New Fic: Downtime
Title: Downtime
Characters: Sam and Dean
Rating: PG - Gen
Summary: The boys get high. Yes, there be some schmoop but if they aren’t drunk or high when will that happen huh?
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I just like playing with the boys.
Special thanks to amazing beta chemm80 .
Dean took a deep drag, sucked the sweet smoke into his lungs and held it there. He could hold his breath for over four minutes thanks to Dad and his water sprite training.
Of course this was not the same thing. There had been no Smoking Weed 101 in Dad’s repertoire of hunting techniques.
He exhaled, letting the smoke filter out of his lungs and then laid back against the frame of what appeared to be a ‘76 Ford Pinto. He sniffed hard and rubbed the flat of his hand under his nose. Maybe it was a ’78, but either way it was serviceable as a backrest. Ass to ground, he tipped his head back a bit and enjoyed the South Dakota sky.
Bobby’s place was a ways back from town, --a ways back from anything really-- and it meant that the sky was crystal and the stars plentiful. Why he felt so peaceful surrounded by the smell of grease and motor oil, Dean didn’t know. Even the metallic tang of rusty, corroded scrap smelled surprisingly comforting.
Dean dropped a hand to the huge mastiff mix that lay sprawled out at his feet. The dog was old but took his job seriously, muzzle across Dean’s left leg sniffing the night air. Dean could feel the damp of dog drool through his jeans as the dog lifted his massive head and chuffed quietly. “Shhh, Gingrich.”
“Dean.”
Dean jerked, banged his head hard on the quarter panel.
“Sam.” Dean hissed low. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Me? I’m not the one with a joint in his hand.”
Dean glanced hard at the evidence. Yup, his right hand held a joint. For a brief moment he considered tossing it, but the gig was up already and this was good shit.
“Yeah, so what?” Dean tried to sound a little gruff and a little pissed. But the weed was good and mostly he just sounded lazy.
“Lemme try some?” Sam asked, shoving his hair back off his forehead and settling his ass up against the Pinto, hip snugged up to Dean’s right side.
“Nah, you’re too young, Sam. Besides Dad will kick my ass if he finds me smokin’. If he finds me letting you smoke? Well, there ain’t no place I could run that would be safe.” Dean chuckled low. The fact that he thought the possibility of his imminent death was so funny was a testament to how good this weed really was.
Sam curled his arms around folded knees. “C’mon, Dean. I’m 14. I’ve done it before. Besides. No one’s gonna know.”
Suddenly in big brother mode, Dean drilled a look at Sam. “What do you mean you’ve done it before? When?”
Sam ducked his head down. Even in the darkened junkyard Dean could see the blush on his brother’s neck. “With Marny Whitfield. Before we made out.”
“Made out huh?” Dean grinned. “Sammy, you sly devil you. You didn’t get to home plate did ya?”
Dean could swear that Sam blushed even more, or maybe he just knew his little brother that well.
“Nah, it was fun though. She was pretty and all but not really that kind of girl.” Sam turned his head to Dean and then added “C’mon, Dean.”
Dean considered it carefully, eyeing his brother up in the shadowed yard. Dean brought the joint up again took another deep toke and then spoke gravel throated without exhaling. “Take it easy, dude, don’t want you face planting in the dirt.” Dean admonished as he handed the joint to Sam and then exhaled slow and easy.
Dean watched the smoke tendrils as they drifted up over the Pinto. Everyone said that spirits looked like smoke, but that wasn’t really true. Some did he figured, but most didn’t. It was an interesting thought.
Gingrich sat up on his haunches, thick jowls dripping slobber and cocked his head reproachfully in Dean’s direction.
“What? The kid’s old enough.” Dean knew he sounded indignant, but he was talking to a junkyard dog. The dog wuffed, as a trail of slobber drizzled down his jowls puddling into the dust. Dean ruffled the dog’s wrinkled, brindle head and that seemed to be the deciding factor. Gingrich dropped back down with a groan and a subsequent puff of dirt. He scratched once; a halfhearted attempt at best, and then settled, his nose bridging Dean’s leg again.
Dean leaned back and shifted his ass forward a bit to allow for a better view of the stars. He listened as his brother took a tentative drag. There was no corresponding cough but Dean could tell that Sam was struggling to keep it in.
“Dude, don’t kill yourself.” Dean commented.
“I’m good.” Sam sputtered. Dean chuckled just a bit. Sam was so easy sometimes.
“So what are they doing up at the house?”
“Shooting the shit. Bobby and Dad are having some kind of philosophical discussion regarding the merits of Glock versus Colt. There’s Jack involved. I think Bobby’s winning.” Sam passed the joint back to Dean.
Dean took another deep drag. He could feel his body relax, like he might just melt into the side of the old Pinto any minute. He tipped his head back then elbowed his brother a sharp jab to the ribs that had Sam wincing. Dean pointed up to the sky.
