SPN Summergen 2017
backroadsspirit
So, after the masterlist is officially out, I figured I might as well share my contribution to this year´s summergen here as well.Shoutout to the moderators dugindeep, kalliel and quickreaveror making this challenge possible each year,you are amazing!!

Title: The games we play
Creator: Backroadsspirit
Recipient: verucasalt123
Rating: K+
Word Count or Media: 4369
Warnings: Canonical character death
Author's Notes: Heartfelt thanks to my wonderful beta (you know who you are;)), all remaining mistakes are mine alone and I hope that all of you, but especially verucasalt123, enjoy my take on her prompt!

Summary: “I just think that it´d be nice if we could make our own rules every now and then.”
Or, The Winchester boys, a deck of cards and something about life.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/12058806

Prompt fill Celebrating Sam challenge
backroadsspirit
Just a little thing I wrote for the Celebrating Sam challenge on ohsam:)

Title: A kind of magic
Prompt word: unicorn
Rating:gen
Beta: Soncnica

Summary: "And you always told me they don´t exist."

A kind of magic

„Dean“

„Mmh?“

„Why´d you lie to me?“

Quick turn on his heels, head cocked to the side with a frown, more than a little conflicted between outrageous denial and which time?

“Don´t really understand that question, Sammy.” Guard up, carefully treading this unstable conversational grounds.

“But it´s lit´rally right there. Right behind ya. An´ you always told me they don´ exist.”

Sam´s voice edging towards whiny, Dean´s finger finding the trigger. A slow 360, scanning every inch of their room, hard-learned scrutiny: Hideous pink-striped curtains, an antique dust-covered pot flower kinda looking like it´s patiently awaiting its chance for world domination. But no threat.

Nothing.

Lowering the gun, eyes wandering back towards the 6´4 feet of little brother currently sprawled out on the bed by the window. The corners of his mouth rise. Oh, this is going to be good.

“Told you what doesn´t exist, Sammy?” All wide-eyed innocence, while his hand´s slowly reaching for his phone.

Unlock, voice recorder, start recording.

“Whaddaya think, idiot, the unicorn!”

Sam, completely serious, finger pointing agitatedly at a spot behind Dean´s left ear.

“How come you don´ see it? `S all shiny and sparkling.”

Teeth biting down hard on the inside of his cheek and keep it together now!

Because Sam´s face. Features more familiar than his own, stuck between impatient exasperation at his brother´s incapability and honest distress about him not seeing the sparkling magical creature he´s so fascinated by. And it makes him want to laugh but it made him want to cry, too.

“Don´t you worry your pretty little head, bro, I see something so much better right now.”

Going for teasing and missing by miles, truth slipping out between the syllables and damn it, but he feels that the thirty stitches holding his little brother´s side together right now are making him a little entitled.

“But Dean, you need to see ´t, this might be our only chance!”

Adamant and completely lost to reality, stuck in a world where showing his brother a unicorn is worth popping his stitches for. Luckily for him, Dean is faster. Before Sam can push himself up he´s there, hands placed on his shoulders.

“Hey, hey, relax, man, okay? I´m sure the unicorn´ll still be there tomorrow. You can show me then, alright?”

Eye to eye, green to brown, brother to brother. Tension melts out of tired muscles and Sam sinks back down. Not defeat but unconditional trust.

“Yeah, okay.”

And finally, their last dose of heavy-duty painkillers proving to be worth the money they didn´t pay for them. Breathing evening out, eyes slipping shut, body going limb and it feels like the whole room breathes a universal sigh of relief.

Kid never did know when it´s time to let go. Guess that makes two of us.

“Sleep well, Sammy.”

Heaving a sigh that´s equally relieved and resigned. Stopping the recording. Saving it in the file with little-brother-blackmail-material, even though he already knows he´s never going to use it for that.

Saving it anyway, just because he knows there´ll be times when he´ll want to remember how his brother sounds when he jabbers about unicorns like he doesn´t have a care in the world. Times that might already come tomorrow, when Sam´ll wake up to a stitched wound that would´ve killed him had it been a little further on the right and he´ll have to tell him they were all out of drugs.

And money. And hope.

Tired legs carrying him over to the chair by the door, eyes lingering on his brother´s sleeping form.

Well, maybe not hope.

Mumbling, to himself more than anything else: “Hope you dream of unicorns.”

Prompt fill for the Birthday challenge on Ohsam.
backroadsspirit
A little late, but I loved this prompt and had to do it. Thanks to soncnica for the quick beta reading:)

Prompt:Sometimes, Sam needs to take a quite moment to look through his memory box by madebyme_x



In Memoriam

An old wooden box, rusty hinges, peeled off paint. All of his thirty three years, in there. Not much to look at from the outside, but he knows better.

