(no subject)
I hope everyone has been enjoying their three day weekends, those who had them. Lar was on call Friday and Sunday, and there was whining this morning about rainy weekends, the call schedule, and his ancient tiller. The garden didn't get tilled, so we had to do the whole "I might as well not even plant a garden this year" routine.
We've enacted this same scene for the twenty years we've lived in Pittsburgh, where, you know, it occasionally rains in the springtime. That's how old his stupid tiller is, too, twenty years. What we go through every year to get the damn thing working is ridiculous.
I posted a couple of ficlets to spnflashfic, since I mostly spent the weekend reading and writing. The prompt was mail call.
They keep a PO box in a small town outside of Indianapolis. Not in an actual Post Office, because Sam insists Dean’s face’ll be plastered all over the place, FBI wanted posters and everything, so they rent a box in a dingy, ramshackle UPS store where no one cares who they are or who might want them.
Everything in the damn place is brown, and Dean doesn’t think UPS stores are supposed to be this run-down, but he kind of likes it. It’s homey, or some such shit. The woman behind the counter calls him honey and then ignores them, lets them get on with their business.
Sam is apparently pissy because he’s not wanted for a capital offense and his ugly mug isn’t gonna show up on a poster anywhere. Only Dean is a fugitive on the run, and while really, Dean is just as glad that no one’s after Sam, he can’t resist teasing him about it.
“Just not bad-ass enough, Sammy,” he says with a smirk. “They don’t put accessories on the Most Wanted List.”
“Bite me,” Sam scowls. He rifles through the mail that’s been gathering in their box for the past month. There are the usual applications for credit cards that he stares at for a moment then passes over to Dean with a pinched look makes Dean roll his eyes. Where the hell does Sam get off, being a bitch about credit card fraud? How the hell else does he think they’re going to eat?
“You planning on getting a job, Sam?” Dean asks mildly. “’Cause otherwise,” and he waves the handful of envelopes under Sam’s nose, “this is all we got.”
Sam bats Dean’s hand away with a frown. “No real chance of that anymore,” he mutters as he peers closely at the address on one of the envelopes in his hand. He doesn’t sound mad, just resigned, but Dean feels a flash of guilt anyway.
‘Watcha got there, Sammy?” he asks, going for distraction, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of the envelope, trying to read the feminine-looking handwriting. Sam quickly snatches the letter out of sight.
“Nothing. Just something from a friend at school.” Sam shuffles the mail again, slipping the envelope behind his issue of some law school magazine he still has a subscription for. Dean shakes his head and Sam frowns at him. “What?”
“You still keeping in touch with people from school? Even after St. Louis?” He’s surprised, is all. He thought Sam finally realized how awkward that could get and given up on the whole having normal friends thing.
Sam doesn’t answer, just shoves a couple of back issues of Car and Driver magazine at Dean. Dean grabs them and quickly flips through the November issue, looking for the article on restoring muscle cars he wanted the magazine in the first place for. There it is, with a sidebar retrospective on Impalas. “Score,” he crows, and looks up at Sam with a grin.
Sam smiles back at him and says, “There’s a letter from Pastor Jim.” He slits the envelope open and pulls out a single sheet of paper. He and Dean read it together, their heads close enough for Sam’s wayward hair to tickle Dean’s cheek. Dean doesn’t pull away.
The letter is mostly confirming what Jim told them in their last telephone conversation. He doesn’t know where their dad is. The last time he’d talked to John had been six months ago, and John hadn’t given him any indication that he planned on disappearing.
Sam’s jaw is clenched so tight Dean can almost hear his teeth grind. “Fuck,” he says.
“Sammy,” Dean starts, but Sam shakes his head belligerently.
“I need to find Dad, Dean.”
“I know that, Sam. And we will, I promise.” He casts a glance around the dimly lit store with its piles of crap everywhere. There’s no one around, no one watching them. He leans his forehead against Sam’s cheek, his hand coming up to rest at the small of Sam’s back. “I promise,” he repeats.
After a moment Sam nods. They separate, not looking at each other. Dean clears his throat and Sam says, “You ready to get out of here?” He’s clutching their pile of mail to his chest as if it’s some sort of lifeline.
Dean nods. He waves at the old lady behind the counter as they leave, and she gives him an absent wave in return.
They’re paid up for the year and they’ll be back.
Untitled two and three/fourths drabble:
It didn’t take Dad very long to get over the worst of his anger. Oh, he was still upset, Dean made no mistake about that, but that whole if you go, don’t bother coming back fury had pretty quickly extinguished itself in the empty spaces Sam left behind.
Dean knew Dad was mostly scared shitless. Hell, so was Dean and he didn’t know half the things Dad did about what was out there in the dark. All Dean knew was that Sammy was out there, alone and full of expectations, and the very idea of it terrified Dean so much that he refused to actually think about it.
John Winchester shared his emotions as readily as his oldest son did, which was to say not at all, and the two of them spent many a night sitting silent in front of the TV, or else driving down empty highways with only the sounds of Led Zeppelin between them.
Once Sam left, they became more nomadic than they’d been when Sam was there to bitch about the impermanence of their lives. There didn’t seem to be any point in pretending that just the two of them were capable of having a real home.
But there were PO boxes here and there, full of junk mail and magazines and the occasional letter from John’s contacts, and Dean could see the fear and regret on his father’s face when nothing in those boxes was ever graced with Sam’s familiar handwriting.
