![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Fic: Living It Right (PG)
ERICA IS BACK, OMG. I'm posting fic for her, because (1) I missed her like crazy and (2) she kicked winemaking's ass. I hope you like wee!chesters, baby!
Living It Right
1,012 words | PG | Gen
1,012 words | PG | Gen
June, 1989 - Connecticut
“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean says, tugging at his little brother’s arm. Sam looks up at him, wide-eyed and frightened, and his tiny fingers dig into the back of Dean’s hand, clenching tight until Dean can feel his bones shifting. He leans forward, palm flat against Sam’s collarbone. “It’s okay, alright? No one’s going to bother you, I promise.”
Sam looks dubious, but he finally allows Dean to pull him out of the small changing room stall he’s been hiding in for over an hour. John is waiting for them outside when they emerge, leaning against the white shingled siding. He looks up when Dean kicks him in the foot.
“Hey, guys,” he says, smiling warmly. “You ready for some fun in the sun?”
Sam’s face pinches around the corners, mouth flattening into a thin, white line. If John notices, he doesn’t say anything, just sweeps Sam up onto his shoulders, pretending to adjust him around so he can tickle Sam under the arms. Dean squints up at the two of them, grinning, and then they set off. John keeps swerving around making ‘whoa’ noises until Sam shrieks and tugs on his hair.
They settle in just past the high tide line on the beach, spreading out a few towels and tucking the corners into the sand so nothing blows away. John is immediately shirtless, lying down on his stomach and falling asleep in short order. Dean kind of wants to bury him in sand, but he thinks it might not be appreciated.
Instead, he and Sam go down to the water with the bucket and little shovel they’d stolen from the gardening supplies earlier. Whatever self-consciousness Sam had dealt with earlier is completely gone by the time they get the first pail filled with wet sand.
Sam builds a wobbly-looking castle with a moat around it that Dean could probably drown in and a tiny stick—supposedly a princess—jammed into the tallest tower of sand. He names the whole thing Hector, even though Dean tries to argue that castles can’t be named Hector, that’s really stupid. Sam just purses his lips and declares that Deans aren’t allowed.
Dean takes that as a challenge, and soon enough the two of them are tussling in the ruins of Hector, knocking into the metal pail. They land with a mighty splash in the moat, scattering the seagulls that had come to watch them fight.
“You ruined my castle,” Sam whines while they wash the sand off them in the surf. “Why do you always have to ruin everything, Dean?”
Dean’s jaw ticks. “Your castle was stupid anyway,” he grumbles, rubbing his knee to get an annoying clump of sand off. “If it didn’t let Deans in, how would all the Sammys stay safe, huh?” Sam doesn’t say anything to that, just puts on his thoughtful face and lets Dean dunk his head under the water happily enough.
After Sam shakes himself off, they head back up to where John’s laying out on the towels. He looks a little like a lobster already, and Dean suddenly remembers they had forgotten the sun lotion.
He tells Sam to wring his hair out over John’s head, and when John pops up, sputtering and confused, Dean holds his hand out and very frankly tells his father he looks like he’d taste good with some lemon-butter sauce. Without a word, John digs into his wallet and gives Dean five dollars to go get some lotion up at the beach-front convenience store.
“You coming, Sam?” Dean asks, offering his brother a hand. Sam hesitates, and then jogs around the towel, nearly tripping four times, and links both of their hands together.
“Can we get a slushie if there’s money left over?” Sam looks up at Dean hopefully. The tip of his nose and the tops of his cheeks are flushed a jolly red color from sun, making his eyes look even bigger and greener.
Dean never can say no to Sammy, and with the extra two dollars left over after they buy the sun tan lotion, they head over to the slush-puppy sign at the local pizza parlor and get a huge blue-raspberry slushie to share. Sam is so ecstatic that he stops them every few feet on the way back to John, opening his mouth as wide as it’ll go and sticking out his tongue so Dean can check to see if it’s blue yet.
By the time they plop back down next to their dad on the sand, Dean is laughing every time Sam opens his mouth, and Sam is trying to see his own tongue by twisting his head this way and that, saying things like, “Can you see it? Why can’t I see it!” and, “My nose is in the way!” Eventually, he gets himself so dizzy that he falls backwards, nearly spilling the slushie all over his chest.
John laughs, reaching over to tickle Sam’s sides, and that’s when all hell breaks loose, because Dean and Sam have a long-standing agreement that tickle-wars are better fought two against one. They ruthlessly exploit John’s weaknesses: Dean sitting on his stomach and getting under his arms, Sam wiggling his fingers behind John’s knees until their dad is just one big laughing, pleading mass of man.
“Say uncle!” Dean crows when John seems like he’s about to stop breathing altogether. “Say uncle!”
John rallies under them, wheezing like an old man, and throws them off. “Never!” he says, and jogs off towards the water, the two of them hot on his heels.
