Supernatural fic: "Inventory" Gen, PG
Here's something you almost never see from me: A story less than four pages long. Had to happen sometime, I guess.
Title: Inventory
Author: hiyacynth
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, character study
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating and Warnings: PG. Spoiler for "In My Time of Dying."
Disclaimer: More's the pity, I own nothing related to Supernatural except my beloved Season 1 DVDs. No money's changing hands here, and I swear this time no cute and fuzzy bunnies were arrowed.
Word count: 1,600
Summary: Dean likes the quiet hours they get before some hunts, when the research is done and the plan is set and it’s just him and Sam in another motel, suiting up, psyching up.
Acknowledgements and notes: Big, fat thanks to beta-reader likethesun2 for helping me see why this wasn't sitting right with me, giving me some solid advice for how to make it better, and teaching me a couple of ass-saving five-dollar words along the way. Other big, fat thanks to my ever-encouraging beta-slash-cheerleader cunien, who sees these things when they're still random sentences held together with spit and chewing gum, and who claims to love me anyway.
The small print, for you law students out there: I continue to be liptonrm's bitch for showing me the Supernatural light.
Dean likes the quiet hours they get before some hunts, when the research is done and the plan is set and it’s just him and Sam in another motel, suiting up, psyching up. He loves the slide of oiled flannel over gun-metal, the ritual and routine of cleaning the guns and whetting the blades, filling the salt canisters. It’s easy to feel Dad with them then; it’s so much like before. Before Sam left, before Dad did, and then did again.
They don’t talk much, getting ready, and tonight's no different. They've covered the big stuff first: choosing and cleaning the appropriate weapons, loading them with the right rounds (silver tonight), rigging up any special accessories (Sam’s got a theory about adding an extra dose of salt to the holy water and soaking clothesline in it-he thinks they can capture and hold this son of a bitch in consecrated, salted bonds; Dean thinks he’d just as soon kill the bastard as interrogate it, but Sammy likes his experiments, so Dean’s willing to give it a go, as long as things don’t get out of control). With all that taken care of, they move on to the smaller details. They travel ready to fight and can improvise as well as they plan, but when they do find themselves with that long wait between dinner and midnight, they take advantage of it-take inventory, stock up. Because planning’s all well and good, but plans have a way of going wrong, and you better be ready to wing it when things go south. Dad always taught them that as contradictory as it sounds, good improvisation is all about preparation. So when all the heavy lifting's done, they stock their pockets.
Dean's jeans are easy. Dean only has two pairs, and they have same shapes stretched into their pockets. There's a wallet-shaped square in the right back and a subtler, longer rectangle near the outside of his right thigh, where his pocket knife lives. He learned early on not to put anything hard or sharp into a back pocket. This line of work gets you thrown around a lot, and one sure way to make crashing ass-first into some hard surface even less fun is to put something solid and/or pointed between you and the hard surface. Dean carries enough bruises without adding a knife-shaped one to his backside every third day.
He can tell without having to check that everything's where it should be, but as he pushes off the bed where he's running his inventory to pull his leather jacket off the kitchenette's second chair, Dean gives himself a quick pat-down to be sure. His knife presses against his palm through the worn denim like it's homesick, and Dean lets his hand rest there, just below his hip, a second longer than necessary before he sits back down, snapping his jacket over the bed.
Dean’s jacket is leaden, heavy like armor. The pockets are grainy with salt that catches under his fingernails as he works his way through them. There’s a safety pin with five different-sized paperclips hooked through it fastened into the right pocket of every one of his jackets, courtesy of Kathleen and her handcuffs. They click across his knuckles as he shakes the box of matches they share space with, knowing by the heft and rattle that there are at least ten waterproof matches in it. His latest Zippo bumps against the less stylish tools. He gives it a shake, too, checking the fluid level. Sam carries cheap disposable Bics with his matches, but Dean loves the look and feel of a Zippo even if Sam gives him shit for the way he runs through them, tossing them into pool after pool of lighter fluid. Dean’ll argue that a Zippo’s a better bet to light a fire from a distance because you can click the valve open and it’ll hold the flame. But Sam’s right: Dean rarely passes up a chance to look as cool as he knows he does when he’s lighting some evil bastard up-doesn’t matter if there’s no audience. Besides, they’re easy to come by. Half the male population of any bar they walk into has a Zippo on him for similar reasons, and Dean’s an excellent pickpocket.
