hadriel_logs | i've conquered country, crown & throne; ( open )

The memory had never left him, no matter how many times and how often he'd tried to push it from his mind, lock it in some dusty, long-forgotten closet and throw away the key. It lingers, like a bad habit or a shadow, at the edge of his peripheral vision, just out of reach but with the sort of presence that he can't ignore, just enough of as much to send a tangible shiver down the length of his spine each and every time the thoughts creep into his conscious thoughts, unbidden.

The cage. Something so small and yet so vast that he could never stay in one corner for too long before Lucifer found him, smiling that smile of his, the one that has only ever been meant for Sam – the sort of thing that would almost appear endearing on anyone else, anyone other than the one giving it. ( Because there could never be anything endearing about the Devil himself, the chill of his presence seeping into everything around him, especially when the light in his eyes shone as anything other than what he was trying to pass off. Innocence. Empathy. I know you, Sam, a voice echoes around him, and lips had never so much as twitched. )

All around him, there's the sound and sensation of lightning crackling, thunder rolling in the distance, and though it's more of a physical sensation than should be allowed deep inside the bowels of Hell, he can feel the fine hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. Straight, electrified, drawn in the direction of the form in front of him, every particle in him inexplicably drawn in Lucifer's direction – and even though he resists, as he has every single time before, that knowing little smile curving the bottom half of the other's expression doesn't waver. Not in the slightest and, if anything, might just lengthen itself to appear as more of a leer than anything else, the very points of sharpened teeth just barely visible behind lips stretched thin.

"Sam." The voice cuts through him, and he swallows around the sudden lump stuck in the back of his throat, every inch of him stuck and wrought with the sort of icy fear that renders immobile, muscles caught in a sort of stasis that allows for nothing; nothing that doesn't directly involve staring back at Lucifer with wide, unbelieving eyes.

"I knew you'd come back. I knew it." The Devil smiles, tilts his head to the side, the normality of the conversation a fragile thread between them that sways this way and that, thin and delicate. "It was the bunk beds, wasn't it? You missed those. Well –" And then he begins to move, slow, careful strides carrying the image of his vessel closer and closer to where Sam is pressed against a wall of the cage, palms flat against its surface, as though it might somehow bolster the waning strength thrumming through him.

"Since I missed you so much, and I'm feeling charitable," he punctuates every word with another step, careful and slow and purposeful, still with his head canted, as though seeing Sam for the first time, a delicate subject worth studying endlessly. "I'll let you pick. Top or bottom?"

"Hey, you planning on sharing those potatoes with the rest of us? C'mon."

Simple things, family dinners. Everyone sits down, takes their place at the table as though nothing had ever been more simple. Eyes take in the spread of food in front of them, the variety of familiar favorites and maybe something that no one has tried yet – adventure in the form of culinary experiments. Grace is given, even if furtive peeks at the aforementioned spread might be stolen before its end, and everyone commences filling their plates while they pick which anecdotes from the day they want to give over, which one will be the most interesting. ( Or maybe the least boring. )

Sam glares at his brother sitting opposite from him, over the giant bowl of mashed potatoes sitting between them, spoon still in hand even after he's already dumped a generous potion onto his plate. There are plenty of other things to choose from, because neither of these boys are light eaters, but he'd had to go for the obvious first, and not just because it was right in front of him. He raises an eyebrow, and very purposefully – and slowly – another spoonful plops onto his plate. "Dude, wait your turn."

"I've been waiting my turn for like five minutes. Gimme the spoon."

"I will when I'm finished."

"Well, I say you're finished now so –"

"Boys."

At one end of the table, a soft but firm voice rings out over their brotherly squabbling, bright eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth even when their owner plays at being authoritative. "There's plenty for both of you. I made extra, just in case."

Mary Winchester does not tolerate arguing at her table. She rarely tolerates arguing anywhere in her house, and across from her – at the other end, sitting silent sentinel as the head of the table – her husband is in agreement. John Winchester is very rarely a man of many words unless there is something important to be said, and letting the mother of his two sons handle the business at her table is one of those times in which he opts to stay out of it entirely.

