fic: The Lame Duck Congress (Supernatural; Sam and Dean; gen)
The Lame Duck Congress
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; g; 800 words
Dean hates downtime.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. Written for the West Wing title project.
***
The Lame Duck Congress
Dean hates downtime, hates the boredom of staring at the same four walls. Hates it even more now, because it gives Sam time to brood and angst, to come up with a million different scenarios on how he might go evil, and how Dean will have to stop him, and nothing Dean says or does can change his mind, make him realize that it's not going to happen.
He hates laying low, letting jobs pass them by because that freak Henricksen is out there, gunning for them. It's all well and good to think of himself as an outlaw, to laugh when they list him in the NCIC database, but it makes their lives--already not a bed of roses, thanks--harder than they have to be to have a an FBI agent with a hate-on for them riding their asses across the country. And it makes him sick that Sam is in there at all. He and Dad had worked hard to keep their criminal activities away from Sam, to make sure none of it touched him growing up, and he can hear Dad's voice in his head, reaming him out for yet another fuck-up.
He especially hates that Sam goes out by himself, and refuses to check in every fifteen minutes to let Dean know he's not dead or possessed or arrested. The one time Dean suggested it, Sam shut him down so quickly, Dean's still a little shocked. Sam's been gone a couple hours now, and Dean's resisting the urge to call him a third time when the door opens. Even though he knows it's Sam, he tenses and puts his hand on his gun.
Sam comes in, hair dark from the rain that's been pelting down for what feels like forever, and kicks his shoes off.
"Took you long enough," Dean says, to cover the fact that he was worried.
"Chin was a little late. Apparently, he's been questioned about us." Sam pulls an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket and tosses it onto the desk, where it lands with a smack.
"He's getting sloppy," Dean says, picking the envelope up and rifling through it: lists of names and social security numbers, mothers' maiden names and easily discovered PIN numbers, a handful of official looking IDs with names like--"What the hell? I am totally not Roger Healey. Or Larry Tate. And you are not cute enough to be Sam Stevens." Sam wrinkles his nose in response, and Dean laughs. "You never did get over not being able to wiggle your nose and make the remote appear." He almost makes a joke about Sam moving things with his mind, but stops, the sound of his father's voice, rough and mocking, echoing in his memory--Make the gun float to you there, psychic-boy.
"I got tired of being Angus Young," Sam answers. "And I don't think I can pass as Sebastian Bach."
Dean laughs. "You know he was on Gilmore Girls, right?" The words slip out before he can stop them.
"Yeah--Wait, you watched Gilmore Girls?" Sam raises his eyebrows and laughs, and Dean's pretty sure he's never going to hear the end of it. "Did it come on before or after Oprah?"
"Shut up, Sam." He's not even going to dignify the Oprah dig with a response. "Lorelai is a MILF. I'd totally hit that." He sorts through the IDs again, frowning. "I could have a Luke Danes ID."
Sam looks skeptical. "And I'd be Dean Forrester?"
"No, you'd be the grandmother. All bitchy and pinched and shit." He can admit he would fuck Lorelai Gilmore, but no way can he tell Sam he kind of loves Emily, too, the way she always tries to do the best for her family, and the way it breaks her heart when Lorelai can't see it.
"You're very funny, Dean."
He smirks. "One of us has to be."
The familiar back and forth eases Dean's tension a little, as does having Sam within arm's reach.
They spend a little time sorting through the false paperwork, and Dean is impressed--it's all professional-grade forgery, and the only reason they can still afford Chin's work now that he's hit the big-time is because they saved his grandmother from a nasty-ass ogre that liked eating old women's bones.
"There's a Planet of the Apes marathon on TBS tonight," he says, finally breaking the silence.
Sam looks up through his bangs and smiles. "I'll order the Chinese food." He unfolds himself from his chair and paces the room while he orders Mongolian beef and Hunan chicken, potstickers and Hoisin pork. He sounds happier than he has in a while, and Dean thinks about how he hates downtime, hates being cooped up, but as long as Sam's with him, it'll be all right.
end
***
Feedback is adored.
