Cookies

Title: Cookies
Author: ClarySage
Rating: R- for language
Word Count: 822
Disclaimer: not mine, someone else’s.
Warnings & Summary: slashy if you’ve got your slash-tinted glasses on.
mostly just frippy fun between brothers… and chatting.
Pairings: S/D if you know where to look.
Note: Finally got inspired, though only for something odd, as that is what happens.
The mere mention of snowflakes got me going thanks to some friends who don't mean to inspire, but do.

Dean sometimes felt as if he was like everyone else. It was a hard feeling, and one he hated. He’d never admitted it to Sam, but there were times, rare passages of time, in which he’d wanted to be normal. As he’d grown older, he’d liked that he wasn’t quite like anyone else; it made him feel original and unique. Like a fucking snowflake.

Yet every now and then, he’d get the horrible feeling that he was cut from a cloth that millions of other men had been cut from. He was afraid one day he’d encounter them on the street, wearing the same jacket with the same sideways grin, the same sunny highlights in their hair. After all, snowflakes looked alike all the time. Though he supposed it was like with people, and what was inside was what counted.

They’d been driving for most of the day when they finally stopped, getting out of the car, and slamming the doors, stretching legs that’d been cooped up for too long. Dean was thinking about snowflakes again, absently mulling over cold white bits of ice that all looked alike but were different in small ways. Maybe it was a lie, maybe they weren’t different at all, had it ever been proved?

“Hey,”

Maybe people just said they were all alike, but no one knew the truth.

“Hey!”

Where could he look it up and find out for sure?

“Deeeaaan!”

Dean’s head jerked upwards, his thoughts scattering like, well… like snowflakes.

“Where’s your head? I’ve been talking to you for five minutes,” Sam asked petulantly, “You’re not thinking about snowflakes again, are you?”

Dean blinked, wondering how Sam had known, and as usual, Sam answered the unspoken question.

“Dude, you mutter when you think I’m sleeping.”

“What?”

“When you’re driving,” Sam pantomimed steering, “and you think I’m sleeping,” he put his hands together next to his tilted head, “you m-u-t-t-e-r,” he enunciated slowly.

“Whatever,” Dean gave a vague wave of his hand, tilting his body into a stretch that released pops and snaps like a breakfast cereal. “You think it’s been proven they’re all different?” he asked, twisting one shoulder and sighing with satisfaction when it reluctantly let go of one more abrupt ‘crack’.

Sam sighed, leaning against the hood of the Impala, wishing his body could release the tenseness of days on the road with a few sound effects. “Maybe when you look at them, under a very cold microscope, they start looking different.”

“Yeah, so it’s like…they would all look different up close, but from far away they’re exactly the same?”

Sam nodded, and discovered that if he twisted his head just right his neck could convey a sound. It felt so good he spent several moments at it, twisting his head this way and that way, until he caught sight of Dean on one of the twists to the left. “It could be worse,” he offered.

“What? I could be a,” Dean paused, and tried to think of something that was the same almost all the time, “a cookie?”

“There you go, maybe a chocolate chip?”

“You don’t think I’d be a unique cookie?”

“Depends on the cutter,” Sam shaped his hands into a vague gingerbread man.

“Chocolate chip is just so…normal,” Dean seemed almost upset at the idea.

“…” Sam said, and then sighed. “Fine, you’re a fucking snowflake.”

Grinning again, Dean nudged Sam across the hood and sat beside him, his ass warmed almost immediately from the heat of the engine beneath. “So,” he said slowly, as if unsure of the thought, “what are you?”

Silence rang around them for a stretch, and then Sam shrugged, sliding off the hood with the ‘sshh’ of jeans against smooth enamel. He looked for a long moment at Dean, at his high cheek bones and sun enhanced hair, the full lips, and clear eyes. He took in the car, the jacket, the weathered jeans and defeated boots. And slowly, he smiled. “I’m your brother,” he said simply.

Dean gave him a sharp look and then lay back against the hood, legs dangling. “Great, I’m a fucking snowflake, and you’re the fucking snowflake’s brother.”

“At least you’re not a fucking cookie.”

Dean made a face and swung up and off the car, circling to the passenger side and fingering the door handle. “Your turn to drive,” he paused, and then grinned again, “shortbread.”

Sam jerked the driver’s side door open, leaning in and down to meet Dean’s gaze before he crawled into the seat. “Twinkie,” he muttered.

“That’s not a cookie!”

As the Impala started up again, their voices could just be heard over the sound of the engine.

“Pecan sandy!”

“Moon pie!”

Then the music came on, the car pulling onto the road again. And very faintly, just under the rough sound of the engine and the harsh buzz of rock, there could be heard –

“Peanut butter!”

“Dude, you’re making me hungry.”

-the end-