SPN Fic: Header
Title: Header
Characters: Sam, Dean
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13 for some language
Word Count: 1560
Spoilers: Set mid-S5; reference to several major plot arcs from S1 on.
Summary: Written for the current comment-fic meme at hoodie_time, for this anonymous prompt: Dean joins in with a group of kids for a kick about soccer game during some down time in a small town. With Sam enjoying watching his older brother finally having some fun, Dean's frivolity suddenly comes to an abrupt end when he's smashed full in the face from close range with the ball by one of the bigger kids!
Disclaimer: I do not own the anonymous soccer mom; just making use of her facial tissues.
Sam Winchester was a man of routine.
His brother, apparently, had passed on that particular gene: indiscriminately nocturnal and diurnal, got up at any old hour of the morning, ate breakfast and supper at weird times (no matter how many times Sam tried to persuade him that blueberry pie was not one of the four components of a well-balanced breakfast, or that ordering French toast during the dinner rush was kind of like trying to get a ride to Baltimore on a westbound train out of Chicago). Sam, on the other hand, had started planning out his life at the age of six: carefully drawing graphs marked out in neat hourly chunks, filling in the spaces with “Wake up,” “Wake up Dean,” “Get Dressed,” “Eat,” “Brush Teeth,” “Read,” “Watch TV,” and other gravely important tasks of daily living. He'd saved them all, kept every ratty old scrap folded neatly in a paper bag under his bed, until one day in the course of an unaccustomed cleaning spree (he could still picture his father, yellow rubber gloves up to his elbows, a dirty apron strapped around his waist, and a slightly frenzied look to his eyes) John had found the stash, pronounced it “nutty,” and added it to the bulging plastic sack of items destined for the dumpsters behind the apartment.
He'd stopped saving his schedules after that, but Sam wasn't about to start taking showers in the mid-afternoon, or asking waitresses for steaks at 3 in the morning, and he refused to go along with Dean's crazy impulses, which threatened to run them off task on a pretty much daily basis, usually in favor of stopping at diners or visiting rodeos or, in one bizarre instance, attending a furniture auction outside of Tulsa.
Of course, Sam's refusal meant approximately zilch once Dean got an idea into his strangely twisted mind. Which meant that they'd sampled the burgers and pie in just about every diner from one end of I-90 to the other; that Sam had witnessed enough goat-tying competitions to last him a lifetime, thanks very much; and that Bobby's house now boasted a large and unsolicited recliner upholstered in the most God-awful yellow-beige Sam had ever encountered.
So the fact that Sam was now burning his ass off on a wooden park bench that some idiot had painted a brilliant heat-conducting sapphire, squinting into the middle distance as Dean and a gaggle of middle-schoolers chased a soccer ball up and down the patch of grass beyond the jungle gym, with the widow Stark's bones very much unburnt not two blocks up the road and the widow Stark three blocks down tearing holes in some poor lady's laundry - well, that was somebody's fault, all right, and it sure wasn't Sam's.
He leaned back his head and peered up into the swaying branches of the enormous cottonwood behind him, eyes half-closed against the sunlight that blazed between the constantly shifting leaves. Crinkling his nose, he breathed in the cut-grass-and-wood-chips scent that said playground more clearly than the “Gallatin Municipal Park Recreation Area” sign just outside his vision to the right. The sunlight made him feel hugged, sent a comfortable shiver up and down the back of his neck as his shoulders absorbed the warmth greedily. From the soccer game across the chips, he heard Dean miss a goal, and made a lazy mental note to remind his brother that preteen ears were delicate and their brains vulnerable and foul-mouthed guys in leather jackets who taught them new words were not considered friends of the community, which meant a hell of a lot more trouble to charm out information about the distasteful secrets of former model citizens who'd gone a little bit rotten in the afterlife.
Right now, though, he was just glad to hear Dean laughing.
'Cause he was laughing, the way Sam never heard him laugh anymore. Yes, there had been that Marx brothers movie on TV the other night , and the time he fed Cas hot sauce and nearly snorted his own taco out his nose at the angel's solemn beet-red confusion…but this was different. Freer, like the way someone breathed when an old cold finally cleared out of their lungs. Even from his distant bench Sam almost thought could hear Dean's body loosening, all that usual tension - built up over months, years of DadAzazelHellApocalypseZachariahMichaelLucifer - slackening as he tipped his head back to face the sky, not even bothering about the ball any more, all his energy concentrated on giving himself over fully and completely to profound, body-shaking laughter.
