SPN FIC - Out Behind the Barn
The hunt's over; the spirit's been dispatched. It's time to leave. But there's something out behind the barn -- something that prompts thoughts of peace and quiet, and pumpkins, and a chance to breathe.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1393 words
OUT BEHIND THE BARN
By Carol Davis
Dean never did this when Dad was around, Sam thinks. Wander off like this. Dad would have had his ass. But another moment's worth of pondering tells him he's wrong - Dean did wander off back then. Was able to, because he had the ability to wander back about four seconds before Dad would have noticed he was gone.
Without the influence of their father, though, God only knows when Dean will decide to show up.
They can leave now. Really.
There's nothing more to be done.
"Dean?" Sam calls out.
True, Dean could be in trouble. Could be missing because he's unconscious, or kidnapped. Bound and gagged. Dead somewhere on Toby Whitmer's rural seven-and-a-half acres. But there's no feel of that in the air. No sense that something's wrong. The spirit that's been wreaking havoc from here to the county line's been dispatched to the Great Wherever - and with a minimum of drama, Sam observes. For the first time in quite a while, he and Dean have finished a job without suffering more than a few minor cuts and bruises. They can relax tonight. Have a good dinner. Get some sleep.
Another try: "Dean!"
"Back here," Dean's voice comes drifting back.
He's out behind the barn, it sounds like. Watering the plants, maybe, although they've both steered clear of using the great outdoors as a bathroom whenever possible these past few months, ever since the day a tick decided to embed itself in an embarrassing part of Sam's anatomy.
Dean claimed it was hilarious. The ER. The Pakistani doctor neither one of them could understand - though they could both interpret his facial expression well enough.
It wasn't funny.
"Dude," Sam says as he rounds the corner of the weather-beaten old building. "Can we -"
What's back there stops Sam dead in his tracks.
Dean's got his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, as if he's afraid to touch anything, to get too close. His eyes are blown wide, and his mouth is slightly open - which makes him look like a kid surrounded by Christmas trees, all of them fully decorated, and with a huge spill of gifts lying underneath.
"Check this out," he says softly.
He's standing at the edge of a towering forest of greenery, all right, but it's not Christmas trees. The plants all bear a distinctive type of saw-toothed leaf, one that's impossible to mistake for anything except what it is.
Dean's face slides into a smirk.
How the hell did no one ever notice this?? Sam wonders.
The plants are a good eight feet tall, some closer to ten. They reach past the roof line of the small barn Toby Whitmer used to store equipment and shelter a few chickens. More than likely, the plants are visible from the road.
Aren't they?
"Heh," Dean chuckles. "Dude had himself a cash crop."
Still does, Sam observes; the plants seem to be thriving, although the unfortunate Toby has been dead for nine days.
"We should go," he says.
Which isn't Dean's line of thinking at all.
"What?" Sam asks in response to the pensive look that slides across Dean's face.
Dean is silent for a long while. His hands don't emerge from his pockets, but he turns, a little at a time, taking in the expanse of Toby Whitmer's property. "Nice out here," he says finally.
Because his brother seems to be requesting a response, Sam says, "I guess so," with a shrug.
"Quiet."
"Uh-huh."
"Quiet's good."
"I suppose so."
"Nice house. Not too far from town. Wonder if it gets good cable reception?"
"Because -?"
"Just sayin'."
"Because you have a stash of money I know nothing about, which you intend to use to purchase Toby Witmer's now-available property, and become a pot farmer?"
"I might," Dean says defensively.
"And… what? Bake pies in your spare time?"
"There's money to be made here, Sammy."
"And law enforcement really needs another reason to hunt our asses."
"Dude," Dean points out, "the sheriff was out here after the guy died. Probably a couple deputies. Reporter from the local paper. Nobody noticed this little gold mine. Couldn't have, or it'd be gone. They would've seized it. Torched it. Something."
Then, without preamble, he circles around Sam and walks back to the house, climbs the three steps to the small open porch and seats himself on what used to be Toby Whitmer's rocking chair. He's very relaxed by the time Sam joins him, mellow enough to nod toward the only vacant chair and offer it to Sam.
"So in your head," Sam says as he sits, "this is all gonna be a happily-ever-after."
"With visitors," Dean allows.
"Bearing pie."
"It could work."
"Barring the probable interest of the DEA."
Dean lets out a groan and rocks back a little in the chair. "Seriously, man. Like you never."
"Like I never what?"
"You were in college."
"I wasn't in college in the Sixties, Dean."
"So you're gonna sit there and tell me you never."
Sam clearly remembers a Dean - 18, 19 years old - for whom life was very close to being a Harold & Kumar movie. Possibly including Neil Patrick Harris. It played out in short sequences, sometimes three or four days at a stretch, usually when Dad was several states away.
"It always gave me a migraine," Sam says.
"Probably from keeping your whole body clenched the whole time."
