SPN FIC - All That We Ever Needed
A small interlude -- just boys, the middle of the night, some sacks of supplies. And a gesture of thanks.
He doesn't move when Dean comes out of the convenience store, a white plastic bag loaded with provisions dangling from each hand. Sam watches, still and silent, as Dean juggles his purchases so he can get a fist around his car keys. Then Sam reaches out, sticks a couple of fingers through the loop-handles of one of the bags and relieves Dean of that part of his burden.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: Takes place now-ish, but not spoilery
LENGTH: 1500 words
ALL THAT WE EVER NEEDED
By Carol Davis
Used to be, Dean fought it tooth and nail. Went through a stretch where he wouldn't let Sam touch him, hug him. (Not that Sam wanted to, very much, back then.) Came back some nights from wherever he'd been looking beat down and, yeah, kind of heartbroken, but he'd never say why.
"Kills the image," he said one night after a couple of drinks.
"The image of what?" Sam asked.
"Never mind," Dean said, and went back to staring at a knot in the paneling.
He wasn't sentimental, he claimed. When he remembered birthdays - he always remembered birthdays - it was with a gag gift. A prank.
He's badass.
There was a time when Sam was in awe of that.
He hasn't been in awe of much of anything for a long time.
He doesn't move when Dean comes out of the convenience store, a white plastic bag loaded with provisions dangling from each hand. Sam watches, still and silent, as Dean juggles his purchases so he can get a fist around his car keys. Then Sam reaches out, sticks a couple of fingers through the loop-handles of one of the bags and relieves Dean of that part of his burden.
"Figures," Dean snorts softly.
"What?"
"Fruit. Granola bars."
Sam could see them through the thin plastic. The other bag's full of beef jerky, Hershey bars, Red Bull. The latest issue of Busty Asian Beauties. Dean hasn't taken any extra-long showers in a while, but he likes to keep up appearances.
Always did.
"Tank's full," Sam says, nodding at the car. "Checked the air in the tires, and the oil."
"Taught you well, I did, young Skywalker," Dean Yoda's in response. A smile ghosts its way across his lips, then vanishes into the night.
"I can drive. If you -"
"Nah."
"You sure? You look kind of fried."
Dean glances down at the bag he's still holding as if he's not sure how it got there. Much as he loves his car, loves being the one with his hands on the wheel (it lets him keep his hands on his destiny, in some small sense, Sam figures, and small senses of any number of things is about all they've got left), he looks like he wants to drive right now about as much as he wants to be plowed down by a runaway bus.
No - given the two options, he'd probably pick the bus.
"Why don't we -" Sam starts.
"What?"
"I don't know, man. I don't know. Sit, I guess. Sit?"
Sam points. There's a row of beat-up picnic tables at the far end of the parking lot. Nobody's using them now, since it's creeping up close to midnight, which makes them an attractive place to…not drive.
"Just sit," he says. "Half an hour."
Dean nods unenthusiastic agreement and moves off in that direction, carrying his bag of groceries and porn. When he reaches one of the benches he steps carefully over the bench and sits down, bag placed on the table in front of him like it's a Happy Meal. He plays with another smile as Sam sits opposite him, but it's no more successful an endeavor than the first. It's almost midnight, and they've been driving for - what? Four and a half years?
To get here. Where "here" is, Sam isn't sure; he stopped looking at road signs a couple of hours ago. They've got no real destination, not any more. No place to aim for, other than the obvious. The corner of his mouth twitches as he opens his bag, pulls out a bottle of water and twists off the cap. The water's cold - Dean must have gotten the bottle out of the cooler, not off the shelf - and it burns going down.
"Look, man," he says.
Dean twitches an eyebrow.
"I just want to say something."
Time was, Dean would stop him there. Flap a hand. Grimace. Tell him, "Spare me." Tell him, "Yeah. No."
Tonight, Dean just scratches his nose.
"I just -"
He bought porn. And beef jerky. And chocolate. And…
"Dude," Sam says. "Peeps?"
