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Entry tags:
the fine reality of hunger satisfied, SPN, gen, PG-13
Title: the fine reality of hunger satisfied
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Rating: Sam and Dean, gen, PG-13
Length: ~1600 words
A/N: Written for Round 1 of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
silverbullets for the prompt buy one, get one free from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ebcdic. Thanks to without_me for the quick beta and withdiamonds for the title, which is from a quote by M.F.K. Fisher.
Cross-posted to AO3, here.
There are days when Sam just does not get Dean. Not that this is, y’know, any kind of a surprise or anything, and some days it means they’re yelling at the top of their lungs at each other, but other days... Other days, it means Sam’s sitting at a picnic table outside of a gas/bait/grocery store in Thomas, West Virginia (population 511), watching Dean shredding the second of two frozen and just-now-nuked beef-and-bean burritos into tiny pieces and methodically separating the beans into a small pile of what looks like toxic waste sludge. Sam had clued in to what Dean was doing around about the time Dean had gotten the first burrito sufficiently deconstructed and had wrapped the rejected beans in the wrapper, making a ball out of it and tossing the whole mess into the twenty-gallon oil drum that’s serving as a trash can.
“And it’s good for three,” he’d muttered, adding in a muted roar of the crowd, which was so predictable that Sam had rolled his eyes automatically. Dean had smirked and flicked a tiny bit of shredded beef at Sam, and they’d had to declare a truce before a full-scale food fight broke out. It was actually kind of good to be back to being like that with Dean, but it didn’t take much of a brain to figure out that Dean would mock Sam mercilessly if he said anything about it, so Sam had hidden his smile and pretended he hadn’t noticed Dean doing the same.
All of that’s enough to divert Sam’s attention from the map he’s been studying--there are two graveyards in town, plus a half-dozen more in the small, unincorporated places in the area, and he’s trying to plot out the most efficient way to go by all of them--and focus it on Dean and his absent-minded food dissection. Dean’s halfway through the second burrito when he looks up, and Sam can’t quite look away quickly enough to not get caught.
“What?” Dean asks, through a mouthful of fake Mexican.
“They had plain beef burritos in there,” Sam says, as mildly as he can.
“Yeah, but these were buy-one-get-one-free,” Dean says, as though that explains everything. Sam nods, bemused, because as far as he knows, they’re actually pretty flush with cash, not at all close to where they need to save the buck-twenty-nine-plus-tax of a second burrito. He glances down, a little guiltily, at his own sandwich, which is roast beef and cheddar, made to order and definitely costing more than double everything that Dean has in front of him added together.
“Nah, princess, you’re good with the fancy stuff,” Dean says, and Sam remembers a dozen times when they were younger, him and Dean on their own, cruising for dinner, Sam generally going for a couple of super-sized combos, and Dean always mysteriously being in the mood for the cheapest of 7-Eleven chili-cheese dogs or nachos, no matter how many times he’d eaten them before. Sam’s about to say something--just mention that, you know, it’s not like that now--but then Dean gets all revved up about the cemeteries Sam’s researching, and everything but the salt-and-burn is shoved out of his brain.
It’s not until the next day, after they’ve dug up three graves and torched four pissed-off ghosts (the mystery of Lester Nabbit’s disappearance in 1898 turns out not to be such a mystery when he comes boiling out from under the coffin of one Prudence Nabbit, his long-suffering wife and probably not-so-grieving widow, judging by the long-handled kitchen knife sticking out of his back), dodged a flying headstone, and bounced off a couple of trees (and yeah, they really are getting too old for this shit; Sam has no idea how Bobby still does it), that Sam thinks again about Dean and food.
Nobody seems to have noticed their midnight excursion through the graveyards of Tucker County, but it’s still never a bad idea to put some mileage between a salt-and-burn and themselves, so Dean gets them two mountains and three towns over before they start looking for a place to crash. They’re right in the middle of West Virginia’s small skiing region, so they actually have a few choices, none of which are completely horrible.
It’s a nice change.
