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remixredux08Title: Heave Away, Boy (The Every Shade Remix)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
essenceofmeanin
Summary: Trouble shows up a lot on Winchester doorsteps. It just usually doesn't shine its shoes.
Rating: Gen, no pairings.
Fandom: Supernatural
Original Story: A Different Shade of Normal byazewewish
Author's Note: This was so much fun to do. Thanks for letting me play in your sandbow,azewewish! Beta'd by girlguidejones and hansbekhart.
Dean blinks awake in a suffocating room, sunlight splayed green and gold across the sweating wood ceiling. The cicadas are droning endlessly outside but other than that it’s weirdly quiet for a summer morning. No work on Sunday, no school – Dean hasn’t even been on a job with Dad in a month. It’s sweltering in their room, their attic, he thinks, and he can smell coffee on the make downstairs under the reek of Sammy’s feet.
Sam’s gangling over the sides of his bed. Dean smacks the bottom of his brother’s foot, wake up, but Sam just makes an irritated noise into his pillow. Dean picks the sleep out of his eye, flicks it at his brother.
Dean slips down the creaky wooden stairs, trying to be as sneaky as possible. Hasn’t been on a hunt in a month, and Dean blames all the bulk he’s gained the last few months – he’s a hell of a lot stronger now that he’s not a rangy high school kid anymore, but its cost them in covert ops. Safer not to take the chance until Dean isn’t as noisy as Sam anymore, he guesses.
It’s boiling in the kitchen, sunshine pouring in the open windows instead of a breeze. Dad’s making eggs in the hole, a growing pile of cracked eggs sitting next to the left-over holes. Bad Company’s on the radio playing low. He says, “Mornin’ Dean,” without bothering to turn around. He’s grimy in a wifebeater, a t-shirt slung over his shoulder and washcloth shoved into his back pocket. Dad swats Dean away when Dean tries to intercept the cooking, grumbling “Down boy, I think I got it.” Dean takes his cup of coffee to the table to watch instead, scratching a mosquito bite and wishing it wasn’t so damn humid in the Carolinas. Coffee’s hot as hell and isn’t even steaming.
Sam comes down the stairs like he fell the whole way. Dad just raises an eyebrow at Dean at the ruckus, and Dean grins back at him over his coffee mug. Sam heads straight for the fridge – and it’s a good thing everybody else in this family has jobs in this worthless town ‘cause the kid drinks damn near a gallon of milk a day. Dean tries not to make a face when Sam pours coffee in his milk and dumps a bunch of sugar in. Kid’ll learn the finer points of life some day.
They all startle at the knock on the door. It’s not violent enough to be a cop knock, too official sounding to be one of Sam’s friends. Dad’s got a funny look on his face when he nods to Dean to go check it out.
There’s a Marine on the porch in dress blues. He’s hardly older than Dean himself, but he’s standing straight and tall and out of place anyway. Dean feels suddenly conscious of his ratty Zeppelin shirt and Goodwill boxers; looking at all those sharp creases and polished buttons, he wishes he’d put on some pants, at least. The Marine smiles at him.
Dad’s at his back all of a sudden, reaching a hand out past Dean for the guy to shake. The other he sits on Dean’s shoulder. “Private First Class,” he says by way of hi, eyeballing the rank insignia.
“Corporal Winchester,” the Private says, “I apologize for the early call.” Dean stiffens automatically into attention when the guy turns those pearly whites his way. “And you must be Dean, right? Can I come in?”
The Marine takes off his hat once he’s inside, folding it under his arm. Dad flicks the towel at Dean when he moves toward the stove again; thinking to take over the cooking until whatever business that needs to be done is dealt with. Dad turns his back on the lot of them to flip the bread. Dean offers the Marine a cup of coffee, feeling awkward. Sammy kicks the leg of the table a few times. Everybody looks around the room a bunch.
Dad slides plates in front of them piled high with food, an order in his voice when he tells them to eat their damn breakfast before it gets cold. There’s beads of sweat making tracks down the back of Dean’s neck; he can’t imagine anything here getting cold. Dad wipes his hands slow on the towel, looks the Marine up and down before motioning him to sit.
“So how can we help you?”
The smile’s back on the Private’s face like Dad had wound him up, or set him back on the tracks. It makes him look young, like Dean might have known him if he’d bothered to finish high school here. “Well, I’d like to first congratulate Dean here on breaking the state record at the Junior Air Rifle State Championship last week. He’s a hell of a shot.”
Dad raises his eyebrows. He’s starting to look like he wants to punch this kid even though all he’s done so far is make breakfast uncomfortable. Dean can hear the so what trailing after the gruff yeah he gives the guy. There’s a moment of awkward silence, like everyone’s lost their place in the script. Sam chews his eggs, his brow furrowed. Dean jumps when the conversation’s suddenly focused on him again.
