All's Right with the World, 1/?
Mar. 1st, 2007 02:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chaletianTitle: All’s Right with the World, 1/?
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters, Pairings: Dean
Summary/Notes: Dean Winchester’s life is pretty close to perfect. He has a loving family, a nice house, a great career. He had to sell the Impala when his daughter was born, but hey, you can’t have everything. But what he can’t work out is why he is having freaky dreams about hunting ghosts and crap like that with his little brother.
Goddamn spirits. Dean ducked as a particularly malevolent apparition hurled furniture. And not lightweight, fold-up chair type furniture, either. This spirit was hurling fucking *wardrobes*. Still, its hurling-furniture inspired glee was at least distracting it from Sam, who was scrabbling away in the corner trying to disinter the remains.
“Will you just burn this son of a bitch?” panted Dean as he narrowly avoided being flattened against the wall by an armchair.
“It’s part of the wall, Dean,” explained Sam with deliberate patience, the kind of tone of voice that made Dean want to punch his brother, as much as he loved him.
“I don’t care if it’s frigging at one with the house!” said Dean, reaching for the shotgun that had somehow ended at the wrong end of the room. “Set *fire* to it!” His hand had found the shotgun, and he swung it up, firing at the spirit, which obligingly dissipated. Dean made his way over the battleground of broken furniture, and whistled as he saw what Sam had been dealing with. Radius, ulna, metacarpals. An arm. In the wall. And it was all too clear that there was more where they had come from.
“No wonder it’s pissed,” said Dean drily, crouching down beside his brother. “Forget burying their skeletons in the closet; this family was all about the drywall.” Sam shot him a disbelieving look.
“You’re such a jerk, Dean.” Dean was about to respond in kind, the sibling exchange of insults being his winning category in conversation, when the spirit picked its moment to reappear. This time, instead of throwing furniture at Dean, it decided that simply throwing Dean would be more efficient.
Dean Winchester jerked awake, disoriented and sweating. He swiped a hand over his face, and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Six o’clock. He gave into the inevitable and got out of bed, quietly so as not to disturb the woman beside him. He grabbed the sweats from the chair at the foot of the bed and pulled them on, then a pair of Nikes, after retrieving the one he had kicked under the bed the night before. The morning jog – a figure of eight around the block – was an immutable part of his routine, and Dean felt like he needed the regularity of it particularly this morning.
He was halfway down the road before he let himself think about the dream. He’d been having them more and more frequently, and couldn’t figure out why. Dreams of him and Sam, doing the kind of things you saw in horror movies. Which would be fair enough if Dean had been doing some illicit horror movie watching, but he hadn’t been. These dreams had come out of the blue, and were disturbingly vivid.
Dean wondered, as he waved hello to Florrie Carter, the sprightly octogenarian who always seemed to be gardening whatever time he went past, what his subconscious was trying to tell him. Must be a doozy, whatever it was. Still, dreams were just dreams, after all. No point on fixating on them. Probably just meant he should give Sam a call – he hadn’t seen him since Thanksgiving, after all, when their respective families had descended on Lawrence. Dean had offered to have the family over at his, but Mary had insisted. Tradition was tradition, she had said, and Dean kind of agreed, and hadn’t pressed the point.
Half past six, and he was back home, ready for the day. Shower – dress – breakfast. Kate was up by the time he got out of the shower, trying to corral Amy who, at two, was proving to be more of a challenge than anything else in Dean’s life. He kissed his girls goodbye, and headed into work, sparing, once again, as he did every day, a thought for the Impala. Ah, the Impala. Kate got pissed when he mentioned the Impala, which was understandable, because he’d sold it when Amy was born, and wishing for it back was kinda like wishing Amy hadn’t been born. But, God, he’d loved that car.
Still, there was nothing wrong with what he drove now (not nearly as exciting; didn’t respond like the other), and Dean was satisfied with his life. He pulled into the hospital carpark on this thought and, raising a lazy hand at Ray, the security guy, began his day.
