SPN FIC - The Gospel According to Dean
There's nothing like a little visit with the boys to help me pass a "nothing happening HERE" kind of day. :) So here you go: 10 drabbles about our boy Dean. With Sam, of course. A couple of days-in-the-life, set early 4th season. Mostly of the silly variety. (And no - in spite of the title, they have nothing to do with religion.)
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: If you've seen In the Beginning, you're good to go.
LENGTH: 1000 words
THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO DEAN
By Carol Davis
Recommended Daily Allowance
"It didn't kill me the first time," Dean says around a dripping mouthful. "Thirty years and I was runnin' like a Swiss watch. I figure that says something." Swiping a drip with his tongue, he asks, "What's the five basic food groups?"
"Grains," Sam replies. "Fruits. Vegetables. Protein and fats."
"Dude. Bun. Lettuce and tomato. Beef. Cheese. Bacon. And… special sauce. Is this or is this not nature's perfect food?"
"Not exactly."
Dean's response is a snort that sends bits of chewed food flying at Sam.
"Eat your burger," Sam sighs.
"I plan to," Dean says. "And I'm not sharin'."
Wheels
"I shit you not. Dad was gonna buy a damn Volkswagen bus."
"Why?" Sam frowns.
"Who the hell knows? I mean - my God, Sammy. We coulda been riding around like the damn Partridge Family." Dean takes a long, fast pull of his beer, as if that will wash away the memory.
"It is kind of funny."
"What's funny about it? There's things you just don't do, Sammy."
"No. Dean. It's funny, man."
They sit looking at each other for a moment. Then Dean snickers softly, hand close to his mouth.
"Right?" Sam asks. "It's funny."
"Yeah," Dean says. "It's funny."
Hancock
"Okay, that's it. End of discussion. I want to be him."
Sam's lip twitches as he gets up off the couch, aiming for the bathroom. "So Batman's out of the running?" he says over his shoulder.
"Dude. Seriously."
When Sam comes back out, Dean's holding the TV remote like it's a genie's lamp. "This guy can fly," Dean announces, a Cuisinart blend of wistful and giddy. "Bust through walls. And his soulmate is Charlize fuckin' Theron. It don't get any better than that."
"I guess not," Sam says as he settles back in at the other end of the couch.
Our Town
"Seriously," Dean says. "In what part of your addled brain did you think that was a good plan?"
"It was something to do," Sam frowns as he fusses with his tie. "To… get away from our lives. You know. Make believe."
"So your concept of 'make believe' was to play a dead kid."
"I didn't pick the play."
"Sammy," Dean sighs. His own tie knotted, suit jacket on and buttoned, he waits for Sam to finish dressing.
"It was practice," Sam says. "For this."
"That would be true," Dean replies, "if you were supposed to be a dead FBI agent."
Tunes
Dean's jacket and tie are all askew and his hair's sticking in weird directions when he finally crawls out from under the dash.
"Broken?" Sam asks.
That earns him a black thundercloud of a scowl.
"I could sing," Sam suggests.
"You try it and you're walkin'."
They've gone less than five miles when Dean pulls the car onto the shoulder in a billowing cloud of road dust. "Find me a junkyard," he snaps, pointing to the laptop. "I can pull a tape player out of… something."
"You're cute when you're desperate," Sam says mildly.
"Yeah," Dean scowls. "And you're not."
Cats
"I'm serious," Sam says. "You didn't like cats… before."
"I didn't?"
"No."
"Huh." Dean holds his crouch, hand extended toward the big old tabby. "Weird. I mean - they got their good points. They don't come running out at you, barking and shit."
Twenty minutes later, he's still thinking it over. He peers toward the house as if he expects to find the tabby sitting out front, staring at him. "Is that like some side effect, you think? If you survive Hell, cats seem like a good deal?"
"I have no idea," Sam replies.
"Huh," Dean says, and starts the car.
Ms. Right
Dean shakes his head vigorously. "So not true. Got no size requirements, Sammy." He ponders the question further as he gentles the car over a series of speed bumps, one of those things whose very existence makes him twitch. "Hair color, eye color, height, all that," he says cheerfully, as if he's glad for the distraction. "I am extremely non-judgmental."
