John Winchester And The Great Necklace Loophole
Author: A. Jinnie
Rated: PG-13 (minor language)
Pairings? None
Genre: Angst/Humor (Part 1), Humor/Angst (Part II)
Note: Not related at all to Counterplay plotwise, just a bit of two-part fluff(ish) to celebrate that story's 100 reviews (!) FF. My readers rock!
Summary: The Winchesters didn't do birthdays.
Dedicated to my sometimes-beta-r, always-cheerleader, and general pain-in-my-ass-Dean-style kikiduck. Love you, Carrie!
The Winchesters didn't do birthdays.
Those are a distraction, Sam was warned, the first time he came home from school with tales of class cupcake feasts and presents in shiny bows.
They cause you to lower your guard, leave you vulnerable and invite betrayal by letting others in, Dean was trained. Daddy's lowered guard was why Mommy died. No more birthdays, son.
Year after year, classmate birthday after classmate birthday, Sammy would struggle to understand. What Dad said was always true. But if birthdays were evil, why did so many smart teachers at school acknowledge them? His failure to rationalize led to protests, which led to fights, which led to Sam lying to teachers about why he'd stayed home the day before… and accidentally missed the monthly celebration cake.
Dean never once complained.
John wasn't a heartless father. When that day happened to fall, his boy was permitted to dictate what lessons he wanted to focus on. Dean invariably chose bow-hunting, Sam was content to spend hours buried in books, later reciting hours-worth of memorized research. Should they conclude to his satisfaction, he'd treat his boys to a restaurant with tablecloths and glass dishes.
And then the day would end, and they'd wake up to a more complicated hunt or lecture to make up for time lost.
But on only one birthday, Dean's tenth, after a particularly vicious hunting which left both sons in the hospital and John forcibly charming suspicious social workers, that changed.
"I will never understand your fascination with those," Dean muttered, the words slurred with exhausted disgust.
Sam turned away from the riveting acne cream testimonials at his brother's almost incoherent babbling, not hiding his satisfaction at the sound of Dean's voice. The older Winchester had thrown an arm dramatically over his head, as though warding off evil spirits.
"I mean," Dean continued, still half-asleep, skipping over syllables and sounding as though a demon was sharing his larynx, "it's a glorified commercial. What's the appeal?"
Sam ignored his bluster. For a moment, he let his eyes take inventory, noting the mostly-white gauze over Dean's temples, which failed to hide the hasty haircut Sam had been forced to administer when the gashes turned out to be deeper than expected. He was not looking forward to the day his healed big brother was lucid enough to find a mirror.
Dean winced when he breathed, still sore where he'd been clawed, deeply, across his heart. Unconsciously, Sam timed his own exhales to coordinate. His brother had a wide array of other injuries, but those were the main reasons for Sam's sleepless vigil.
"Take a picture instead, Sammy," Dean growled, not enjoying Sam looking straight through him. "I'm going to shoot whoever filled your head with this every-two-hours crap tomorrow morning. Afternoon. Whatever. But for now, go to sleep. Please."
His last word trailed off into a muffled half-groan half-snore, so utterly Dean Sam couldn't help but grin. The bed rustled before the host proudly announced Proactive's sale price, and when he looked again, his brother had rolled carefully onto his stomach, wrapped a pillow around his ears, and drifted off again without waiting for a response.
He checked the time, knowing wearily they'd repeat that at least twice more before Dean was out of the woods. Thankfully, cranking the volume was far more effective than trying to shake him awake. The one and only time he'd tried that, Dean tossed him across the room before bothering to open his eyes - and then had the gall to complain when he'd crashed into the wall and sent ceiling dust raining down on the beds.
Sam grabbed another swig of coffee, examining his own battle souvenirs. They'd drawn the blinds as tightly as they could, but with the thin, white drapes and the television… well, once upon a time, he'd studied in less light. The scene ran through his head with an intensity nightmares could never match. A heartbeat before the attack, Dean appeared and tackled Sam to the ground, diving between predator and prey, accepting the brunt of the attack and never once screaming; a papercut would've bled more than Sam's few, token scratches.
Somewhere in the chaos, he'd then killed the evil sonuvabitch.
Job done, Dean had collapsed against a rising Sam in a sudden spurt of red that sent both brothers slamming back down. Acting solely on autopilot, the youngest Winchester even managed to retrieve the ruins of Dean's necklace in record speed, before he grabbed his brother like he'd weighed nothing and somehow navigated their return to the car and the hotel room 10 miles away. Where they both had stumbled through the door, exhausted.
Dean moaned a little in his sleep, interrupting the horrors repeating through Sam's mind and allowing the pillow to fall away from a face which seemed years younger without the constant wariness he wore like a second skin. Sam half-lay, half-sat against the bedframe, one eye on his brother, waiting until he settled back down again before allowing his hyper-alertness to fade.
But as he relaxed he couldn't help but notice the pieces of black cord and stone charm near Dean's head. After all, sons never forgot evidence their father loved their brother more.
To be concluded in Part II. And no, John is not evil. Promise.
As an added thank-you, any interested signed reviewers will be sent a preview of Counterplay's upcoming chapter, which will be posted by Sunday. :) Thanks again, everyone!