All is revealed!! Kamikaze remix - 'These Rags of Memory' - gen

[tabaqui]

Wheeeeee!

My kamikazeremix author has been revealed! theladyscribe is the author who took 'Thou Born to Match the Gale' and teased out a neat little bit of 'other' pov, inhabiting the oc of the story and letting us see through his not-quite-human eyes. To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane [The What's Your Sin Remix].

And i've changed my author tag at the comm, but i want to post the story here, too, so i can have it in my tags.

The original story was Homeless Hits a Bit Close, by essenceofmeanin. A darkish little slice-of-life piece, about the 'less glamorous' side of hunting. I was so thrilled to get her as my author, and i only had to read the story over once to be hit with a big 'ole bunny.

Beta'd by darkhavens, of course.
Enjoy!

Title from Edwin Arlington Robinson - Collected Poems.
V. The Town Down the River 22. Alma Mater.






Sam remembered this.

Or, actually – he'd imagined it so many times, he thought he remembered it. But in truth, he'd never seen it with his own two eyes. Just pictured it in his head, for fleeting moments and obsessive nights. Lurid detail and vague, fuzzy flickers.

The dumpster was solid green, battered on the corners, sticky along the edge. Thick odor of food left to sour in the heat. It was half-empty. Or half-full, if you were gonna be an optimist. Sam wasn't sure if he was.

*"Hey, Dean – what's optimist mean?"

"It means if somebody gives you a shovel and pile of horse shit, you start digging."

"I don't get it."

"Because, Sammy – gotta be a horse in there somewhere!"

And Dean had cracked up laughing at Sam's expression, slapping his thighs and rolling around on the bed until Sam just rolled with him, musty bleach smell of hotel-white sheets, Dean's worn flannel and flannel-soft jeans.

*I'd settle for a burger,* Sam thought, and took a deep breath. Leaned in over the dumpster's edge, digging. Two ripped bags and three un-ripped ones and then – jackpot. Loaf of bread, mold-spotted green on one end, perfect on the other. He yanked it free with a grunt of satisfaction and dropped it into the Safeway bag he'd plucked out of the weeds three blocks earlier. It fell haphazardly over the torn net bag of bruised apples – the jar of peanut butter that someone had opened and dug into and that Whole Foods had, considerately, set on top of the dumpster. Organic, no sugar, no salt. Oily and dense and someone else's germs in there but...

But he could scrape that part out and it would be fine. Just fine.

He's twelve the first time he remembers it really mattering. Twelve and a half, almost, sitting in their room at the motel, idly drawing stars and spirals and boxes in his homework. Hungry because you don't get seconds when you're doing the free school lunch; hell, you barely get firsts. The 'fridge gave out its last real food item two days ago and there's nothing but mayo on the top shelf, two inches of milk in the jug and salt-and-pepper on the stove. Sam wonders if he could just eat the mayo with a spoon – imagines a cold, slippery-thick dollop of it going down his throat and swallows hard. No, maybe not.

Dean is slumped in the chair opposite Sam, gaze flicking distractedly from his hands to the TV. Back and forth, back and forth, worrying the tape-patched strap of Sam's backpack. Looking pissed off and twitchy like he does – like he has been – and Sam just keeps his head down, making little explosions in blue ballpoint ink.

"I'll be back later," Dean finally mutters, kicking up out of his chair like it's done something to him personally. Slam of the door and the little scrape-tick-click of him jiggling the loose doorknob and then nothing. Doug and Porkchop on the TV, something about math homework and Sam clicks it off, ignoring the persistent, tooth-sharp ache in his belly.



Sam hadn't planned for this.

Or, actually – he'd planned for years, but the best laid plans, as they say.... He hadn't planned on Dad finding his paperwork – hadn't planned on that fucked up, blow-off-the-roof argument that had ended in slammed doors and curdling silence and him with his duffel and his bag and his shoes, out the door and down the road a whole month and a half early. He'd walked for four hours, letting the persistent Oklahoma wind dry his face and then Dean had been there. The car's engine was like a disgruntled dog, rumbling displeasure and the heartbeat-steady thump of AC/DC. Sam had walked a stubborn half-mile further before coming to a dead stop, shoulders slumping and his duffel dragging down into the dirt.

