away from his face.
Dean shrugged off his jacket and climbed over Sam onto the bed, and they proceeded to tuck into their dinner with the clock radio on in the background, an endless string of sad country songs sung by depressed people who sounded like they wanted to be somewhere else. Someplace where real turkeys were cooking.
When the last of the chips had been devoured and the last hot dog was polished off, they took turns firing cranberries and peas at each other's open mouths until the floor was littered with the little projectiles. Dean ate two for every two he tossed, and finally he slumped back against the pillows with a sated expression Sam loved. "Nap time," he announced, wiping his fingers on his shirt. He glanced over at Sam. "Well?"
Sam reached for the TV remote and flicked it on, then promptly lost control when Dean snatched the remote out of his hand, rapid-fire channel surfing his way toward sports of any variety. He opened his Twinkies and passed one to Dean, who gnawed off half the cake in one bite, cream filling all over his upper lip. Sam stared at him for a second, then broke open his own Twinkie and mashed it directly into Dean's face.
When Dean grabbed for him, they fell off the bed, and between mutters of "show you, you little bitch" and "save your strength, old man", they wrestled their way into the nightstand -- where Sam acquired a new bruise on his forehead -- and half-under Sam's bed, when Dean finally got him pinned in a more or less unbreakable hold. "Say uncle," Dean said, breathing into Sam's ear like a steam engine, all hot and humid.
"Hell no," Sam gritted out, bucking hard enough to make Dean lose his grip.
"Say it!" Dean said, tightening his hold until Sam could feel his vision graying out.
Sam made a choked sound, which was apparently enough of a concession for Dean, who released him and fell back on the floor, grinning. Sam rolled over on his back, panting hard, and through his watery eyes, took in the sight of his brother: T-shirt collar ripped, remnants of Twinkie all over his face, a bloody scratch on his neck from where Sam's fingernail caught at his skin. Dean looked completely content.
I know what I'm thankful for, Sam thought. But he didn't say it, because Dean would mock him and give him hell about it, and he wasn't in the mood to spoil what they'd salvaged from the day.
Dean got to his feet and gave Sam a hand, hauling him to his feet. If his arm went around Sam's shoulders, and if he pulled Sam forward against his body for a moment, and if he ruffled Sam's hair as he let him go, it was probably just an accident. Or so Sam knew Dean wanted him to believe, though at that moment, he loved Dean so much he couldn't look at him for fear of blurting it out.
Dean put a hand in the middle of Sam's chest and shoved him back on the bed, then clambered over him again and stole his pillow. He didn't look at Sam, just went back to surfing for a good game to fall asleep to.
Thankful, Sam thought, saying it with a cuff to Dean's head, and in the quirk of Dean's lips, the almost-smile, the way he tugged Sam down on the bed and made him pay attention to a game he didn't care about, he heard Dean's thoughts as clearly as if Dean had spoken out loud:
Me, too.
end
We're all stumbling towards the light with varying degrees of grace at any given moment. - Bo Lozoff
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. I am, as always, thankful for many things, but the folks I've known through fandom are at the top of that list.
It should have been an easy job: dig up the bones, salt and burn them, and put an end to the nasty spirit that had moved into 1778 Amarind Place. But the bones were in a crawlspace beneath the house, which made the whole thing an exercise in frustration. Sam was pretty sure stabbing at dirt with a trowel while laying on his belly beside Dean in an 18-inch space qualified as the most annoying job ever.
Not to mention the fact that the spirit was currently delivering intermittent blows to his head that bloodied his nose and made his eyes water.
"Dean," he mumbled, pushing tiny amounts of dirt back at his brother, who grunted in response. "Are we there yet?"
A snort of laughter, and then: "Shut up and dig, bitch."
**
Three hours later, they emerged from the basement muddy and bruised, smelling of lighter fluid and singed gently around the ears - which, in Sam's case, were ringing like cathedral bells, thanks to the phantom boxer. Dean wiped a hand over his face, which appeared to move the dirt around but did nothing to actually remove it.
"Is it over? Are you boys all right?"
Sam glanced up and saw their anxious host there, her blind eyes blank, but the rest of her face animated with worry. "Yes ma'am, we're just fine," he said.
