angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2009-05-21 03:16 pm
angelgazing) wrote2009-05-21 03:16 pm
Entry tags:
you have to get used to it
Remember when I said that if, at the end of the season, Sam and Dean were broken that I would have to fix them? Apparently it also works the other way, and I kinda hate myself for it. Laura is going to completely kill/refuse to speak to me every again.
In an effort to, you know, not do that, I was going through and organizing my email for as far back as, like, late 2005? I don't know, something crazy like that. I'm pretty sure it was season one of SPN, at any rate, before there was all the heartbreak, and drama, and Winchester deaths, and hell.
I found this ficlet thing I wrote and never posted. I'd sent it to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
luzdeestrellas way before she was even willing to considering watching SPN. It's not deep, or meaningful, or anything, it just makes me go, "Aw, boys, you used to be so much different ::sniffles::"
Anyway, not with current canon, untitled, just under 1700 words, unbetaed, thing I wrote so long ago I had completely forgotten about it:
"You smell like an ashtray," Sam tells him, with his eyebrows raised. He'd smirk but he's just not that good at it and rule number one of Mocking Dean Winchester is not to give him a chance to turn the tables. Dean's tricky and good at it too, so Sam is extra careful to give him nothing.
"I smell like a man, Sammy, you should try it."
"You smell like an ashtray, with a healthy hint of piss and beer."
"So," Dean says, and keeps leaning forward, until he's just almost leaning into Sam, right there in his personal space, just to make him crazy. Dean peeks out the window and cruses under his breath, hands in fists in his pockets. "Like a man," he finishes, as though there wasn't a pause in the first place.
Sam shrugs and his shoulder hits Dean's chin. He doesn't move because that'd mean losing. "Like a man who's spent five years hanging out in bars, hoping, and only getting a beer gut, and his shoes puked on by drunk college girls with mammoth boyfriends for his trouble."
"You've put a lot of thought into this," Dean says, and glances at his watch. He turns around and finds his reflection in the mirror across the room. He pats his hair like that's going to make it do something different. "Something you're trying to tell me there, pal?"
"Other than how much I hate your new jacket?"
"Yeah."
"Not really, no."
"Well, I got it—"
"Stole it," Sam corrects, and crosses his arms. "You stole it from a guy in a bar."
"So the price was right." Dean shrugs. He takes a step back and tilts his head at Sam. "Is this really all about my jacket?"
"Kind of more about the devil woman thing," Sam says, and keeps his voice all nicely conversational. It's a good skill to have when you're trying to make your older brother see that he's clearly lost his mind.
"She's not a devil woman," Dean answers, automatically. And then turns back to the mirror to pat his hair some more.
"You primp more than Jessica ever did. This seems like a good time to tell you."
"I don't primp."
"You're primping," Sam says, calmly. "And you're doing it for a date with a woman who is, at the very least, going to steal your wallet and your kidney."
"Which kidney?" Dean asks, smirking. He curls his hands again inside the pockets of his stolen jacket and back and forth on his feet. He was never good at waiting. "I mean, because the right one has been giving me fits ever since that park in Albuquerque."
Sam shifts a little to the left so that the doorknob isn't sticking him quite as hard, and shrugs again. "Either way, I've decided that should something happen, I could use that kidney one day. Rightfully, I feel it should go to me. And you should probably see a doctor about that."
"About giving you my kidney? You know I'd have to leave the room for that, right? I have to go all the way outside in the big bad world, where I might just get lucky."
"About the hurting part, but it wasn't that long ago; it's probably just bruised." Sam crosses his legs at the ankle, and leans just that much more against the door. He gets the feeling that this is going to take a while. And also that he should've gone ahead and taken a piss before hand. "You're really missing the devil woman point here, you know."
"Well, we've had this conversation before." Dean shrugs, like he's mocking Sam, and peeks out the window again. Sam knows that he knows that Sam knows that he takes just long enough of standing in Sam's personal space to make Sam want to shove him.
There's nothing outside the motel room, there hasn't been all day. They're right on the edges of town, where crap motels go to die. The whole place smells not unlike the last person to stay in the room used it to make a snuff film, and it didn't get cleaned for a couple of weeks. On many, many levels it smells that way. The lights outside don't work and it's been dark for almost an hour. Sam really, really hates this town.
"I was eleven."
"And she was hot."
