Fic: Grocery Shopping (Wellspring 'Verse)
Title: Grocery Shopping
Author: scourgeofeurope
Fandoms: Supernatural/Dark Angel
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Fluff
Characters: Sam, Dean, Alec, Ben
Word Count: 2,342
Spoilers/Warnings: plotless fluff, cuddles
Summary: He swears on everything unholy that he’s staying in the car next time. No bribe or threat or act of physical force will budge him from the backseat.
A/N: This is just a schmoopy little scene that doesn't really fit into the 'verse as it stands. I guess you could just consider it the near future or something. I wrote it as a present for my lovely tigbit and after some nervous contemplation and the act of waking up early enough not to think straight, decided to share it with the rest of the world. Ahaha. This is turning into one of those self-deprecating author's notes, isn't it? Oh, well. I'll just run with it. It's pure, unadulterated schmoop and try not to expect anything else from it. Thank you, everyone, for the well wishes. <3 You're all very sweet and lovely and...gah, *hugs*. I hope you, too, find some enjoyment in this.
__________________
The shopping cart has a squeaky wheel. Neither Sam, nor Dean seems to notice it, but every step is headache-inducing for Alec.
And for Ben. Poor kid keeps trying to cover up his pain by pretending that he’s brushing his hair out of his eyes instead of reaching for his temples, but Alec knows the truth. This grocery shopping business? Torture. He swears on everything unholy that he’s staying in the car next time. No bribe or threat or act of physical force will budge him from the backseat.
Because not only is the stupid shopping cart squeaking, it’s squeaking in the fucking produce section. And Sam keeps trying to get them excited about picking out the best-looking apples and shit like that when all they want to do is run to the candy aisle or cereal aisle or any aisle that doesn’t involve nutritional green goodness like this sonuvabitch here.
“Dean, go get some celery, will you?”
“No.”
Sam sighs that long-suffering sigh of his that Alec loves so, so much. To be honest, it just makes him want to launch himself at his uncle every time and ask him to do it again, but he refrains. Every time. Well, almost every time. Sometimes he doesn’t because he wants the hug and the smile and the eye roll, but he’s getting too big for that shit now.
He’s ten years old, for chrissakes. Old enough to sit in the back of the car while Sam comes in here with his squeaky fucking shopping cart and bags their produce.
“It’s right there. Why can’t you get it?”
“‘Cause I don’t want to, that’s why.”
They’ve been at each other’s throats all day. Alec noticed it earlier this morning, in front of the bathroom mirror, when they partook in that pushy-shovey match over who got to brush his teeth first.
Not even Alec and Ben do that.
Much.
But still, it’s pretty obvious to Alec who the more mature set of brothers is today, and that’s him and Ben. Not Sam and Dean. As indicated by the way Ben is trotting across the aisle to pick up the bag of celery.
“Aw, Benny...” Dean’s voice is equal parts guilty and sheepish as Ben stops in front of Sam and places the celery in his large hands.
“Here you go,” Ben says, and he smiles that smile of his - that one that manages to still be shy despite everything they’ve been through.
“Thanks, buddy.”
And Sam ruffles his hair and Ben beams through that pain in his head, even when the shopping cart starts rolling again.
It’s when the shopping cart starts rolling again that Alec decides he can’t take this shit anymore. He stays still, his feet planted on the floor as if he’s waiting to trail behind. As soon as they’re in front of him, he’ll whirl around and make a break for it in the opposite direction. It’s a solid plan, tried and true.
Getting away will be good for him. No more squeaky shopping cart, and his fingers are itching to stuff some candy in his pockets, anyway. Alec never feels comfortable in stores of any kind unless there’s the satisfying weight of stolen goods filling his clothes.
Ben has his hand on the cart now, reaching up to grip the handle next to where Sam’s own hand is resting. Dean’s a few steps behind them. Alec falls behind his boots and pauses a beat.
Then he turns around.
He’s quick, Alec is. Like a cat, because that’s what he is. Alec is a cat. Alec is his dad’s kitten.
A hand grabs the back of his shirt and tugs. Alec’s heels skid across the linoleum, leaving unsavory black streaks in their wake.
“Hey. Where do you think you’re going?”
Sometimes it sucks to be his dad’s kitten, Alec muses, as Dean pulls him against his jacket-covered side.
