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"Peace Talks"
Title: Peace Talks
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellifer_fic
Rating: G
Category: SPN, Gen.
Word Count: 947
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no offense, no money.
“Says here,” Sam begins as Dean digs into the pile of pancakes topped with bacon and a liberal dousing of maple syrup. Sam had made an undignified hurking sound when Dean had ordered it and mostly, Dean would never admit, he’d ordered just for Sam’s reaction. They hadn’t had a working television in four days and you had to find your entertainment where you could. “That Est has a Museum of the Macabre.”
Dean watches Sam flipping through the brochure. Est wouldn’t exactly be a tourist mecca but they seemed to have gone out of their way to appear so. The town was tiny yet there was a fair ground, two movie cinemas and so far he’d spotted three different Starbucks. It was a weird jumble of local colour and trashy franchise. “Who would name a town that anyway?” Dean asks, ignoring Sam’s pronouncement. He pauses in his eating long enough to put fists to his hips in his chair, jut his chin out to the side and puff up his chest. “I name this town… Est. In the name of lord knows what,” Dean announces in a voice loud enough to have the other seven am diners looking at them, one older lady frowning hard.
Sam kicks him in the shin before going back to his muesli, tucking the pamphlet back into the stand on the table mulishly. “Whatever,” he says. “I just thought you might like it.”
Dean takes a moment to look at Sam. He knew a lot of people loved their family members but didn’t actually like them. He, on the other hand, pretty much enjoyed the hell out his brother most of the time. They on occasion could be friends as well as family. Then there were the times they were siblings through and through, getting on each other’s nerves, sniping for no reason and just plain bugging the crap out of each other. The last two weeks had been like that and Dean couldn’t fathom why, but also couldn’t help responding in kind whenever Sam had annoyance in his tone or a pissy look on his face.
Apparently, the storm clouds had broken and Sam had extended an olive branch. Dean, for his part and from the tragic way Sam was looking down into his breakfast, had smacked that branch right out of Sam’s hand and pissed on it to boot.
“No, I mean… yeah. We could check it out,” Dean tries, wincing at how lamely keen he sounds. False cheer as he reaches for the pamphlet. Sam smacks his hand though, now scowling.
“It’s fine,” he says. “Just forget it.”
“Maybe I don’t want to,” Dean snaps. He’s responding and he can’t help it as much as he can’t help breathing. “Maybe I’ll go by myself because you’re being a bitch.”
“Go ahead,” Sam grunts, curling his hands back into himself, tucking them up under his armpits so he looks like a petulant kid. Dean resists the urge to laugh because that will take them straight from bickering to out and out war. “Have a blast.”
“I will,” Dean sniffs, reaching for the pamphlet again and this time retrieving it with an exaggerated flourish.
000
It’s crap, is what it is.
Dean was actually expecting it to be crap, but he could’ve eked out some level of enjoyment by actually extolling about how crap to Sam and having his brother agree with him. Then they could’ve made fun of it for a little while, maybe stole the dopey-looking papier-mâché severed head in the basket in front of the cardboard and tinfoil guillotine in the Most Grim Room, Jesus, and been able to discuss it for weeks after.
Remember that crap museum in Esk?
Good times.
Instead, he was stomping around, trying to enjoy the place for itself and really, really knowing it wasn’t possible. All the while, Sam was moodily back in their motel room, reading a book or surfing the net or braiding his hair, whatever girls did when they were in a snit.
What he needed to do was figure out why they were suddenly rubbing ragged edges on each other and how he could break them out of it. Sam was a pissy bitch but for a little brother he wasn’t all that bad. Get him standing behind your shoulder in a bar and watch the guys who’d been about to try it on go all pale and beat a hasty retreat. Dean could put most anyone down in a hand to hand scrap but it was handy when he didn’t have to.
Sam was also interested in the weirdest things. While sometimes Dean wondered how such a geek-ass had popped up in the Winchester bloodline when cool and tough seemed to be more common traits, it also meant he was a little unpredictable and Dean kinda loved that. He could pretty much think he’d peg how Sam would react to something, find he was completely wrong and not be too bothered by that. He would strangely feel closer to Sam when it happened.
So, he wasn’t all that surprised to find Sam in the Weird Things In Jars room when he’d just assumed he would still be pouting at the motel.
“This place is crap,” Sam says, studying what Dean thinks is possibly a really ancient egg with a toy truck wedged into it, floating in brine.
“It really, really is,” Dean agrees.
“Want to go steal that severed head?” Sam asks, rubbing a hand over his chin. “I was thinking we could leave it on Bobby’s porch next time we stop by.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. They don’t do apologies. “Yeah, Sammy.”