Dean had just watched him through the open window, bruise already discoloring his jaw where Sam's wild swing had landed. Sam hadn't been aiming for his brother – hadn't been aiming for anything at all. Had just been... *Drowning, suffocating, sinking....*

Sam lifted a hand to run it back through his sweaty hair and then stopped, because his hand was grimy and stank and he couldn't shower until after dark and Jesus fucking Christ.

*Really didn't think this one through, did you, smart guy? Dean would fucking kill me....*

Except Dean wouldn't, because Dean wasn't there, and Dad wasn't there, and that was just fucking fine, he didn't need them to be there, all they did was stir up trouble, draw attention – might as well just paint a giant bull's eye on their backs and be done....

Sam sniffed and rubbed his nose on his shoulder – switched the Safeway bag to his other hand and trudged toward the sidewalk. *Only three and a half weeks to go. Three and a half weeks and then I'll have a dorm room and a meal card and a job...* And thank God for his last high school counselor. Because of her, Sam had filled out forms to be on the Federal Work-Study program, because 'full ride' didn't actually mean 'full ride'. *Three and a half weeks.*



Dean has been gone an hour – maybe a little more. It's dark outside – twilight fading fast under the low, grey sky and Sam contemplates drinking the last of the milk. But Dean... Dean is out there in the wind and the drizzle, getting food. Holding out his hand and begging, maybe, and Sam remembers doing that. Remembers standing in line in a church basement, hiding behind Dean when the ladies smiled at him, brittle and too bright and too eager to rush in. Asking questions Dean wouldn't answer and making little clucking sounds of displeasure when Sam tripped over his unknotted shoe laces and slopped the glass of blue-white skim milk. Sam can count, same as Dean, and he knows the money's gone – knows Dad is two days overdue and where else is Dean supposed to get them dinner and breakfast?

Sam gets up and drinks a couple of glasses of water – holds his breath against the roll of nausea and sits back down. He's three chapters ahead in his English and two in History so he just closes his books and shoves them away – lays his head down. Take a little nap and then Dean will be back, Dean will....



Sam hated summer.

Or, actually – he hated the lull in classes, when his campus job stopped paying and his meal card ran out. When most everybody had gone home and he was stuck waiting out the two or three weeks before he got his first summer-job paycheck, sleeping in the empty dorms because he could pick the locks and slip inside, unnoticed. Camping out in his old room because it felt like less of a cheat than taking somebody else's. Rolling out his Goodwill sleeping bag and cracking open a window – timing the security patrols so he could take a fast shower when nobody would notice the noise and the steam.

He made the rounds of the grocery stores and restaurants with his head tucked down and his eyes on the ground. Wondering if the ratio of calories scrounged to calories burned was even worth it, but shying away time and again from the free lunches at the First Lutheran or the 'Everyone welcome!' fish fry at Our Lady of the Rosary. Remembering all too well the look of mulish fury on Dean's face when they'd walk by other such places in other cities, Dean telling Sam to stay inside and do his homework and coming back with food in mis-matched grocery bags and the rot-tang of dumpsters on his coat – sludge on his shoes. Washing his hands until they were red and sore and Sam never, ever told him about the hamburger with the cigarette butt under the bun, or that the week-old doughnuts had acquired fur inside the hole.

He got it, now. That sick, hot feeling of helplessness and wounded pride that made you want to just lash out. Dean couldn't work 'cause he was underage – under-parented. Couldn't drop out and couldn't leave Sam for night shifts or weekends and Sam remembered watching Dean's hands. Watching them move over gun barrel and kitchen stove with equal ease – over the car's engine or Dad's clawed skin. Hands that could do anything – anything at all – reduced to grubbing in other people's cast-offs.

*Nobody gives a fuck that you're pre-law, 4.0, head of the class. Suck it up, Winchester.* The woman who worked at the little coffee shop beside the record store was on the back step, having a smoke, and her gaze flinched away from him as he passed her. It hurt, but it had hurt Dean more.


When the door opens, Sam jerks around, his mouth ready to smile. But it's not Dean, it's Dad. Wrinkled shirt and wrinkled face, his hair flattened a little from rain, his boots muddy. Half smile behind the beard that falters and fades when Sam only stares.

"Son. Where's your brother?"

