SPN FIC - You'll Need a Hero, and a Good Dog
You were looking for a nice celebration of Sam's 30th birthday? Here you go: May 2, 2014 -- held a year later, because everybody deserves at least one do-over, particularly when Dean is in charge.
(Part of the Farm!Verse AU, where the boys buy a small farm with the proceeds of Bobby's estate.)
Title from Jake Owen's "The Journey of Your Life."
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean (and Wendy the dog)
GENRE: Gen (AU)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 848 words
YOU'LL NEED A HERO, AND A GOOD DOG
By Carol Davis
The days are growing long again; it's close to nine o'clock by the time the last of the sunlight has disappeared and the stars have come out. The coming of full darkness prompts a long, slow yawn from Sam - and the sight of that produces a grin from Dean.
"Bedtime, Bonzo?" he quips.
"Long day."
Particularly since it started at midnight, when Dean tossed Sam awake.
Literally tossed him awake: all but threw him out of bed, announcing that not a minute of this day was going to be wasted. "If you're looking to do something nice for me, jerk, you'll let me sleep," Sam told him, but Dean was having no part of that.
Sam's birthday last year had been… not good.
"You're gettin' a do-over," Dean announced.
So Sam turned thirty today, all over again, complete with what seemed like a cast of thousands. Pretty much the entire population of Alliance (all of them game - as always - for a celebration of any kind, at any time, anywhere). Jody and Garth, Jamie, Cas. Pot luck, Dean had told them, and they came to the farm toting enough food to satisfy a small army. Fried chicken, cold chicken, cold cuts, a dozen kinds of salad, burgers and hot dogs and steaks, lemonade by the gallon, five kegs of beer, soda of every possible brand and flavor. Chips and pretzels and popcorn. Cookies. Brownies. Pie.
Dean made the cake.
All by himself, he put together a five-tiered, extravagantly decorated cake so huge and unwieldy he couldn't carry it from its hiding place in the barn without help from Garth and Cas.
A local band played music - mostly oldies - throughout the day. Billy Don from the hardware store did magic tricks. (All sleight-of hand, Sam observed; no actual magic, thank God.) A small committee of women organized races and contests for the kids. The only thing missing was a place to swim, and Sam suspected that Dean would have dug and filled a pond if anyone had thought to mention the oversight.
Really, it was less a birthday party than a county fair.
Hell, there was even a petting zoo of sorts, given that people had brought their dogs, cats, a 300-pound Vietnamese potbellied pig, a macaw, a baby goat named Pete, and three horses.
A pretty remarkable thing, Sam muses now, as the day finally winds down and he and Dean are once again alone with the dog.
"No fireworks?" he asks Dean.
Dean's expression turns noticeably stricken, even in the dim glow filtering out onto the porch from the lamp in the living room. "Shit," he mutters. "Did you want fireworks?"
"No. I - dude, no."
"Shit," Dean says again. "Aw, hell. We should've had everybody stay. Could've scrounged some up from somewhere. Still got a couple bottle rockets in the trunk."
"They're illegal in Iowa, Dean."
"Like we couldn't find a way around that."
With a soft huff of a chuckle, Sam sprawls back in his chair and drops a hand down to the soft, warm head of the dog, who's been his constant companion pretty much all day. When he begins to tease the fur behind her ears with his fingertips, she lets out a huff of her own. She's as wiped as he is, he figures, and it won't take much coaxing to get her upstairs, even though she loves to lie out here on the porch until well after dark, listening to the rustle of the wind and sniffing the air for the scent of prey.
"That was… pretty amazing," Sam says after a minute.
"Kinda was, wasn't it?"
"You didn't need to, you know. All that."
Dean braces the heel of his boot against the porch floor and rocks gently back and forth in the old wicker chair they inherited from Toby Whitmer - along with a lot of other things, including the dog. "Never had a chance before," he says, without quite looking at Sam. "All those years you bitched about not having a real party like the other kids. Would've done it if we could. Hell, if there'd ever been anybody to invite."
"I know that."
Dean shifts his head a little, looks at Sam full-on. "Every year. We would've done it."
Every year, Sam thinks. Every year, Dean did something. As much as he could manage. Even during the Stanford years, when they weren't talking, didn't see each other, Dean did something.
"Thanks, man," Sam murmurs.
All of this, though - the whole day-long extravaganza, and everything that came before it, every second of May, without fail - it doesn't measure up to the gift that was there waiting for him, the day he was born.
The big brother who's been his hero, his champion, ever since.
Smiling, though he understands it's barely visible in the darkness at the end of this very long and extraordinary day, Sam picks up the damp, half-gone bottle of beer he set down alongside the chair and lifts it in a toast.
