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Fic: Vote Early, Vote Often
Title: Vote Early, Vote Often
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thespatz
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Gen, PG
W/C: 1200
Summary: The Winchesters perform their civic duty. Sort of. (future!fic)
AN: This story was intended to be a birthday present forelucreh. Clearly, I did not succeed in being timely, but I hope she likes it anyway! ETA: Thanks to inmyriadbits and dotfic for looking this over.
Archived at AO3
Sam huddled into his jacket and prayed desperately for coffee. Or at least for the sun to come out. He might have grown up all over the Midwest, but he'd been spoiled by all those winters at Stanford.
(He wasn't getting old. 33 was not old.)
At least it wasn't snowing.
******
“Sam! Sam, wake up!”
Sam rolled over to grab his gun from the bedside table, and fell off the couch.
Ow. Right. They were at Bobby's. Dean had pushed to make it to get there last night, and they'd pulled in at some godawful hour of the morning; Sam had been so tired he could barely walk straight. He must have fallen asleep, but he didn't even remember lying down.
Why the hell was Dean even up?
“Dean, what the hell?”
“C'mon, Sammy, let's go! We're gonna be late. And frankly, the beauty sleep thing is kind of a lost cause at your age.” Sam cracked an eye open to glare, and Dean apparently took that as permission to grab Sam and haul him to his feet.
He still had his shoes on. Christ, he must have been tired last night. He still was tired.
Too tired, it seemed, to resist Dean pulling him into the hall and towards the front door. Bobby was sitting in the kitchen doorway, laughing into a cup of –
“Coffee! Dean, wait!” Sam grabbed for the door frame, but Dean twisted and shoved him out the door.
“Sorry, no coffee left. Bobby got the last cup,” said Dean, bouncing down the wheelchair ramp.
Sam had a dark suspicion about who had drunk the rest.
He let Dean drag him to the Impala, where he could at least sit down. Yawning hugely, he finally asked, “What are we late for?”
“Dude, pay attention, this is important! Bobby's friend switched to the early shift, we've got to get there before nine. If anyone asks, you're Len Campbell, and I'm Joe,” said Dean, tossing something into Sam's lap and starting the car.
Sam opened his eyes (they'd drifted closed again) and looked down at the something in his lap.
Voter registration cards. And fake IDs.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
******
Sam must have fallen asleep again on the long drive into town, because he'd woken up in an anonymous parking lot in front of an anonymous building with no sign of Dean except some lingering warmth in the air from the Impala's heater.
His brother was a dead man. (Again.)
He prayed harder for coffee. Castiel had asked them to not to do that sort of thing because it was distracting, but fuck him. Someone else deserved to be miserable, too.
Maybe if he was annoying enough, Cas would smite him and end the pain.
Or bring him coffee.
Like the answer to his prayers, Dean walked around the corner of the building, carrying two cups of coffee. He slid into the Impala, somehow smelling like ice and Starbucks at the same time, and absently handed him one of the cups.
Sam took a long sip. He might let Dean live after all.
"I might let you live after all," he told Dean sleepily.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, rolling his eyes as he put the car in gear, but Sam could see the little smile curling up on the far side of his face. “Shut up and drink your latte.”
By the time they pulled into the voting center, Sam's brain had actually kicked on. (He'd call it a miracle but, having actually been through a few of those now, he really preferred the coffee.) Having a working brain again reminded him that this whole expedition was totally bizarre. Like, demonic-possession levels of bizarre. As far as Sam knew, Dean had never voted in his life, yet Dean had clearly planned this whole thing in advance - getting the voter cards, talking to Bobby, pushing to make it to Sioux Falls last night - and *still* managed to ambush Sam. Something was up, and Sam had learned his lesson about brotherly non-communication.
Sam took his time getting out of the car, deciding what he was going to say. Dean was already out and juggling coffee and keys when Sam eyed him across the Impala's roof and said, "So, you gonna tell me why you suddenly decided to do your civic duty at the ripe old age of 37?"
