SPN FIC - Of Then, And Now
It's the place to make all your holiday dreams come true. Right?
"Toys R Us?" Sam says. "Why -?"
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1437 words
OF THEN, AND NOW
By Carol Davis
"Can we go in there?" Dean asks, and when Sam frowns, he tips his head toward the big building at the far end of the parking lot.
It doesn't make sense. That building.
"Toys R Us?" Sam says. "Why -?"
Dean doesn't respond for a minute, not in any way at all. His shoulders are hunched against the chill, although really, the day's not all that cold. There's no wind, and the sun's out. You could call it a nice day. Crisp. Bright. "Can we go in there and just -" he says finally. "Is everybody in there gonna think we're freaks?"
Why would "in there" be any different from anyplace else? Sam wonders.
"Did you want to…buy something?" he asks his brother.
Rather than answer, Dean strides off across the parking lot, fists shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. The jacket's new - four bucks at Goodwill, three days ago - so there aren't any stains on it that would raise eyebrows. He and Sam both showered before breakfast, put on clean shirts, combed their hair. They look reasonably normal, although that does depend on what your definition of "normal" is.
They look tired.
But the economy's in the dumper, Sam thinks. Unemployment's at an all-time high. People look tired. Frayed.
He follows his brother into the store, blinking at the rush of overly warm, parched air against the chapped skin of his face. There's music playing on the overhead speakers - "Frosty the Snowman," stupidly easy to identify, even though it's an instrumental version - and there are huge paper snowflakes hanging from the light fixtures. The checkout stations are wrapped in twinkling lights, and each of the clerks is wearing a fuzzy Santa hat.
"Do you -" he begins to say, then realizes that Dean is nowhere in sight. Finding him takes a couple of minutes, and it's honestly remarkable that Dean could vanish so quickly and so completely in a place that offers no hiding places for anyone over three feet tall.
Dean is still moving when Sam finally spots him, striding down an aisle of board games and puzzles.
"Dean," Sam says to the back of his brother's head.
Everyone in here looks humorless and impatient, except for the checkout clerks, presumably because they're being paid to be cheerful (or at least, have been bullied into faking it). This is the wrong place to be at this time of year, Sam thinks as he follows Dean around a corner, into an aisle of model planes and cars and movie-themed action figures. For all that the advertising claims that this is a place where holiday dreams come true, it's more a place of frustration. Fist fights, sometimes. Low blood sugar and insufficient funds.
"Dad would never let us come in these places," Dean murmurs when Sam reaches out to grasp him by the sleeve. He seems to have found what he wanted, though what that is, Sam isn't sure; he's looking at a display of Buzz Lightyear dolls, and why he would want one of those, Sam has no idea. "You were okay in the toy section at the grocery store, but in one of these - it's all friggin' sensory overload. How do you get a kid out of a place like this?"
"Threats and intimidation," Sam says mildly.
Dean turns then, and looks Sam straight in the eye.
"What?" Sam asks.
"I'm sorry."
"For what? Dean - why are we here? We ought to be -"
"I had the chance. You know? I had it. I can kind of remember. You kind of got screwed. And I'm sorry."
The speakers overhead are blaring "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." A couple of aisles away, someone's child is screeching, "I don't WANNA!" at a pitch that would shatter glass if his or her volume was turned up another notch or two. There's another sound, a peculiar whine that Sam understands is a radio-operated model car being driven along an aisle's worth of dirty linoleum.
"It wasn't your fault," Sam says.
"Four years. You know?" Dean persists. "I had it. Maybe I'm imagining it. But I feel like I remember a whole shitload of stuff. Presents. I remember bailing into it like that littler kid in A Christmas Story. I had a chance to be a kid. And I just -"
"So you want to buy me a Buzz Lightyear?"
"Do you want one?"
"No," Sam says, holding back the laugh that wants to break loose, because Dean looks so damned earnest about this whole thing. What set him off is a mystery; they haven't watched any cheesy holiday stuff on TV, and there's no snow on the ground. But then, Sam has long since lost count of how many times Dean's gone off on a riff like this. Dean's brain operates on its own unique frequency, one that makes sense only to Dean. That wasn't always true, Sam thinks. Maybe it's a leftover from Hell.
It might be a sign of some terrible emotional distress, like the drinking.
Or maybe it's just Dean, trying to grab hold of a world that spins way too fast.
"I'm sorry," Dean says again.
"I know you are, man," Sam replies. "I am too. But what I want right now - I'm thinking 'breakfast'."
"That's all?"
"Pancakes would be good."
"You're sure you don't want -"
"Yeah. I'm really sure."
Dean accepts that with a shrug and a nod, and side by side they begin walking back toward the front of the store. They're about halfway there when a thought occurs to Sam. "Did you want a Buzz Lightyear?" he asks.