All their jackets have generous inside pockets. Dad’s journal slid right into this one after Jericho and added a comfortable pressure to his shoulder, like the steadying hand Dad placed there when Dean was learning to shoot. Dean likes the solid weight of it against his side when he moves, the thump it gives his ribs when he throws a punch.
Dean collects a handful of paper scraps from his pockets and piles them on the table next to his bed for sorting in the morning: clumsily drawn sigils; scribbles of Sanskrit copied from the inside of a crypt; the office address and phone number of the local university’s ancient language expert; and two cocktail napkins from their first night in town-Susi and Sharon. Susi dotted her i with an x and underscored her name with three more, and once they've got this nasty-ass business at the school cleared up, Dean’s gonna fix things so they stick around a couple extra days because no way he’s not taking that ride at least once before they head out.
Dean tries to be careful about clearing out the napkins-Sam gets cranky when he leaves them in his pockets and a month’s worth of hot chicks winds up shredded through their wash. Sam’s pissy enough without napkin fuzz in his shorts, so Dean tries to humor him, especially since Sam does most of the laundry.
Stuck to the back of a Post-It bearing the name from this afternoon's crypt and a drawing of a knife is a shiny square packet. Dean plucks it off the paper, checks the expiration date, and puts it back where it belongs. Any jacket of Dean’s has at least three condoms tucked into a pocket with no sharps nearby. Sam’s jackets do, too. Dean knows because he’s the one who puts them there-part of the campaign to break Sam of his vow of chastity. They play an unstated game of hot potato: Sam hits the shower, and Dean slips a few foil squares into the pockets of whichever coat is thrown over whatever chair in whichever motel room, and a couple of days later, they turn up at the top of Dean’s shaving kit. Once there were eight-Sam must’ve gone through all his pockets that morning. Dean doesn’t get discouraged. One day Sam’ll take the plunge, and Dean’s determined that, same as any other situation they walk into, Sam will have the right gear on him when the time comes.
Dean checks his shirt's breast pocket and comes up with the flat leather lock-picking kit. "Sam," he says, the first word he's spoken in an hour, "heads up." He tosses the kit as his brother looks up from his own supplies, laid out across the kitchenette table, and Sam neatly snatches it out of the air, then slides it into his inside pocket. They're both more than handy with locks, but Dad gave Sam the kit for Christmas when he was eleven, so it lives with him. Besides, Dean has to admit that Sam's got some magic in his freakishly large hands-doors come open under his fingers with the same graceful ease that electronics rearrange their circuits and switches for Dean.
EMF's in the non-sharps pocket of his jacket, the left one, and Dean pulls it out and pushes its switch to on, waves it experimentally in Sam's direction to test the batteries, and frowns when it gives Sam a low, buzzing whistle. Dean shakes it, hard, and it whines loudly and flashes all the way up the scale.
"Dude, what's up with you?" Dean snaps, pushing against the alarm flaring in his chest.
Sam makes that face of his and picks the knife off the table-the cursed one they got out of the crypt, the one they're going to melt down on top of the salted bones once they dig them up. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he gripes.
Dean sighs and shoves off the bed before Sam can get any farther into his snit. "Almost midnight. You set?" He hooks three fingers under the collar of his jacket and swings it up; his arms slide into the sleeves like they're coming home, and the comfortable weight of their work cloaks him, smothering the spark of alarm the EMF provoked with the confidence of experience. This spirit with its fancy cursed blade-it's got nothing on the hunters John Winchester raised.
Sam slaps his hands systematically over his pockets as he stands, but Dean knows he won't find anything missing. It's part of the routine, like the way Sam drags his pistol across the table and hitches up his jacket to tuck it against the small of his back. "Yeah. You refill the-"
"In the trunk." Dean leans over and picks up the duffle they loaded hours ago, slings it over his shoulder. He slides his left hand into the front pocket of his jeans in a familiar motion, and his forefinger slips right through the key ring, which Dean pulls free and spins around his finger as he shoulders the door open. The car gleams darkly under the blinking neon of the vacancy sign, waiting, as thoroughly stocked and armed as they are, to take them to the fight. "All right, then," Dean says. "Let's get to work."
Man, I need to get some lighthearted icons like nobody's business. Mine are all DOOM DOOM NOTHING FOR YOU HERE BUT DEATH DOOM ANGST DOOM. Will look to that when I get home.
