SPN FIC - Everyday Heroes
You in the mood for some Winchesters Saving The World, One Piece At A Time? Here you go. With a twist.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG, for rampant potty-mouthage
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 2047 words
Beside him, Sam's pushing open the door and climbing out of the car. How Sam can manage to be in control of his limbs (and, presumably, his mind) is a mystery, but after a couple of big gulps of air Dean puts himself together enough to follow his brother's lead and get out.
EVERYDAY HEROES
By Carol Davis
The guys in Detroit never intended the '67 Impala to stop on a dime. She's too big, too heavy, and when she's clipping along at a little over the speed limit, following the curving, downhill slope of an exit road off the Interstate, if there's something in the way that's not visible until you're right on top of it? She's not stopping.
Unless Dean Winchester's at the wheel.
"Mother of FUCK!" he shrieks, and his heart's gone up past his throat; it's gone straight up through his head and is hammering at the top of his skull, wanting to keep going until it achieves low lunar orbit.
He's stopped her, his baby. He has, although he's laid some considerable rubber in the process, and goddammit he hates doing that, because tires aren't free, you know?
The Impala's front bumper is pretty much kissing the back bumper of some stupidass little white thing, and it's sixteen kinds of a miracle that little white thing isn't embedded in the Impala's engine block. He couldn't swing around it - there was enough time to do that, but the lanes he could have used to swing around are occupied.
By girls.
A whole cluster of dumbass, wailing teenage girls.
At first, he didn't know what they were, other than that they were people; his brain told him that much in the midst of its screaming STOP STOP YOU GOTTA STOP OHMYFUCKINGGODSTOPPPPP!!!! and then pretty much shut down. It's only now, with the Impala's headlights illuminating a little pool of this fabulous nest of fuckuppery while he's clutching the wheel and hoping he's not going to have a stroke right here in the driver's seat, that he can see they're kids, and they're all dressed the same.
In freaking cheerleader uniforms.
Under some radically different circumstances this would be one of his Porn As Real Life wet dreams: him coming to the rescue of a bunch of stranded (and fabulously grateful) cheerleaders. Of course, there'd be no end to the lecturing he'd get from Sam, but they're not young kids, they're like seventeen or eighteen, and it's not like he'd do anything with any of them, he'd just…
"Are you all right?" Sam asks, and his voice is vibrating, as if he's sitting on top of a running clothes dryer.
"Whuh?" is all Dean can come up with.
Outside the sheltering Detroit steel of his baby, the cheerleaders are wailing and squealing and running around flailing their hands. One of them looks like she's sobbing. Dean's window is open, and he can hear some of what they're saying: "Oh my GOD!" and "They almost HIT us!" and what sounds like somebody's name. Terry? Sherry?
"Dude," Sam says.
Dean looks at his hands, still curled around the wheel. They don't look like they're shaking, but they sure as hell feel like they are. His whole body feels like one big tuning fork, and if he was a bigger idiot than he actually is - or if he was the age of these brain-piercing, shrieking girls - he'd be thinking, WOW. That was AWESOME.
But he's not. And seriously? He wants to crap his pants.
Beside him, Sam's pushing open the door and climbing out of the car. How Sam can manage to be in control of his limbs (and, presumably, his mind) is a mystery, but after a couple of big gulps of air Dean puts himself together enough to follow his brother's lead and get out.
Yeah, it's "Terry" the girls are howling.
"She wouldn't get out of the CAR!" one of them sobs as she starts to clutch Sam's shirtsleeve.
Something about being out in the fresh air nudges Dean back towards coherence. That, and the shrieking pisses him off.
"Pipe DOWN!" he bellows.
They do.
"Flares," he says to Sam, but Sam's already moving toward the Impala's trunk.
There's something else, and it doesn't surprise him, because, hell, it wasn't that long ago that he was in high school. These kids have all been drinking. It's after one in the morning and they've all been drinking and they…crap on a stick, they're wailing about running out of gas. One of 'em's still in the car (Terry?), sobbing all over the steering wheel, and the rest of 'em are hovering around like they're hanging around the pool on a Saturday afternoon.
He's getting old, he thinks. Gotta be, because it's plain that this little enterprise is a whole new chapter in the Book of Stupid.