“Candy aisle,” Alec says. He buries his nose into one of the surplus pockets. His next words are audible, but muffled. “To get candy.”
Dean snorts. “In that case, what do you say? You know, instead of running off like you’re the freakin’ Artful Dodger or whatever?”
They’ve had this conversation before, but Alec shrugs, anyway. He can’t help it. There’s something very defeating about asking for permission, or informing the parental figures where he’s going. It’s like that time a few weeks ago when they met that lady and Sam told them to call her Mrs. Bennett and not by her first name (which was Elaine, Alec knew, because he’d looked through her mail while nobody was paying attention to him.) There was something very defeating about “Mrs. Bennett”. Alec believes in equality and such formal address indicated that this seventy-year-old woman deserved a kind of respect that he had yet to earn.
He didn’t like the feeling this thought gave him.
“Alec?”
“My head hurts.”
“Alec, what do you say?”
Dad, I’m going to the land of sugar-filled joy. Can I get you anything while I’m there? Peanut M&Ms, perhaps? Or one of those ridiculously large Halloween variety bags that you will undoubtedly eat all by yourself?
Alec refuses to say this. If he had said this earlier, Sam would have pitched a fit.
“If I’d said it, Uncle Sam would have pitched a fit.”
Dean nods. “Sammy’s a fussy one.”
The silence is sudden. The squeaking has stopped.
“I am not fussy,” Sam says, indignant even as he stands next to the bananas. He breathes viciously through his nose and takes his hand off the cart so he can fold his arms and glare at Dean. Alec looks at Ben and tries not to smile as Ben looks back, the corner of his lip trying very hard and failing not to rise.
He exchanges a quick glance with Dean, too, just for good measure and he knows for a fact that they’re all thinking about saying it, but know they shouldn’t.
But the longing is heavy in the air.
“Fussy,” Dean finally says, and the giggles that explode from his face are multiplied by three.
Sam closes his eyes and clenches his jaw and counts to himself like he does about ten times a day now. He doesn’t press his fingers against the bridge of his nose, though, so he can’t be that pissed.
Eventually, he comes out of this calming state to say, “And no, Alec, you can’t have any candy.”
It’s not like Alec didn’t know this was coming, having ingested nearly two whole slices of pie last night, but it’s still a terrible blow. Sam’s immediate rejection of the idea of Alec having candy is bad enough on its own, but this is why he hadn’t asked to go to the candy aisle in the first place - Sam wouldn’t have had to know. There could have been thievery and candy consumption and Alec would have had the thrill of several deceptions to get him through the night.
And he really wants sugar.
He looks pleadingly up at Dean. This will work, he knows. This always works.
Dean tries to look away. He always tries to look away.
And Alec always grabs his hand just like he’s doing now, puts gentle pressure against the coarse palm and tugs ever so lightly until Dean looks back down into those green, bottomless wells of despair Alec calls eyes.
“Aw, Sam-”
“No, Dean.”
“But he’s-”
“He’s had enough sugar to feed half the children in South Dakota. The answer is no.”
Well, this doesn’t sound promising at all. Alec tugs on Dean’s hand again, tries to will some tears up even though he knows his dad never falls for that shit. Deans only cry when they’re in severe emotional pain, thank you very much.
“Sam...”
“Dean.”
It’s not happening. Sam and Dean aren’t having this conversation again. It’s only been a couple of nights since they last had it - the not-pulling-rank-when-it-comes-to-decisions-about-the-kids conversation. Alec and Ben always hear these conversations, even when Sam and Dean step outside to have them. They usually raise their voices and the walls are always thin and Ben usually looks guilty, but Alec always feels good about these arguments that they have.
Alec always feels good about being loved.
“Fine,” Dean finally grunts. “I’m gonna go get some beer while you do this.” He waves his hand dismissively towards the fruits and vegetables.
Beer? Alec wants to go get some beer.
“I want to go get some beer,” he says, tugging once more on Dean’s hand before releasing it. Beer is away from the squeaky cart and closer to the candy. Maybe his head will feel better when it’s near beer. Dean’s always does. “Ben does, too,” he adds, because his brother also needs a head that doesn’t ache.
“‘Course, he does.”
