(no subject)
Title: Working Man
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1570
Notes: Coda of sorts to 4.17
Summary: Sam and Dean exchange stories of their brief stint in normality.
Sam is halfway to the car and more than ready to put this place in his rearview mirror when something just…. His ears pop, and suddenly it all rushes back like a flood.
The fuck?
And that means, shit. That means Dean is all the way back upstairs having the same revelation he just did, and if this was all the goddamn Trickster, Sam is going to blow his top.
He scrambles through the lobby, nearly passing the elevator thinking sweet Jesus no way until, no, that wasn’t him, that was Sam Wesson, naïve to all things supernatural. Sam Winchester, on the other hand, knows that the ghost is gone and unless by some really weird coincidence the elevator decides to jam again, he is so not running up twenty-two flights of stairs.
The doors close and he punches the button multiple times, and then leans against the wall with a sigh, rubbing his hand over his face. Until these past few days it’s been three whole weeks since he even spoke with his brother. The weirdness of it all settles over him. How could they not break through it? How could all of this not trigger any of his real memories whatsoever? He should’ve been able to. He should’ve been strong enough.
The elevator is dinging away at each floor, finally at twenty, twenty-one, and then twenty-two. The doors slide open and he rushes out, trying to remember which office was Dean’s.
Turns out, he doesn’t have to.
*
Huh, Dean thinks.
He’s holding a briefcase and phone that together is probably worth more than the amount of money he’s ever legally earned. Even if he really wasn’t one, he looks like a corporate douchebag, hair parted and gelled, cleaned, pressed, just rightly tailored, starchy, irritating as fucking hell monkey suit, and clean shaven to boot. And even though it now all seems slightly foreign to him, he can still remember the lingo and the ass kissing and seriously? A corporate manager?
Dean hums a little. Okay. So having that kind of power was kind of cool. Not all the shit that came with it, no, but having people look at him with respect (even if they were kissing ass too, he guesses) and maybe a little fear was kind of awesome.
He blinks when he hears the ding of the elevator and realizes he’s been standing next to it for quite some time. He blinks again when he sees Sam barreling headlong out of it.
“Dude,” Sam says, panic creasing his forehead. “You. Uh.”
“Yeah,” Dean responds, and he has to laugh. “Sammy. That was so fucking weird.” Sam lets out a relieved laugh as well, shaking his head.
“You have no idea, man,” he says. “What happened? What was it? Trickster?”
“No, actually,” Dean says, rubbing at his neck and staring off into space as he thinks. “Uh. Angel.” Sam’s look is incredulous.
“What? Castiel did this? Why?”
“Zachariah,” Dean corrects. “Looks like we’ve got another player in town.”
“Fantastic,” Sam grumbles. “But why? What was the whole damn point of this?”
Dean shrugs and pushes the down button for the elevator. “I dunno. Morale boosting. Like there are shittier ways to spend your life, I guess.” It’s an answer, not the full one, but it’ll do, he hopes. He still hasn’t told Sam about what Alastair and Castiel had told him. Won’t ever, if he had his way. He rubs his stomach. “Jesus, I’m starving.”
Sam frowns as they step into the elevator, and Dean thinks Sam’s about to call him out on his answer, but instead he laughs, and Dean can hear the mocking coming from a mile away.
“That’s right,” Sam says. “Dude. You were on the master cleanse diet. You feel all nice and detoxed?”
“You feel like getting punched in the nuts?” Dean mimicks, crossing his arms. “I don’t know how that shit is supposed to make you feel any better. I feel like I’ve eaten for the past three weeks is salad, Sammy. If I don’t get a burger in the next half an hour, someone is dying.”
They make their way down to the Impala, which, thank God, isn’t far from the Prius Dean had been driving. He shudders a little as they pass it. They take turns changing in the Impala (an art Dean has no idea Sam had managed to learn), because if he had to spend another minute in that damn costume he was gonna rip it to shreds.
Finally they pull out on to the road and suddenly the thought of just eating a burger sets off a thrill of anticipation in his gut. He drives a good twenty minutes before he finds what he’s looking for, a place where the paint is peeling, the neon sign is flickering, and where, by God, even the floor is covered in grease.
