Foolish Things
May. 2nd, 2013 06:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dime_lioraTitle: Foolish Things
Wordcount: 1,100
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Summary: A little drabble for Sam's 30th. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sammichgirl, who suggested it might be a good idea, and who is going this weekend to meet the boys.
Trust me, go here.
It’s not that he expected anything really. They haven’t spoken in a year, and Sam’s ok with that.
Really.
Except when Jess looks over at him and raises an eyebrow because Sam’s maybe, maybe, shut his phone a little too harshly at the lack of message he thinks it wouldn’t have killed Dean to drop him. Just a text or a voicemail. Just something.
She doesn’t ask and he doesn’t tell. They have a working system when it comes to anything that could be related to his family, and it’s been in place since that first awkward conversation. This thing between them has only been official for a month, and they’re still at the point where they avoid fights as best they can. Anything related to the other Winchesters is a sure fight.
It’s great here. Really, honestly, easily the best his life has ever been. Sam’s already made a name for himself in his department, and the professors pass the word that he’s charismatic, smart, responsible, and ultimately just a good kid. It gets him positive responses in classes, smiles in the halls, and a good job at the reception desk. He’s managed to save up enough to leave the dorms, and on top of his cheesy little apartment as of last week Sam is now the owner of a little ten year old Honda. By his standards that’s two homes he’s gained.
The first time Jess came in and looked over his shelves she had raised one well-shaped eyebrow and given him that smirk that was so familiar and foreign all at once. “Never pegged you for a collector Winchester. You struck me as too Zen.”
He hadn’t told her that his first two paychecks had been spent on things instead of food because this was the first time he was allowed to have them. Instead he’d made a weak joke as she stared at his horde of used movies, books, jazz albums, and the odd poster or two. Whatever was on his face, Jess never brought it up again.
There was a whole world of words they didn’t use. Family, past, brother, father, scars… The list went on and on.
Instead they talked about the present, about the future, and every now and then Jess would tell a leading anecdote about her own kin and Sam would nod and smile, sip his beer, and say nothing.
He imagined that their circle of friends thought he liked being a mystery. Brady had certainly accused him of it enough, but Sam didn’t really care what they thought as long as no one knew the truth. Anything could be dealt with if they didn’t know about the salt lines hidden under the floor rugs, or the way Sam scanned the papers and occasionally national databases to make sure two drifters hadn’t been picked up or put down.
So maybe expecting something was selfish, or foolish, but maybe he had. Maybe Sam had thought of that last night, lips pressed awkwardly to lips that used to be so familiar and hands roaming over flesh never hidden or foreign. Maybe he’d thought it had meant something when Dean had whispered always in his ear, or maybe he’d given it context it had no right to have.
Maybe
Whatever it was Sam spent the day trying to actively ignore the gnawing in his gut or the aching in his chest. Jess baked a cake, they went to a restaurant with friends, and then a bar. It was all so perfect and wonderful that Sam would never question how much he preferred it to a candle stuck in a Hostess cupcake and Dean’s ham-handed jokes about his hair or birthday spankings.
And if he spent the time thinking that diner food was better than fine dining, or that there was a laugh that made his hands clench, or how the dude at the pool table could have been taken with a little sandbagging and Dean’s favorite Sneaky Pete? It didn’t mean anything. The homey quality of the neon, the way his thoughts drifted, or how he turned when Boston came on to see who picked it were all inconsequential and meaningless.
He preferred it so much he didn’t even bother to check the mail, and when Jess did it he smiled and nodded like he’d simply forgotten, accepted the stack of fliers and bills, and dropped them on the countertop. It was no big deal.
Jess wandered over to the record player, fingers trailing along the spines of the cases sitting in alphabetical order on the shelf, and that grin was weak but there. If he squinted his eyes, if her hair was shorter, if he was thinking about it at all.
Just as Sam returned to the living room with two beers Jess dropped the needle on the vinyl and the door shuddered under a fist. Maybe Sam moved too fast, maybe he jerked too much, but whatever it was as Nat King Cole began to sing he threw the door open and ignored the shock on Jess’s face.
But it was just a guy, rumpled and unsure, with a box in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
These foolish things remind me of you.
Sam took the package, signed the clipboard, and ignored the guy’s story of being held up by some kind of engine failure. Jess raised that eyebrow again, look unsure and totally foreign, and Sam slid fully into the present for the sum total of the time it took to open the package. Then his breath was gone, and his hands trembled as he held the little present in his fingers.
“What-why would they send you that? Don’t they know you’re an adult?” Jess’s voice is less accusatory than confused, and Sam doesn’t blame her. It doesn’t make sense. Not to her anyway. Neither does the note, Just a placeholder. Always.
But it makes sense to Sam. Makes sense that Dean knows about the Honda, knows about the pretty, cocky blonde, and knows about the ache. Knew all of it when he packed the little green army man, circa 1983 no doubt, into the box and sent it off. All Dean didn’t know was that the delivery guy would fuck up and leave him in Limbo all day long.
How strange, how sweet, to find you still, these things are dear to me, they seem to bring you near to me.
Sam sleeps with a smile, and the next day he takes the army man out to the car and sets the reminder just where it belongs.
Wordcount: 1,100
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Summary: A little drabble for Sam's 30th. Thanks to
sammichgirl, who suggested it might be a good idea, and who is going this weekend to meet the boys.Trust me, go here.
It’s not that he expected anything really. They haven’t spoken in a year, and Sam’s ok with that.
Really.