Alec watches as his brother shifts on his feet and looks up to Sam, either for permission or in apology or both, but Sam just sighs and pushes him towards Dean with a gentle hand to the back of his head.
“I’ll get the juice boxes,” Sam grumbles, but Alec’s already following Dean out of the produce section with his brother by his side.
“I hope he gets the good kind,” Dean says, and he’s a good sort. He knows to expect it now when Alec jumps on his back. He sways a little, but stays on balance, loops his arms under Alec’s legs - which are getting far too long to still be doing this.
Alec doesn’t care, though. He’s going to do this until the day he dies, he swears it.
“Can I stay in the car next time?” he asks.
“No.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“‘Cause you’re adorable and somebody might abduct you, that’s why.”
Alec snorts and pats Dean’s chest with one hand. “I could kick the ass of anybody-”
“Of any person, maybe,” Dean says, and he says it in that stupid tone of his. That firm one with the slight hint of irritation that he’s always using whenever Sam decides he wants to go on some dangerous ass hunt instead of eating his vegetables. That tone that says no, and Dean’s done with this conversation. The next few seconds are devoted to sulking. It would have been longer, but then Dean asks, “How’s the head, kitten?”
“Hmm?”
“You said your head hurt. Does your head still hurt?”
No, Alec’s head is easing up now that the shopping cart is far away in the produce section.
“Nah. It feels alright now.” Speaking of heads, though...
Ben’s walking funny. Alec can see this as he glances down. His step is slow and slightly off and he keeps brushing at his hair and wincing a little.
Ben still doesn’t speak up like he should. Alec keeps trying to heal him of whatever mental ailment causes this, but he has yet to figure out the cure. So he just speaks for him. “Ben’s head hurts, though.”
And Dean stops. And kneels. And Alec slides down to the floor.
He stands to the side and watches the silent exchange that commences: Ben’s eyes on the floor. Dean’s fingers dusting over Ben’s left temple. The shifting feet. The hand that tilts the chin upwards and the quick, but significant look they always seem to share before Ben loses all his premature-adult wits and turns into that little kid he never got to be, stumbling into Dean’s arms for the hug.
“The shopping cart was too loud,” Alec says. “He’ll feel better when we get out of here and into a place where wheels don’t squeak.”
“I don’t like squeaking wheels,” Ben admits, his voice muffled against Dean’s shoulder. “Shopping carts are evil.”
“They’re evil things,” Alec agrees. “They hurt the heads of children. They hurt the heads of Bens.”
“They do,” Ben says.
“So does celery,” Alec says.
“Celery also hurts the heads of Bens,” Ben agrees. “And Alecs. And Deans.”
Dean smirks. Clearly this is something he can get behind. Alec knows it is because the front of his shirt is suddenly being pinched and he’s being pulled forward to stand beside his brother.
“You wandered off,” Dean says. “Into the candy aisle while Ben and I were getting booze. I didn’t see you.”
Alec fucking loves his dad. He really does.
He tries to quell his grin, but doesn’t quite succeed. “You didn’t?”
“I didn’t. You better scram before I do.”
Alec scrams. He’s giddy as he dashes into the candy aisle, shifting his eyes left and right, snatching candy off of shelves and stuffing it into his pockets in movements that are too fast and too nonchalant for most people to see or notice. He makes sure to get every important kind of candy there is: Peanut M&Ms for Dean, Nerds for Ben, Smarties for himself, and for Uncle Sam? Werther’s Originals. For when he inevitably finds out about this deception.
The weight in his clothes is warm and comfortable as he heads out again, and for the first time since they got to the store, Alec feels okay. Alec feels fulfilled. Alec feels like it was worth coming inside.
He wandered off and Dean didn’t see him. That’s the story, anyway. When he wanders back, Sam doesn’t scold him or anything because he’s too busy apologizing to Ben about the shopping cart, wrapping him in his giant arms and cradling his head and apologizing again.
“Dude, he’ll be fine,” Dean says. “Won’t you, sweetheart?”
Ben will be fine, Alec knows. Ben will be fine because Alec’s fine. He’s great, in fact, skipping out of the store with bags in his hands.
Dean opens the trunk. The vegetables are placed next to the heavy artillery and it’s like they belong there. Like they’ve always belonged there. Alec is glad the Impala’s wheels don’t squeak, because the vegetables deserve a home that won’t hurt their heads. Just like Ben. Just like Alec.
