New SPN Fic: Bones, 1/?.
Title: Bones, 1/?.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: My take on the events in Arizone referenced in 'Dark Side of the Moon' (5x16). Spoilers for that episode.
Sometimes a thing Sam loved about a person made him angry. (Or it maybe it didn’t apply to people in general - it might have applied to Dean. Sam hadn’t loved enough people to call it a fair sample). Dean had the ability to get ridiculously happy over stupid things - working microwave, a monster movie marathon on TV, successfully smuggling soft porn into the house under Dad’s nose (as if Dad would care. The truth was, Dean was embarrassed. He’d happily torment his 14-year-old brother with explicit monologues on the varied pleasures of the flesh, asking outrageous questions regarding Sam’s love life, expressing concern for his ‘normal development’, making Sam turn bright red and clamp pillows over his head, but never in front of Dad). If Sam was in a bad mood, these effusions of happiness pissed him off:
“My God. This station is so dumb.”
“Wow. A microwave. Guess tonight we get reheated takeout tonight huh? All is right with the world.” Like it somehow excused their lives. Excused Dad for making them live this way. Like there’d be barbeque and baseball games in the summer.
Dean had the capacity for content. Most often when it was just the two of them, but dad wasn’t in danger: when he’d left them to research something they weren’t involved with, or make a few bucks doing temp work. In November -Phoenix, Arizona - Dad was hauling boxes in a warehouse every weeknight. Sam was off school with the most wretched cold in his accessible memory, and Dean was done with his day shift cleaning windows. It was 9 p.m., raining out, and the only light in the apartment came from the staticky black-and-white TV they kept on a stacking crate. Sam was falling asleep, bundled up in a thin wool blanket, head heavy with snot and cough syrup, worn out with the effort of breathing. Dean was sitting closer than normal - close enough that most times, Sam would’ve felt awkward about it. But gradually he found himself nodding, then sliding gradually sideways, then his head was resting on Dean’s shoulder, bone pressing bone through the thin skin at his temple, a bizarre feeling of intimacy, hard and a little jarring. His impulse was to jerk away, but it seemed like too much effort. He might have dozed for a bit - tuned out the buzz of the television, felt his support shift - and then later, maybe a minute or an hour, he realized Dean’s arm was around him, holding him in place, the fingers of his right hand curled on the outside of Sam’s right arm in a parental gesture. Sam lifted his eyelids with effort: Dean was watching the TV, obviously thought Sam was asleep, the flickering light estranging his familiar face, altering the shadows of his features and darker pattern of freckles. He was still, and utterly - content. Sam was too tired to tell affection from confusion. He fell asleep.
***
Stupidity, he decided, and weak to feel content: to pretend things were acceptable, like this. He was stuffing shirts, socks and a water bottle into his school rucksack this was the last time - no more false starts - the Arizona landscape was dusty with plenty of foliage - hard to track things, and harder to track a Winchester who didn’t want to be found. He had walked home from school with Sara Mendez: clever, kind, so pretty she made him ache: small and dark-eyed and smelling of strawberry bubblegum. Once she had moved her slim hands to hitch her backpack up, and their knuckles brushed, hard bone through hypersensitive skin. Electricity shot up his arm to his brain, the reality of another human, another interior, touched. When they got to the apartment, he didn’t know whether to offer to walk the rest of the way to her house with her, but she just said,
“See you tomorrow,” and made a little wave, and she didn’t ask if his brother was home, or if his brother had a girlfriend. Sam hadn’t realized Dad was in. Didn’t realize he had been watching. But the first thing Dad said when he got in the door had been,
“Don’t get attached, Sam.” That had been the catalyst for an amazing row - Dean wasn’t there to mediate, and it finished with Sam throwing a glass against the wall. Dad just watched in shatter. Then he said,
“You expect me to take your opinions seriously? Try controlling your temper tantrums.” And so Sam was leaving - for good, this time. Dad had gone out,- probably to buy booze, Sam thought viciously. He felt drawn, his blood hot - like if he’d just start, he’d know where he was going. Jerking open a drawer, his eyes fell on a half finished bottle of cough-syrup, now congealed in the bottom, from when he’d been so sick last month - a memory. He had fallen asleep on his brother then - hazy, half-absorbed flash of bone-to-bone structure connection. Rolling his eyes, he dismissed it. As if that could somehow compensate for everything else. As if that made anything okay.
Part Two.
