SPN FIC - When I've Given All I Have to Give (7.01)
Dean makes a grocery run. And you'd think people would be grateful. (Missing scene, early on in the episode.)
CHARACTERS: Dean, Bobby, Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.01
LENGTH: 1200 words
WHEN I'VE GIVEN ALL I HAVE TO GIVE
By Carol Davis
You'd think somebody would notice the car's loaded down with stuff. That somebody would come out and say, "Lemme help you with that."
But what the hell.
It's not raining, or snowing, or cold, or windy, and the bags aren't that tough to carry, three or four at a time; that little redhead at the checkout talked Dean into investing a few bucks toward keeping the planet green by buying a couple dozen bright blue logo'ed bags with handles, and he'll give Walmart this much: their bags do cut down on the number of trips it takes to shuttle from car to kitchen. He's never given much of a crap about green living - he's always figured that anyone who does care doesn't have anything real to worry about - but the fewer times he has to fumble with Bobby's rickety kitchen door, the better.
He's aiming for the countertop with his fourth set of bags when Bobby's voice says from somewhere behind him, "What's all this?"
"Provisions."
Not until Dean has the bags safely set down so they won't tip and empty their contents onto the floor does he bother looking, finding out where Bobby's at. At this point in the proceedings, he figures, Bobby'll offer something along the lines of "thank you," but apparently, this isn't the day where anything happens like you'd expect it to.
"We having company?" Bobby asks dryly.
Dean ignores him in favor of returning to the car and grabbing up another quartet of blue bags. This time Bobby opens the door for him, frowning, though even when Dean says, "Got a lot of frozen stuff there," Bobby makes no move toward doing anything with the groceries.
"Gee, Dean," Dean quips. "Appreciate you making a supply run."
"We had groceries."
"You had half a dozen eggs, one potato, the end of a loaf of bread, some peanut butter and a can of sardines."
"I repeat," Bobby says. "You expecting somebody? That idiot from Kitchen Nightmares? Maybe the entire cast of Lost?"
"It's nice to have a choice."
"A choice."
One more trip does the trick. Good thing, because there aren't any more flat surfaces on which to line up the bags.
"Who's gonna drink two gallons of milk?" Bobby asks.
"Milk's good for you. Good with pie."
"You got pie, then, I assume."
"Cherry and apple crumb." And a package of brownies. Four half-gallons of ice cream, in various flavors. A trio of nice, juicy-looking steaks. Pork chops. Four pounds of hamburger and a package of buns. Pickle slices, lettuce and tomatoes. Pancake mix. Six cans of peaches. Five different kinds of cereal. A bag of chips half the size of the Impala. Four big sacks of frozen French fries, two regular and two crinkle-cut. Orange juice, tomato juice, and V-8. Oreos, Chips Ahoy, Fig Newtons and chocolate pinwheels. A twelve-pound turkey.
"Holy crap."
That's Sam, in the doorway. And he doesn't look like he intends to be any more helpful than Bobby's been, these past few minutes.
"What's all that?"
"Food, dammit," Dean barks.
"That's…wow."
"He's expecting the Dallas Cowboys," Bobby says. "That, or he's figuring on becoming a bulimic."
It'd be nice, once in a while, if somebody gave him a friggin' inch. If somebody said Awesome, man, thanks, instead of standing there making faces at him like they figure he stole all the damn groceries instead of coughing up pretty much every last dime he's got to his name so the three of them can eat something other than sardines and peanut butter sandwiches.
He could get mad.
Throw a few things.
He could get in the car and drive for a couple hours - or a couple days - and find someplace to sit and drink where nobody knows him.
The thing is, he's run completely out of angry.
He's also run completely out of hurt, and disappointed, and scared.
Lugging all these bags into the house didn't tap all his energy; he slept pretty well last night, and he stopped for a Mega Bacon Supremo before he hit the Walmart. If something happened right now, something that called for his kicking some demon ass, say, or maybe taking on a starting lineup of wendigos, he could handle it.
What he can't handle right now is giving a flaming shit.
Turning his back to Bobby and his brother, he begins to unload his collection of bright blue bags. Frozen items first, and he takes the time to stack it all neatly in Bobby's freezer, shoving aside empty ice cube trays and a couple of gallon-sized Baggies whose contents aren't identifiable to do so. For a moment, memories of doing this very thing in another kitchen try to intrude, try to rip a jagged toehold into his consciousness, but he cuts them off.