Dean falls with a contented sigh into the puffy vinyl booth seat. A girl who looks like she’s barely out of high school comes over and hands them their menus.
“Coffee?” she says.
“Oh,” Dean moans, “oh God, yes. Biggest cup you’ve got. Two big cups, even. Black. Just… black.” She raises her eyebrows and then looks to Sam, who says he’ll just have one, cream and sugar, thanks.
“You cut coffee from your diet too?” he asks as she walks away. Dean makes a face at him.
“Worse. I-” Dean fiddles with his silverware, eyes darting. “Espresso machine. Fucking rice and almond milk lattes.” Just the thought of it makes him wants to cry a little.
He is completely unprepared for Sam’s burst of laughter and the subsequent tears that escape from the crinkled corners of his eyes as he wheezes to catch a breath. Dean smiles, and then laughs too, and goddamn if he hasn’t seen Sam laugh that hard in a while.
“Oh, God,” Sam finally says. “Seriously? That’s. Man. I wish I could’ve seen that.”
“Dude, you don’t know the half of it,” Dean says, leaning forward a little. “I watched CNN. I followed the stock reports. I drove a fucking hybrid car.” Sam laughs again, shaking his head, amazed.
The waitress comes by with the coffees (two big ceramic mugs for Dean, like he asked) and Dean has the good enough graces to wait until they’ve ordered two double bacon cheeseburgers with the works before picking up his cup and slurping down half of the dark brew.
“God, that’s good,” he says as he thunks the cup down with a sigh. The look on Sam’s face is somewhere in between a grimace and bemused fondness. “So,” Dean says, rubbing his hands together. “What about you? Man, I bet you bicycled to work. And had like, eight cats. And played bingo on the weekends.”
“Nah,” Sam says, subdued a little. “Shitty car. Shitty apartment. Pizza boxes stacked in the kitchen, you know. Had a Playstation, though. That was pretty cool.”
Dean gestures, waiting for more. “That’s it? Pizza and Playstation? No partying it up a little? You were a bachelor with no worries, dude. A regular Joe Shmoe.”
“Yeah, a regular Joe Shmoe who worked at a call center and hated every moment of it,” Sam says. “It was boring. I think I always knew something was off. It was…” he flicks his eyes up to Dean and then back down to the napkin he was slowly destroying. “It was kinda lonely.”
“Yeah?” Dean says, a little more sober. He takes another long gulp of coffee while Sam slowly stirs his. “I dunno. Guess we were never really meant for normal at all.” He looks at Sam when he speaks, thinking back to all those years ago when “normal” was the biggest thing on his brother’s mind.
“Bit of an understatement,” Sam says with a sad small quirk of his lips.
They nurse their coffees until the burgers come and the world’s most amazing waitress refills both of Dean’s cups. He grins big and she tucks her hair behind her ear, promising to come back and check on them later. Just out of highschool or not, Dean thinks, the little pink blush on her cheeks is kinda cute.
And then he lifts the sloppy, greasy, cholesterol-covered burger to his mouth and oh, oh Jesus. It’s even better than the coffee. He must be making noises because Sam’s looking at him funny again, but hell if he cares, because seriously, best burger ever.
“Man, fuck normal,” he says, though it comes out more sounding like an, ug ormal around the burger. “You weren’t happy. I guess thought I was, but hell, I was wrong.”
Sam chews on his fries and then says almost thoughtfully, “I smashed my phone with the poker. Today. Right before we left.”
Dean chokes a little. “You what?” He raises his eyebrows, pushing his own fries around in ketchup, and grins. “That’s kind of badass, dude. I don’t think you’ll be able to put that place on your resume.” Sam just snorts, and then smears mustard across his chin. Dean doesn’t tell him.
They finish their burgers and coffee. They pay. Dean flirts with the maybe-legal waitress. Sam gives him Looks. And then they climb into the Impala, and Dean tells Sam to pick a direction, any direction. Dean turns the ignition and sits for a moment just to feel her rumble, and is, for the moment, content.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1570
Notes: Coda of sorts to 4.17
Summary: Sam and Dean exchange stories of their brief stint in normality.
