SPN FIC - Warm Summer Rain
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
TIMELINE: Early season 3
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1219 words
They're almost an hour past winding up the job, still wearing the suits, when they have to stop at a crossroads. On the road that bisects theirs, a long, long procession of cars - each of them with headlights burning, although it's a little after eleven in the morning, and the sun is doing its thing so brightly that even with sunglasses Sam has to squint against the glare - is rolling along toward the west.
WARM SUMMER RAIN
By Carol Davis
They're almost an hour past winding up the job, still wearing the suits, when they have to stop at a crossroads. On the road that bisects theirs, a long, long procession of cars - each of them with headlights burning, although it's a little after eleven in the morning, and the sun is doing its thing so brightly that even with sunglasses Sam has to squint against the glare - is rolling along toward the west.
Their windows are down, but there's nothing to listen to except the chugging idle of the Impala's big engine. All those other cars are so quiet they might as well be part of a movie playing on a TV he's muted.
"Lot of cars," Sam says quietly.
He waits for Dean to chide him for using up air to say something so stupidly obvious, but Dean says nothing, just sits with his hands on the wheel, the silver of his ring tossing a glint of light across the small space between them.
Dean's seen something, Sam thinks; something he, Sam, has missed, but he doesn't ask about it.
After three or four minutes the last car passes. A moment later Dean shifts his foot from the brake to the accelerator and the Impala moves forward. Then, to Sam's surprise, Dean switches on the headlamps, makes a left turn and guides the car into place at the end of the procession.
"What -?" Sam frowns.
He looks at his brother, but Dean says nothing. His hands are tight on the wheel, his shoulders tensed. Dean's seen something, Sam thinks, then thinks a string of curses because it's been something like thirty-eight hours since they've slept. His body is starting to feel like it doesn't belong to him; it's ill-fitting, too tight in some places and too loose in others, like the suit. A motel bed would be nirvana right now, and it doesn't even matter how many different old, stale things said bed smells like. He'll breathe through his mouth. He'll breathe through his mouth and listen to Dean snore until he falls asleep.
The cortege doesn't go far. Half a mile down the road, maybe a little more, the cars one by one turn into a blacktopped lot and one by one they park.
"What is it, man?" Sam asks.
The only answer he gets is that they're stopping. They're joining this group of mourners.
Dean doesn't ask Sam to come with him, doesn't say anything at all. He stands beside the Impala, makes a couple of small movements to shift his rumpled jacket into place, then begins to walk slowly in the wake of this group of people neither one of them knows.
"Dean?" Sam calls after his brother. "Aren't you gonna -"
Dean glances back, considers Sam standing alongside the car, sees Sam gesture at the trunk. Of course he knows Sam means, Aren't you taking anything? Gun? Salt? Holy water?
Of course he does.
But he walks away, following the mourners, hands buried in the pockets of the jacket of his Goodwill suit, sunglasses concealing most of what he's feeling - all of it, for anyone who knows him less well than Sam does.
The why of this goes on being a mystery, but the what is plain. Sam remains beside the car, watching his brother cross a small country road, a weary, cheap-suited caboose to this train of strangers, then sets himself in motion, his longer legs covering the distance easily, and falls into step beside Dean, walking on newly-mown, dry, brittle grass when the path Dean is on proves to be too narrow to accommodate both of them.
At the graveside, they listen to a balding, white-robed preacher speak his piece.
"Let us pray," he says, and Sam knows what's coming. Even Dean, who professes to believe in nothing, knows these words. Sam glances over at his brother, who's standing with his hands knitted together, his head bowed, the part of his face that's not covered by his sunglasses still and impassive. Dean's lips don't move as the circle of strangers recites the familiar words, but after the first phrase or two, Sam's do.
He looks around as much as he dares. No one seems to question his being there, or Dean's. Maybe it's because, somehow, in this place, they don't look like cops, or insurance investigators.
They look like two exhausted, working-class men in cheap suits.
Half a dozen of the other men here look just like them.
The service is brief; it's just a coda to what took place over at the church.