Title: Inventory
Author: hiyacynth
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, character study
Characters: Dean, Sam
Rating and Warnings: PG. Spoiler for "In My Time of Dying."
Disclaimer: More's the pity, I own nothing related to Supernatural except my beloved Season 1 DVDs. No money's changing hands here, and I swear this time no cute and fuzzy bunnies were arrowed.
Word count: 1,600
Summary: Dean likes the quiet hours they get before some hunts, when the research is done and the plan is set and it’s just him and Sam in another motel, suiting up, psyching up.
Acknowledgements and notes: Big, fat thanks to beta-reader likethesun2 for helping me see why this wasn't sitting right with me, giving me some solid advice for how to make it better, and teaching me a couple of ass-saving five-dollar words along the way. Other big, fat thanks to my ever-encouraging beta-slash-cheerleader cunien, who sees these things when they're still random sentences held together with spit and chewing gum, and who claims to love me anyway.
The small print, for you law students out there: I continue to be liptonrm's bitch for showing me the Supernatural light.
Dean likes the quiet hours they get before some hunts, when the research is done and the plan is set and it’s just him and Sam in another motel, suiting up, psyching up. He loves the slide of oiled flannel over gun-metal, the ritual and routine of cleaning the guns and whetting the blades, filling the salt canisters. It’s easy to feel Dad with them then; it’s so much like before. Before Sam left, before Dad did, and then did again.
They don’t talk much, getting ready, and tonight's no different. They've covered the big stuff first: choosing and cleaning the appropriate weapons, loading them with the right rounds (silver tonight), rigging up any special accessories (Sam’s got a theory about adding an extra dose of salt to the holy water and soaking clothesline in it-he thinks they can capture and hold this son of a bitch in consecrated, salted bonds; Dean thinks he’d just as soon kill the bastard as interrogate it, but Sammy likes his experiments, so Dean’s willing to give it a go, as long as things don’t get out of control). With all that taken care of, they move on to the smaller details. They travel ready to fight and can improvise as well as they plan, but when they do find themselves with that long wait between dinner and midnight, they take advantage of it-take inventory, stock up. Because planning’s all well and good, but plans have a way of going wrong, and you better be ready to wing it when things go south. Dad always taught them that as contradictory as it sounds, good improvisation is all about preparation. So when all the heavy lifting's done, they stock their pockets.
Dean's jeans are easy. Dean only has two pairs, and they have same shapes stretched into their pockets. There's a wallet-shaped square in the right back and a subtler, longer rectangle near the outside of his right thigh, where his pocket knife lives. He learned early on not to put anything hard or sharp into a back pocket. This line of work gets you thrown around a lot, and one sure way to make crashing ass-first into some hard surface even less fun is to put something solid and/or pointed between you and the hard surface. Dean carries enough bruises without adding a knife-shaped one to his backside every third day.
He can tell without having to check that everything's where it should be, but as he pushes off the bed where he's running his inventory to pull his leather jacket off the kitchenette's second chair, Dean gives himself a quick pat-down to be sure. His knife presses against his palm through the worn denim like it's homesick, and Dean lets his hand rest there, just below his hip, a second longer than necessary before he sits back down, snapping his jacket over the bed.
Dean’s jacket is leaden, heavy like armor. The pockets are grainy with salt that catches under his fingernails as he works his way through them. There’s a safety pin with five different-sized paperclips hooked through it fastened into the right pocket of every one of his jackets, courtesy of Kathleen and her handcuffs. They click across his knuckles as he shakes the box of matches they share space with, knowing by the heft and rattle that there are at least ten waterproof matches in it. His latest Zippo bumps against the less stylish tools. He gives it a shake, too, checking the fluid level. Sam carries cheap disposable Bics with his matches, but Dean loves the look and feel of a Zippo even if Sam gives him shit for the way he runs through them, tossing them into pool after pool of lighter fluid. Dean’ll argue that a Zippo’s a better bet to light a fire from a distance because you can click the valve open and it’ll hold the flame. But Sam’s right: Dean rarely passes up a chance to look as cool as he knows he does when he’s lighting some evil bastard up-doesn’t matter if there’s no audience. Besides, they’re easy to come by. Half the male population of any bar they walk into has a Zippo on him for similar reasons, and Dean’s an excellent pickpocket.
