SPN FIC - Needful Things
Happy birthday, yasminke -- hope you enjoy this little visit with the boys, and a shout out to one of your enduring favorites. Set now-ish, but not spoilery for Season 5.
"I say we pick a place," Dean says abruptly, jolting Sam out of his reverie.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
SPOILERS: None
RATING: PG
LENGTH: 941 words
NEEDFUL THINGS
By Carol Davis
"I say we pick a place," Dean says abruptly, jolting Sam out of his reverie.
"For what?" Sam asks, thinking, To settle down? To die? The former's never going to happen, and the latter - well, he'd just as soon not ponder that. It's been a good day so far: the rain stopped about an hour ago, leaving the parking lot, the road, and the row of small businesses that are visible from the diner window looking fresh and scrubbed. There's even a pale rainbow hanging over the hills in the distance. For most of the time he's been sitting here, he's been trying to convince himself that they've slipped back in time somehow, that it's 2005 again and he and Dean are trying to find Dad.
Of course, at this point in '05, Jess had only been gone a few days. So maybe it's later in '05. Near Christmas. New Year's. Dean's birthday.
He raises a brow as he reaches for his glass of Coke, encouraging Dean to say more. Hell, Dean even looks like it's still 2005, relaxed and cheerful, and the way he keeps glancing out the window at the Impala makes him seem like a kid - the kind of kid Sam's never really been, one who's proud of his wheels, wanting badly for someone to admire the condition he's keeping her in so he can crow about her. So maybe "pick a place" has something to do with the car.
"I mean," Dean says, finally, around a mouthful of steak fries, "how do we know they didn't get it right?"
"That who didn't get what right?"
Dean heaves a sigh and gazes off into the middle distance. "Always thought she was hot. Kinda scrawny, but hot."
"Am I supposed to guess?"
"Buffy," Dean says mildly, as if it's no big deal. Like Buffy the Vampire Slayer is somebody they ran into a couple of days ago. Somebody they hear from periodically. Somebody who sends them postcards.
"Buffy," Sam echoes.
"Yeah. You know."
Quietly, contentedly, Dean munches his fries, and Sam has to struggle to hold back the way he'd like to react - the response that Dean might be fishing for. A sigh, an eyeroll. The "bitchface," as Dean calls it. Sam decided a long time ago that Dean says half the things that come tripping out of his mouth for no other reason than to provoke his brother, because that's fun, in Dean World - the game show that's been on the air longer than Jeopardy, or Wheel of Fortune. Maybe, in Dean's head, he's been racking up points every time he gets Sam flustered. By this time, he's probably got enough to net him the grand prize. A yacht. Or a small country.
But it's a good day. It seems to have put Dean in a generous mood.
"Dude," he says. "Whole damn town dropped into that sinkhole, and that was the end of it."
"The apocalypse."
Dean makes a Poof! gesture with both hands. "I say we pick a place. Let 'em turn it into ground zero. Battle it out there, then drop the fucker into a big sinkhole, and we ride off into the sunset. In m' baby, of course. Not a friggin' school bus."
"And you're thinking -"
"We could evacuate the population first. Like they did on the show. Keep a low body count."
"Uh-huh."
"I'm thinkin' - pretty much anyplace in New Jersey. Wouldn't be too heartbroken to see a couple parts of Florida go, either."
"New Orleans?" Sam suggests. "That's pretty much messed up anyway."
"Dude," Dean sputters. "The Big Easy. We ain't touching New Orleans."
Sam concedes the point, then says, "There's a flaw in that plan," as he scoops up a forkful of mixed vegetables. "That was an apocalypse. Small A. A horde of primitive vampires spilling up out of the earth. This" - and now he does sigh, deep and heartfelt - "is the big A. The End of Days."
Dean scowls across the table, hanging onto a steak fry like he can make it morph into something useful. Something he can smack Sam with and leave a noticeable bruise.
"I'm just saying," Sam says.
After a minute of sulking (something he can do with as much passion as any five-year-old on the planet) Dean shoves the fry into his mouth and chews it into paste. Slowly, by degrees, he settles back into the unruffled calm of before and takes a good long look out into the parking lot. The afternoon sun's hitting the Impala like a spill of liquid gold, and Sam has to admit that yes, the car looks good. All these years, all these miles, and that masterpiece of Detroit steel their father bought in 1973 still shines.
"Need some friggin' Scoobies, is what we need," Dean announces.
"Bobby? Ellen? Rufus?"
"Scoobies," Dean insists. "Anya, man. She was -"
All these years, Sam thinks.
There's not going to be a sinkhole. No ray of purifying light from a magic amulet. No team of Chosen Ones fighting alongside them.
And no school bus.
"Yeah," Sam nods. "She was. But -"
But maybe this can end well.
Maybe, at the end of all this, there's tomorrow.
"I think we've got what we need," Sam tells his brother softly, and is more grateful than he could ever put into words that Dean is sitting there, on the other side of the booth, playing with his steak fries. That the two of them have made it this far.
Maybe they can make it all the way.