Dean pulls into a small condo development, making the decision based--as far as Sam can tell--solely on the balloons tied to the Off-Season. Half-Priced Nightly Rentals Available sign.
“They’re cheerful,” Dean says. “I can’t like happy stuff?”
It’s as good a reason as any, Sam supposes, as they stagger into the Alpine-themed studio and fall face-down on the beds.
Sam wakes up first, sometime in the late afternoon. Dean just pulls a pillow over his head and grunts something that sounds like yeah, sure, fine when Sam says he’s going to grab the first shower. He’s out so deep, Sam doesn’t even hesitate to use all the hot water; by the time Dean comes out of his near-coma, there should be plenty more. Of course, in the largely unspoken but finely tuned world of logistics that’s their life on the road, the flip side of getting first shower also means Sam’s on the hook for finding something for them to eat. Since he’s already hungry, it’s not all that big of a deal.
He leaves Dean a note and stops at the front office to ask what might be around. Armed with suggestions, advice, and a hand-drawn map (apparently, they’re serious about their hospitality in this little notch in the mountains) he sets out to find the bait-shop-cum-grocery-store that everyone swears is the best place to go. He only gets turned around twice, and it’s hardly a tragedy to be driving along the ridges and hills, but it all takes time and after finally finding the place and grabbing enough food to hold them over for a day or two and getting back to the room, he’s not just hungry, he’s starving.
Dean’s in the shower, which means Sam’s stuck dragging everything in--there’s definitely something to that old saying about never going to the store when you’re hungry, because there are bags of stuff Sam doesn’t even remember buying--but it also means he can get going on dinner without having to stop and debate who’s responsible for what, which Dean would do just to be a pain in the ass.
By the time Dean comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Sam’s got a pretty decent fire going in the little pre-fab fireplace and some very nice, very thick T-bones on top of a makeshift grate over the coals. Dean goes rooting around in the mini-kitchen, making pleased noises as he finds the beer and the small chocolate layer cake. He pops the top on a Bud and elbows Sam out of the way to take over proper supervision of the steaks.
Sam gives way gracefully--if he does say so himself--and pokes at the potatoes in the microwave, then pulls out the sour cream and butter and shredded cheese and bacon. Dean watches with interest, and Sam says, “We wouldn’t want to kill your system by giving it a vegetable without smothering it in fat and salt first.”
“Damn straight, Sammy,” Dean answers, before getting distracted by a flare-up in the fireplace. While he gets that under control and convinces himself the steaks are safe, Sam decides the potatoes are done and the only thing left to do is finish nuking the frozen creamed spinach he’d tossed into the cart on a whim. He vaguely remembers Dean ordering it once or twice for special occasions--or what passed for them--when they were kids, and he figures he can eat it even if Dean tells him he’s insane, that spinach would never have crossed Dean’s lips, no matter how drowned in cream it might have been.
“Gimme a plate, quick, or your steak’s gonna get warm all the way through and I’ll have to listen to you whine about it all night,” Dean says, stabbing at one of the T-bones with the barbecue fork that had come with the place. He slaps it on the plate Sam’s holding and then pokes and prods at the remaining one while Sam lays out all the other food, the onions and mushrooms swimming in butter and garlic that he’d cooked while the fire had been burning down to coals, and the bread that had been fresh-baked and still warm when he’d bought it, along with the baked potatoes and all their accompaniments. The creamed spinach comes out last, Sam juggling the superheated paper tray it came in over to the little wooden table.
“Dude,” Dean says, with a raised eyebrow. “What’s with all the grub?”
It’s every goddamned thing I could find in a little store in Bumfuck, Nowhere that I know you like, and not one thing was buy-one-get-one-free, Sam thinks, even as he shrugs and answers, “Dunno. Just looked good at the store.”