"You're a hell of a party planner, man," he offers.
"Damn straight I am," Dean replies.
* * * * *
(Part of the Farm!Verse AU, where the boys buy a small farm with the proceeds of Bobby's estate.)
Title from Jake Owen's "The Journey of Your Life."
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean (and Wendy the dog)
GENRE: Gen (AU)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 848 words
YOU'LL NEED A HERO, AND A GOOD DOG
By Carol Davis
The days are growing long again; it's close to nine o'clock by the time the last of the sunlight has disappeared and the stars have come out. The coming of full darkness prompts a long, slow yawn from Sam - and the sight of that produces a grin from Dean.
"Bedtime, Bonzo?" he quips.
"Long day."
Particularly since it started at midnight, when Dean tossed Sam awake.
Literally tossed him awake: all but threw him out of bed, announcing that not a minute of this day was going to be wasted. "If you're looking to do something nice for me, jerk, you'll let me sleep," Sam told him, but Dean was having no part of that.
Sam's birthday last year had been… not good.
"You're gettin' a do-over," Dean announced.
So Sam turned thirty today, all over again, complete with what seemed like a cast of thousands. Pretty much the entire population of Alliance (all of them game - as always - for a celebration of any kind, at any time, anywhere). Jody and Garth, Jamie, Cas. Pot luck, Dean had told them, and they came to the farm toting enough food to satisfy a small army. Fried chicken, cold chicken, cold cuts, a dozen kinds of salad, burgers and hot dogs and steaks, lemonade by the gallon, five kegs of beer, soda of every possible brand and flavor. Chips and pretzels and popcorn. Cookies. Brownies. Pie.
Dean made the cake.
All by himself, he put together a five-tiered, extravagantly decorated cake so huge and unwieldy he couldn't carry it from its hiding place in the barn without help from Garth and Cas.
A local band played music - mostly oldies - throughout the day. Billy Don from the hardware store did magic tricks. (All sleight-of hand, Sam observed; no actual magic, thank God.) A small committee of women organized races and contests for the kids. The only thing missing was a place to swim, and Sam suspected that Dean would have dug and filled a pond if anyone had thought to mention the oversight.
Really, it was less a birthday party than a county fair.
Hell, there was even a petting zoo of sorts, given that people had brought their dogs, cats, a 300-pound Vietnamese potbellied pig, a macaw, a baby goat named Pete, and three horses.
A pretty remarkable thing, Sam muses now, as the day finally winds down and he and Dean are once again alone with the dog.
"No fireworks?" he asks Dean.
Dean's expression turns noticeably stricken, even in the dim glow filtering out onto the porch from the lamp in the living room. "Shit," he mutters. "Did you want fireworks?"
"No. I - dude, no."
"Shit," Dean says again. "Aw, hell. We should've had everybody stay. Could've scrounged some up from somewhere. Still got a couple bottle rockets in the trunk."
"They're illegal in Iowa, Dean."
"Like we couldn't find a way around that."
With a soft huff of a chuckle, Sam sprawls back in his chair and drops a hand down to the soft, warm head of the dog, who's been his constant companion pretty much all day. When he begins to tease the fur behind her ears with his fingertips, she lets out a huff of her own. She's as wiped as he is, he figures, and it won't take much coaxing to get her upstairs, even though she loves to lie out here on the porch until well after dark, listening to the rustle of the wind and sniffing the air for the scent of prey.
"That was… pretty amazing," Sam says after a minute.
"Kinda was, wasn't it?"
"You didn't need to, you know. All that."
Dean braces the heel of his boot against the porch floor and rocks gently back and forth in the old wicker chair they inherited from Toby Whitmer - along with a lot of other things, including the dog. "Never had a chance before," he says, without quite looking at Sam. "All those years you bitched about not having a real party like the other kids. Would've done it if we could. Hell, if there'd ever been anybody to invite."
"I know that."
Dean shifts his head a little, looks at Sam full-on. "Every year. We would've done it."
Every year, Sam thinks. Every year, Dean did something. As much as he could manage. Even during the Stanford years, when they weren't talking, didn't see each other, Dean did something.
"Thanks, man," Sam murmurs.
All of this, though - the whole day-long extravaganza, and everything that came before it, every second of May, without fail - it doesn't measure up to the gift that was there waiting for him, the day he was born.
The big brother who's been his hero, his champion, ever since.
Smiling, though he understands it's barely visible in the darkness at the end of this very long and extraordinary day, Sam picks up the damp, half-gone bottle of beer he set down alongside the chair and lifts it in a toast.
"You're a hell of a party planner, man," he offers.
"Damn straight I am," Dean replies.
* * * * *