SPN: "Unexpected"
Category: Supernatural, This Christmas Day 'verse
Title: Unexpected
Word Count: 1050
Rating: PG
Summary: Sam's had a very rough day. It's about to get awkward. Comes before Lacrimosa.
Okay, so I feel really bad about not getting those other stories finished, and this was a little tag to a longer story that was pretty much finished and self-explanatory. Therefore, have a treat!
The house was dark when Sam staggered in. No surprise there; it was late, and it was a school night. The younger kids had early bedtimes, and Dean and Marcy were kind of strict about the older ones being in their rooms, if not actually in bed, by ten.
Dean. Strict about bedtimes.
The longer Sam lived here, the more he felt like he'd tumbled down the proverbial rabbit hole. It wasn't that he hadn't known his brother's life had changed, but.... This was the same man who'd raised him on cereal, canned pasta, and late-night TV. They'd never had bedtimes until Sam started school and realized that other kids did and insisted on them because they were supposed to.
Maybe Dean had just gotten all the parenting mistakes out of his system on Sam.
But at least that meant Sam should have the TV to himself.
Bad enough that Hannah had decided that he needed the proper NASCAR education if he was going to stay in Charlotte, but nobody had warned him that a simple trip to a museum with her would be so much like trying to keep up with Ananda, Kara, and Dean on a coffee buzz. She'd insisted on viewing every exhibit and doing every activity at the Hall of Fame, including racing him in the simulators, and so enthusiastically that gaggles of kids and whole herds of rednecks had been staring at them. On top of that, her driving had left him way too wired to relax for awhile. (Hannah had absolutely no room to bitch about Dean's driving. None.) Sam was exhausted, and his feet were killing him, but there was no way he could sleep right now. TV would be a nice, mindless distraction until his heart stopped pounding and he quit seeing brightly-painted cars behind his eyelids every time he shut his eyes.
If this was how she showed gratitude for an in-law helping with the poltergeist-proofing, he hated to think what she'd do if somebody did something big for her.
And then he could figure out what crime he'd committed to deserve the Hall of Fame and a road trip. If it hadn't been Sunday, he didn't doubt that she would have dragged him into every race shop she insisted on driving by, and he was still surprised that she hadn't taken it into her head to try to drive into the Charlotte racetrack, rather than just by it. They must have spent four hours in the car, and while her "Bret" was a huge boat of an antique Caddy, it also had a bench front seat and her legs were way shorter than his, meaning that he'd been kinda cramped.
Probably just as well that race season hadn't started yet, or she might have taken it into her head to fly them to Daytona.
The fact that Sam now knew that the NASCAR season started in Daytona scared him.
The box of leftovers was too large for the tiny fridge in his room, so he put it in the big fridge in the kitchen and dropped the stack of pamphlets and brochures and the Hall of Fame guidebook onto his desk. Hannah had insisted on taking one of everything, and he still wasn't sure how he'd escaped without a T-shirt and a hat-
Sam blinked, then sighed, stumbled back to the kitchen, retrieved the stack of pamphlets and brochures and guidebook from the fridge, and then put the leftovers in and took the paperwork to his room before heading for the living room.
He was so tired that the noises didn't even register until he flipped the switch for the lamps. "What the-" somebody said.
Marcy's head popped up over the back of the couch. "Oh, crap. It's the big one."
"The- SAM!" Dean bellowed from somewhere underneath her, out of sight behind the back of the couch, followed by something that was damn near flailing as he attempted to sit up.
Sam just stood there, trying to wrap his mind around the face that he'd just interrupted Dean and Marcy making out. He hoped they were only making out. Not that he hadn't walked in on Dean before, many a time, but-this was Dean and Marcy. Somehow it seemed different when it was Dean and his wife. In their own house.
"Dude, I don't care how long you stand there, you're not getting invited," Dean said, an edge in his voice. "She's mine. Get your own Reynolds."
"Don't you have your own room?" Sam was astonished that a comment that stupid came out of his mouth even as he said it. Must be the exhaustion.
"It's our house! They're all our rooms!"
"Does that-" The words slipped out before Sam realized that he really, truly did not want to know if Dean and Marcy had christened every room in the house. Because "every room in the house" included his room, dammit, and he had his limits. "Never mind. Sorry. I didn't think. I just-"
"You okay there, Sammy?" Dean asked.
Sam opened his mouth to answer-and then realized just how fiercely Marcy was glaring at him. Clearly, she had plans for the night-she must have thought that he'd stay at Hannah's or something-and just as clearly, she didn't want them interrupted. And he couldn't really argue that this was public space-he hardly ever came in here, even after the kids were in bed, unless Dean was watching a movie or something. When he wasn't in his room, he was usually in the playrooms or kitchen. It really wasn't surprising that neither one of them had expected him to walk in. Especially not this late.
"Fine," he managed. "Just-just tired." And fled.
There might have been a bit of soft laughter behind him. He wasn't sticking around to find out.
Cars weren't that bad, really. He'd had worst things stuck on repeat on the backs of his eyelids. And sure, his adrenaline was still going, but-he had books. Somewhere. Fuck that, he had some leftover muscle relaxants somewhere. One of those would knock him out quick and probably help his feet, too.
Tomorrow, he'd go out and buy a TV of his own.