Wallowing like a happy pig in the warmth of his own exuberance, he failed to notice the misaimed kick. Payed no attention to the ball sailing straight toward his oblivious face.
Contact.
So much for the delicate ears of sixth graders.
By the time Sam reached the huddle of kids on the summer-parched grass, there was a steady stream of profanity issuing along with copious amounts of blood from behind Dean's cupped hands. Sam dug frantically through his pockets for tissues, found nothing but a set of lock-picks and a pair of lighters. Perfect for arson, not so much for first aid. On every side, the kids gazed down at awe - whether at the blood, his Crime for Beginners kit, or Dean's unholy litany, Sam wasn't sure.
“Is he okay?” an adult voice asked. Sam glanced up to see a woman in her thirties pushing through the crowd of gaping prepubescents. He shrugged, looking down at Dean, who was still spitting expletives through his fingers. The woman knelt down on the grass beside Sam and, with the no-nonsense manner of one much experienced in cases of childish injury, pried Dean's hands away from his face.
“Here,” she said, wadding up a handful of Kleenex she produced from some hidden pocket, much the way Sam had seen stage magicians pull colored scarves out of tight sleeves. Dean snuffled into the tissues, breaking off the string of curses to mumble an indistinct thanks. The woman grinned. “You should get some ice on that,” she told Sam.
“We will,” he assured her. “Thanks.” She dismissed that with a wave of her hand.
“I've got two boys. Trust me, I'm used to this kind of thing. It wouldn't be a normal day if I didn't mop up some blood.”
Sam felt himself smile. “I know the feeling.”
“He your brother?” she asked. He nodded, watching Dean tilt his head forward into the already-saturated tissues. The woman produced a fresh bunch and handed them to him without a word.
“Come on, Dean,” Sam sighed, offering his brother a hand up. Dean, of course, ignored it, rolling up onto his heels and steadying himself with his free hand before standing up. “You good to go, man?”
Dean's look could have withered cacti.
Together they turned and headed for the waiting Impala parked across the street, Dean aiming a surly kick at the offending ball where it lay innocently on the grass a few feet away. As they reached the swingset, a thought occurred to Sam.
“Go on ahead,” he told Dean, receiving only a blood-smothered grunt in reply.
Turning back to the soccer game, which was already re-forming in the absence of the mysterious absentminded nose-bleeder, Sam searched out the Kleenex woman's retreating back.
“Hey!”
She turned around, her eyebrows raised in quizzical amusement.
“I was just wondering … those kids of yours, how old are they?”
“One's five, the other's turning eighteen months next Wednesday. Why?”
A smile quirked at the edge of Sam's mouth. “No reason.” The woman gave a quick, bewildered laugh, and Sam could tell he'd just made himself look like an idiot for the second time today. Funnily enough, he really didn't care. “Just - take good care of them, okay? And thanks again for the Kleenex.”
He didn't stay to see her mystified look. Some things were better left hanging, and Sam had a broken nose to deal with.
When he got back to the car, Dean was blowing his swollen nose morosely on the last of the borrowed Kleenex, swearing in pain.
“Goddamn motherfucking little sons-a-bitches … Sam, I'm rememberin' now why I'm so glad Dad never let us play sports when we were little. Kids, man - they're freakin' lethal.”
Sam grinned, sliding down into the driver's seat and waggling his hand for the car keys. Muttering irritably, Dean dug into his pocket and tossed them over, then leaned his head back and shut his eyes.
“C'mon, man. We'll go take care of the ghost. Be good for you do something easy for a change. Take a rest from all that brutal soccer,” he snickered as he started the engine up.
“Sammy,” Dean's voice came from the seat beside him, “you don't shut up, I swear I will call up that old broad we met in Massachusetts and tell her you're hurting for some quality cuddle time.”
“Whatever, dude.” He pulled away from the side of the road, heading in the direction of Locust Grove Cemetery. The sun sparkled across the asphalt in front of them. “This lady's bones aren't gonna burn themselves.”
