Past the Pyre (supernatural fic)
Title: Past the Pyre
Rating: PG
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: It's all the CW. Beta'd by the wonderful themollyedge.
Summary: In a bar, miles from their father's grave, the boys cope Winchester style.
Word Count: 1,295
A/N: This was inspired by my older brothers. I can't thank them enough.
Sam watches his brother slam down another stein, beer sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
Looking up, Dean meets his younger brother’s stare, grinning. “That’s four, Sammy,” he slurs.
“I know.” A little surprised at the lack of venom in his tone, Sam shifts on his stool and eyes their optional paths to the door, thinking he’d rather not have to pull his incorrigible brother past more patrons than necessary. It’s too congested anyway, so he turns back to the bar, his empty glass.
“You should get s’more.” Dean prods, as if he can read his little brother’s mind.
Clenching his jaw, Sam nods to the barman--more to sate Dean than anything--though he doesn’t exactly protest the idea of something cold and wet in his dry mouth.
He can remember times when he would have killed, or at the very least maimed, to drink next to his big brother like this. Dean used to make it look so cool, so grownup. Damned if Sam didn’t think he’d earned the right to do it too, feeling mature enough at seventeen. Hell, Dad used to say he felt young around Sam, a mix of regret and teasing love that Sam never learned to see at an age where everything was the parent’s fault.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam breathes deep.
“Hey, Sammy.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on his shoulder, silver ring glinting bright in the dimly lit room “You okay?”
Not meeting his eyes, Sam assures him, “Yeah. I’m fine, Dean.”
But he isn’t, because their father is a pile of ashes a few miles back, and the fucking demon who put him there is running around, still laughing, still standing, still breathing.
“Aw, shit!” and Dean’s cry interrupts his thoughts a moment too slow, cold brew splashing harsh and sudden into Sam’s lap, sloshed up and out of it’s mug from something Dean must have done-moving around or bumping into the ledge. The quantity is impressive, come to think of it.
Sam doesn’t even move to clean it up for a few moments. Of course then Dean is shoving something at him-a wet towel-probably from the bartender.
“Sorry,” he’s muttering as he fumbles, “sorry, man.”
He stops at the harsh feel of Sam pushing him away. “It’s fine, Dean.”
The reassurance makes Dean stare at him a little fuzzily. Then his eyes trail down to the large spot on Sam’s crotch, studying the stain like he’s never seen anything like it, and Sam prepares to make awkward distracting comments.
Finally, Dean looks up at him, grinning a grin that neither of them have seen in a while.
“Dean-”
Sam’s older brother cuts him off, head lifting with a grin. “You uh-you peed your pants there, Sammy.” And like a deranged hyena Dean starts to laugh.
Sam can only stare and debate the probability that beating Dean would knock the immaturity out of him.
Yet, while he contemplates all the different ways of sucker-punching his drunk brother, Dean seems to come to conclusions of his own and the laughter dies from his eyes. “Y’don’t-remember?” Eyebrows raised, Dean turns back to his beer. “Ah, forget it.”
Now Sam stares more to understand where that look came from-what Dean was talking about. When did Sam last pee his pants? It had to be sometime before first grade. Dean and Dad worked hard to get him potty-trained pretty early on; something about wet spots on the sheets must have irked the cleaning staff of their hotels, making them charge dad a little more for the room when they left.
And the search for his brother’s memory is lost in the need to go somewhere, let out his frustration.
Dad is gone. No more lessons about what you leave behind and how you clean up after yourself. Sam does it without thinking, hopping hotels even now, though there’s no one to blame for that but the bastard who initially drove their father to it.
Shuddering, Sam downs some more of his beer. He assures himself the room doesn’t seem colder because he’s scared. Yellow Eyes doesn’t scare Sam-not like other things: the idea of losing Dean, the idea of more deaths he will never be able to stop, the occasional clown-
Choking on a mouthful of cheap alcohol, Sam gives Dean an incredulous look.
Dean, for his part, meets his stare with wide eyes. “What?”
The grin Sam gives him is a sad comparison to his sudden glee, because he knows exactly what Dean meant when he joked about Sam’s pants.
They were young-Sam only nine-but they had managed to sneak their way past the theatre clerks into a ten year anniversary showing of Poltergeist (some stupid promotion around Halloween time).