“So who taught you how to shoot like that, Dean?”
Dean wants to say I know my own name, thanks, but he just rolls his shoulder in a shrug, ducking the eye contact. “My dad,” he says.
“He’s a great teacher.”
It itches that the Marine won’t look away from him; Dean meets the guy’s gaze full on, puts on a smirk. “Yeah, well, we put the win in Winchester.” There’s a smile in his Dad’s eyes when he sneaks a look, both of them pretty focused on the Marine. Dean spares a glance at Sam sitting ignored; he’s got the same expression on his face like when he’s watching a bad TV movie.
“Well, that’s exactly what I wanted to bring up,” the Marine says. He looks delighted that they’re finally playing along to whatever he wants. Dean splits the yolk on his egg, mops it up with a chunk of buttery fried bread. It’s one of the only things Dad knows how to cook, but it’s always good. “See, we’re familiar with your name and your record down at the center. When Dean here won State Championship we thought we’d come offer him the chance to be a hero, just like his daddy.”
Dean chokes on his food when the Private says, “How’d you like to be a U.S. Marine?”
Dean coughs his way through swallowing, and then there’s nothing but silence at the table. Sammy looks like he maybe wants to laugh, but one glance at his family puts an end to that real quick. Dad slides his coffee cup between his hands, back and forth. Finally he says, “I never taught my boys they needed a uniform to be a hero.” He’s not looking at Dean anymore, not even when Dean tries to catch his eye.
Dean can feel his face growing hot. Dad’s talked about the service sometimes when he’s had a few, or winding down after a good hunt. Dean knows numbers of kills, some names of the men that lived. The U.S. Marine Corps made Dad who he is, that and Vietnam and Mom’s murderer. They never talked about this, though.
His mouth is dry. Dean thinks about boot camp, about hundreds of strangers with something to prove. Sammy goes to school every day by himself. No one to patch Dad up after a bad hunt, no one to watch his back. Dad’s not helping at all, just staring at the Marine and twisting his ring around. Dean can’t read his face and it feels like his heart’s stuck in his throat along with any words Dean can think of. He takes a few deep breaths; it feels like days since anyone’s said anything.
Dean squares his shoulders, wonders if he’s about to be sent off to Be a Man.
Dad stands abruptly, his chair squeaking across cheap linoleum. The Private scrambles up a half beat after him. “He’s not interested.” Dean lets out a breath as quiet as he can. He wants to slump down in his chair but keeps his back straight in case either of them stops squinting at each other across the table and decides to take a gander at him.
“Corporal Winchester, I’ve seen your record. With all due respect -- ”
Dad raises his eyebrows. “Then you understand why I’m saying no. My son stays with his family.” They glare each other down for a minute but Dad wins the staring contest; the Marine drops his eyes to dig out a business card and slide it across the table at Dean. No one looks at him, though.
“He’ll be eighteen in two months time, sir, and then he can decide for himself.”
“Only my boys call me sir, Marine.”
The Marine beats a hasty retreat after that, the get the fuck outta my house look on Dad’s face enough for him to jam the hat back on his head and bang the door shut when he goes. The clatter of boots on the front porch feels like ice water across Dean’s forehead. Dad glances over, looking tired and pissed off.
“Dad?”
Dad turns away, and Dean can hear the hiss of butter on the still-hot pan as he starts another round of food. “I said to eat your damn breakfast, Dean.” Dean takes a gulp of coffee. He’s seen a lot of shit in his life but he feels like a kid, not like anyone’s idea of a hero. His eggs are gummy.
Sammy’s plate is already clean; he takes his book outside as soon as he’s excused. Kid likes to read Shakespeare sitting out in the grass; Dean doesn’t even know what to do about him sometimes. Dad sits down with his own plate, a glass of milk sweating fat beads of condensation, and a look on his face that Dean hasn’t ever seen before.
They clean their plates without talking, neither of them looking up at the same time. The morning gets hotter and hotter and hotter. Dean can’t stop thinking about concrete barracks, doing his morning run in formation instead of just with Sammy. He wants to take the kid down to the creek, see if there’s any water left in it. Maybe Dad’ll want to go with. Dean feels like he’s vibrating inside, like an earthquake came by and stayed. Diving into muddy water might wash off the feeling.
Dean jumps when Dad sets down his silverware, the weight of his eyes heavier than the heat. Dad doesn’t look mad. “Pack up your kit, you’re coming with me tonight.” Dean’s got no idea what to feel when Dad says, “The Marines don’t need you, Dean,” the we do gratefully left unsaid.
Author:
essenceofmeanin Summary: Trouble shows up a lot on Winchester doorsteps. It just usually doesn't shine its shoes.
Rating: Gen, no pairings.