“Well, all right,” Dean says, and goes to get one of his hunting knives when it turns out the ones Sam found in the kitchen aren’t good for much other than butter. Sam gets a couple of fresh beers and makes sure Dean eats until he’s too stuffed to move, and all in all, it's a pretty good night.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Rating: Sam and Dean, gen, PG-13
Length: ~1600 words
A/N: Written for Round 1 of
silverbullets for the prompt buy one, get one free from ebcdic. Thanks to without_me for the quick beta and withdiamonds for the title, which is from a quote by M.F.K. Fisher.Cross-posted to AO3, here.
There are days when Sam just does not get Dean. Not that this is, y’know, any kind of a surprise or anything, and some days it means they’re yelling at the top of their lungs at each other, but other days... Other days, it means Sam’s sitting at a picnic table outside of a gas/bait/grocery store in Thomas, West Virginia (population 511), watching Dean shredding the second of two frozen and just-now-nuked beef-and-bean burritos into tiny pieces and methodically separating the beans into a small pile of what looks like toxic waste sludge. Sam had clued in to what Dean was doing around about the time Dean had gotten the first burrito sufficiently deconstructed and had wrapped the rejected beans in the wrapper, making a ball out of it and tossing the whole mess into the twenty-gallon oil drum that’s serving as a trash can.
“And it’s good for three,” he’d muttered, adding in a muted roar of the crowd, which was so predictable that Sam had rolled his eyes automatically. Dean had smirked and flicked a tiny bit of shredded beef at Sam, and they’d had to declare a truce before a full-scale food fight broke out. It was actually kind of good to be back to being like that with Dean, but it didn’t take much of a brain to figure out that Dean would mock Sam mercilessly if he said anything about it, so Sam had hidden his smile and pretended he hadn’t noticed Dean doing the same.
All of that’s enough to divert Sam’s attention from the map he’s been studying--there are two graveyards in town, plus a half-dozen more in the small, unincorporated places in the area, and he’s trying to plot out the most efficient way to go by all of them--and focus it on Dean and his absent-minded food dissection. Dean’s halfway through the second burrito when he looks up, and Sam can’t quite look away quickly enough to not get caught.
“What?” Dean asks, through a mouthful of fake Mexican.
“They had plain beef burritos in there,” Sam says, as mildly as he can.
“Yeah, but these were buy-one-get-one-free,” Dean says, as though that explains everything. Sam nods, bemused, because as far as he knows, they’re actually pretty flush with cash, not at all close to where they need to save the buck-twenty-nine-plus-tax of a second burrito. He glances down, a little guiltily, at his own sandwich, which is roast beef and cheddar, made to order and definitely costing more than double everything that Dean has in front of him added together.
“Nah, princess, you’re good with the fancy stuff,” Dean says, and Sam remembers a dozen times when they were younger, him and Dean on their own, cruising for dinner, Sam generally going for a couple of super-sized combos, and Dean always mysteriously being in the mood for the cheapest of 7-Eleven chili-cheese dogs or nachos, no matter how many times he’d eaten them before. Sam’s about to say something--just mention that, you know, it’s not like that now--but then Dean gets all revved up about the cemeteries Sam’s researching, and everything but the salt-and-burn is shoved out of his brain.
It’s not until the next day, after they’ve dug up three graves and torched four pissed-off ghosts (the mystery of Lester Nabbit’s disappearance in 1898 turns out not to be such a mystery when he comes boiling out from under the coffin of one Prudence Nabbit, his long-suffering wife and probably not-so-grieving widow, judging by the long-handled kitchen knife sticking out of his back), dodged a flying headstone, and bounced off a couple of trees (and yeah, they really are getting too old for this shit; Sam has no idea how Bobby still does it), that Sam thinks again about Dean and food.
Nobody seems to have noticed their midnight excursion through the graveyards of Tucker County, but it’s still never a bad idea to put some mileage between a salt-and-burn and themselves, so Dean gets them two mountains and three towns over before they start looking for a place to crash. They’re right in the middle of West Virginia’s small skiing region, so they actually have a few choices, none of which are completely horrible.
It’s a nice change.