"We just need to figure out how to use it," Sam says.
And Dean nods his agreement.
* * * * *
"I say we pick a place," Dean says abruptly, jolting Sam out of his reverie.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
SPOILERS: None
RATING: PG
LENGTH: 941 words
NEEDFUL THINGS
By Carol Davis
"I say we pick a place," Dean says abruptly, jolting Sam out of his reverie.
"For what?" Sam asks, thinking, To settle down? To die? The former's never going to happen, and the latter - well, he'd just as soon not ponder that. It's been a good day so far: the rain stopped about an hour ago, leaving the parking lot, the road, and the row of small businesses that are visible from the diner window looking fresh and scrubbed. There's even a pale rainbow hanging over the hills in the distance. For most of the time he's been sitting here, he's been trying to convince himself that they've slipped back in time somehow, that it's 2005 again and he and Dean are trying to find Dad.
Of course, at this point in '05, Jess had only been gone a few days. So maybe it's later in '05. Near Christmas. New Year's. Dean's birthday.
He raises a brow as he reaches for his glass of Coke, encouraging Dean to say more. Hell, Dean even looks like it's still 2005, relaxed and cheerful, and the way he keeps glancing out the window at the Impala makes him seem like a kid - the kind of kid Sam's never really been, one who's proud of his wheels, wanting badly for someone to admire the condition he's keeping her in so he can crow about her. So maybe "pick a place" has something to do with the car.
"I mean," Dean says, finally, around a mouthful of steak fries, "how do we know they didn't get it right?"
"That who didn't get what right?"
Dean heaves a sigh and gazes off into the middle distance. "Always thought she was hot. Kinda scrawny, but hot."
"Am I supposed to guess?"
"Buffy," Dean says mildly, as if it's no big deal. Like Buffy the Vampire Slayer is somebody they ran into a couple of days ago. Somebody they hear from periodically. Somebody who sends them postcards.
"Buffy," Sam echoes.
"Yeah. You know."
Quietly, contentedly, Dean munches his fries, and Sam has to struggle to hold back the way he'd like to react - the response that Dean might be fishing for. A sigh, an eyeroll. The "bitchface," as Dean calls it. Sam decided a long time ago that Dean says half the things that come tripping out of his mouth for no other reason than to provoke his brother, because that's fun, in Dean World - the game show that's been on the air longer than Jeopardy, or Wheel of Fortune. Maybe, in Dean's head, he's been racking up points every time he gets Sam flustered. By this time, he's probably got enough to net him the grand prize. A yacht. Or a small country.
But it's a good day. It seems to have put Dean in a generous mood.
"Dude," he says. "Whole damn town dropped into that sinkhole, and that was the end of it."
"The apocalypse."
Dean makes a Poof! gesture with both hands. "I say we pick a place. Let 'em turn it into ground zero. Battle it out there, then drop the fucker into a big sinkhole, and we ride off into the sunset. In m' baby, of course. Not a friggin' school bus."
"And you're thinking -"
"We could evacuate the population first. Like they did on the show. Keep a low body count."
"Uh-huh."
"I'm thinkin' - pretty much anyplace in New Jersey. Wouldn't be too heartbroken to see a couple parts of Florida go, either."
"New Orleans?" Sam suggests. "That's pretty much messed up anyway."
"Dude," Dean sputters. "The Big Easy. We ain't touching New Orleans."
Sam concedes the point, then says, "There's a flaw in that plan," as he scoops up a forkful of mixed vegetables. "That was an apocalypse. Small A. A horde of primitive vampires spilling up out of the earth. This" - and now he does sigh, deep and heartfelt - "is the big A. The End of Days."
Dean scowls across the table, hanging onto a steak fry like he can make it morph into something useful. Something he can smack Sam with and leave a noticeable bruise.
"I'm just saying," Sam says.
After a minute of sulking (something he can do with as much passion as any five-year-old on the planet) Dean shoves the fry into his mouth and chews it into paste. Slowly, by degrees, he settles back into the unruffled calm of before and takes a good long look out into the parking lot. The afternoon sun's hitting the Impala like a spill of liquid gold, and Sam has to admit that yes, the car looks good. All these years, all these miles, and that masterpiece of Detroit steel their father bought in 1973 still shines.
"Need some friggin' Scoobies, is what we need," Dean announces.
"Bobby? Ellen? Rufus?"
"Scoobies," Dean insists. "Anya, man. She was -"
All these years, Sam thinks.
There's not going to be a sinkhole. No ray of purifying light from a magic amulet. No team of Chosen Ones fighting alongside them.
And no school bus.
"Yeah," Sam nods. "She was. But -"
But maybe this can end well.
Maybe, at the end of all this, there's tomorrow.
"I think we've got what we need," Sam tells his brother softly, and is more grateful than he could ever put into words that Dean is sitting there, on the other side of the booth, playing with his steak fries. That the two of them have made it this far.
Maybe they can make it all the way.
"We just need to figure out how to use it," Sam says.
And Dean nods his agreement.
* * * * *