"37 isn't old," Dean replied automatically. Hah. But that didn't answer Sam's question.
"Seriously, Dean. What's up?"
Dean hesitated, then grinned, "Two words: President Palin." He shuddered theatrically. "I never want to see that headline, man."
Sam recognized that pause - he wasn't lying (Dean never hesitated when he lied), but he wasn't telling him the whole truth. They'd gotten pretty good about telling each other the important stuff, but there were still some things....
“This have something to do with the future you saw with Zachariah?" Sam asked. He never could get all the details out of Dean about that, but Dean always passed on jobs in Detroit, and he'd stopped teasing Cas about sex for no apparent reason – maybe this fit of weirdness was part of a pattern.
Dean opened his mouth, denial written all over his face, then stopped. He looked away, but walked around the front of the car to lean on the hood next to Sam. Still not looking at Sam, he said, "Yeah."
Tentatively, Sam said, "Dean, you know-" but Dean interrupted him.
"Yeah, I know, Sammy. I know that future's never gonna happen now, but it sucked. It really, really sucked, and any chance I get to make this world different from that one, I'm gonna take it."
Sam nodded, not really sure what to say. He shifted over a little on the car, nudged his shoulder up against Dean's. Most times that helped - they never really took each other for granted anymore, even though it'd been ages since that awful year before Lucifer rose. The reminder that they were there, together, usually worked. It always did for him.
Dean smiled sideways at him, familiar with his tricks. He was getting laugh lines, in spite of everything. A broader smirk broke across Dean's face, and he added, "Besides, you look adorable with bedhead."
Sam's hand was halfway to his hair before he checked it and glared at Dean. “Oh, fuck you, my hair is fine,” he said.
Dean reached out and ruffled it. “Not anymore!” he said gleefully, launching off the hood to avoid Sam's retaliatory flails and attempts on his coffee cup. Sam chased him, laughing, until they shoved their way through the double doors and into the busy warmth of the voting center.
Author:
thespatzFandom: Supernatural
Rating: Gen, PG
W/C: 1200
Summary: The Winchesters perform their civic duty. Sort of. (future!fic)
AN: This story was intended to be a birthday present for
elucreh. Clearly, I did not succeed in being timely, but I hope she likes it anyway! ETA: Thanks to inmyriadbits and dotfic for looking this over.Archived at AO3
Sam huddled into his jacket and prayed desperately for coffee. Or at least for the sun to come out. He might have grown up all over the Midwest, but he'd been spoiled by all those winters at Stanford.
(He wasn't getting old. 33 was not old.)
At least it wasn't snowing.
******
“Sam! Sam, wake up!”
Sam rolled over to grab his gun from the bedside table, and fell off the couch.
Ow. Right. They were at Bobby's. Dean had pushed to make it to get there last night, and they'd pulled in at some godawful hour of the morning; Sam had been so tired he could barely walk straight. He must have fallen asleep, but he didn't even remember lying down.
Why the hell was Dean even up?
“Dean, what the hell?”
“C'mon, Sammy, let's go! We're gonna be late. And frankly, the beauty sleep thing is kind of a lost cause at your age.” Sam cracked an eye open to glare, and Dean apparently took that as permission to grab Sam and haul him to his feet.
He still had his shoes on. Christ, he must have been tired last night. He still was tired.
Too tired, it seemed, to resist Dean pulling him into the hall and towards the front door. Bobby was sitting in the kitchen doorway, laughing into a cup of –
“Coffee! Dean, wait!” Sam grabbed for the door frame, but Dean twisted and shoved him out the door.
“Sorry, no coffee left. Bobby got the last cup,” said Dean, bouncing down the wheelchair ramp.
Sam had a dark suspicion about who had drunk the rest.
He let Dean drag him to the Impala, where he could at least sit down. Yawning hugely, he finally asked, “What are we late for?”
