Disclaimer: Eric Kripke is the metaphorical father of Supernatural. Not I
Warning 1: Thou shall not steal. Plagiarism is a dastardly deed. Thank you.
Warning 2: No beta reader. Apologies for everything wrong, including any uncharacteristic behavior of the Winchester brothers.
Timeline: This is probably AU, but it is set during Season One (perhaps the second half).
How To Be Merry At a Funeral
How My Brother Almost Got Us Thrown Out of Concordis Funeral Home
By Jan J. (P.J.P.), Little Sister's Keepress
It's all Dean's fault. That idiot.
In retrospect, I need to learn to ignore him better. After twenty-two years, I would think that I would be an expert in Dean Dismissal. Apparently not.
It was like any other case. Well, let me just say that it was a case. A unique case but a case just the same. Like most, there was a death, and, like most, a funeral was imminent. We decided to pose as fifth cousins in mourning. By "we," I mean that it was Dean's idea.
Of course, Dean got up late. The service began at 11:00 a.m. I—being the best little brother—made him breakfast: oatmeal. You know what I got in return?
"Are you trying to kill me?" he asked with a sulky look.
"No," I replied exasperatedly. "We don't have time to go out for donuts! Besides, you should be worried about those glazed goods killing you rather than this!" I slammed his coffee cup next to the scorned oatmeal on the table.
Just wait. If he needed help with his tie, then he was not going to come whining to me.
Dean seemed to be immune to my fuming. Because you know what? The jerk couldn't tie his tie fast enough to save his life.
"Aw, thanks, honey," he gibed as I did the knot. Strangling him was one micrometer from my mind.
"Look, Dean. I'll meet you at the funeral home," I gritted out through my teeth.
"What? Why? Come on, Sammy. We're supposed to go together," he cajoled.
"It's just a few blocks away," I explained. "I don't want to be late and make an entrance. Plus, you're still half-dressed."
Dean frowned. "Well, fine."
"Fine," I said and turned to the door.
"If you get kidnapped, don't expect me to save you!" he called out.
I stalked away and slammed the door.
So I arrived on time and unharmed. Dean arrived on time, too. He smirked as soon as he spotted me in the aisle. Moseying past my seat, he plopped down next to me and nudged my side.
"You should trust me," he sing-songed.
"I do," I whispered furiously. "Would you be quiet? It's starting now!"
"Lighten up, bro," advised Dean. He lightly kicked my shoe. I refused to acknowledge him and to surrender to my seven-year-old whims of kicking him in the shin. Hard.
People went up to the pulpit and talked. Flowers were everywhere, and the bouquets surrounded the open casket. I tried to focus on the questions that I would soon address to "my" family members.
"Now, before we close the casket, may all those who wish to view the deceased for the final time please come forward," conducted the pastor.
"So. You going or not?" Dean inquired.
"Um, I don't think so," I answered uncomfortably. We didn't know Mrs. Charles at all even if we were "distant family."
"Sam, you know I'll protect you from the zombies!" exclaimed Dean, puffing out his chest.
"You wish." I rolled my eyes. Because really. Torching zombies would have definitely have made Dean's day. Or night.
A couple in front of us stood up to pay their last respects. The woman was dressed in an elaborate ebony pants suit and sported a bunch of silver jewelry. She seemed awfully familiar . . .
Trust Dean to notice something else entirely. My brother is not very subtle. He's also not a convict despite what spouts out of his mouth. Or what the F.B.I. has on file.
"Check it out, Sammy!" he crowed teasingly as he bumped my shoulder. "She left her wallet in her purse on the chair. Quick! Grab it!"
I swear I was just going to tell him off for his impropriety, but I just had to glance at his face.
His eyes—I don't know—were wide. However, they weren't filled with mirth. They were instead reflecting some sort of stupid hope.
Then, memories of another funeral and the numbness that came with losing Jess struck me. A squeeze on my shoulder jarred me from that dark mental cellar, and I found myself meeting Dean's hopeful face in the midst of a funeral for a person we didn't know and visualizing the notion of me snatching that lady's wallet.
And I lost it.
I laughed. Loudly.
I couldn't stop. God knows I tried.
Now if Dean were the awesome big brother that he boasts he is he would have clamped a hand over my mouth or silenced me in some way. But nooo. He just broke out into a stupid grin and dragged me out of my chair.
The other mourners looked at us in befuddlement. Some were outraged and moved to approach us. Not that I blamed them.
"Sorry about that," Dean airily stated not letting go of me. He shot them a level stare. "The shock got to him."
Man, why does Dean always make me look weak? I'm not a little kid anymore!
The angry few dropped their pugnacious stances.
As we walked to the casket and my laughter abated, I hiccuped out, "I am never going to another funeral with you again."
"Yeah, well, at least I got you to stop acting like such a stick in the mud."
"Shut up, Dean."
"Admit it. Without me, Sam, you're Oscar the Grouch."
I refrained from arguing with him. We didn't need to traumatize the already traumatized grievers even more.
We waited in the line to view the body, but do you think that lasted long? No, our little spectacle just couldn't be unmentionable—be normal.
"Excuse me, sir," a brunette intercepted me in the line.
"Call me Dean," my brother butted in.
She looked at me earnestly while paying no heed to his remark. Why couldn't I do that?
"Um, sir, I noticed your distress," she declared to me with a solicitous mien. "I just wanted to let you know that as Concordis Funeral Home's Director of Bereavement Counseling Services, I am always here for you to properly express your feelings regarding your loss." She grasped my wrist. "In fact, I am available after the service if you need a counseling session."
Startled, I pulled away from her and, in my hurry, my back accidentally hit Dean's chest. My last so-called session with a heath care professional was one I could have done without.
"Er, Miss, thank you but I think I will be able to manage in the future," I reassured her.
"Yeah," Dean agreed, watching my feeble smile speculatively. "I'll look after Sammy." He steadied me and then studied her appreciatively. "But is it all right if I come in for that counseling session?"
Sometimes I wonder how I am related to Dean.
After she gave him her card and left, he commented, "Sam, what is wrong with you? Are you completely blind? Sometimes I wonder how you can be such a geek."
In retrospect of my first retrospect, I guess both of us are at fault. Impropriety runs in the family.
Wait a minute. In retrospect of the second retrospect, it's all Dad's fault. He's who we got half our genes from.
Dedication: To a loving uncle who can't complain