SPN FIC - Escape (7.03 and 7.04)
Stuck someplace with nothing to do? Need to distract yourself for a while? Dude. There's TELEVISION.
"Shut up and watch the damn show," he says quietly, after a minute.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Bobby, Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.03 and 7.04 (takes place early in 7.03, with a tiny spoiler for 7.04)
LENGTH: 1426 words
ESCAPE
By Carol Davis
When Dean and Sam were kids, Bobby called the thing "the boob tube" - and that hasn't changed.
It sounds like a joke.
What's got three boobs, and sits in the middle of the woods?
Rufus's old fishing cabin!
"You say something?" Bobby asks.
Dean shrugs a "no." It's enough of a movement to make him uncomfortable, and he squirms on the couch, trying to settle back in. The busted leg's starting to throb again, right on schedule, but if he's going to behave himself he's got almost 45 minutes to work his way through before he can reach for the painkillers.
Three boobs, sitting in the middle of the woods. One of 'em's been burned out of house and home. One's got a completely screwed-up melon, and the third…
He tries not to let himself remember looking down and seeing bone piercing through his jeans. For all that he enjoys a little occasional mayhem on TV, seeing pieces of yourself that ought to be internal hanging out in the evening air is…unsettling.
"Watch the show, idjit," Bobby says.
When Dean looks over at him, the look on Bobby's face isn't critical or impatient. Tired, maybe, but nothing worse than that.
It was a surprise, but not much of one, to discover that Rufus had the cabin hooked up to the Dish Network. Rufus had his finger on the pulse of pretty much everything, and given the old man's dislike for most of the rest of humanity (which made going to bars to drink the night away kind of counterproductive), it makes sense that he'd provide himself with a couple hundred channels' worth of idle amusement - and information, too, given that there's the full spectrum of news channels, as well as access to the nightly news broadcasts of a whole variety of local stations.
What doesn't quite make sense is that Rufus would hook all that up to this sorry-ass little TV set. But sometimes, you take what you can get.
TV got Dean through his childhood, pretty much.
He's got his attention glued to the screen when Bobby gets up from his chair and wanders over to rattle around in the kitchen. A minute later, Bobby comes back carrying a big glass of water that he holds out to Dean with the instructions, "Drink this."
"Not thirsty."
"Maybe not. But more'n likely you're dehydrated. Trust me. It'll take some of the edge off."
"And it'll make me need to piss."
Bobby's no big fan of over-medicating. Neither was Dad; he'd dole out painkillers like they were made of platinum, whether they came over the counter or via a stolen prescription pad. "You build up a tolerance, and you're screwed" was all he'd generally say about it, and while there was a certain logic to that point of view - probably backed up by any number of people's personal experience - it made for some extremely difficult nights.
"I'll find you a damn coffee can," Bobby grumbles. "Drink the water."
Don't want water, Dean thinks stubbornly. Want a friggin' DRINK, and a whole handful of those nice white pills.
Bobby stands there, hovering, until Dean surrenders and chugs down half of the water. When Bobby raises an eyebrow, Dean mutters, "I'll finish it. All right? I'll finish it. Stop actin' like my grandmother. Sit down and watch the damn show."
Damn show's in Spanish.
Dean doesn't speak Spanish.
He and Bobby had words about it, the first time Bobby set down the remote, like he was perfectly happy with his selection.
"Dude," Dean said.
"It's good stuff."
"The hell it is."
"It's like opera. Helps if you know what they're saying, but it's not a requirement. Just…go with it."
"Opera."
"Yes. Now shut up and watch. I need to find out what's happening with Maria and Frederico."
Sam speaks Spanish - a little bit, anyway - but he's got no interest in Maria and Frederico. The best he'll do is glance over from time to time, in the general direction of the TV. You'd think that somebody with a serious brain injury would have trouble focusing on a book, or the laptop screen; hell, you'd think that somebody with a serious brain injury would be flat on their back, drooling and moaning, but the best Dean can come up with is that the Winchesters are notoriously hard-headed, and somehow that saved Sam from turning into a cabbage. For whatever reason, Sam's upright and taking nourishment. He seems coherent, most of the time. He knows his name and who the president is, and why the latest three Star Wars installments sucked ass.
He's okay, he says.
Yeah: hard-headed.
They've been holed up in Rufus's cabin for nine days now, and if you'd been keeping tabs on them, you'd know this: Bobby likes his telenovelas, and Ice Road Truckers. Pretty much anything on the Food Network and the Travel Channel. He has a soft spot for Jeopardy!, for reasons he won't explain, and he'll watch reruns of The Simpsons until the cows come home. He thinks Dr. Phil pulls too many punches (literally and figuratively), and getting him started on Regis Philbin, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, or channels that show the same commercial ten times in an hour isn't a good plan.
Sam?
Sam used to bitch about stuff on TV.
