fic: No Midget Clowns Allowed (Supernatural; Sam and Dean; gen)
No Midget Clowns Allowed
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; g; 615 words; coda for "Mystery Spot"
Sam gets it now, in his gut and his bones, understands his brother and father in ways he never expected, and with a sick certainty he never wanted.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking this over and making it better.
~*~
No Midget Clowns Allowed
Sam packs his bag slowly, packs away one hundred and ninety days of grief and misery one item at a time, always aware of Dean in his peripheral vision, vibrating like he's already had too much caffeine. Sam's going to have to find a way to modulate, get back in tune with him, become half of a duet again, instead of an unwilling soloist.
He forces himself not to fold everything neatly, makes himself just shove all his stuff into his backpack in a jumble, no need for sharp creases or crisp folds (unless it's to get Dean's attention, make him laugh and call Sam a prissy princess; Sam can't believe he'd missed that, but God, he had, so, so much), no need for that precision, that control, that measured calm and telescoping focus to keep him from going completely off the rails.
Dean stays in the room because Sam asked, and he isn't even being too annoying about it; Sam knows Dean can see how freaked out he is and is humoring him. He's fine with that, will take it for as long as it lasts, because it means Dean is here, within easy reach and out of harm's way.
He gets it now, in his gut and his bones, understands his brother and father in ways he never expected, and with a sick certainty he never wanted. Dean's hovering, his obsession with Sam's health and safety--it all makes sense now. Dean had known instinctively (had had it burned into his skin and bones at the age of four) what it took the trickster's cruelty to teach Sam.
Dean heads out the door. Sam shoulders his bag and follows, stomach clenching in anticipation of a gunshot that doesn't come. He scopes out the parking lot, hand at the gun in his waistband. Cal glances over, sees them both--sees the narrow-eyed glare Sam sends his way--and keeps moving, possibly on his way to rob and kill someone else. Sam can't bring himself to care, though his fingers itch to pull the trigger, put a bullet in the guy's head.
Dean has the trunk open, is stashing weapons in his duffel, and Sam reaches out, runs his fingers along the cool barrel of a shotgun, the leather handle of a bowie knife, the casual disarray so different from what he's become used to over the past few months, and comforting--lived-in--in a way he doesn't expect. He pulls his hand away as Dean snaps the trunk closed.
He takes a deep breath and walks to the driver's side of the car.
"Dude." Dean looks up at him, eyebrow raised in question. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I--"
Dean shakes his head, his indulgence only going so far. "You look like shit, Sam. I'm not letting you drive." He slides behind the wheel, and Sam's eyes sting at the rightness of seeing him there again.
Sam walks around and folds himself into the passenger seat. It feels strange, doesn't fit right, and he reminds himself it's only because Dean pulls the seat up closer to the dash.
Dean starts the engine, familiar roar rumbling in Sam's bones, happier than he's heard it in months. "Maybe you can catch a nap," he says, snapping the radio on but keeping the volume relatively low.
Sam thinks about the discomfort of sleeping in the car--the crick in his neck, the steady undercurrent of bass thumping through his dreams, the possibility that he'll wake up to Dean snapping a picture of him slack-jawed and drooling.
Dean glances over and grins. "No midget clowns allowed. I promise."
Sam smiles, determined to fit himself back into his life.
end
~*~
Feedback would be awesome.
~*~
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; g; 615 words; coda for "Mystery Spot"
Sam gets it now, in his gut and his bones, understands his brother and father in ways he never expected, and with a sick certainty he never wanted.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking this over and making it better.
~*~
No Midget Clowns Allowed
Sam packs his bag slowly, packs away one hundred and ninety days of grief and misery one item at a time, always aware of Dean in his peripheral vision, vibrating like he's already had too much caffeine. Sam's going to have to find a way to modulate, get back in tune with him, become half of a duet again, instead of an unwilling soloist.
He forces himself not to fold everything neatly, makes himself just shove all his stuff into his backpack in a jumble, no need for sharp creases or crisp folds (unless it's to get Dean's attention, make him laugh and call Sam a prissy princess; Sam can't believe he'd missed that, but God, he had, so, so much), no need for that precision, that control, that measured calm and telescoping focus to keep him from going completely off the rails.
Dean stays in the room because Sam asked, and he isn't even being too annoying about it; Sam knows Dean can see how freaked out he is and is humoring him. He's fine with that, will take it for as long as it lasts, because it means Dean is here, within easy reach and out of harm's way.
He gets it now, in his gut and his bones, understands his brother and father in ways he never expected, and with a sick certainty he never wanted. Dean's hovering, his obsession with Sam's health and safety--it all makes sense now. Dean had known instinctively (had had it burned into his skin and bones at the age of four) what it took the trickster's cruelty to teach Sam.
Dean heads out the door. Sam shoulders his bag and follows, stomach clenching in anticipation of a gunshot that doesn't come. He scopes out the parking lot, hand at the gun in his waistband. Cal glances over, sees them both--sees the narrow-eyed glare Sam sends his way--and keeps moving, possibly on his way to rob and kill someone else. Sam can't bring himself to care, though his fingers itch to pull the trigger, put a bullet in the guy's head.
Dean has the trunk open, is stashing weapons in his duffel, and Sam reaches out, runs his fingers along the cool barrel of a shotgun, the leather handle of a bowie knife, the casual disarray so different from what he's become used to over the past few months, and comforting--lived-in--in a way he doesn't expect. He pulls his hand away as Dean snaps the trunk closed.
He takes a deep breath and walks to the driver's side of the car.
"Dude." Dean looks up at him, eyebrow raised in question. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I--"
Dean shakes his head, his indulgence only going so far. "You look like shit, Sam. I'm not letting you drive." He slides behind the wheel, and Sam's eyes sting at the rightness of seeing him there again.
Sam walks around and folds himself into the passenger seat. It feels strange, doesn't fit right, and he reminds himself it's only because Dean pulls the seat up closer to the dash.
Dean starts the engine, familiar roar rumbling in Sam's bones, happier than he's heard it in months. "Maybe you can catch a nap," he says, snapping the radio on but keeping the volume relatively low.
Sam thinks about the discomfort of sleeping in the car--the crick in his neck, the steady undercurrent of bass thumping through his dreams, the possibility that he'll wake up to Dean snapping a picture of him slack-jawed and drooling.
Dean glances over and grins. "No midget clowns allowed. I promise."
Sam smiles, determined to fit himself back into his life.
end
~*~
Feedback would be awesome.
~*~