More Fiction
This is the first SPN I wrote. Just a little ruminating on Dean's part...
No spoilers other than the pilot.
PG for a couple of bad words
Ozzy Hour
Dean braces against the wheel and sinks a little deeper, letting his spine loosen and settle, vertebrae by vertebrae, into the familiar hollow that untold miles have worn into the soft leather of the driver’s seat. He pops in a cassette, slips on his shades and rolls down the window. Fingers tap rhythm on the warm metal roof and he gives a little sigh of pleasure as the wind blows through his hair on this perfect spring day. There are few things that he loves more than being behind the wheel, a successful hunt behind him and the open road ahead. This is happiness to him. But it’s different for Sam.
He glances over at his brother, already knowing what he’ll find. Sam is slouching in the seat, leaning against the window, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Eyes unfocused and misty, Sam is the very picture of misery, and right now he’s seeing something that Dean can’t, and god willing, never will.
It happens sometimes when they have a good hunt-one where no one dies or gets hurt, except of course, the big bad. That kind of hunt always makes Dean want to celebrate, to drive fast, play the radio way too loud, roll down the windows and shout to the world, “Take that, you evil mutherfuckers!” Sam usually wants to sulk. And Sam is in full sulk mode at the moment.
The funny thing is that Dean doesn’t mind. Why should he? He’s used to it, been living with it for twenty years. Every successful hunt would throw his father into a funk; identical to the one Sam was now in--silent, staring, and about as much fun as a sore dick. When they were kids, Dean had tried to talk to his dad, crack jokes, ask questions, anything to bring John Winchester back from that jagged edge. But it never worked and pretty soon Dean learned to just sit back, shut up and wait it out.
When Sammy was little, it wasn’t a problem. It was just a normal thing Dad did. When he got older, though, it wasn’t cool. It freaked Sam out, so Dean stepped in. He started picking on Sam. Nothing like a good fight to keep your mind off your dad’s crappy mood. Most of the time, Dean could keep Sam from noticing Dad’s mental absences. They kept each other company while they waited for their father to rejoin them. But then Sammy left for college, and it was just Dean and Dad and miles of stony silence. Dean even had a name for it-Ozzy Hour. His dad would retreat into his shell, and Dean was free to play his music as loud as he wanted, and drive as fast as he could without parental interference. After about an hour, or 75 miles, whichever came first, John Winchester would suddenly growl, “Dean, turn that crap off,” and life would resume its normal abnormalcy.
Dean watches his brother out of the corner of his eye, and cranks up the stereo. He knows that this mood is not about him, what he’s done or hasn’t done. He never took the silence personally, not from his dad, and not now, from Sam. He understands that it has to do with guilt and failure, with the soul-killing irony of saving strangers but not being able to keep the love of your life from becoming a holocaust on the ceiling.
There is a strange sort of role reversal at work. Sam always complained about
Dad, about how they were raised, about how no one understood him. Sam and Dad were constantly fighting over nothing. Dean had been the one with the strong bond with his father. Now, Sammy and Dad were joined together in a hellish club with a pretty exclusive membership. There’s no room for him in the clubhouse, and that suits Dean just fine. Someone has to drive. Someone has to be around to take care of things, to make sure people eat, and sleep, and to watch over them during Ozzy Hour while they battle the inner demons that are more dangerous than the ones they hunt. It’s his job, and he’s done it well for 22 years.
“Dean, turn that crap off,” Sam growls and reaches for the stereo, popping out the Ozzy tape.
Dean checks his watch-55 minutes. He chuckles softly and shakes his head.
Sam gives him a look. “What’s so funny?”
Dean grins. “I was just thinking how much you remind me of Dad.”
“Are you mental?” Sam asks and stretches. “Want me to drive?”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Dude, I told you, no more crack smokin’ in the car. It fucks up the upholstery.”
Sam grins. “Moron.”
Dean smiles. “Princess.” He puts a Whitesnake tape in the stereo and cranks it up.
Sam rolls down his window. The wind blows through his hair, and his long fingers tap a rhythm on the car roof. He turns to look at his brother. “Why don’t you ever play Ozzy anymore?”