Author: scourgeofeurope
Fandoms: Supernatural/Dark Angel
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Fluff
Characters: Sam, Dean, Alec, Ben
Word Count: 2,342
Spoilers/Warnings: plotless fluff, cuddles
Summary: He swears on everything unholy that he’s staying in the car next time. No bribe or threat or act of physical force will budge him from the backseat.
A/N: This is just a schmoopy little scene that doesn't really fit into the 'verse as it stands. I guess you could just consider it the near future or something. I wrote it as a present for my lovely tigbit and after some nervous contemplation and the act of waking up early enough not to think straight, decided to share it with the rest of the world. Ahaha. This is turning into one of those self-deprecating author's notes, isn't it? Oh, well. I'll just run with it. It's pure, unadulterated schmoop and try not to expect anything else from it. Thank you, everyone, for the well wishes. <3 You're all very sweet and lovely and...gah, *hugs*. I hope you, too, find some enjoyment in this.
__________________
The shopping cart has a squeaky wheel. Neither Sam, nor Dean seems to notice it, but every step is headache-inducing for Alec.
And for Ben. Poor kid keeps trying to cover up his pain by pretending that he’s brushing his hair out of his eyes instead of reaching for his temples, but Alec knows the truth. This grocery shopping business? Torture. He swears on everything unholy that he’s staying in the car next time. No bribe or threat or act of physical force will budge him from the backseat.
Because not only is the stupid shopping cart squeaking, it’s squeaking in the fucking produce section. And Sam keeps trying to get them excited about picking out the best-looking apples and shit like that when all they want to do is run to the candy aisle or cereal aisle or any aisle that doesn’t involve nutritional green goodness like this sonuvabitch here.
“Dean, go get some celery, will you?”
“No.”
Sam sighs that long-suffering sigh of his that Alec loves so, so much. To be honest, it just makes him want to launch himself at his uncle every time and ask him to do it again, but he refrains. Every time. Well, almost every time. Sometimes he doesn’t because he wants the hug and the smile and the eye roll, but he’s getting too big for that shit now.
He’s ten years old, for chrissakes. Old enough to sit in the back of the car while Sam comes in here with his squeaky fucking shopping cart and bags their produce.
“It’s right there. Why can’t you get it?”
“‘Cause I don’t want to, that’s why.”
They’ve been at each other’s throats all day. Alec noticed it earlier this morning, in front of the bathroom mirror, when they partook in that pushy-shovey match over who got to brush his teeth first.
Not even Alec and Ben do that.
Much.
But still, it’s pretty obvious to Alec who the more mature set of brothers is today, and that’s him and Ben. Not Sam and Dean. As indicated by the way Ben is trotting across the aisle to pick up the bag of celery.
“Aw, Benny...” Dean’s voice is equal parts guilty and sheepish as Ben stops in front of Sam and places the celery in his large hands.
“Here you go,” Ben says, and he smiles that smile of his - that one that manages to still be shy despite everything they’ve been through.
“Thanks, buddy.”
And Sam ruffles his hair and Ben beams through that pain in his head, even when the shopping cart starts rolling again.
It’s when the shopping cart starts rolling again that Alec decides he can’t take this shit anymore. He stays still, his feet planted on the floor as if he’s waiting to trail behind. As soon as they’re in front of him, he’ll whirl around and make a break for it in the opposite direction. It’s a solid plan, tried and true.
Getting away will be good for him. No more squeaky shopping cart, and his fingers are itching to stuff some candy in his pockets, anyway. Alec never feels comfortable in stores of any kind unless there’s the satisfying weight of stolen goods filling his clothes.
Ben has his hand on the cart now, reaching up to grip the handle next to where Sam’s own hand is resting. Dean’s a few steps behind them. Alec falls behind his boots and pauses a beat.
Then he turns around.
He’s quick, Alec is. Like a cat, because that’s what he is. Alec is a cat. Alec is his dad’s kitten.
A hand grabs the back of his shirt and tugs. Alec’s heels skid across the linoleum, leaving unsavory black streaks in their wake.
“Hey. Where do you think you’re going?”
Sometimes it sucks to be his dad’s kitten, Alec muses, as Dean pulls him against his jacket-covered side.
