SPN FIC - Revisionist History
Thought I was going to bed. But apparently not. The Muse must have had her girly coffee beverage. With caffeine. And she felt like pondering What Is and What Should Never Be.
Characters: Dean and Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: WIAWSNB
Length: 991 words
REVISIONIST HISTORY
By Carol Davis
They have plenty of pictures, he and Sam. Of their family, of home. Reprints Dad picked up from the drugstore the day before the fire and forgot to bring into the house. The ones Dad had kept in his wallet. A few that were given to Dad before he took the three of them away from Lawrence - a kind gesture by neighbors, friends, people who wanted John's boys to have a glimpse of their mom.
Jenny Cooper, the woman who moved into what had once been their house, gave them a whole box of pictures she'd found in the basement.
And there are some from later, that he and Sam took with cheap disposable cameras. Some Polaroids taken by people they crossed paths with along the way. Them with Dad, out on the road somewhere, at some cheesy tourist attraction. A few at Bobby's place, or Pastor Jim's.
But they have nothing like the pictures at Mom's house.
That fake place.
The one Dean made up in his head.
The four of them together at Christmas, wearing stupid Christmas sweaters. All of them on vacation somewhere, wearing big matching grins. Dean at a prom with a girl he's never met. Dad wearing a softball team uniform and holding a bat.
Dad and Mom and Sam, at Sam's high school graduation.
* * *
He has to fight his way through the crowd, muttering S'cuse me and moving people aside so he can make a narrow path for himself. Everybody wants the same thing, to get up front, to find the kid they belong to and start hugging, and it's damned annoying. All those kids will still be there in five minutes. Or ten. Or an hour.
Lucky for him, Sam is so freakishly tall that Dean can find him easily.
Even if Sam weren't that tall, you could pick him out of the crowd because of that bitchface he's wearing.
"Where's Dad?" he says when Dean gets close enough to hear him.
"I -"
Sam half-turns away, clutching his diploma, the tassel on his cap bopping against his cheek. "Okay," he says. "Fine."
"He wanted to come, Sammy."
"Yeah? Then why isn't he here?"
"Come on, Sam. Don't do this."
"I'm not," Sam says flatly, and starts walking away. He gets only a few steps before he bumps into a white-haired lady in a purple dress. They don't collide hard enough for her to lose her footing, but Sam takes hold of her anyway, just to be sure, and she does kind of a double-take at him. Because he's so freaking tall.
"Look at you," she says, and pats his chest. "So handsome. Your parents must be very proud."
Sam's face freezes. "Yes, ma'am," he replies.
She's gone then, off into the crowd, in search of whoever it is that she belongs with. Or to. Or what the hell ever.
"I've got money," Dean says. "Let's go eat. Something good. Steak. You want steak?"
"Whatever."
Sam's trying to be mad. He's trying to hold on to furious with everything he's got. But Dean's known him too long not to see through that. God damn it, Dad, Dean thinks, and shoves a hand through his hair.
"Hi, Sam!" somebody chirps. It's a girl, kind of cute, with short, curly red hair that clashes so bad with the cap and gown, she looks like part of a circus act. She's got a yearbook in her hands that she flips open and shoves at Sam along with a pen, intending for him to sign his picture. Sam doesn't have a copy of the book - they couldn't afford it, and it's not like this school really means all that much to him anyway. He only went here for the one year, and really, not even the whole year. Apparently Sam likes the girl enough not to be snotty to her, because he puts together a sort of reasonable expression as he signs the book. "Is this your brother?" she chirps. "Is this Dean?"
Sam nods, sort of dismissively. "Yeah."
"I'll take your picture."
Before either one of them can argue, she whips out an old, beat-up Polaroid camera (and man, she's got enough crap in her pockets that she really could be a clown), stage-manages the two of them into standing side by side, and snaps their picture. As soon as it pops out of the camera, she zooms up onto her tiptoes, smacks an air kiss somewhere near Sam's cheek, gives him the picture and then vanishes into the crowd.
"Who the hell was that?" Dean asks.
"A girl," is all Sam will tell him.
They stand there for a minute, jammed in between people's relatives and friends, and watch the picture develop. It's not bad, although Chirpy Girl cut off the top of Sam's head and Dean's whole left side. Sammy looks good in his cap and gown. Dean looks good too, in the shirt and tie he wore special for this, for today, for Sammy. So people wouldn't think Sammy's family was a bunch of slobs.
"Did he call?" Sam asks, staring at the picture.
Dean looks at his brother. At the raw disappointment on Sam's face. The hurt that makes him look like a little kid, not somebody who just turned nineteen. "No," Dean confesses. "He didn't call."
Sam turns to stare at him. His face is blank now. Pure and empty and blank. "Let's go eat," he says.
And he walks away, without even looking to see if Dean is following.
* * *
What became of that picture, Dean doesn't know. Maybe Sam threw it out before he got on the bus for Stanford. Or while he was at Stanford. Maybe it got burned up in the fire, with all Sam and Jessica's stuff.
Dean has no idea where it went.