"Get outta the fuckin' ROAD," he barks.
Flares or no flares, somebody could come barreling along the way he and Sam did, could take out the Impala and this piece-of-shit little white car - it's a Toyota, he notices, and that makes him even more annoyed than he was a second ago - and half a dozen cheerleaders.
The girls obey him meekly, and their squealing starts to fade down to some muttering and hiccuppy crying. They gather in a little cluster at the side of the road, but they're still pretty much on the road, so he gestures with a sweeping arm, and he must look like he intends to kick their asses because they shuffle off onto the shoulder and do something that looks like a group hug.
Sam always did like to light flares, even as a kid (thought they were like big Fourth of July sparklers or some damn thing), and he can do it fast and efficiently. He closed the trunk lid after he'd grabbed what he needed, which is a good thing, because if one of those cheerleaders got a look at the body that's in there, well, that'd make for some good times. Those kids all have cell phones, Dean figures, and sure as God made chocolate cream pie they'd be taking pictures, so by morning he and Sam and the Impala and the body in the trunk would be all over freakin' Twitter.
Shuddering, he pops the trunk lid just long enough to grab the gas can Dad taught them to keep in there.
"They're all kinda drunk," Sam says when he comes back from arranging his flares.
Dean peers at him, wonders if that little sparkly gem of brilliance is worth responding to, and settles for, "Yeah."
"She wouldn't get out of the car," one of the kids wails.
She means Terry, who's still whooping and sobbing all over the steering wheel, and from the smell of it, she tossed her cookies in there too.
"You live near here?" he asks the one who seems the most coherent.
"Uhhhh -"
"Who lives the closest?" Sam asks the group.
Figuring that out calls for a conference. You'd think Sam asked them to explain…shit. Quantum physics or some damn thing.
"Andie," one of them volunteers after what seems like an hour.
"How far?" Dean scowls.
Two of them point.
With any luck it's like half a mile. But luck? And Winchesters? Yeah, those two things are often found in pairs.
"You wanna take half and I'll take half?" Sam asks quietly.
That prompts Dean to count heads. There are six girls over at the side of the road, plus the one in the car.
"How the hell did they get seven of 'em in that Barbiemobile?" he sputters.
"We can't let any of them drive, man." When Dean doesn't respond with anything more than a grimace, Sam prods, "We should get out of here. There's" - he nods toward the trunk, like he figures Dean has honestly forgotten about the body - "and, you know. Some truck comes along, and we're toast."
Sometimes, Dean honestly loves his brother.
This would be one of those times, because Sam goes over to the Toyota, does enough sweet-talking to get the whooping Terry out of the driver's seat, jams his ginormous self in there, messes with the seat to give himself enough room to drive, and yanks the door shut.
It takes Dean a moment to process that.
Sam's gonna drive a Toyota that reeks of puke.
Damn, he thinks.
Fifteen or twenty minutes later, they've finished unloading cheerleaders onto the front lawn of a nice-looking house. Maybe, he thinks as Sam surrenders the Toyota's keys to the now-somber Terry, they're scared enough that none of them will try to drive anywhere.
"Thank you," one of them says sheepishly, and the others chime in. He's more than ready to reclaim his car and get out of wherever this is, get back on the road so he and Sam can finish what they started and then, finally, get a little bit of sleep and maybe something to eat, but the cheerleaders start clustering around and hugging him and Sam and burbling thanks and stuff like, "You saved us" and "Ohmygod if you hit us" and "You're awesome."
Well, okay.
"We gotta go," he says.
He has to pretty much peel cheerleaders off of himself - which, under some radically different circumstances, would have been some serious Porn As Real Life and which will probably call for some pondering later on - but he's suddenly back in the comfortable embrace of his baby, firing up the engine and glancing over to make sure Sam's settled in and ready to go.
The cheerleaders wave and call after them as he backs the Impala out onto the road.
They're maybe half a mile away when he says to Sam, "Did one of them call me 'mister'?"
Sam does the serious-thinking thing with his face, then says, "I think they did."
"They? You mean more than one?"
"A couple of them, I think."
"Jesus, dude. 'Mister'?"
"Yeah," Sam says.
He can't help it. He peers at himself in the rearview. Which makes Sam snort softly. "Freakin' half-drunk kids," Dean mutters.