They spend the rest of the day horsing around by the water’s edge, sun screen and blue-raspberry slushie completely forgotten. When the sun starts cooling off and the rest of the beach-goers are packing up their umbrellas, John tells Sam to grab the towels and he and Dean carry the rest of their stuff back up the hill to the car.
Dean hooks an arm over Sammy’s red shoulders while John loads the trunk and feels like nothing can possibly be wrong in the whole entire world.
Sam looks dubious, but he finally allows Dean to pull him out of the small changing room stall he’s been hiding in for over an hour. John is waiting for them outside when they emerge, leaning against the white shingled siding. He looks up when Dean kicks him in the foot.
“Hey, guys,” he says, smiling warmly. “You ready for some fun in the sun?”
Sam’s face pinches around the corners, mouth flattening into a thin, white line. If John notices, he doesn’t say anything, just sweeps Sam up onto his shoulders, pretending to adjust him around so he can tickle Sam under the arms. Dean squints up at the two of them, grinning, and then they set off. John keeps swerving around making ‘whoa’ noises until Sam shrieks and tugs on his hair.
They settle in just past the high tide line on the beach, spreading out a few towels and tucking the corners into the sand so nothing blows away. John is immediately shirtless, lying down on his stomach and falling asleep in short order. Dean kind of wants to bury him in sand, but he thinks it might not be appreciated.
Instead, he and Sam go down to the water with the bucket and little shovel they’d stolen from the gardening supplies earlier. Whatever self-consciousness Sam had dealt with earlier is completely gone by the time they get the first pail filled with wet sand.
Sam builds a wobbly-looking castle with a moat around it that Dean could probably drown in and a tiny stick—supposedly a princess—jammed into the tallest tower of sand. He names the whole thing Hector, even though Dean tries to argue that castles can’t be named Hector, that’s really stupid. Sam just purses his lips and declares that Deans aren’t allowed.
Dean takes that as a challenge, and soon enough the two of them are tussling in the ruins of Hector, knocking into the metal pail. They land with a mighty splash in the moat, scattering the seagulls that had come to watch them fight.
“You ruined my castle,” Sam whines while they wash the sand off them in the surf. “Why do you always have to ruin everything, Dean?”
Dean’s jaw ticks. “Your castle was stupid anyway,” he grumbles, rubbing his knee to get an annoying clump of sand off. “If it didn’t let Deans in, how would all the Sammys stay safe, huh?” Sam doesn’t say anything to that, just puts on his thoughtful face and lets Dean dunk his head under the water happily enough.
After Sam shakes himself off, they head back up to where John’s laying out on the towels. He looks a little like a lobster already, and Dean suddenly remembers they had forgotten the sun lotion.
He tells Sam to wring his hair out over John’s head, and when John pops up, sputtering and confused, Dean holds his hand out and very frankly tells his father he looks like he’d taste good with some lemon-butter sauce. Without a word, John digs into his wallet and gives Dean five dollars to go get some lotion up at the beach-front convenience store.
“You coming, Sam?” Dean asks, offering his brother a hand. Sam hesitates, and then jogs around the towel, nearly tripping four times, and links both of their hands together.
“Can we get a slushie if there’s money left over?” Sam looks up at Dean hopefully. The tip of his nose and the tops of his cheeks are flushed a jolly red color from sun, making his eyes look even bigger and greener.
Dean never can say no to Sammy, and with the extra two dollars left over after they buy the sun tan lotion, they head over to the slush-puppy sign at the local pizza parlor and get a huge blue-raspberry slushie to share. Sam is so ecstatic that he stops them every few feet on the way back to John, opening his mouth as wide as it’ll go and sticking out his tongue so Dean can check to see if it’s blue yet.
By the time they plop back down next to their dad on the sand, Dean is laughing every time Sam opens his mouth, and Sam is trying to see his own tongue by twisting his head this way and that, saying things like, “Can you see it? Why can’t I see it!” and, “My nose is in the way!” Eventually, he gets himself so dizzy that he falls backwards, nearly spilling the slushie all over his chest.
John laughs, reaching over to tickle Sam’s sides, and that’s when all hell breaks loose, because Dean and Sam have a long-standing agreement that tickle-wars are better fought two against one. They ruthlessly exploit John’s weaknesses: Dean sitting on his stomach and getting under his arms, Sam wiggling his fingers behind John’s knees until their dad is just one big laughing, pleading mass of man.
“Say uncle!” Dean crows when John seems like he’s about to stop breathing altogether. “Say uncle!”
John rallies under them, wheezing like an old man, and throws them off. “Never!” he says, and jogs off towards the water, the two of them hot on his heels.
They spend the rest of the day horsing around by the water’s edge, sun screen and blue-raspberry slushie completely forgotten. When the sun starts cooling off and the rest of the beach-goers are packing up their umbrellas, John tells Sam to grab the towels and he and Dean carry the rest of their stuff back up the hill to the car.
Dean hooks an arm over Sammy’s red shoulders while John loads the trunk and feels like nothing can possibly be wrong in the whole entire world.
no subject
M'glad you liked it, hon. *smish*