“Right there, look -it’s the Big Dipper.”
Sam rubbed his side
“Yeah, I see. No need to break a rib to show me, though.” But he shifted his weight back too, his gaze following Dean’s.
Dean glanced over at his brother as Sam pushed his shaggy hair back offhandedly. Dean could tell the kid was ramping up for a lecture.
Easy. Sam was so easy.
“You know that’s probably one of the most famous constellations of all time, the Big Dipper, that is. Well, that and Orion’s Belt.” Sam paused for effect. “Didja know, the Big Dipper is actually part of Ursa Major, The Great Bear? The asterism gets its name from Greek mythology but lore states American Indian tribes associate that constellation with a bear as well. That’s kind of cool huh? Two separate cultures - two different times. Native Americans and ancient Greeks both thought the same thing.”
Dean rolled his eyes.
“Cool in what way? ‘Cause I am in no way feelin’ the cool. That has got to be one of the geekiest things you have ever said. And what the fuck is asterism? Is that even a word?” Dean leaned over and affectionately cuffed Sam on the side of the head. “Only you would know shit like that.”
Dean handed the blunt to Sam and watched as the end of the joint glowed hot in the dark. Sam offered it back to Dean and Dean accepted, but really there wasn’t much left, so he dropped it in the dirt and ground it out with his boot.
Then it was dark, with just the light of the stars, the moon and the far off lights of the house.
“Do you come out here much, Dean?”
“What do you mean? To smoke?”
“I dunno, maybe.“
Dean lay further back, trying to find a comfortable position. Once again his fingers found Gingrich’s massive head. He rubbed hard behind the dog’s ears and Gingrich moaned in ecstasy.
“Nah, not much. Can’t always find the good shit, and well, there’s the chance I’m gonna find myself in trouble you know?” Dean nodded toward the house.
Dean knew that Sam understood. Which is why it seemed kind of crazy to be out here smoking weed in Bobby’s yard, especially with Dad sitting in Bobby’s kitchen. Despite the Jack Daniels that was being consumed, Dad was pretty good at catching on to things.
“But sometimes, it just…I dunno, man, it feels okay, you know. A little buzz. Nothing really to worry about. Old Gingrich patrols this junkyard like nobody’s business. Bobby’s got this placed sigiled out the ass; there ain’t nothing getting in here. Dad’s around so…”
Sam giggled. “So this is your idea of downtime? Sitting in the dirt behind a busted up car in Bobby Singer’s junkyard getting high?”
“Well, look who’s sittin’ next to me dickweasel.” But Dean was smiling too. It was kind of funny.
Dean dropped his right arm over Sam’s narrow shoulders, easy and effortless.
They had some time. It would be a while before Dad hallooed out the back door for them and with any luck they would be upstairs and in their room before he even set down his glass.
He couldn’t blame Dad for taking a break. Maybe Dad chose his own downtime too.
Dean tipped his head back on to the Pinto. It was quiet and still with not even the creak of settling cars in the yard. Far off Dean could hear what might have been a coyote but it was so distant that even Gingrich didn’t move. Sam shifted his weight a little closer to Dean, his body warm and boneless. Dean could tell the weed had worked its magic on Sam. The kid smiled bright, all loose limbed and relaxed.
“You know, Dean, this is kind of cool.” Sam snuffled a bit. “Where’d you get that weed? Puts that stuff I smoked with Marny to shame.”
“Caleb. When we were doing that job in New Orleans.” Dean answered.
“Ah, a co-conspirator.” Sam dug his sneakered feet into the dirt and then glanced back up to the sky. Dean felt him shiver just a bit. It wasn’t really all that cold out but Dean pulled Sam a little closer anyway.
Sam leaned into Dean’s shoulder unselfconsciously, using it as a pillow like he had done when he was little - back when Dean knew all the answers. It occurred to Dean to bump his brother’s head off of his shoulder or at least call him a girl, but instead Dean let Sam’s head fall where it was.
“We should do this more often, Dean. “
“What? Sit in a junkyard in the middle of the night?”
“Maybe, or maybe smoke a little once in a while. Or look at the stars, I dunno. Something. It doesn’t always have to be about hunting.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Dean agreed.
Then it was quiet again.
It wasn’t long before he noticed the change in Sam’s breathing as he drifted off to sleep. Sam was a drooler, always had been, and Dean was sure his shoulder would bear witness to it.
Dean didn’t care. Gingrich’s drool, Sammy’s drool, whatever.
It was getting late and Dean figured they should have gone inside already. Instead though, he sat there until his legs were numb, his back up against a broken down wreck at Bobby’s with nothing but the weight of his brother heavy on his shoulder and the dog’s gentle snores to break the quiet of the night.
