SPN FIC - Sex, Lies, and Bachelorettes
Continuing this weekend's fic-a-thon. The boys, Season 1 -- anywhere you figure it fits. :)
"We never," Dean said, rolling each word out carefully, as if he'd been placed in charge of the slow class at the Stupid Academy, "ever, ever, under any circumstances whassoever, watch the fuckin' Lost Boys." When that got no response from Sam other than another sigh - this one basso profundo and extremely heartfelt - Dean prompted him, "Blood oath. We took a blood oath."
Characters: Dean and Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: none
Length: 1280 words
SEX, LIES, AND BACHELORETTES
By Carol Davis
"DUDE!" Dean shrieked.
That delivered two surprises for Sam: first, that it was indeed possible to feel as if you had been shot in the head with a nail gun, and second, that Dean's voice could hit that high a note. Grimacing at the beer he'd slopped all over the front of his last remaining clean t-shirt, Sam stretched out a wobbling hand and placed what was left of his beer on the night table.
He wasn't at all sure he wanted to hear the follow-up.
No, scratch that: he was sure. He was very, very sure. Not that that would mean anything at all to Dean.
"Dude," Dean said, slow and measured. "Whass our rule?"
"I have no idea, Dean."
Dean's right index finger jabbed at the TV.
"Dean," Sam sighed. "It's two-thirty in the morning."
"We never," Dean said, rolling each word out carefully, as if he'd been placed in charge of the slow class at the Stupid Academy, "ever, ever, under any circumstances whassoever, watch the fuckin' Lost Boys." When that got no response from Sam other than another sigh - this one basso profundo and extremely heartfelt - Dean prompted him, "Blood oath. We took a blood oath."
"I have never in my life taken a blood oath with you or anyone else regarding The Lost Boys. Dean. It's a movie."
"Dude."
"Are we gonna do this? At two-thirty in the morning?"
"Blood oath, man."
"This does answer one question," Sam told his brother. "What you were really doing while I was at school. Apparently there were serious hallucinogens involved."
Dean pouted at that but didn't deny it. He let it go by with a wobbly flap of one hand, then went back to pointing at the TV. "Four things. First, th' vampire lore is seriously fucked. The vampires are seriously fucked. Second, it stars the freakin' Coreys. Third… Dude. Kiefer Sutherland's hair. I wake up screaming from Kiefer Sutherland's hair in that movie."
"Which is deeply disturbing. You know that."
"Whatever."
"You said four things. That was three."
That got a deep, visceral grunt out of Dean. "Th' whole Jami Gertz situation."
Sam knew better than to probe that one. Blowing air past his upper lip in a show of dismay that Dean didn't even notice, he picked up the remote and dutifully switched channels. "Home Shopping Network. Dr. Phil. CNN. Family Feud and the Weather Channel. Take your pick."
"You don' remember -"
"Was I unconscious at the time?"
"Dunno," Dean said. "Sometimes with you I can't tell." With a bright, mocking smile he popped open the mini-fridge, pulled out a couple of fresh beers and held one out to Sam. Sam accepted it, but set it on the night table alongside the half-empty one. "We were havin' a nice conversation. Before you went all 'offended sensibilities' on me."
"Because I don't want to hear about your escapades with an entire bachelorette party."
"It wasn't the whole party."
"Whatever."
"It was -" Dean, eyes rolled ceiling-ward, took an unsteady roll call on his fingers. "Five. No, four. Five, but Cherylee had to bail. But she counts, right? Five."
"You had sex with five women."
"There were sexually-orien…orientated things going on."
"God," Sam sighed.
"Th' ladies thought so." Still beaming, Dean struggled his pillows into a heap at the head of his bed, then made himself comfortable, legs crossed, beer in hand, back propped against the pillows. After a hearty swig from his bottle of beer, he told Sam, "D'you know chicks have parties where they sit around an' look at panties?"
"What?"
"Yeah. All that lacy shit. Bras an' panties an'…what d'you call those?"
"I have no clue at all."
"Teddies."
"Do you mean a lingerie party?"
Dean fixed his brother with something that was almost a glower. "How d'you know what that is?"
"Jessica. Had one."
"D'you watch?"
"What? No."
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy." Dean chortled softly to himself. "We kinda had one of 'em. See, I guess they give the bride all this kinda Victoria's Secret stuff. At the bachelorette party. To, y'know, perk up the ol' wedding night. So they" - he took another slow sip of his beer - "gave me a lil' fashion show. Niiiiice."
"Are you telling me the bride was part of this group of -"
"Nah," Dean said. "She got pretty hammered. Somebody took her home. But all the stuff was still layin' there, so we… There was some pretty skimpy stuff there, y'know. That groom is one lucky sumbitch, lemme tell you. Once she sobers up, anyway. Might take a couple days, the way she was passed out when they took her outta there. But I don't think the wedding's till the weekend. Should be okay."
"One can only hope," Sam replied.
"Seriously? Jessica was wavin' skimpy undies around with a bunch of other chicks, and you went somewhere else?"
"Yes, Dean."
"Saaaaaaammy."
"Do you think, maybe, more beer isn't what you need right now?"
"Killjoy."
"You want me to drive in the morning, I take it?"
"Perfectly capable of drivin' my own car."
"Whatever."
Dean considered his beer for a moment, then, with a show of being long-suffering, set it down on the night table. He squinted silently at the TV for a minute, performing what looked to Sam like the Mime Version of Family Feud, then announced, "Everybody's got their own version of fun, y'know. Not my fault yours involves clenching every fuckin' body part you own."
"Says the man who's terrified of Kiefer Sutherland's hair."
"Lost Boys hair. Not 24 hair."
"I imagine Kiefer would be relieved to hear that."
"You coulda come. To the party," Dean said. "An' you coulda come at the party. If you'd freakin' unclench things."
Sam peered at his brother across the arm-span of space between the two beds. "Yeah," he said. "Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Go to sleep, Dean. Seriously."
"Watchin' the TV."
Sam tapped the remote, and the TV twinked off.
"Th' fuck," Dean complained.
"Sleep. Jerk."
"You gonna let me tell you about the party in the morning?"
"Dude. You're not gonna remember the party in the morning."
"Says you."
"Want to take a blood oath on it?"
"Bitch," Dean groused. "Y'don' do it that way. You gotta…"
Shaking his head, Sam abandoned the remote on the night table and switched off the lamp. "Good night, Dean," he said firmly.
Dean didn't answer. Instead, he fought his pillows into submission once more so that he could crawl under the covers and settle in. Sam didn't expect that to be the end of Dean's performance, and it wasn't; for a good ten minutes Dean snuffled and snorted and muttered to himself, much of which was an indictment of Sam's interpretation of "fun."
Then, finally, he fell silent.
With a small, relieved sigh, Sam made himself comfortable, one arm shoved up under his pillow, and closed his eyes.
"Liiiiiiiiil' tiny panties, Sammy," Dean murmured.
"Bitch. Would you stop?"
"Not what they said."
"Dean."
Chuckling, Dean groped around in the collection of debris on the night table until he located the remote. The TV twinked back on, and Dean flipped through channels until he found what he wanted.
"Dude," Sam groaned. "You said no Lost Boys."
"Gotta conquer my fear," Dean told him. "You wanna watch?"
"Are you going to monologue about panties the whole time?"
"Nah."
"I…all right. Okay."
True to his word, Dean was silent - aside from the occasional soft wince of dismay - until the commercial break. Then he looked over at Sam, smiled in a way that was not at all beer-fueled, and said quietly, "Missed you. You know? Missed this. You and me."
"Yeah," Sam told him. "I did too."
~~~~~~~~~~~