It made him hate his brother just a little, and that alone was beyond any forgiveness the three of them could ever seek from each other.
We've enacted this same scene for the twenty years we've lived in Pittsburgh, where, you know, it occasionally rains in the springtime. That's how old his stupid tiller is, too, twenty years. What we go through every year to get the damn thing working is ridiculous.
I posted a couple of ficlets to spnflashfic, since I mostly spent the weekend reading and writing. The prompt was mail call.
They keep a PO box in a small town outside of Indianapolis. Not in an actual Post Office, because Sam insists Dean’s face’ll be plastered all over the place, FBI wanted posters and everything, so they rent a box in a dingy, ramshackle UPS store where no one cares who they are or who might want them.
Everything in the damn place is brown, and Dean doesn’t think UPS stores are supposed to be this run-down, but he kind of likes it. It’s homey, or some such shit. The woman behind the counter calls him honey and then ignores them, lets them get on with their business.
Sam is apparently pissy because he’s not wanted for a capital offense and his ugly mug isn’t gonna show up on a poster anywhere. Only Dean is a fugitive on the run, and while really, Dean is just as glad that no one’s after Sam, he can’t resist teasing him about it.
“Just not bad-ass enough, Sammy,” he says with a smirk. “They don’t put accessories on the Most Wanted List.”
“Bite me,” Sam scowls. He rifles through the mail that’s been gathering in their box for the past month. There are the usual applications for credit cards that he stares at for a moment then passes over to Dean with a pinched look makes Dean roll his eyes. Where the hell does Sam get off, being a bitch about credit card fraud? How the hell else does he think they’re going to eat?
“You planning on getting a job, Sam?” Dean asks mildly. “’Cause otherwise,” and he waves the handful of envelopes under Sam’s nose, “this is all we got.”
Sam bats Dean’s hand away with a frown. “No real chance of that anymore,” he mutters as he peers closely at the address on one of the envelopes in his hand. He doesn’t sound mad, just resigned, but Dean feels a flash of guilt anyway.
‘Watcha got there, Sammy?” he asks, going for distraction, tilting his head to catch a glimpse of the envelope, trying to read the feminine-looking handwriting. Sam quickly snatches the letter out of sight.
“Nothing. Just something from a friend at school.” Sam shuffles the mail again, slipping the envelope behind his issue of some law school magazine he still has a subscription for. Dean shakes his head and Sam frowns at him. “What?”
“You still keeping in touch with people from school? Even after St. Louis?” He’s surprised, is all. He thought Sam finally realized how awkward that could get and given up on the whole having normal friends thing.
Sam doesn’t answer, just shoves a couple of back issues of Car and Driver magazine at Dean. Dean grabs them and quickly flips through the November issue, looking for the article on restoring muscle cars he wanted the magazine in the first place for. There it is, with a sidebar retrospective on Impalas. “Score,” he crows, and looks up at Sam with a grin.
Sam smiles back at him and says, “There’s a letter from Pastor Jim.” He slits the envelope open and pulls out a single sheet of paper. He and Dean read it together, their heads close enough for Sam’s wayward hair to tickle Dean’s cheek. Dean doesn’t pull away.
The letter is mostly confirming what Jim told them in their last telephone conversation. He doesn’t know where their dad is. The last time he’d talked to John had been six months ago, and John hadn’t given him any indication that he planned on disappearing.
Sam’s jaw is clenched so tight Dean can almost hear his teeth grind. “Fuck,” he says.
“Sammy,” Dean starts, but Sam shakes his head belligerently.
“I need to find Dad, Dean.”
“I know that, Sam. And we will, I promise.” He casts a glance around the dimly lit store with its piles of crap everywhere. There’s no one around, no one watching them. He leans his forehead against Sam’s cheek, his hand coming up to rest at the small of Sam’s back. “I promise,” he repeats.
After a moment Sam nods. They separate, not looking at each other. Dean clears his throat and Sam says, “You ready to get out of here?” He’s clutching their pile of mail to his chest as if it’s some sort of lifeline.
Dean nods. He waves at the old lady behind the counter as they leave, and she gives him an absent wave in return.
They’re paid up for the year and they’ll be back.
Untitled two and three/fourths drabble:
It didn’t take Dad very long to get over the worst of his anger. Oh, he was still upset, Dean made no mistake about that, but that whole if you go, don’t bother coming back fury had pretty quickly extinguished itself in the empty spaces Sam left behind.
Dean knew Dad was mostly scared shitless. Hell, so was Dean and he didn’t know half the things Dad did about what was out there in the dark. All Dean knew was that Sammy was out there, alone and full of expectations, and the very idea of it terrified Dean so much that he refused to actually think about it.
John Winchester shared his emotions as readily as his oldest son did, which was to say not at all, and the two of them spent many a night sitting silent in front of the TV, or else driving down empty highways with only the sounds of Led Zeppelin between them.
Once Sam left, they became more nomadic than they’d been when Sam was there to bitch about the impermanence of their lives. There didn’t seem to be any point in pretending that just the two of them were capable of having a real home.
But there were PO boxes here and there, full of junk mail and magazines and the occasional letter from John’s contacts, and Dean could see the fear and regret on his father’s face when nothing in those boxes was ever graced with Sam’s familiar handwriting.
It made him hate his brother just a little, and that alone was beyond any forgiveness the three of them could ever seek from each other.