Fic: How Sam and Dean Spent Their Summer Vacation
Author: tahirire
Wordcount: 678
Rating: PG 13
Beta: None
Genre: Gen, pre-series
Spoilers: None
Warnings: My generic major character death fic list.
Summary: A birthday ficlet for samidha , based on the Sulic and Hauser Smooth Criminal video. She introduced me to this vid months ago, and it has been deleted from youtube countless times since then, but no matter how many times it gets re-uploaded, the top thumbs-up comment is always "So this is what Sam and Dean do when they're not hunting demons." So in a way this was inevitable.
samidha - There were so many possible applications to this prompt, and I want to do all of them SO BAD, lol, but we decided to keep it mostly angst-free this time, so pretend this is your backstory. I cannot promise I don't have at least 1 other bunny percolating from this. In the meantime, enjoy some little SamnDean. :) Happy birthday, babe. Love you.
How Sam and Dean Spent Their Summer Vacation
Ms Butterworth (like the syrup, the kind they never get to buy in the store, but Pastor Jim always has some when they stay over and it makes Sammy hyper as hell) plays the piano at church. She has grey hair and manicured fingernails and tables in her house that have lace placemats on them.
By the third week of summer, after Dean has exhausted Jim’s spare ammo stores and Sammy has exhausted his library, Jim practically shoves them through the door of her tiny two-bedroom. (Time you boys learned some sophistication, he says.)
Jim smiles and thanks her very much for her service, the way you might salute someone about to go to war. She eyes Dean critically, like she knows that he’s the one Jim is thanking her for. Sammy curls into his brother’s side, still shy at nine years old, but there is something about those trusting eyes of his that makes her re-think her strategy. “Welcome boys,” she says instead, “let’s get started, shall we?”
Sammy always was a fish. (That’s what Dad called it when you learned something real fast, Dean thought it had something to do with the Marines, but he never had asked.) By the fourth week of summer, he was sneaking over there to play that thing, and finally Dean cornered him and told him that if he was going to be vanishing every three seconds to support his geek boy music habit, then he better damn well let Dean know first so he didn’t accidentally shoot him when he came back. By the fifth week of summer, Dean just gave up and started going with him.
Ms Butterworth tells Dean to call her Nan one day as she rifles through sheet music. The slightly off-key sound of Sam plinking away at Clair De Lune fills the hallway. Dean rolls his eyes and sighs, and Nan laughs.
“Not your style?”
Dean shrugs. Nan’s eyes get a hint of a sparkle behind them, and she hands Dean a new sheet of music entitled Moonlight Sonata. He takes it, feeling inexplicably wary, like she knows something he doesn’t.
“How about you two give that a try,” she suggests, “and I’ll make us some lunch.”
Dean discovers that playing the piano can be kind of badass that day, and it’s all downhill from there.
Pastor Jim’s parish didn’t have a lot of kids, but they used to get concert choirs sometimes. That summer, the high school from the next county over brought an orchestra. Sammy begged to go and watch. Dean waved hello to Nan, but then hung by the back door to scan the packed house for any trouble. Halfway through the show, some kid whipped out a cello and played Mamma I’m Coming Home with full accompaniment like a rock star. The crowd went nuts. Dean could see Sammy’s starry eyes whip around to stare at him from all the way in the front row. Dean smiled back a little, but he shook his head. No way was a pair of cellos going to fit in the back of the Impala.
“Dean,” Sam breaths, tugging on his brother’s jacket sleeve, “Oh my god, Dean.”
Nan’s hand squeezes Dean’s thin shoulder in an iron grip and she makes her tone stern. “I expect you to practice extra hard. These are not toys.”
“We will, Miss Nan, we promise,” Sam gushes. Then he looks up at Dean again, and damn if he doesn’t have just as much steel behind his eyes as the old lady does. “We do promise,” he prompts threateningly, “Don’t we, Dean?”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, squirt. We promise.”
Sam turns and full-on hugs Nan, and she grins and kisses him on the top of his head. Her eyes meet Dean’s. He rolls his because he knows she’s full of it, but he’s grateful. He steps across the purple shag carpet and runs his hand over the polished wood curves of his cello while Sammy breaks into his bow case.