Nearly all of the photos are old, the colors all but faded. Most of them rescued from their old house, some showing Dad and Mom, sometimes with him and Dean. There is one John took of them on the day of Dean´s High school graduation. He never went, since there had been a poltergeist to hunt, but the photo remained.
Then one of him and Dean that is maybe five years old, the colors still clearly visible in the dim light of his bedroom table lamp. They´d been in the middle of trying to hold off the apocalypse and there had been too many empty glasses and then this photo booth in an empty street. He vaguely remembers puking on Dean´s shoes on the way to the motel, but on the picture they´re both grinning like the idjits Bobby had always accused them to be and Dean´s arm is lazily slung around his shoulder. There had been a time when he didn´t believe he´d ever do that again.

And then there is the one of him, Dean and Mary that he had laid down at his brother´s feet, waiting for the scythe to descend and hoping Dean would still be able to see the love and trust and goodness when it was all said and done. He never stopped hoping that.

There is his old pocket knife, a gift from Dad for his eighth birthday. There is a battered looking Zippo lighter and he will never forget the moment he dropped it into the grave, felt the heat of the rising flames on his cheeks and Dad´s hand on his bony shoulders. “Good job, son”. His first hunt and the night after, sharing a beer with his father and brother in a dark motel room and feeling like he belonged, if only until the sun came up in the morning.

Beside it, Bobby´s baseball. He remembers spending an entire summer trying to learn the finer points of the game and after accidentally shattering the windows in one of the fixed cars Bobby took him out to a small clearing behind the junkyard and taught him.

In a small plastic bag there is the bullet he pulled out of Dean´s side when he was sixteen and too tired from spending the previous night studying for a chemistry test and too worried about the English essay he still had to finish to see the shapeshifter sneak up behind his brother. Dad had held a trembling Dean down, mumbling reassurances too silent for him to hear while he dug the bullet out with shaking fingers and the knowledge that he could never wash his brother´s blood from his hands. He kept it as a reminder.

On the right side, there is an old deck of cards, worn out, some edges torn off, having passed between his and Dean´s hands thousands of times over the years. Dean had taught him how to play poker when he was seven and they were both cooped up in a motel room waiting for Dad´s return. He had seen his brother and father play and begged and pleaded until Dean grudgingly relented. It became their favorite pastime on long drives and during longer waits until Dean learned there were things in this world even more interesting than cars and guns, but even when they got older, they would find half an hour for a game here and there and it´s been a long time since he had been defeated by any stranger.

The wooden amulet the girls from the play had given Dean eventually found its way in there along with the real thing. Back then, he couldn´t bear the thought of leaving it behind and so it always traveled with him. He´ll tell Dean about it, eventually. Many things have changed since then and it wasn´t until he saw Dean wind the fake amulet around the rearview mirror that he realized that it ultimately makes no difference. They don´t need the amulet, not anymore. Maybe, one day, he´ll just drop it on the kitchen table, or bring it up in a casual conversation over a bottle of beer, just to let Dean know. That would be nice. Until then, it will be safe here.

On the bottom of the box is a folded piece of paper where a child´s unsteady hands have drawn three somewhat sketchy people in front of a big black car. “My family”, it said in slightly blurred printed letters, proudly signed by one Samy Winchesder. He had found it in Dad´s lock-up, along with Dean´s first self-made sawed-off and some of his old report cards.

There are few things he kept from Dad after he died. His wedding ring is one of them. Beside it, there is a small red box containing another ring, the one Jessica will never wear.

On top of the pile, there is the brochure from Oak Park retirement home. When they clinked glasses tonight, after the cake Dean insisted on making was all but gone he said “To the next thirty three, Sammy” and there had been a time where he might have chuckled and shook his head and threw the glass back already reaching for the bottle, but today he allowed himself, if just for a few moments, to actually believe in that. It was a blurry picture still, but lately it had become a little clearer. Deep down in his heart he knows that it is probably a fool´s dream, that the world will end before that and even if it doesn´t, there is a bullet out there with their names on it. Had always known that. But, hope is the whole point, after all.

The alarm clock on his nightstand tells him his birthday is over since three minutes. And, all in all, it had been fine. Dean had given him a book and they sat together eating cake and drinking. But that´s not what matters. He carefully closes the lid of the wooden box. What matters is sleeping a few doors down the hallway. It´s in his memory, stronger than anything hell could ever inflict on him. It´s in there. Sometimes, all he needs is a quiet moment to remember.

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