Her smile eased the anxiety away from her expression. "Thank God. I...I don't know how to thank you. You were right about everything. You just don't know...what it's been like..." Her voice faltered, and she reached out a hand toward them. Sam wiped his right hand off on the skin of his belly, which was the cleanest place on his entire body at that moment, and took her warm fingers in his own. "Will you boys stay for dinner?"
Dean was staring at the rolls on the dining room table like he might swallow them whole, basket and all. Sam could tell he wanted to stay, but they were a mess. He said, "We really should get cleaned up and go."
"Well, how you look doesn't bother me," she said, smiling. Sam turned a sideways grin on Dean, who might have grinned back; it was hard to tell, since even his teeth were dirty. "Besides, it's Thanksgiving, and I'm guessing you boys aren't anywhere near home."
Just like that, the smile on Dean's face vanished. Sam watched him for a moment, caught up in the realization that he had forgotten it was Thanksgiving, Which had never happened before. Even when they were apart, Sam had spared a few minutes each Thanksgiving to be thankful his family was safe out there, somewhere.
Safe and alive.
He thought of sitting down at this nice lady's table, eating turkey and dressing and keeping her company, and the hollow feeling opened up in his chest again. It wasn't like he and Dad and Dean had ever been much for sit-down dinners, or holidays in general, but at least they had all been together. Usually. Except for the last few years.
That hollow space expanded, and Sam tried to drag himself away from the simmering should haves and could haves that spelled bad son in his lexicon of guilt. Just then Dean glanced at him, and then at Mrs. Maxwell, and said, "Thank you anyway. But we really do have to go."
**
Sam drove them back to the motel; Dean sat quietly next to him, scratching every so often at the dirt caked on his skin. Sam resisted the temptation to try and start a conversation he knew Dean was absolutely not going to participate in. Just the fact that Dean turned down free food was clue number one that his headspace was as weird as Sam's.
He let Dean make the mad dash for the first shower without even a fight. It seemed pointless to argue about something so stupid at that moment. Instead he perched on the edge of the bed and stared at the dark TV screen.
A memory hit him then, of being eight years old and eating a turkey-shaped mound of Spam that Dean and Dad had pressed together with their hands, Sam giggling like crazy when Dean toothpicked two pieces of licorice on as eyes while some football game droned in the background. They had been in an apartment then, with furniture that wasn't theirs. Sam had been wearing Dean's hand-me-down jeans, which were too big for him. They hadn't had anything at all of their own, and yet they had felt like they had everything.
"Shower's all yours," Dean said, emerging from the bathroom.
He took a long time in the shower, let the hot water pound the chill of distant memories out of his skin. Once he started thinking about Thanksgivings past, he couldn't stop. So many moments he hadn't thought about in years: Dean showing him how to draw a turkey using an outline of his own hand as the feathers - that had been when Sam was four, or maybe five; sitting in a bar with Dean the year before Stanford and eating peanuts and popcorn for dinner with beer chasers, until the second-shift waitress got suspicious and carded him; Dad stopping at a roadside diner to buy them plates of turkey with a horrifyingly yellow gravy which tasted so good, Sam could have licked it out of the pan.
Not like they had ever been normal, but they had been a family, and their version had worked for them, most of the time. Which counted for something.
He finished toweling off and was yanking his jeans on when he heard the door slam. "Oh you did not leave me here, you fucker," he muttered. They hadn't passed any bars on the way back, but trust Dean to find the one open joint within fifty miles. He yanked open the door to find Dean on the other side of it.
"You about finished in there, princess? 'Cause I've got dinner." There was something about his expression...his eyes were shining with mischief, and Sam raised his eyebrows in response.
"You found someplace that was open?"
"There's always someplace open," Dean answered over his shoulder.
Sam grabbed his shirt and followed Dean into the room, where he found Dean sitting on the edge of his bed, peering into the depths of a newly-acquired brown paper bag. "Grocery store?" he asked, flinging himself onto his own bed.
"Quik-E-Mart," Dean answered. "Watch and be amazed."
"Oh, I can't wait." Sam crossed his legs under him and gave Dean his full attention.
"We start with the salad," Dean said, and from the depths of the bag, produced a bag of dried wasabi peas. Sam grinned and caught them in an outstretched hand. "And then we move on to the important stuff."
"Turkey?" Sam said hopefully.
"Potatoes," Dean answered, as a huge bag of Ruffles materialized.