"I just -"
"Place like this," Dean muses, "you could learn to chill the hell out."
It's not an unkind observation. More a wish for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
"I want that for you, Sammy. I do," Dean says, and it's as close to earnest as Dean ever gets. "Someplace where you can just chill. Be a lawyer if you want. Small town. Like what's his name. Matlock. Or something. Go fishing on the weekend. Meet somebody."
"Has it occurred to you that I want that for you, too?"
Dean doesn't meet Sam's gaze for a good five minutes. Instead, he gazes out over the late (though, apparently, not terribly lamented) Toby Whitmer's property, rocking gently back and forth in Whitmer's well-scuffed chair. No part of him is clenched, that Sam can see. His face is relaxed, his expression a little amused, maybe a little nostalgic.
There's the aroma of wildflowers in the air.
"Thanks, man," Dean says softly, finally.
"It's the truth."
Whitmer's chickens are gone; so is his dog. Where to, Sam doesn't know, though there are signs that both were still here maybe as recently as a couple of days ago.
It might be easy enough to get them back.
Dean's chair creaks a little as he rocks.
"Sweet dreams are made of this," he croons, somewhere in the range of the right key, smiling a bit, in a way Sam hasn't seen for years.
Then he says, "Pumpkins. Always wanted to grow pumpkins."
Sam raises an eyebrow.
"Cool, right? You plant a seed and you get pumpkins. Halloween time, all the little kids come out and pick the one they want."
Pastor Jim took them to a pumpkin patch once, Sam recalls.
He chose one he could barely wrap his arms around.
Cried when he couldn't lift it.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "That'd be cool."
"How hard could it be?"
Crop rotation, Sam thinks. Pot one year, pumpkins the next. Every kid within fifty miles could end up stoned.
Dean goes back to singing.
Who am I to disagree?
I travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something…
Then he asks, "You put the shovels back in the trunk?"
"Yeah," Sam says.
"That sign we saw on the way in. For that diner. Aunt Millie's? Said like five miles from here, right?"
Sam nods agreement. "Five miles to the best eats in Blaine County. According to the Blaine County Sunriser, August 1987."
"Friggin' place could've burned down years ago," Dean sighs.
But he stands up, prompting the old chair to creak one more time. He spends a long, silent minute considering the homestead of the recently departed Toby Whitmer - all seven-and-a-half acres of it, or at least, as much of that as he can see from the porch.
It's peaceful here, Sam thinks.
"You comin'?" Dean asks.
"Always," Sam says, and follows Dean down the dirt-and-gravel driveway to the car.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1393 words
OUT BEHIND THE BARN
By Carol Davis
Dean never did this when Dad was around, Sam thinks. Wander off like this. Dad would have had his ass. But another moment's worth of pondering tells him he's wrong - Dean did wander off back then. Was able to, because he had the ability to wander back about four seconds before Dad would have noticed he was gone.
Without the influence of their father, though, God only knows when Dean will decide to show up.
They can leave now. Really.
There's nothing more to be done.
"Dean?" Sam calls out.
True, Dean could be in trouble. Could be missing because he's unconscious, or kidnapped. Bound and gagged. Dead somewhere on Toby Whitmer's rural seven-and-a-half acres. But there's no feel of that in the air. No sense that something's wrong. The spirit that's been wreaking havoc from here to the county line's been dispatched to the Great Wherever - and with a minimum of drama, Sam observes. For the first time in quite a while, he and Dean have finished a job without suffering more than a few minor cuts and bruises. They can relax tonight. Have a good dinner. Get some sleep.
Another try: "Dean!"
"Back here," Dean's voice comes drifting back.
He's out behind the barn, it sounds like. Watering the plants, maybe, although they've both steered clear of using the great outdoors as a bathroom whenever possible these past few months, ever since the day a tick decided to embed itself in an embarrassing part of Sam's anatomy.
Dean claimed it was hilarious. The ER. The Pakistani doctor neither one of them could understand - though they could both interpret his facial expression well enough.
It wasn't funny.
"Dude," Sam says as he rounds the corner of the weather-beaten old building. "Can we -"
What's back there stops Sam dead in his tracks.
Dean's got his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, as if he's afraid to touch anything, to get too close. His eyes are blown wide, and his mouth is slightly open - which makes him look like a kid surrounded by Christmas trees, all of them fully decorated, and with a huge spill of gifts lying underneath.
"Check this out," he says softly.
He's standing at the edge of a towering forest of greenery, all right, but it's not Christmas trees. The plants all bear a distinctive type of saw-toothed leaf, one that's impossible to mistake for anything except what it is.
Dean's face slides into a smirk.
How the hell did no one ever notice this?? Sam wonders.
The plants are a good eight feet tall, some closer to ten. They reach past the roof line of the small barn Toby Whitmer used to store equipment and shelter a few chickens. More than likely, the plants are visible from the road.
Aren't they?