Sam can still remember Dean asking him to come along, telling him how much fun it would be to see a famous movie in the theatre. What could Sam do? The excitement was contagious and two hours later he was slouched behind a large bag of popcorn, listening to Dean assure him that “Dad would have blasted that thing to bits,” or “It’s just wires, Sam,” even “That’s too fake to even laugh at.” And it was fun, cool because his big brother had brought him-was treating him like the big kid he thought he was.
But halfway through the movie there was this clown doll, like his old friend Casey used to have, and it-it-it got up.
Before the lights came up, Sam recalls begging Dean to leave.
Dean didn’t even ask him why, just nodded and ushered him past disgruntled groups of teens, his hand warm on Sam’s trembling shoulder. By the time they got to the lobby Sam was sure his pants should have been dry. He still berates Levis for making such absorbent material, for forcing him to stop Dean and shakily try to admit that he’d done the unthinkable and wet himself over a stupid movie.
Again, Dean hadn’t skipped a beat. Maybe he paused to look surprised, but after that it was all business.
Glances to the right, glances to the left, and then Dean quietly forced the popcorn out of Sammy’s hands, beginning to walk away.
Sam had been too shocked to notice that his older brother was fumbling with the pop, but before he could say anything, Dean turned around to ask, “Are you coming?” and the suddenly uncovered pop was flung everywhere, covering them in brown cola.
It was stupid, reckless, wasteful, impractical-and completely Dean. Sam can’t recall ever giggling so hard, can’t remember seeing Dean look as smug as he did when the ushers glared and started to clean up. For months after, Dean would joke about people spilling their drinks-a private joke that made Sam giggle and quirked their father’s eyebrow.
Sam knows Dean would do it all again. The idea of a grown Dean pouring Coke on both of them to avoid more embarrassing sights is actually more believable than them catching Yellow Eyes at the moment.
Still studying him, Dean is beginning to look concerned.
With a smirk, Sam pounds on the bar a little, calling “More beer!” so that large amounts of brown liquid jump out onto Dean’s lap. For his part, Dean takes the stain on his favorite pants pretty well. He understands the need for Sam’s re-enactment.
Shuddering to think that they will need that understanding in weeks to come, Sam drinks more from his mug. Out of the corner of his eye he waits for Dean to signal that they can head back to their room, get lost in late night television.
It won’t help any, but for now the stains on their jeans will suffice.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: It's all the CW. Beta'd by the wonderful themollyedge.
Summary: In a bar, miles from their father's grave, the boys cope Winchester style.
Word Count: 1,295
A/N: This was inspired by my older brothers. I can't thank them enough.
Sam watches his brother slam down another stein, beer sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
Looking up, Dean meets his younger brother’s stare, grinning. “That’s four, Sammy,” he slurs.
“I know.” A little surprised at the lack of venom in his tone, Sam shifts on his stool and eyes their optional paths to the door, thinking he’d rather not have to pull his incorrigible brother past more patrons than necessary. It’s too congested anyway, so he turns back to the bar, his empty glass.
“You should get s’more.” Dean prods, as if he can read his little brother’s mind.
Clenching his jaw, Sam nods to the barman--more to sate Dean than anything--though he doesn’t exactly protest the idea of something cold and wet in his dry mouth.
He can remember times when he would have killed, or at the very least maimed, to drink next to his big brother like this. Dean used to make it look so cool, so grownup. Damned if Sam didn’t think he’d earned the right to do it too, feeling mature enough at seventeen. Hell, Dad used to say he felt young around Sam, a mix of regret and teasing love that Sam never learned to see at an age where everything was the parent’s fault.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam breathes deep.
“Hey, Sammy.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on his shoulder, silver ring glinting bright in the dimly lit room “You okay?”
Not meeting his eyes, Sam assures him, “Yeah. I’m fine, Dean.”
But he isn’t, because their father is a pile of ashes a few miles back, and the fucking demon who put him there is running around, still laughing, still standing, still breathing.
“Aw, shit!” and Dean’s cry interrupts his thoughts a moment too slow, cold brew splashing harsh and sudden into Sam’s lap, sloshed up and out of it’s mug from something Dean must have done-moving around or bumping into the ledge. The quantity is impressive, come to think of it.
Sam doesn’t even move to clean it up for a few moments. Of course then Dean is shoving something at him-a wet towel-probably from the bartender.
“Sorry,” he’s muttering as he fumbles, “sorry, man.”
He stops at the harsh feel of Sam pushing him away. “It’s fine, Dean.”
