![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Normal Is Just Another Word For Nothing Much To Do
Rating/Warning: PG
Wordcount: 1,139
Spoilers: None
Fandom: SPN
By:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellifer_fic
Category: Gen
Summary: Snapshots of a not-so-average existence.
“Dean, I asked you to give him a haircut, not squash him,” John says, coming into the boys room to find Sam pinned on his stomach, flailing and squirming with Dean sitting on his back, Sam’s arms pinned under Dean’s knees.
Dean has a pair of dress-maker scissors that he is brandishing close to Sam’s head.
“Trust me Dad, he’s having none of it,” Dean says, flicking a grin over his shoulder. Sam is still bucking valiantly, but at thirteen he is still two years away from the final growth spurt that will see him taller and heavier than his older brother.
“Deeeeeean!” Sam wails, and there is a crack that is Sam managing to whack his forehead on the floorboards beneath. “Oooooooow!” His wail goes up in pitch and intensity.
John leans over, hands braced on his knees and sees tear tracks running from Sam’s eyes to his temples.
“Let him up,” John orders and Dean looks at him.
“But you said-”
“Never mind what I said. Let him up.”
Dean eases off in degrees, probably mindful of receiving an elbow or foot in an uncomfortable place, but Sam lies placid now, face turned to the side and cheek against the floor. Dean finally stands and hooks his hands under Sam’s shoulders, peeling him off the floor.
“You’re such a brat,” Dean grumps and Sam gets his own feet underneath him and shrugs Dean off with a scowl. John watches them, angry at each other and knows that he has done this. He wanted to avoid yet another argument with his youngest and so instead he’d ordered Dean to do it.
“Give me those,” he says, holding out a hand for the scissors.
“No, wait. I’ll let Dean do it,” Sam blurts, eyes going round with panic, darting his gaze between his father and Dean.
“Alright, but I want hair out of the eyes and off the back of your neck,” he instructs, relieved to see Sam edging around the room towards Dean.
In small ways he is making them one unit.
Hand-me-downs
“No.”
“Dean, money’s tight and everything you own has holes in it. It’s not so-”
“I’m the older brother. Me!” Dean snarls, hurling the pair of jeans his father had thrust into his arms to the floor.
“He’s grown out of them but they’re still perfectly fine.” John is trying reason but Dean is having none of it. It doesn’t help that Sam is sitting cross-legged on his motel bed, book that he was reading forgotten on his lap, snickering.
“I’m not wearing Sam’s hand-me-downs,” Dean grits, looking thoroughly scandalised. He cuts a glance at Sam, flushing red with anger.
“I wore yours for years,” Sam interjects and John shoots him a stay out of this glare that Sam ignores. “I mean, just because you stopped growing when you were twelve-”
Whatever other torturous barbs Sam was going to come up with are lost when Dean launches himself across the room, snagging the pair of jeans on his way and trying to strangle Sam with them.
John leaves them to it, knowing that he’s going to need coffee for round two.
Friendly Fire
Sam is face down on the Impala’s back seat and Dean is laughing so hard, he’s missed the handle of the driver’s side door three times. He finally gets the door wrenched open and drops in, using both hands to get the keys in the ignition.
“You shot me,” Sam groans, voice sounding shocky and this sobers Dean unlike anything else.
“You ran right in front of me,” Dean says and now that he has gotten over his initial hysterics, black dread sweeps through him because if they had been hunting anything other than a band of fairly nasty brownies, Sam would more than likely have gotten shot in a much worse place than the ass.
“I like my ass. I need it for sitting,” Sam complains and even though it’s awful, that sets Dean off again.
“Don’t worry, no one will be able to tell. You have the flattest ass I’ve ever seen anyway,” Dean snorts, breathing deep and trying to get himself under control. He’s realised that his laughter is uncomfortably close to hysterics and since the adrenalin has started wearing off, he’s starting to feel like he might cry.
“How are we going to explain this?”