"It's the stress. It ages you prematurely."
"Screw that."
"That a gray hair?" Sam asks, reaching toward Dean's head.
Dean swats him away. "Dude. Drunk."
"You think we scared 'em straight?"
"Shoulda shown 'em what's in the trunk."
Sam snorts again, louder, but he's not really all that amused. "You think somebody was home back there?" he asks, looking over his shoulder, out the back window. "Their parents? The house was pretty dark."
"We got a body in the trunk, Sam."
"Yeah," Sam sighs. "I know."
Dean noticed. He did. There weren't any lights on at that house, and no cars in the driveway. Whichever one of those kids lived there - her parents weren't home.
"You want me to call the cops?" Sam suggests. "Have 'em send a car over there?"
It'll take the shine off that "awesome" thing, but Dad taught them never to leave a job half-done. And those kids?
Are kids.
"Yeah," he says quietly.
So Sam makes the call. Looks a little regretful while he's doing it, less so as he puts his phone away and settles back in the seat like he can relax now and forget the whole thing ever happened.
Yeah, he can forget. Nobody called him "Mister."
"Dude," Sam says, as if he knows what Dean's thinking. "It's dark out. And they were pretty drunk."
"Idiot kids."
"I remember you coming home a few times in kind of questionable condition."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
A smile crawls across Sam's face. Luckily, Sam's facing forward, and Dean can't see much of it. Even better, Sam doesn't press the subject. The smile fades, and Sam curls himself into the position that says he's gonna try to catch some Z's.
Which is cool. It's late, and it's quiet, now, without all those cheerleaders around.
We do what we do, and we move on, Dean thinks.
"Sam?" he says, but he doesn't get an answer.
It's over, then. They did the job - they finished the job - and they're moving on.
Nobody intended a '67 Impala to be able to stop on a dime. They did, however, intend her to provide some serious speed when a little pressure's applied to the accelerator. Dean does that, presses hit booted foot firmly down on the pedal and nods with a familiar pleasure when the car soars obediently ahead.
Maybe a little faster than they ought to be going at this hour, but the road ahead is wide open.
Dean reaches for the radio knob, then smiles slowly, absently, and takes his hand away.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG, for rampant potty-mouthage
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 2047 words
Beside him, Sam's pushing open the door and climbing out of the car. How Sam can manage to be in control of his limbs (and, presumably, his mind) is a mystery, but after a couple of big gulps of air Dean puts himself together enough to follow his brother's lead and get out.
EVERYDAY HEROES
By Carol Davis
The guys in Detroit never intended the '67 Impala to stop on a dime. She's too big, too heavy, and when she's clipping along at a little over the speed limit, following the curving, downhill slope of an exit road off the Interstate, if there's something in the way that's not visible until you're right on top of it? She's not stopping.
Unless Dean Winchester's at the wheel.
"Mother of FUCK!" he shrieks, and his heart's gone up past his throat; it's gone straight up through his head and is hammering at the top of his skull, wanting to keep going until it achieves low lunar orbit.
He's stopped her, his baby. He has, although he's laid some considerable rubber in the process, and goddammit he hates doing that, because tires aren't free, you know?
The Impala's front bumper is pretty much kissing the back bumper of some stupidass little white thing, and it's sixteen kinds of a miracle that little white thing isn't embedded in the Impala's engine block. He couldn't swing around it - there was enough time to do that, but the lanes he could have used to swing around are occupied.
By girls.
A whole cluster of dumbass, wailing teenage girls.
At first, he didn't know what they were, other than that they were people; his brain told him that much in the midst of its screaming STOP STOP YOU GOTTA STOP OHMYFUCKINGGODSTOPPPPP!!!! and then pretty much shut down. It's only now, with the Impala's headlights illuminating a little pool of this fabulous nest of fuckuppery while he's clutching the wheel and hoping he's not going to have a stroke right here in the driver's seat, that he can see they're kids, and they're all dressed the same.
In freaking cheerleader uniforms.
Under some radically different circumstances this would be one of his Porn As Real Life wet dreams: him coming to the rescue of a bunch of stranded (and fabulously grateful) cheerleaders. Of course, there'd be no end to the lecturing he'd get from Sam, but they're not young kids, they're like seventeen or eighteen, and it's not like he'd do anything with any of them, he'd just…
"Are you all right?" Sam asks, and his voice is vibrating, as if he's sitting on top of a running clothes dryer.
