BROTHERS PYROTECHINCS, a supernatural fanfic

BROTHERS PYROTECHINCS

BY: Karen B.

Summary: Happy Fourth of July. Just a short 'feel good' snip….boys shooting off fireworks in field. Episode related: Dark Side Of The Moon. 5.16

Disclaimer: Not the owner

Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

~ Francis Scott Key 1814

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It was just starting to get dark by the time I got back from a long day at the pizza shop. I hated it there. But it was summer-time, hunting was slow, and with nothing else to do the bucks came in handy.

I was excited to see dad's truck gone. I shoved the Impala into park and jogged up the two rickety stairs of the latest crap cabin we'd been renting for the past three weeks and rushed inside.

"Heya, Sammy," I greeted; ruffling the kid's shaggy hair as I passed by the crap recliner he always seemed to be glued in. "What you doing? Watching another crap documentary?" I asked, heading straight to the fridge to get a bottle of Coke. "Where's dad?" I slammed the fridge door shut, rattling the meager contents inside.

Sam huffed out a breath.

Putting the edge of the Coke cap against the edge of the counter, I hit the top while holding on tight to the bottle. The bottle cap flew off to the floor with a ping. "Works every time," I muttered. "So," I leaned against the sink. "Where's the old man, for the second time?"

"Here, there, everywhere, somewhere, nowhere," Sam answered bitchily, not bothering to take his eyes off a thousand tuxedo-wearing penguins marching across an endless block of ice.

I rolled my eyes. My little brother…he was such an emo-geek…and such a girl. Collecting feelings the way some guys collected baseball cards and marbles.

Dean Winchester's number one rule: No chick-flick moments. Sam was always breaking that rule.

When I'd left Sammy seemed happy enough, reading some heavy- thick Hemingway book. For Whom…Bell something or other. But now I could tell his mood had soured. I wondered what had set him off this time, so I asked.

"What crawled up your ass, Samantha?" I chugged down some Coke.

"Dad," Sam barked, getting up to shut the television off.

I sputtered. "Which part of him this time? Head? Foot?"

"Bite me, Dean," Sam plopped down at the kitchen table, pulled out his pocket knife and started carving in the butcher block.

I sighed. Trying to keep Sam entertained and happy was overwhelming. He was smart, too damn smart, his mind constantly working, cramming and studying everything. He got bored fast and needed to be challenged and I was running out of ways to challenge him. I wished I could pull the lid off Sam's mind and crawl into his brain…see what the hell was going on in there.

I hardly knew anymore.

"I'm serious, Sammy, where'd he go?"

Sam took a moment away from carving some Latin phrase and pointed the tip of his knife to a folded piece of yellow paper taped to the wall next to the dusty, mite-infested deer head.

I strolled over, peeled the note off the wall, and read it out loud, "Dean. Caleb came by. Unexpected ghost problem. Gone a couple of days at most, be ready when I get back to hightail it out. Stay close to the cabin…and –"

"Watch out for Sammy," Sam jumped in, stabbing the table with vengeance and leaving his knife sticking there.

"This is awesome," I shouted, crumpling up the note and tossing it into the open trashcan.

"Yeah, really awesome," Sam drawled, going to the fridge. "He was gone for my birthday, he was gone for Christmas, and he was gone for Father's Day." He grabbed the last bottle of Coke and swung the door shut quietly, but the insides still rattled. "And now he's gone for the Fourth of July." He grabbed the bottle opener out of a drawer and cracked the cap, taking a drink. "And lucky us…we get to spend it here." Sam tossed the opener into the sink chipping the white porcelain further as he glanced around. "In another crap cabin, with a crap TV, and nothing to do but count the cracks in the walls, breathe in stale air, and watch you style your hair." Sam ran a hand through his own shaggy mop.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," I tsked. "For a smart kid you're not very smart." I finished off my Coke, tossed it in the trash and headed for our bedroom. "I have a plan."

"What're you doing?" Sam followed like a lost puppy, setting his Coke on the nightstand, and flopping onto his crap mattress, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

I dropped down to my knees and pulled my duffle out from under my own crap bed. "We, Sammy, are going to have us a little celebration."

"I am not getting intoxicated with alcohol." Sam tossed onto his side facing away from me in classic Sammy-pout.

"You want to stay on lockdown, Sammy, or do you want to join me in some good times?"

"Toilet hugging is not my idea of celebrating, Dean."

"A. That's because you don't do it right."

"B. We don't have any alcohol in stock."

"And C. I have a much better plan of action."

I glanced up at my brother's brooding back, and smiled. He'd wanted to do something like this for like ever. And ever never seemed to come. We couldn't pull it off when dad was around, and besides that it took some high-level smuggler's blues shit over a period of six months, not to mention a wad of cash, for me to collect enough awesome stash to make it worth while.

But tonight opportunity knocked and we had a big, fat green go!

I pulled out my switch blade, unzipped my duffle, and cut into the inside liner pulling out the goods and spreading them on the floor.