When it suited him, Sam used to bitch about there being a TV. That started when he was fourteen, when some girl convinced him that TV was for people too stupid to do something more creative with their time. That opinion, Dean figured, had probably rolled downhill from one or both of her tightassed parents, but he probably would have allowed it, provided the girl was at least marginally hot, and that her definition of "creative" included a couple of unusual sexual positions (whether she actually put any of them to use, or not). But Sam was Sam, and sexual positions - unusual or otherwise - were never part of the equation.
Time and distance finally did away with the "TV is for idiots" problem, but it came bouncing back a few years ago.
After Dad died, when Sam wanted to share.
Hell took care of that.
Now, Sam just surfs on his laptop. Pages through the stack of old National Geographics he found in a closet, or curls up on the bed with a book.
Time was, he and Dean would watch stuff together, lying on their bellies on the bed(s), snacks and sodas within easy reach. Sitcoms, old movies, Law & Order, cartoons, the Home Shopping Network, pretty much anything.
Those were good times. Relatively speaking, of course, but…good times.
"Sam," Dean calls out.
"I'm fine," Sam says.
"You don't even know what I was gonna say."
Sam looks up from the computer and raises an eyebrow. "I figure it's either 'Come watch' or 'How you doing?' The answer is still, I'm fine."
Sunday nights, Sam watches The Good Wife.
He missed Season One. (Hell.) Missed chunks of Season Two. (Soulless.) Somewhere along the line, though, he caught part of an episode and got sucked in quicker than somebody stumbling into a pool of quicksand, for no reason Dean can fathom.
Unless Sam secretly wishes that that Kalinda chick would kick his ass.
Unusual sexual situations, Dean thinks, and chuckles.
He reaches for the water glass, not oblivious to the flicker of satisfaction that crosses Bobby's face, and gulps down what's left of the water. Dad was right about the pills; you get to the point where they don't do any damn good at all, and then you're screwed. Maybe that's all pretty moot, considering that Dean's got no illusions about reaching his golden years - but they're a ways from the nearest pharmacy, he can't drive, and Bobby's watching those pills like a hawk.
When he holds out the empty glass, Bobby offers him a smile. "Atta boy," he says.
"My ass has gone numb," Dean replies.
Bobby considers that for a moment, his face gone impassive, then throws a glance toward Sam, over his shoulder.
He sighs.
It's a long one. Says half a dozen different things.
"Shut up and watch the damn show," he says quietly, after a minute.
Dean and Sam and Bobby, sittin' in the woods, Dean thinks distractedly, singsong. They're pretty much helpless, and busted up in a variety of ways; doesn't look like things are going to improve a whole lot in the foreseeable future.
But what the hell. His leg feels a little bit better.
And there's TV.
"Yeah," he murmurs, half to himself. "Okay."
* * * * *
"Shut up and watch the damn show," he says quietly, after a minute.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Bobby, Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 7.03 and 7.04 (takes place early in 7.03, with a tiny spoiler for 7.04)
LENGTH: 1426 words
ESCAPE
By Carol Davis
When Dean and Sam were kids, Bobby called the thing "the boob tube" - and that hasn't changed.
It sounds like a joke.
What's got three boobs, and sits in the middle of the woods?
Rufus's old fishing cabin!
"You say something?" Bobby asks.
Dean shrugs a "no." It's enough of a movement to make him uncomfortable, and he squirms on the couch, trying to settle back in. The busted leg's starting to throb again, right on schedule, but if he's going to behave himself he's got almost 45 minutes to work his way through before he can reach for the painkillers.
Three boobs, sitting in the middle of the woods. One of 'em's been burned out of house and home. One's got a completely screwed-up melon, and the third…
He tries not to let himself remember looking down and seeing bone piercing through his jeans. For all that he enjoys a little occasional mayhem on TV, seeing pieces of yourself that ought to be internal hanging out in the evening air is…unsettling.
"Watch the show, idjit," Bobby says.
When Dean looks over at him, the look on Bobby's face isn't critical or impatient. Tired, maybe, but nothing worse than that.
It was a surprise, but not much of one, to discover that Rufus had the cabin hooked up to the Dish Network. Rufus had his finger on the pulse of pretty much everything, and given the old man's dislike for most of the rest of humanity (which made going to bars to drink the night away kind of counterproductive), it makes sense that he'd provide himself with a couple hundred channels' worth of idle amusement - and information, too, given that there's the full spectrum of news channels, as well as access to the nightly news broadcasts of a whole variety of local stations.
What doesn't quite make sense is that Rufus would hook all that up to this sorry-ass little TV set. But sometimes, you take what you can get.
TV got Dean through his childhood, pretty much.
He's got his attention glued to the screen when Bobby gets up from his chair and wanders over to rattle around in the kitchen. A minute later, Bobby comes back carrying a big glass of water that he holds out to Dean with the instructions, "Drink this."
"Not thirsty."
"Maybe not. But more'n likely you're dehydrated. Trust me. It'll take some of the edge off."
"And it'll make me need to piss."
Bobby's no big fan of over-medicating. Neither was Dad; he'd dole out painkillers like they were made of platinum, whether they came over the counter or via a stolen prescription pad. "You build up a tolerance, and you're screwed" was all he'd generally say about it, and while there was a certain logic to that point of view - probably backed up by any number of people's personal experience - it made for some extremely difficult nights.