Sam ripped open his salad, fished two peas out of the package and tossed them into his mouth, then pointed at Dean. "There's something wrong with that picture," he said, crunching the peas.
Dean nodded, looking thoughtfully at the bag. "You're right," he said. He popped the bag, releasing air, and then squashed it mercilessly between his hands, stuffing it under his arm for good measure before passing it off to Sam. "Mashed to order."
"Thanks," Sam said, and pawed up a handful of broken chips. He crammed them into his mouth and watched with interest as Dean lifted out a jar of pickled green beans.
"Vegetables," he said, banging the top of the jar on the nightstand and tossing it to Sam to open. "And cranberries for good measure."
"Chocolate covered cranberries do not go with pickled green beans, Dean."
"They do on Thanksgiving."
"Dude, where's the turkey?" Sam brushed a copious fall of chips off his chest where they had scattered and reached in for more.
"Patience, Sammy!" Out came a package of turkey hot dogs.
"There you go," Sam said, reaching for it. "That's more like it." He dug out a cold dog and took a bite, regarding Dean thoughtfully as he chewed. "You get any rolls?"
"Oh ye of little faith," Dean answered, with a reproachful look, and fired a package of Twinkies at Sam's face. It smacked into his forehead and dropped into his lap with a plop.
"Oh yeah," Sam said, as he rubbed the sting of plastic burn away from his face.
Dean shrugged off his jacket and climbed over Sam onto the bed, and they proceeded to tuck into their dinner with the clock radio on in the background, an endless string of sad country songs sung by depressed people who sounded like they wanted to be somewhere else. Someplace where real turkeys were cooking.
When the last of the chips had been devoured and the last hot dog was polished off, they took turns firing cranberries and peas at each other's open mouths until the floor was littered with the little projectiles. Dean ate two for every two he tossed, and finally he slumped back against the pillows with a sated expression Sam loved. "Nap time," he announced, wiping his fingers on his shirt. He glanced over at Sam. "Well?"
Sam reached for the TV remote and flicked it on, then promptly lost control when Dean snatched the remote out of his hand, rapid-fire channel surfing his way toward sports of any variety. He opened his Twinkies and passed one to Dean, who gnawed off half the cake in one bite, cream filling all over his upper lip. Sam stared at him for a second, then broke open his own Twinkie and mashed it directly into Dean's face.
When Dean grabbed for him, they fell off the bed, and between mutters of "show you, you little bitch" and "save your strength, old man", they wrestled their way into the nightstand -- where Sam acquired a new bruise on his forehead -- and half-under Sam's bed, when Dean finally got him pinned in a more or less unbreakable hold. "Say uncle," Dean said, breathing into Sam's ear like a steam engine, all hot and humid.
"Hell no," Sam gritted out, bucking hard enough to make Dean lose his grip.
"Say it!" Dean said, tightening his hold until Sam could feel his vision graying out.
Sam made a choked sound, which was apparently enough of a concession for Dean, who released him and fell back on the floor, grinning. Sam rolled over on his back, panting hard, and through his watery eyes, took in the sight of his brother: T-shirt collar ripped, remnants of Twinkie all over his face, a bloody scratch on his neck from where Sam's fingernail caught at his skin. Dean looked completely content.
I know what I'm thankful for, Sam thought. But he didn't say it, because Dean would mock him and give him hell about it, and he wasn't in the mood to spoil what they'd salvaged from the day.
Dean got to his feet and gave Sam a hand, hauling him to his feet. If his arm went around Sam's shoulders, and if he pulled Sam forward against his body for a moment, and if he ruffled Sam's hair as he let him go, it was probably just an accident. Or so Sam knew Dean wanted him to believe, though at that moment, he loved Dean so much he couldn't look at him for fear of blurting it out.
Dean put a hand in the middle of Sam's chest and shoved him back on the bed, then clambered over him again and stole his pillow. He didn't look at Sam, just went back to surfing for a good game to fall asleep to.
Thankful, Sam thought, saying it with a cuff to Dean's head, and in the quirk of Dean's lips, the almost-smile, the way he tugged Sam down on the bed and made him pay attention to a game he didn't care about, he heard Dean's thoughts as clearly as if Dean had spoken out loud:
Me, too.
end
We're all stumbling towards the light with varying degrees of grace at any given moment. - Bo Lozoff
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. I am, as always, thankful for many things, but the folks I've known through fandom are at the top of that list.