Author's Note:
This is another of my Almost Binned documents: it's a little scene I was going to use in a story, but it wouldn't fit anywhere. Posting it just so it's gone from my pile of unused stuff.
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99 Bottles: Excaliburs In The Wrong Time And Place
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He stretched his back and yawned, leaning into the chair and folding his arms.
"This ain't funny, y'know," he accused grumpily. "This is not how I want to spend my evening."
"It's all my fault."
"I know it's your fault, Sam," he snapped testily.
"Sorry."
"Stop saying that."
"Sorry."
"Again with the 'stop saying that', Sammy."
"Ok."
Silence.
"You can go. If you want."
"Oh, I do want, Sam." But I can't. "Shut up and sleep."
"I can't."
"Yeah. You can."
"No, I can't."
Silence.
"Why can't you sleep? Huh? What, the bed not warm enough?"
"It's plenty warm."
"It's too noisy?"
"Too quiet."
"You're a royal pain in the ass," Dean sighed.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't."
"What?"
"Don't say you're sorry."
"Why?"
"Cos - cos you don't have to be sorry."
"But it's my fault."
"Yeah, but-. Look, just sleep."
"I told you, I can't-"
"Why?"
"What?"
"It's not a hard question, Sammy. Why can't you sleep?" he snapped.
"Cos… I don't wanna."
"Jeez… What are you, three? Look, it's real easy - you shut your eyes and pretend you can see good stuff. Wait long enough and you're asleep already."
"Is that what you do?"
"Whut?"
"Close your eyes and pretend to see good stuff?"
"Yeah. Go to sleep."
"I don't wanna."
"Sam, if you don't shut your piehole and those eyes right now, I swear to--"
"Dean!" came a loud shout. Sam looked up, Dean looked round his chair. Both boys looked over at the door, slightly ajar. "Don't you talk to your brother like that!"
Dean sighed and turned back to look at the hammock his younger brother was in. Sam's bright eyes, so shiny and innocent, peeped through the large squares. He blinked at the door, then moved to look at his big brother.
"Close the door," he whispered.
"Whut? Why?" Dean grumped.
"Close the door. I'll tell."
"Tell whut?"
"Why I don't wanna sleep."
"Fine. If it makes you tired," Dean groused. He got up from his chair and went to the door, peeking through before he pushed it shut. He turned the handle and closed it with absolute silence. He tiptoed back to his armchair, throwing himself down in complete disregard for the noise it might cause in a perverse call for attention.
"Don't laugh at me," Sam urged, embarrassed.
Dean folded his arms and looked at his five year old brother. He pouted, the way his lips sticking out in tandem showing only too well his disapproval and indignation.
"Well?" he intoned.
"I just… I had this scary dream," Sam admitted, his shining eyes drooping at the sides.
Dean sighed and let his head fall back to the comfy chair. "And?" he asked, studying the ceiling.
"And you, me and Dad got split up. I didn't like it," he admitted.
"So? What do you want me to do about it?" he asked, still looking at the ceiling. There was no answer and he waited. Eventually he let his head drop and found Sam had curled into a small ball. "Hey," he called softly, hearing the tiny sounds of discomfort. "Sammy, come on," he breathed. "We ain't never getting split up, you know that."
"But what if we do?" Sam managed, the sound of tears evident.
Dean chewed on the side of his lip thoughtfully. "Then… then me and Dad'll come get you. Wherever you are," he said confidently.
"Really?"
"Really. You think I'm lyin'?"
"What if you can't? What if summin happens to you or Dad? What if I'm left all by myself?"
"Ain't gonna happen."
"But… but what if it does?"
"Sammy, don't be an idiot. You think me or Dad's gonna just let you get lost? You think we'd forget to come look for you? I notice the second you're not here."
"Really?" he sniffed, his eyes shining out through the large square in the hammock again.
"Sure. Cos when you're not here, I get your cookies," Dean teased. But he smiled, and Sam blinked teary eyes.
"I don't like it when I have bad dreams," he admitted carefully.
"Me either."
"You either?"
"Uh-uh," Dean said, shaking his head.
"Why?"
Dean sighed the great huff of The Unjust and laid his hands on the armrests. "Cos then I have to do this," he sighed, affecting great sadness.
