Title: Long Standing Traditions
Rating: PG-13?
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Verse: Supernatural
Summary: How to regain a long lost tradition.
Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine, no money made, fanservice paid in an effort of love.
A/N: Fluffy V-day gift, though not a V-day fic, for my Kittin
Long Standing Traditions
Sometime after that night, the night that seems to measure everything now. That Night that should be capitalized because it's blazing like neon in his head, a chromatic nightmare of twisted memories and fevered dreams. Sometime after That Night, now months ago, they'd fallen back into old habits. Very old habits.
In a younger time, when the darkness of Sammy's moods had been connected to a rather typical teenage angst and rebellion stage and not to too much horror with the added distress of the possibility of going 'dark side,' back when Sammy's smile had still shown for Dean, at least once a day even when they were barely speaking. Back then, the Antediluvian past, when Dean had still believed that as long as he clung tight enough his family would never leave him behind a then twelve Sam, bemoaning his boredom had decided on themed nights to entertain himself.
At sixteen Dean could think of plenty of ways to entertain himself, but not as many capable of being shared with his little brother, and though his mind might have been lost often amidst the heavy onset of high school wonders he would not, could not leave Sammy alone. The guilt of his last momentary indiscretion, his father's anger and his own fear had made sure that he would never purposefully leave Sam alone again, not without Dad's say-so.
So despite brooding animosity and half-heartfelt lukewarm enthusiasm Dean agreed to Sammy's Themes. Mondays to Thursdays were school nights, little entertaining of the Sammy needed, he had always been a good student striving to play catch-up in his classes no matter where Dad had moved them to this time, and mostly he had succeeded. Sam did insist on eating together, but since either boy could be persuaded to eat as many times as possible within any given twenty-four hour period that was hardly surprising.
Friday's became movie night, alternating who picked what with a veto process available. Three movies and two would always be watched, critiqued, and enjoyed no matter what the topic really because it was a break. Dean remembered movie night as the best, the feel of Sam leaning against him on the couch, the comforting weight, the steady breathing that meant that Dean was doing okay, Sammy was safe and Dean could slit his eyes and watch whatever senseless, brain-melting, melodramatic foray into the mind of the Sammy he was being subjected to this week. And of course, in addition to the relaxation came the popcorn, the candy, and after the movie was over the being able to indulge a vice of Dean's that he could never fess up to having.
Sam always fell asleep before the credits rolled on the second movie, and his little brother, already at twelve managing the sin of being nearly as large as Dean himself, his bitchy, broody baby brother would be curled up along the length of Dean's body and Dean could indulge himself of the sweet surety of sleep with the Sammy lump under his arm. Never had Dean found a more relaxing spot to rest then in contact with Sam.
Saturday nights became food night, and Sam would endeavor to pull out an old battered edition of the Betty Crocker cookbook, a stolen copy of Gourmet, a jotted recipe from PBS and try, usually failing to concoct a masterpiece. Dean would invariably sigh, fetch the ingredients his brother needed and order pizza so they wouldn't starve. Afterward, with Sam bulging from either the perfect Domino's solution, or from over indulging on Lemon Pepper Crusted Tilapia with Raspberry Sauce, Dean would overtake the kitchen washing dishes, righting the mess, and in the midst of his domesticity created the most scrumptious chocolate chip cookies, decadent frosted cupcakes, or sweetest cheesecakes that could be.
By Sunday Evening, when the two boys could be found scrambling to finish their homework for the next week, the sweets would be gone, the apartment straightened in lieu of Dad coming back, if he came back, when he came back and for the next four days Dean would be the impeccably cliché budding ladies man, and Sam would revert back to the indistinguishably droll pre-teen.
The Friday-Saturday traditions endured until the day Dean came home to find a scribbled note about taking a bus to Stanford came home to hear Dad explain that fight he'd had about Sam and college. The traditions were shattered in a moment of pain, betrayal, and confusion and Dean, though he would have been loathe to admit, had always seen Sam's leaving as a rejection, and Sam likewise had seen Dean's silent acceptance as the same.
Since That Night, the night when Dean learned a whole new level of pain, and a measure of the clarity in his eyes faded. Since Dean learned how to accept death, and Sam learned how to accept the fury of the hunt on an even more personal level then Jessica could ever touch, after nearly three years of nothing Dean stumbled into the motel room they'd shared his brain still rejecting anything approaching normalcy and had found Sam rigging an old VCR and a much more modern DVD player to the motel's TV. The stack of three movies, two video on DVD had awaited him like some plastic message from the gods reminding him of what it felt like to be alive and the dull ache in his chest had faded a little. The sting of Sam's betrayal, the loss of Dad, the death experiences all melted to the background just enough that Dean had glanced at the titles, flung one against the rickety table housing Sammy's laptop. "Titanic Sam?"
Unacceptable.
Sam's grin, the two remaining movies being horror, and didn't they have enough of that in their lives? But the stark movie depictions, even Silent Hill's disturbingly morbid beautiful moments, and Dracula's mundane vampiric representation lessened the effect of real monsters, real demons.
Sam felt the same against his side, smelled different, more like gun oil and beer, Dad's scent, less like sugary things, and the indescribable Sammy-scent that Dean had privately deemed hope. They could laugh at the movies like they were children and they squeezed them in between reanimated lovers, tormented vampires, between haunted hotels, chasing shape shifters, and pain.
When Sam disappeared a week had gone by with no movies, though Dean had taken three from a Wal-Mart, the plastic wrapped DVDs riding in the back of the Impala amidst the weapons, beside the tackle box of memories that not even the demon could taint.
Friday night movies, Sam against his side, the drone of the television calming them whether the escape occurred before they faced this town's particular evil or after. The former being only undistinguished by the latter by whether the Sam against him was tense with unspent energy or blessedly limp with exhaustion.
Slowly the Saturday night dinners returned, not in cooking explorations they hadn't the time, the drive, and the ability to return to such a practice but on the heels of the return to one tradition another gained new life. Alternating picking, they had learned early on that their tastes seldom matched, a restaurant, something to spice up greasy diners and drive-thus.
And so Saturday and Sam would dress to go out, in their ever growing and consolidating wardrobe. The restaurants, always fancy, sometimes chic, sometimes exploratory but always with a dessert menu as large as the entrée one, and Dean would sit across from him rolling foreign tastes on his tongue and making eyes at whichever waitress would give him any notice.
Saturday's left them tasting sugar for a week. Friday's left them feeling content. A measure of innocence within a quickly declining situation and they clung to it with the fervor of the damned.