"The hotness of women you throw yourself at notwithstanding, Dean, this woman is a handmaiden of Satan."
"Okay," Dean says, and sits down on the corner of Sam's mostly made bed. "Except that I think the problem here is that you are just extremely jealous of your overly patient big brother who, let's just remember, could move you from that door, if it came that he had to."
Sam makes a note of the time by the red numbered cheap-motel-standard-issue alarm clock on the nightstand, because had he made the bet on how long it took for the threats to start he'd have won. Really, it's times like this that he misses Dad the most. "Yes, I'm so jealous that you've managed to get dragged under the spell of some cut-rate she-demon in a slinky red dress. My god, you get all the luck."
"There is no call for sarcasm," Dean answers, the corner of his mouth twitching like it does when he hates Sam for being, well, Sam. Like when he doesn't want to find the humor but he's going to anyway. "I was thinking the jealousy steamed more from the fact that she gets to spend time with me. I mean, you are keeping me trapped in here with you." He pauses, hides a snicker behind a cough into his hand, like Sam doesn't know all his tricks, and says, "Besides, you haven't gotten laid in like a year or something, and dude, guy your age, that's just sad."
"So how's it feel to be creeping up on thirty again?" And Sam really never claimed to be the bigger person anyway. Except for that one time. And the time in Kansas City. And the time in-- Okay, well, he's never really meant to claim that he was the bigger person.
"I can kill you with these two hands, Sammy," he says, and makes like he's got spirit fingers in Sam's direction. Sam makes a note to stop watching bad movies that Jessica loved. It's just time to let some things go. "And I wouldn't regret it much in the morning when I actually got to take a nice hot shower for the first time in months."
Sam would kind of kill for a Pepsi right now. He'd never make it if he had to take hostages for real. It's a lot of work. Dean stands up, and walks a step and then stands, facing Sam, leaning with his hip on the dresser. The dresser rocks dangerously under the pressure. "You'd never make it to morning," Sam says. "You're new girlfriend will have salted your meat by then."
"Is that a metaphor?" Dean asks, eyebrows drawn in question.
"Euphemism," Sam corrects, absently, while trying to pretend he isn't cringing. "And no."
"So now she's a cannibal and not just the handmaiden of Satan?"
"She'll feed your heart to her children like mother birds do," Sam tells him, slipping back into his conversational tone like he never left it for more snide and blatantly hateful pastures.
"She's a twenty-four year old girl who works at Texaco during the day and takes accounting classes at night. Once every two weeks, according to those darling drunken friends of hers, she gets hammered and does naughty dances on table tops. I cannot miss the naughty dancing, Sam, not after having to listen to her entire life story like it was something I hadn't heard a thousand times before. The most evil thing she's ever done was probably either tripping over a puppy or cock-teasing. And I'm thinking it's the last one. You cannot make me miss the naughty drunken dancing, Sam, it's not fair."
"First of all," Sam says, and pretends that Dean doesn't have that slightly high pitched edge of panic to his voice, "none of those things is true. You know why?"
Dean stops, glares, pauses to consider and then, with no small amount of resignation, asks, "Why?"
"Because she's out to eat your soul, Dean, that's why. Get a hooker like every other lonely man your age. It'd certainly make you easier to live with."
"Evidence."
"What?"
"Evidence," Dean repeats drawing out the word like he did when Sam was little and he wanted Sam to feel stupid for asking a question so he wouldn't ask it again. "You're the one who wanted to go to law school, man, you should know what it is."
"Do you mean other than the fact that she's entirely too hot for you?" Sam asks, and just digs his feet into the snide pastures again. Greener grass and all. "Her eyes glow."
"With innocence, Sam, with table-dancey innocence," Dean claims, and is right back at desperate. Desperate and whiney.
Sam starts a mental list of all the ways he's never letting Dean forget this. It'll be fun to years to come, really. "Red innocence?"
"I've seen crazier things."
"She's got claws."
"She's got trashy long fake fingernails. I like trashy."
"She's got cloven feet!"
"Those were shoes, Sam," Dean says, calmly. "Innocent, trashy, table-dancey shoes."
"She's got a dick."
"Now you're just making shit up," Dean chokes, and looks like maybe he's torn between laughing and screaming.
"Sadly for you," Sam says, and slides down the door until he's sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, "you'll never get a chance to find out."