Sam grinned and curled into his ball again, as Dean shifted to sit nearer the edge of the armchair. He positioned himself, lifting his feet up in grey socks several sizes too big for him. Sam closed his eyes and snuggled down in the duvet, taking a deep breath and letting it out happily.
Dean's stockinged toes hooked through two squares in the hammock, and his feet pushed slightly.
"Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer," he sang softly, the hammock swinging away and back towards him slowly. He let it fall, then pushed again. "You take one down and pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall."
John took his eyes off his writing for just a moment, tilting his head. He heard a soft tune from somewhere and sat up straight, looking toward the bedroom door. He looked back down at his journal, closing it slowly. He got up and crept over to the wooden door, surprised it had shut without him noticing.
He put his hand on the doorknob and turned silently, opening the door a crack. He poked his head round the door.
He saw the back of the armchair, two little hands on the armrests either side. The hammock, full of a big bundle of duvet and unruly light brown hair, was swinging slowly, propelled by two grey socks that stuck up from the armchair like a matching pair of Excaliburs trapped in the wrong time and place.
"Eighty-two bottles of beer on the wall," came a voice, and John couldn't help grinning, "eighty-two bottles of beer. You take one down and pass it around, eighty-one bottles of beer on the wall…"
He stepped back and closed the door carefully, confident his youngest was in good hands.
"Or socks," he amended, turning back to his large chair by the fire, and his journal. He sat and picked up his pen, shaking his head.
'September 18th, 1988,' he wrote fluidly. 'I think Sam's having nightmares but he never tells me. Will have to ask Dean tomorrow. Sam would tell him if he was. Just hope Dean doesn't try to lie to me like he did about Sam's insomnia. Guess I taught him the wrong meaning of 'loyalty' somewhere along the way.'
His hand stalled and he sat back, looking at all he'd written.
"Oh Mary," he sighed to himself. Here I am, writing this down as if it means something to someone. Who cares? Without you here it really doesn't matter. Nothing matters. All I do is move around, lie to our boys and watch 'em grow up not knowing who you are.
He closed his eyes, rubbing them tiredly. He opened them again and found himself staring at the date on the page.
It's been so hard. It's been five years. Where will we all be in another five? Or ten? Or twenty?
He looked up at the ceiling, then back at the page.
And I'll never stop seeing you on the ceiling like that. There's nothing that can make it alright, nothing that can convince me there's anything good left in the world.
He reached out and picked up his glass, taking a long sip of the whisky within. As he studied the swishing liquid he realised he could still hear the quiet singing from the next room.
He got up resolutely, went to the bedroom door, and opened it a crack. The voice tumbled out across the front room, and John went back to his chair. He closed his journal and sat back, pulling his small blanket over his knees.
Looks like I was wrong.
He let his head rest back and simply listened, a small smile daring to pull at one side of his mouth. Slowly but surely he began to relax into the chair, the young voice lulling him into a warm place of comfort.
"Seventy-eight bottles of beer on the wall, seventy-eight bottles of beer. You take one down and pass it around, seventy-seven bottles of beer on the wall…"
Dean crept out of the room, careful not to wake his younger brother. He heard a slight snoring sound and rounded the big chair, finding his father similarly out for the count. He looked around the room, finding a two-man sofa and a bundle of blankets. He looked at his father, wanting nothing more than to climb up on his lap and get warm.
He looked back at the blankets, and something made him walk over to the sofa instead. He looked at his hands slowly.
"Too big for him, too small for me," he whispered to himself. He picked up the top blanket and shook it out, sliding onto the sofa and curling up. He sat up, picked up the second blanket, and carried it over to his father. He laid it over him gently, then went back to his sofa.
He climbed on, snuggled down, and watched his father sleep. He lifted his head and looked at the door behind which Sam was sleeping. Then he settled down again. He sighed to himself.
"'Night Sam. 'Night Dad," he muttered.
John shifted slightly but he was well away. Dean's large eyes blinked at him before he pulled his own blanket up round him more tightly.
"Well then Voice. Looks like just you and me again, eh?" he whispered to himself. He closed his eyes. "Seventy-six bottles of beer on the wall, seventy-six bottles of beer…"
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FIN
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