The reassurance makes Dean stare at him a little fuzzily. Then his eyes trail down to the large spot on Sam’s crotch, studying the stain like he’s never seen anything like it, and Sam prepares to make awkward distracting comments.
Finally, Dean looks up at him, grinning a grin that neither of them have seen in a while.
“Dean-”
Sam’s older brother cuts him off, head lifting with a grin. “You uh-you peed your pants there, Sammy.” And like a deranged hyena Dean starts to laugh.
Sam can only stare and debate the probability that beating Dean would knock the immaturity out of him.
Yet, while he contemplates all the different ways of sucker-punching his drunk brother, Dean seems to come to conclusions of his own and the laughter dies from his eyes. “Y’don’t-remember?” Eyebrows raised, Dean turns back to his beer. “Ah, forget it.”
Now Sam stares more to understand where that look came from-what Dean was talking about. When did Sam last pee his pants? It had to be sometime before first grade. Dean and Dad worked hard to get him potty-trained pretty early on; something about wet spots on the sheets must have irked the cleaning staff of their hotels, making them charge dad a little more for the room when they left.
And the search for his brother’s memory is lost in the need to go somewhere, let out his frustration.
Dad is gone. No more lessons about what you leave behind and how you clean up after yourself. Sam does it without thinking, hopping hotels even now, though there’s no one to blame for that but the bastard who initially drove their father to it.
Shuddering, Sam downs some more of his beer. He assures himself the room doesn’t seem colder because he’s scared. Yellow Eyes doesn’t scare Sam-not like other things: the idea of losing Dean, the idea of more deaths he will never be able to stop, the occasional clown-
Choking on a mouthful of cheap alcohol, Sam gives Dean an incredulous look.
Dean, for his part, meets his stare with wide eyes. “What?”
The grin Sam gives him is a sad comparison to his sudden glee, because he knows exactly what Dean meant when he joked about Sam’s pants.
They were young-Sam only nine-but they had managed to sneak their way past the theatre clerks into a ten year anniversary showing of Poltergeist (some stupid promotion around Halloween time).
Sam can still remember Dean asking him to come along, telling him how much fun it would be to see a famous movie in the theatre. What could Sam do? The excitement was contagious and two hours later he was slouched behind a large bag of popcorn, listening to Dean assure him that “Dad would have blasted that thing to bits,” or “It’s just wires, Sam,” even “That’s too fake to even laugh at.” And it was fun, cool because his big brother had brought him-was treating him like the big kid he thought he was.
But halfway through the movie there was this clown doll, like his old friend Casey used to have, and it-it-it got up.
Before the lights came up, Sam recalls begging Dean to leave.
Dean didn’t even ask him why, just nodded and ushered him past disgruntled groups of teens, his hand warm on Sam’s trembling shoulder. By the time they got to the lobby Sam was sure his pants should have been dry. He still berates Levis for making such absorbent material, for forcing him to stop Dean and shakily try to admit that he’d done the unthinkable and wet himself over a stupid movie.
Again, Dean hadn’t skipped a beat. Maybe he paused to look surprised, but after that it was all business.
Glances to the right, glances to the left, and then Dean quietly forced the popcorn out of Sammy’s hands, beginning to walk away.
Sam had been too shocked to notice that his older brother was fumbling with the pop, but before he could say anything, Dean turned around to ask, “Are you coming?” and the suddenly uncovered pop was flung everywhere, covering them in brown cola.
It was stupid, reckless, wasteful, impractical-and completely Dean. Sam can’t recall ever giggling so hard, can’t remember seeing Dean look as smug as he did when the ushers glared and started to clean up. For months after, Dean would joke about people spilling their drinks-a private joke that made Sam giggle and quirked their father’s eyebrow.
Sam knows Dean would do it all again. The idea of a grown Dean pouring Coke on both of them to avoid more embarrassing sights is actually more believable than them catching Yellow Eyes at the moment.
Still studying him, Dean is beginning to look concerned.
With a smirk, Sam pounds on the bar a little, calling “More beer!” so that large amounts of brown liquid jump out onto Dean’s lap. For his part, Dean takes the stain on his favorite pants pretty well. He understands the need for Sam’s re-enactment.
Shuddering to think that they will need that understanding in weeks to come, Sam drinks more from his mug. Out of the corner of his eye he waits for Dean to signal that they can head back to their room, get lost in late night television.
It won’t help any, but for now the stains on their jeans will suffice.