Rating: PG - Gen
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: Sam dupes his brother into seeing an avant garde/indy film about an existential moustache.
Dean always did that.
He always sat with one empty seat between them in movie theaters. Sam never quite understood why but he had a feeling it had less to do with firmly establishing his publicly perceived heterosexuality and more to do with total arm rest control.
A piece of popcorn bounced off the side of his face.
"Hey up high." Dean warned.
Sam caught the next piece that arced through the air in his mouth. He was in a pretty good mood. It had been ages since they got to kick back in a theater. The lobby even had, to their collective joy, a Slurpee machine.
"So what's this about again?" Dean asked putting up his feet on the chair in front of him and digging his hand into the largest industrial bucket of popcorn the place had.
Sam paused because he had only gotten Dean this far into the door because he hadn't been completely honest about the movies content. Well, he had been honest but not very forth coming with the finer details. He considered what he should say, buying himself some time by taking a long sip on his straw of blue crushed ice.
"Well....it's about the juxtaposition of reality and the perception of ourselves--oh man..." He had to pause while he inadvertently gave himself severe brain freeze. "....in the face of societal constraints--"
"Good God, does it at least have Sandra McCoy in it?"
"What's this flick called anyway?"
Dean stopped chewing for moment. "Are you tellin' me we have to sit through two hours about some dude and his societally constrained mustache?"
"It's a telling tragic psychic journey of the human condition--"
"You'd said there'd be car chases Sam!"
"I said there'd probably be a car in it..."
Dean slumped down further into his seat angrily shoving another hand full of popcorn into his face.
"And just so you know..." Sam continued.
"Oh no, what?"
"It's um, in French."
"You gotta be fucking kiddin me."
"Don't worry, it's subtitled."
"Let me get this straight..." Dean said sitting up and placing his tub of air popped grease aside. "You brought me to a movie about some French guy's tragic flavor saver with I'm guessin' no aerial live action kung fu, no T & A and... I have to read the son of a bitch?"
"The Independent Indie Foreign Film Guild gave it 3 Golden Chai Latte awards." Sam assured him.
Dean blinked at him with a look mixed with puzzled concern for Sam and anguish saved just for himself. "Do you even know what a movie is?"
"Just give it a chance." Sam sighed. "You might even like it."
Dean snorted and leaned back in his seat with his bucket.
Sam knew within the first 15 minutes that the directors blatant borrowing from Dominik Moll was a poor at best. The dark loveliness which was the leading actress was puddle deep and badly scripted. The protagonist was uninteresting. The cinematography uninspired. Three Golden Chai Latte Awards? Sam was going to have quite a bit to say when he got to the laptop and onto the Indie Fan Forum chat boards. He settled back in his chair and began to formulate the detailed and precise posting he'd make.
The theater was dark and pleasantly warm.
Sam fell asleep.
The loud pinging strings of a dire and solemn violin woke him. Sam rubbed his face and looked up to see the cursive flow of the credits scrolling down the screen. He looked around and saw his brother already standing, adjusting his jacket and moving to heft his now empty bucket into the trash.
Expecting some jibe and not getting one he assumed Dean probably used the time to get some shut eye too. He followed him through the heavy swinging doors and into the dim hallway outside.
"So, why did no one notice him?" Dean asked as they walked past the colorful cardboard diorama of some new pirate movie.
"In the movie, that guy changed his face, hacked off what he thought made him what he was..." Dean dug out the keys of the car from his jacket pocket. "But no one even noticed. Not even his wife."
Sam hadn't made it very far into the story and didn't want to admit that he didn't even know how it had ended. "Maybe it was a metaphor." Metaphor was always a pretty safe bet.
"Yeah, maybe." Dean shrugged.
Their car was one of the few in the parking lot. Sam's thoughts wandered to the promise of bed and some much more horizontal sleep.
"U-Un bon mot ne p-prouve rien."
Sam froze with his hand on the car's door handle.
"Means, A wise crack doesn't mean a thing." Dean winked at him.
Sam knew what it meant, he just couldn't quite believe he heard it coming from Dean.
"It's something I read in the thing, that's all." His brother shifted uneasily in place, made unsure by Sam's silence. "It was your stupid weird movie." Dean mumbled under his breath as he shoved himself into the car.
Sam shook his head with the beginnings of a smile. Dean was quoting Voltaire.
Maybe his brother was right, the world of Indie films was a pretty weird place.