"Whuh?" is all Dean can come up with.
Outside the sheltering Detroit steel of his baby, the cheerleaders are wailing and squealing and running around flailing their hands. One of them looks like she's sobbing. Dean's window is open, and he can hear some of what they're saying: "Oh my GOD!" and "They almost HIT us!" and what sounds like somebody's name. Terry? Sherry?
"Dude," Sam says.
Dean looks at his hands, still curled around the wheel. They don't look like they're shaking, but they sure as hell feel like they are. His whole body feels like one big tuning fork, and if he was a bigger idiot than he actually is - or if he was the age of these brain-piercing, shrieking girls - he'd be thinking, WOW. That was AWESOME.
But he's not. And seriously? He wants to crap his pants.
Beside him, Sam's pushing open the door and climbing out of the car. How Sam can manage to be in control of his limbs (and, presumably, his mind) is a mystery, but after a couple of big gulps of air Dean puts himself together enough to follow his brother's lead and get out.
Yeah, it's "Terry" the girls are howling.
"She wouldn't get out of the CAR!" one of them sobs as she starts to clutch Sam's shirtsleeve.
Something about being out in the fresh air nudges Dean back towards coherence. That, and the shrieking pisses him off.
"Pipe DOWN!" he bellows.
They do.
"Flares," he says to Sam, but Sam's already moving toward the Impala's trunk.
There's something else, and it doesn't surprise him, because, hell, it wasn't that long ago that he was in high school. These kids have all been drinking. It's after one in the morning and they've all been drinking and they…crap on a stick, they're wailing about running out of gas. One of 'em's still in the car (Terry?), sobbing all over the steering wheel, and the rest of 'em are hovering around like they're hanging around the pool on a Saturday afternoon.
He's getting old, he thinks. Gotta be, because it's plain that this little enterprise is a whole new chapter in the Book of Stupid.
"Get outta the fuckin' ROAD," he barks.
Flares or no flares, somebody could come barreling along the way he and Sam did, could take out the Impala and this piece-of-shit little white car - it's a Toyota, he notices, and that makes him even more annoyed than he was a second ago - and half a dozen cheerleaders.
The girls obey him meekly, and their squealing starts to fade down to some muttering and hiccuppy crying. They gather in a little cluster at the side of the road, but they're still pretty much on the road, so he gestures with a sweeping arm, and he must look like he intends to kick their asses because they shuffle off onto the shoulder and do something that looks like a group hug.
Sam always did like to light flares, even as a kid (thought they were like big Fourth of July sparklers or some damn thing), and he can do it fast and efficiently. He closed the trunk lid after he'd grabbed what he needed, which is a good thing, because if one of those cheerleaders got a look at the body that's in there, well, that'd make for some good times. Those kids all have cell phones, Dean figures, and sure as God made chocolate cream pie they'd be taking pictures, so by morning he and Sam and the Impala and the body in the trunk would be all over freakin' Twitter.
Shuddering, he pops the trunk lid just long enough to grab the gas can Dad taught them to keep in there.
"They're all kinda drunk," Sam says when he comes back from arranging his flares.
Dean peers at him, wonders if that little sparkly gem of brilliance is worth responding to, and settles for, "Yeah."
"She wouldn't get out of the car," one of the kids wails.
She means Terry, who's still whooping and sobbing all over the steering wheel, and from the smell of it, she tossed her cookies in there too.
"You live near here?" he asks the one who seems the most coherent.
"Uhhhh -"
"Who lives the closest?" Sam asks the group.
Figuring that out calls for a conference. You'd think Sam asked them to explain…shit. Quantum physics or some damn thing.
"Andie," one of them volunteers after what seems like an hour.
"How far?" Dean scowls.
Two of them point.
With any luck it's like half a mile. But luck? And Winchesters? Yeah, those two things are often found in pairs.
"You wanna take half and I'll take half?" Sam asks quietly.
That prompts Dean to count heads. There are six girls over at the side of the road, plus the one in the car.
"How the hell did they get seven of 'em in that Barbiemobile?" he sputters.