Dean sulks. And by sulk, it of course means that he drops his gaze, glaring at his so far still-empty plate like it's somehow managed to offend him, absently picking at the edge of the tablecloth. It's not until the spoon clinks delicately back into the bowl that he picks his head back up, and while his little brother is busy grinning like the cat that's just gotten the canary all for itself, the older Winchester brother simply turns that glare in his direction instead.

( At least, now, the plate is safe from scrutiny. )

Sam chuckles a bit under his breath as he reaches for the basket of rolls, grabs one for himself and then passes it along to his father, who takes two.

What's a family dinner without a bit of good-natured banter, anyway?

Castiel didn't belong here. Not really. He frowns down at the plate in front of him, feeling oddly like he's interloping upon something personal and precious. This isn't a family he's actually a part of; after all, if they'd grown up like this, a happy family, then they'd have never met angels and demons, and Castiel wouldn't be involved with the Winchesters at all.

He just feels...uncomfortable. Even if he knows he's dreaming, and from what he's discovered, when he's in these dreams, he can experience genuine things, as a human might. Flavors. Experiences. The wealth of different food on the table is inviting, for all that Castiel is anxious about being in Sam's dream, ruining the status quo.

Castiel raised his eyes, looking over at Sam, and then at Dean, watching them both engage with each other, watching them enjoy the company of their father and mother, as though it's normal.

It is normal.

He accepts a bread roll, quietly, when the basket is passed to him. It's startling, to be suddenly involved in the dream, but there he is. There it is.

He's quiet. He just wants to observe, for now. He passes the basket along to Dean.

Somewhere, in the depths of his unconscious mind, he's vaguely aware that this is all a dream. That nothing could ever be this perfect for him or his brother, but it's something that he's wanted so desperately ever since he'd been old enough to start asking questions about his mother that he can't help but to cling to it, to hold it close with no intention of letting go anytime soon.

And so, he pushes that little inkling of realization away, down into the recesses of his subconscious, away from the sheer happiness thrumming through him at something as simple as a dinner with his family, even as Dean continues to glare at him from across the table. He takes the basket of rolls when Castiel passes it to him, and it's at that precise moment that Sam takes notice of him. He smiles, like he always does, because even though if his parents were still alive and well, it would mean that he would likely have no knowledge of the existence of angels or the supernatural in general, there's a flicker of acknowledgment, of recognizing Castiel for who he is, if not what he is.

Because that is the nature of dreams, and not even his unconscious mind can pass him off as anything but family, no matter the context.

Dean grumbles something else under his breath as he passes the rolls on, and then reaches for the nearest casserole dish at the very same time Sam does, and it's the argument about potatoes all over again.

Humming contentedly, Castiel just soaks in the atmosphere for a little longer. He nibbles his bread roll, and appreciates the family time like it's his own. Like he's meant to be here, which of course he isn't. If this all existed, then Castiel wouldn't have come into their lives at all.

But it's okay. It's a dream, and dreams don't have to make sense. Ones like this, Castiel has decided, don't have to make any sense at all, and he'd learned that a long time ago, watching Dean's dreams. They could just be enjoyable for the sake of being enjoyable. That was okay.

Castiel pulls himself up and forward, lifting the casserole dish away from both of them insistently.

"If you can't play nicely with each other," he reprimanded. "Then neither of you can have the yams. Perhaps I'll eat them all myself."

That's the strange, almost funny thing about dreams: no one is unwelcome in an atmosphere like this. Everyone is family, and it doesn't matter at all if Castiel feels like he might be intruding on something that doesn't belong to him. It's something that Sam has always appreciated about his mother, her ability to welcome anyone into her home and to her table as though they had always been part of the family.

And Castiel is more than welcome here.