"Age?" Sam suggests.
"Experience can be helpful. I got nothing against experience."
"Intelligence?"
"Dude. Be serious."
"Rocket scientist, dumber than a stump - that makes no difference."
"None whatsoever."
"So you've got no requirements at all."
"Just one," Dean grins. "Enthusiasm."
Retail Therapy
Dean's sprawled on a bench, sucking down an Orange Julius, when Sam finds him. "You happy now?" Dean asks. "Twenty minutes in a store full of books. Like we don't see enough damn books."
"These are new," Sam protests. "It's nice to just -"
"Whatever."
"And you were looking at -" Sam follows his brother's sight line to the display window of Victoria's Secret. "Underwear."
Dean shakes his head, slurps the last of his drink, and arcs the cup into a wastebasket. "Looking at chicks. Looking at underwear."
"I see."
"You could've," Dean shrugs. "But you were lookin' at books."
Horizontal
"The place is clean." Sam tucks the EMF meter into a pocket. "Let's go."
Dean half-turns, then shakes his head. "Uh-uh. Hold on a minute."
With Sam squinting at him through the darkness, Dean prowls the furniture store, testing each mattress with a firm hand. Finally he chooses one and does a neat little jump, a twist, and lands on his back, arms and legs sprawled out.
"Well?" Sam asks.
"Like sleepin' on a cloud," Dean says. "I give this baby five stars. This is freakin' awesome."
"It's also a thousand dollars."
"Yeah," Dean replies. "Like I'm gonna buy it."
Pie
Dean doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to say anything.
Then he does.
"You got a memory like a goddamn sieve," he scowls.
He looks like Snoopy, Sam thinks. Sitting on top of his doghouse, pretending he's a vulture. He's tempted to laugh, but that would be… mean. Still, a small, muffled snort finds its way out.
"What's so damn funny?" Dean demands.
The other bag's in Sam's pocket. He's smirking as he tosses it. "Pie," he says as Dean fumbles to catch it.
"So…what, now? You jackin' me around is the highlight of your day?"
"Pretty much," Sam grins.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: If you've seen In the Beginning, you're good to go.
LENGTH: 1000 words
THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO DEAN
By Carol Davis
Recommended Daily Allowance
"It didn't kill me the first time," Dean says around a dripping mouthful. "Thirty years and I was runnin' like a Swiss watch. I figure that says something." Swiping a drip with his tongue, he asks, "What's the five basic food groups?"
"Grains," Sam replies. "Fruits. Vegetables. Protein and fats."
"Dude. Bun. Lettuce and tomato. Beef. Cheese. Bacon. And… special sauce. Is this or is this not nature's perfect food?"
"Not exactly."
Dean's response is a snort that sends bits of chewed food flying at Sam.
"Eat your burger," Sam sighs.
"I plan to," Dean says. "And I'm not sharin'."
Wheels
"I shit you not. Dad was gonna buy a damn Volkswagen bus."
"Why?" Sam frowns.
"Who the hell knows? I mean - my God, Sammy. We coulda been riding around like the damn Partridge Family." Dean takes a long, fast pull of his beer, as if that will wash away the memory.
"It is kind of funny."
"What's funny about it? There's things you just don't do, Sammy."
"No. Dean. It's funny, man."
They sit looking at each other for a moment. Then Dean snickers softly, hand close to his mouth.
"Right?" Sam asks. "It's funny."
"Yeah," Dean says. "It's funny."
Hancock
"Okay, that's it. End of discussion. I want to be him."
Sam's lip twitches as he gets up off the couch, aiming for the bathroom. "So Batman's out of the running?" he says over his shoulder.
"Dude. Seriously."
When Sam comes back out, Dean's holding the TV remote like it's a genie's lamp. "This guy can fly," Dean announces, a Cuisinart blend of wistful and giddy. "Bust through walls. And his soulmate is Charlize fuckin' Theron. It don't get any better than that."