Dean pulls into a small condo development, making the decision based--as far as Sam can tell--solely on the balloons tied to the Off-Season. Half-Priced Nightly Rentals Available sign.
“They’re cheerful,” Dean says. “I can’t like happy stuff?”
It’s as good a reason as any, Sam supposes, as they stagger into the Alpine-themed studio and fall face-down on the beds.
Sam wakes up first, sometime in the late afternoon. Dean just pulls a pillow over his head and grunts something that sounds like yeah, sure, fine when Sam says he’s going to grab the first shower. He’s out so deep, Sam doesn’t even hesitate to use all the hot water; by the time Dean comes out of his near-coma, there should be plenty more. Of course, in the largely unspoken but finely tuned world of logistics that’s their life on the road, the flip side of getting first shower also means Sam’s on the hook for finding something for them to eat. Since he’s already hungry, it’s not all that big of a deal.
He leaves Dean a note and stops at the front office to ask what might be around. Armed with suggestions, advice, and a hand-drawn map (apparently, they’re serious about their hospitality in this little notch in the mountains) he sets out to find the bait-shop-cum-grocery-store that everyone swears is the best place to go. He only gets turned around twice, and it’s hardly a tragedy to be driving along the ridges and hills, but it all takes time and after finally finding the place and grabbing enough food to hold them over for a day or two and getting back to the room, he’s not just hungry, he’s starving.
Dean’s in the shower, which means Sam’s stuck dragging everything in--there’s definitely something to that old saying about never going to the store when you’re hungry, because there are bags of stuff Sam doesn’t even remember buying--but it also means he can get going on dinner without having to stop and debate who’s responsible for what, which Dean would do just to be a pain in the ass.
By the time Dean comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Sam’s got a pretty decent fire going in the little pre-fab fireplace and some very nice, very thick T-bones on top of a makeshift grate over the coals. Dean goes rooting around in the mini-kitchen, making pleased noises as he finds the beer and the small chocolate layer cake. He pops the top on a Bud and elbows Sam out of the way to take over proper supervision of the steaks.
Sam gives way gracefully--if he does say so himself--and pokes at the potatoes in the microwave, then pulls out the sour cream and butter and shredded cheese and bacon. Dean watches with interest, and Sam says, “We wouldn’t want to kill your system by giving it a vegetable without smothering it in fat and salt first.”
“Damn straight, Sammy,” Dean answers, before getting distracted by a flare-up in the fireplace. While he gets that under control and convinces himself the steaks are safe, Sam decides the potatoes are done and the only thing left to do is finish nuking the frozen creamed spinach he’d tossed into the cart on a whim. He vaguely remembers Dean ordering it once or twice for special occasions--or what passed for them--when they were kids, and he figures he can eat it even if Dean tells him he’s insane, that spinach would never have crossed Dean’s lips, no matter how drowned in cream it might have been.
“Gimme a plate, quick, or your steak’s gonna get warm all the way through and I’ll have to listen to you whine about it all night,” Dean says, stabbing at one of the T-bones with the barbecue fork that had come with the place. He slaps it on the plate Sam’s holding and then pokes and prods at the remaining one while Sam lays out all the other food, the onions and mushrooms swimming in butter and garlic that he’d cooked while the fire had been burning down to coals, and the bread that had been fresh-baked and still warm when he’d bought it, along with the baked potatoes and all their accompaniments. The creamed spinach comes out last, Sam juggling the superheated paper tray it came in over to the little wooden table.
“Dude,” Dean says, with a raised eyebrow. “What’s with all the grub?”
It’s every goddamned thing I could find in a little store in Bumfuck, Nowhere that I know you like, and not one thing was buy-one-get-one-free, Sam thinks, even as he shrugs and answers, “Dunno. Just looked good at the store.”
“Well, all right,” Dean says, and goes to get one of his hunting knives when it turns out the ones Sam found in the kitchen aren’t good for much other than butter. Sam gets a couple of fresh beers and makes sure Dean eats until he’s too stuffed to move, and all in all, it's a pretty good night.
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