|Sometimes you get fulgurites (luzdeestrellas) wrote,|
@ 2008-03-21 15:31:00
|Current music:||Bif Naked - Lucky|
fic: Supernatural, Pi (Sam, Dean, G)
So, officially, this was meant to be fic for Pi Day. But I am obviously a slacker, so, um, happy week anniversary of Pi day?
Summary: "They have a day to celebrate pie now?"
Notes: Thanks to merryish for the handholding. And thanks to musesfool for the beta; this is niether birthday nor Christmas fic, but this one's all yours.
The sharpie bounces off the back of Sam's head, falling to the carpet with a soft thud, barely audible over the sound of the rain against the windows. Sam lifts his arm to rub at the place it hit, but he thinks better of it, and turns to glare at Dean instead.
"I seriously will shoot you in the face," he says, and he's reasonably sure he means it.
In the warm glow of the overhead lights, Dean's grin is all teeth and no remorse. It's pretty irresistible, but Sam's had almost twenty-six years stifling his natural reaction to it, so he just shakes his head. "You remember the part where we're on a job, right?"
Dean nods, very seriously. "I do. And I am extremely grateful that the guy who took a half hour nap on our last stakeout is here to remind me of it."
Sam scratches at the side of his neck. "I was not napping. I was, like--"
"Yeah, yeah." Dean comes over to sit by him. He knocks his shoulder against Sam's, and he's smiling again when he says, "You were just lulling the demons into a false sense of security by doing a really good impression of it."
"Shut up." Sam knocks his elbow back into Dean's ribs, and Dean laughs as he pulls away. "Man, it's nearly two in the morning. You've been up for at least six years. What the hell are you so happy for?"
"Well," Dean says, "I don't know if you've noticed, but it's raining kind of hard out there, and where we are, is the opposite of out there."
Sam can't argue with that. The house is pretty sweet, thick carpets and couches better than half the beds Sam's slept in. It isn't exactly the normal Sam wants anymore, even if he could have it, but he likes visiting every now and then.
"And," Dean says, "I got me some garden variety, non-demonic evil to fight."
"Jesus, but you're a freak," Sam says, mostly because he thought the same thing earlier, and Dean doesn't ever have to know that.
Dean smiles as if he does, anyway. "And," he slings an arm around Sam's shoulder, warm and affectionate, even as he digs his fingers into Sam's bicep, "my baby brother's being a huge pain in my ass, so I figure the world's on track to keep spinning for at least another day. But most importantly," he says, making a show of checking his watch, "it's Pi Day."
"They have a day to celebrate pie now?" Sam supposes he shouldn't be surprised; they have days for everything else, and it's not like pie isn't worthy of being celebrated a lot, what with the pastry that kind of melts in your mouth, and the huge and endless variety of awesome fillings, and the ice cream you get to eat with it, but--still.
"Sure they do. And Square Root Day, too, but everyone knows Pi is the superior one."
Sam just stares at him, blueberries and apples forgotten. Then he laughs, and the tiredness is pushed back by it. "Oh my God," he says. "You freakish, gigantic dork. You're talking about pi."
All the times Dean's given Sam shit for hours spent willingly in the library and old books he had to have, and he doesn't even have the decency to look a little bit embarrassed now. "One fifty-nine, Sammy, on the fourteenth of March." He pauses for half a beat, and Sam's pleased to see he doesn't quite meet Sam's eyes when he says, "And twenty-six seconds, if you want to be precise."
"Which, God knows, you do." Sam smiles some more, remembers Dean's report cards, average grades in English and history, because he never made the effort; As and Bs in math and science. He probably didn't need to make the effort there, either, saw puzzles and answers in ways Sam didn't, but he did anyway. "So what exactly does the celebration of Pi involve?" It's not all for the mocking; he genuinely is a little curious.
Dean shrugs. "They have conferences and stuff. And, like, I dunno, some guy recited pi to fifteen hundred decimal places once. People wear t-shirts."
"Of course they do." Sam tips his head back and closes his eyes. He makes a mental note to look it up, maybe get Dean a t-shirt for next year.
"Sam," Dean says.