"I guess not," Sam says as he settles back in at the other end of the couch.
Our Town
"Seriously," Dean says. "In what part of your addled brain did you think that was a good plan?"
"It was something to do," Sam frowns as he fusses with his tie. "To… get away from our lives. You know. Make believe."
"So your concept of 'make believe' was to play a dead kid."
"I didn't pick the play."
"Sammy," Dean sighs. His own tie knotted, suit jacket on and buttoned, he waits for Sam to finish dressing.
"It was practice," Sam says. "For this."
"That would be true," Dean replies, "if you were supposed to be a dead FBI agent."
Tunes
Dean's jacket and tie are all askew and his hair's sticking in weird directions when he finally crawls out from under the dash.
"Broken?" Sam asks.
That earns him a black thundercloud of a scowl.
"I could sing," Sam suggests.
"You try it and you're walkin'."
They've gone less than five miles when Dean pulls the car onto the shoulder in a billowing cloud of road dust. "Find me a junkyard," he snaps, pointing to the laptop. "I can pull a tape player out of… something."
"You're cute when you're desperate," Sam says mildly.
"Yeah," Dean scowls. "And you're not."
Cats
"I'm serious," Sam says. "You didn't like cats… before."
"I didn't?"
"No."
"Huh." Dean holds his crouch, hand extended toward the big old tabby. "Weird. I mean - they got their good points. They don't come running out at you, barking and shit."
Twenty minutes later, he's still thinking it over. He peers toward the house as if he expects to find the tabby sitting out front, staring at him. "Is that like some side effect, you think? If you survive Hell, cats seem like a good deal?"
"I have no idea," Sam replies.
"Huh," Dean says, and starts the car.
Ms. Right
Dean shakes his head vigorously. "So not true. Got no size requirements, Sammy." He ponders the question further as he gentles the car over a series of speed bumps, one of those things whose very existence makes him twitch. "Hair color, eye color, height, all that," he says cheerfully, as if he's glad for the distraction. "I am extremely non-judgmental."
"Age?" Sam suggests.
"Experience can be helpful. I got nothing against experience."
"Intelligence?"
"Dude. Be serious."
"Rocket scientist, dumber than a stump - that makes no difference."
"None whatsoever."
"So you've got no requirements at all."
"Just one," Dean grins. "Enthusiasm."
Retail Therapy
Dean's sprawled on a bench, sucking down an Orange Julius, when Sam finds him. "You happy now?" Dean asks. "Twenty minutes in a store full of books. Like we don't see enough damn books."
"These are new," Sam protests. "It's nice to just -"
"Whatever."
"And you were looking at -" Sam follows his brother's sight line to the display window of Victoria's Secret. "Underwear."
Dean shakes his head, slurps the last of his drink, and arcs the cup into a wastebasket. "Looking at chicks. Looking at underwear."
"I see."
"You could've," Dean shrugs. "But you were lookin' at books."
Horizontal
"The place is clean." Sam tucks the EMF meter into a pocket. "Let's go."
Dean half-turns, then shakes his head. "Uh-uh. Hold on a minute."
With Sam squinting at him through the darkness, Dean prowls the furniture store, testing each mattress with a firm hand. Finally he chooses one and does a neat little jump, a twist, and lands on his back, arms and legs sprawled out.
"Well?" Sam asks.
"Like sleepin' on a cloud," Dean says. "I give this baby five stars. This is freakin' awesome."
"It's also a thousand dollars."
"Yeah," Dean replies. "Like I'm gonna buy it."
Pie
Dean doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to say anything.
Then he does.
"You got a memory like a goddamn sieve," he scowls.
He looks like Snoopy, Sam thinks. Sitting on top of his doghouse, pretending he's a vulture. He's tempted to laugh, but that would be… mean. Still, a small, muffled snort finds its way out.
"What's so damn funny?" Dean demands.
The other bag's in Sam's pocket. He's smirking as he tosses it. "Pie," he says as Dean fumbles to catch it.
"So…what, now? You jackin' me around is the highlight of your day?"
"Pretty much," Sam grins.
* * * * *