Dean's expression puckers. He's got a good salty reply - which might or might not be a lie - all lined up, but before he can voice it, a frazzled-looking woman pushes a shopping cart around the corner and into their path. There's a kid in it, a little blonde girl maybe two years old. The woman acknowledges them only as an obstacle, but the kid busts out a thousand-watt grin and burbles, "UMMY KRIPITZ!"
She's the one who was shrieking, Sam thinks.
When he turns to Dean, Dean is grinning back at the kid.
He'd stand there all morning, making weird faces, and be perfectly content. It's something he does.
It's something Sam remembers him doing, a long time ago, when there was no Christmas tree. No shitload of gifts. Just a damp, smelly motel room, a TV that offered maybe half a dozen channels, a dinner they ate out of aluminum takeout containers. And Dean, the master of shadow puppetry. Of blanket forts and bathtub naval fleets made of paper cups, of hide-and-seek and paper planes.
Scowling, the woman shoves her cart around them and goes on her way. She's a few yards down the aisle when the kid peers around her and waves goodbye with a small, red-mittened hand.
Dean doesn't wave back, but he smiles.
The smile disappears quickly, once the kid's out of sight.
"Breakfast?" Sam reminds his brother.
Gently. A distraction, not a command.
Dean stands there looking down the now-empty aisle. A lot of the determination's gone out of his posture, and the new Goodwill jacket now seems too big for him, the way Dad's leather jacket always did.
"I would've done it for you if I could," he murmurs, more to the empty aisle than to Sam.
"I know you would, man." Sam gestures back behind them, toward the action figures. There had to be a reason Dean stopped there, in front of that tower of white space-suited, grinning toys. What it was, he can't imagine. But maybe the reason doesn't matter. "Did you want - I mean, I'm good with it. It's insane, but what the hell."
"No. That's - no."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Sammy. I'm good." Then, although nothing has changed, Dean's melancholy vanishes as quickly as the smile did. "Pancakes," he beams. "Yeah? Maybe they got that good syrup I like."
"Maybe," Sam nods.
"Scrambled eggs. Bacon. You hungry? I'm hungry."
The cold, sharp air outside feels good. Smells good. They stand on the sidewalk outside the store for a moment, waiting for a couple of cars to move out of the way. Things seem all right out here - kind of normal, at least for the moment.
There's nobody being eaten out here. That's a plus.
These days, you take what you can get.
"Hey," Sam says, halting Dean from stepping down from the walkway.
Dean raises a brow.
"Ummy Kripitz, man," Sam says, smiling.
"Yeah," Dean replies, on a breath of a laugh. "Ummy Kripitz, and a zippy New Year. Let's go eat."
* * * * *
"Toys R Us?" Sam says. "Why -?"
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1437 words
OF THEN, AND NOW
By Carol Davis
"Can we go in there?" Dean asks, and when Sam frowns, he tips his head toward the big building at the far end of the parking lot.
It doesn't make sense. That building.
"Toys R Us?" Sam says. "Why -?"
Dean doesn't respond for a minute, not in any way at all. His shoulders are hunched against the chill, although really, the day's not all that cold. There's no wind, and the sun's out. You could call it a nice day. Crisp. Bright. "Can we go in there and just -" he says finally. "Is everybody in there gonna think we're freaks?"
Why would "in there" be any different from anyplace else? Sam wonders.
"Did you want to…buy something?" he asks his brother.
Rather than answer, Dean strides off across the parking lot, fists shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. The jacket's new - four bucks at Goodwill, three days ago - so there aren't any stains on it that would raise eyebrows. He and Sam both showered before breakfast, put on clean shirts, combed their hair. They look reasonably normal, although that does depend on what your definition of "normal" is.
They look tired.
But the economy's in the dumper, Sam thinks. Unemployment's at an all-time high. People look tired. Frayed.
He follows his brother into the store, blinking at the rush of overly warm, parched air against the chapped skin of his face. There's music playing on the overhead speakers - "Frosty the Snowman," stupidly easy to identify, even though it's an instrumental version - and there are huge paper snowflakes hanging from the light fixtures. The checkout stations are wrapped in twinkling lights, and each of the clerks is wearing a fuzzy Santa hat.
"Do you -" he begins to say, then realizes that Dean is nowhere in sight. Finding him takes a couple of minutes, and it's honestly remarkable that Dean could vanish so quickly and so completely in a place that offers no hiding places for anyone over three feet tall.
Dean is still moving when Sam finally spots him, striding down an aisle of board games and puzzles.
"Dean," Sam says to the back of his brother's head.
Everyone in here looks humorless and impatient, except for the checkout clerks, presumably because they're being paid to be cheerful (or at least, have been bullied into faking it). This is the wrong place to be at this time of year, Sam thinks as he follows Dean around a corner, into an aisle of model planes and cars and movie-themed action figures. For all that the advertising claims that this is a place where holiday dreams come true, it's more a place of frustration. Fist fights, sometimes. Low blood sugar and insufficient funds.