Except when Jess looks over at him and raises an eyebrow because Sam’s maybe, maybe, shut his phone a little too harshly at the lack of message he thinks it wouldn’t have killed Dean to drop him. Just a text or a voicemail. Just something.
She doesn’t ask and he doesn’t tell. They have a working system when it comes to anything that could be related to his family, and it’s been in place since that first awkward conversation. This thing between them has only been official for a month, and they’re still at the point where they avoid fights as best they can. Anything related to the other Winchesters is a sure fight.
It’s great here. Really, honestly, easily the best his life has ever been. Sam’s already made a name for himself in his department, and the professors pass the word that he’s charismatic, smart, responsible, and ultimately just a good kid. It gets him positive responses in classes, smiles in the halls, and a good job at the reception desk. He’s managed to save up enough to leave the dorms, and on top of his cheesy little apartment as of last week Sam is now the owner of a little ten year old Honda. By his standards that’s two homes he’s gained.
The first time Jess came in and looked over his shelves she had raised one well-shaped eyebrow and given him that smirk that was so familiar and foreign all at once. “Never pegged you for a collector Winchester. You struck me as too Zen.”
He hadn’t told her that his first two paychecks had been spent on things instead of food because this was the first time he was allowed to have them. Instead he’d made a weak joke as she stared at his horde of used movies, books, jazz albums, and the odd poster or two. Whatever was on his face, Jess never brought it up again.
There was a whole world of words they didn’t use. Family, past, brother, father, scars… The list went on and on.
Instead they talked about the present, about the future, and every now and then Jess would tell a leading anecdote about her own kin and Sam would nod and smile, sip his beer, and say nothing.
He imagined that their circle of friends thought he liked being a mystery. Brady had certainly accused him of it enough, but Sam didn’t really care what they thought as long as no one knew the truth. Anything could be dealt with if they didn’t know about the salt lines hidden under the floor rugs, or the way Sam scanned the papers and occasionally national databases to make sure two drifters hadn’t been picked up or put down.
So maybe expecting something was selfish, or foolish, but maybe he had. Maybe Sam had thought of that last night, lips pressed awkwardly to lips that used to be so familiar and hands roaming over flesh never hidden or foreign. Maybe he’d thought it had meant something when Dean had whispered always in his ear, or maybe he’d given it context it had no right to have.
Maybe
Whatever it was Sam spent the day trying to actively ignore the gnawing in his gut or the aching in his chest. Jess baked a cake, they went to a restaurant with friends, and then a bar. It was all so perfect and wonderful that Sam would never question how much he preferred it to a candle stuck in a Hostess cupcake and Dean’s ham-handed jokes about his hair or birthday spankings.
And if he spent the time thinking that diner food was better than fine dining, or that there was a laugh that made his hands clench, or how the dude at the pool table could have been taken with a little sandbagging and Dean’s favorite Sneaky Pete? It didn’t mean anything. The homey quality of the neon, the way his thoughts drifted, or how he turned when Boston came on to see who picked it were all inconsequential and meaningless.
He preferred it so much he didn’t even bother to check the mail, and when Jess did it he smiled and nodded like he’d simply forgotten, accepted the stack of fliers and bills, and dropped them on the countertop. It was no big deal.
Jess wandered over to the record player, fingers trailing along the spines of the cases sitting in alphabetical order on the shelf, and that grin was weak but there. If he squinted his eyes, if her hair was shorter, if he was thinking about it at all.
Just as Sam returned to the living room with two beers Jess dropped the needle on the vinyl and the door shuddered under a fist. Maybe Sam moved too fast, maybe he jerked too much, but whatever it was as Nat King Cole began to sing he threw the door open and ignored the shock on Jess’s face.
But it was just a guy, rumpled and unsure, with a box in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
These foolish things remind me of you.
Sam took the package, signed the clipboard, and ignored the guy’s story of being held up by some kind of engine failure. Jess raised that eyebrow again, look unsure and totally foreign, and Sam slid fully into the present for the sum total of the time it took to open the package. Then his breath was gone, and his hands trembled as he held the little present in his fingers.
“What-why would they send you that? Don’t they know you’re an adult?” Jess’s voice is less accusatory than confused, and Sam doesn’t blame her. It doesn’t make sense. Not to her anyway. Neither does the note, Just a placeholder. Always.
But it makes sense to Sam. Makes sense that Dean knows about the Honda, knows about the pretty, cocky blonde, and knows about the ache. Knew all of it when he packed the little green army man, circa 1983 no doubt, into the box and sent it off. All Dean didn’t know was that the delivery guy would fuck up and leave him in Limbo all day long.
How strange, how sweet, to find you still, these things are dear to me, they seem to bring you near to me.
Sam sleeps with a smile, and the next day he takes the army man out to the car and sets the reminder just where it belongs.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-05-03 12:18 am (UTC)Ah, and the thought it could have been Dean at the door, oh my heart.
I love that the green army man was circa 1983. <3
no subject
Date: 2013-05-03 12:20 am (UTC)I will take payment in the form of a complete description of Jensen and Jared's smells. For artistic integrity you understand.
no subject
Date: 2013-05-03 07:26 am (UTC)it also makes me really glad you picked me :)
no subject
Date: 2013-05-03 12:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-03 04:41 pm (UTC)have to read the other fic when I have a quiet minute on the weekend!
no subject
Date: 2013-05-03 04:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-04 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-04 04:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-04 08:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-03 09:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-03 10:18 pm (UTC)