They just do this.
Author:
kellifer_fic Rating: G
Category: SPN, Gen.
Word Count: 947
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no offense, no money.
“Says here,” Sam begins as Dean digs into the pile of pancakes topped with bacon and a liberal dousing of maple syrup. Sam had made an undignified hurking sound when Dean had ordered it and mostly, Dean would never admit, he’d ordered just for Sam’s reaction. They hadn’t had a working television in four days and you had to find your entertainment where you could. “That Est has a Museum of the Macabre.”
Dean watches Sam flipping through the brochure. Est wouldn’t exactly be a tourist mecca but they seemed to have gone out of their way to appear so. The town was tiny yet there was a fair ground, two movie cinemas and so far he’d spotted three different Starbucks. It was a weird jumble of local colour and trashy franchise. “Who would name a town that anyway?” Dean asks, ignoring Sam’s pronouncement. He pauses in his eating long enough to put fists to his hips in his chair, jut his chin out to the side and puff up his chest. “I name this town… Est. In the name of lord knows what,” Dean announces in a voice loud enough to have the other seven am diners looking at them, one older lady frowning hard.
Sam kicks him in the shin before going back to his muesli, tucking the pamphlet back into the stand on the table mulishly. “Whatever,” he says. “I just thought you might like it.”
Dean takes a moment to look at Sam. He knew a lot of people loved their family members but didn’t actually like them. He, on the other hand, pretty much enjoyed the hell out his brother most of the time. They on occasion could be friends as well as family. Then there were the times they were siblings through and through, getting on each other’s nerves, sniping for no reason and just plain bugging the crap out of each other. The last two weeks had been like that and Dean couldn’t fathom why, but also couldn’t help responding in kind whenever Sam had annoyance in his tone or a pissy look on his face.
Apparently, the storm clouds had broken and Sam had extended an olive branch. Dean, for his part and from the tragic way Sam was looking down into his breakfast, had smacked that branch right out of Sam’s hand and pissed on it to boot.
“No, I mean… yeah. We could check it out,” Dean tries, wincing at how lamely keen he sounds. False cheer as he reaches for the pamphlet. Sam smacks his hand though, now scowling.
“It’s fine,” he says. “Just forget it.”
“Maybe I don’t want to,” Dean snaps. He’s responding and he can’t help it as much as he can’t help breathing. “Maybe I’ll go by myself because you’re being a bitch.”
“Go ahead,” Sam grunts, curling his hands back into himself, tucking them up under his armpits so he looks like a petulant kid. Dean resists the urge to laugh because that will take them straight from bickering to out and out war. “Have a blast.”
“I will,” Dean sniffs, reaching for the pamphlet again and this time retrieving it with an exaggerated flourish.
It’s crap, is what it is.
Dean was actually expecting it to be crap, but he could’ve eked out some level of enjoyment by actually extolling about how crap to Sam and having his brother agree with him. Then they could’ve made fun of it for a little while, maybe stole the dopey-looking papier-mâché severed head in the basket in front of the cardboard and tinfoil guillotine in the Most Grim Room, Jesus, and been able to discuss it for weeks after.
Remember that crap museum in Esk?
Good times.
Instead, he was stomping around, trying to enjoy the place for itself and really, really knowing it wasn’t possible. All the while, Sam was moodily back in their motel room, reading a book or surfing the net or braiding his hair, whatever girls did when they were in a snit.
What he needed to do was figure out why they were suddenly rubbing ragged edges on each other and how he could break them out of it. Sam was a pissy bitch but for a little brother he wasn’t all that bad. Get him standing behind your shoulder in a bar and watch the guys who’d been about to try it on go all pale and beat a hasty retreat. Dean could put most anyone down in a hand to hand scrap but it was handy when he didn’t have to.
Sam was also interested in the weirdest things. While sometimes Dean wondered how such a geek-ass had popped up in the Winchester bloodline when cool and tough seemed to be more common traits, it also meant he was a little unpredictable and Dean kinda loved that. He could pretty much think he’d peg how Sam would react to something, find he was completely wrong and not be too bothered by that. He would strangely feel closer to Sam when it happened.
So, he wasn’t all that surprised to find Sam in the Weird Things In Jars room when he’d just assumed he would still be pouting at the motel.
“This place is crap,” Sam says, studying what Dean thinks is possibly a really ancient egg with a toy truck wedged into it, floating in brine.
“It really, really is,” Dean agrees.
“Want to go steal that severed head?” Sam asks, rubbing a hand over his chin. “I was thinking we could leave it on Bobby’s porch next time we stop by.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. They don’t do apologies. “Yeah, Sammy.”
They just do this.
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