"We can't let any of them drive, man." When Dean doesn't respond with anything more than a grimace, Sam prods, "We should get out of here. There's" - he nods toward the trunk, like he figures Dean has honestly forgotten about the body - "and, you know. Some truck comes along, and we're toast."
Sometimes, Dean honestly loves his brother.
This would be one of those times, because Sam goes over to the Toyota, does enough sweet-talking to get the whooping Terry out of the driver's seat, jams his ginormous self in there, messes with the seat to give himself enough room to drive, and yanks the door shut.
It takes Dean a moment to process that.
Sam's gonna drive a Toyota that reeks of puke.
Damn, he thinks.
Fifteen or twenty minutes later, they've finished unloading cheerleaders onto the front lawn of a nice-looking house. Maybe, he thinks as Sam surrenders the Toyota's keys to the now-somber Terry, they're scared enough that none of them will try to drive anywhere.
"Thank you," one of them says sheepishly, and the others chime in. He's more than ready to reclaim his car and get out of wherever this is, get back on the road so he and Sam can finish what they started and then, finally, get a little bit of sleep and maybe something to eat, but the cheerleaders start clustering around and hugging him and Sam and burbling thanks and stuff like, "You saved us" and "Ohmygod if you hit us" and "You're awesome."
Well, okay.
"We gotta go," he says.
He has to pretty much peel cheerleaders off of himself - which, under some radically different circumstances, would have been some serious Porn As Real Life and which will probably call for some pondering later on - but he's suddenly back in the comfortable embrace of his baby, firing up the engine and glancing over to make sure Sam's settled in and ready to go.
The cheerleaders wave and call after them as he backs the Impala out onto the road.
They're maybe half a mile away when he says to Sam, "Did one of them call me 'mister'?"
Sam does the serious-thinking thing with his face, then says, "I think they did."
"They? You mean more than one?"
"A couple of them, I think."
"Jesus, dude. 'Mister'?"
"Yeah," Sam says.
He can't help it. He peers at himself in the rearview. Which makes Sam snort softly. "Freakin' half-drunk kids," Dean mutters.
"It's the stress. It ages you prematurely."
"Screw that."
"That a gray hair?" Sam asks, reaching toward Dean's head.
Dean swats him away. "Dude. Drunk."
"You think we scared 'em straight?"
"Shoulda shown 'em what's in the trunk."
Sam snorts again, louder, but he's not really all that amused. "You think somebody was home back there?" he asks, looking over his shoulder, out the back window. "Their parents? The house was pretty dark."
"We got a body in the trunk, Sam."
"Yeah," Sam sighs. "I know."
Dean noticed. He did. There weren't any lights on at that house, and no cars in the driveway. Whichever one of those kids lived there - her parents weren't home.
"You want me to call the cops?" Sam suggests. "Have 'em send a car over there?"
It'll take the shine off that "awesome" thing, but Dad taught them never to leave a job half-done. And those kids?
Are kids.
"Yeah," he says quietly.
So Sam makes the call. Looks a little regretful while he's doing it, less so as he puts his phone away and settles back in the seat like he can relax now and forget the whole thing ever happened.
Yeah, he can forget. Nobody called him "Mister."
"Dude," Sam says, as if he knows what Dean's thinking. "It's dark out. And they were pretty drunk."
"Idiot kids."
"I remember you coming home a few times in kind of questionable condition."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
A smile crawls across Sam's face. Luckily, Sam's facing forward, and Dean can't see much of it. Even better, Sam doesn't press the subject. The smile fades, and Sam curls himself into the position that says he's gonna try to catch some Z's.
Which is cool. It's late, and it's quiet, now, without all those cheerleaders around.
We do what we do, and we move on, Dean thinks.
"Sam?" he says, but he doesn't get an answer.
It's over, then. They did the job - they finished the job - and they're moving on.
Nobody intended a '67 Impala to be able to stop on a dime. They did, however, intend her to provide some serious speed when a little pressure's applied to the accelerator. Dean does that, presses hit booted foot firmly down on the pedal and nods with a familiar pleasure when the car soars obediently ahead.
Maybe a little faster than they ought to be going at this hour, but the road ahead is wide open.
Dean reaches for the radio knob, then smiles slowly, absently, and takes his hand away.
* * * * *