Dean kicks his foot and flops down on the bed. "Dude, you owe me so much for this," he adds, huffily, shrugging out of his jacket. "Never will the day come when you've properly repaid me."
Sam shrugs, bites his lip, and laughs because he can.
---
In an effort to, you know, not do that, I was going through and organizing my email for as far back as, like, late 2005? I don't know, something crazy like that. I'm pretty sure it was season one of SPN, at any rate, before there was all the heartbreak, and drama, and Winchester deaths, and hell.
I found this ficlet thing I wrote and never posted. I'd sent it to
luzdeestrellas way before she was even willing to considering watching SPN. It's not deep, or meaningful, or anything, it just makes me go, "Aw, boys, you used to be so much different ::sniffles::"Anyway, not with current canon, untitled, just under 1700 words, unbetaed, thing I wrote so long ago I had completely forgotten about it:
"You smell like an ashtray," Sam tells him, with his eyebrows raised. He'd smirk but he's just not that good at it and rule number one of Mocking Dean Winchester is not to give him a chance to turn the tables. Dean's tricky and good at it too, so Sam is extra careful to give him nothing.
"I smell like a man, Sammy, you should try it."
"You smell like an ashtray, with a healthy hint of piss and beer."
"So," Dean says, and keeps leaning forward, until he's just almost leaning into Sam, right there in his personal space, just to make him crazy. Dean peeks out the window and cruses under his breath, hands in fists in his pockets. "Like a man," he finishes, as though there wasn't a pause in the first place.
Sam shrugs and his shoulder hits Dean's chin. He doesn't move because that'd mean losing. "Like a man who's spent five years hanging out in bars, hoping, and only getting a beer gut, and his shoes puked on by drunk college girls with mammoth boyfriends for his trouble."
"You've put a lot of thought into this," Dean says, and glances at his watch. He turns around and finds his reflection in the mirror across the room. He pats his hair like that's going to make it do something different. "Something you're trying to tell me there, pal?"
"Other than how much I hate your new jacket?"
"Yeah."
"Not really, no."
"Well, I got it—"
"Stole it," Sam corrects, and crosses his arms. "You stole it from a guy in a bar."
"So the price was right." Dean shrugs. He takes a step back and tilts his head at Sam. "Is this really all about my jacket?"
"Kind of more about the devil woman thing," Sam says, and keeps his voice all nicely conversational. It's a good skill to have when you're trying to make your older brother see that he's clearly lost his mind.
"She's not a devil woman," Dean answers, automatically. And then turns back to the mirror to pat his hair some more.
"You primp more than Jessica ever did. This seems like a good time to tell you."
"I don't primp."
"You're primping," Sam says, calmly. "And you're doing it for a date with a woman who is, at the very least, going to steal your wallet and your kidney."
"Which kidney?" Dean asks, smirking. He curls his hands again inside the pockets of his stolen jacket and back and forth on his feet. He was never good at waiting. "I mean, because the right one has been giving me fits ever since that park in Albuquerque."
Sam shifts a little to the left so that the doorknob isn't sticking him quite as hard, and shrugs again. "Either way, I've decided that should something happen, I could use that kidney one day. Rightfully, I feel it should go to me. And you should probably see a doctor about that."
"About giving you my kidney? You know I'd have to leave the room for that, right? I have to go all the way outside in the big bad world, where I might just get lucky."
"About the hurting part, but it wasn't that long ago; it's probably just bruised." Sam crosses his legs at the ankle, and leans just that much more against the door. He gets the feeling that this is going to take a while. And also that he should've gone ahead and taken a piss before hand. "You're really missing the devil woman point here, you know."
"Well, we've had this conversation before." Dean shrugs, like he's mocking Sam, and peeks out the window again. Sam knows that he knows that Sam knows that he takes just long enough of standing in Sam's personal space to make Sam want to shove him.
There's nothing outside the motel room, there hasn't been all day. They're right on the edges of town, where crap motels go to die. The whole place smells not unlike the last person to stay in the room used it to make a snuff film, and it didn't get cleaned for a couple of weeks. On many, many levels it smells that way. The lights outside don't work and it's been dark for almost an hour. Sam really, really hates this town.
"I was eleven."
"And she was hot."
"The hotness of women you throw yourself at notwithstanding, Dean, this woman is a handmaiden of Satan."