Somehow, Sam isn't surprised when Dean carefully makes his way over to the row of chairs where the family is seated. He's watched his brother insinuate himself into a lot of situations - sometimes it's so smooth it's wondrous to watch, like a glimpse of a surfer riding the perfect wave, or a painter making the perfect brush stroke. Other times, it's so awkward it makes Sam cringe, makes him want to turn away and deny ever having met Dean, let alone being related to him. For a moment Sam isn't sure which it's going to be, this time. Out of curiosity, more than anything else, he follows Dean to a position close to the grieving family.
Close enough to watch Dean gently grasp the hand of first one family member, then another. He doesn't seem to have chosen them deliberately; it's more a question of whom he's closest to.
Now, Dean's lips move. And Sam is near enough to hear him say, softly and with a level of compassion he rarely displays, "I'm sorry for your loss."
That's all he says.
He receives a couple of nods as thanks. Whether that was what he wanted, or expected, or hoped for, he seems content with it. He steps back out of the way, hands once again vanished deep into his pockets, and he and Sam watch as the mourners move in little groups back to their cars. The family has a limo waiting.
Long and black.
A big, black car.
Maybe it's that that makes Sam realize why they're here. Maybe it's what he sees on his brother's face when Dean turns to him. The sunglasses cover a lot, but they don't cover everything.
They don't cover the tears that are cascading down Dean's face.
It's July 17, Sam understands.
Their father's been gone a year today.
"You tired?" Dean rasps softly. "I'm kinda tired."
"Yeah," Sam says. "I kind of am."
That's enough to set Dean in motion, back down the path, with Sam a couple of steps behind. It isn't just tired that Dean looks, Sam thinks as they walk - he looks worn. Defeated. Like it's pure determination alone that's prompting him to put one foot in front of the other. Around them, ahead of them and behind them, people are walking hand-in-hand, close together, some of them speaking quietly to each other.
"Dean?" Sam says to his brother's back.
Dean doesn't turn, but he stops.
Sam takes a couple of long steps. Reaches out and rests a hand on his brother's shoulder. Grasps it for a moment.
"Thanks," Dean murmurs, head bowed.
"Yeah," Sam replies, little more than a whisper.
They walk the rest of the way back to the car side by side.
* * * * *
GENRE: Gen
TIMELINE: Early season 3
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1219 words
They're almost an hour past winding up the job, still wearing the suits, when they have to stop at a crossroads. On the road that bisects theirs, a long, long procession of cars - each of them with headlights burning, although it's a little after eleven in the morning, and the sun is doing its thing so brightly that even with sunglasses Sam has to squint against the glare - is rolling along toward the west.
WARM SUMMER RAIN
By Carol Davis
They're almost an hour past winding up the job, still wearing the suits, when they have to stop at a crossroads. On the road that bisects theirs, a long, long procession of cars - each of them with headlights burning, although it's a little after eleven in the morning, and the sun is doing its thing so brightly that even with sunglasses Sam has to squint against the glare - is rolling along toward the west.
Their windows are down, but there's nothing to listen to except the chugging idle of the Impala's big engine. All those other cars are so quiet they might as well be part of a movie playing on a TV he's muted.
"Lot of cars," Sam says quietly.
He waits for Dean to chide him for using up air to say something so stupidly obvious, but Dean says nothing, just sits with his hands on the wheel, the silver of his ring tossing a glint of light across the small space between them.
Dean's seen something, Sam thinks; something he, Sam, has missed, but he doesn't ask about it.
After three or four minutes the last car passes. A moment later Dean shifts his foot from the brake to the accelerator and the Impala moves forward. Then, to Sam's surprise, Dean switches on the headlamps, makes a left turn and guides the car into place at the end of the procession.
"What -?" Sam frowns.
He looks at his brother, but Dean says nothing. His hands are tight on the wheel, his shoulders tensed. Dean's seen something, Sam thinks, then thinks a string of curses because it's been something like thirty-eight hours since they've slept. His body is starting to feel like it doesn't belong to him; it's ill-fitting, too tight in some places and too loose in others, like the suit. A motel bed would be nirvana right now, and it doesn't even matter how many different old, stale things said bed smells like. He'll breathe through his mouth. He'll breathe through his mouth and listen to Dean snore until he falls asleep.