And he was never going anywhere with that woman ever again.
Title: Unexpected
Word Count: 1050
Rating: PG
Summary: Sam's had a very rough day. It's about to get awkward. Comes before Lacrimosa.
Okay, so I feel really bad about not getting those other stories finished, and this was a little tag to a longer story that was pretty much finished and self-explanatory. Therefore, have a treat!
The house was dark when Sam staggered in. No surprise there; it was late, and it was a school night. The younger kids had early bedtimes, and Dean and Marcy were kind of strict about the older ones being in their rooms, if not actually in bed, by ten.
Dean. Strict about bedtimes.
The longer Sam lived here, the more he felt like he'd tumbled down the proverbial rabbit hole. It wasn't that he hadn't known his brother's life had changed, but.... This was the same man who'd raised him on cereal, canned pasta, and late-night TV. They'd never had bedtimes until Sam started school and realized that other kids did and insisted on them because they were supposed to.
Maybe Dean had just gotten all the parenting mistakes out of his system on Sam.
But at least that meant Sam should have the TV to himself.
Bad enough that Hannah had decided that he needed the proper NASCAR education if he was going to stay in Charlotte, but nobody had warned him that a simple trip to a museum with her would be so much like trying to keep up with Ananda, Kara, and Dean on a coffee buzz. She'd insisted on viewing every exhibit and doing every activity at the Hall of Fame, including racing him in the simulators, and so enthusiastically that gaggles of kids and whole herds of rednecks had been staring at them. On top of that, her driving had left him way too wired to relax for awhile. (Hannah had absolutely no room to bitch about Dean's driving. None.) Sam was exhausted, and his feet were killing him, but there was no way he could sleep right now. TV would be a nice, mindless distraction until his heart stopped pounding and he quit seeing brightly-painted cars behind his eyelids every time he shut his eyes.
If this was how she showed gratitude for an in-law helping with the poltergeist-proofing, he hated to think what she'd do if somebody did something big for her.
And then he could figure out what crime he'd committed to deserve the Hall of Fame and a road trip. If it hadn't been Sunday, he didn't doubt that she would have dragged him into every race shop she insisted on driving by, and he was still surprised that she hadn't taken it into her head to try to drive into the Charlotte racetrack, rather than just by it. They must have spent four hours in the car, and while her "Bret" was a huge boat of an antique Caddy, it also had a bench front seat and her legs were way shorter than his, meaning that he'd been kinda cramped.
Probably just as well that race season hadn't started yet, or she might have taken it into her head to fly them to Daytona.
The fact that Sam now knew that the NASCAR season started in Daytona scared him.
The box of leftovers was too large for the tiny fridge in his room, so he put it in the big fridge in the kitchen and dropped the stack of pamphlets and brochures and the Hall of Fame guidebook onto his desk. Hannah had insisted on taking one of everything, and he still wasn't sure how he'd escaped without a T-shirt and a hat-
Sam blinked, then sighed, stumbled back to the kitchen, retrieved the stack of pamphlets and brochures and guidebook from the fridge, and then put the leftovers in and took the paperwork to his room before heading for the living room.
He was so tired that the noises didn't even register until he flipped the switch for the lamps. "What the-" somebody said.
Marcy's head popped up over the back of the couch. "Oh, crap. It's the big one."
"The- SAM!" Dean bellowed from somewhere underneath her, out of sight behind the back of the couch, followed by something that was damn near flailing as he attempted to sit up.
Sam just stood there, trying to wrap his mind around the face that he'd just interrupted Dean and Marcy making out. He hoped they were only making out. Not that he hadn't walked in on Dean before, many a time, but-this was Dean and Marcy. Somehow it seemed different when it was Dean and his wife. In their own house.
"Dude, I don't care how long you stand there, you're not getting invited," Dean said, an edge in his voice. "She's mine. Get your own Reynolds."
"Don't you have your own room?" Sam was astonished that a comment that stupid came out of his mouth even as he said it. Must be the exhaustion.
"It's our house! They're all our rooms!"
"Does that-" The words slipped out before Sam realized that he really, truly did not want to know if Dean and Marcy had christened every room in the house. Because "every room in the house" included his room, dammit, and he had his limits. "Never mind. Sorry. I didn't think. I just-"
"You okay there, Sammy?" Dean asked.
Sam opened his mouth to answer-and then realized just how fiercely Marcy was glaring at him. Clearly, she had plans for the night-she must have thought that he'd stay at Hannah's or something-and just as clearly, she didn't want them interrupted. And he couldn't really argue that this was public space-he hardly ever came in here, even after the kids were in bed, unless Dean was watching a movie or something. When he wasn't in his room, he was usually in the playrooms or kitchen. It really wasn't surprising that neither one of them had expected him to walk in. Especially not this late.
"Fine," he managed. "Just-just tired." And fled.
There might have been a bit of soft laughter behind him. He wasn't sticking around to find out.
Cars weren't that bad, really. He'd had worst things stuck on repeat on the backs of his eyelids. And sure, his adrenaline was still going, but-he had books. Somewhere. Fuck that, he had some leftover muscle relaxants somewhere. One of those would knock him out quick and probably help his feet, too.
Tomorrow, he'd go out and buy a TV of his own.
And he was never going anywhere with that woman ever again.