"Okay," Dean says, and sits down on the corner of Sam's mostly made bed. "Except that I think the problem here is that you are just extremely jealous of your overly patient big brother who, let's just remember, could move you from that door, if it came that he had to."
Sam makes a note of the time by the red numbered cheap-motel-standard-issue alarm clock on the nightstand, because had he made the bet on how long it took for the threats to start he'd have won. Really, it's times like this that he misses Dad the most. "Yes, I'm so jealous that you've managed to get dragged under the spell of some cut-rate she-demon in a slinky red dress. My god, you get all the luck."
"There is no call for sarcasm," Dean answers, the corner of his mouth twitching like it does when he hates Sam for being, well, Sam. Like when he doesn't want to find the humor but he's going to anyway. "I was thinking the jealousy steamed more from the fact that she gets to spend time with me. I mean, you are keeping me trapped in here with you." He pauses, hides a snicker behind a cough into his hand, like Sam doesn't know all his tricks, and says, "Besides, you haven't gotten laid in like a year or something, and dude, guy your age, that's just sad."
"So how's it feel to be creeping up on thirty again?" And Sam really never claimed to be the bigger person anyway. Except for that one time. And the time in Kansas City. And the time in-- Okay, well, he's never really meant to claim that he was the bigger person.
"I can kill you with these two hands, Sammy," he says, and makes like he's got spirit fingers in Sam's direction. Sam makes a note to stop watching bad movies that Jessica loved. It's just time to let some things go. "And I wouldn't regret it much in the morning when I actually got to take a nice hot shower for the first time in months."
Sam would kind of kill for a Pepsi right now. He'd never make it if he had to take hostages for real. It's a lot of work. Dean stands up, and walks a step and then stands, facing Sam, leaning with his hip on the dresser. The dresser rocks dangerously under the pressure. "You'd never make it to morning," Sam says. "You're new girlfriend will have salted your meat by then."
"Is that a metaphor?" Dean asks, eyebrows drawn in question.
"Euphemism," Sam corrects, absently, while trying to pretend he isn't cringing. "And no."
"So now she's a cannibal and not just the handmaiden of Satan?"
"She'll feed your heart to her children like mother birds do," Sam tells him, slipping back into his conversational tone like he never left it for more snide and blatantly hateful pastures.
"She's a twenty-four year old girl who works at Texaco during the day and takes accounting classes at night. Once every two weeks, according to those darling drunken friends of hers, she gets hammered and does naughty dances on table tops. I cannot miss the naughty dancing, Sam, not after having to listen to her entire life story like it was something I hadn't heard a thousand times before. The most evil thing she's ever done was probably either tripping over a puppy or cock-teasing. And I'm thinking it's the last one. You cannot make me miss the naughty drunken dancing, Sam, it's not fair."
"First of all," Sam says, and pretends that Dean doesn't have that slightly high pitched edge of panic to his voice, "none of those things is true. You know why?"
Dean stops, glares, pauses to consider and then, with no small amount of resignation, asks, "Why?"
"Because she's out to eat your soul, Dean, that's why. Get a hooker like every other lonely man your age. It'd certainly make you easier to live with."
"Evidence."
"What?"
"Evidence," Dean repeats drawing out the word like he did when Sam was little and he wanted Sam to feel stupid for asking a question so he wouldn't ask it again. "You're the one who wanted to go to law school, man, you should know what it is."
"Do you mean other than the fact that she's entirely too hot for you?" Sam asks, and just digs his feet into the snide pastures again. Greener grass and all. "Her eyes glow."
"With innocence, Sam, with table-dancey innocence," Dean claims, and is right back at desperate. Desperate and whiney.
Sam starts a mental list of all the ways he's never letting Dean forget this. It'll be fun to years to come, really. "Red innocence?"
"I've seen crazier things."
"She's got claws."
"She's got trashy long fake fingernails. I like trashy."
"She's got cloven feet!"
"Those were shoes, Sam," Dean says, calmly. "Innocent, trashy, table-dancey shoes."
"She's got a dick."
"Now you're just making shit up," Dean chokes, and looks like maybe he's torn between laughing and screaming.
"Sadly for you," Sam says, and slides down the door until he's sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, "you'll never get a chance to find out."
Dean kicks his foot and flops down on the bed. "Dude, you owe me so much for this," he adds, huffily, shrugging out of his jacket. "Never will the day come when you've properly repaid me."
Sam shrugs, bites his lip, and laughs because he can.
---