Sam blinks a few times, almost owlishly when the dish between him and his brother is taken away from them – and Dean goes so far as to shoot him an incredulous look, brows furrowed sharply above narrowed eyes, the embodiment of how dare you without saying as much. Sam himself doesn't say anything, but Mary has to duck her head in order to hide the smallest of smiles.

"I'm going to have to agree with him," she says with a fair bit of amusement.

Both boys wither.

Castiel tilts his chin just a little higher, defiant in the face of the boys and their betrayal, and he holds out for just a moment before pulling himself upright gracefully, bending across the table to serve Sam, before easing back to serve Dean in turn, and finally himself.

When all's said and done, Castiel replaces the dish on the table and settles back down again, looking for all the world like the perfect Angel of Manners he is and ducking his head politely at Mary when she offers him a sweet "Thank you" down the length of the table.

You know how it always is when the neighbor's kid is the most reasonable person at the dinner table, and shows you up? That's Castiel right now. He's not even feeling remotely ashamed of himself about it, either.

Happy families are like platypuses. Adam is aware that they exist, he's seen enough pictures that he has to believe it, but the strangeness and impossibility of them are still undeniable. And, of course, he hasn't seen any in real life. Maybe Blue's family. Maybe. But everyone here is happy, even when they're sulking, and no one looks about to erupt into anger or violence.

So he assumes this is an idealized dream, not a true representation of Sam's real family. Still, it's nice. Pleasant. A good dream, and he would prefer not to ruin it. He's a guest here - both at the table and within someone else's dream, because by now Adam knows how this all works - and he ought to play along.

It's a relief, at least, that there doesn't seem to be darkness lurking around the edges. It's not a nightmare, at least not yet.

Adam politely takes a roll, and equally politely speaks.

"Could you pass the butter?"

There is surely a reason that, during his stint in Heaven when he and Dean had been running from Zachariah, one of his happiest memories from his younger years had been someone else's Thanksgiving dinner with their family. It had been his first time among the normal, functional family that could have very well been in a commercial, the perfect sort of setting, complete with teenage nerves encompassing every awkward silence in an attempt to make a good impression and leave it when he'd excused himself for the evening.

It's one of the only things he's ever really wanted. To just have them both in one place, to have memories of them both, and this is the rationalization of a desperate mind so desperately clinging to something that he can never have. Never in a million years.

He doesn't take notice of Adam until he speaks up, and he meets his gaze for a brief moment with a small, apologetic smile before he reaches for the butter container, passes it over. "Sorry," he says with a small laugh, casting a sidelong glance in Dean's direction, who had been closer to the butter initially. "Mom tried to teach him manners, but they didn't stick."

Dean's head snaps up, and around a mouthful of potatoes: "Hey!"

Adam smiles, a quick thing that's gone in a moment, though he knows that is he were to be properly polite he should probably smile more often, act more personable. That's never been something he's good at.

"It's all right. I know a few people like that, too."

Sam he recognizes, Dean - well, he's not entire sure, but Sam mentioned a brother, and they do act like what he thinks brothers would act like. His experience is mainly with the Lynch brothers - Declan and Ronan, always fighting, and Matthew a ray of sunshine. Adam has no siblings, though under extreme duress he might admit he thinks of Gansey a bit like a brother sometimes.

Still. It's not like this. This is nice.

"Thank you for having me."

It seems like a good thing to say, even though Adam is quite aware he wasn't actually invited. But it's a dream. Maybe that doesn't matter.

It's times like these, where they're all together and acting like a family – occasionally dysfunctional as it might be – that he finds himself thinking that there is nothing else that he could possibly think to want out of his life. Even if Dean is being himself, the hospitality offered at the Winchesters' dinner table is nothing but genuine, even if Sam is the only one that recognizes Adam –

Adam.

There's something that buzzes in the back of his mind, a sort of recognition that things should be different, because if Adam is here and he knows it's Adam, there's something –

Ah, but he doesn't want to be rid of the lightness of his heart at something so simple, something that has him feeling so much happier than he thinks he has been in quite some time, and it really does go to show just how broken and damaged his waking life has a tendency to be if he clings to the dream of a family dinner with everything in his being.