He remembers it, though.
Remembers who was in that picture, with Sam.
And who was in the picture he made up in his head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Characters: Dean and Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: WIAWSNB
Length: 991 words
REVISIONIST HISTORY
By Carol Davis
They have plenty of pictures, he and Sam. Of their family, of home. Reprints Dad picked up from the drugstore the day before the fire and forgot to bring into the house. The ones Dad had kept in his wallet. A few that were given to Dad before he took the three of them away from Lawrence - a kind gesture by neighbors, friends, people who wanted John's boys to have a glimpse of their mom.
Jenny Cooper, the woman who moved into what had once been their house, gave them a whole box of pictures she'd found in the basement.
And there are some from later, that he and Sam took with cheap disposable cameras. Some Polaroids taken by people they crossed paths with along the way. Them with Dad, out on the road somewhere, at some cheesy tourist attraction. A few at Bobby's place, or Pastor Jim's.
But they have nothing like the pictures at Mom's house.
That fake place.
The one Dean made up in his head.
The four of them together at Christmas, wearing stupid Christmas sweaters. All of them on vacation somewhere, wearing big matching grins. Dean at a prom with a girl he's never met. Dad wearing a softball team uniform and holding a bat.
Dad and Mom and Sam, at Sam's high school graduation.
* * *
He has to fight his way through the crowd, muttering S'cuse me and moving people aside so he can make a narrow path for himself. Everybody wants the same thing, to get up front, to find the kid they belong to and start hugging, and it's damned annoying. All those kids will still be there in five minutes. Or ten. Or an hour.
Lucky for him, Sam is so freakishly tall that Dean can find him easily.
Even if Sam weren't that tall, you could pick him out of the crowd because of that bitchface he's wearing.
"Where's Dad?" he says when Dean gets close enough to hear him.
"I -"
Sam half-turns away, clutching his diploma, the tassel on his cap bopping against his cheek. "Okay," he says. "Fine."
"He wanted to come, Sammy."
"Yeah? Then why isn't he here?"
"Come on, Sam. Don't do this."
"I'm not," Sam says flatly, and starts walking away. He gets only a few steps before he bumps into a white-haired lady in a purple dress. They don't collide hard enough for her to lose her footing, but Sam takes hold of her anyway, just to be sure, and she does kind of a double-take at him. Because he's so freaking tall.
"Look at you," she says, and pats his chest. "So handsome. Your parents must be very proud."
Sam's face freezes. "Yes, ma'am," he replies.
She's gone then, off into the crowd, in search of whoever it is that she belongs with. Or to. Or what the hell ever.
"I've got money," Dean says. "Let's go eat. Something good. Steak. You want steak?"
"Whatever."
Sam's trying to be mad. He's trying to hold on to furious with everything he's got. But Dean's known him too long not to see through that. God damn it, Dad, Dean thinks, and shoves a hand through his hair.
"Hi, Sam!" somebody chirps. It's a girl, kind of cute, with short, curly red hair that clashes so bad with the cap and gown, she looks like part of a circus act. She's got a yearbook in her hands that she flips open and shoves at Sam along with a pen, intending for him to sign his picture. Sam doesn't have a copy of the book - they couldn't afford it, and it's not like this school really means all that much to him anyway. He only went here for the one year, and really, not even the whole year. Apparently Sam likes the girl enough not to be snotty to her, because he puts together a sort of reasonable expression as he signs the book. "Is this your brother?" she chirps. "Is this Dean?"
Sam nods, sort of dismissively. "Yeah."
"I'll take your picture."
Before either one of them can argue, she whips out an old, beat-up Polaroid camera (and man, she's got enough crap in her pockets that she really could be a clown), stage-manages the two of them into standing side by side, and snaps their picture. As soon as it pops out of the camera, she zooms up onto her tiptoes, smacks an air kiss somewhere near Sam's cheek, gives him the picture and then vanishes into the crowd.
"Who the hell was that?" Dean asks.
"A girl," is all Sam will tell him.
They stand there for a minute, jammed in between people's relatives and friends, and watch the picture develop. It's not bad, although Chirpy Girl cut off the top of Sam's head and Dean's whole left side. Sammy looks good in his cap and gown. Dean looks good too, in the shirt and tie he wore special for this, for today, for Sammy. So people wouldn't think Sammy's family was a bunch of slobs.
"Did he call?" Sam asks, staring at the picture.
Dean looks at his brother. At the raw disappointment on Sam's face. The hurt that makes him look like a little kid, not somebody who just turned nineteen. "No," Dean confesses. "He didn't call."
Sam turns to stare at him. His face is blank now. Pure and empty and blank. "Let's go eat," he says.
And he walks away, without even looking to see if Dean is following.
* * *
What became of that picture, Dean doesn't know. Maybe Sam threw it out before he got on the bus for Stanford. Or while he was at Stanford. Maybe it got burned up in the fire, with all Sam and Jessica's stuff.
Dean has no idea where it went.
He remembers it, though.
Remembers who was in that picture, with Sam.
And who was in the picture he made up in his head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~