"Dean's out," Sam says, anger surging up and twisting his gut. Making the water in it roil, uneasy and sick-making.

"What in hell's he doing out at this time of night? He should be –"

"Should be what?" Sam says, and turns in his chair. Bites his lip and glares at his notebook, his finger twisting and twisting into the fringe of loose threads that surround a rip in his jeans. His knee rough under the soft fuzz, week-old scrape.

"He should be here." Dad's duffel thumps to the floor, but his boots are nearly silent on the thin carpet as he crosses the room – comes to a stop by Dean's chair. Scarred hand on the back of it, dirt under his nails and the cuff of his coat wet.

"He's getting dinner," Sam says, staring hard at his dad. Staring like a fucking basilisk, Dean says, and Sam wishes.... "We're out of food."

Dad's face smoothes out, blank and inscrutable, and Sam wants to hit him. Wants to make him react. Make him – make him....

"Out for how long?" Dad asks, and Sam finally hears the hoarseness in his voice – sees the bloodshot rims of his eyes and the way his shoulders are hunched, held awkwardly still. Hurt, Sam guesses. Hurt somehow, and just like that, the anger sinks away, leaving Sam feeling hollow inside – bones like sticks and his head too heavy – eyes gritty.

"Couple days. Dean's taking care of it, Dad," Sam says, and Dad musters up that half smile – reaches out and squeezes Sam's shoulder gently. Runs his warm, callused fingers up the back of Sam's neck and into his hair, rubbing.

"Dean takes good care of us. He always...." Dad's hand drops away and he sits down, moving slow. Sam leans forward, arms crossed, resting his chin on his wrist. He watches his Dad rub a hand back through his hair and then Dad leans forward, too – mirrors Sam's pose, his eyes half-lidded. "Guess we'll just have to wait for him to get home, huh, kiddo?"

"He'll be here soon," Sam says, and Dad smiles again. Takes in a long breath and lets it out on a sigh, his eyelids dropping down to slits. Sam does the same, feeling weighted to his chair – stuck there by an invisible force – a bell jar of silence and pressure. Doesn't know anything until Dean's fingernail pops against his ear, savory smell of cooked chicken and Dean's knee against his under the table, heat and weight that says 'here' and 'safe' and 'home'. Dad's hand on Dean's shoulder, just the same.



The table under Sam's elbows shook and Sam jerked back to here-and-now, startled. Moved his feet as Dean's carelessly trampled them and sat back in the slippery vinyl embrace of the booth.

"You look like you're sleeping sitting up, man."

"Nah, I just... Was just thinking about...stuff."

"Brunette or redhead?" Dean asked, little wiggle of his eyebrows and Sam huffed a small laugh. Picked the menu out of the coiled stainless holder that was behind the napkins and examined it.

"Ha, ha. Hey, they've got Cream of Wheat."

"That stuff looks like –"

"Don't even," Sam warned, and Dean subsided, smirking. Getting his own menu out and glancing at it, fingers tapping out a ragged beat on the red-and-orange speckled Formica tabletop. "They've got buckwheat pancakes, too."

"Jesus, Sam," Dean groaned, making an exaggerated 'yuck' face. "That's like eating horse-food or something. Look at the choices here, man! You can get anything your strait-jacketed little soul desires. Spanish omelet, French Toast, and that American classic – pigs in a blanket!"

"Heart attack in a shroud," Sam countered, and Dean grinned at him. Kept grinning while they got their coffee, ordered their breakfasts and ate. When they were done, Dean put down a twenty and a five with a little pat of satisfaction, and Sam followed him out the door, into the sun.

Comments

[marciaelena.livejournal.com]

I *knew* this was your story. Your writing style--plus your thanks to beta D, hee!--gave you away.

I still don't have any coherent feedback for you. Going hungry is a terrible thing, especially for children, and it's heartbreaking to see wee!Dean--and later, Sam--having to beg and steal and look through the trash to feed themselves. The more I think about it, the more I realize what an awful father John was. He may have had his reasons, but I don't think they should excuse raising his sons the way he did, being absent so much of the time and leaving all of the responsibility essentially on Dean's shoulders.

