Supernatural Ficlet: Between These Four Wheels
Title: Between These Four Wheels
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Lisa, Sam. GEN
Rating: PG13 for language.
Warnings: Spoilers for the finale.
Summary: Coda to 5x22, Swan Song.
Ben helps his mom set the table. He grabs the plates and silverware she hands him and places them on the place mats, fork on the right of the plate, knife to the left. He shoots nervous, unsure little glances at Dean’s face as he does, like he doesn’t know what to do now that the cool guy who talked ACDC with him and taught him how kick a bully down a peg or two, is sitting silent at the dinner table, glazed eyes watching them as they move around the dining room.
Dean has a vague memory of Ben running up to him when he came into the house, a bright smile on his face, recalls Lisa gently nudging him away, whispering in his ear. But it doesn’t matter. He’ll talk to the kid later, when he can look at him and not see the ghost of another little boy who used to run up to him, used to look up to him.
They eat cooked chicken breast in a cream of mushroom sauce, mashed potatoes from real potatoes, not instant, and a salad.
Sam would have loved it.
But the clink-clank of silverware on china is too loud and the whiskey isn’t strong enough and this isn’t family dinner for Dean.
Family dinner is the grease stain along the bottom of the takeout bag, the slurp of a plastic straw followed by the hollow shake and crunch of ice against a cardboard cup. It’s the small popping noise beside him as the clear lid to a wilted salad comes off.
It’s the groan of cracked rubber booths in run down diners, the squeak of the waitress’s shoes as she brings their order, the dull shine of the table and the ancient coffee rings that don’t come off no matter how much you rub at them.
It’s Sam, across or beside him, scrunching up his nose at the amount of ketchup Dean pours on his fries, rolling his eyes as Dean flirts with the waitress, huffing when Dean purposefully ignores every word he says.
Laughing as he holds up the superglue he used to glue Dean’s beer to his hand.
Sam won’t laugh anymore.
Dean drops his fork and abruptly stands up.
“Excuse me,” he croaks out when they look at him in surprise. He ignores Ben’s confused expression, and Lisa’s outstretched hand and worried frown as he leaves the table, rushing up the stairs and into the bathroom.
Inside, he braces his hands against the sink and breathes.
He can’t do it. Forget last wishes, forget promises. He can’t sit here, passing back and forth a basket of rolls when every inch of him is screaming to bring Sam back. To kick and fight and search and rip down walls and bring the whole fucking Apocalypse back if that’s what it takes to get his brother back. He can’t just sit here and pretend that this is his life.
Barbeques and football games.
His fingers dig harsh in the ceramic, his breathing stuttering as he chokes down a hysterical laugh.
Sammy preferred soccer. Used to give the kid hell for it, too. Pansy ass, European football. Not a real man’s game.
He takes a shuddering breath and looks up, examining his own face in the mirror. He rubs a hand along the lid of his left eye and down his face and to his mouth. Not a bruise, not a scratch, even the blood wiped away by angelic magic. No sign at all of the last time his brother’s hands had touched him. He won’t even scar.
Dean feels like a scar. Ugly and twisted and knotted up and not ever, ever going to heal right.
His hands shake as he turns on the water, spilling it from his hands as he cups it and brings it to his face.
Dean turns off the light as he leave the bathroom, walks slowly down the stairs. From the dining room he can hear Ben chatting about the game he and his friends played at recess, how excited he is about summer break. There’s a steady thump thump thump as his heels kick against the legs of his chair. Dean reminds himself that he doesn’t break promises and starts to head back in, but stops in the hall, pausing at the window.
It’s dark out, darker than it should have been in a well lit neighborhood like this. He takes a step forward and peers out the window, looking out at the street. One of the streetlamps went out, but other than that there’s nothing wrong.
Still, there is something…strange, or at least he thinks there is. He can feel it.
“Dean?”
He jerks away from the window, turns around. Lisa is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes flickering worriedly from Dean to the window. “Is everything alright? Is there…is there something out there?”
Her voice is scared, and little hesitant, like she doesn’t know quite what to say to him, and Dean is abruptly reminded that he doesn’t know this woman, not really. And she doesn’t know him, or anything about the life he leads, the life she let into the house with her ten year old son when she opened the door to him.
He moves away from the window and tries to smile reassuringly at her. It feels odd, stiff, on his face, and he’s not sure he succeeds, but he places a hand on her arm anyway, leads her back to the dining room.
“No. No, it’s nothing. There’s nothing there.” She smiles back, believing him.
After dinner she sets him up in the guest bedroom, and he carefully places his beaten tote bag on the floral bedspread, raising his eyebrows at her when he turns back around.
“I just. I thought you’d want your space,” she explains, stuttering and not meeting his eyes. “I mean, it’s just so soon after and I--”
He cuts her off with a smile. “No, you’re right. This is good.” He makes a show of looking around at the pale rose painted walls, lace dust ruffle and matching curtains. “This is better than good. No thirty dollar a night motel here,” he jokes.