Fandom: Supernatural
Original Story: A Different Shade of Normal by
azewewishAuthor's Note: This was so much fun to do. Thanks for letting me play in your sandbow,
azewewish! Beta'd by girlguidejones and hansbekhart.Dean blinks awake in a suffocating room, sunlight splayed green and gold across the sweating wood ceiling. The cicadas are droning endlessly outside but other than that it’s weirdly quiet for a summer morning. No work on Sunday, no school – Dean hasn’t even been on a job with Dad in a month. It’s sweltering in their room, their attic, he thinks, and he can smell coffee on the make downstairs under the reek of Sammy’s feet.
Sam’s gangling over the sides of his bed. Dean smacks the bottom of his brother’s foot, wake up, but Sam just makes an irritated noise into his pillow. Dean picks the sleep out of his eye, flicks it at his brother.
Dean slips down the creaky wooden stairs, trying to be as sneaky as possible. Hasn’t been on a hunt in a month, and Dean blames all the bulk he’s gained the last few months – he’s a hell of a lot stronger now that he’s not a rangy high school kid anymore, but its cost them in covert ops. Safer not to take the chance until Dean isn’t as noisy as Sam anymore, he guesses.
It’s boiling in the kitchen, sunshine pouring in the open windows instead of a breeze. Dad’s making eggs in the hole, a growing pile of cracked eggs sitting next to the left-over holes. Bad Company’s on the radio playing low. He says, “Mornin’ Dean,” without bothering to turn around. He’s grimy in a wifebeater, a t-shirt slung over his shoulder and washcloth shoved into his back pocket. Dad swats Dean away when Dean tries to intercept the cooking, grumbling “Down boy, I think I got it.” Dean takes his cup of coffee to the table to watch instead, scratching a mosquito bite and wishing it wasn’t so damn humid in the Carolinas. Coffee’s hot as hell and isn’t even steaming.
Sam comes down the stairs like he fell the whole way. Dad just raises an eyebrow at Dean at the ruckus, and Dean grins back at him over his coffee mug. Sam heads straight for the fridge – and it’s a good thing everybody else in this family has jobs in this worthless town ‘cause the kid drinks damn near a gallon of milk a day. Dean tries not to make a face when Sam pours coffee in his milk and dumps a bunch of sugar in. Kid’ll learn the finer points of life some day.
They all startle at the knock on the door. It’s not violent enough to be a cop knock, too official sounding to be one of Sam’s friends. Dad’s got a funny look on his face when he nods to Dean to go check it out.
There’s a Marine on the porch in dress blues. He’s hardly older than Dean himself, but he’s standing straight and tall and out of place anyway. Dean feels suddenly conscious of his ratty Zeppelin shirt and Goodwill boxers; looking at all those sharp creases and polished buttons, he wishes he’d put on some pants, at least. The Marine smiles at him.
Dad’s at his back all of a sudden, reaching a hand out past Dean for the guy to shake. The other he sits on Dean’s shoulder. “Private First Class,” he says by way of hi, eyeballing the rank insignia.
“Corporal Winchester,” the Private says, “I apologize for the early call.” Dean stiffens automatically into attention when the guy turns those pearly whites his way. “And you must be Dean, right? Can I come in?”
The Marine takes off his hat once he’s inside, folding it under his arm. Dad flicks the towel at Dean when he moves toward the stove again; thinking to take over the cooking until whatever business that needs to be done is dealt with. Dad turns his back on the lot of them to flip the bread. Dean offers the Marine a cup of coffee, feeling awkward. Sammy kicks the leg of the table a few times. Everybody looks around the room a bunch.
Dad slides plates in front of them piled high with food, an order in his voice when he tells them to eat their damn breakfast before it gets cold. There’s beads of sweat making tracks down the back of Dean’s neck; he can’t imagine anything here getting cold. Dad wipes his hands slow on the towel, looks the Marine up and down before motioning him to sit.
“So how can we help you?”
The smile’s back on the Private’s face like Dad had wound him up, or set him back on the tracks. It makes him look young, like Dean might have known him if he’d bothered to finish high school here. “Well, I’d like to first congratulate Dean here on breaking the state record at the Junior Air Rifle State Championship last week. He’s a hell of a shot.”
Dad raises his eyebrows. He’s starting to look like he wants to punch this kid even though all he’s done so far is make breakfast uncomfortable. Dean can hear the so what trailing after the gruff yeah he gives the guy. There’s a moment of awkward silence, like everyone’s lost their place in the script. Sam chews his eggs, his brow furrowed. Dean jumps when the conversation’s suddenly focused on him again.
“So who taught you how to shoot like that, Dean?”
Dean wants to say I know my own name, thanks, but he just rolls his shoulder in a shrug, ducking the eye contact. “My dad,” he says.