Dean turns on the seat to look at Sam, face pressed into leather, hands up over his head and fists clenched.
“You fell in the shower?” Dean suggests. “Holding a gun.”
“You’re an ass,” Sam grumbles.
What’s mine is yours…
“No salt,” Sam says, snapping the menu closed.
“Dude, did you just say no salt to my breakfast?” Dean asks, watching the waitress move away, taking the coffee pot with her that he’d been tempted to ask her to leave on the table.
“They always put too much on.”
“So?”
“So, it’s gross.”
“It’s my food.”
“So?”
Dean watches as his breakfast is set down in front of him and Sam’s hands snakes out immediately to steal a fry. Dean rolls his eyes.
Boredom…
“Watch TV.”
“There’s nothing on.”
“Go to a bar.”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“Read a book?”
“I’m not going to even dignify that with a response.”
“Fine. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. What do people do at this time in the morning?”
“I am never waking you up earlier than midday again.”
“Damn straight.”
Run but don’t run away…
Dean had asked Pastor Jim only the once, about the six months that their father had left them with him when Dean was eight and Sam was four.
“He wasn’t going to come back for us. He’d thought about leaving us behind, didn’t he?”
Jim’s face had closed down and he’d said, “You’ll have to ask your father about that.”
Dean had thought about it, had even started asking the question a couple of times but could never bring himself to.
The fight with Sam and the fallout afterwards had gone a long way towards answering it for him. When his father was non-committal about where he was going and what he was doing, Dean always had assumed that it was about The Demon, until he’d spied his father doing exactly the same thing he did whenever they were apart for more than a couple of days.
Dean was watching Sam across the University quadrangle, nose buried in a book and back up against a tree when he sees his father, slouching and trying to look inconspicuous at the bulletin board that’s full of ‘for rent’ notices and people looking for study groups.
His father doesn’t like his boys out of his range, out of his protection.
Dean gets back behind the wheel of the Impala, letting his father take this watch.
Rating/Warning: PG
Wordcount: 1,139
Spoilers: None
Fandom: SPN
By:
kellifer_ficCategory: Gen
Summary: Snapshots of a not-so-average existence.
“Dean, I asked you to give him a haircut, not squash him,” John says, coming into the boys room to find Sam pinned on his stomach, flailing and squirming with Dean sitting on his back, Sam’s arms pinned under Dean’s knees.
Dean has a pair of dress-maker scissors that he is brandishing close to Sam’s head.
“Trust me Dad, he’s having none of it,” Dean says, flicking a grin over his shoulder. Sam is still bucking valiantly, but at thirteen he is still two years away from the final growth spurt that will see him taller and heavier than his older brother.
“Deeeeeean!” Sam wails, and there is a crack that is Sam managing to whack his forehead on the floorboards beneath. “Oooooooow!” His wail goes up in pitch and intensity.
John leans over, hands braced on his knees and sees tear tracks running from Sam’s eyes to his temples.
“Let him up,” John orders and Dean looks at him.
“But you said-”
“Never mind what I said. Let him up.”
Dean eases off in degrees, probably mindful of receiving an elbow or foot in an uncomfortable place, but Sam lies placid now, face turned to the side and cheek against the floor. Dean finally stands and hooks his hands under Sam’s shoulders, peeling him off the floor.
“You’re such a brat,” Dean grumps and Sam gets his own feet underneath him and shrugs Dean off with a scowl. John watches them, angry at each other and knows that he has done this. He wanted to avoid yet another argument with his youngest and so instead he’d ordered Dean to do it.
“Give me those,” he says, holding out a hand for the scissors.
“No, wait. I’ll let Dean do it,” Sam blurts, eyes going round with panic, darting his gaze between his father and Dean.
“Alright, but I want hair out of the eyes and off the back of your neck,” he instructs, relieved to see Sam edging around the room towards Dean.
In small ways he is making them one unit.
“No.”