It was when he was on the ward that things started being freaky. Really, really freaky, not just crazy dream freaky. They were talking about Hayley, the little girl with the congenital heart defect. He and Steve, the cardiac surgeon, had been arguing about whether she was ready for surgery, in that non-arguing way doctors adopt in front of their six year old patient and her parents, when “Dr Winchester and I agree that there is a substantial risk…” somehow mutated into “Yeah, that’s right, Dean, there’s my boy,” and Dean just stared at Steve Mitchell and couldn’t match up his words and the words he was hearing and Jesus Christ, was he having some kind of fit? Had the pharmacy been flinging their drugs about willy nilly? But then Steve was back to being Steve, and was clearly waiting for some kind of response, and Dean had to admit that he hadn’t heard him, and then they started from the beginning. But Dean couldn’t shake off the creepy feeling he had on hearing those words. Because they may have been innocuous in themselves, but the emotion behind them – that had been enough to freak anyone out.
His shift was over eventually, and Dean went home. Kate and Amy were in their evening routine, dinner – bath – bed, and he was just in time to read Amy a story and kiss her good night. And he kissed Kate as well, but decided not to mention that he was hearing things. They went to bed, and Dean Winchester dreamed.
“Crappy motels,” groused Dean, as he nearly impaled himself on a cupboard door placed at just the wrong height for anyone entering the room. He dumped his bag on the bed closest to the bathroom and turned to his brother. “You see a diner anywhere out?” Sam shrugged, and tossed his bag on the other bed.
“There’s probably one in the town,” he said, nodding his head in the direction they had just come. “Want to walk in?”
“Sure,” agreed Dean placidly, pulling on his jacket. “It’s freezing out,” he added by way of explanation. Sam nodded, and made to open his bag, but the zipper wouldn’t budge.
“What the—” Sam started, then realization dawned. “Dean!” Dean grinned, tossed his little brother the tube of superglue used in making Sam’s possessions completely inaccessible (which in retrospect seemed to be a strategic error but hey, you couldn’t think of everything), and headed out the door for the diner, with Sam’s moaning in his ears.
“Dean! It’s five below out there! Jerk!”
“Bitch,” said Dean to himself, smiling. All was right with his world.
tbc
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters, Pairings: Dean
Summary/Notes: Dean Winchester’s life is pretty close to perfect. He has a loving family, a nice house, a great career. He had to sell the Impala when his daughter was born, but hey, you can’t have everything. But what he can’t work out is why he is having freaky dreams about hunting ghosts and crap like that with his little brother.
Goddamn spirits. Dean ducked as a particularly malevolent apparition hurled furniture. And not lightweight, fold-up chair type furniture, either. This spirit was hurling fucking *wardrobes*. Still, its hurling-furniture inspired glee was at least distracting it from Sam, who was scrabbling away in the corner trying to disinter the remains.
“Will you just burn this son of a bitch?” panted Dean as he narrowly avoided being flattened against the wall by an armchair.
“It’s part of the wall, Dean,” explained Sam with deliberate patience, the kind of tone of voice that made Dean want to punch his brother, as much as he loved him.
“I don’t care if it’s frigging at one with the house!” said Dean, reaching for the shotgun that had somehow ended at the wrong end of the room. “Set *fire* to it!” His hand had found the shotgun, and he swung it up, firing at the spirit, which obligingly dissipated. Dean made his way over the battleground of broken furniture, and whistled as he saw what Sam had been dealing with. Radius, ulna, metacarpals. An arm. In the wall. And it was all too clear that there was more where they had come from.
“No wonder it’s pissed,” said Dean drily, crouching down beside his brother. “Forget burying their skeletons in the closet; this family was all about the drywall.” Sam shot him a disbelieving look.
“You’re such a jerk, Dean.” Dean was about to respond in kind, the sibling exchange of insults being his winning category in conversation, when the spirit picked its moment to reappear. This time, instead of throwing furniture at Dean, it decided that simply throwing Dean would be more efficient.
Dean Winchester jerked awake, disoriented and sweating. He swiped a hand over his face, and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Six o’clock. He gave into the inevitable and got out of bed, quietly so as not to disturb the woman beside him. He grabbed the sweats from the chair at the foot of the bed and pulled them on, then a pair of Nikes, after retrieving the one he had kicked under the bed the night before. The morning jog – a figure of eight around the block – was an immutable part of his routine, and Dean felt like he needed the regularity of it particularly this morning.