Characters: Sam and Dean
Rating: PG - Gen
Summary: The boys get high. Yes, there be some schmoop but if they aren’t drunk or high when will that happen huh?
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I just like playing with the boys.
Special thanks to amazing beta chemm80 .
Dean took a deep drag, sucked the sweet smoke into his lungs and held it there. He could hold his breath for over four minutes thanks to Dad and his water sprite training.
Of course this was not the same thing. There had been no Smoking Weed 101 in Dad’s repertoire of hunting techniques.
He exhaled, letting the smoke filter out of his lungs and then laid back against the frame of what appeared to be a ‘76 Ford Pinto. He sniffed hard and rubbed the flat of his hand under his nose. Maybe it was a ’78, but either way it was serviceable as a backrest. Ass to ground, he tipped his head back a bit and enjoyed the South Dakota sky.
Bobby’s place was a ways back from town, --a ways back from anything really-- and it meant that the sky was crystal and the stars plentiful. Why he felt so peaceful surrounded by the smell of grease and motor oil, Dean didn’t know. Even the metallic tang of rusty, corroded scrap smelled surprisingly comforting.
Dean dropped a hand to the huge mastiff mix that lay sprawled out at his feet. The dog was old but took his job seriously, muzzle across Dean’s left leg sniffing the night air. Dean could feel the damp of dog drool through his jeans as the dog lifted his massive head and chuffed quietly. “Shhh, Gingrich.”
“Dean.”
Dean jerked, banged his head hard on the quarter panel.
“Sam.” Dean hissed low. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Me? I’m not the one with a joint in his hand.”
Dean glanced hard at the evidence. Yup, his right hand held a joint. For a brief moment he considered tossing it, but the gig was up already and this was good shit.
“Yeah, so what?” Dean tried to sound a little gruff and a little pissed. But the weed was good and mostly he just sounded lazy.
“Lemme try some?” Sam asked, shoving his hair back off his forehead and settling his ass up against the Pinto, hip snugged up to Dean’s right side.
“Nah, you’re too young, Sam. Besides Dad will kick my ass if he finds me smokin’. If he finds me letting you smoke? Well, there ain’t no place I could run that would be safe.” Dean chuckled low. The fact that he thought the possibility of his imminent death was so funny was a testament to how good this weed really was.
Sam curled his arms around folded knees. “C’mon, Dean. I’m 14. I’ve done it before. Besides. No one’s gonna know.”
Suddenly in big brother mode, Dean drilled a look at Sam. “What do you mean you’ve done it before? When?”
Sam ducked his head down. Even in the darkened junkyard Dean could see the blush on his brother’s neck. “With Marny Whitfield. Before we made out.”
“Made out huh?” Dean grinned. “Sammy, you sly devil you. You didn’t get to home plate did ya?”
Dean could swear that Sam blushed even more, or maybe he just knew his little brother that well.
“Nah, it was fun though. She was pretty and all but not really that kind of girl.” Sam turned his head to Dean and then added “C’mon, Dean.”
Dean considered it carefully, eyeing his brother up in the shadowed yard. Dean brought the joint up again took another deep toke and then spoke gravel throated without exhaling. “Take it easy, dude, don’t want you face planting in the dirt.” Dean admonished as he handed the joint to Sam and then exhaled slow and easy.
Dean watched the smoke tendrils as they drifted up over the Pinto. Everyone said that spirits looked like smoke, but that wasn’t really true. Some did he figured, but most didn’t. It was an interesting thought.
Gingrich sat up on his haunches, thick jowls dripping slobber and cocked his head reproachfully in Dean’s direction.
“What? The kid’s old enough.” Dean knew he sounded indignant, but he was talking to a junkyard dog. The dog wuffed, as a trail of slobber drizzled down his jowls puddling into the dust. Dean ruffled the dog’s wrinkled, brindle head and that seemed to be the deciding factor. Gingrich dropped back down with a groan and a subsequent puff of dirt. He scratched once; a halfhearted attempt at best, and then settled, his nose bridging Dean’s leg again.
Dean leaned back and shifted his ass forward a bit to allow for a better view of the stars. He listened as his brother took a tentative drag. There was no corresponding cough but Dean could tell that Sam was struggling to keep it in.
“Dude, don’t kill yourself.” Dean commented.
“I’m good.” Sam sputtered. Dean chuckled just a bit. Sam was so easy sometimes.
“So what are they doing up at the house?”
“Shooting the shit. Bobby and Dad are having some kind of philosophical discussion regarding the merits of Glock versus Colt. There’s Jack involved. I think Bobby’s winning.” Sam passed the joint back to Dean.
Dean took another deep drag. He could feel his body relax, like he might just melt into the side of the old Pinto any minute. He tipped his head back then elbowed his brother a sharp jab to the ribs that had Sam wincing. Dean pointed up to the sky.
