SPN ficlet - Lifeline
So, I said I would never fic again. I'm still reeling a little from 2.01, but I got a tiny plot bunny from answering a comment from ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
acidquill and managed to write it. Gorgeous icon by oxoniensis
TITLE: Lifeline
RATING: PG (gen)
CHARACTERS: Sam, Dean, John
DISCLAIMER: I would never do such terrible things to them
NOTES: 1000 words. Coffee is a lifeline. Spoilers for 2.01
It’s been Sam’s job since Dean was old enough to go hunting.
Before that, Dean always had it ready when Dad came home. No matter where they were - motel, crappy rental, whatever - Dean would always find a way to make some coffee.
Some of Sam’s earliest sense memories were built around coffee. A newly opened bag of ground coffee filled him with a sense of relief, the scent reminding him that Dad was home safe. He would wake up; pad into the kitchen to find Dean at the stove, Dad at the table. Dean would boil up the grounds in the little pot that Dad insisted made the best coffee in the world, and then Dad would drink it down to the last drop and murmur - “Good coffee, son.”
Sam wasn’t so sure, though, after tasting it for the first time. They both tried it, one night when they knew Dad wouldn’t be back for hours. It was strong and gritty, and the bitterness made Sam’s eyes water. He ended up spitting his into the sink, then rinsing his mouth out with gatoraid.
“You sure you made it right?”
Dean just rolled his eyes and swallowed his cup down the way Dad did, pretending it didn’t taste like mud. And they both knew what mud tasted like, thanks to the infamous April Fool’s chocolate milk incident.
After that, Dean took a cup of coffee along with Dad when he came home from hunting. Sam would creep out of bed when he heard the Impala purring outside, and find Dean at the table with Dad, the two of them sipping their coffee silently. For Sam, the scent of coffee then was always tinged with a sense of regret as well as relief. Coffee became something shared only between Dad and Dean, something that Sam could never quite understand.
Then Dean was old enough to go with Dad, and Sam was old enough stay by himself, and he was expected to have the coffee ready when they got home. The scent of coffee became more complicated, the relief and regret mingling with a feeling of injustice. Sam would bang the coffee pot down onto the stove and shovel the grounds in with a force borne of sheer frustration. It wasn’t fair; he didn’t want this life, never asked for it, and yet he wasn’t allowed to share it.
There were tiny rebellions. That one prank war that had escalated out of control until Sam loaded Dean’s coffee with laxatives, and somehow - Sam wasn’t sure exactly how - Dad had ended up drinking it. Sam had packed his bags while Dad was locked in the bathroom, but Dean came to his rescue, and took the fall for it, telling Dad he’d picked up a new brand of sweetener last time he’d shopped.
Dad took his coffee unsweetened after that.
Around age fifteen, Sam found the perfect rebellion in the unlikely form of Starbucks. He reveled in the ultimate bastardization of his father’s sacred drink, and consumed large quantities of cappuccino; latte - anything with foam, chocolate, spray cream or flavored syrup.
Dad had not been impressed. There had been initial disbelief, followed by prohibition of such substances on the grounds that they were clearly the work of one of the lesser demons of hell. Sam wasn’t sure, but there might even have been some research into the company directors and the exact nature of their contracts.
When that didn’t work, Dad went the more normal route of banning those damn pansy-ass coffee substitutes because they were too expensive. That was kind of hard to take, coming from a man whose own caffeine consumption was the basis of several third world economies.
When Sam was seventeen, they settled for the year so that he could graduate high school, and he briefly considered a part-time job as a barista, just to piss Dad off. But common sense and a desire for self-preservation prevailed, and he stuck to drinking illicit frappucinos, leaving the plastic cups around in plain sight until Dean would smack him in the back of his head and throw them in the trash.
Sam would never admit it, but that first year at Stanford he couldn’t walk past a Starbucks without feeling remorse. For the longest time, the scent of the coffee made his chest ache with guilt; tighten with desperate loneliness. He drank his coffee black and strong and so bitter it made his eyes water.
Now he pretends to like the half-fat decaf lattes and caramel macchiatos just to mess with Dean’s head, but given the choice, he’d take a cup from Dad’s old stove-top pot over them any day.
He gets it now, understands the desire for day-old stewed coffee that burns the roof of the mouth; with caffeine enough to jolt their sleep-weary bodies into action just one more time.
The hospital snack bar is woefully inadequate, but Sam’s able to get regular coffee with a double shot. He adds a little cream and some sweetener; Dad looks like he could use the extra sugar as much as the caffeine kick.
Dad is – well, he’s acting kind of strange, but he’s not yelling about the stupid demon and the gun and how Sam messed up by not shooting him, so maybe this is a chance for a new start. Dad’s right; maybe they don’t have to fight anymore.
He walks back to Dean’s room, and the scent of the coffee brings back that first sense memory, the sheer, utter, complete relief. They’re home safe. Dean is back, whole and well again. Sam isn’t quite sure how he got to be that way, but he’s not going to question a miracle. He’s willing to take a few things on faith.
Sam never gets as far as Dean’s room. He doesn’t know why he looks into Dad’s room, only knows that he’s too slow; too late.
And Dad never gets to drink that last cup of coffee.