“Candy aisle,” Alec says. He buries his nose into one of the surplus pockets. His next words are audible, but muffled. “To get candy.”
Dean snorts. “In that case, what do you say? You know, instead of running off like you’re the freakin’ Artful Dodger or whatever?”
They’ve had this conversation before, but Alec shrugs, anyway. He can’t help it. There’s something very defeating about asking for permission, or informing the parental figures where he’s going. It’s like that time a few weeks ago when they met that lady and Sam told them to call her Mrs. Bennett and not by her first name (which was Elaine, Alec knew, because he’d looked through her mail while nobody was paying attention to him.) There was something very defeating about “Mrs. Bennett”. Alec believes in equality and such formal address indicated that this seventy-year-old woman deserved a kind of respect that he had yet to earn.
He didn’t like the feeling this thought gave him.
“Alec?”
“My head hurts.”
“Alec, what do you say?”
Dad, I’m going to the land of sugar-filled joy. Can I get you anything while I’m there? Peanut M&Ms, perhaps? Or one of those ridiculously large Halloween variety bags that you will undoubtedly eat all by yourself?
Alec refuses to say this. If he had said this earlier, Sam would have pitched a fit.
“If I’d said it, Uncle Sam would have pitched a fit.”
Dean nods. “Sammy’s a fussy one.”
The silence is sudden. The squeaking has stopped.
“I am not fussy,” Sam says, indignant even as he stands next to the bananas. He breathes viciously through his nose and takes his hand off the cart so he can fold his arms and glare at Dean. Alec looks at Ben and tries not to smile as Ben looks back, the corner of his lip trying very hard and failing not to rise.
He exchanges a quick glance with Dean, too, just for good measure and he knows for a fact that they’re all thinking about saying it, but know they shouldn’t.
But the longing is heavy in the air.
“Fussy,” Dean finally says, and the giggles that explode from his face are multiplied by three.
Sam closes his eyes and clenches his jaw and counts to himself like he does about ten times a day now. He doesn’t press his fingers against the bridge of his nose, though, so he can’t be that pissed.
Eventually, he comes out of this calming state to say, “And no, Alec, you can’t have any candy.”
It’s not like Alec didn’t know this was coming, having ingested nearly two whole slices of pie last night, but it’s still a terrible blow. Sam’s immediate rejection of the idea of Alec having candy is bad enough on its own, but this is why he hadn’t asked to go to the candy aisle in the first place - Sam wouldn’t have had to know. There could have been thievery and candy consumption and Alec would have had the thrill of several deceptions to get him through the night.
And he really wants sugar.
He looks pleadingly up at Dean. This will work, he knows. This always works.
Dean tries to look away. He always tries to look away.
And Alec always grabs his hand just like he’s doing now, puts gentle pressure against the coarse palm and tugs ever so lightly until Dean looks back down into those green, bottomless wells of despair Alec calls eyes.
“Aw, Sam-”
“No, Dean.”
“But he’s-”
“He’s had enough sugar to feed half the children in South Dakota. The answer is no.”
Well, this doesn’t sound promising at all. Alec tugs on Dean’s hand again, tries to will some tears up even though he knows his dad never falls for that shit. Deans only cry when they’re in severe emotional pain, thank you very much.
“Sam...”
“Dean.”
It’s not happening. Sam and Dean aren’t having this conversation again. It’s only been a couple of nights since they last had it - the not-pulling-rank-when-it-comes-to-decisions-about-the-kids conversation. Alec and Ben always hear these conversations, even when Sam and Dean step outside to have them. They usually raise their voices and the walls are always thin and Ben usually looks guilty, but Alec always feels good about these arguments that they have.
Alec always feels good about being loved.
“Fine,” Dean finally grunts. “I’m gonna go get some beer while you do this.” He waves his hand dismissively towards the fruits and vegetables.
Beer? Alec wants to go get some beer.
“I want to go get some beer,” he says, tugging once more on Dean’s hand before releasing it. Beer is away from the squeaky cart and closer to the candy. Maybe his head will feel better when it’s near beer. Dean’s always does. “Ben does, too,” he adds, because his brother also needs a head that doesn’t ache.
“‘Course, he does.”
Alec watches as his brother shifts on his feet and looks up to Sam, either for permission or in apology or both, but Sam just sighs and pushes him towards Dean with a gentle hand to the back of his head.