"Is one of them Ronan?" By now, he's made the connection that everyone from Adam's world that he's talked to – the aforementioned Lynch and Gansey – are connected, all friends, and he has to admit that Ronan hadn't exactly left the best impression on him the first time they'd run into each other. But he asks the question with a little smirk, a knowing thing, and Mary waves a dismissive hand in Adam's direction, as though there was no need at all for his thanks. ( Which, if one were to ask her, there wasn't. )

"We're always glad to have any of Sam's friends by," she says mildly, but with sincerity. ( In the background, Dean is too busy trying to sneak something from a casserole dish without Sam's knowledge. He gets away with it. )

Part of Adam is unable to do anything but marvel at the normality of it all, the familial kindness, the casual friendliness. It's like Blue's family, a little, like the sort of thing he never really experienced until recently and certainly hasn't had any time to get used it. But it's nice, really nice, and he can see why Sam would dream about something like this. Adam would to, if he could.

His eyes flicker to Sam, though, surprised for a moment. The mention of Ronan means that Sam knows who he is - shouldn't he then know that Adam doesn't belong there? But maybe it's because they're in a dream. Maybe in a dream like this nothing really seems out of place.

Adam doesn't think there's anything to do but play along. And that's pragmatism, sure, but it's also maybe an odd kind of longing, a wish for something that Adam's never had, but that he's willing to pretend to be part of for a little while.

"Yeah. I'd say he acts like he was born in a barn, but I'm pretty sure he actually was."

He glances at Dean, with some amusement.

"You guys seem to get along really well, though. All of you."

It's just after dark. The sun has sunk low enough below the horizon that there is very little color left to the sky at all, dusty reds and oranges giving way to something deeper as the stars begin to blink into existence. When Sam looks up, he thinks he can just make out a handful of constellations, their names and the names of the stars themselves that make them up flitting through to the surface of his conscious thought, and he smiles.

"Poindexter," a deeper, all-too-familiar voice call from somewhere off to the side, and he turns to see his older brother with a box filled to the brim with things they really aren't supposed to be messing with. Dean is looking at him as though he might float right off the ground and into the sky, to chase down those constellations if something doesn't nail him down, but he's grinning from ear to ear as he makes the general c'mon! motion with a tilt of his head as he turns on his heel. "Fun's this way. You can be a nerd about stars later."

"I'm not being a nerd! I'm just looking at them!"

"Looking still counts."

The younger Winchester huffs a bit under his breath, but follows rather diligently after his big brother to a patch of earth that's more dirt than grass, almost as though it had been put there for this purpose exactly. The box gets set down, and inside it Sam can see the promise of a night well-spent – a light show with sparks popping off in every direction, possibly ending with one or more singed eyebrows by the time it's all over and done with.

He peers into the box, and beside him, Dean brings out the lighter that he carries around for no real reason at all, flipping it open and closed, open and closed, almost too eager to get the show on the road. "Which one you wanna start with?"

Sam makes a contemplative little hum in the back of his throat, fingertips brushing over the odds and ends until he brings something out, something long and cylindrical. "Roman candle?"

Dean just barely keeps from rolling his eyes. "Really? You beg me for this, and that's what you pick first? How 'bout something with a little more bang?"

Brows furrow, and the discarded firework goes back into the mix with everything else. It's not so much the bang he's in this for – because at this point, it's all about spending time with Dean and quite possibly doing something he isn't supposed to, something that John might frown upon if he had any idea they were doing it at all. He picks something else, and this time Dean's eyes brighten with approval.

"Much better. Over here – I'll even let you light the fuse."

"Really?"

"Just don't burn yourself."

Sam gleefully takes the lighter from his brother's hands, flicks the flame to life and sets it against the fuse's end – and he watches it, nothing but young, earnest wanting in his gaze as that little flame travels slowly, slowly toward its destination.