Characters: Sam, Dean
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13 for some language
Word Count: 1560
Spoilers: Set mid-S5; reference to several major plot arcs from S1 on.
Summary: Written for the current comment-fic meme at hoodie_time, for this anonymous prompt: Dean joins in with a group of kids for a kick about soccer game during some down time in a small town. With Sam enjoying watching his older brother finally having some fun, Dean's frivolity suddenly comes to an abrupt end when he's smashed full in the face from close range with the ball by one of the bigger kids!
Disclaimer: I do not own the anonymous soccer mom; just making use of her facial tissues.
Sam Winchester was a man of routine.
His brother, apparently, had passed on that particular gene: indiscriminately nocturnal and diurnal, got up at any old hour of the morning, ate breakfast and supper at weird times (no matter how many times Sam tried to persuade him that blueberry pie was not one of the four components of a well-balanced breakfast, or that ordering French toast during the dinner rush was kind of like trying to get a ride to Baltimore on a westbound train out of Chicago). Sam, on the other hand, had started planning out his life at the age of six: carefully drawing graphs marked out in neat hourly chunks, filling in the spaces with “Wake up,” “Wake up Dean,” “Get Dressed,” “Eat,” “Brush Teeth,” “Read,” “Watch TV,” and other gravely important tasks of daily living. He'd saved them all, kept every ratty old scrap folded neatly in a paper bag under his bed, until one day in the course of an unaccustomed cleaning spree (he could still picture his father, yellow rubber gloves up to his elbows, a dirty apron strapped around his waist, and a slightly frenzied look to his eyes) John had found the stash, pronounced it “nutty,” and added it to the bulging plastic sack of items destined for the dumpsters behind the apartment.
He'd stopped saving his schedules after that, but Sam wasn't about to start taking showers in the mid-afternoon, or asking waitresses for steaks at 3 in the morning, and he refused to go along with Dean's crazy impulses, which threatened to run them off task on a pretty much daily basis, usually in favor of stopping at diners or visiting rodeos or, in one bizarre instance, attending a furniture auction outside of Tulsa.
Of course, Sam's refusal meant approximately zilch once Dean got an idea into his strangely twisted mind. Which meant that they'd sampled the burgers and pie in just about every diner from one end of I-90 to the other; that Sam had witnessed enough goat-tying competitions to last him a lifetime, thanks very much; and that Bobby's house now boasted a large and unsolicited recliner upholstered in the most God-awful yellow-beige Sam had ever encountered.
So the fact that Sam was now burning his ass off on a wooden park bench that some idiot had painted a brilliant heat-conducting sapphire, squinting into the middle distance as Dean and a gaggle of middle-schoolers chased a soccer ball up and down the patch of grass beyond the jungle gym, with the widow Stark's bones very much unburnt not two blocks up the road and the widow Stark three blocks down tearing holes in some poor lady's laundry - well, that was somebody's fault, all right, and it sure wasn't Sam's.
He leaned back his head and peered up into the swaying branches of the enormous cottonwood behind him, eyes half-closed against the sunlight that blazed between the constantly shifting leaves. Crinkling his nose, he breathed in the cut-grass-and-wood-chips scent that said playground more clearly than the “Gallatin Municipal Park Recreation Area” sign just outside his vision to the right. The sunlight made him feel hugged, sent a comfortable shiver up and down the back of his neck as his shoulders absorbed the warmth greedily. From the soccer game across the chips, he heard Dean miss a goal, and made a lazy mental note to remind his brother that preteen ears were delicate and their brains vulnerable and foul-mouthed guys in leather jackets who taught them new words were not considered friends of the community, which meant a hell of a lot more trouble to charm out information about the distasteful secrets of former model citizens who'd gone a little bit rotten in the afterlife.
Right now, though, he was just glad to hear Dean laughing.
'Cause he was laughing, the way Sam never heard him laugh anymore. Yes, there had been that Marx brothers movie on TV the other night , and the time he fed Cas hot sauce and nearly snorted his own taco out his nose at the angel's solemn beet-red confusion…but this was different. Freer, like the way someone breathed when an old cold finally cleared out of their lungs. Even from his distant bench Sam almost thought could hear Dean's body loosening, all that usual tension - built up over months, years of DadAzazelHellApocalypseZachariahMichaelLucifer - slackening as he tipped his head back to face the sky, not even bothering about the ball any more, all his energy concentrated on giving himself over fully and completely to profound, body-shaking laughter.