No spoilers other than the pilot.
PG for a couple of bad words
Ozzy Hour
Dean braces against the wheel and sinks a little deeper, letting his spine loosen and settle, vertebrae by vertebrae, into the familiar hollow that untold miles have worn into the soft leather of the driver’s seat. He pops in a cassette, slips on his shades and rolls down the window. Fingers tap rhythm on the warm metal roof and he gives a little sigh of pleasure as the wind blows through his hair on this perfect spring day. There are few things that he loves more than being behind the wheel, a successful hunt behind him and the open road ahead. This is happiness to him. But it’s different for Sam.
He glances over at his brother, already knowing what he’ll find. Sam is slouching in the seat, leaning against the window, staring straight ahead out the windshield. Eyes unfocused and misty, Sam is the very picture of misery, and right now he’s seeing something that Dean can’t, and god willing, never will.
It happens sometimes when they have a good hunt-one where no one dies or gets hurt, except of course, the big bad. That kind of hunt always makes Dean want to celebrate, to drive fast, play the radio way too loud, roll down the windows and shout to the world, “Take that, you evil mutherfuckers!” Sam usually wants to sulk. And Sam is in full sulk mode at the moment.
The funny thing is that Dean doesn’t mind. Why should he? He’s used to it, been living with it for twenty years. Every successful hunt would throw his father into a funk; identical to the one Sam was now in--silent, staring, and about as much fun as a sore dick. When they were kids, Dean had tried to talk to his dad, crack jokes, ask questions, anything to bring John Winchester back from that jagged edge. But it never worked and pretty soon Dean learned to just sit back, shut up and wait it out.
When Sammy was little, it wasn’t a problem. It was just a normal thing Dad did. When he got older, though, it wasn’t cool. It freaked Sam out, so Dean stepped in. He started picking on Sam. Nothing like a good fight to keep your mind off your dad’s crappy mood. Most of the time, Dean could keep Sam from noticing Dad’s mental absences. They kept each other company while they waited for their father to rejoin them. But then Sammy left for college, and it was just Dean and Dad and miles of stony silence. Dean even had a name for it-Ozzy Hour. His dad would retreat into his shell, and Dean was free to play his music as loud as he wanted, and drive as fast as he could without parental interference. After about an hour, or 75 miles, whichever came first, John Winchester would suddenly growl, “Dean, turn that crap off,” and life would resume its normal abnormalcy.
Dean watches his brother out of the corner of his eye, and cranks up the stereo. He knows that this mood is not about him, what he’s done or hasn’t done. He never took the silence personally, not from his dad, and not now, from Sam. He understands that it has to do with guilt and failure, with the soul-killing irony of saving strangers but not being able to keep the love of your life from becoming a holocaust on the ceiling.
There is a strange sort of role reversal at work. Sam always complained about
Dad, about how they were raised, about how no one understood him. Sam and Dad were constantly fighting over nothing. Dean had been the one with the strong bond with his father. Now, Sammy and Dad were joined together in a hellish club with a pretty exclusive membership. There’s no room for him in the clubhouse, and that suits Dean just fine. Someone has to drive. Someone has to be around to take care of things, to make sure people eat, and sleep, and to watch over them during Ozzy Hour while they battle the inner demons that are more dangerous than the ones they hunt. It’s his job, and he’s done it well for 22 years.
“Dean, turn that crap off,” Sam growls and reaches for the stereo, popping out the Ozzy tape.
Dean checks his watch-55 minutes. He chuckles softly and shakes his head.
Sam gives him a look. “What’s so funny?”
Dean grins. “I was just thinking how much you remind me of Dad.”
“Are you mental?” Sam asks and stretches. “Want me to drive?”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Dude, I told you, no more crack smokin’ in the car. It fucks up the upholstery.”
Sam grins. “Moron.”
Dean smiles. “Princess.” He puts a Whitesnake tape in the stereo and cranks it up.
Sam rolls down his window. The wind blows through his hair, and his long fingers tap a rhythm on the car roof. He turns to look at his brother. “Why don’t you ever play Ozzy anymore?”