All their jackets have generous inside pockets. Dad’s journal slid right into this one after Jericho and added a comfortable pressure to his shoulder, like the steadying hand Dad placed there when Dean was learning to shoot. Dean likes the solid weight of it against his side when he moves, the thump it gives his ribs when he throws a punch.
Dean collects a handful of paper scraps from his pockets and piles them on the table next to his bed for sorting in the morning: clumsily drawn sigils; scribbles of Sanskrit copied from the inside of a crypt; the office address and phone number of the local university’s ancient language expert; and two cocktail napkins from their first night in town-Susi and Sharon. Susi dotted her i with an x and underscored her name with three more, and once they've got this nasty-ass business at the school cleared up, Dean’s gonna fix things so they stick around a couple extra days because no way he’s not taking that ride at least once before they head out.
Dean tries to be careful about clearing out the napkins-Sam gets cranky when he leaves them in his pockets and a month’s worth of hot chicks winds up shredded through their wash. Sam’s pissy enough without napkin fuzz in his shorts, so Dean tries to humor him, especially since Sam does most of the laundry.
Stuck to the back of a Post-It bearing the name from this afternoon's crypt and a drawing of a knife is a shiny square packet. Dean plucks it off the paper, checks the expiration date, and puts it back where it belongs. Any jacket of Dean’s has at least three condoms tucked into a pocket with no sharps nearby. Sam’s jackets do, too. Dean knows because he’s the one who puts them there-part of the campaign to break Sam of his vow of chastity. They play an unstated game of hot potato: Sam hits the shower, and Dean slips a few foil squares into the pockets of whichever coat is thrown over whatever chair in whichever motel room, and a couple of days later, they turn up at the top of Dean’s shaving kit. Once there were eight-Sam must’ve gone through all his pockets that morning. Dean doesn’t get discouraged. One day Sam’ll take the plunge, and Dean’s determined that, same as any other situation they walk into, Sam will have the right gear on him when the time comes.
Dean checks his shirt's breast pocket and comes up with the flat leather lock-picking kit. "Sam," he says, the first word he's spoken in an hour, "heads up." He tosses the kit as his brother looks up from his own supplies, laid out across the kitchenette table, and Sam neatly snatches it out of the air, then slides it into his inside pocket. They're both more than handy with locks, but Dad gave Sam the kit for Christmas when he was eleven, so it lives with him. Besides, Dean has to admit that Sam's got some magic in his freakishly large hands-doors come open under his fingers with the same graceful ease that electronics rearrange their circuits and switches for Dean.
EMF's in the non-sharps pocket of his jacket, the left one, and Dean pulls it out and pushes its switch to on, waves it experimentally in Sam's direction to test the batteries, and frowns when it gives Sam a low, buzzing whistle. Dean shakes it, hard, and it whines loudly and flashes all the way up the scale.
"Dude, what's up with you?" Dean snaps, pushing against the alarm flaring in his chest.
Sam makes that face of his and picks the knife off the table-the cursed one they got out of the crypt, the one they're going to melt down on top of the salted bones once they dig them up. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he gripes.
Dean sighs and shoves off the bed before Sam can get any farther into his snit. "Almost midnight. You set?" He hooks three fingers under the collar of his jacket and swings it up; his arms slide into the sleeves like they're coming home, and the comfortable weight of their work cloaks him, smothering the spark of alarm the EMF provoked with the confidence of experience. This spirit with its fancy cursed blade-it's got nothing on the hunters John Winchester raised.
Sam slaps his hands systematically over his pockets as he stands, but Dean knows he won't find anything missing. It's part of the routine, like the way Sam drags his pistol across the table and hitches up his jacket to tuck it against the small of his back. "Yeah. You refill the-"
"In the trunk." Dean leans over and picks up the duffle they loaded hours ago, slings it over his shoulder. He slides his left hand into the front pocket of his jeans in a familiar motion, and his forefinger slips right through the key ring, which Dean pulls free and spins around his finger as he shoulders the door open. The car gleams darkly under the blinking neon of the vacancy sign, waiting, as thoroughly stocked and armed as they are, to take them to the fight. "All right, then," Dean says. "Let's get to work."
Man, I need to get some lighthearted icons like nobody's business. Mine are all DOOM DOOM NOTHING FOR YOU HERE BUT DEATH DOOM ANGST DOOM. Will look to that when I get home.