“Dean, money’s tight and everything you own has holes in it. It’s not so-”
“I’m the older brother. Me!” Dean snarls, hurling the pair of jeans his father had thrust into his arms to the floor.
“He’s grown out of them but they’re still perfectly fine.” John is trying reason but Dean is having none of it. It doesn’t help that Sam is sitting cross-legged on his motel bed, book that he was reading forgotten on his lap, snickering.
“I’m not wearing Sam’s hand-me-downs,” Dean grits, looking thoroughly scandalised. He cuts a glance at Sam, flushing red with anger.
“I wore yours for years,” Sam interjects and John shoots him a stay out of this glare that Sam ignores. “I mean, just because you stopped growing when you were twelve-”
Whatever other torturous barbs Sam was going to come up with are lost when Dean launches himself across the room, snagging the pair of jeans on his way and trying to strangle Sam with them.
John leaves them to it, knowing that he’s going to need coffee for round two.
Sam is face down on the Impala’s back seat and Dean is laughing so hard, he’s missed the handle of the driver’s side door three times. He finally gets the door wrenched open and drops in, using both hands to get the keys in the ignition.
“You shot me,” Sam groans, voice sounding shocky and this sobers Dean unlike anything else.
“You ran right in front of me,” Dean says and now that he has gotten over his initial hysterics, black dread sweeps through him because if they had been hunting anything other than a band of fairly nasty brownies, Sam would more than likely have gotten shot in a much worse place than the ass.
“I like my ass. I need it for sitting,” Sam complains and even though it’s awful, that sets Dean off again.
“Don’t worry, no one will be able to tell. You have the flattest ass I’ve ever seen anyway,” Dean snorts, breathing deep and trying to get himself under control. He’s realised that his laughter is uncomfortably close to hysterics and since the adrenalin has started wearing off, he’s starting to feel like he might cry.
“How are we going to explain this?”
Dean turns on the seat to look at Sam, face pressed into leather, hands up over his head and fists clenched.
“You fell in the shower?” Dean suggests. “Holding a gun.”
“You’re an ass,” Sam grumbles.
“No salt,” Sam says, snapping the menu closed.
“Dude, did you just say no salt to my breakfast?” Dean asks, watching the waitress move away, taking the coffee pot with her that he’d been tempted to ask her to leave on the table.
“They always put too much on.”
“So?”
“So, it’s gross.”
“It’s my food.”
“So?”
Dean watches as his breakfast is set down in front of him and Sam’s hands snakes out immediately to steal a fry. Dean rolls his eyes.
“Watch TV.”
“There’s nothing on.”
“Go to a bar.”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“Read a book?”
“I’m not going to even dignify that with a response.”
“Fine. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. What do people do at this time in the morning?”
“I am never waking you up earlier than midday again.”
“Damn straight.”
Dean had asked Pastor Jim only the once, about the six months that their father had left them with him when Dean was eight and Sam was four.
“He wasn’t going to come back for us. He’d thought about leaving us behind, didn’t he?”
Jim’s face had closed down and he’d said, “You’ll have to ask your father about that.”
Dean had thought about it, had even started asking the question a couple of times but could never bring himself to.
The fight with Sam and the fallout afterwards had gone a long way towards answering it for him. When his father was non-committal about where he was going and what he was doing, Dean always had assumed that it was about The Demon, until he’d spied his father doing exactly the same thing he did whenever they were apart for more than a couple of days.
Dean was watching Sam across the University quadrangle, nose buried in a book and back up against a tree when he sees his father, slouching and trying to look inconspicuous at the bulletin board that’s full of ‘for rent’ notices and people looking for study groups.
His father doesn’t like his boys out of his range, out of his protection.
Dean gets back behind the wheel of the Impala, letting his father take this watch.
From:
no subject
I think my favourite bit would have to be Dean wearing Sam's hand me downs. I hadn't thought of that, and it would be completely and utterly humiliating for Dean.