The cortege doesn't go far. Half a mile down the road, maybe a little more, the cars one by one turn into a blacktopped lot and one by one they park.
"What is it, man?" Sam asks.
The only answer he gets is that they're stopping. They're joining this group of mourners.
Dean doesn't ask Sam to come with him, doesn't say anything at all. He stands beside the Impala, makes a couple of small movements to shift his rumpled jacket into place, then begins to walk slowly in the wake of this group of people neither one of them knows.
"Dean?" Sam calls after his brother. "Aren't you gonna -"
Dean glances back, considers Sam standing alongside the car, sees Sam gesture at the trunk. Of course he knows Sam means, Aren't you taking anything? Gun? Salt? Holy water?
Of course he does.
But he walks away, following the mourners, hands buried in the pockets of the jacket of his Goodwill suit, sunglasses concealing most of what he's feeling - all of it, for anyone who knows him less well than Sam does.
The why of this goes on being a mystery, but the what is plain. Sam remains beside the car, watching his brother cross a small country road, a weary, cheap-suited caboose to this train of strangers, then sets himself in motion, his longer legs covering the distance easily, and falls into step beside Dean, walking on newly-mown, dry, brittle grass when the path Dean is on proves to be too narrow to accommodate both of them.
At the graveside, they listen to a balding, white-robed preacher speak his piece.
"Let us pray," he says, and Sam knows what's coming. Even Dean, who professes to believe in nothing, knows these words. Sam glances over at his brother, who's standing with his hands knitted together, his head bowed, the part of his face that's not covered by his sunglasses still and impassive. Dean's lips don't move as the circle of strangers recites the familiar words, but after the first phrase or two, Sam's do.
He looks around as much as he dares. No one seems to question his being there, or Dean's. Maybe it's because, somehow, in this place, they don't look like cops, or insurance investigators.
They look like two exhausted, working-class men in cheap suits.
Half a dozen of the other men here look just like them.
The service is brief; it's just a coda to what took place over at the church.
Somehow, Sam isn't surprised when Dean carefully makes his way over to the row of chairs where the family is seated. He's watched his brother insinuate himself into a lot of situations - sometimes it's so smooth it's wondrous to watch, like a glimpse of a surfer riding the perfect wave, or a painter making the perfect brush stroke. Other times, it's so awkward it makes Sam cringe, makes him want to turn away and deny ever having met Dean, let alone being related to him. For a moment Sam isn't sure which it's going to be, this time. Out of curiosity, more than anything else, he follows Dean to a position close to the grieving family.
Close enough to watch Dean gently grasp the hand of first one family member, then another. He doesn't seem to have chosen them deliberately; it's more a question of whom he's closest to.
Now, Dean's lips move. And Sam is near enough to hear him say, softly and with a level of compassion he rarely displays, "I'm sorry for your loss."
That's all he says.
He receives a couple of nods as thanks. Whether that was what he wanted, or expected, or hoped for, he seems content with it. He steps back out of the way, hands once again vanished deep into his pockets, and he and Sam watch as the mourners move in little groups back to their cars. The family has a limo waiting.
Long and black.
A big, black car.
Maybe it's that that makes Sam realize why they're here. Maybe it's what he sees on his brother's face when Dean turns to him. The sunglasses cover a lot, but they don't cover everything.
They don't cover the tears that are cascading down Dean's face.
It's July 17, Sam understands.
Their father's been gone a year today.
"You tired?" Dean rasps softly. "I'm kinda tired."
"Yeah," Sam says. "I kind of am."
That's enough to set Dean in motion, back down the path, with Sam a couple of steps behind. It isn't just tired that Dean looks, Sam thinks as they walk - he looks worn. Defeated. Like it's pure determination alone that's prompting him to put one foot in front of the other. Around them, ahead of them and behind them, people are walking hand-in-hand, close together, some of them speaking quietly to each other.
"Dean?" Sam says to his brother's back.
Dean doesn't turn, but he stops.
Sam takes a couple of long steps. Reaches out and rests a hand on his brother's shoulder. Grasps it for a moment.
"Thanks," Dean murmurs, head bowed.
"Yeah," Sam replies, little more than a whisper.
They walk the rest of the way back to the car side by side.
* * * * *