When the sparks begin to fly in bursts of color, the grin on his face has never been more genuine.

When Kate runs, everything feels right. She doesn't know how else to explain it, because in her young mind it just makes sense. When she runs, everything feels like it should. Like she's supposed to be running, going fast with the wind whipping her pigtails back and forth. So she runs any time she can. She splits from her dad and keeps running into the field out back while he yells for her not to go too far now.

His voice fades into murmurs as she keeps going, just a little faster, a little little bit faster and she'd definitely win gold at the next athletics competition. And she keeps pushing herself until the voices of unfamiliar boys hits her ears and suddenly there's a young brown haired girl whose pigtails reach her knees standing a few feet away from them.

"Fireworks? Cool. Can I watch?" There's a grin on her face and a bounce to her stance as she waits at the edge of the patch of dirt.

He's had that thought before, but in terms of running away. From his father, a man convinced that both of his boys were going to grow up to be hunters - and it's all Sam has ever wanted out of yet young life, to be accepted by both his older brother and John, until he'd realized that here was more to life than practically living in the backseat of the Impala and changing schools every two weeks.

He's thought about it. Can't help but to think about it when he lies awake in bed on the nights that sleep doesn't come easily, and he's left staring at a water-stained ceiling with his hands folded over his chest in silent contemplation.

He isn't thinking to expect any company when she comes in on their little two-person fireworks display, but at the sound of her voice he turns to face her, the flashes of light and color from the second piece Dean has lit for himself splashing everything around them in vibrant greens and blues, purples and yellows. "Sure!" He's beaming, and even though Dean tosses a cursory glance over his shoulder at the newcomer, he doesn't say anything.

Instead, for a small moment, his expression falls. "Uh, this isn't like, private property or anything, is it? We're not gonna get in trouble?" Now, he hears his brother scoffing in the background, as if to say like hell we will, regardless of the answer.

Well, that's enough permission for her to bound into the dirt (and yes her pigtails pool into it but isn't that what bath time is for) and sit down next to the boys, drawing her knees close to her chest as she tilts her head up to watch the display with a beaming smile on her face. Fireworks were so much fun, but she so rarely gets to watch them - only on holidays when the town agrees to set aside an evening for launching a whole display of them into the sky.

But then one of the boys - the one who let her sit and watch - starts sounding worried and it drags her attention from the glittering colours in the sky for a minute. "Mmm, nope. I don't think so." Actually, she's never even seen this place before. The fields never used to go out to a place like this, she doesn't think. But they're awfully large and maybe she's just never run far enough before. "My dad wouldn't let me out this far if it was."

( That is completely and totally what bathtime is for. )

Sam shifts a little where he's sitting to make sure she has enough room - which, really, is a moot point because of how much space there is surrounding him, but he's just being polite, so it kind of goes without saying. Dean is paying close attention to the piece he'd just lit, watching the spew of sparks and eyeing the dry grass beyond the patch of dirt warily, because if they end up setting something on fire, this isn't exactly going to be the sneaky bit of fun they'd both wanted it to be.

Her response reassures him, and he allows himself to settle in a bit more comfortably, sitting cross-legged in the dirt with his elbows braced on his knees, head tilted back so far as he watches the light show that if he were to go any further, he might be in danger of ending up with a crick in his neck when this is all over and done with. "That's good to know. It's not like my brother cares, but I don't wanna hear my dad yell about it." A pause, and then he turns his gaze back on her, his smile threatening to split the bottom half of his face clear in two.

"I'm Sam."

(Totally!)

She doesn't seem to notice the things Sam worries about at all. The colours and explosions are just too mesmerizing to worry about little things like fires. You can put fires out with cloth or water. Totally doable. No one ever has to know.

"I'm Kat- or Kate! Whatever you want." The smiles coming from her are long forgotten in the present day, but in this time and place Kate the child can't even imagine losing her happiness. Not when there's so many pretty things around her. She flops back onto her back, threads her fingers together behind her head and watches more sparks dance in the sky. "Where did you get these?"