[tabaqui]

Heeee!
I wondered if anyone would guess. :)

I...hrmm. I love John. As a character he drove the story forward, gave them the impetuous to do the things in their lives that made them who they were - gave them skills and knowledge and courage and *manners*, heh, and responsibilities. As a man, he was deeply, deeply flawed. I think he probably carried some trauma with him from Vietnam, that resurfaced in an ugly way after Mary died. And then the boys had to cope with not only a widowed and grieving father, but a soldier in the throes of PTSD.

I can't hate him, or think of him as a 'bad father'. Look how the boys turned out! They so obviously love and respect him, and he loves them, even though his decisions are not always the best ones....

Sorry! Don't mean to lecture. I really do like John and even though this story shows him in a bad light, i like to imagine that canon was way, way different.

[gretazreta.livejournal.com]

Oh yeah. That's just excellent.
There's so much to talk about here, but I think I like the end the best, the sense of redemption in eating, the explanation of how Dean is the way he is, walking out into the sun because no matter what, things are better now.

Ugh, your description of the dumpster food was almost too vivid. YUKKY.

But I think the thing that I really take away from it is that the one gift that Dean's given Sam is that sense of resilience. Brilliant.

[tabaqui]

Thank you so very much! You make me sound so terribly smart and clever. :)

I don't like to think of this as canon, but i *do* like to think that the boys *could* survive this way if they had to.
Just...*cuddles them*.

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

That was gut-wrenching, and heart-breaking, and the shifts in time made it even more heart breaking.

That putting down the money, that little pat...man, you almost killed me there.

[tabaqui]

*hugs*
Thank you, bay-bee! Oh, i'm so glad this came out good. :)

These Rags of Memory

[yourlibrarian]

I enjoyed the way this wove back and forth across different memories, stitching together pieces of Dean's character and how it shaped Sam's.

Re: These Rags of Memory

[tabaqui]

Thank you so much! This is my first remix and i was so incredibly nervous about it! It was fun, though - must do again!

[realtsunamigirl.livejournal.com]

Lovely as usual, my dear.

I loved the little touch with the furry donut and burger with the cigarette butt. You really got down into the idea of the dumpster diving not just being dirty for the soul but the physicality of it, the grime and the effort. (Although I think that you me ratio not ration in this sentence Wondering if the ration of calories scrounged to calories burned was even worth it, but shying away time and again from the free lunches at the First Luthera)

Makes me want to wash my hands just reading it and that is a good thig by the way:-)

You also caught me in a spot that I had never considered before. What did Sam do during the summers? I always thought that summer work would cover it, but when you have absolutely nothing to start from...huh. Hadn't gone there before.

I have got to watch season three so that I can read your current SPN work.

*sigh*

Poor deprived me;-D

[tabaqui]

Thank you so much! I love getting into the 'nitty gritty', as it were, of dumpster diving. The practical side which, yes, means sticky hands and smelly clothes and other people's germs.

I love to imagine all the details of Sam's life at Stanford. I imagine by his third year or so he wasn't so desperate, but at eighteen, nineteen - you make mistakes, don't always plan ahead.

Yes! Watch season three!
*bounce*
:)

[embroiderama]

This is fantastic. I loved the original story and this really fleshes out that world wonderfully. Gah, boys.

[tabaqui]

Thank you so much! The original was very cool, yes, and i was worried about doing it justice.
:)

[randomstasis.livejournal.com]

oh, excellent! (I thought this might be yours- reasons as cited above*g*)
i loved the original, it seemed very likely, and made me want to cuddle Dean. this is a nice counterpoint of the other POVs
Sam remembering what Dean taught him is great, and that he never told Dean about the inedibility of the food he scrounged- protecting Dean as he can
especially good how Sam is so angry at John, but it just drains away when he realizes he's hurt
and then Dean's popping him on the ear, making littleof what he's done, as usual.
But you managed to show so much of his feelings, how those memories Sam's been running over in his head have ground all the way down into Dean, with that satisfied little pat to the money in the diner.
Lovely.

(And yes, John's parenting skills are not as good as Dean's, certainly not in these situations, but then, whatever else is wrong with him, he didn't grow up like Dean did, either, so he never learned that skill set- or those attitudes!
A fault, yes, but not so much his fault, imo. Love John too!)

[tabaqui]

Thank you thank you!
:)

I loved making the original a point of memory, a 'sticking point', as it were. Something that changed both the boys in different ways.

