SPN FIC - In the Smallest of Things Lie Miracles
More Farm Verse! Now... some of you (I think) will like this direction. Some of you might not, but I'm gonna go for it, and we'll see what happens.
It's Dean's birthday, and even though it isn't a milestone year, Sam decides to do something special -- to invite a guest they haven't seen in a while, in hopes of setting something good in motion.
"You've lost your frigging mind," Dean said. "You are out in the freaking ozone."
CHARACTERS: Sam, Dean, and a surprise visitor
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
IN THE SMALLEST OF THINGS LIE MIRACLES
By Carol Davis
"Dude."
Sam ignored his brother. Went on with what he was doing: leaning into the bathtub, putting all the juice he could muster into scrubbing decades of wear and grime off of the old porcelain. He'd cleaned the tub before, any number of times - found the scrubbing a good way to work off the stress of the day, but this particular go-round called for extra effort. Some extra spit and polish.
"SAM," Dean said.
"Did you make your bed?" Sam asked.
"I made my bed. Under duress, I made my bed."
"And vacuumed downstairs?"
"Good Christ, Sam. Yes, I vacuumed the eight tons of dog hair out of every possible crevice. I washed the dishes and put out the garbage. I put all the boots and shoes and that pair of sneakers of yours that smell like a toxic waste dump into a nice tidy line by the back door. And now I ask you: since when has Garth given a flying rat's ass whether we clean up or not? In point of fact - I have personally witnessed Garth having a heartfelt little chat with a rat he found out in the barn. He's not the Cleanliness Police. So what is all this for?"
"Just thought it'd be nice, is all."
"You thought vacuuming the wallpaper would be nice."
"Mm-hmm," Sam said.
"Sam. Who in their right mind vacuums the wallpaper?"
With Dean watching him like a hawk eyeing a prairie dog, Sam shifted back onto his haunches, took a moment to scrutinize the tub for missed spots, then declared the job a success and climbed on up to his feet.
"You should change," he told Dean.
"For Garth."
"Mm-hmm," Sam said.
"I should change my clothes for Garth."
"We have a home now, Dean. We're not inviting somebody into the motel room to go over intel about a hunt. We're welcoming people into our home."
"You've lost your frigging mind," Dean said. "You are out in the freaking ozone."
"I'm just saying -"
"You go change your clothes if you want to. Put on a freaking tuxedo and a cummerbund if it suits you. But me? I am very comfortable in what I'm wearing, thank you very much. In fact, it was all clean this morning, fresh out of the washing machine. If I happen to stink of sweat right now, put it down to two hours of scrubbing and sweeping. Oh. And vacuuming the goddamn wallpaper."
Sam bent to pick up the bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles, then asked his brother, "Are you done?"
"Oh, I am very much done."
"Fine. Just… don't come back and tell me I never gave you the option of putting on something other than a twenty-year-old Metallica t-shirt."
Sam listened to Dean's boots clomping their way down the stairs as he stashed the cleaning supplies in the cabinet under the sink, tidied the rack of clean towels, and thumbed a smudge off the mirror. Even after Dean reached the living room, Sam could hear him complaining, and guessed that the dog was playing her customary role as noncritical (albeit largely nonresponsive) audience.
He could have been honest with Dean, he supposed.
Could have leveled with his brother. That would have been the fair thing to do, if you were thinking along the lines of "full disclosure."
But where was the fun in that?
He was smiling as he made a final tour of the upstairs, checking for errant dust bunnies, straightening the framed landscape print that was the upstairs hallway's only decoration, tossing into a dresser drawer the wrinkled back issue of Busty Asian Beauties Dean had left lying on a chair in his room.
Downstairs, Dean was still griping.
Sam's smile began to stretch a little wider when he heard the crunch of tires against gravel, a car coming up the long driveway toward the house.
Not Garth's truck, of course.
"My birthday," Dean said as Sam reached the landing halfway down the stairs. "I don't know why you feel this serious need to dick around with my birthday. If it was a milestone or something, all right, I'd let you get away with that. But come on. We couldn't just have a couple beers and watch a movie? Dude. In my head, 'birthday' does not equal 'Garth'."
"Mine either," Sam said. "That's why I didn't invite him."
"You - what?"
From his vantage point on the landing, Sam could see out the little window set into the top of the front door. He had an uninterrupted view of the light-colored, late-model car easing into a spot behind the Impala, and of the driver's door opening.
Dean, with his back to the door, saw none of that.
The doorbell rang a minute later. Dean, fully prepared to continue his disgruntled ranting with Garth as its new primary target, swung around, gripped the knob and whipped the door open.
Sam couldn't see his face, but his body language was a thing of beauty.
It had been several years since they'd last seen this particular visitor, and a good many miles from here. After he'd found her phone number via the Internet, Sam had called her fully expecting to hear that she'd gotten married in the interim, maybe had a child or two. Even if that wasn't true, he'd figured she'd demur, that she'd tell him a trip to Iowa wasn't something she felt like tackling right now, maybe ever.
Instead, she said, "Send me the directions."
From his position on the landing, Sam could see the broad, fond smile on her pretty face.
Of all the women they'd met in their travels, he'd thought a couple of weeks ago, this was the one he'd pick for Dean.
This was the one who should be here.
He watched her greet his brother with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Heard her say happily, "Hey, G-man. Happy birthday."
