SPN FIC - He Said
The Muse's adrenaline is pumping. She likes a good, fussy discussion. So have another fic. Phantom Traveler, y'all.
He took his hands away from his cheeks to look at Dean. His face was deep in shadow. I want to know if it’s true was written all over it.
Characters: Dean and Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: Phantom Traveler
Length: 851 words
HE SAID
By Carol Davis
Sam was out there on the walkway outside the motel room, sitting in a plastic chair somebody had dragged up from down by the pool. It might’ve been Sam who brought the chair up there, or maybe not; seemed to Dean like it had been there when they checked in.
It didn’t look solid enough to hold Sam’s weight - it was just a cheap chunk of white plastic, five or six bucks at the dollar store.
He had it tipped back, the upper lip of it resting against the cement block wall of the motel. His feet were propped on the railing at the edge of the walkway.
He looked pretty casual.
Somebody, Dean figured, had brought the chair up here so they could sit outside their room and smoke. Sam didn’t smoke. Never had, as far as Dean knew.
“Dude,” Dean said. “You’re missing Terminator.”
Sam glanced at him, then went back to pondering the view of the parking lot. “Yeah,” he said after a while.
“You love Terminator.”
Dean let that dangle, like bait, but Sam didn’t respond. “Uh’ll be beck,” Dean said.
“Yeah.”
Then Sam turned to look at him, full on, with an expression that didn’t seem to promise a good couple hours of watching Schwarzenegger chase Linda Hamilton around L.A. Which was a damn crime against nature, Dean figured, because Linda Hamilton rocked in a way not many chicks did. She’d make a good hunter - or her character would, anyway. For all he knew, Linda Hamilton might be a serious pain in the ass. Might not be capable of blowing her own nose.
“Will he?” Sam asked.
“Will who what?”
“Dad. Will he be back?”
Yeah, here we go, Dean thought, but Sam didn’t seem to be in a fight-picking mood. He wasn’t aiming to rag on Dad, to lay out chapter and verse of what a ball-busting shit Dad was, how Dad had never understood him, blah blah blahdiddy blah.
He looked kind of…sad.
“Yeah,” Dean said. “He’s just -“
“What?”
“Fuck, Sam, I don’t know.”
There was only the one chair, so Dean leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, and joined Sam in pondering the parking lot. He had never smoked, either, but this was turning into one of those times he wished he’d extended his badassery into the habit of having burning tobacco hanging off his lower lip. It would have, if nothing else, been something to do.
Sam sat for a while, rocking one foot back and forth on the railing. Then he said, “If he’s not taking jobs - what’s he doing?”
If this is an emergency, call my son Dean. He can help.
“I don’t know, man.”
“We should call -“
“Already have. You know that. Called Pastor Jim. Bobby. Caleb. Nobody’s seen Dad, nobody’s talked to him.”
“And he cut you loose.”
“He likes flying solo, man. He always did.”
With a small whuff of air, Sam covered his face with his hands and rubbed at his eyes. He should have been sleeping - they both should have. But it was one of those nights: too much adrenaline, too much to think about. The job wasn’t as easy to lay down, to leave at the door, as Dean had told Sam it was. Yesterday morning, that’d been, when he’d said that. Less than twenty-four hours ago.
You can’t bring it home, he’d said.
As if they had a home.
“I want to talk to him,” Sam murmured.
He took his hands away from his cheeks to look at Dean. His face was deep in shadow. I want to know if it’s true was written all over it.
“Why would he tell a stranger, when he wouldn’t -“ he began, then cut himself off.
“I don’t know, Sam.”
“Did he say it to you? That he was proud of me?”
There was no good answer to that. It was one of those loaded questions, like a chick asking, “Do I look fat in this?” If Dean said yes, then the question would remain: why hadn’t he said it to Sam? And if Dean said no - which was the truth - then the question would remain. Why would Dad tell a stranger something he wouldn’t tell his kids.
But it made sense, in a way. People told bartenders all kinds of crap. Dean had done it himself, laid stuff out to some anonymous barback, knowing it would fade away like smoke and the smell of beer and old socks.
Maybe Jerry Panowski was Dad’s version of a bartender. Had been on that particular day, anyway.
“Is it true?” Sam asked.
His face was deep in shadow, and he looked…
He looked nine years old. He looked like he did that night when he’d found Dad’s journal. When he wanted to know if the bad stuff was real.
“Yeah,” Dean said, but maybe it was a little too quick.
Sam turned away. Rested the back of his head against the rough cement of the motel wall.