"Come on, Sam, don't be such a Downing Debbie." I went to the closet and dug out my winter parka, and cut into its liner, where I'd hidden even more stash.

"Better than being Jack Squat like you," Sam huffed.

"Whatever, Betty Boob." I continued buzzing around the room, humming AC/DC's "T.N.T" retrieving the rest of my hidden merchandise.

"You're annoying me, Dean," Sam grouched.

"I try," I replied, sitting down on the floor between our beds admiring my stockpile with pride.

"You're a jerk," Sam hissed.

"Dude! I'm the Man of Steel, the Caped Crusader, and Sean Connery all rolled up into one."

"No…you…are…not."

"Yes…I…am…too."

"Nooooooo."

"Yesssssssss."

"Dean!"

"Geek!"

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"Get out of my room."

"It's my room, too." I threw a red smoke bomb at the back of Sam's head – hard.

"Damn you, Dean!" Sam sat up in a flurry of legs and fisted hands. "I am going to kick your –" he stared open-mouthed down at the pile of pyrotechnics in front of me like it was candy.

"My what?" I waggled my brows.

"Dean!" Sam's eyes went impossibly wide. "Where'd you get all this stuff?"

"What? You mean this crap?" I waved a hand over the pile. "Here, there, everywhere, somewhere, nowhere," I mocked.

Sam rolled his eyes, and then slipped quietly off the bed to his knees as if in prayer.

"Told you, Sammy, I am a superhero…been smuggling for months…Area 51 Phantom Fireworks in Illinois, some no name place in Michigan…most came from that Sandusky fireworks super store in Ohio next door to the Comfort Inn we stayed at."

A slow smile spread across Sam's face as he started to rifle through the heap. "Voodoo Devils, fountains, buzz bombs," he squealed with delight.

"Check this out." I pointed to a large cylinder. "Night Warrior, bro, 56 shot, and these," I directed his attention like Vanna White introducing new letters. "Dyno-mighty-mite jumbo M5000, red and silver 14 inch sidewinders, 36 shot bling-bling, Black Cat color tracer missiles – 50 shot." I shrugged. "Of course I picked up a few of the old standbys. Roman candles, sparklers, morning glories, jumping jacks."

"Wow!" Sam beamed.

"But wait," I said seriously. "There's more. If you act now we'll ad this bad mother in at no additional charge to you." I held up a huge square box. "Ninety-nine shots of blue, green, red, and gold starbursts filled with white-crackling glitter in the middle. Plus a friggin' awesome finale that will literally blow the stars right out of the sky," I said smugly. "Maybe even the moon," I added with a wink.

"Dad is going to be so pissed off when he finds out," Sam muttered, worriedly.

"Not if we blow them off first."

Sam's head shot up and he stared at me in shock.

"What do you say, Sammy." I pulled out my lighter, flipped open the lid and snapped the flame to life. "Are you with me?"

"Really?"

"No, Sam, not really." I reached over and punched his arm, pocketing the Zippo. "Out back," I jerked my chin toward the door. "Behind the motel by the dumpster I saw an old wooden crate. We can use that to load up."

"Be right back." Deliriously happy, Sam jumped to his feet and rushed out the bedroom.

"That's my boy," I started gathering up the supplies we would need, hearing Sam bust out the front door.

"This is it." I pulled the Impala to the side, well off the main road.

"Nothing but open field and fireflies as far as the eye can see," I said, waving a hand out the window. "We shouldn't be bothered here."

Sam looked over at me, a huge smile on his face, eyes sparkling.

"You ready to light up the sky?"

"Definitely," Sam chirped, wiggling in his seat.

"All right then." I shut the engine off and tossed him the keys. "This is your show, bro."

Sam's smile grew and his eyes sparkled even brighter if that was possible, jumping out of the car and running to pop the trunk open.

I followed close behind. It was nice to let Sam take the wheel and drive the bus so I could just relax and enjoy. So long as he didn't get used to it.

"Got it." With both hands, Sam hefted the wooden crate full of fireworks out of the trunk.

"Let's burn it down," I laughed, grabbing the fire extinguisher we always kept on hand just in case things got out of control.

By this time, my overjoyed, pyromaniac of a brother was breathless with happy and pawing at the gate to get started. We headed out to the middle of the field, millions of stars above us, and fireflies flickering on and off like tiny flashlights all around us as we clumped through the weeds.

"This looks like a good spot," Sam said, dropping the crate at his feet and digging through our stash.

"What are we going to start with, Captain?" I chuckled.

"These." Sam handed me a Texas Rocket. "They go up high and end with a big bang."

"Good thinking, bro. Start small and work our way up to the crazy shit."

Sam nodded, practically dancing in place. "Got your lighter?"

"Does Pinocchio have wooden balls?" I flashed an evil grin.

Sam rolled his eyes.

I dug my hand into my jeans pocket. "Have at." I handed the Zippo over.

Sam took the lighter, but hesitated. "No, Dean, this was your idea." He offered it back. "You light the first ones."