“He’s a great teacher.”
It itches that the Marine won’t look away from him; Dean meets the guy’s gaze full on, puts on a smirk. “Yeah, well, we put the win in Winchester.” There’s a smile in his Dad’s eyes when he sneaks a look, both of them pretty focused on the Marine. Dean spares a glance at Sam sitting ignored; he’s got the same expression on his face like when he’s watching a bad TV movie.
“Well, that’s exactly what I wanted to bring up,” the Marine says. He looks delighted that they’re finally playing along to whatever he wants. Dean splits the yolk on his egg, mops it up with a chunk of buttery fried bread. It’s one of the only things Dad knows how to cook, but it’s always good. “See, we’re familiar with your name and your record down at the center. When Dean here won State Championship we thought we’d come offer him the chance to be a hero, just like his daddy.”
Dean chokes on his food when the Private says, “How’d you like to be a U.S. Marine?”
Dean coughs his way through swallowing, and then there’s nothing but silence at the table. Sammy looks like he maybe wants to laugh, but one glance at his family puts an end to that real quick. Dad slides his coffee cup between his hands, back and forth. Finally he says, “I never taught my boys they needed a uniform to be a hero.” He’s not looking at Dean anymore, not even when Dean tries to catch his eye.
Dean can feel his face growing hot. Dad’s talked about the service sometimes when he’s had a few, or winding down after a good hunt. Dean knows numbers of kills, some names of the men that lived. The U.S. Marine Corps made Dad who he is, that and Vietnam and Mom’s murderer. They never talked about this, though.
His mouth is dry. Dean thinks about boot camp, about hundreds of strangers with something to prove. Sammy goes to school every day by himself. No one to patch Dad up after a bad hunt, no one to watch his back. Dad’s not helping at all, just staring at the Marine and twisting his ring around. Dean can’t read his face and it feels like his heart’s stuck in his throat along with any words Dean can think of. He takes a few deep breaths; it feels like days since anyone’s said anything.
Dean squares his shoulders, wonders if he’s about to be sent off to Be a Man.
Dad stands abruptly, his chair squeaking across cheap linoleum. The Private scrambles up a half beat after him. “He’s not interested.” Dean lets out a breath as quiet as he can. He wants to slump down in his chair but keeps his back straight in case either of them stops squinting at each other across the table and decides to take a gander at him.
“Corporal Winchester, I’ve seen your record. With all due respect -- ”
Dad raises his eyebrows. “Then you understand why I’m saying no. My son stays with his family.” They glare each other down for a minute but Dad wins the staring contest; the Marine drops his eyes to dig out a business card and slide it across the table at Dean. No one looks at him, though.
“He’ll be eighteen in two months time, sir, and then he can decide for himself.”
“Only my boys call me sir, Marine.”
The Marine beats a hasty retreat after that, the get the fuck outta my house look on Dad’s face enough for him to jam the hat back on his head and bang the door shut when he goes. The clatter of boots on the front porch feels like ice water across Dean’s forehead. Dad glances over, looking tired and pissed off.
“Dad?”
Dad turns away, and Dean can hear the hiss of butter on the still-hot pan as he starts another round of food. “I said to eat your damn breakfast, Dean.” Dean takes a gulp of coffee. He’s seen a lot of shit in his life but he feels like a kid, not like anyone’s idea of a hero. His eggs are gummy.
Sammy’s plate is already clean; he takes his book outside as soon as he’s excused. Kid likes to read Shakespeare sitting out in the grass; Dean doesn’t even know what to do about him sometimes. Dad sits down with his own plate, a glass of milk sweating fat beads of condensation, and a look on his face that Dean hasn’t ever seen before.
They clean their plates without talking, neither of them looking up at the same time. The morning gets hotter and hotter and hotter. Dean can’t stop thinking about concrete barracks, doing his morning run in formation instead of just with Sammy. He wants to take the kid down to the creek, see if there’s any water left in it. Maybe Dad’ll want to go with. Dean feels like he’s vibrating inside, like an earthquake came by and stayed. Diving into muddy water might wash off the feeling.
Dean jumps when Dad sets down his silverware, the weight of his eyes heavier than the heat. Dad doesn’t look mad. “Pack up your kit, you’re coming with me tonight.” Dean’s got no idea what to feel when Dad says, “The Marines don’t need you, Dean,” the we do gratefully left unsaid.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-21 12:23 am (UTC)Well done!
smiLe
(no subject)
Date: 2008-04-26 07:45 pm (UTC)i think we know dean's feelings 'being a marine' far better than john's (he is our holden caulfield after all), but i don't know that john would be willing to let the boys that far away from him. maybe this is me being miss west coast, but i think you can still be proud and be unwilling to let your child sign up.
thanks for all your help, you've really been a life saver! *HUG*