***
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; g; 800 words
Dean hates downtime.
Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. Written for the West Wing title project.
***
The Lame Duck Congress
Dean hates downtime, hates the boredom of staring at the same four walls. Hates it even more now, because it gives Sam time to brood and angst, to come up with a million different scenarios on how he might go evil, and how Dean will have to stop him, and nothing Dean says or does can change his mind, make him realize that it's not going to happen.
He hates laying low, letting jobs pass them by because that freak Henricksen is out there, gunning for them. It's all well and good to think of himself as an outlaw, to laugh when they list him in the NCIC database, but it makes their lives--already not a bed of roses, thanks--harder than they have to be to have a an FBI agent with a hate-on for them riding their asses across the country. And it makes him sick that Sam is in there at all. He and Dad had worked hard to keep their criminal activities away from Sam, to make sure none of it touched him growing up, and he can hear Dad's voice in his head, reaming him out for yet another fuck-up.
He especially hates that Sam goes out by himself, and refuses to check in every fifteen minutes to let Dean know he's not dead or possessed or arrested. The one time Dean suggested it, Sam shut him down so quickly, Dean's still a little shocked. Sam's been gone a couple hours now, and Dean's resisting the urge to call him a third time when the door opens. Even though he knows it's Sam, he tenses and puts his hand on his gun.
Sam comes in, hair dark from the rain that's been pelting down for what feels like forever, and kicks his shoes off.
"Took you long enough," Dean says, to cover the fact that he was worried.
"Chin was a little late. Apparently, he's been questioned about us." Sam pulls an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket and tosses it onto the desk, where it lands with a smack.
"He's getting sloppy," Dean says, picking the envelope up and rifling through it: lists of names and social security numbers, mothers' maiden names and easily discovered PIN numbers, a handful of official looking IDs with names like--"What the hell? I am totally not Roger Healey. Or Larry Tate. And you are not cute enough to be Sam Stevens." Sam wrinkles his nose in response, and Dean laughs. "You never did get over not being able to wiggle your nose and make the remote appear." He almost makes a joke about Sam moving things with his mind, but stops, the sound of his father's voice, rough and mocking, echoing in his memory--Make the gun float to you there, psychic-boy.
"I got tired of being Angus Young," Sam answers. "And I don't think I can pass as Sebastian Bach."
Dean laughs. "You know he was on Gilmore Girls, right?" The words slip out before he can stop them.
"Yeah--Wait, you watched Gilmore Girls?" Sam raises his eyebrows and laughs, and Dean's pretty sure he's never going to hear the end of it. "Did it come on before or after Oprah?"
"Shut up, Sam." He's not even going to dignify the Oprah dig with a response. "Lorelai is a MILF. I'd totally hit that." He sorts through the IDs again, frowning. "I could have a Luke Danes ID."
Sam looks skeptical. "And I'd be Dean Forrester?"
"No, you'd be the grandmother. All bitchy and pinched and shit." He can admit he would fuck Lorelai Gilmore, but no way can he tell Sam he kind of loves Emily, too, the way she always tries to do the best for her family, and the way it breaks her heart when Lorelai can't see it.
"You're very funny, Dean."
He smirks. "One of us has to be."
The familiar back and forth eases Dean's tension a little, as does having Sam within arm's reach.
They spend a little time sorting through the false paperwork, and Dean is impressed--it's all professional-grade forgery, and the only reason they can still afford Chin's work now that he's hit the big-time is because they saved his grandmother from a nasty-ass ogre that liked eating old women's bones.
"There's a Planet of the Apes marathon on TBS tonight," he says, finally breaking the silence.
Sam looks up through his bangs and smiles. "I'll order the Chinese food." He unfolds himself from his chair and paces the room while he orders Mongolian beef and Hunan chicken, potstickers and Hoisin pork. He sounds happier than he has in a while, and Dean thinks about how he hates downtime, hates being cooped up, but as long as Sam's with him, it'll be all right.
end
***
Feedback is adored.
***