He can see it through the thin white plastic: a small package of the yellow marshmallow chicks that show up in stores every Easter-time.
"You want one?" Dean asks.
They're almost always stale, Sam thinks. But maybe that's because the ones Dean bought when they were kids were on post-Easter markdown, or came from a dollar store. They tasted like old rubber. Old, sugar-coated rubber.
"I don't -" he starts.
But Dean's already got the package open. He extends a hand to Sam, one of the Peeps sitting in the middle of his palm. He's as earnest as a little kid, and for a moment Sam remembers looking up at his big brother, the brother who'd cobbled together an Easter basket out of Hershey kisses and stale Peeps and a couple of Matchbox cars, the brother who was as pleased with himself as if he'd built the Magic Kingdom single-handed - but was holding his breath until he got a reaction, the right reaction, the acknowledgment that would mean his efforts had borne some serious fruit.
Dean stole all that stuff, Sam thinks. He was quite the little shoplifter. At least this time, he's paid for what's sitting on the table between them.
Shit. He's paid for a lot more than that.
"Dean," Sam says quietly, and his voice makes a little clarinet squeak, the way it did when he was twelve.
"Just eat your Peep."
It's very sweet. Not stale. When Sam swallows the last of it, Dean hands him another one.
Thank God there's only a half-dozen of them.
They listen to the traffic for a while - the interstate's on the other side of the strip mall, past a long row of trees and a downward-sloping run of grass and weeds - and sip their drinks, their bottled water and Red Bull.
They should sleep a while, Sam thinks.
It seems like a long time since they've slept. Just slept.
The night's warmer than it should be. The thick, nose-prickling tang of smoke hangs in the air, and Sam tries not to think of what might be burning, or where. Tries to let the night be what it is. It's warm, it's almost quiet, nothing hurts - mostly - and his brother is sitting arm's reach away from him, making slurping sounds as he drains his little red, white and blue can of caffeine.
Sam smiles.
Doesn't let himself bother with the why of it.
After a moment, his brother smiles back.
They're halfway to the car when Sam stops walking and says, "Dean."
"We forget something?"
"No. I - look. I'm glad. Okay? I just want to say that."
"You're glad?"
Before Dean can tell himself to object, or really do much of anything at all, Sam wraps long arms around him. Embraces him hard.
For a moment Dean doesn't react. Then, slowly, he returns the hug, tentatively at first, as if he thinks he's humoring a lunatic. The bag of provisions dangling from his hand thumps Sam in the small of the back and for an instant that seems funny.
Then it doesn't seem funny at all.
Dean used to object. Used to say he was badass. Used to say he wasn't a friggin' girl.
Now, apparently, he is.
When Dean steps away, he doesn't even bother to look flustered. Maybe it's because there's nobody around. The convenience store's security camera might have caught them, but that certainly doesn't hit the Top 40 of the worst things that have ever happened to them. Time was, Dean might have claimed it did.
But not now.
"I'm glad you're my brother," Sam says quietly.
Dean lets that lie for a moment. Stands there with his bagful of porn and dried salted meat and lets that lie. Then he lets a smirk crawl up onto his face and as he jingles his car keys he says, "You oughta be, bitch."
A few minutes later they're rolling toward nowhere, in a night that smells of smoke.
He owes his brother more than this, Sam thinks. Owes him a debt he won't live long enough to repay, for years of sacrifice and loyalty, of humor and trust and devotion. He's gone a long time thinking that Dean paid far too much, that Dean did things no one asked him to do, that he shouldn't have done, that no one with sense would have done, and he can't quite give up on thinking that, even now, when there's no way to imagine that this road they're on has anything but a bad end. That they'll be able to do anything but drive off a cliff, pedal pressed firmly to the floor.
But maybe they'll have a moment of hanging suspended in midair, surrounded by sunlight, before they crash.
Maybe.
They could hope for that, if either of them bothered to hope for anything at all.
