SPN FIC - Kids
Time to look at Dead in the Water!
Dean chuckled, looking at the road. Then half-turned toward Sam and let out a full-blown laugh. "Told you: you're a kid. 'You suck.' Damn, Sammy. That your fall-back position? 'You suck.'" Still laughing, he aimed a nicely coiled up shot at Sam's left shoulder. "Jerk."
Characters: Dean and Sam (November 2005)
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG, for language
Length: 927 words
KIDS
By Carol Davis
They were within spitting distance of Milwaukee when Sam finally brought it up. Really, it was a miracle he'd lasted that long. "So," he said, and Dean glanced at him.
He thought he had a takedown all shined up and ready to launch. He didn't say anything more, and that was typical Sammy: open the door a crack and wait for Dean to waltz right on in, trusting and innocent and completely unaware he was about to fall victim to the master.
Dean tapped his fingers against the wheel, keeping time with Motorhead.
Greatest hits of mullet rock. The hell.
"So?" he said.
"Name three kids you know."
Since he'd known this was coming -- he'd known right off the bat that Sam was going to keep this thing on life support until he'd wrung every last bit of energy out of it -- Dean had his answer rubbing its invisible hands together. "You."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I said three kids."
"In what sense are you not a kid?"
Sam sputtered for a second, and Dean silently gave himself two points. "Age," Sam said. The word had a nice crispy edge to it that was worth another point. "Sexual maturity." That one made Dean snort, and Sam's response to the snort chalked up another point. "Intellectual maturity."
"Oh, bite me," Dean told him.
"I'm twenty-two years old."
"Buttoned your shirt crooked this morning."
"I was in a hurry."
"Dumped syrup all over the table."
"That was an accident."
"Bumped into --"
"Okay!" Sam blurted. "Jeez."
"I figure you count as three kids," Dean said, eyes on the road. "Hell, the size of you, you count for half a dozen."
The Master. 'Fess up, Sammy. You don't stand a chance.
"It just proves my point," Sam said, staring at the dash, hands fisted against his thighs, the words popping out of him like kidney stones. "You don't know any actual children."
Dean didn't answer him.
"See?" Sam pressed.
"Maybe I have three actual kids."
It was all in the delivery; Dean had figured that out when Sam was still wearing diapers and thought the Roadrunner was for real. Facial expression, tone of voice, body language. He'd practiced bullshittery on Sam for years before he worked up the nerve to try it on a stranger. Teachers, cops, even Dad: all the beneficiaries of an ability to make crap smell like roses, honed to a fine edge with Sam as the whetstone.
"What?" Sam said with a squeak for a question mark.
"Two years, Sammy. You said leave you be. Figured you wouldn't be interested in birth announcements."
Sam's face started to work like hamsters were running around under his skin.
He was silent for a long while.
Then he said, "What?"
"Dude. Seriously. We need to have your hearing tested."
"You don't have a kid."
Dean shrugged. Just a tiny, tiny bit.
"You don't."
Dean's fingers played against the steering wheel.
"You have a kid? When were you gonna tell me this?"
Sam hadn't squeaked like that since he was fourteen. It'd been kind of annoying back then, but it was a beautiful, beautiful thing now.
Then Sam wrecked it all by being...Sam. By getting all misty. "When were you gonna tell me?" he asked, and he sounded like Dean had scammed him out of his share of dessert.
"Dude," Dean said with a sigh.
"What?"
"Good God, you're gullible."
"I --"
That killed it. Sam sank back into his seat and scowled at the dash.
"Dude," Dean said. "I'd tell you."
"Shut up," Sam muttered.
"I'd tell you. Except, don't hold your breath, because I am the reigning champion of Careful. Seriously. You know that."
"You're also the reigning champion of You Suck."
Dean chuckled, looking at the road. Then half-turned toward Sam and let out a full-blown laugh. "Told you: you're a kid. 'You suck.' Damn, Sammy. That your fall-back position? 'You suck.'" Still laughing, he aimed a nicely coiled up shot at Sam's left shoulder. "Jerk."
Twenty-two, my left nut. Try for fourteen.
Or four.
"Gonna tell Dad?" he taunted.
"Pull over," Sam said.
"What?"
"You need your hearing tested too? Pull over."
"No chance."
"You scared of me?"
Sam reached for the wheel. Dean batted his hand away and arced the Impala onto the shoulder of the road. As the engine chugged down into silence, the two of them popped their doors open and scrambled out.
"Scared of you?" Dean taunted.
"Gonna be hard to drive if we leave your ass here in the ditch."
Three or four cars, a Greyhound bus, and two semis went by as they stood facing each other off, weight carefully poised, fists clenched.
The driver of one of the semis blasted his horn, and that killed it.
"'Kids are the best'?" Sam taunted.
"You puked on this road once," Dean told him.
"What?"
"You got carsick. Blew chunks all over the shoulder."
"I did not."
"Did."
"How old was I?"
"Get back in the car, dipstick."
"I never threw up on this road."
They reclaimed their respective seats as rain began to patter down on the car, the road, the dusty shoulder. They both stared down the highway as Dean turned the key in the ignition, reviving the engine and the Motorhead tape.
A bunch more cars went by, and a Wal-Mart delivery truck.
The rain started to come down harder.
"I'd tell you," Dean said, with a glance at his brother.