"Heh," Dean chuckles. "Dude had himself a cash crop."
Still does, Sam observes; the plants seem to be thriving, although the unfortunate Toby has been dead for nine days.
"We should go," he says.
Which isn't Dean's line of thinking at all.
"What?" Sam asks in response to the pensive look that slides across Dean's face.
Dean is silent for a long while. His hands don't emerge from his pockets, but he turns, a little at a time, taking in the expanse of Toby Whitmer's property. "Nice out here," he says finally.
Because his brother seems to be requesting a response, Sam says, "I guess so," with a shrug.
"Quiet."
"Uh-huh."
"Quiet's good."
"I suppose so."
"Nice house. Not too far from town. Wonder if it gets good cable reception?"
"Because -?"
"Just sayin'."
"Because you have a stash of money I know nothing about, which you intend to use to purchase Toby Witmer's now-available property, and become a pot farmer?"
"I might," Dean says defensively.
"And… what? Bake pies in your spare time?"
"There's money to be made here, Sammy."
"And law enforcement really needs another reason to hunt our asses."
"Dude," Dean points out, "the sheriff was out here after the guy died. Probably a couple deputies. Reporter from the local paper. Nobody noticed this little gold mine. Couldn't have, or it'd be gone. They would've seized it. Torched it. Something."
Then, without preamble, he circles around Sam and walks back to the house, climbs the three steps to the small open porch and seats himself on what used to be Toby Whitmer's rocking chair. He's very relaxed by the time Sam joins him, mellow enough to nod toward the only vacant chair and offer it to Sam.
"So in your head," Sam says as he sits, "this is all gonna be a happily-ever-after."
"With visitors," Dean allows.
"Bearing pie."
"It could work."
"Barring the probable interest of the DEA."
Dean lets out a groan and rocks back a little in the chair. "Seriously, man. Like you never."
"Like I never what?"
"You were in college."
"I wasn't in college in the Sixties, Dean."
"So you're gonna sit there and tell me you never."
Sam clearly remembers a Dean - 18, 19 years old - for whom life was very close to being a Harold & Kumar movie. Possibly including Neil Patrick Harris. It played out in short sequences, sometimes three or four days at a stretch, usually when Dad was several states away.
"It always gave me a migraine," Sam says.
"Probably from keeping your whole body clenched the whole time."
"I just -"
"Place like this," Dean muses, "you could learn to chill the hell out."
It's not an unkind observation. More a wish for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
"I want that for you, Sammy. I do," Dean says, and it's as close to earnest as Dean ever gets. "Someplace where you can just chill. Be a lawyer if you want. Small town. Like what's his name. Matlock. Or something. Go fishing on the weekend. Meet somebody."
"Has it occurred to you that I want that for you, too?"
Dean doesn't meet Sam's gaze for a good five minutes. Instead, he gazes out over the late (though, apparently, not terribly lamented) Toby Whitmer's property, rocking gently back and forth in Whitmer's well-scuffed chair. No part of him is clenched, that Sam can see. His face is relaxed, his expression a little amused, maybe a little nostalgic.
There's the aroma of wildflowers in the air.
"Thanks, man," Dean says softly, finally.
"It's the truth."
Whitmer's chickens are gone; so is his dog. Where to, Sam doesn't know, though there are signs that both were still here maybe as recently as a couple of days ago.
It might be easy enough to get them back.
Dean's chair creaks a little as he rocks.
"Sweet dreams are made of this," he croons, somewhere in the range of the right key, smiling a bit, in a way Sam hasn't seen for years.
Then he says, "Pumpkins. Always wanted to grow pumpkins."
Sam raises an eyebrow.
"Cool, right? You plant a seed and you get pumpkins. Halloween time, all the little kids come out and pick the one they want."
Pastor Jim took them to a pumpkin patch once, Sam recalls.
He chose one he could barely wrap his arms around.
Cried when he couldn't lift it.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "That'd be cool."
"How hard could it be?"
Crop rotation, Sam thinks. Pot one year, pumpkins the next. Every kid within fifty miles could end up stoned.
Dean goes back to singing.
Who am I to disagree?
I travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something…
Then he asks, "You put the shovels back in the trunk?"
"Yeah," Sam says.
"That sign we saw on the way in. For that diner. Aunt Millie's? Said like five miles from here, right?"
Sam nods agreement. "Five miles to the best eats in Blaine County. According to the Blaine County Sunriser, August 1987."
"Friggin' place could've burned down years ago," Dean sighs.
But he stands up, prompting the old chair to creak one more time. He spends a long, silent minute considering the homestead of the recently departed Toby Whitmer - all seven-and-a-half acres of it, or at least, as much of that as he can see from the porch.
It's peaceful here, Sam thinks.
"You comin'?" Dean asks.
"Always," Sam says, and follows Dean down the dirt-and-gravel driveway to the car.
* * * * *