Says a silent but very vehement NO.
Behind him, Sam starts to poke around in the bags, the way he did when they were kids. "Hey, okay, Oreos," he says.
And he sounds pleased.
"Yeah," Dean mutters.
"And…wow. Steaks. There's a grill, right? Out back?"
"Kinda dirty," Bobby says.
"Steel wool. I saw some downstairs. Steaks, yeah, and potatoes?"
Sam clatters his way down into the basement. He's back a few seconds later, steel wool in hand, grinning.
Something inside Dean turns over.
This won't last, he figures. Something's gonna go sideways. Blow up in their faces, or maybe just splinter a little at a time. There's Cas, after all: Cas who's out there cleaning up the world according to his own particular vision of how things should be, and that's not gonna end well. It'll end; that much Dean figures they can count on. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now, or a year from now. Hell, maybe five minutes from now.
It'll end.
"Thanks, man," his brother says. "I'll get the grill cleaned up, and we'll do this."
"Yeah," Dean says softly. "Sure."
The kitchen door bangs shut in Sam's wake, leaving Dean to stand with his hands full of frozen food, looking at Bobby, who turns slowly, taking in the collection of groceries spread across the kitchen table, the countertops, and part of the floor.
"Little bit of overkill," Bobby says after a minute.
"We can eat," is Dean's reply.
"Yeah. Guess we can do that."
Maybe Bobby figures he's supposed to be crotchety. Maybe it's his default setting. Or maybe being like that's easier than letting on that he cares. Maybe after Karen, and Pamela, and Ellen and Jo, and Rufus, and all the others - maybe it's easier to act that way. Maybe it's that, or cry. Maybe it's that, or fall completely apart. End up a blithering, weeping mess.
Or end up something less than human.
Maybe it's that, or…this.
This void.
Bobby looks at him straight on for a moment, and there's something there, behind Bobby's eyes. Something Bobby would like to say, or do.
Instead, he says evenly, "You nuke the potatoes till they're soft. Cut 'em open, add butter and salt and pepper, then grill 'em."
"Sounds good," Dean nods.
He watches Bobby move around the kitchen, putting things away.
Thinking it would be massively awesome if he could taste anything.
Anything at all.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean, Bobby, Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.01
LENGTH: 1200 words
WHEN I'VE GIVEN ALL I HAVE TO GIVE
By Carol Davis
You'd think somebody would notice the car's loaded down with stuff. That somebody would come out and say, "Lemme help you with that."
But what the hell.
It's not raining, or snowing, or cold, or windy, and the bags aren't that tough to carry, three or four at a time; that little redhead at the checkout talked Dean into investing a few bucks toward keeping the planet green by buying a couple dozen bright blue logo'ed bags with handles, and he'll give Walmart this much: their bags do cut down on the number of trips it takes to shuttle from car to kitchen. He's never given much of a crap about green living - he's always figured that anyone who does care doesn't have anything real to worry about - but the fewer times he has to fumble with Bobby's rickety kitchen door, the better.
He's aiming for the countertop with his fourth set of bags when Bobby's voice says from somewhere behind him, "What's all this?"
"Provisions."
Not until Dean has the bags safely set down so they won't tip and empty their contents onto the floor does he bother looking, finding out where Bobby's at. At this point in the proceedings, he figures, Bobby'll offer something along the lines of "thank you," but apparently, this isn't the day where anything happens like you'd expect it to.
"We having company?" Bobby asks dryly.
Dean ignores him in favor of returning to the car and grabbing up another quartet of blue bags. This time Bobby opens the door for him, frowning, though even when Dean says, "Got a lot of frozen stuff there," Bobby makes no move toward doing anything with the groceries.
"Gee, Dean," Dean quips. "Appreciate you making a supply run."
"We had groceries."
"You had half a dozen eggs, one potato, the end of a loaf of bread, some peanut butter and a can of sardines."
"I repeat," Bobby says. "You expecting somebody? That idiot from Kitchen Nightmares? Maybe the entire cast of Lost?"
"It's nice to have a choice."
"A choice."
One more trip does the trick. Good thing, because there aren't any more flat surfaces on which to line up the bags.
"Who's gonna drink two gallons of milk?" Bobby asks.
"Milk's good for you. Good with pie."
"You got pie, then, I assume."