He was halfway down the road before he let himself think about the dream. He’d been having them more and more frequently, and couldn’t figure out why. Dreams of him and Sam, doing the kind of things you saw in horror movies. Which would be fair enough if Dean had been doing some illicit horror movie watching, but he hadn’t been. These dreams had come out of the blue, and were disturbingly vivid.
Dean wondered, as he waved hello to Florrie Carter, the sprightly octogenarian who always seemed to be gardening whatever time he went past, what his subconscious was trying to tell him. Must be a doozy, whatever it was. Still, dreams were just dreams, after all. No point on fixating on them. Probably just meant he should give Sam a call – he hadn’t seen him since Thanksgiving, after all, when their respective families had descended on Lawrence. Dean had offered to have the family over at his, but Mary had insisted. Tradition was tradition, she had said, and Dean kind of agreed, and hadn’t pressed the point.
Half past six, and he was back home, ready for the day. Shower – dress – breakfast. Kate was up by the time he got out of the shower, trying to corral Amy who, at two, was proving to be more of a challenge than anything else in Dean’s life. He kissed his girls goodbye, and headed into work, sparing, once again, as he did every day, a thought for the Impala. Ah, the Impala. Kate got pissed when he mentioned the Impala, which was understandable, because he’d sold it when Amy was born, and wishing for it back was kinda like wishing Amy hadn’t been born. But, God, he’d loved that car.
Still, there was nothing wrong with what he drove now (not nearly as exciting; didn’t respond like the other), and Dean was satisfied with his life. He pulled into the hospital carpark on this thought and, raising a lazy hand at Ray, the security guy, began his day.
It was when he was on the ward that things started being freaky. Really, really freaky, not just crazy dream freaky. They were talking about Hayley, the little girl with the congenital heart defect. He and Steve, the cardiac surgeon, had been arguing about whether she was ready for surgery, in that non-arguing way doctors adopt in front of their six year old patient and her parents, when “Dr Winchester and I agree that there is a substantial risk…” somehow mutated into “Yeah, that’s right, Dean, there’s my boy,” and Dean just stared at Steve Mitchell and couldn’t match up his words and the words he was hearing and Jesus Christ, was he having some kind of fit? Had the pharmacy been flinging their drugs about willy nilly? But then Steve was back to being Steve, and was clearly waiting for some kind of response, and Dean had to admit that he hadn’t heard him, and then they started from the beginning. But Dean couldn’t shake off the creepy feeling he had on hearing those words. Because they may have been innocuous in themselves, but the emotion behind them – that had been enough to freak anyone out.
His shift was over eventually, and Dean went home. Kate and Amy were in their evening routine, dinner – bath – bed, and he was just in time to read Amy a story and kiss her good night. And he kissed Kate as well, but decided not to mention that he was hearing things. They went to bed, and Dean Winchester dreamed.
“Crappy motels,” groused Dean, as he nearly impaled himself on a cupboard door placed at just the wrong height for anyone entering the room. He dumped his bag on the bed closest to the bathroom and turned to his brother. “You see a diner anywhere out?” Sam shrugged, and tossed his bag on the other bed.
“There’s probably one in the town,” he said, nodding his head in the direction they had just come. “Want to walk in?”
“Sure,” agreed Dean placidly, pulling on his jacket. “It’s freezing out,” he added by way of explanation. Sam nodded, and made to open his bag, but the zipper wouldn’t budge.
“What the—” Sam started, then realization dawned. “Dean!” Dean grinned, tossed his little brother the tube of superglue used in making Sam’s possessions completely inaccessible (which in retrospect seemed to be a strategic error but hey, you couldn’t think of everything), and headed out the door for the diner, with Sam’s moaning in his ears.
“Dean! It’s five below out there! Jerk!”
“Bitch,” said Dean to himself, smiling. All was right with his world.
tbc
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 03:03 pm (UTC)Thanks for the read. Certainly a welcomed WTF-ness.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 04:36 pm (UTC)I love happy!Dean AUs, and this looks like it's going to be a good one. And I love the idea of Dean as a doctor - he would be such a good one!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 04:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 04:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 06:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-02 09:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 05:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-01 09:42 pm (UTC)