Just to have it here, too
New SPN story.
Catch a Wave
Sam and Dean or Sam/Dean, whatever works best for you.
1175 words
Dean’s not a big fan of the beach. Hasn’t been since he was four years old and a giant wave knocked him ass over teakettle somewhere in Florida.
It was soon after Sammy was born, and Dad had loaded them all up in the Impala and driven straight through, twenty hours from Lawrence to Clearwater. Dean doesn’t remember a lot about the trip, he was only a little kid, but there are bits and pieces of it still floating around in his brain.
In the car, his mom had held Sammy in her lap in the front seat, riding next to Dad, her long blonde hair blowing around her head in the breeze from the open window. Dean can still picture it if he closes his eyes, like a snapshot faded around the edges, curling and peeling with age.
He remembers a soft nest of pillows in the back seat, just for him, and the silky feel of his green blanket under his fingers as he idly rubbed the satin trim, drowsing with the heat of summer.
And he remembers the huge-ass wave, yanking his hand out of Dad’s and tumbling him around on the bottom of the Gulf until Dad hauled him up out of the water by his ankle. He’d been too shocked to breath, but when he was back on the shore, wrapped in a towel, warm and safe in his mother’s arms, he’d let out a howl that had half the beach looking at them.
He remembers Sammy, only a couple months old and lying on the beach blanket, staring up at him with wide eyes, and his Dad, hands shaking as he brushed the sand off Dean’s tear-stained cheeks.
So no, he’s not a big fan of the beach. Maybe if they’d stayed a regular family, gone to the beach every summer the way Sam always claimed all his friends at school did, Dean would have gotten over it, would feel more comfortable with the sounds of waves crashing on the shore and seagulls crying overhead.
But they didn’t, and they hadn’t, and it wasn’t like John took them on planned vacations when they were kids. They’d grabbed their vacation time when they could, a day here and there to go to a traveling carnival, or ride go-carts at one of those tracks where you pay by the hour, maybe fish a little if they were somewhere near a lake. Sam and Dean had seen more of the country growing up than any of Sam’s lame school friends, but John never took them to the beach again after their mom died.
Dean can’t say he’s sorry about that, and Sam’s current insistence on going to the beach for a few days on purpose is making Dean crazy.
“For the last time, Sam, no friggin’ way. It’s not gonna happen.” Dean scowls at Sam, then turns his eyes back to the road in front of him. The road that leads to the Jersey Shore and the friggin’ beach.
“Dean,” Sam says patiently. “It’s just a couple of days. I’m not asking you to invest in a time-share or anything.”
“A what?” Dean asks. He takes his eyes off the road again to look at his brother. Sam rolls his eyes fondly at him and shakes his head.
“Nevermind.” Sam pauses. “I went to the beach once. With Jess.” He smiles softly, secretly. “We had a good time. I want to have a good time with you.”
“Well, we can have a good time without going to the beach, Flipper,” Dean says, exasperated. But he knows he’s lost this one. They’re going to the beach.
The Seagull Motel isn’t bad. It’s not right on the ocean and Dean can’t really hear the sound of the waves from their room. It’s clean and comfortable, and it’s obviously been run by the same family for several generations. The dark-eyed girl with the bouncy ponytail at the front desk smiles a welcome as she hands them their room key.
Sam unearths a pair of cargo shorts from somewhere the minute his duffel hits the bed. Dean stares at him in bewilderment.
“Dude. What the fuck are those?”
“We’re at the beach, Dean,” Sam says, his tone implying that Dean is a complete and total moron. “I’m going swimming.” He digs around in his bag some more and actually comes up with a pair of flip flops.
“In the water?” Dean gapes as Sam slides his gargantuan feet into the flip flops.
With a long-suffering sigh, Sam latches onto Dean’s elbow. “Yes, in the water,” he says patiently as he guides Dean out the door.
The drive to the beach is all too short, in spite of the traffic, and before he knows it, Dean’s got sand in his bootlaces, following Sam unwillingly down to the shoreline. He keeps an eye out for any low-flying seagulls that look like they might want to take a shit on his head.
Sam’s apparently been planning this for a while, and it’s like watching some kind of stealth operation unfold as he spreads two beach towels, with mermaids on them for Christ's sake, over the sand. Sunscreen and a couple of sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, a few apples and two bottles of water tumble out of a brightly colored canvas bag Sam dragged out of the Impala’s trunk. Dean can’t for the life of him figure out how come he never spotted that amongst the weapons and tools of their trade jumbled together back there.
It takes most of the afternoon, but Sam finally persuades Dean to take off his boots and socks and roll his jeans up to his knees. The sun is high in the sky by the time Dean wades into the water, watching nervously as the waves move in to pound on the sand, then pull back out to sea again.
“I know you can swim,” Sam says quietly. The question is unspoken, but Dean hears it anyway.
He watches the sand come up between his toes as the water retreats, leaving foam and a few strands of seaweed behind. “I was four, and Dad took us all to the beach,” Dean says without looking up. “In Florida. The water was rough and a wave knocked me over.” He shrugs. “That’s it. End of story. No big deal.”
Sam is silent for a minute. Then he bumps Dean’s shoulder with his own. “Okay.”
Later they eat fried shrimp at some place called the Seafood Shack. Dean has a few beers and feels as peaceful as he’s felt in a long time. He takes a risk and tells Sam that the sound of the seagulls makes him think of their mom, smiling at him under the hot Florida sun.
Sam justifies Dean’s faith by not saying anything sappy back in response to that, and Dean returns the favor by not bitching about the sand that gets all over his car.
All in all, it’s not a bad way to spend a couple of days.