No clanking air conditioner to fall asleep to, no neon lights bleeding through the window blinds, no creak of the second bed as his brother shifts and moves in his sleep, snoring lightly when he rolls over onto his back.
Lisa nods and lets out a breath. “Well,” she says awkwardly. “Good night then.”
“Yeah,” he says, mimicking her nod. “Good night.”
She lingers in the doorway for a moment, eyes fixed on him, before she walks forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. She’s soft and warm against him, tiny, and he can smell the shampoo she uses on her hair. “I’m so glad you came here, Dean,” she whispers.
She presses him against her tightly, like she can squeeze away all his pain and grief by sheer will and the force of her thin arms alone. Dean grips his hands in the back of her sweater, closes his eyes, and wishes her good luck.
That night he lies awake on the too soft bed, listening to Ben say his prayers out loud through the wall, a bitter taste in his mouth. He’s still awake long after the sounds of Lisa getting ready for bed stops, failing to get used to the unfamiliar sounds of the house, and trying not to think. A streetlamp flickers in the window, catching his eye, and he takes a deep breath, kicking back the covers and standing up. He quietly puts on his pants and shoes, grabs his keys and walks out the door.
Moonlight gleams off the chrome of the Impala, the paint and windows slick and shining, the tiny spider line cracks on the windshield her only blemish. The creak the door makes as he opens it is familiar, and the vents rattle as he starts the car and turns on the heat. He lies down along the front seat, twisting his legs so he’d fit, like he’s done a million times before, and breathes in deep the smell of old leather and exhaust.
The tension in his shoulders eases a little as he listens to the low rumble of the engine, feels the vibrations through the seat. He closes his eyes, pretends he can hear Sam shuffling in the back seat behind him, imagines the hollow thump followed by a muttered curse as his brother hits his knee or elbow against something, the frustrated huff as Sam tries to fit too much body into too little space.
In the morning Sam will sit up with a groan, look over the seat and smack Dean on the arm to wake him up. He’ll demand breakfast and then bitch about his muscles cramping up from being twisted all night, glare at Dean like it’s his fault. In the diner they go to he’ll stretch out his legs as much as he can, knocking his knees and shins into Dean’s, always the annoying little brother, taking up too much space, demanding more and more of what’s Dean’s.
In the morning Sam will be here, but Dean doesn’t go to sleep.
He won’t be able to take it when he wakes up, and he’s not.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Lisa, Sam. GEN
Rating: PG13 for language.
Warnings: Spoilers for the finale.
Summary: Coda to 5x22, Swan Song.
Ben helps his mom set the table. He grabs the plates and silverware she hands him and places them on the place mats, fork on the right of the plate, knife to the left. He shoots nervous, unsure little glances at Dean’s face as he does, like he doesn’t know what to do now that the cool guy who talked ACDC with him and taught him how kick a bully down a peg or two, is sitting silent at the dinner table, glazed eyes watching them as they move around the dining room.
Dean has a vague memory of Ben running up to him when he came into the house, a bright smile on his face, recalls Lisa gently nudging him away, whispering in his ear. But it doesn’t matter. He’ll talk to the kid later, when he can look at him and not see the ghost of another little boy who used to run up to him, used to look up to him.
They eat cooked chicken breast in a cream of mushroom sauce, mashed potatoes from real potatoes, not instant, and a salad.
Sam would have loved it.
But the clink-clank of silverware on china is too loud and the whiskey isn’t strong enough and this isn’t family dinner for Dean.
Family dinner is the grease stain along the bottom of the takeout bag, the slurp of a plastic straw followed by the hollow shake and crunch of ice against a cardboard cup. It’s the small popping noise beside him as the clear lid to a wilted salad comes off.
It’s the groan of cracked rubber booths in run down diners, the squeak of the waitress’s shoes as she brings their order, the dull shine of the table and the ancient coffee rings that don’t come off no matter how much you rub at them.
It’s Sam, across or beside him, scrunching up his nose at the amount of ketchup Dean pours on his fries, rolling his eyes as Dean flirts with the waitress, huffing when Dean purposefully ignores every word he says.
Laughing as he holds up the superglue he used to glue Dean’s beer to his hand.
Sam won’t laugh anymore.
Dean drops his fork and abruptly stands up.
“Excuse me,” he croaks out when they look at him in surprise. He ignores Ben’s confused expression, and Lisa’s outstretched hand and worried frown as he leaves the table, rushing up the stairs and into the bathroom.
Inside, he braces his hands against the sink and breathes.
He can’t do it. Forget last wishes, forget promises. He can’t sit here, passing back and forth a basket of rolls when every inch of him is screaming to bring Sam back. To kick and fight and search and rip down walls and bring the whole fucking Apocalypse back if that’s what it takes to get his brother back. He can’t just sit here and pretend that this is his life.