*loves on John*

[randomstasis.livejournal.com]

oh, yeah-"the author who took 'Treadmill' and teased out a neat little bit of 'other' pov"
So not Treadmill, lol!

[tabaqui]

I'm......not sure what this means?

[essenceofmeanin.livejournal.com]

okay... the love.

not to be dramatic, but one of my primary worries when i chose this story for my kamikaze was what would happen in translation. 'homeless' is very dear to my heart since it was based off a section of my own life. you captured it so perfectly -- that mix of fury and humiliation buried down beneath everything else, the shrug and the thought 'well, i can eat this' even when it's clearly not edible. oh god, some of the sensory details like eating the mayo off the spoon and the week old donuts had me gagging. it's a compliment. but that's the kind of thing you do.

also, i loved so very much the sympathy in which you portrayed john. "Out for how long?" just broke me. i do love john, and it's easy to take his part in this as negative or being a bad father but i don't think he was. he was just as much a victim of circumstance as his boys. (and actually, as far as his parenting skills go, i still think the meta from too_rational sums it up well: John Winchester was good enough a father for both his sons to know he loved them, and bad enough a father for them both to believe he loved the other one more.)

another thing that breaks my heart in this story is sam. his protective instincts toward dean when he lies about the cigarette butt and even when he reassures his father both serve to underscore the essential love of their family. he's so practical in this, too.

one of the things that i have always adored about spn is the americana aspect of the show. sometimes a part of our unconciousness -- traveling dusty backroads like modern day gypsies. homelessnes is the antithesis of the american dream, which -- as sad as it would be to see our boys like this -- fits in neatly with ethos of our show.

*takes a deep breath* hope you don't mind me rambling. in conclusion, you did an amazing job. i love it!

[tabaqui]

*heaves a huge, happy sigh*

This fb? Just makes my freakin' month, man. Seriously. My biggest concern in all this was doing the original story - whoever's story i got - *justice*. Making it different enough to be my own, but building and tweaking and branching off from the original in a way that showed off all the stuff that made it good and inspired me in what *i* was writing.

And i just loved the *tiredness* of them, in your story. They were just exhausted, physically and emotionally and mentally. Working so hard to keep things together, working to make things in their own life right, working to hide the anger and the despair and the fear...

So i am so, so pleased that my 'translation' works for you.

I just *cannot* not feel sympathetic toward John. He does his very best, most of the time. Does his worst sometimes, too, but he's human, and fallible, and yeah - the boys *love him*. They have their issues, but they *love* him. That speaks so loudly to me.

Our boys *are* homeless. They don't deserve to be. I feel like, after all this time, they don't care about it so much, and are okay with a lot of it but...yeah. They're homeless, and they live on the fringes. Outsiders who work for all those on the inside, and nobody will ever know, or see.

*hugs you hard*
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
:)

Ah, now part of my cannon

[kayto1.livejournal.com]

This story fills in part of my canon (cannon?) background on Dean - explains his gluttony!
Thanks,
loved it the original and the remix!

Re: Ah, now part of my cannon

[tabaqui]

Heee!
Thank you!
:)

*canon, yes*

[harrigan.livejournal.com]

I loved this - and the comments it prompted. It all felt very canon to me. I love John too - I think he was a damaged person who tried his best to carry all the responsibilities on his shoulders. But sometimes - he sucked at it.

It made Dean and Sam grow up resilient. And I love that Sam and John both realize how much Dean does for them. I think that's canon too, even if Dean himself doesn't realize that.

[tabaqui]

Thank you so much! Yeah, i think Dean vastly underestimates his place in Sam - and John's - lives.

And yes! You know a story is good if it prompts people to *talk*. :)

[glassshoe.livejournal.com]

"Hey, Dean – what's optimist mean?"

"It means if somebody gives you a shovel and pile of horse shit, you start digging."

"I don't get it."

"Because, Sammy – gotta be a horse in there somewhere!"

Loved that!

[tabaqui]

A little funny jokey thing my dad used to always say. Thank you!

[txrabbit.livejournal.com]

Oh lovely, this hurt.

You simply broke my heart. I can't say any more than that. *smootch*

[tabaqui]

Yay!!
Thank you thank you!
:)

So happy to see you over here, too.