"Cherry and apple crumb." And a package of brownies. Four half-gallons of ice cream, in various flavors. A trio of nice, juicy-looking steaks. Pork chops. Four pounds of hamburger and a package of buns. Pickle slices, lettuce and tomatoes. Pancake mix. Six cans of peaches. Five different kinds of cereal. A bag of chips half the size of the Impala. Four big sacks of frozen French fries, two regular and two crinkle-cut. Orange juice, tomato juice, and V-8. Oreos, Chips Ahoy, Fig Newtons and chocolate pinwheels. A twelve-pound turkey.
"Holy crap."
That's Sam, in the doorway. And he doesn't look like he intends to be any more helpful than Bobby's been, these past few minutes.
"What's all that?"
"Food, dammit," Dean barks.
"That's…wow."
"He's expecting the Dallas Cowboys," Bobby says. "That, or he's figuring on becoming a bulimic."
It'd be nice, once in a while, if somebody gave him a friggin' inch. If somebody said Awesome, man, thanks, instead of standing there making faces at him like they figure he stole all the damn groceries instead of coughing up pretty much every last dime he's got to his name so the three of them can eat something other than sardines and peanut butter sandwiches.
He could get mad.
Throw a few things.
He could get in the car and drive for a couple hours - or a couple days - and find someplace to sit and drink where nobody knows him.
The thing is, he's run completely out of angry.
He's also run completely out of hurt, and disappointed, and scared.
Lugging all these bags into the house didn't tap all his energy; he slept pretty well last night, and he stopped for a Mega Bacon Supremo before he hit the Walmart. If something happened right now, something that called for his kicking some demon ass, say, or maybe taking on a starting lineup of wendigos, he could handle it.
What he can't handle right now is giving a flaming shit.
Turning his back to Bobby and his brother, he begins to unload his collection of bright blue bags. Frozen items first, and he takes the time to stack it all neatly in Bobby's freezer, shoving aside empty ice cube trays and a couple of gallon-sized Baggies whose contents aren't identifiable to do so. For a moment, memories of doing this very thing in another kitchen try to intrude, try to rip a jagged toehold into his consciousness, but he cuts them off.
Says a silent but very vehement NO.
Behind him, Sam starts to poke around in the bags, the way he did when they were kids. "Hey, okay, Oreos," he says.
And he sounds pleased.
"Yeah," Dean mutters.
"And…wow. Steaks. There's a grill, right? Out back?"
"Kinda dirty," Bobby says.
"Steel wool. I saw some downstairs. Steaks, yeah, and potatoes?"
Sam clatters his way down into the basement. He's back a few seconds later, steel wool in hand, grinning.
Something inside Dean turns over.
This won't last, he figures. Something's gonna go sideways. Blow up in their faces, or maybe just splinter a little at a time. There's Cas, after all: Cas who's out there cleaning up the world according to his own particular vision of how things should be, and that's not gonna end well. It'll end; that much Dean figures they can count on. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now, or a year from now. Hell, maybe five minutes from now.
It'll end.
"Thanks, man," his brother says. "I'll get the grill cleaned up, and we'll do this."
"Yeah," Dean says softly. "Sure."
The kitchen door bangs shut in Sam's wake, leaving Dean to stand with his hands full of frozen food, looking at Bobby, who turns slowly, taking in the collection of groceries spread across the kitchen table, the countertops, and part of the floor.
"Little bit of overkill," Bobby says after a minute.
"We can eat," is Dean's reply.
"Yeah. Guess we can do that."
Maybe Bobby figures he's supposed to be crotchety. Maybe it's his default setting. Or maybe being like that's easier than letting on that he cares. Maybe after Karen, and Pamela, and Ellen and Jo, and Rufus, and all the others - maybe it's easier to act that way. Maybe it's that, or cry. Maybe it's that, or fall completely apart. End up a blithering, weeping mess.
Or end up something less than human.
Maybe it's that, or…this.
This void.
Bobby looks at him straight on for a moment, and there's something there, behind Bobby's eyes. Something Bobby would like to say, or do.
Instead, he says evenly, "You nuke the potatoes till they're soft. Cut 'em open, add butter and salt and pepper, then grill 'em."
"Sounds good," Dean nods.
He watches Bobby move around the kitchen, putting things away.
Thinking it would be massively awesome if he could taste anything.
Anything at all.
* * * * *