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crack_van2011-05-26 11:08 pm
sandystarr88.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2011-05-26 11:08 pm
Entry tags:
Laws of Motion by eloise_bright (PG-13)
Fandom: SUPERNATURAL
Pairing: Gen; John Winchester, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Length: 4,900
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eloise_bright
Author Website: N/A
Why this must be read:
Because this author manages to capture the Winchesters in all their angst-filled, messed-up glory. This piece is a wonderful character study of their pre-series dynamic and is definitely a must-read.
Sam sprawls at the kitchen table, his school books vying with the contents of the weapons bag for possession of the area. John figures Dean was cleaning the guns while he was helping Sam with the whole rocket science deal.
“You finished up here, son?” he asks, and starts clearing away the gun oil and rags.
“Just your guns left,” Dean mutters, hunching over the pan of chili, poking at it in a vain attempt to coax it back from the brink of petrifaction. He lifts the spoon, and a dollop of black-flecked goop slides off it, plops back into the pan with a wet splat. Then he brightens visibly, grabbing the ketchup and chili sauce.
“We all set for tonight?” Dean works hard at sounding nonchalant, but his body betrays him. He rocks lightly on his heels, poised, senses alert, muscles itching to move in familiar patterns. Something in him, or maybe trained into him. John isn’t sure which, and to be honest, he doesn’t care to examine that idea too closely.
He nods. “We’ll go over the plan after supper, then you boys get a few hours of shut-eye. We head out around midnight.”
Sam shifts at the table, mutters something indistinctly.
“You got a problem, Sammy?” John keeps his voice even, calm.
There’s a stiffening of the kid’s shoulders at the Sammy and John hears an unspoken reproach in Sam’s exaggerated sigh.
He scrubs his hand over his face; chin sandpaper sharp under his palm. It’s not all Sammy—It’s Sam, Dad—he’s as guilty as the kid these days. Everything they say to each other grates, every conversation a potential minefield, the words tinderbox dry.
“You want some help with that?” he nods to the textbook, extending an olive branch.
“S’okay.” Sam pulls the book closer to him; tapping the end of his pencil against the table. “It’s physics.”
“I do know something about mechanics, kiddo,” he offers lightly.
“It’s not that kind of mechanics.” Sam rolls his eyes, snaps the book shut.
It hurts, that condescension, but he catches Dean’s eye, and the kid’s shaking his head, mouth thin in a frown that’s straight from Mary’s face to John’s heart.
“Well, if you’re finished there, you can set the table.” He snaps that out, voice tight, throat aching. Not what he means to say at all.
Sam shoves his books into his backpack and pushes back from the table, chair legs screeching across the floor. He stomps over to the cabinets, digs in the drawer, the clatter of cutlery harsh and jangling. Back to the table and he starts setting down the forks with a stilted precision that’s borne of barely restrained fury.
Sometimes, it feels like a blink of an eye since Sammy was strapped into the highchair, banging a spoon in arrhythmic anticipation of the evening meal. Dean joining in with his knife and fork, an impromptu drum kit, and baby Sammy smiling, open contentment in his big, wide, gummy grin.
But sometimes, times like this, it feels like a hundred years ago.
Laws of Motion
Pairing: Gen; John Winchester, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Length: 4,900
Author on LJ:
eloise_brightAuthor Website: N/A
Why this must be read:
Because this author manages to capture the Winchesters in all their angst-filled, messed-up glory. This piece is a wonderful character study of their pre-series dynamic and is definitely a must-read.
Sam sprawls at the kitchen table, his school books vying with the contents of the weapons bag for possession of the area. John figures Dean was cleaning the guns while he was helping Sam with the whole rocket science deal.
“You finished up here, son?” he asks, and starts clearing away the gun oil and rags.
“Just your guns left,” Dean mutters, hunching over the pan of chili, poking at it in a vain attempt to coax it back from the brink of petrifaction. He lifts the spoon, and a dollop of black-flecked goop slides off it, plops back into the pan with a wet splat. Then he brightens visibly, grabbing the ketchup and chili sauce.
“We all set for tonight?” Dean works hard at sounding nonchalant, but his body betrays him. He rocks lightly on his heels, poised, senses alert, muscles itching to move in familiar patterns. Something in him, or maybe trained into him. John isn’t sure which, and to be honest, he doesn’t care to examine that idea too closely.
He nods. “We’ll go over the plan after supper, then you boys get a few hours of shut-eye. We head out around midnight.”
Sam shifts at the table, mutters something indistinctly.
“You got a problem, Sammy?” John keeps his voice even, calm.
There’s a stiffening of the kid’s shoulders at the Sammy and John hears an unspoken reproach in Sam’s exaggerated sigh.
He scrubs his hand over his face; chin sandpaper sharp under his palm. It’s not all Sammy—It’s Sam, Dad—he’s as guilty as the kid these days. Everything they say to each other grates, every conversation a potential minefield, the words tinderbox dry.
“You want some help with that?” he nods to the textbook, extending an olive branch.
“S’okay.” Sam pulls the book closer to him; tapping the end of his pencil against the table. “It’s physics.”
“I do know something about mechanics, kiddo,” he offers lightly.
“It’s not that kind of mechanics.” Sam rolls his eyes, snaps the book shut.
It hurts, that condescension, but he catches Dean’s eye, and the kid’s shaking his head, mouth thin in a frown that’s straight from Mary’s face to John’s heart.
“Well, if you’re finished there, you can set the table.” He snaps that out, voice tight, throat aching. Not what he means to say at all.
Sam shoves his books into his backpack and pushes back from the table, chair legs screeching across the floor. He stomps over to the cabinets, digs in the drawer, the clatter of cutlery harsh and jangling. Back to the table and he starts setting down the forks with a stilted precision that’s borne of barely restrained fury.
Sometimes, it feels like a blink of an eye since Sammy was strapped into the highchair, banging a spoon in arrhythmic anticipation of the evening meal. Dean joining in with his knife and fork, an impromptu drum kit, and baby Sammy smiling, open contentment in his big, wide, gummy grin.
But sometimes, times like this, it feels like a hundred years ago.
Laws of Motion