Work of Fiction
I was told I can be too maudlin at times! So here's a piece of fluff for you! A bit cracktastic
I don't own a thing!
Dean woke up to the smell of frying bacon. He opened his eyes, yawning, as he stretched out in the big white bed. Amazing that after nearly thirty years of lumpy motel beds and sleeping in the car, his body had become so used to a soft, downy mattress and cool, clean sheets.
He got up and drew back the curtains. The sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was like a cliché – but better.
He showered (on-suite) and dressed in his best blue suit. Dean was a man who appreciated the finer things in life (never having had them before) and he treated his new threads carefully. He chose a matching silk tie and put it in his pocket for later. After all, this wasn't some fake suit he'd picked up at the thrift store – this was his one of his – brought with money that was legit. Dean grinned – who said there wasn't money to be made demon hunting?
Sam was hunched over the stove, wearing a pink apron, holding a spitting pan and tossing in strips of bacon as if pigs were going out of fashion. He grinned at Dean as he entered the huge kitchen "You hungry?"
"Did I forget your birthday dude?" Dean frowned. Sam didn't do cooking unless it was a very special occasion
"You've NEVER remembered my birthday Dean" Sam shook his head and slapped down a plate of bacon and eggs in front of his brother "Guess again" he gestured to the calendar stuck on the fridge with a large magnet. Sam had circled today's date in bright green highlighter and – just as a subtle clue – had written 'D DAY' in block capitals.
"Really?" Dean gasped
"Yeah – ten years to the day dude" Sam grinned and pointed to the calendar again "ten years"
Dean bit into the bacon and winced; he couldn't actually believe that they'd killed that fucking son of a bitch and gotten out alive and, relatively, in one piece. He sighed – but had it really been ten years ago – where had the time gone? He ran a hand through his hair – shit – that meant he was nearly…
"Cheer up bro" Sam's voice broke into his thoughts "They say that life begins at…ow!" and if the place mat that hit Sam's skull stung – it was his own fault for turning away just as he made that statement.
Los Angeles was bright and busy; Sam was driving – his brother favouring a ridiculously large 4 x 4 – with enough room for Sam's freakishly long legs and more than enough comfort for his passenger. It had a CD player fitted and now Dean was forced to listen to Sam's emo crap or suffer the local radio station. He still had his baby of course – but she was getting on in years now – a vintage car and he only took her out on special occasions. She held too many memories – good and bad – for him to part with her now.
Sam wore sunglasses; his long hair blowing in his face as he drove with the window wide open. "Trying to look cool little brother?" Dean grinned
"No Dean – the sun is in my eyes" came the reply and Dean wondered if Sam had been born prissy.
Dean had been shocked, to say the least, when he had discovered that Sam had been keeping a journal. Everything they had done; every evil bastard they had killed, every wild experience written down in his brother's careful hand. He had found it strange at first but Sam had always been more like dad than he let on and Dean guessed that his brother had wanted to carry on, maybe as some sort of lame tribute to John Winchester or maybe as a legacy, a memorial of who he was and what he did. Sam's writing was eloquent, intelligent and he captured the moment. After the demon had been obliterated, Dean had jokingly suggested that Sam send his 'memoirs' to a publisher and Sam had given him one of those patented 'Sam' glares. Dean had taken that glare as a challenge and, one night when Sam was out on a date, had taken the opportunity to copy Sam's journal (several times) and send off copies to as many literary agents that he could find in the phone book.
Sam hadn't seen the funny side – but it was Dean that was laughing on the other side of his face – when one of the agents called two weeks later and offered Sam a publishing contract "This has to be" the agent had said "The most imaginative works of fiction I have ever read". The brothers had exchanged glances and promptly signed the lucrative contract. Since then – they had never really looked back.
Sam's pen name had been Bobby Singer – a lasting tribute to dad's oldest friend – who had died during the final showdown. 'Bobby' became a best selling author over night and fans queued for hours to get their hands on the book. Before long, it was topping the best seller lists in every damn country in the world and (apart from those who knew better) was hailed as the 'greatest work of supernatural fiction since Stephen King'.
Now they were in Los Angeles because Sam's agent had told them that something big was about to go down. Dean was hoping it might be a film deal – he had visions of being played by some A list Hollywood stud – but Sam was more cautious "Get real Dean" Sam had snorted "They could never find an actor in the world who could do you justice" and, being that way inclined, Dean had taken it as a compliment – causing Sam to snort some more.
So – here they were – on the tenth anniversary of D Day, sitting in a plush office, in the entertainment capital of the world; two ex hunters – battle scared but whole – suddenly the centre of everyone's attention.
"So" the guy behind the desk was smiling and Sam smiled back "You agree to the contract"
"Yeah" Sam turned to Dean who, it appeared, had been struck dumb by the guys proposal "Sounds cool"
"It won't be shot here of course" the man was scribbling something down "We usually use the studio in Vancouver – Canada passes just as well for the States these days"
"It does?" Sam quirked an eye brow and the guy grinned "And the actors?"
"We'll use a couple of studio guys – not unknown – but no big star egos either" he turned so that he could look at both the brothers "And you can vet them over if you like – I know what it's like – seeing your characters turned into living, breathing entities – it has to be right"
"Oh yeah" Dean spoke for the first time "It has to be"
"I was wondering actually" the guy leant in so that Sam could hear him better "Were the brothers – you know – in your book – based on anyone in particular?"
"Some guys we knew ten years back" Sam winked at Dean, his eyelid dipping surreptitiously "Tough kids – their dad was an ex marine – like John in the book" he was smiling now, wondering how the hell he had gotten here, amazed at the sudden turn of events "Don't know what happened to them…guess they mellowed out…got older"
"Cool" the TV producer stood up – gripping Sam's hand – shaking hard and firm "And the title – we wanted to keep it simple – one word"
"Sounds fine" Sam glanced over at his brother who didn't seem to be able to stop grinning – his Dean Winchester shit-eating grin - a grin that was brighter than even the Los Angeles sun "What did you decide on?"
"Supernatural" the guy was fairly bursting with excitement "We're gonna call it Supernatural!"
Fin