Catch a Wave
Sam and Dean or Sam/Dean, whatever works best for you.
1175 words
Dean’s not a big fan of the beach. Hasn’t been since he was four years old and a giant wave knocked him ass over teakettle somewhere in Florida.
It was soon after Sammy was born, and Dad had loaded them all up in the Impala and driven straight through, twenty hours from Lawrence to Clearwater. Dean doesn’t remember a lot about the trip, he was only a little kid, but there are bits and pieces of it still floating around in his brain.
In the car, his mom had held Sammy in her lap in the front seat, riding next to Dad, her long blonde hair blowing around her head in the breeze from the open window. Dean can still picture it if he closes his eyes, like a snapshot faded around the edges, curling and peeling with age.
He remembers a soft nest of pillows in the back seat, just for him, and the silky feel of his green blanket under his fingers as he idly rubbed the satin trim, drowsing with the heat of summer.
And he remembers the huge-ass wave, yanking his hand out of Dad’s and tumbling him around on the bottom of the Gulf until Dad hauled him up out of the water by his ankle. He’d been too shocked to breath, but when he was back on the shore, wrapped in a towel, warm and safe in his mother’s arms, he’d let out a howl that had half the beach looking at them.
He remembers Sammy, only a couple months old and lying on the beach blanket, staring up at him with wide eyes, and his Dad, hands shaking as he brushed the sand off Dean’s tear-stained cheeks.
So no, he’s not a big fan of the beach. Maybe if they’d stayed a regular family, gone to the beach every summer the way Sam always claimed all his friends at school did, Dean would have gotten over it, would feel more comfortable with the sounds of waves crashing on the shore and seagulls crying overhead.
But they didn’t, and they hadn’t, and it wasn’t like John took them on planned vacations when they were kids. They’d grabbed their vacation time when they could, a day here and there to go to a traveling carnival, or ride go-carts at one of those tracks where you pay by the hour, maybe fish a little if they were somewhere near a lake. Sam and Dean had seen more of the country growing up than any of Sam’s lame school friends, but John never took them to the beach again after their mom died.
Dean can’t say he’s sorry about that, and Sam’s current insistence on going to the beach for a few days on purpose is making Dean crazy.
“For the last time, Sam, no friggin’ way. It’s not gonna happen.” Dean scowls at Sam, then turns his eyes back to the road in front of him. The road that leads to the Jersey Shore and the friggin’ beach.
“Dean,” Sam says patiently. “It’s just a couple of days. I’m not asking you to invest in a time-share or anything.”
“A what?” Dean asks. He takes his eyes off the road again to look at his brother. Sam rolls his eyes fondly at him and shakes his head.
“Nevermind.” Sam pauses. “I went to the beach once. With Jess.” He smiles softly, secretly. “We had a good time. I want to have a good time with you.”
“Well, we can have a good time without going to the beach, Flipper,” Dean says, exasperated. But he knows he’s lost this one. They’re going to the beach.
The Seagull Motel isn’t bad. It’s not right on the ocean and Dean can’t really hear the sound of the waves from their room. It’s clean and comfortable, and it’s obviously been run by the same family for several generations. The dark-eyed girl with the bouncy ponytail at the front desk smiles a welcome as she hands them their room key.
Sam unearths a pair of cargo shorts from somewhere the minute his duffel hits the bed. Dean stares at him in bewilderment.
“Dude. What the fuck are those?”
“We’re at the beach, Dean,” Sam says, his tone implying that Dean is a complete and total moron. “I’m going swimming.” He digs around in his bag some more and actually comes up with a pair of flip flops.
“In the water?” Dean gapes as Sam slides his gargantuan feet into the flip flops.
With a long-suffering sigh, Sam latches onto Dean’s elbow. “Yes, in the water,” he says patiently as he guides Dean out the door.
The drive to the beach is all too short, in spite of the traffic, and before he knows it, Dean’s got sand in his bootlaces, following Sam unwillingly down to the shoreline. He keeps an eye out for any low-flying seagulls that look like they might want to take a shit on his head.
Sam’s apparently been planning this for a while, and it’s like watching some kind of stealth operation unfold as he spreads two beach towels, with mermaids on them for Christ's sake, over the sand. Sunscreen and a couple of sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, a few apples and two bottles of water tumble out of a brightly colored canvas bag Sam dragged out of the Impala’s trunk. Dean can’t for the life of him figure out how come he never spotted that amongst the weapons and tools of their trade jumbled together back there.
It takes most of the afternoon, but Sam finally persuades Dean to take off his boots and socks and roll his jeans up to his knees. The sun is high in the sky by the time Dean wades into the water, watching nervously as the waves move in to pound on the sand, then pull back out to sea again.
“I know you can swim,” Sam says quietly. The question is unspoken, but Dean hears it anyway.
He watches the sand come up between his toes as the water retreats, leaving foam and a few strands of seaweed behind. “I was four, and Dad took us all to the beach,” Dean says without looking up. “In Florida. The water was rough and a wave knocked me over.” He shrugs. “That’s it. End of story. No big deal.”
Sam is silent for a minute. Then he bumps Dean’s shoulder with his own. “Okay.”
Later they eat fried shrimp at some place called the Seafood Shack. Dean has a few beers and feels as peaceful as he’s felt in a long time. He takes a risk and tells Sam that the sound of the seagulls makes him think of their mom, smiling at him under the hot Florida sun.
Sam justifies Dean’s faith by not saying anything sappy back in response to that, and Dean returns the favor by not bitching about the sand that gets all over his car.
All in all, it’s not a bad way to spend a couple of days.