"Thanks." I smiled. "You give the order." I flicked the flame to life.

"Fire 'em up," Sam commanded.

I lit the fuse and as predicted the Texas Rockets took flight straight up, up, up – higher than we expected – and ended with a big bang.

Sam and I looked at each other and shrugged. "Mediocre," we said.

Sam dug back in the crate. "Let's try these," he handed me a ten-pack of smaller rockets and an empty Coke bottle.

Sticking the long sticks into the glass bottle we took turns, each lighting one at a time, sending them whistling skyward. They didn't go up as high as the Texas Rockets and their bang wasn't as loud.

Sam and I both gave each other the thumbs down sign.

"How about this one," Sam dug deep and yanked out a vibrant colored six-inch cylinder.

I cocked my head and squinted to read the label. "One shot phantasm. Way to crank it up, kiddo."

Sam proudly marched several yards away from me and laid out a flat piece of wood we'd also brought along. Carefully he set the cylinder firmly onto the board so it wouldn't tip over and fire off on the ground.

"That wicks pretty short, Sammy," I yelled over, trying not to let any worry bleed into my tone. "Light her fast and hightail it."

Sam nodded, flicked the lighter, and lit the end of the fuse dashing back to my side.

I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding, both of us staring skyward.

There came a whump and a puff of smoke as the firework trailed up into the air, higher than the Texas Rockets did, but nothing happened.

"Dud, dude," I muttered angrily. That bitch had cost me twenty bucks.

Sam stiffened beside me.

Suddenly massive silver angel's wings spread out across the blackness, hung there in suspension for a split second, and then alternated between red, green, and blue flowers crackling with gold.

"Outstanding," we both yipped, practically jumping out of our boots.

We spent a good hour and a half shooting off firework after firework. Blasts and big bangs and clapping and shouting and laughing.

"Grand finale time," Sam looked back at me over his shoulder when we'd used up the crate.

I gave the go ahead nod, eyes roaming over the lineup of explosives set on the wooden board. Kid had saved the best of the best for last.

"Fire in the hole," Sam shouted. Flicking the lighter, he bent down and lit the extra-long fuse. It glowed, sparked, and then died. "Crap," Sam muttered flicking the Zippo back to life to try again.

"Careful, Sammy," I warned, taking a step toward him.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said, reaching far out being sure to keep his distance as he tried to light the fuse again.

This time it took and we both raced a good thirty-feet back.

"This is going to be the show-stopper of all show-stoppers, Dean."

We stood craning our necks and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Sam and I both suddenly jolted and gasped at the earsplitting boom as we became spotlighted under a sky that ripped apart.

Rocket after rocket shot straight up, some whistling, other's breaking apart in a flash of brilliant-white light.

Huge red, white, green, yellow, and purple bouquets spread out across the black sky. Glittering gold crackled and fell to earth. Color's exploded; silver flying fish swam and whistled. A giant, thousand-legged blue octopus draped down like a waterfall, followed by sizzling white-hot sparks.

"Son of a bitch," I whispered in awe, blinking my eyes against the bright light.

"Wow," Sam rasped beside me.

Bang!

Pop!

Explosion after explosion echoed over the field like cannon fire – loud enough to wake the living and the dead and bouncing back at us with chest rattling power.

A- friggin'-mazing display of color filled the sky to its very brim.

Red, white, and blue boomed. Flying particles and debris rained down around us.

Felt like the end of the world. All four corners of that field catching the light. I thought maybe I should have built us a foxhole or bunker. Maybe dive behind a rock, but we didn't dare budge.

Eyes glued 600 feet up.

Mesmerized.

Green stars burst, red tails waggled and screeched, purple palm fronds shattered, while howling and spinning multi-colored meteors slammed into the stars.

It was intense and went on forever until sadly it all came to sudden and dead stop.

The air was thick with puffy-gray clouds of smoke and smelled of sulfur, absolute silence all around.

For a second Sam and I couldn't say a word. We just stood there trying to catch our breaths.

Then Sam arched away from me jumping up and down like the chick he was.

"Did you see that, Dean? Did you see that?"

"I was standing right here with you, 4.0," I chuckled, shaking my head in amusement.

Sam settled some and looked me square in the eye with those big, round puppy eyes of his. "Dad would never let us do anything like this. Thanks, Dean. This is great."

And then he hugged me – tight – at rib level. Short shit was going to grow up to be a jockey.

"You bet, Sammy." It was such a chick flick thing to do, but I wrapped my arms around him and snuggled him closer.

Two pyrotechnic brothers hugging under the stars, those damn fireflies slowly filtering back in onto the Smokey battle field…it was like a friggin' Fabian romance novel or something.

But I didn't care.

Dad may be here, there, everywhere, somewhere, nowhere…but I would always be here for Sam.

Sam would call me a dork if I said this out loud…hell I'd call myself a dork if I said this out loud, but this burnt down field…on this remote, back-ass road…it was our heaven.

"Happy Fourth, brother," I whispered still holding him tight.

Dean Winchester July 4, 1996

The end