“That’s what I figured,” he murmured.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
He took his hands away from his cheeks to look at Dean. His face was deep in shadow. I want to know if it’s true was written all over it.
Characters: Dean and Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: Phantom Traveler
Length: 851 words
HE SAID
By Carol Davis
Sam was out there on the walkway outside the motel room, sitting in a plastic chair somebody had dragged up from down by the pool. It might’ve been Sam who brought the chair up there, or maybe not; seemed to Dean like it had been there when they checked in.
It didn’t look solid enough to hold Sam’s weight - it was just a cheap chunk of white plastic, five or six bucks at the dollar store.
He had it tipped back, the upper lip of it resting against the cement block wall of the motel. His feet were propped on the railing at the edge of the walkway.
He looked pretty casual.
Somebody, Dean figured, had brought the chair up here so they could sit outside their room and smoke. Sam didn’t smoke. Never had, as far as Dean knew.
“Dude,” Dean said. “You’re missing Terminator.”
Sam glanced at him, then went back to pondering the view of the parking lot. “Yeah,” he said after a while.
“You love Terminator.”
Dean let that dangle, like bait, but Sam didn’t respond. “Uh’ll be beck,” Dean said.
“Yeah.”
Then Sam turned to look at him, full on, with an expression that didn’t seem to promise a good couple hours of watching Schwarzenegger chase Linda Hamilton around L.A. Which was a damn crime against nature, Dean figured, because Linda Hamilton rocked in a way not many chicks did. She’d make a good hunter - or her character would, anyway. For all he knew, Linda Hamilton might be a serious pain in the ass. Might not be capable of blowing her own nose.
“Will he?” Sam asked.
“Will who what?”
“Dad. Will he be back?”
Yeah, here we go, Dean thought, but Sam didn’t seem to be in a fight-picking mood. He wasn’t aiming to rag on Dad, to lay out chapter and verse of what a ball-busting shit Dad was, how Dad had never understood him, blah blah blahdiddy blah.
He looked kind of…sad.
“Yeah,” Dean said. “He’s just -“
“What?”
“Fuck, Sam, I don’t know.”
There was only the one chair, so Dean leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, and joined Sam in pondering the parking lot. He had never smoked, either, but this was turning into one of those times he wished he’d extended his badassery into the habit of having burning tobacco hanging off his lower lip. It would have, if nothing else, been something to do.
Sam sat for a while, rocking one foot back and forth on the railing. Then he said, “If he’s not taking jobs - what’s he doing?”
If this is an emergency, call my son Dean. He can help.
“I don’t know, man.”
“We should call -“
“Already have. You know that. Called Pastor Jim. Bobby. Caleb. Nobody’s seen Dad, nobody’s talked to him.”
“And he cut you loose.”
“He likes flying solo, man. He always did.”
With a small whuff of air, Sam covered his face with his hands and rubbed at his eyes. He should have been sleeping - they both should have. But it was one of those nights: too much adrenaline, too much to think about. The job wasn’t as easy to lay down, to leave at the door, as Dean had told Sam it was. Yesterday morning, that’d been, when he’d said that. Less than twenty-four hours ago.
You can’t bring it home, he’d said.
As if they had a home.
“I want to talk to him,” Sam murmured.
He took his hands away from his cheeks to look at Dean. His face was deep in shadow. I want to know if it’s true was written all over it.
“Why would he tell a stranger, when he wouldn’t -“ he began, then cut himself off.
“I don’t know, Sam.”
“Did he say it to you? That he was proud of me?”
There was no good answer to that. It was one of those loaded questions, like a chick asking, “Do I look fat in this?” If Dean said yes, then the question would remain: why hadn’t he said it to Sam? And if Dean said no - which was the truth - then the question would remain. Why would Dad tell a stranger something he wouldn’t tell his kids.
But it made sense, in a way. People told bartenders all kinds of crap. Dean had done it himself, laid stuff out to some anonymous barback, knowing it would fade away like smoke and the smell of beer and old socks.
Maybe Jerry Panowski was Dad’s version of a bartender. Had been on that particular day, anyway.
“Is it true?” Sam asked.
His face was deep in shadow, and he looked…
He looked nine years old. He looked like he did that night when he’d found Dad’s journal. When he wanted to know if the bad stuff was real.
“Yeah,” Dean said, but maybe it was a little too quick.
Sam turned away. Rested the back of his head against the rough cement of the motel wall.
“That’s what I figured,” he murmured.
~~~~~~~~~~~~