Sam doesn't open his eyes. "I'm not going to sleep." Dean would probably let him, and not just because he's still working them slowly, scared Sam might be lying when he says he's fine. It's just a little brother perk even approaching twenty-six hasn't lost him, and which Sam's never quite gotten good enough to refuse as often as he should. He will tonight, though. He listens to Dean breathing just inches away, and he smiles a little, even though he's hungry now, on top of everything else. He reaches out, smacks the back of Dean's head. "I really want pie," he says, and the whine in his voice is almost completely intentional.
"Yeah, well. Suck it up. We ain't going anywhere until Casper shows up."
"Aw, come on. He's probably not even dangerous," Sam says. "I mean, sure, if you want to get technical about it, coming at the guy with a chainsaw was a little risky, but, really, we all have our bad days. Maybe he was just, you know, hungry."
"He's probably not dangerous in the way that you're probably not annoying." Dean's barely paying Sam any attention, engrossed in checking the guns, or at least, pretending to be. Sam knows they're already primed, same way he knows Dean's got the cleansing ritual memorised, even if he's going to make Sam actually do it. "There's food in the fridge, if you really want."
"Whatever." Sam knows better than to admit that he doesn't want the salad or the tofu, or whatever it was they were told they could help themselves to. He yawns and stretches. "If he hasn't shown up in the next hour, you're on your own."
He hasn't shown up an hour later, or even the one after that. Sam dozes and Dean draws on his face. Dean paces, and Sam tries to trip him up whenever he gets close. It's not the worst way to spend a night. Or at least, it isn't until the ghost finally shows up.
"I fucking hate garden variety evil," Dean says, when they stumble out two hours later. He's got a hell of a bruise blossoming across his ribs, and Sam's left arm seems to be doing a lot of protesting about still being attached to his body.
"Me, too." Sam holds out his hand for the keys, and Dean doesn't even dignify that with a response. "Dude, at least I slept," Sam says.
"Exactly," Dean says. "Can't be in charge of anything." He slides in behind the wheel, wincing a little and pretending not to be.
"Bite me," Sam says, as they pull out onto the road. It's stopped raining, though there's a film of water still covering everything, like it plans to deny the sun that's just moving over the horizon. "Consider my naps as a little bit off your debt."
"Shut the fuck up," Dean says. He doesn't look at Sam, but Sam can see the way the smile tugs at his mouth, soft and happy around the corners, instead of smug and teasing. "You got three weeks in bed and your laundry done at the time," he says, like it's nothing.
And maybe it finally is. Sam's healed up, and Dean's not going anywhere, and right this second, they could be the only people in the world. It's quiet, everything standing still while Dean puts his foot to the floor.
"No, seriously," Sam says, utterly failing to keep the smile out of his voice, "There's, you know, a balance. An order. I nearly lost my soul to save yours. You have to do things now. And what I think is, I would like pie. So you should make that happen."
Dean rolls the window down, lets air that's too cold to be spring filter through the car. "If you're going to keep talking, I'm probably going to kill myself. Be a waste of all the hard work you did."
Sam laughs. He closes his eyes and doesn't sleep, lets the car carry him wherever Dean wants to take them. When they stop, it's only forty minutes after they started. He's expecting to see a motel--cheap and not very cheerful--but when he opens his eyes, they're in front of a diner. There's an American flag blowing in the breeze, and beside that, a poster that says, Homer Simpson for President. Beside that, like some kind of Christmas miracle, a hand-written sign, promising all day breakfast and pie for even longer.
"Dude," Sam says, looking from the sign to Dean, "how the hell did you even find this?"
Dean grins. "I am kind of awesome." He takes the keys out of the ignition, pats the steering wheel absently as he opens the door. "You don't really imagine they celebrate Pi day without pie, do you?"
He's almost out of the car when he looks back at Sam. "I'd ask you to take this into account when you're tallying, or whatever the hell, but--pie. It's a very important holiday. I wouldn't want to have missed it."
"Damn right," Sam says.
Sam gets out, still smiling, and watches Dean walking away, slow and relaxed. He needs a shower, and there's tired written in every inch of him, but when he glances over his shoulder at Sam, eyebrows raised in question, his eyes are clear and bright.
It wipes the tally clean.