Traditions
November 2nd 2000
Sam stood in the doorway watching his brother and father. Dean was stood next to the table with a bottle of vodka in his hand. Sam watched as John nodded at his eldest and Dean let six shot glasses spill out of his grip onto the table top before he slid into the chair opposite his already seated father. John reached out and grabbed the bottle as Dean organised the glasses between them. John cracked the seal. Sam watched as John poured out six shots and put the bottle, uncapped, back on the work top between them. They both seemed to be waiting for the other to do something until finally Dean reached for and picked one up. He lifted it as John mirrored his movements.
"-To mum."
"-To Mary."
Sam watched as the rims clinked together, separated, half of their contents were flicked to the floor and the rest poured down respective throats. Dean winced and John let out an audible gasp. Sam counted five seconds of silence. Four scrape-bangs as the remaining alcohol was consumed. Sam watched, half horrified, half fascinated as John realigned and refilled the next round. It was going to be a long night.
November 2nd 2001
This year Sam held the vodka in his hands. It was a kind of rite of passage, this would be the first time he'd sit and drink with his father and brother. He didn't know why he didn't have to wait until he was twenty one like his elder brother had, why eighteen was acceptable he had no idea. The collection of shot glasses had grown to include enough for him. Dean was watching Sam carefully as he arranged them on the table. Sam watched as his brother and father communicated silently.
"Alright." John muttered and Dean sat down.
"You gonna sit, kid?" Sam blinked, he'd been miles away, and he nodded sitting accordingly.
John cracked and poured out the drink. Dean raised his glass first.
"Lives cut short too soon." Sam watched his father swallow almost convulsively before he reflected the toast back.
"Always too soon."
The vodka burnt a track down his throat and brought tears to his eyes, it took him a few seconds to recover but nothing so trivial as minor discomfort would stop him honouring their dead. He took the time to wallow in abject grief. And so went the tradition for another year.
November 2nd 2006
This would be the first time Dean drank without his father sat opposite him. He had already laid out the glasses and bottle.
"You ok?" Sam asked hesitantly and, honestly, not expecting an answer.
"I'm fine." They didn't call Sam geek-boy for nothing- he knew things.
Dean yanked out a chair and flung himself into it, Sam took that as his cue to sit even if he was slightly less aggressive in his execution of the action. He sat and stared at the bottle, painfully aware of the significance of Dean's lack of action.
"Dea-"
"Just, give me a minute." Sam nodded mutely.
"Take your time." Dean nodded back and swallowed convulsively. He looked torn for a second and then slumped.
"You do it."
"You're head of the family." The answer came automatically to Sam's lips just as the replying derisive snort came from Dean.
"What is this, the Godfather? Just open the goddammned bottle, Sam."
"No." Dean really looked at him and Sam had to struggle not to look away. Dean relented, some things were sacred and in their family this topped the list.
"Alright." Dean's hand was shaking and he had to scrub his palm on his jeans before he could get the bottle open. The crack echoed between them. Sam watched as the liquid poured out. He looked up to find his brother's eyes turned glassy. Dean blinked back tears and reached for the first shot. He lifted it thinking of his father, father's best friend, the pastor, his own as good as older brother, his kid bother's girlfriend and everyone they hadn't saved.
"The dead." Nothing else, no platitudes, nothing to do it justice.
"The dead." Dean watched as his hand moved almost of its own accord and the glass half emptied before the rest hit his throat.
Dean wasn't the religious type, he didn't believe in God or angels or heaven but he believed in this- in tradition, honour and honouring the dead if only because he would sleep easier with half a bottle of alcohol inside of him. He watched as Sam poured the next sets and smiled sadly knowing that one day there would be need for only three shot glasses, or maybe none at all.
All usual disclaimers apply- I'm not Kripke/Gamble et al, nor am I WB/CW whoever else; please don't sue, thankyou.
Reviews appreciated if only to let me know you've dropped by this way, thanks to all who've taken the time to read.
Regards,
Tutups x