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roxyTitle: Twilight Time (What We Did After The End of The End Of The World)
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1730
Summary: Each day I pray for evening just to be with you, together at last at twilight time
A/N: totally self-indulgent shmoop.
At three o clock, Dean wipes his hands off on a shop rag, getting a little smear of grease on his forehead. It's almost ridiculously theatrical, as it just points out how pretty a green his eyes are, how long his lashes. And no one remarks on this out having learned years ago that Dean is soft-spoken, likes to laugh, avoids arguments but isn't beyond beating the bloody hell out of someone to make his point. So…no teasing Dean about his looks. It's okay to joke about his abilities in the shop, in the sack, his singing—in fact, anything else is fair game. Just not that….
He's unsnapping his coveralls, lets the top swing loose as he lopes over to the time-clock, grabs his card and punches out. He glances around, running through his mental checklist of stuff to do before he leaves the garage for the day, rubbing his cold fingers together as he thinks. The garage is hot in summer, cold in winter and dark except when the bay doors are open. There's a little parts shop up front, the offices, time clock and lounge in the middle of the building and the garage takes up the back. Dean runs the place like it's his own, and at this point in time, the owner's pleased to let it be so. Dean's the best foreman he's ever had—he's the perfect combination of supportive and asshole. The guys love him, talk about him like a dog but will do anything he wants. In return, Dean's got their back. They know it.
Dean sticks his head in the office, calls out to the secretary-office manager. "Hey Gwen, I'm leaving. Tell the boss I'll see him tomorrow. George's got it under control. Tell Mr. Allen that Scion thing is done," and Dean shakes his head like he can't for the life of him imagine why someone would want to claim a car like that. He waves and heads down the road, past the post office, the liquor store, the deli, past the diner he has breakfast in almost every morning of the workweek. Walks past the uniform store where he buys his boots, his coveralls, and the heavy canvas barn jackets he's come to favor for work. He takes a right at the corner and walks up the gentle incline that is the street he lives on. The street is not as busy as the main drag, not as wide. It boasts a couple of 'antique' stores for the tourists, a tiny little café that serves a pretty decent coffee and they don’t mind if you sit with the paper and a cup for a couple of hours on a Sunday…the street is lined with trees, all of them at the moment unclothed, but a little fuzzy and reddish with leaves to come. It's still a little raw, so Dean shrugs the top of his coveralls back on. He stops in front of a duplex, a yellow two story house with a wrap-around porch, wicker furniture sitting on it, and empty baskets hanging from the porch eaves. In spring, they'll hold pansies and primrose, in summer impatiens and petunias. Nothing fancy or high maintenance, but nice to look at.
Dean whistles as he unlocks the front door, checks the double size mailbox. It holds bills, of course, and a couple of car magazines, some parts dealer's magazines, stuff he's not interested in, and a small package. He smiles and takes it all inside.
Inside, he puts the mail on the foyer table, hangs his keys and takes his boots off on the tile inset like a rug in the doorway. He empties his pockets into a bowl—whatever he doesn't recognize or need, goes into a metal trashcan under the foyer table.
He trots up the stairs, down the hall and past a large old-fashioned bathroom. There's a separate tiled shower enclosure, a free standing tub, and if you got Dean in an expansive mood, he'd tell you he'd kill for that bathroom, maybe explain—not complain, just tell the story, that when he was a kid, life was one series of motel rooms after another, tiny, ratty and most of the time, toxic bathrooms and tubs he could hardly sit in, let alone shower. So yeah, he fucking loves his bathroom. The rest of the house is fine as far as he's concerned. There's a kitchen, functional for what he does with it, there are two bedrooms, one turned into a home office—he needed some place to keep track of his paperwork, some place to shove the huge old-fashioned kidney desk he imagined his mom would have liked—the desk he spent all summer refinishing the first year of his 'retirement', so he wouldn't go nuts with the nothing to do. The official bedroom held another fantasy of his childhood—a king sized bed. At a smidge over six feet, even a queen sized bed, when they were lucky enough to get one, was a tight fit length wise. When it came time for him to pick out his bed, he waited, until he could afford a king. Every night he threw himself on that mattress was like a night in heaven. He told himself he deserved it. And he did, he really did. He stops in the bedroom doorway and tosses the little package on the bed, before heading for the bathroom.