For now, Dean is smiling.
For tonight, maybe that will do.
* * * * *
He doesn't move when Dean comes out of the convenience store, a white plastic bag loaded with provisions dangling from each hand. Sam watches, still and silent, as Dean juggles his purchases so he can get a fist around his car keys. Then Sam reaches out, sticks a couple of fingers through the loop-handles of one of the bags and relieves Dean of that part of his burden.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: Takes place now-ish, but not spoilery
LENGTH: 1500 words
ALL THAT WE EVER NEEDED
By Carol Davis
Used to be, Dean fought it tooth and nail. Went through a stretch where he wouldn't let Sam touch him, hug him. (Not that Sam wanted to, very much, back then.) Came back some nights from wherever he'd been looking beat down and, yeah, kind of heartbroken, but he'd never say why.
"Kills the image," he said one night after a couple of drinks.
"The image of what?" Sam asked.
"Never mind," Dean said, and went back to staring at a knot in the paneling.
He wasn't sentimental, he claimed. When he remembered birthdays - he always remembered birthdays - it was with a gag gift. A prank.
He's badass.
There was a time when Sam was in awe of that.
He hasn't been in awe of much of anything for a long time.
He doesn't move when Dean comes out of the convenience store, a white plastic bag loaded with provisions dangling from each hand. Sam watches, still and silent, as Dean juggles his purchases so he can get a fist around his car keys. Then Sam reaches out, sticks a couple of fingers through the loop-handles of one of the bags and relieves Dean of that part of his burden.
"Figures," Dean snorts softly.
"What?"
"Fruit. Granola bars."
Sam could see them through the thin plastic. The other bag's full of beef jerky, Hershey bars, Red Bull. The latest issue of Busty Asian Beauties. Dean hasn't taken any extra-long showers in a while, but he likes to keep up appearances.
Always did.
"Tank's full," Sam says, nodding at the car. "Checked the air in the tires, and the oil."
"Taught you well, I did, young Skywalker," Dean Yoda's in response. A smile ghosts its way across his lips, then vanishes into the night.
"I can drive. If you -"
"Nah."
"You sure? You look kind of fried."
Dean glances down at the bag he's still holding as if he's not sure how it got there. Much as he loves his car, loves being the one with his hands on the wheel (it lets him keep his hands on his destiny, in some small sense, Sam figures, and small senses of any number of things is about all they've got left), he looks like he wants to drive right now about as much as he wants to be plowed down by a runaway bus.
No - given the two options, he'd probably pick the bus.
"Why don't we -" Sam starts.
"What?"
"I don't know, man. I don't know. Sit, I guess. Sit?"
Sam points. There's a row of beat-up picnic tables at the far end of the parking lot. Nobody's using them now, since it's creeping up close to midnight, which makes them an attractive place to…not drive.
"Just sit," he says. "Half an hour."
Dean nods unenthusiastic agreement and moves off in that direction, carrying his bag of groceries and porn. When he reaches one of the benches he steps carefully over the bench and sits down, bag placed on the table in front of him like it's a Happy Meal. He plays with another smile as Sam sits opposite him, but it's no more successful an endeavor than the first. It's almost midnight, and they've been driving for - what? Four and a half years?
To get here. Where "here" is, Sam isn't sure; he stopped looking at road signs a couple of hours ago. They've got no real destination, not any more. No place to aim for, other than the obvious. The corner of his mouth twitches as he opens his bag, pulls out a bottle of water and twists off the cap. The water's cold - Dean must have gotten the bottle out of the cooler, not off the shelf - and it burns going down.
"Look, man," he says.
Dean twitches an eyebrow.
"I just want to say something."
Time was, Dean would stop him there. Flap a hand. Grimace. Tell him, "Spare me." Tell him, "Yeah. No."
Tonight, Dean just scratches his nose.
"I just -"
He bought porn. And beef jerky. And chocolate. And…
"Dude," Sam says. "Peeps?"