“Dude, pay attention, this is important! Bobby's friend switched to the early shift, we've got to get there before nine. If anyone asks, you're Len Campbell, and I'm Joe,” said Dean, tossing something into Sam's lap and starting the car.
Sam opened his eyes (they'd drifted closed again) and looked down at the something in his lap.
Voter registration cards. And fake IDs.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
******
Sam must have fallen asleep again on the long drive into town, because he'd woken up in an anonymous parking lot in front of an anonymous building with no sign of Dean except some lingering warmth in the air from the Impala's heater.
His brother was a dead man. (Again.)
He prayed harder for coffee. Castiel had asked them to not to do that sort of thing because it was distracting, but fuck him. Someone else deserved to be miserable, too.
Maybe if he was annoying enough, Cas would smite him and end the pain.
Or bring him coffee.
Like the answer to his prayers, Dean walked around the corner of the building, carrying two cups of coffee. He slid into the Impala, somehow smelling like ice and Starbucks at the same time, and absently handed him one of the cups.
Sam took a long sip. He might let Dean live after all.
"I might let you live after all," he told Dean sleepily.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean said, rolling his eyes as he put the car in gear, but Sam could see the little smile curling up on the far side of his face. “Shut up and drink your latte.”
By the time they pulled into the voting center, Sam's brain had actually kicked on. (He'd call it a miracle but, having actually been through a few of those now, he really preferred the coffee.) Having a working brain again reminded him that this whole expedition was totally bizarre. Like, demonic-possession levels of bizarre. As far as Sam knew, Dean had never voted in his life, yet Dean had clearly planned this whole thing in advance - getting the voter cards, talking to Bobby, pushing to make it to Sioux Falls last night - and *still* managed to ambush Sam. Something was up, and Sam had learned his lesson about brotherly non-communication.
Sam took his time getting out of the car, deciding what he was going to say. Dean was already out and juggling coffee and keys when Sam eyed him across the Impala's roof and said, "So, you gonna tell me why you suddenly decided to do your civic duty at the ripe old age of 37?"
"37 isn't old," Dean replied automatically. Hah. But that didn't answer Sam's question.
"Seriously, Dean. What's up?"
Dean hesitated, then grinned, "Two words: President Palin." He shuddered theatrically. "I never want to see that headline, man."
Sam recognized that pause - he wasn't lying (Dean never hesitated when he lied), but he wasn't telling him the whole truth. They'd gotten pretty good about telling each other the important stuff, but there were still some things....
“This have something to do with the future you saw with Zachariah?" Sam asked. He never could get all the details out of Dean about that, but Dean always passed on jobs in Detroit, and he'd stopped teasing Cas about sex for no apparent reason – maybe this fit of weirdness was part of a pattern.
Dean opened his mouth, denial written all over his face, then stopped. He looked away, but walked around the front of the car to lean on the hood next to Sam. Still not looking at Sam, he said, "Yeah."
Tentatively, Sam said, "Dean, you know-" but Dean interrupted him.
"Yeah, I know, Sammy. I know that future's never gonna happen now, but it sucked. It really, really sucked, and any chance I get to make this world different from that one, I'm gonna take it."
Sam nodded, not really sure what to say. He shifted over a little on the car, nudged his shoulder up against Dean's. Most times that helped - they never really took each other for granted anymore, even though it'd been ages since that awful year before Lucifer rose. The reminder that they were there, together, usually worked. It always did for him.
Dean smiled sideways at him, familiar with his tricks. He was getting laugh lines, in spite of everything. A broader smirk broke across Dean's face, and he added, "Besides, you look adorable with bedhead."
Sam's hand was halfway to his hair before he checked it and glared at Dean. “Oh, fuck you, my hair is fine,” he said.
Dean reached out and ruffled it. “Not anymore!” he said gleefully, launching off the hood to avoid Sam's retaliatory flails and attempts on his coffee cup. Sam chased him, laughing, until they shoved their way through the double doors and into the busy warmth of the voting center.