Sam chewed his lip for a moment. Then he said quietly, "Yeah. Me too."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean chuckled, looking at the road. Then half-turned toward Sam and let out a full-blown laugh. "Told you: you're a kid. 'You suck.' Damn, Sammy. That your fall-back position? 'You suck.'" Still laughing, he aimed a nicely coiled up shot at Sam's left shoulder. "Jerk."
Characters: Dean and Sam (November 2005)
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG, for language
Length: 927 words
KIDS
By Carol Davis
They were within spitting distance of Milwaukee when Sam finally brought it up. Really, it was a miracle he'd lasted that long. "So," he said, and Dean glanced at him.
He thought he had a takedown all shined up and ready to launch. He didn't say anything more, and that was typical Sammy: open the door a crack and wait for Dean to waltz right on in, trusting and innocent and completely unaware he was about to fall victim to the master.
Dean tapped his fingers against the wheel, keeping time with Motorhead.
Greatest hits of mullet rock. The hell.
"So?" he said.
"Name three kids you know."
Since he'd known this was coming -- he'd known right off the bat that Sam was going to keep this thing on life support until he'd wrung every last bit of energy out of it -- Dean had his answer rubbing its invisible hands together. "You."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"I said three kids."
"In what sense are you not a kid?"
Sam sputtered for a second, and Dean silently gave himself two points. "Age," Sam said. The word had a nice crispy edge to it that was worth another point. "Sexual maturity." That one made Dean snort, and Sam's response to the snort chalked up another point. "Intellectual maturity."
"Oh, bite me," Dean told him.
"I'm twenty-two years old."
"Buttoned your shirt crooked this morning."
"I was in a hurry."
"Dumped syrup all over the table."
"That was an accident."
"Bumped into --"
"Okay!" Sam blurted. "Jeez."
"I figure you count as three kids," Dean said, eyes on the road. "Hell, the size of you, you count for half a dozen."
The Master. 'Fess up, Sammy. You don't stand a chance.
"It just proves my point," Sam said, staring at the dash, hands fisted against his thighs, the words popping out of him like kidney stones. "You don't know any actual children."
Dean didn't answer him.
"See?" Sam pressed.
"Maybe I have three actual kids."
It was all in the delivery; Dean had figured that out when Sam was still wearing diapers and thought the Roadrunner was for real. Facial expression, tone of voice, body language. He'd practiced bullshittery on Sam for years before he worked up the nerve to try it on a stranger. Teachers, cops, even Dad: all the beneficiaries of an ability to make crap smell like roses, honed to a fine edge with Sam as the whetstone.
"What?" Sam said with a squeak for a question mark.
"Two years, Sammy. You said leave you be. Figured you wouldn't be interested in birth announcements."
Sam's face started to work like hamsters were running around under his skin.
He was silent for a long while.
Then he said, "What?"
"Dude. Seriously. We need to have your hearing tested."
"You don't have a kid."
Dean shrugged. Just a tiny, tiny bit.
"You don't."
Dean's fingers played against the steering wheel.
"You have a kid? When were you gonna tell me this?"
Sam hadn't squeaked like that since he was fourteen. It'd been kind of annoying back then, but it was a beautiful, beautiful thing now.
Then Sam wrecked it all by being...Sam. By getting all misty. "When were you gonna tell me?" he asked, and he sounded like Dean had scammed him out of his share of dessert.
"Dude," Dean said with a sigh.
"What?"
"Good God, you're gullible."
"I --"
That killed it. Sam sank back into his seat and scowled at the dash.
"Dude," Dean said. "I'd tell you."
"Shut up," Sam muttered.
"I'd tell you. Except, don't hold your breath, because I am the reigning champion of Careful. Seriously. You know that."
"You're also the reigning champion of You Suck."
Dean chuckled, looking at the road. Then half-turned toward Sam and let out a full-blown laugh. "Told you: you're a kid. 'You suck.' Damn, Sammy. That your fall-back position? 'You suck.'" Still laughing, he aimed a nicely coiled up shot at Sam's left shoulder. "Jerk."
Twenty-two, my left nut. Try for fourteen.
Or four.
"Gonna tell Dad?" he taunted.
"Pull over," Sam said.
"What?"
"You need your hearing tested too? Pull over."
"No chance."
"You scared of me?"
Sam reached for the wheel. Dean batted his hand away and arced the Impala onto the shoulder of the road. As the engine chugged down into silence, the two of them popped their doors open and scrambled out.
"Scared of you?" Dean taunted.
"Gonna be hard to drive if we leave your ass here in the ditch."
Three or four cars, a Greyhound bus, and two semis went by as they stood facing each other off, weight carefully poised, fists clenched.
The driver of one of the semis blasted his horn, and that killed it.
"'Kids are the best'?" Sam taunted.
"You puked on this road once," Dean told him.
"What?"
"You got carsick. Blew chunks all over the shoulder."
"I did not."
"Did."
"How old was I?"
"Get back in the car, dipstick."
"I never threw up on this road."
They reclaimed their respective seats as rain began to patter down on the car, the road, the dusty shoulder. They both stared down the highway as Dean turned the key in the ignition, reviving the engine and the Motorhead tape.
A bunch more cars went by, and a Wal-Mart delivery truck.
The rain started to come down harder.
"I'd tell you," Dean said, with a glance at his brother.
Sam chewed his lip for a moment. Then he said quietly, "Yeah. Me too."
~~~~~~~~~~~~