"Dad would never let us come in these places," Dean murmurs when Sam reaches out to grasp him by the sleeve. He seems to have found what he wanted, though what that is, Sam isn't sure; he's looking at a display of Buzz Lightyear dolls, and why he would want one of those, Sam has no idea. "You were okay in the toy section at the grocery store, but in one of these - it's all friggin' sensory overload. How do you get a kid out of a place like this?"
"Threats and intimidation," Sam says mildly.
Dean turns then, and looks Sam straight in the eye.
"What?" Sam asks.
"I'm sorry."
"For what? Dean - why are we here? We ought to be -"
"I had the chance. You know? I had it. I can kind of remember. You kind of got screwed. And I'm sorry."
The speakers overhead are blaring "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." A couple of aisles away, someone's child is screeching, "I don't WANNA!" at a pitch that would shatter glass if his or her volume was turned up another notch or two. There's another sound, a peculiar whine that Sam understands is a radio-operated model car being driven along an aisle's worth of dirty linoleum.
"It wasn't your fault," Sam says.
"Four years. You know?" Dean persists. "I had it. Maybe I'm imagining it. But I feel like I remember a whole shitload of stuff. Presents. I remember bailing into it like that littler kid in A Christmas Story. I had a chance to be a kid. And I just -"
"So you want to buy me a Buzz Lightyear?"
"Do you want one?"
"No," Sam says, holding back the laugh that wants to break loose, because Dean looks so damned earnest about this whole thing. What set him off is a mystery; they haven't watched any cheesy holiday stuff on TV, and there's no snow on the ground. But then, Sam has long since lost count of how many times Dean's gone off on a riff like this. Dean's brain operates on its own unique frequency, one that makes sense only to Dean. That wasn't always true, Sam thinks. Maybe it's a leftover from Hell.
It might be a sign of some terrible emotional distress, like the drinking.
Or maybe it's just Dean, trying to grab hold of a world that spins way too fast.
"I'm sorry," Dean says again.
"I know you are, man," Sam replies. "I am too. But what I want right now - I'm thinking 'breakfast'."
"That's all?"
"Pancakes would be good."
"You're sure you don't want -"
"Yeah. I'm really sure."
Dean accepts that with a shrug and a nod, and side by side they begin walking back toward the front of the store. They're about halfway there when a thought occurs to Sam. "Did you want a Buzz Lightyear?" he asks.
Dean's expression puckers. He's got a good salty reply - which might or might not be a lie - all lined up, but before he can voice it, a frazzled-looking woman pushes a shopping cart around the corner and into their path. There's a kid in it, a little blonde girl maybe two years old. The woman acknowledges them only as an obstacle, but the kid busts out a thousand-watt grin and burbles, "UMMY KRIPITZ!"
She's the one who was shrieking, Sam thinks.
When he turns to Dean, Dean is grinning back at the kid.
He'd stand there all morning, making weird faces, and be perfectly content. It's something he does.
It's something Sam remembers him doing, a long time ago, when there was no Christmas tree. No shitload of gifts. Just a damp, smelly motel room, a TV that offered maybe half a dozen channels, a dinner they ate out of aluminum takeout containers. And Dean, the master of shadow puppetry. Of blanket forts and bathtub naval fleets made of paper cups, of hide-and-seek and paper planes.
Scowling, the woman shoves her cart around them and goes on her way. She's a few yards down the aisle when the kid peers around her and waves goodbye with a small, red-mittened hand.
Dean doesn't wave back, but he smiles.
The smile disappears quickly, once the kid's out of sight.
"Breakfast?" Sam reminds his brother.
Gently. A distraction, not a command.
Dean stands there looking down the now-empty aisle. A lot of the determination's gone out of his posture, and the new Goodwill jacket now seems too big for him, the way Dad's leather jacket always did.
"I would've done it for you if I could," he murmurs, more to the empty aisle than to Sam.
"I know you would, man." Sam gestures back behind them, toward the action figures. There had to be a reason Dean stopped there, in front of that tower of white space-suited, grinning toys. What it was, he can't imagine. But maybe the reason doesn't matter. "Did you want - I mean, I'm good with it. It's insane, but what the hell."
"No. That's - no."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Sammy. I'm good." Then, although nothing has changed, Dean's melancholy vanishes as quickly as the smile did. "Pancakes," he beams. "Yeah? Maybe they got that good syrup I like."
"Maybe," Sam nods.
"Scrambled eggs. Bacon. You hungry? I'm hungry."
The cold, sharp air outside feels good. Smells good. They stand on the sidewalk outside the store for a moment, waiting for a couple of cars to move out of the way. Things seem all right out here - kind of normal, at least for the moment.
There's nobody being eaten out here. That's a plus.
These days, you take what you can get.
"Hey," Sam says, halting Dean from stepping down from the walkway.
Dean raises a brow.
"Ummy Kripitz, man," Sam says, smiling.
"Yeah," Dean replies, on a breath of a laugh. "Ummy Kripitz, and a zippy New Year. Let's go eat."
* * * * *