Sam is halfway to the car and more than ready to put this place in his rearview mirror when something just…. His ears pop, and suddenly it all rushes back like a flood.
The fuck?
And that means, shit. That means Dean is all the way back upstairs having the same revelation he just did, and if this was all the goddamn Trickster, Sam is going to blow his top.
He scrambles through the lobby, nearly passing the elevator thinking sweet Jesus no way until, no, that wasn’t him, that was Sam Wesson, naïve to all things supernatural. Sam Winchester, on the other hand, knows that the ghost is gone and unless by some really weird coincidence the elevator decides to jam again, he is so not running up twenty-two flights of stairs.
The doors close and he punches the button multiple times, and then leans against the wall with a sigh, rubbing his hand over his face. Until these past few days it’s been three whole weeks since he even spoke with his brother. The weirdness of it all settles over him. How could they not break through it? How could all of this not trigger any of his real memories whatsoever? He should’ve been able to. He should’ve been strong enough.
The elevator is dinging away at each floor, finally at twenty, twenty-one, and then twenty-two. The doors slide open and he rushes out, trying to remember which office was Dean’s.
Turns out, he doesn’t have to.
*
Huh, Dean thinks.
He’s holding a briefcase and phone that together is probably worth more than the amount of money he’s ever legally earned. Even if he really wasn’t one, he looks like a corporate douchebag, hair parted and gelled, cleaned, pressed, just rightly tailored, starchy, irritating as fucking hell monkey suit, and clean shaven to boot. And even though it now all seems slightly foreign to him, he can still remember the lingo and the ass kissing and seriously? A corporate manager?
Dean hums a little. Okay. So having that kind of power was kind of cool. Not all the shit that came with it, no, but having people look at him with respect (even if they were kissing ass too, he guesses) and maybe a little fear was kind of awesome.
He blinks when he hears the ding of the elevator and realizes he’s been standing next to it for quite some time. He blinks again when he sees Sam barreling headlong out of it.
“Dude,” Sam says, panic creasing his forehead. “You. Uh.”
“Yeah,” Dean responds, and he has to laugh. “Sammy. That was so fucking weird.” Sam lets out a relieved laugh as well, shaking his head.
“You have no idea, man,” he says. “What happened? What was it? Trickster?”
“No, actually,” Dean says, rubbing at his neck and staring off into space as he thinks. “Uh. Angel.” Sam’s look is incredulous.
“What? Castiel did this? Why?”
“Zachariah,” Dean corrects. “Looks like we’ve got another player in town.”
“Fantastic,” Sam grumbles. “But why? What was the whole damn point of this?”
Dean shrugs and pushes the down button for the elevator. “I dunno. Morale boosting. Like there are shittier ways to spend your life, I guess.” It’s an answer, not the full one, but it’ll do, he hopes. He still hasn’t told Sam about what Alastair and Castiel had told him. Won’t ever, if he had his way. He rubs his stomach. “Jesus, I’m starving.”
Sam frowns as they step into the elevator, and Dean thinks Sam’s about to call him out on his answer, but instead he laughs, and Dean can hear the mocking coming from a mile away.
“That’s right,” Sam says. “Dude. You were on the master cleanse diet. You feel all nice and detoxed?”
“You feel like getting punched in the nuts?” Dean mimicks, crossing his arms. “I don’t know how that shit is supposed to make you feel any better. I feel like I’ve eaten for the past three weeks is salad, Sammy. If I don’t get a burger in the next half an hour, someone is dying.”
They make their way down to the Impala, which, thank God, isn’t far from the Prius Dean had been driving. He shudders a little as they pass it. They take turns changing in the Impala (an art Dean has no idea Sam had managed to learn), because if he had to spend another minute in that damn costume he was gonna rip it to shreds.
Finally they pull out on to the road and suddenly the thought of just eating a burger sets off a thrill of anticipation in his gut. He drives a good twenty minutes before he finds what he’s looking for, a place where the paint is peeling, the neon sign is flickering, and where, by God, even the floor is covered in grease.