Sam is just ... one of those old souls trapped in a young body, and the things he worries about should have no bearing on someone as young as he is. But they do, and it might have everything to do with the sort of lives he and Dean lead, but it goes without saying that his older brother isn't necessarily going to have a care about those sorts of things, so someone has to.

Kat. He likes that - and it shows in the smile he gives at the first name she gives him, a small nod tilting his focus away from the colorful explosions overhead for the smallest moment. She might have come out of nowhere, and this might have been something that he'd been excited to share with only Dean - but the additional company, it's nice. Sharing something like this with someone else is always going to be nice.

"You look like a Kat," he says idly, his attention back to the sky as she flops back against the ground next to him. "Oh, uh, I'm not sure. Dean didn't tell me where he got 'em - hey Dean!" His voice carries, just enough to where the older Winchester is picking through his bounty for the next sacrifice. "Where'd these come from?"

"You don't worry about that," comes the drawl of his reply, speaking over his shoulder as he flicks his Zippo to life with a sly grin. Sam just shrugs, whispers conspiratorially, "That means he either stole 'em, or bought 'em illegally."

"I heard that!"

It really isn't anything to worry about, is it? Well, maybe there should be a bit more concern if either of those stories are true, but Kate is too young and too engrossed in the way they light up the night sky to pay it any sort of serious attention. It just comes across as a silly joke between new friends, a kid teasing his brother. (And speaking of brothers, where is Marc? That loser better not be doing homework again.)

Another round of bright colour lights up the sky, bathing them in reds and blues, and Kate whispers back, "he's burning the evidence. That's kinda smart," and laughs, giggles, leaning up to cover her mouth with her hand.

Edited 2016-05-24 06:14 (UTC)

It really isn't, and he shouldn't be catching himself worrying about something that he has no business worrying about in the first place. ( But it's in his nature, because someone has to, even when it melts away easily enough with the colorful sparks showering down over his head, lighting the area around them in the same sort of way that he thinks a rainbow might, if it cast off any sort of light at all. Prisms of color that pop and then fade into something else entirely. )

Sam can't help but to try to smother a laugh of his own behind his hand, and of course it doesn't work, because the whole thing has Dean peering over at them like they're plotting his great demise, eyes narrowed first at Sam himself, and then Kate. "... I'm watchin' you two," he mock-grumps, but then, in a shift of expression so fluid and smooth it barely registers, the line of his mouth curves back into its trademark smirk.

"You know the rules, Sammy. No girlfriends before you hit puberty."

... And Sam's ears immediately turn pink. "Dean!"

Plotting the demise of the person setting the fireworks sounds like a terrible idea. They'd have to light things on fire and that would just be a fire hazard with Kate's hair. She sticks her tongue out at Dean's joke in that childish way you do when cooties are still the hot topic on the playground. "Ewww." Nothing against you, Sam, but boys are friends, not food and her life is way too busy for that.

Edited 2016-05-25 10:20 (UTC)

Well it's not like he was thinking anything like that, anyway.

But that doesn't mean that Dean isn't going to give him nine kinds of hell for it, just because he can, and he's living his life in perpetual big brother syndrome. That's just how he rolls.

He snorts at the ewww, and stays quiet for a second, paying more attention to the sparks flying over their heads again. Dean, thankfully, doesn't see the merit in continuing his picking at his little brother, for which Sam is eternally grateful. "Just ignore him," he mumbles, about as flippant as he's ever been. That's how he usually chooses to deal with his older brother.

Sometimes, it even works.

Please, like that is exclusive to older siblings. ~~Kitkat shush you're like two months older than Marc.~~ It's part of sibling code. Her fingers draw idle swirls in the dirt as the show continues, movement that really means nothing but her own comfort lying here.