Barbeques and football games.
His fingers dig harsh in the ceramic, his breathing stuttering as he chokes down a hysterical laugh.
Sammy preferred soccer. Used to give the kid hell for it, too. Pansy ass, European football. Not a real man’s game.
He takes a shuddering breath and looks up, examining his own face in the mirror. He rubs a hand along the lid of his left eye and down his face and to his mouth. Not a bruise, not a scratch, even the blood wiped away by angelic magic. No sign at all of the last time his brother’s hands had touched him. He won’t even scar.
Dean feels like a scar. Ugly and twisted and knotted up and not ever, ever going to heal right.
His hands shake as he turns on the water, spilling it from his hands as he cups it and brings it to his face.
Dean turns off the light as he leave the bathroom, walks slowly down the stairs. From the dining room he can hear Ben chatting about the game he and his friends played at recess, how excited he is about summer break. There’s a steady thump thump thump as his heels kick against the legs of his chair. Dean reminds himself that he doesn’t break promises and starts to head back in, but stops in the hall, pausing at the window.
It’s dark out, darker than it should have been in a well lit neighborhood like this. He takes a step forward and peers out the window, looking out at the street. One of the streetlamps went out, but other than that there’s nothing wrong.
Still, there is something…strange, or at least he thinks there is. He can feel it.
“Dean?”
He jerks away from the window, turns around. Lisa is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes flickering worriedly from Dean to the window. “Is everything alright? Is there…is there something out there?”
Her voice is scared, and little hesitant, like she doesn’t know quite what to say to him, and Dean is abruptly reminded that he doesn’t know this woman, not really. And she doesn’t know him, or anything about the life he leads, the life she let into the house with her ten year old son when she opened the door to him.
He moves away from the window and tries to smile reassuringly at her. It feels odd, stiff, on his face, and he’s not sure he succeeds, but he places a hand on her arm anyway, leads her back to the dining room.
“No. No, it’s nothing. There’s nothing there.” She smiles back, believing him.
After dinner she sets him up in the guest bedroom, and he carefully places his beaten tote bag on the floral bedspread, raising his eyebrows at her when he turns back around.
“I just. I thought you’d want your space,” she explains, stuttering and not meeting his eyes. “I mean, it’s just so soon after and I--”
He cuts her off with a smile. “No, you’re right. This is good.” He makes a show of looking around at the pale rose painted walls, lace dust ruffle and matching curtains. “This is better than good. No thirty dollar a night motel here,” he jokes.
No clanking air conditioner to fall asleep to, no neon lights bleeding through the window blinds, no creak of the second bed as his brother shifts and moves in his sleep, snoring lightly when he rolls over onto his back.
Lisa nods and lets out a breath. “Well,” she says awkwardly. “Good night then.”
“Yeah,” he says, mimicking her nod. “Good night.”
She lingers in the doorway for a moment, eyes fixed on him, before she walks forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. She’s soft and warm against him, tiny, and he can smell the shampoo she uses on her hair. “I’m so glad you came here, Dean,” she whispers.
She presses him against her tightly, like she can squeeze away all his pain and grief by sheer will and the force of her thin arms alone. Dean grips his hands in the back of her sweater, closes his eyes, and wishes her good luck.
That night he lies awake on the too soft bed, listening to Ben say his prayers out loud through the wall, a bitter taste in his mouth. He’s still awake long after the sounds of Lisa getting ready for bed stops, failing to get used to the unfamiliar sounds of the house, and trying not to think. A streetlamp flickers in the window, catching his eye, and he takes a deep breath, kicking back the covers and standing up. He quietly puts on his pants and shoes, grabs his keys and walks out the door.
Moonlight gleams off the chrome of the Impala, the paint and windows slick and shining, the tiny spider line cracks on the windshield her only blemish. The creak the door makes as he opens it is familiar, and the vents rattle as he starts the car and turns on the heat. He lies down along the front seat, twisting his legs so he’d fit, like he’s done a million times before, and breathes in deep the smell of old leather and exhaust.
The tension in his shoulders eases a little as he listens to the low rumble of the engine, feels the vibrations through the seat. He closes his eyes, pretends he can hear Sam shuffling in the back seat behind him, imagines the hollow thump followed by a muttered curse as his brother hits his knee or elbow against something, the frustrated huff as Sam tries to fit too much body into too little space.
In the morning Sam will sit up with a groan, look over the seat and smack Dean on the arm to wake him up. He’ll demand breakfast and then bitch about his muscles cramping up from being twisted all night, glare at Dean like it’s his fault. In the diner they go to he’ll stretch out his legs as much as he can, knocking his knees and shins into Dean’s, always the annoying little brother, taking up too much space, demanding more and more of what’s Dean’s.
In the morning Sam will be here, but Dean doesn’t go to sleep.
He won’t be able to take it when he wakes up, and he’s not.