Dean falls with a contented sigh into the puffy vinyl booth seat. A girl who looks like she’s barely out of high school comes over and hands them their menus.
“Coffee?” she says.
“Oh,” Dean moans, “oh God, yes. Biggest cup you’ve got. Two big cups, even. Black. Just… black.” She raises her eyebrows and then looks to Sam, who says he’ll just have one, cream and sugar, thanks.
“You cut coffee from your diet too?” he asks as she walks away. Dean makes a face at him.
“Worse. I-” Dean fiddles with his silverware, eyes darting. “Espresso machine. Fucking rice and almond milk lattes.” Just the thought of it makes him wants to cry a little.
He is completely unprepared for Sam’s burst of laughter and the subsequent tears that escape from the crinkled corners of his eyes as he wheezes to catch a breath. Dean smiles, and then laughs too, and goddamn if he hasn’t seen Sam laugh that hard in a while.
“Oh, God,” Sam finally says. “Seriously? That’s. Man. I wish I could’ve seen that.”
“Dude, you don’t know the half of it,” Dean says, leaning forward a little. “I watched CNN. I followed the stock reports. I drove a fucking hybrid car.” Sam laughs again, shaking his head, amazed.
The waitress comes by with the coffees (two big ceramic mugs for Dean, like he asked) and Dean has the good enough graces to wait until they’ve ordered two double bacon cheeseburgers with the works before picking up his cup and slurping down half of the dark brew.
“God, that’s good,” he says as he thunks the cup down with a sigh. The look on Sam’s face is somewhere in between a grimace and bemused fondness. “So,” Dean says, rubbing his hands together. “What about you? Man, I bet you bicycled to work. And had like, eight cats. And played bingo on the weekends.”
“Nah,” Sam says, subdued a little. “Shitty car. Shitty apartment. Pizza boxes stacked in the kitchen, you know. Had a Playstation, though. That was pretty cool.”
Dean gestures, waiting for more. “That’s it? Pizza and Playstation? No partying it up a little? You were a bachelor with no worries, dude. A regular Joe Shmoe.”
“Yeah, a regular Joe Shmoe who worked at a call center and hated every moment of it,” Sam says. “It was boring. I think I always knew something was off. It was…” he flicks his eyes up to Dean and then back down to the napkin he was slowly destroying. “It was kinda lonely.”
“Yeah?” Dean says, a little more sober. He takes another long gulp of coffee while Sam slowly stirs his. “I dunno. Guess we were never really meant for normal at all.” He looks at Sam when he speaks, thinking back to all those years ago when “normal” was the biggest thing on his brother’s mind.
“Bit of an understatement,” Sam says with a sad small quirk of his lips.
They nurse their coffees until the burgers come and the world’s most amazing waitress refills both of Dean’s cups. He grins big and she tucks her hair behind her ear, promising to come back and check on them later. Just out of highschool or not, Dean thinks, the little pink blush on her cheeks is kinda cute.
And then he lifts the sloppy, greasy, cholesterol-covered burger to his mouth and oh, oh Jesus. It’s even better than the coffee. He must be making noises because Sam’s looking at him funny again, but hell if he cares, because seriously, best burger ever.
“Man, fuck normal,” he says, though it comes out more sounding like an, ug ormal around the burger. “You weren’t happy. I guess thought I was, but hell, I was wrong.”
Sam chews on his fries and then says almost thoughtfully, “I smashed my phone with the poker. Today. Right before we left.”
Dean chokes a little. “You what?” He raises his eyebrows, pushing his own fries around in ketchup, and grins. “That’s kind of badass, dude. I don’t think you’ll be able to put that place on your resume.” Sam just snorts, and then smears mustard across his chin. Dean doesn’t tell him.
They finish their burgers and coffee. They pay. Dean flirts with the maybe-legal waitress. Sam gives him Looks. And then they climb into the Impala, and Dean tells Sam to pick a direction, any direction. Dean turns the ignition and sits for a moment just to feel her rumble, and is, for the moment, content.