Then he beckoned to the dog, and the two of them made their way quietly upstairs.
* * * * *
It's Dean's birthday, and even though it isn't a milestone year, Sam decides to do something special -- to invite a guest they haven't seen in a while, in hopes of setting something good in motion.
"You've lost your frigging mind," Dean said. "You are out in the freaking ozone."
CHARACTERS: Sam, Dean, and a surprise visitor
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
IN THE SMALLEST OF THINGS LIE MIRACLES
By Carol Davis
"Dude."
Sam ignored his brother. Went on with what he was doing: leaning into the bathtub, putting all the juice he could muster into scrubbing decades of wear and grime off of the old porcelain. He'd cleaned the tub before, any number of times - found the scrubbing a good way to work off the stress of the day, but this particular go-round called for extra effort. Some extra spit and polish.
"SAM," Dean said.
"Did you make your bed?" Sam asked.
"I made my bed. Under duress, I made my bed."
"And vacuumed downstairs?"
"Good Christ, Sam. Yes, I vacuumed the eight tons of dog hair out of every possible crevice. I washed the dishes and put out the garbage. I put all the boots and shoes and that pair of sneakers of yours that smell like a toxic waste dump into a nice tidy line by the back door. And now I ask you: since when has Garth given a flying rat's ass whether we clean up or not? In point of fact - I have personally witnessed Garth having a heartfelt little chat with a rat he found out in the barn. He's not the Cleanliness Police. So what is all this for?"
"Just thought it'd be nice, is all."
"You thought vacuuming the wallpaper would be nice."
"Mm-hmm," Sam said.
"Sam. Who in their right mind vacuums the wallpaper?"
With Dean watching him like a hawk eyeing a prairie dog, Sam shifted back onto his haunches, took a moment to scrutinize the tub for missed spots, then declared the job a success and climbed on up to his feet.
"You should change," he told Dean.
"For Garth."
"Mm-hmm," Sam said.
"I should change my clothes for Garth."
"We have a home now, Dean. We're not inviting somebody into the motel room to go over intel about a hunt. We're welcoming people into our home."
"You've lost your frigging mind," Dean said. "You are out in the freaking ozone."
"I'm just saying -"
"You go change your clothes if you want to. Put on a freaking tuxedo and a cummerbund if it suits you. But me? I am very comfortable in what I'm wearing, thank you very much. In fact, it was all clean this morning, fresh out of the washing machine. If I happen to stink of sweat right now, put it down to two hours of scrubbing and sweeping. Oh. And vacuuming the goddamn wallpaper."
Sam bent to pick up the bottle of Scrubbing Bubbles, then asked his brother, "Are you done?"
"Oh, I am very much done."
"Fine. Just… don't come back and tell me I never gave you the option of putting on something other than a twenty-year-old Metallica t-shirt."
Sam listened to Dean's boots clomping their way down the stairs as he stashed the cleaning supplies in the cabinet under the sink, tidied the rack of clean towels, and thumbed a smudge off the mirror. Even after Dean reached the living room, Sam could hear him complaining, and guessed that the dog was playing her customary role as noncritical (albeit largely nonresponsive) audience.
He could have been honest with Dean, he supposed.
Could have leveled with his brother. That would have been the fair thing to do, if you were thinking along the lines of "full disclosure."
But where was the fun in that?
He was smiling as he made a final tour of the upstairs, checking for errant dust bunnies, straightening the framed landscape print that was the upstairs hallway's only decoration, tossing into a dresser drawer the wrinkled back issue of Busty Asian Beauties Dean had left lying on a chair in his room.
Downstairs, Dean was still griping.
Sam's smile began to stretch a little wider when he heard the crunch of tires against gravel, a car coming up the long driveway toward the house.
Not Garth's truck, of course.
"My birthday," Dean said as Sam reached the landing halfway down the stairs. "I don't know why you feel this serious need to dick around with my birthday. If it was a milestone or something, all right, I'd let you get away with that. But come on. We couldn't just have a couple beers and watch a movie? Dude. In my head, 'birthday' does not equal 'Garth'."
"Mine either," Sam said. "That's why I didn't invite him."
"You - what?"
From his vantage point on the landing, Sam could see out the little window set into the top of the front door. He had an uninterrupted view of the light-colored, late-model car easing into a spot behind the Impala, and of the driver's door opening.
Dean, with his back to the door, saw none of that.
The doorbell rang a minute later. Dean, fully prepared to continue his disgruntled ranting with Garth as its new primary target, swung around, gripped the knob and whipped the door open.
Sam couldn't see his face, but his body language was a thing of beauty.
It had been several years since they'd last seen this particular visitor, and a good many miles from here. After he'd found her phone number via the Internet, Sam had called her fully expecting to hear that she'd gotten married in the interim, maybe had a child or two. Even if that wasn't true, he'd figured she'd demur, that she'd tell him a trip to Iowa wasn't something she felt like tackling right now, maybe ever.
Instead, she said, "Send me the directions."
From his position on the landing, Sam could see the broad, fond smile on her pretty face.
Of all the women they'd met in their travels, he'd thought a couple of weeks ago, this was the one he'd pick for Dean.
This was the one who should be here.
He watched her greet his brother with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Heard her say happily, "Hey, G-man. Happy birthday."
Then he beckoned to the dog, and the two of them made their way quietly upstairs.
* * * * *