fic: The Worst Day of the Year (Supernatural; Sam and Dean; gen)
Okay, this was originally supposed to be the opening section of a much longer story, but given certain events of the finale (which are not referenced in this story at all), I don't think I can write that story as originally conceptualized, and I really like this bit, and since it stands on its own, I figured, what the hell, I'll post.
The Worst Day of the Year
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; gen; 520 words; no spoilers
According to scientists, January 24th is the worst day of the year.
~*~
The Worst Day of the Year
January 24, 2007, Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Snow is falling in dirty greywhite specks that look like ash flaking off the heavy grey sky, when they pull into the rest stop. Sam is out of the car like a shot, sneakers sliding against the slick pavement, heading inside to the restroom to take a leak. Dean moves more slowly, feeling the chill of winter in his bones.
He refills the gas tank, checks the air in the tires, pays to use the vacuum, and cleans out the car--the mats are littered with grave dirt and salt, ashes and crumbs, the detritus of two guys living in one small space, and it's starting to get on his nerves. He spends those boring days when they're between jobs with no leads and no place to be keeping her engine tuned and her body shined, but it's hard to keep her clean inside, living how they live, doing what they do.
Sam's got the radio tuned to NPR, and breaking the silence in the wake of the vacuum cleaner's buzz, the host is talking to some shrink with a British accent.
"Yes, today is the worst day of the year for many people--they've broken their resolutions, lost the optimism with which they rang in the new year. We've calculated--"
Dean reaches in and snaps the radio off. He doesn't need any reminders of what today is.
The snow is still falling softly, cold on the back of his neck, sliding down under his collar, and a chill runs down his spine, making him shiver.
He's huddling in his jacket, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to keep his teeth from chattering, when Sam comes back. He's got a couple bags of groceries--through the thin white plastic, Dean can see bottles of water, a box of tissues, a bag of Doritos--hanging from one hand, and one of those cardboard drink trays in the other, two giant cups of coffee giving off steam in the cold.
Sam drops the bags to the floor in front of the passenger seat and gets in the car, holding the tray steady. Dean sucks in one last deep breath of cold air, and gets in, as well.
Sam hands him a cup of coffee, and the heat of it against his frozen fingers feels like heaven.
"We shag ass, we can be in Sturgis by eight," he says after a couple of sips have warmed him up.
Sam nods. "I got sandwiches." Dean opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Sam says, "And I got you extra onions." He reaches into one of the bags, but instead of pulling out a sandwich, he comes up with a pair of black leather driving gloves, tosses them into Dean's lap. "Happy Birthday."
Dean looks at him, surprised, and Sam looks back, mouth curved in a small smile.
Dean's going to say, I didn't think you'd remembered, or I didn't think you'd want to remember, or possibly, don't be such a fucking girl, but maybe he really is growing up, finally, because instead he just says, "Thanks, Sam."
Sam's smile widens. "You're welcome."
end
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5/21/07
*
Feedback is always welcome.
*
The Worst Day of the Year
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; gen; 520 words; no spoilers
According to scientists, January 24th is the worst day of the year.
~*~
The Worst Day of the Year
January 24, 2007, Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Snow is falling in dirty greywhite specks that look like ash flaking off the heavy grey sky, when they pull into the rest stop. Sam is out of the car like a shot, sneakers sliding against the slick pavement, heading inside to the restroom to take a leak. Dean moves more slowly, feeling the chill of winter in his bones.
He refills the gas tank, checks the air in the tires, pays to use the vacuum, and cleans out the car--the mats are littered with grave dirt and salt, ashes and crumbs, the detritus of two guys living in one small space, and it's starting to get on his nerves. He spends those boring days when they're between jobs with no leads and no place to be keeping her engine tuned and her body shined, but it's hard to keep her clean inside, living how they live, doing what they do.
Sam's got the radio tuned to NPR, and breaking the silence in the wake of the vacuum cleaner's buzz, the host is talking to some shrink with a British accent.
"Yes, today is the worst day of the year for many people--they've broken their resolutions, lost the optimism with which they rang in the new year. We've calculated--"
Dean reaches in and snaps the radio off. He doesn't need any reminders of what today is.
The snow is still falling softly, cold on the back of his neck, sliding down under his collar, and a chill runs down his spine, making him shiver.
He's huddling in his jacket, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to keep his teeth from chattering, when Sam comes back. He's got a couple bags of groceries--through the thin white plastic, Dean can see bottles of water, a box of tissues, a bag of Doritos--hanging from one hand, and one of those cardboard drink trays in the other, two giant cups of coffee giving off steam in the cold.
Sam drops the bags to the floor in front of the passenger seat and gets in the car, holding the tray steady. Dean sucks in one last deep breath of cold air, and gets in, as well.
Sam hands him a cup of coffee, and the heat of it against his frozen fingers feels like heaven.
"We shag ass, we can be in Sturgis by eight," he says after a couple of sips have warmed him up.
Sam nods. "I got sandwiches." Dean opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Sam says, "And I got you extra onions." He reaches into one of the bags, but instead of pulling out a sandwich, he comes up with a pair of black leather driving gloves, tosses them into Dean's lap. "Happy Birthday."
Dean looks at him, surprised, and Sam looks back, mouth curved in a small smile.
Dean's going to say, I didn't think you'd remembered, or I didn't think you'd want to remember, or possibly, don't be such a fucking girl, but maybe he really is growing up, finally, because instead he just says, "Thanks, Sam."
Sam's smile widens. "You're welcome."
end
*
5/21/07
*
Feedback is always welcome.
*