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: reading_is_in
Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drama, Family, Pre-Series
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimer: All recognized characters from ‘Supernatural’ are property of Eric Kripke/CW. This fan fiction is not for profit.
Summary: My take on the events in Arizone referenced in 'Dark Side of the Moon' (5x16). Spoilers for that episode.
Sometimes a thing Sam loved about a person made him angry. (Or it maybe it didn’t apply to people in general - it might have applied to Dean. Sam hadn’t loved enough people to call it a fair sample). Dean had the ability to get ridiculously happy over stupid things - working microwave, a monster movie marathon on TV, successfully smuggling soft porn into the house under Dad’s nose (as if Dad would care. The truth was, Dean was embarrassed. He’d happily torment his 14-year-old brother with explicit monologues on the varied pleasures of the flesh, asking outrageous questions regarding Sam’s love life, expressing concern for his ‘normal development’, making Sam turn bright red and clamp pillows over his head, but never in front of Dad). If Sam was in a bad mood, these effusions of happiness pissed him off:
“My God. This station is so dumb.”
“Wow. A microwave. Guess tonight we get reheated takeout tonight huh? All is right with the world.” Like it somehow excused their lives. Excused Dad for making them live this way. Like there’d be barbeque and baseball games in the summer.
Dean had the capacity for content. Most often when it was just the two of them, but dad wasn’t in danger: when he’d left them to research something they weren’t involved with, or make a few bucks doing temp work. In November -Phoenix, Arizona - Dad was hauling boxes in a warehouse every weeknight. Sam was off school with the most wretched cold in his accessible memory, and Dean was done with his day shift cleaning windows. It was 9 p.m., raining out, and the only light in the apartment came from the staticky black-and-white TV they kept on a stacking crate. Sam was falling asleep, bundled up in a thin wool blanket, head heavy with snot and cough syrup, worn out with the effort of breathing. Dean was sitting closer than normal - close enough that most times, Sam would’ve felt awkward about it. But gradually he found himself nodding, then sliding gradually sideways, then his head was resting on Dean’s shoulder, bone pressing bone through the thin skin at his temple, a bizarre feeling of intimacy, hard and a little jarring. His impulse was to jerk away, but it seemed like too much effort. He might have dozed for a bit - tuned out the buzz of the television, felt his support shift - and then later, maybe a minute or an hour, he realized Dean’s arm was around him, holding him in place, the fingers of his right hand curled on the outside of Sam’s right arm in a parental gesture. Sam lifted his eyelids with effort: Dean was watching the TV, obviously thought Sam was asleep, the flickering light estranging his familiar face, altering the shadows of his features and darker pattern of freckles. He was still, and utterly - content. Sam was too tired to tell affection from confusion. He fell asleep.
***
Stupidity, he decided, and weak to feel content: to pretend things were acceptable, like this. He was stuffing shirts, socks and a water bottle into his school rucksack this was the last time - no more false starts - the Arizona landscape was dusty with plenty of foliage - hard to track things, and harder to track a Winchester who didn’t want to be found. He had walked home from school with Sara Mendez: clever, kind, so pretty she made him ache: small and dark-eyed and smelling of strawberry bubblegum. Once she had moved her slim hands to hitch her backpack up, and their knuckles brushed, hard bone through hypersensitive skin. Electricity shot up his arm to his brain, the reality of another human, another interior, touched. When they got to the apartment, he didn’t know whether to offer to walk the rest of the way to her house with her, but she just said,
“See you tomorrow,” and made a little wave, and she didn’t ask if his brother was home, or if his brother had a girlfriend. Sam hadn’t realized Dad was in. Didn’t realize he had been watching. But the first thing Dad said when he got in the door had been,
“Don’t get attached, Sam.” That had been the catalyst for an amazing row - Dean wasn’t there to mediate, and it finished with Sam throwing a glass against the wall. Dad just watched in shatter. Then he said,
“You expect me to take your opinions seriously? Try controlling your temper tantrums.” And so Sam was leaving - for good, this time. Dad had gone out,- probably to buy booze, Sam thought viciously. He felt drawn, his blood hot - like if he’d just start, he’d know where he was going. Jerking open a drawer, his eyes fell on a half finished bottle of cough-syrup, now congealed in the bottom, from when he’d been so sick last month - a memory. He had fallen asleep on his brother then - hazy, half-absorbed flash of bone-to-bone structure connection. Rolling his eyes, he dismissed it. As if that could somehow compensate for everything else. As if that made anything okay.
Part Two.