“I’ll get the juice boxes,” Sam grumbles, but Alec’s already following Dean out of the produce section with his brother by his side.
“I hope he gets the good kind,” Dean says, and he’s a good sort. He knows to expect it now when Alec jumps on his back. He sways a little, but stays on balance, loops his arms under Alec’s legs - which are getting far too long to still be doing this.
Alec doesn’t care, though. He’s going to do this until the day he dies, he swears it.
“Can I stay in the car next time?” he asks.
“No.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“‘Cause you’re adorable and somebody might abduct you, that’s why.”
Alec snorts and pats Dean’s chest with one hand. “I could kick the ass of anybody-”
“Of any person, maybe,” Dean says, and he says it in that stupid tone of his. That firm one with the slight hint of irritation that he’s always using whenever Sam decides he wants to go on some dangerous ass hunt instead of eating his vegetables. That tone that says no, and Dean’s done with this conversation. The next few seconds are devoted to sulking. It would have been longer, but then Dean asks, “How’s the head, kitten?”
“Hmm?”
“You said your head hurt. Does your head still hurt?”
No, Alec’s head is easing up now that the shopping cart is far away in the produce section.
“Nah. It feels alright now.” Speaking of heads, though...
Ben’s walking funny. Alec can see this as he glances down. His step is slow and slightly off and he keeps brushing at his hair and wincing a little.
Ben still doesn’t speak up like he should. Alec keeps trying to heal him of whatever mental ailment causes this, but he has yet to figure out the cure. So he just speaks for him. “Ben’s head hurts, though.”
And Dean stops. And kneels. And Alec slides down to the floor.
He stands to the side and watches the silent exchange that commences: Ben’s eyes on the floor. Dean’s fingers dusting over Ben’s left temple. The shifting feet. The hand that tilts the chin upwards and the quick, but significant look they always seem to share before Ben loses all his premature-adult wits and turns into that little kid he never got to be, stumbling into Dean’s arms for the hug.
“The shopping cart was too loud,” Alec says. “He’ll feel better when we get out of here and into a place where wheels don’t squeak.”
“I don’t like squeaking wheels,” Ben admits, his voice muffled against Dean’s shoulder. “Shopping carts are evil.”
“They’re evil things,” Alec agrees. “They hurt the heads of children. They hurt the heads of Bens.”
“They do,” Ben says.
“So does celery,” Alec says.
“Celery also hurts the heads of Bens,” Ben agrees. “And Alecs. And Deans.”
Dean smirks. Clearly this is something he can get behind. Alec knows it is because the front of his shirt is suddenly being pinched and he’s being pulled forward to stand beside his brother.
“You wandered off,” Dean says. “Into the candy aisle while Ben and I were getting booze. I didn’t see you.”
Alec fucking loves his dad. He really does.
He tries to quell his grin, but doesn’t quite succeed. “You didn’t?”
“I didn’t. You better scram before I do.”
Alec scrams. He’s giddy as he dashes into the candy aisle, shifting his eyes left and right, snatching candy off of shelves and stuffing it into his pockets in movements that are too fast and too nonchalant for most people to see or notice. He makes sure to get every important kind of candy there is: Peanut M&Ms for Dean, Nerds for Ben, Smarties for himself, and for Uncle Sam? Werther’s Originals. For when he inevitably finds out about this deception.
The weight in his clothes is warm and comfortable as he heads out again, and for the first time since they got to the store, Alec feels okay. Alec feels fulfilled. Alec feels like it was worth coming inside.
He wandered off and Dean didn’t see him. That’s the story, anyway. When he wanders back, Sam doesn’t scold him or anything because he’s too busy apologizing to Ben about the shopping cart, wrapping him in his giant arms and cradling his head and apologizing again.
“Dude, he’ll be fine,” Dean says. “Won’t you, sweetheart?”
Ben will be fine, Alec knows. Ben will be fine because Alec’s fine. He’s great, in fact, skipping out of the store with bags in his hands.
Dean opens the trunk. The vegetables are placed next to the heavy artillery and it’s like they belong there. Like they’ve always belonged there. Alec is glad the Impala’s wheels don’t squeak, because the vegetables deserve a home that won’t hurt their heads. Just like Ben. Just like Alec.