"I'll find you a damn coffee can," Bobby grumbles. "Drink the water."
Don't want water, Dean thinks stubbornly. Want a friggin' DRINK, and a whole handful of those nice white pills.
Bobby stands there, hovering, until Dean surrenders and chugs down half of the water. When Bobby raises an eyebrow, Dean mutters, "I'll finish it. All right? I'll finish it. Stop actin' like my grandmother. Sit down and watch the damn show."
Damn show's in Spanish.
Dean doesn't speak Spanish.
He and Bobby had words about it, the first time Bobby set down the remote, like he was perfectly happy with his selection.
"Dude," Dean said.
"It's good stuff."
"The hell it is."
"It's like opera. Helps if you know what they're saying, but it's not a requirement. Just…go with it."
"Opera."
"Yes. Now shut up and watch. I need to find out what's happening with Maria and Frederico."
Sam speaks Spanish - a little bit, anyway - but he's got no interest in Maria and Frederico. The best he'll do is glance over from time to time, in the general direction of the TV. You'd think that somebody with a serious brain injury would have trouble focusing on a book, or the laptop screen; hell, you'd think that somebody with a serious brain injury would be flat on their back, drooling and moaning, but the best Dean can come up with is that the Winchesters are notoriously hard-headed, and somehow that saved Sam from turning into a cabbage. For whatever reason, Sam's upright and taking nourishment. He seems coherent, most of the time. He knows his name and who the president is, and why the latest three Star Wars installments sucked ass.
He's okay, he says.
Yeah: hard-headed.
They've been holed up in Rufus's cabin for nine days now, and if you'd been keeping tabs on them, you'd know this: Bobby likes his telenovelas, and Ice Road Truckers. Pretty much anything on the Food Network and the Travel Channel. He has a soft spot for Jeopardy!, for reasons he won't explain, and he'll watch reruns of The Simpsons until the cows come home. He thinks Dr. Phil pulls too many punches (literally and figuratively), and getting him started on Regis Philbin, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, or channels that show the same commercial ten times in an hour isn't a good plan.
Sam?
Sam used to bitch about stuff on TV.
When it suited him, Sam used to bitch about there being a TV. That started when he was fourteen, when some girl convinced him that TV was for people too stupid to do something more creative with their time. That opinion, Dean figured, had probably rolled downhill from one or both of her tightassed parents, but he probably would have allowed it, provided the girl was at least marginally hot, and that her definition of "creative" included a couple of unusual sexual positions (whether she actually put any of them to use, or not). But Sam was Sam, and sexual positions - unusual or otherwise - were never part of the equation.
Time and distance finally did away with the "TV is for idiots" problem, but it came bouncing back a few years ago.
After Dad died, when Sam wanted to share.
Hell took care of that.
Now, Sam just surfs on his laptop. Pages through the stack of old National Geographics he found in a closet, or curls up on the bed with a book.
Time was, he and Dean would watch stuff together, lying on their bellies on the bed(s), snacks and sodas within easy reach. Sitcoms, old movies, Law & Order, cartoons, the Home Shopping Network, pretty much anything.
Those were good times. Relatively speaking, of course, but…good times.
"Sam," Dean calls out.
"I'm fine," Sam says.
"You don't even know what I was gonna say."
Sam looks up from the computer and raises an eyebrow. "I figure it's either 'Come watch' or 'How you doing?' The answer is still, I'm fine."
Sunday nights, Sam watches The Good Wife.
He missed Season One. (Hell.) Missed chunks of Season Two. (Soulless.) Somewhere along the line, though, he caught part of an episode and got sucked in quicker than somebody stumbling into a pool of quicksand, for no reason Dean can fathom.
Unless Sam secretly wishes that that Kalinda chick would kick his ass.
Unusual sexual situations, Dean thinks, and chuckles.
He reaches for the water glass, not oblivious to the flicker of satisfaction that crosses Bobby's face, and gulps down what's left of the water. Dad was right about the pills; you get to the point where they don't do any damn good at all, and then you're screwed. Maybe that's all pretty moot, considering that Dean's got no illusions about reaching his golden years - but they're a ways from the nearest pharmacy, he can't drive, and Bobby's watching those pills like a hawk.
When he holds out the empty glass, Bobby offers him a smile. "Atta boy," he says.
"My ass has gone numb," Dean replies.
Bobby considers that for a moment, his face gone impassive, then throws a glance toward Sam, over his shoulder.
He sighs.
It's a long one. Says half a dozen different things.
"Shut up and watch the damn show," he says quietly, after a minute.
Dean and Sam and Bobby, sittin' in the woods, Dean thinks distractedly, singsong. They're pretty much helpless, and busted up in a variety of ways; doesn't look like things are going to improve a whole lot in the foreseeable future.
But what the hell. His leg feels a little bit better.
And there's TV.
"Yeah," he murmurs, half to himself. "Okay."
* * * * *