Sam and Dean, gen, preseries (teenage).
1000 words (exactly)
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing in an existing sandpit.
Summary: Not every day's an adventure. Sometimes, it's just them in the front yard waiting for the storm to roll in.
Southern Summer Rain.
There’s a storm rolling in slowly. The heat is oppressive, sticky and invasive; just a thick wet blanket curling under Sam’s clothes and licking into his mouth. It makes his chest feel tight with the overload of warmth, the pages of his book dry and cracking under stiff fingers with every turn of the page. The words blur together in streams of black ink, indecipherable for lazy, tired eyes.
It’s unusually warm for April.
Sam lies on his stomach on the wooden slats of the front porch, screen door creaking open-shut open-shut as hot air swirls across the unpolished wood and push-pulls in pathetic imitations of wind tunnels. He’s dressed in boxers and a t-shirt that’s missing both its sleeves; presumably torn off by Dean a few years ago when he tried for the bad boy look and instead managed to attain juvenile delinquent. Sam runs his foot along the grooves in the wood, along a million stories told in the rises and dips and scratches and flat, worn out plains.
Every footstep leaves a mark, and every mark has a history.
Sam thumbs the pages of Hamlet in alternating rhythms of fast and slow, and watches Dean, head buried underneath the car and seeking answers to questions Sam will never understand, like is it just me, or can you hear that rattle? Dean lies upside down, bare feet planted firmly on the driveway, tapping what seem to be the lyrics to Rambling On in a mix of Morse code and percussion solos. Dean’s rhythm falters, changes, makes requests in taps and beats, and Sam watches. He stands and wheezes open the battered door.
The heat inside is only slightly more tolerable than out.
The linoleum on the kitchen floor sticks to the soles of Sam’s feet, a combination of heat and spilt cordial from last night’s dinner that shicks as his toes dig into the plastic. Sam takes a glass from the dish rack and turns the tap, water and sediment sloshing inside the glass. He pauses before he leaves the kitchen, checks the freezer. Now with three ice cubes and a stick ice-cream, Sam crosses, exits and pads down the porch steps as Dean slides out from underneath the car.
They’ve always worked like satellites.
Sam hands Dean the glass of water and the ice clinks along the inside of the glass as Dean swallows it all in mouthfuls. Sam unwraps his ice cream and licks the excess chocolate off the base of the stick. Dean’s arm suddenly snaps out and grabs Sam’s wrist, brings it down towards him and steals first bite off the corner of the ice cream. He tilts his head back to catch the bits that break off, but a piece of chocolate coating clings to the corner of his mouth. He licks it away and smirks at Sam.
It all says love you, bitch.
Dean lays back down and slides back under, hand creeping back out after a moment. Sam bends and lifts an oily rag and Dean snags it on his fingers, returns to the underside of his car. Sam drops, sits cross-legged centimetres from the two of them and rests his elbows on his knees, looking increasingly cross-eyed at his ice cream the closer he brings it toward his mouth. Dean starts tapping his feet again, this time to Suzie Q, and Sam hums along in the chorus.
Oh shut up; it’s one of a few songs they own that he likes.
They spend another hour on the driveway, the ice cream long gone and Sam’s sticky fingers turning gluey in the heat. Sam knows the approaching early evening brings with it a cool change but he kind of hopes, in a somewhat masochistic way, that it’ll stay warm. If it does, Dean might let him have a beer with dinner to help them cool down. It doesn’t seem like it though, he can already see black clouds just over the horizon that promise thunder and rain and Dean is nothing if not responsible when it comes to Sam and alcohol. Hypocrite. Dean’s only over age on two of his licences. Sam turns from cloud-watching to find Dean Sammy-watching, and so Sam shrugs and flicks the ice cream stick at Dean. It hits him square between the eyes, earns Sam a raised eyebrow.
He sighs and goes back to the porch.
The pages of Hamlet have stuck together and Sam peels them apart slowly, blows on them a little to dry out the moisture of the day. Dean snags a clean white shirt from the backseat of the Impala and climbs into the front, starting the engine. Nearly twenty minutes later (Sam counts them, because they’re more interesting than Shakespeare) Dean returns, bringing the smell of Pepperoni pizza with extra tomato and cheese. There’s a clear plastic take-away box stashed on top, Sam’s side salad, and Sam collects two napkins and a fork as Dean sets it all down on the porch and collects two beers, condensation hugging the brown glass. He holds one out to Sam, and Sam grins as he takes it. He never has to ask, Dean always reads his mind.
The rain smells only moments away.
They eat in silence, goose bumps rising on their arms as the weather turns in increments, spiralling down from wet heat to pleasant coolness. Dean finishes his beer alongside his pizza and burps; Sam grimaces at him, takes a sip of his own. Dean shrugs. In front of them, the sky breaks open and rain falls in steady streams. Dean laughs bright and young, runs down the porch steps. He throws his arms out and his head back and turns in slow circles, grinning at Sam and sticking his tongue out, catching water in his mouth, letting it run down his throat and under the collar of his shirt. He shakes his head at Sam, dares him to join in.
Sam smiles wide, and jumps down the steps into the downpour.