Wallowing like a happy pig in the warmth of his own exuberance, he failed to notice the misaimed kick. Payed no attention to the ball sailing straight toward his oblivious face.
Contact.
So much for the delicate ears of sixth graders.
By the time Sam reached the huddle of kids on the summer-parched grass, there was a steady stream of profanity issuing along with copious amounts of blood from behind Dean's cupped hands. Sam dug frantically through his pockets for tissues, found nothing but a set of lock-picks and a pair of lighters. Perfect for arson, not so much for first aid. On every side, the kids gazed down at awe - whether at the blood, his Crime for Beginners kit, or Dean's unholy litany, Sam wasn't sure.
“Is he okay?” an adult voice asked. Sam glanced up to see a woman in her thirties pushing through the crowd of gaping prepubescents. He shrugged, looking down at Dean, who was still spitting expletives through his fingers. The woman knelt down on the grass beside Sam and, with the no-nonsense manner of one much experienced in cases of childish injury, pried Dean's hands away from his face.
“Here,” she said, wadding up a handful of Kleenex she produced from some hidden pocket, much the way Sam had seen stage magicians pull colored scarves out of tight sleeves. Dean snuffled into the tissues, breaking off the string of curses to mumble an indistinct thanks. The woman grinned. “You should get some ice on that,” she told Sam.
“We will,” he assured her. “Thanks.” She dismissed that with a wave of her hand.
“I've got two boys. Trust me, I'm used to this kind of thing. It wouldn't be a normal day if I didn't mop up some blood.”
Sam felt himself smile. “I know the feeling.”
“He your brother?” she asked. He nodded, watching Dean tilt his head forward into the already-saturated tissues. The woman produced a fresh bunch and handed them to him without a word.
“Come on, Dean,” Sam sighed, offering his brother a hand up. Dean, of course, ignored it, rolling up onto his heels and steadying himself with his free hand before standing up. “You good to go, man?”
Dean's look could have withered cacti.
Together they turned and headed for the waiting Impala parked across the street, Dean aiming a surly kick at the offending ball where it lay innocently on the grass a few feet away. As they reached the swingset, a thought occurred to Sam.
“Go on ahead,” he told Dean, receiving only a blood-smothered grunt in reply.
Turning back to the soccer game, which was already re-forming in the absence of the mysterious absentminded nose-bleeder, Sam searched out the Kleenex woman's retreating back.
“Hey!”
She turned around, her eyebrows raised in quizzical amusement.
“I was just wondering … those kids of yours, how old are they?”
“One's five, the other's turning eighteen months next Wednesday. Why?”
A smile quirked at the edge of Sam's mouth. “No reason.” The woman gave a quick, bewildered laugh, and Sam could tell he'd just made himself look like an idiot for the second time today. Funnily enough, he really didn't care. “Just - take good care of them, okay? And thanks again for the Kleenex.”
He didn't stay to see her mystified look. Some things were better left hanging, and Sam had a broken nose to deal with.
When he got back to the car, Dean was blowing his swollen nose morosely on the last of the borrowed Kleenex, swearing in pain.
“Goddamn motherfucking little sons-a-bitches … Sam, I'm rememberin' now why I'm so glad Dad never let us play sports when we were little. Kids, man - they're freakin' lethal.”
Sam grinned, sliding down into the driver's seat and waggling his hand for the car keys. Muttering irritably, Dean dug into his pocket and tossed them over, then leaned his head back and shut his eyes.
“C'mon, man. We'll go take care of the ghost. Be good for you do something easy for a change. Take a rest from all that brutal soccer,” he snickered as he started the engine up.
“Sammy,” Dean's voice came from the seat beside him, “you don't shut up, I swear I will call up that old broad we met in Massachusetts and tell her you're hurting for some quality cuddle time.”
“Whatever, dude.” He pulled away from the side of the road, heading in the direction of Locust Grove Cemetery. The sun sparkled across the asphalt in front of them. “This lady's bones aren't gonna burn themselves.”