Uh, so I'm not sure if this is what you wanted, exactly, but I'm doing a PhD on soup kitchens (which means this totally counts as studying) so it's what came to my head.
Set during season 7, so some Hell-trauma stuff comes up. Both adult and Weechesters.
He’d been embarrassed by it, as a kid. He’d hidden behind his brother – he’d been able to, then, had been so much smaller – and hoped that nobody from their latest school saw him.
And yeah, maybe that was shallow, maybe he shouldn’t give a shit what they thought – it wasn’t like he was going to be sticking around that long, anyway – but he didn’t want people seeing, didn’t want them to know they were, well, poor.
Of course, in the Winchesters world, it was so much more complicated than that.
*
“It’s been a while,” Dean says quietly as they line up.
Sam nods, closes his eyes for a moment, thumb going to his scar as he tries not to see the people around him in pieces, bloodied and broken, streaks of red smeared up the wall.
It isn’t exactly cheery when he opens his eyes again, but it’s a lot better.
Dean puts a hand on his arm, a silent gesture of comfort.
It’s enough.
*
There had been other kids at the kitchens – most of them scruffy, dirty faces and tangled hair.
He hadn’t looked much better – hand-me-downs and thrift shop clothes. Their money went on weapons, or John’s drinking habit.
For all the talk about the poor, ninety-nine per cent of the parents lining up were probably better than John Winchester. At least they had an excuse.
Their father could have settled down, gotten a job. The Winchesters could be middle class, could live in a house, they did live in a house, once upon a time, although he didn’t remember that.
*
The woman behind the counter is probably in her sixties, at least, embracing her salt-and-pepper hair and smiling at them.
They probably look awful. They’ve barely slept since Bobby’s death, and they’re both in dire need of a shave. Their credit cards are at breaking point – hence why they’re here – and the Leviathans are on their asses.
“I’m Susan,” she says, and there’s no mock compassion in her voice, she’s just a person serving them, and Sam relaxes a little, smiles back at her.
The food is basic – chicken loaf and vegetables – but it’s hot and smells good, and Sam thanks Susan sincerely as she loads their plates.
There’s gravy and drinks, coffee and juice and condiment packets. The man at the drinks station tells Sam that the spinach comes from their community garden.
*
They were serving actual soup, beef and vegetable, with bread, the middle-aged woman ladling it out going all dewy-eyed at the two poor little skinny boys lining up.
“You two look like you could use a good feed,” she said, and Sam flushed with shame because, yeah, they could – Dad had been gone for almost a month, and their meagre stash of money could only be stretched so far.
“Thanks ma’am,” Dean gave her that winning grin of his, and Sam slunk behind him to a seat.
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timeasmymeasure
FILLED: Breadline Pt 1/2
Date: 2016-11-10 05:56 am (UTC)Set during season 7, so some Hell-trauma stuff comes up. Both adult and Weechesters.
He’d been embarrassed by it, as a kid. He’d hidden behind his brother – he’d been able to, then, had been so much smaller – and hoped that nobody from their latest school saw him.
And yeah, maybe that was shallow, maybe he shouldn’t give a shit what they thought – it wasn’t like he was going to be sticking around that long, anyway – but he didn’t want people seeing, didn’t want them to know they were, well, poor.
Of course, in the Winchesters world, it was so much more complicated than that.
*
“It’s been a while,” Dean says quietly as they line up.
Sam nods, closes his eyes for a moment, thumb going to his scar as he tries not to see the people around him in pieces, bloodied and broken, streaks of red smeared up the wall.
It isn’t exactly cheery when he opens his eyes again, but it’s a lot better.
Dean puts a hand on his arm, a silent gesture of comfort.
It’s enough.
*
There had been other kids at the kitchens – most of them scruffy, dirty faces and tangled hair.
He hadn’t looked much better – hand-me-downs and thrift shop clothes. Their money went on weapons, or John’s drinking habit.
For all the talk about the poor, ninety-nine per cent of the parents lining up were probably better than John Winchester. At least they had an excuse.
Their father could have settled down, gotten a job. The Winchesters could be middle class, could live in a house, they did live in a house, once upon a time, although he didn’t remember that.
*
The woman behind the counter is probably in her sixties, at least, embracing her salt-and-pepper hair and smiling at them.
They probably look awful. They’ve barely slept since Bobby’s death, and they’re both in dire need of a shave. Their credit cards are at breaking point – hence why they’re here – and the Leviathans are on their asses.
“I’m Susan,” she says, and there’s no mock compassion in her voice, she’s just a person serving them, and Sam relaxes a little, smiles back at her.
The food is basic – chicken loaf and vegetables – but it’s hot and smells good, and Sam thanks Susan sincerely as she loads their plates.
There’s gravy and drinks, coffee and juice and condiment packets. The man at the drinks station tells Sam that the spinach comes from their community garden.
*
They were serving actual soup, beef and vegetable, with bread, the middle-aged woman ladling it out going all dewy-eyed at the two poor little skinny boys lining up.
“You two look like you could use a good feed,” she said, and Sam flushed with shame because, yeah, they could – Dad had been gone for almost a month, and their meagre stash of money could only be stretched so far.
“Thanks ma’am,” Dean gave her that winning grin of his, and Sam slunk behind him to a seat.