In the bathroom, he strips down, tosses the coveralls into a hamper, checks himself out in the full length mirror on one wall. It'd been installed with checking out damage in mind, but the only damage he sees these days is dealt out by time. He wasn't as flat as he once had been; he was a little soft around the middle now, under the chin. The lines on his face are more pronounced, smile lines Gwen calls them because she has a massive crush on him. He turns and looks over his shoulder. He still has a great ass, still has strong legs, arms…he flexes his hands, rolls his shoulders, and his skin moves with the motion, all over painted with puckers, rills of white, gnarled skin. Fine dots and dashes of silvered flesh run all over him. He runs a thumb over a slightly faded tattoo high on his chest, stares critically at himself--if he had to, he could still take something nasty down. He works out to make sure that is the case. He's officially retired but he knows better than that. The life never really left you; you just dodged it if you were lucky….
And his dick works as well as it ever has, thank you, and that was the most important thing of all. He grins at himself, makes a disgusted noise at all his 'smile lines' and climbs into the shower. The water is hot, the water pressure outrageous…he dips his head and lets hot water pound the back of his neck, loosen up the inevitable knots of tense muscle. It runs over him, and his dick perks up a little as he relaxes, exhales…thinks about the girl who brought in that piece of crap Excel today, all long legs and happy tits and a mouth sinful as hell…he closes his eyes and leans against the wall lets the water hit him. He runs through his regular fantasies. Angelina, Eva, Ryan…Boyd at the Stop and Shop but that one was secret…he snorts and decides to just get the hell out of the shower. Tells his dick to heel and washes his hair, once twice, trying to get the smell of grease and sweat out.
He towels off, gets dressed, combs his hair, swipes a little product through it because he's just the smallest bit vain. He runs a belt through the loops of a clean, almost new pair of jeans, still stiff, still dark, cuffs turned up over boots because he likes the look. He's got a bright white tee tucked into the jeans. Frowns and grabs a bit of skin, pinches the small roll that he's been told only exists in his mind. He's thinking some people are way too kind. He scowls, sucks in his breath and when he catches sight of his face, starts laughing. "Fuck. Idiot."
He's trotting down the stairs, trying to remember where he left his phone because he never bring it to work; he's too busy on the job to answer his phone. The fridge distracts him with it’s siren call of cold beer and leftover pizza and he's sure one won't hurt and he only had half a sandwich for lunch, a slice won’t kill him....
He finds his phone in his jacket pocket when he pulls it on and stops dead in the foyer…weird, every once in a while his jacket smells of old leather and smoke, a greasy, sinus-burning kind of smell, and it sends him right back to the old days before it fades. No one else ever smells it and he's pretty willing to believe it's all in the mind. He locks the door behind him, waves to the pretty neighbor a house over from them as she swings out of her big old SUV, all smiles and bright blue eyes, and leading her daughter by the hand, who gets an enthusiastic wave when she shouts, "Mr. Dean!"
He kind of likes kids.
He jumps off the porch, goes around the side of the house to open the garage door and looks—yep. His baby is still there. It's goofy. Everyday he looks to make sure she's there. There's a sharp beep-beep behind him and a contented sigh wells up, and he shoves the keys into his pocket, shuts the garage door again.
The BMW in the driveway makes his nose wrinkle but oh well. He's kind of learned not to look gift horses in the mouth.
"Are you ready? I'm starving, dude."
"Yeah, yeah, coming. Nag," he mutters, and Sam says, "I heard that, not deaf yet."
Sam's wearing his work clothes, high collared shirt, suit and tie topped off with a power haircut. He pulls off his tie and opens the top button of his shirt.
Dean smirks. "Whoa, don't go wild now," and Sam throws his head back and laughs, wrinkles competing with dimples, and Dean doesn't feel bad at all about graying at the temples, not now.
Sam
Fandom: SpN
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1730
Summary: Each day I pray for evening just to be with you, together at last at twilight time
A/N: totally self-indulgent shmoop.
At three o clock, Dean wipes his hands off on a shop rag, getting a little smear of grease on his forehead. It's almost ridiculously theatrical, as it just points out how pretty a green his eyes are, how long his lashes. And no one remarks on this out having learned years ago that Dean is soft-spoken, likes to laugh, avoids arguments but isn't beyond beating the bloody hell out of someone to make his point. So…no teasing Dean about his looks. It's okay to joke about his abilities in the shop, in the sack, his singing—in fact, anything else is fair game. Just not that….
He's unsnapping his coveralls, lets the top swing loose as he lopes over to the time-clock, grabs his card and punches out. He glances around, running through his mental checklist of stuff to do before he leaves the garage for the day, rubbing his cold fingers together as he thinks. The garage is hot in summer, cold in winter and dark except when the bay doors are open. There's a little parts shop up front, the offices, time clock and lounge in the middle of the building and the garage takes up the back. Dean runs the place like it's his own, and at this point in time, the owner's pleased to let it be so. Dean's the best foreman he's ever had—he's the perfect combination of supportive and asshole. The guys love him, talk about him like a dog but will do anything he wants. In return, Dean's got their back. They know it.
