Supernatural fic: A Box of Pictures (PG, gen)

[krisomniac]

Title: A box of pictures
Author: krisomniac
Rating, warnings, pairing: G, none, gen
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit or copyright infringement intended.
A/N, Summary: Coda to Home. Sam wants to know things. Dean doesn't want to talk.

Spoilers for extra scene #19 from Home. Many thanks to ignipes fo rthe speedy beta. ~900 words

A Box of Pictures

They pull into a motel outside of Wichita a little after noon. Sam stays in the car, battered and bone-weary, while Dean checks in at the desk. He comes back a moment later.

"Room five," he says and heads inside, tosses their stuff on the floor of the motel room. It smells clean and impersonal, rootless and comfortable. Like home.

Sam's eyelids are heavy and his throat is throbbing with every breath, but he hardly notices. He collapses onto the bed and is asleep before Dean even shuts the door.

~

Sam splashes cold water on his face, shivering when it runs down his neck and bare chest. He slept four or five hours, but for the first time in a week, he didn't see the house once in his dreams. The bruises around his neck are dark and painful. He shaves carefully over them, trying not to think about the town that should have felt familiar, the nursery he doesn't remember, or the poltergeist that took her.

"Honey, I'm home!" Dean says, closing the door, "Where d'you want this?" He tosses the bottle of Advil on the bed, himself down after it.

Sam pours himself a cup of water and leaves the bathroom, tucking one tiny towel around his hips and using the other to dry his hair. "Here." He takes the medicine and pops two, chasing them with the water. "What took you so long?"

Dean shrugs. "You shower like a girl; figured I had time. Besides, the chick working at the drugstore was kinda hot."

Five months ago, Sam would've believed him. But today he had seen Dean through the window, standing at the Impala's open trunk, staring at something in his hands.

"Well," he says. "Thanks anyway." He points to the Advil. He means for going to Lawrence, for saving his life.

"Anytime," Dean says lightly, and Sam's pretty sure he means it.

Sam digs in his bag for a clean T-shirt and tries to find the words to ask the questions that have been circling the back of his mind for the past two days. Finally he swallows and blurts, "You go through those old photos yet?"

Sprawled out on the bed, Dean freezes. It's just a moment, a shift in attitude, but Sam understands. It's still too early to talk about it. Soon, it'll be too late.

"Nah," Dean says warily. "Why?"

"No reason." Sam clenches his jaw. The things he can't ask Dean about would fill a bucket with a hole in the bottom, and this last week has only reminded him how much he doesn't know.

~

He takes the box out that night while Dean is sleeping. The forty-watt bulb glows weakly, a small pool of light in the corner of the room. The lid is warped from fire and years of basement damp. He opens it carefully, expecting-- he isn't entirely sure what. He can't shake the memories of the house, the garage, Mike's voice and the pity in his eyes when he talked about Dad and Dean… and him.

Tell you the truth, it got so bad I called Social Services on him.

The photos are old Kodachromes, colors fading and yellowed around the edges. Sam turns them over, one after another. He touches the smiling faces on the front and the carefully written labels on the back. His mom and dad were happy then. Sam doesn't recognize them at all.

I just hope he got himself well.

Under a stack of pictures of his parents on a college campus, on a farm, in a bar, on a beach, there are pictures of Dean as a baby, as a young kid. Sam smiles, pausing on another one. His mom is holding a baby--him, and Dean is on Dad's shoulders. They're all red cheeked and sun-tanned. There's a giraffe in the background, looking over Mom's shoulder.

"That was the zoo in Salina." Dean's voice is low and husky, almost smiling.

"How long have you been awake?" Sam asks without turning around.

"Long enough."

"Looks like fun."

Dean yawns. "I guess it does."

~

"You ready to move on?" Dean asks. "There's some crop circles in Wisconsin that look promising." He laughs and shakes his head. "I still can't believe people blame those things on aliens."

"Right," Sam says, stuffing his clothes into his bag. "Because stampeding leprechauns is a much more plausible theory."

"Hey, I call 'em like I see 'em."

"And I'll believe it when I see them."

"Which means we're going?"

"Yeah. I guess so."

"You're all recovered from the killer lamp cord?"

"Yeah." Sam rubs his neck gingerly. "Hey, Dean." He exhales quickly; it's now or never. "About what Mike said."

Dean pauses, folds his newspaper slowly. "What about it?"

Sam thinks carefully about what he wants to know.

Sold his half of the garage and bought guns. Said his family was in danger. Anyway, it didn't matter. That's when he took off with the boys. Just vanished.

He wants to know what Dean remembers--if Dean remembers living with Mike, skipping town, learning to shoot a gun. He wants to know what would've happened if they'd stayed in Lawrence, rebuilt the house, gone to a normal school, lived a normal life.

Dean is staring at him, his expression unreadable. Maybe he wasn't sick. Maybe you should've stuck by your friend.

And for just a moment, Sam decides that maybe the what-ifs aren't so important after all. He smiles and drops the bottle of Advil into his bag. "Never mind."

Dean shrugs and hefts his bag out to the car.

Comments

[krisomniac.livejournal.com]

Hehe. The best thing about them is that they never talk about anything. Seriously, every time I expect a cheesy monologue, the writers pull through. :D

And yeah. That scene just-- Guh. Right where it hurts. Sometimes I think John is the world's biggest ass (like, as Kali pointed out last night, when Dean is SO sure he's gonna meet them at the next coordinates) and sometimes? I really feel for the guy.