It’s pretty much the best summer ever.
Wordcount: 678
Rating: PG 13
Beta: None
Genre: Gen, pre-series
Spoilers: None
Warnings: My generic major character death fic list.
Summary: A birthday ficlet for samidha , based on the Sulic and Hauser Smooth Criminal video. She introduced me to this vid months ago, and it has been deleted from youtube countless times since then, but no matter how many times it gets re-uploaded, the top thumbs-up comment is always "So this is what Sam and Dean do when they're not hunting demons." So in a way this was inevitable.
samidha - There were so many possible applications to this prompt, and I want to do all of them SO BAD, lol, but we decided to keep it mostly angst-free this time, so pretend this is your backstory. I cannot promise I don't have at least 1 other bunny percolating from this. In the meantime, enjoy some little SamnDean. :) Happy birthday, babe. Love you.
How Sam and Dean Spent Their Summer Vacation
Ms Butterworth (like the syrup, the kind they never get to buy in the store, but Pastor Jim always has some when they stay over and it makes Sammy hyper as hell) plays the piano at church. She has grey hair and manicured fingernails and tables in her house that have lace placemats on them.
By the third week of summer, after Dean has exhausted Jim’s spare ammo stores and Sammy has exhausted his library, Jim practically shoves them through the door of her tiny two-bedroom. (Time you boys learned some sophistication, he says.)
Jim smiles and thanks her very much for her service, the way you might salute someone about to go to war. She eyes Dean critically, like she knows that he’s the one Jim is thanking her for. Sammy curls into his brother’s side, still shy at nine years old, but there is something about those trusting eyes of his that makes her re-think her strategy. “Welcome boys,” she says instead, “let’s get started, shall we?”
Sammy always was a fish. (That’s what Dad called it when you learned something real fast, Dean thought it had something to do with the Marines, but he never had asked.) By the fourth week of summer, he was sneaking over there to play that thing, and finally Dean cornered him and told him that if he was going to be vanishing every three seconds to support his geek boy music habit, then he better damn well let Dean know first so he didn’t accidentally shoot him when he came back. By the fifth week of summer, Dean just gave up and started going with him.
Ms Butterworth tells Dean to call her Nan one day as she rifles through sheet music. The slightly off-key sound of Sam plinking away at Clair De Lune fills the hallway. Dean rolls his eyes and sighs, and Nan laughs.
“Not your style?”
Dean shrugs. Nan’s eyes get a hint of a sparkle behind them, and she hands Dean a new sheet of music entitled Moonlight Sonata. He takes it, feeling inexplicably wary, like she knows something he doesn’t.
“How about you two give that a try,” she suggests, “and I’ll make us some lunch.”
Dean discovers that playing the piano can be kind of badass that day, and it’s all downhill from there.
Pastor Jim’s parish didn’t have a lot of kids, but they used to get concert choirs sometimes. That summer, the high school from the next county over brought an orchestra. Sammy begged to go and watch. Dean waved hello to Nan, but then hung by the back door to scan the packed house for any trouble. Halfway through the show, some kid whipped out a cello and played Mamma I’m Coming Home with full accompaniment like a rock star. The crowd went nuts. Dean could see Sammy’s starry eyes whip around to stare at him from all the way in the front row. Dean smiled back a little, but he shook his head. No way was a pair of cellos going to fit in the back of the Impala.
“Dean,” Sam breaths, tugging on his brother’s jacket sleeve, “Oh my god, Dean.”
Nan’s hand squeezes Dean’s thin shoulder in an iron grip and she makes her tone stern. “I expect you to practice extra hard. These are not toys.”
“We will, Miss Nan, we promise,” Sam gushes. Then he looks up at Dean again, and damn if he doesn’t have just as much steel behind his eyes as the old lady does. “We do promise,” he prompts threateningly, “Don’t we, Dean?”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, squirt. We promise.”
Sam turns and full-on hugs Nan, and she grins and kisses him on the top of his head. Her eyes meet Dean’s. He rolls his because he knows she’s full of it, but he’s grateful. He steps across the purple shag carpet and runs his hand over the polished wood curves of his cello while Sammy breaks into his bow case.
It’s pretty much the best summer ever.