Dean sticks his head in the office, calls out to the secretary-office manager. "Hey Gwen, I'm leaving. Tell the boss I'll see him tomorrow. George's got it under control. Tell Mr. Allen that Scion thing is done," and Dean shakes his head like he can't for the life of him imagine why someone would want to claim a car like that. He waves and heads down the road, past the post office, the liquor store, the deli, past the diner he has breakfast in almost every morning of the workweek. Walks past the uniform store where he buys his boots, his coveralls, and the heavy canvas barn jackets he's come to favor for work. He takes a right at the corner and walks up the gentle incline that is the street he lives on. The street is not as busy as the main drag, not as wide. It boasts a couple of 'antique' stores for the tourists, a tiny little café that serves a pretty decent coffee and they don’t mind if you sit with the paper and a cup for a couple of hours on a Sunday…the street is lined with trees, all of them at the moment unclothed, but a little fuzzy and reddish with leaves to come. It's still a little raw, so Dean shrugs the top of his coveralls back on. He stops in front of a duplex, a yellow two story house with a wrap-around porch, wicker furniture sitting on it, and empty baskets hanging from the porch eaves. In spring, they'll hold pansies and primrose, in summer impatiens and petunias. Nothing fancy or high maintenance, but nice to look at.
Dean whistles as he unlocks the front door, checks the double size mailbox. It holds bills, of course, and a couple of car magazines, some parts dealer's magazines, stuff he's not interested in, and a small package. He smiles and takes it all inside.
Inside, he puts the mail on the foyer table, hangs his keys and takes his boots off on the tile inset like a rug in the doorway. He empties his pockets into a bowl—whatever he doesn't recognize or need, goes into a metal trashcan under the foyer table.
He trots up the stairs, down the hall and past a large old-fashioned bathroom. There's a separate tiled shower enclosure, a free standing tub, and if you got Dean in an expansive mood, he'd tell you he'd kill for that bathroom, maybe explain—not complain, just tell the story, that when he was a kid, life was one series of motel rooms after another, tiny, ratty and most of the time, toxic bathrooms and tubs he could hardly sit in, let alone shower. So yeah, he fucking loves his bathroom. The rest of the house is fine as far as he's concerned. There's a kitchen, functional for what he does with it, there are two bedrooms, one turned into a home office—he needed some place to keep track of his paperwork, some place to shove the huge old-fashioned kidney desk he imagined his mom would have liked—the desk he spent all summer refinishing the first year of his 'retirement', so he wouldn't go nuts with the nothing to do. The official bedroom held another fantasy of his childhood—a king sized bed. At a smidge over six feet, even a queen sized bed, when they were lucky enough to get one, was a tight fit length wise. When it came time for him to pick out his bed, he waited, until he could afford a king. Every night he threw himself on that mattress was like a night in heaven. He told himself he deserved it. And he did, he really did. He stops in the bedroom doorway and tosses the little package on the bed, before heading for the bathroom.
In the bathroom, he strips down, tosses the coveralls into a hamper, checks himself out in the full length mirror on one wall. It'd been installed with checking out damage in mind, but the only damage he sees these days is dealt out by time. He wasn't as flat as he once had been; he was a little soft around the middle now, under the chin. The lines on his face are more pronounced, smile lines Gwen calls them because she has a massive crush on him. He turns and looks over his shoulder. He still has a great ass, still has strong legs, arms…he flexes his hands, rolls his shoulders, and his skin moves with the motion, all over painted with puckers, rills of white, gnarled skin. Fine dots and dashes of silvered flesh run all over him. He runs a thumb over a slightly faded tattoo high on his chest, stares critically at himself--if he had to, he could still take something nasty down. He works out to make sure that is the case. He's officially retired but he knows better than that. The life never really left you; you just dodged it if you were lucky….
And his dick works as well as it ever has, thank you, and that was the most important thing of all. He grins at himself, makes a disgusted noise at all his 'smile lines' and climbs into the shower. The water is hot, the water pressure outrageous…he dips his head and lets hot water pound the back of his neck, loosen up the inevitable knots of tense muscle. It runs over him, and his dick perks up a little as he relaxes, exhales…thinks about the girl who brought in that piece of crap Excel today, all long legs and happy tits and a mouth sinful as hell…he closes his eyes and leans against the wall lets the water hit him. He runs through his regular fantasies. Angelina, Eva, Ryan…Boyd at the Stop and Shop but that one was secret…he snorts and decides to just get the hell out of the shower. Tells his dick to heel and washes his hair, once twice, trying to get the smell of grease and sweat out.