"Brothers are daft, aren't they?" she answers, thinking of her own - even if they're not related by blood, everyone treats Marc and Kate as if they're inseparable siblings, so they may as well be.

Well, okay. Yeah. It's definitely not mutually exclusive. ( But it does have a tendency to hold more weight there than anything else. And there's four years between this pair of brothers, which just takes into account that the years separating them means that Dean thinks he knows everything, Sam knows nothing, and he constantly needs to remind him of that little fact like the jerk he is. )

Daft. He might not have put it that way, not exactly, but it does have him casting a sidelong glance at his brother as he lights something with a particular bit of oomph to it, sparks flying in every known direction and possibly some that haven't been discovered yet, and the look on his face is priceless. "S'one way to put it," he murmurs, albeit fondly. "So, you've got one too?"

She nods to the question, leaning up to watch the truly spectacular explosion that sprays light across an ever darker sky. "Uh-huh. Well... We're not really related, but our parents just say we are." Because there is no day they're not together, all six of them. From sharing dinners at one house or another, to dropping Kate or Marc off at the other house to be watched while their parents shop or do anything of a million other things. "We don't really see our other family." Her grandparents died before she can remember them, like most superhumans do, and there is no other family to speak of - no siblings or cousins - thanks to their nature.

But Kate beams anyway. "He's smart. Our parents are already talking about Cambridge for him."

There's really nothing like seeing the sort of familial devotion in someone's expression as the level of which he's catching a glimpse of in Kate right now; he can tell, that even though they aren't related by blood, their bond transcends far beyond that, and to him, that's all that's ever mattered. As Uncle Bobby has always said, family don't end in blood.

Their little family, him and Dean and John with the occasional visits to Bobby's home in the salvage yard, that's about all Sam thinks he'll ever need.

At the mention of Cambridge, his eyes go wide and owlish; that's such an ambition that he's never thought about such a thing for himself, even though there's always going to be a part of him that wants to separate himself from the life of his father and brother, from hunting altogether, and chase down the knowledge he knows is just out of his reach. "Really? Oh, man, that would be so cool!"

Off to the side, Dean whispers darkly, "Neeeerd," and Sam grimaces.

Don't worry, Dean, Kate kind of agrees, even if her heart bursts with pride at how well Marc does in school. For her, school has always been boring, requiring too much stillness and focus for her to care. It's only when P.E. classes come that she gives a damn about her lessons, always pushing herself harder and becoming insanely competitive. She would totally be a professional athlete one day. But for now, she just nods. "Mmhmm. I bet he could do it, too." And then, after a beat, because she's curious. "What do you wanna do?"

Here is where we begin to realize that she and Dean would get along rather famously - if only by dint of the realization that they felt the same way about things like school and probably education in general, and sitting still long enough to get a good one. Sam is the complete opposite, which, it's anyone's guess how someone can be so different from an older sibling, but it goes without saying at this point that he and Dean are just opposite sides to the same coin.

There is no one of them without the other.

He thinks about that for a second, chewing at the inside of his lower lip. "Dunno. But I know I wanna go to college. Find something to do, y'know?" A beat. "What about you?"

What is it they say about hating people who are too much like yourself? Maybe that's why siblings need contrast - two Deans is just a very, very scary thought, honestly. Sitting up, Kate draws her legs into her chest and listens to Sam. It's a nice dream, she guesses. Some people really seemed to like school, even if it is something she can't fathom.

But, as for her... "I'm training with my coach to get to the Olympics!" It won't be a reality for years, but she's semi-famous in local superhuman athletic competitions. She tugs on a pigtail before adding. "For the triple jump, probably. Maybe hurdles. We practice a bit of everything."

Amos crouches, rummages through the box and extracts some sparklers. Pleased with these, he settles on the ground beside Sam, glancing briefly at Dean. A brother? A cousin? They're clearly family, all in the face. Blood ties...and the obvious affection and banter. It's delightful.

"Let's just not set anyone on fire, a'ight?"

Sparklers!