He can see it through the thin white plastic: a small package of the yellow marshmallow chicks that show up in stores every Easter-time.
"You want one?" Dean asks.
They're almost always stale, Sam thinks. But maybe that's because the ones Dean bought when they were kids were on post-Easter markdown, or came from a dollar store. They tasted like old rubber. Old, sugar-coated rubber.
"I don't -" he starts.
But Dean's already got the package open. He extends a hand to Sam, one of the Peeps sitting in the middle of his palm. He's as earnest as a little kid, and for a moment Sam remembers looking up at his big brother, the brother who'd cobbled together an Easter basket out of Hershey kisses and stale Peeps and a couple of Matchbox cars, the brother who was as pleased with himself as if he'd built the Magic Kingdom single-handed - but was holding his breath until he got a reaction, the right reaction, the acknowledgment that would mean his efforts had borne some serious fruit.
Dean stole all that stuff, Sam thinks. He was quite the little shoplifter. At least this time, he's paid for what's sitting on the table between them.
Shit. He's paid for a lot more than that.
"Dean," Sam says quietly, and his voice makes a little clarinet squeak, the way it did when he was twelve.
"Just eat your Peep."
It's very sweet. Not stale. When Sam swallows the last of it, Dean hands him another one.
Thank God there's only a half-dozen of them.
They listen to the traffic for a while - the interstate's on the other side of the strip mall, past a long row of trees and a downward-sloping run of grass and weeds - and sip their drinks, their bottled water and Red Bull.
They should sleep a while, Sam thinks.
It seems like a long time since they've slept. Just slept.
The night's warmer than it should be. The thick, nose-prickling tang of smoke hangs in the air, and Sam tries not to think of what might be burning, or where. Tries to let the night be what it is. It's warm, it's almost quiet, nothing hurts - mostly - and his brother is sitting arm's reach away from him, making slurping sounds as he drains his little red, white and blue can of caffeine.
Sam smiles.
Doesn't let himself bother with the why of it.
After a moment, his brother smiles back.
They're halfway to the car when Sam stops walking and says, "Dean."
"We forget something?"
"No. I - look. I'm glad. Okay? I just want to say that."
"You're glad?"
Before Dean can tell himself to object, or really do much of anything at all, Sam wraps long arms around him. Embraces him hard.
For a moment Dean doesn't react. Then, slowly, he returns the hug, tentatively at first, as if he thinks he's humoring a lunatic. The bag of provisions dangling from his hand thumps Sam in the small of the back and for an instant that seems funny.
Then it doesn't seem funny at all.
Dean used to object. Used to say he was badass. Used to say he wasn't a friggin' girl.
Now, apparently, he is.
When Dean steps away, he doesn't even bother to look flustered. Maybe it's because there's nobody around. The convenience store's security camera might have caught them, but that certainly doesn't hit the Top 40 of the worst things that have ever happened to them. Time was, Dean might have claimed it did.
But not now.
"I'm glad you're my brother," Sam says quietly.
Dean lets that lie for a moment. Stands there with his bagful of porn and dried salted meat and lets that lie. Then he lets a smirk crawl up onto his face and as he jingles his car keys he says, "You oughta be, bitch."
A few minutes later they're rolling toward nowhere, in a night that smells of smoke.
He owes his brother more than this, Sam thinks. Owes him a debt he won't live long enough to repay, for years of sacrifice and loyalty, of humor and trust and devotion. He's gone a long time thinking that Dean paid far too much, that Dean did things no one asked him to do, that he shouldn't have done, that no one with sense would have done, and he can't quite give up on thinking that, even now, when there's no way to imagine that this road they're on has anything but a bad end. That they'll be able to do anything but drive off a cliff, pedal pressed firmly to the floor.
But maybe they'll have a moment of hanging suspended in midair, surrounded by sunlight, before they crash.
Maybe.
They could hope for that, if either of them bothered to hope for anything at all.
For now, Dean is smiling.
For tonight, maybe that will do.
* * * * *