He towels off, gets dressed, combs his hair, swipes a little product through it because he's just the smallest bit vain. He runs a belt through the loops of a clean, almost new pair of jeans, still stiff, still dark, cuffs turned up over boots because he likes the look. He's got a bright white tee tucked into the jeans. Frowns and grabs a bit of skin, pinches the small roll that he's been told only exists in his mind. He's thinking some people are way too kind. He scowls, sucks in his breath and when he catches sight of his face, starts laughing. "Fuck. Idiot."
He's trotting down the stairs, trying to remember where he left his phone because he never bring it to work; he's too busy on the job to answer his phone. The fridge distracts him with it’s siren call of cold beer and leftover pizza and he's sure one won't hurt and he only had half a sandwich for lunch, a slice won’t kill him....
He finds his phone in his jacket pocket when he pulls it on and stops dead in the foyer…weird, every once in a while his jacket smells of old leather and smoke, a greasy, sinus-burning kind of smell, and it sends him right back to the old days before it fades. No one else ever smells it and he's pretty willing to believe it's all in the mind. He locks the door behind him, waves to the pretty neighbor a house over from them as she swings out of her big old SUV, all smiles and bright blue eyes, and leading her daughter by the hand, who gets an enthusiastic wave when she shouts, "Mr. Dean!"
He kind of likes kids.
He jumps off the porch, goes around the side of the house to open the garage door and looks—yep. His baby is still there. It's goofy. Everyday he looks to make sure she's there. There's a sharp beep-beep behind him and a contented sigh wells up, and he shoves the keys into his pocket, shuts the garage door again.
The BMW in the driveway makes his nose wrinkle but oh well. He's kind of learned not to look gift horses in the mouth.
"Are you ready? I'm starving, dude."
"Yeah, yeah, coming. Nag," he mutters, and Sam says, "I heard that, not deaf yet."
Sam's wearing his work clothes, high collared shirt, suit and tie topped off with a power haircut. He pulls off his tie and opens the top button of his shirt.
Dean smirks. "Whoa, don't go wild now," and Sam throws his head back and laughs, wrinkles competing with dimples, and Dean doesn't feel bad at all about graying at the temples, not now.
Sam
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(no subject)
3/16/09 05:31 am (UTC)This was so sweet and perfect, and exactly the kind of happy ending we'll never get. :( Hmmmph!
Thank you so much for posting this, sweetie! I absolutely love happy, aging!Dean (and Sammy too!). *snuggle*
(no subject)
3/16/09 05:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
3/16/09 05:32 am (UTC)Thank you so much for this. :)
*hugs*
(no subject)
3/16/09 05:34 am (UTC)Thanks so much for reading my shmoop! I'm kind of tempted to write Sam's day, too! ;)
(no subject)
3/16/09 05:45 am (UTC)I loved this, sweetie. It would be wonderful to see Sam's pov.
(no subject)
3/16/09 03:33 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/16/09 04:06 pm (UTC)*HUGS*
(no subject)
3/16/09 06:40 am (UTC)That was just lovely. I love me some Sam and Dean who actually survive and have a life.
I love that Dean walks through the little town and leaves his baby in the garage. And I love the touch of magic in the old smell that no one else can smell.
Great schmoop. Made me kind of happysad. Thank you!
(no subject)
3/16/09 04:05 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/16/09 11:04 am (UTC)'Cause of the jacket, that's why......that it brings back his past at times for no good reason...
:)
Boys!
*smishes them*
(no subject)
3/16/09 03:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/16/09 03:43 pm (UTC)*whimper*
Okay, okay....
:)
(no subject)
3/16/09 04:00 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/16/09 04:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/16/09 04:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/16/09 04:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/16/09 03:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/16/09 04:02 pm (UTC)I'm so scarred from teh everlasting angst!!
*clings*
(no subject)
3/16/09 04:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/16/09 11:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/17/09 04:16 am (UTC)I am in complete squee over the boys getting a happy ending. Even if it's probably unlikely, I'm going to pretend this is the ending we're going to get.
(no subject)
3/17/09 03:15 pm (UTC)And this is the end they get and there is no other! *puts fingers in ears* lalalalalalala
(no subject)
3/18/09 03:25 am (UTC)That is how it will end.
Icon love and Impala love!
(no subject)
3/18/09 02:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
3/18/09 02:33 am (UTC)(no subject)
4/26/09 04:05 am (UTC)wallowing inthis very much.(no subject)
4/26/09 04:14 am (UTC)hee! Thank you, yes it is indeed!
(no subject)
4/27/09 08:14 pm (UTC)