[lunabee34.livejournal.com]

Oh, man. This is fantastic. I love this unflinching look at their lifestyle and what it might mean exactly and the privation they were surely subject to. Excellent excellent read.

[tabaqui]

Thank you so much, bay-bee!
:)

I don't want this to be canon, but i can see how it might be...

[needfire.livejournal.com]

Fantastic. Pacing, vision a real smack on the head without melodrama.
B.

[tabaqui]

Thank you thank you!
:)

[http://users.livejournal.com/_beetle_/]

Again--consider it read. At least this evening, assuming I get online. Which I think I might. I've got an appointment with Time Warner, so, of course there will be no problems with the internet till after the tech leaves :)

I can't wait, though.
::bounces::

Also, I heart u, and hope you're okay.

[tabaqui]

Heeeeee. Okay then.
*boots T-W in the butt for you*

*smoooch*
I'm all good, bay-bee.

[http://users.livejournal.com/_beetle_/]

*"Hey, Dean – what's optimist mean?"

"It means if somebody gives you a shovel and pile of horse shit, you start digging."

"I don't get it."

"Because, Sammy – gotta be a horse in there somewhere!"

ROTFLMAO!

That is my new definition of optimist.

the jar of peanut butter that someone had opened and dug into and that Whole Foods had, considerately, set on top of the dumpster. Organic, no sugar, no salt. Oily and dense and someone else's germs in there but...

But he could scrape that part out and it would be fine. Just fine.

Ouch.

What're the odds that Sam--that any of them--actually believe that?

The woman who worked at the little coffee shop beside the record store was on the back step, having a smoke, and her gaze flinched away from him as he passed her. It hurt, but it had hurt Dean more.

I never really stopped to think about how Sam supported himself those first few years--what kind of jobs he might've held, if he could even keep one with the kind of course load he must've had. How hard it was to pull together his life with Jess, making the idea of abandoning it to hit the road for the life he'd fought so desperately to leave behind unthinkable. Suddenly, that Sam, from the pilot ep, seems much more sympathetic.

And all the times Dean had to take care of Sam. Swallow his pride and be the dad when John wasn't there. Like that Xmas episode, only with no food on top of no certainty that the only parent you've got left is going to come home.

"He's getting dinner," Sam says, staring hard at his dad. Staring like a fucking basilisk, Dean says, and Sam wishes.... "We're out of food."

Dad's face smoothes out, blank and inscrutable, and Sam wants to hit him. Wants to make him react. Make him – make him....

"Out for how long?" Dad asks, and Sam finally hears the hoarseness in his voice – sees the bloodshot rims of his eyes and the way his shoulders are hunched, held awkwardly still. Hurt, Sam guesses. Hurt somehow, and just like that, the anger sinks away, leaving Sam feeling hollow inside – bones like sticks and his head too heavy – eyes gritty.

It's impossible to just love John, or hate him. Even if you're his kid. None of them should be in this position, should have to feel like this. John isn't exactly a good father. He's an okay leader (though how okay, when his troops are left to starve, and obviously not for the first time), a solid mentor, but not a good father. It's like he never stops to ask himself what Mary would think of her sons--her husband--living like this.

[tabaqui]

*smoooches you*
I loved thinking about Sam and his 'free ride'. That *doesn't* mean everything free. He would *have* to work - either on campus or off, in or out of school, to get money for textbooks, supplies, laundry soap, all that. He worked his *ass* off.

I love that this makes you *think* so much - all the way back to the pilot!

I think John was definitely suffering from PTSD, maybe even some residual from his time in Vietnam. They had a 90 percent chance of a normal father before Mary died. After? About five.

Thank you thank you thank you.

[http://users.livejournal.com/_beetle_/]

"Dean takes good care of us. He always...." Dad's hand drops away and he sits down, moving slow. Sam leans forward, arms crossed, resting his chin on his wrist. He watches his Dad rub a hand back through his hair and then Dad leans forward, too – mirrors Sam's pose, his eyes half-lidded. "Guess we'll just have to wait for him to get home, huh, kiddo?"

Dean's their glue. Barely strong enough to hold them all together. He shouldn't have to be.