“Right there, look -it’s the Big Dipper.”
Sam rubbed his side
“Yeah, I see. No need to break a rib to show me, though.” But he shifted his weight back too, his gaze following Dean’s.
Dean glanced over at his brother as Sam pushed his shaggy hair back offhandedly. Dean could tell the kid was ramping up for a lecture.
Easy. Sam was so easy.
“You know that’s probably one of the most famous constellations of all time, the Big Dipper, that is. Well, that and Orion’s Belt.” Sam paused for effect. “Didja know, the Big Dipper is actually part of Ursa Major, The Great Bear? The asterism gets its name from Greek mythology but lore states American Indian tribes associate that constellation with a bear as well. That’s kind of cool huh? Two separate cultures - two different times. Native Americans and ancient Greeks both thought the same thing.”
Dean rolled his eyes.
“Cool in what way? ‘Cause I am in no way feelin’ the cool. That has got to be one of the geekiest things you have ever said. And what the fuck is asterism? Is that even a word?” Dean leaned over and affectionately cuffed Sam on the side of the head. “Only you would know shit like that.”
Dean handed the blunt to Sam and watched as the end of the joint glowed hot in the dark. Sam offered it back to Dean and Dean accepted, but really there wasn’t much left, so he dropped it in the dirt and ground it out with his boot.
Then it was dark, with just the light of the stars, the moon and the far off lights of the house.
“Do you come out here much, Dean?”
“What do you mean? To smoke?”
“I dunno, maybe.“
Dean lay further back, trying to find a comfortable position. Once again his fingers found Gingrich’s massive head. He rubbed hard behind the dog’s ears and Gingrich moaned in ecstasy.
“Nah, not much. Can’t always find the good shit, and well, there’s the chance I’m gonna find myself in trouble you know?” Dean nodded toward the house.
Dean knew that Sam understood. Which is why it seemed kind of crazy to be out here smoking weed in Bobby’s yard, especially with Dad sitting in Bobby’s kitchen. Despite the Jack Daniels that was being consumed, Dad was pretty good at catching on to things.
“But sometimes, it just…I dunno, man, it feels okay, you know. A little buzz. Nothing really to worry about. Old Gingrich patrols this junkyard like nobody’s business. Bobby’s got this placed sigiled out the ass; there ain’t nothing getting in here. Dad’s around so…”
Sam giggled. “So this is your idea of downtime? Sitting in the dirt behind a busted up car in Bobby Singer’s junkyard getting high?”
“Well, look who’s sittin’ next to me dickweasel.” But Dean was smiling too. It was kind of funny.
Dean dropped his right arm over Sam’s narrow shoulders, easy and effortless.
They had some time. It would be a while before Dad hallooed out the back door for them and with any luck they would be upstairs and in their room before he even set down his glass.
He couldn’t blame Dad for taking a break. Maybe Dad chose his own downtime too.
Dean tipped his head back on to the Pinto. It was quiet and still with not even the creak of settling cars in the yard. Far off Dean could hear what might have been a coyote but it was so distant that even Gingrich didn’t move. Sam shifted his weight a little closer to Dean, his body warm and boneless. Dean could tell the weed had worked its magic on Sam. The kid smiled bright, all loose limbed and relaxed.
“You know, Dean, this is kind of cool.” Sam snuffled a bit. “Where’d you get that weed? Puts that stuff I smoked with Marny to shame.”
“Caleb. When we were doing that job in New Orleans.” Dean answered.
“Ah, a co-conspirator.” Sam dug his sneakered feet into the dirt and then glanced back up to the sky. Dean felt him shiver just a bit. It wasn’t really all that cold out but Dean pulled Sam a little closer anyway.
Sam leaned into Dean’s shoulder unselfconsciously, using it as a pillow like he had done when he was little - back when Dean knew all the answers. It occurred to Dean to bump his brother’s head off of his shoulder or at least call him a girl, but instead Dean let Sam’s head fall where it was.
“We should do this more often, Dean. “
“What? Sit in a junkyard in the middle of the night?”
“Maybe, or maybe smoke a little once in a while. Or look at the stars, I dunno. Something. It doesn’t always have to be about hunting.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Dean agreed.
Then it was quiet again.
It wasn’t long before he noticed the change in Sam’s breathing as he drifted off to sleep. Sam was a drooler, always had been, and Dean was sure his shoulder would bear witness to it.
Dean didn’t care. Gingrich’s drool, Sammy’s drool, whatever.
It was getting late and Dean figured they should have gone inside already. Instead though, he sat there until his legs were numb, his back up against a broken down wreck at Bobby’s with nothing but the weight of his brother heavy on his shoulder and the dog’s gentle snores to break the quiet of the night.