... They had been one of the things that Sam had initially thought of before he'd picked up the roman candle, but he'd known that Dean wouldn't think they were cool enough to start out with, or just too tame altogether.

But they're still one of his favorites, that much he can't possibly deny.

Amos is bound to figure out that Dean is the older brother soon enough, if only by dint of the direction their banter tends to take. Sam just laughs at the comment, but Dean shoots over his shoulder, "Trips to the emergency room are kind of a family tradition 'round here."

And Sam just groans.

"Hey, I didn't say nothin' 'bout not going to the hospital, figured that was a given. I just said no setting eachother on fire," Amos returns, cheerfully, and scoops up the lighter to ignite one of the sparklers. He waves it about to emphasize his point, tone faintly paternal. He is a father, even if he keeps his family a close-held secret. "Whatever else you get up to is fine by me."

He grins and offers Sam one of the unlit sparklers: he'd seen that look on his face.

Amos, you're quite possibly one of his favorite people on the planet right now. Or maybe just in dreamspace - but that doesn't matter, because he's picked up on the younger Winchester gunning for one of those sparklers, and he takes it with the sort of triumphant grin he gives Dean when he's either just proven him wrong or managed to get one over on him.

He's just short of sticking his tongue out him. Sam Winchester, you're old enough to know better, and you know it.

He lights his sparkler, and watches as it fizzles into life, eyes lighting up as though they hadn't already been filled with the sort of delight that can only come from doing something that he isn't supposed to be doing. "We'll be careful," he adds absently, twirling the firework around and around and watching the after-images left in the dark from the bursts of light.

"Uh-huh," Amos returns, with doubt, as he watches Dean select a slightly more impressive firework out of the box. He's still grinning, though, because it's all in good fun, and he lights a second sparkler from the sputtering remains of the first. Happily, he traces patterns in the dark, blinking at the vivid lines left lingering in his vision.

He's no fire-bug, like some of his friends, but fireworks are fun and Amos enjoys life to the fullest.

"Have you ever thought … about what it would be like to see different parts of the world?"

Lying on his bed – well, not his bed, but his for the week – upside-down, feet braced against the wall opposite him, Sam makes a contemplative little frown as he thinks about the question. Across from him, sitting on the floor against the other wall of the too-tiny motel room, Sully waits with the patience of a saint.

"Maybe. But there are a lot of places in the world. How do you even pick what you wanna see first?"

It's Sully's turn to make a thoughtful sort of face, his expression morphing from impassive and content into something a little deeper, eyes narrowed at a nondescript patch of floor, brows knit above them. "I guess I'd have to write all the names of the places I wanted to see down, toss 'em in a hat, and pick one at random." He picks his gaze up, face brightening back into his familiar smile. "It'd be like a game! And you'd always be surprised at where you'd end up going next."

Sam accepts this answer with a grin of his own, and he briefly knocks his heels against the wall as he thinks. "Have you ever thought … about what you would eat if you could only ever eat one thing for the rest of your life?" His eyes are bright as gemstones, and it's clear that he thinks this question is golden, something that his friend is going to have to spend the rest of the afternoon figuring out.

Instead, Sully shakes his head with the confidence of someone that has had this figured out only since forever, and Sam suddenly thinks that he might need to think a little bit harder about the things he wants to ask. "Easy. Jelly beans."

"Really? Just jelly beans?"

"Well, all of them except the purple ones. Those are gross."

"Yeah, they are gross."

There's a pause, a moment of companionable silence in which Sam knocks his heels against the wall again, tapping out an arrhythmic little beat that sounds almost like it's meant to be Morse code.

"Have you ever thought …"

i've conquered country, crown & throne; ( open )

dust devil swept you away; ( fear )

it's still not real; ( hope )

Re: it's still not real; ( hope )

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

ash and urn and silence; ( delight )

oh god it's too cute ok

i was hoping people would like this prompt it's one of my favorite of his memories ..

it is utterly adorable ;;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

talk to me; ( delight )