Doesn't know anything until Dean's fingernail pops against his ear, savory smell of cooked chicken and Dean's knee against his under the table, heat and weight that says 'here' and 'safe' and 'home'. Dad's hand on Dean's shoulder, just the same.

Wonder how he got that chicken. Not dumpster diving, from the description. The same way he got those "chick presents"?

:)

"You look like you're sleeping sitting up, man."

"Nah, I just... Was just thinking about...stuff."

"Brunette or redhead?" Dean asked, little wiggle of his eyebrows and Sam huffed a small laugh. Picked the menu out of the coiled stainless holder that was behind the napkins and examined it.

"Ha, ha. Hey, they've got Cream of Wheat."

"That stuff looks like –"

"Don't even," Sam warned, and Dean subsided, smirking.

The normalcy of Sam and Dean, made poignant because of those memories.

And no, it does not look like.

"Heart attack in a shroud," Sam countered, and Dean grinned at him. Kept grinning while they got their coffee, ordered their breakfasts and ate. When they were done, Dean put down a twenty and a five with a little pat of satisfaction, and Sam followed him out the door, into the sun.

And that pride of having money to pay, money to tip--that just hurts. It's like somewhere inside, a part of Dean'll always be that angry kid that had to swallow every scrap of his pride to keep body and soul together not just for himself, but for his little brother.

Is there a way you could make more in this 'verse? I have no doubt you've got permission, I mean--wow.

And John . . . wasn't angry or cold, just a tired, worn man too obsessed with demons to take care of his kids properly. You made a John I actually don't hate at all. Don't like--I've never really liked John Winchester in any fic--but don't hate, either. I actually feel for him.

The way you make Dean bend and hurt and not break--make us do the same right along with him. . . .

[tabaqui]

*twirls*
Thank you thank you!
I hate the thought of this being anything remotely like canon. I hate the thought of Dean - and Sam - having to struggle *that much*. Gah. But it could, actually, because the biggest cause of bowlegs is rickets, which is a vitamin D and calcium deficiency, and i can just *see* Dean at five and six and seven giving up the milk to Sam, the last egg, whatever, and of course all the hiding in hotel rooms, no sun....

*shivers*

Hate, hate, hate the thought.

Dean got the chicken from a shelter kitchen. You must read the original, dude.
:)

I'm glad you don't hate this John. He is as lost and tired and soul-sick as his boys.

[a-phoenixdragon.livejournal.com]

GOD, this...LOVE!! I LOVED this - and in a sad, horrible way, i understood it too... Thank you for this.

*hugs you hard*

[tabaqui]

*hugs you back*

Thank you so very much.

[http://users.livejournal.com/_beetle_/]

He made the rounds of the grocery stores and restaurants with his head tucked down and his eyes on the ground. Wondering if the ratio of calories scrounged to calories burned was even worth it, but shying away time and again from the free lunches at the First Lutheran or the 'Everyone welcome!' fish fry at Our Lady of the Rosary. Remembering all too well the look of mulish fury on Dean's face when they'd walk by other such places in other cities, Dean telling Sam to stay inside and do his homework and coming back with food in mis-matched grocery bags and the rot-tang of dumpsters on his coat – sludge on his shoes. Washing his hands until they were red and sore and Sam never, ever told him about the hamburger with the cigarette butt under the bun, or that the week-old doughnuts had acquired fur inside the hole.

I've been that hungry (though thankfully not homeless) though not since I was a teenager. And for a few days at a time, too. It didn't occur to me to go dumpster-diving, though, so I just sat around and starved, hoping my mom might find some money somewhere or my uncle might come through with some. It happened quite a few times and without the advent of school lunches.

So this fic really hit home. Especially that passage, for some reason. It brought tears to my eyes.

And Dan's satisfaction at being able to pay the waitress and leave a good tip? That feeling never goes away. Or at least it hasn't for me :)

Thank you for a truly wonderfully-written slice of their lives. It was gritty, not pretty, and powerful.

[tabaqui]

*hugs*
Thank you, bb.

[werewolfsfan.livejournal.com]

I was glancing through your master list and I knew as soon as I saw the header that I know the original story well.

But what a masterful addition this makes! Haunting.

[tabaqui]

Thank you so much. essenceofmeanin is such an *amazing* writer, it was a huge honor and a huge challenge to get this story and to do right by it.

Glad you enjoyed!