SPN FIC - Bitchface
You might think Sam Winchester is the King of the Bitchface. And you'd be right. Sort of.
What becomes crystal clear to him as he stands there in the golden afternoon sunlight is that there's a single route to follow with this unexpected treasure, and a couple of hours later, as he follows the setting sun westward toward the Sioux Falls Mall, he's cackling to himself, knowing that when the moment of unveiling finally arrives, it's going to be frigging PERFECT.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 845 words
BITCHFACE
By Carol Davis
There are moments when coherent thought is unavailable. When something blindsides you, and in the blink of an eye, every last fragment of language skill you might have had flies right out the window.
It's just a picture. Just an old Polaroid.
For a good two minutes, there's nothing in Dean's head but the thought equivalent of white noise.
When words finally come drifting back, he thinks:
CLASSIC.
And another thing, the phrase the Twitterers have reduced to OMFG.
He stands alongside the car for a good long while, turning the little paper rectangle around and around in his hands. It seems impossible to him that something like this has been in the trunk all this time, particularly since he took her pretty much down to nuts and bolts six years ago, after the accident, and when he put her back together, there was nothing like this wedged up near the trunk lid hinge. He'd swear to that in a court of law.
So maybe it's a gift.
From where, he doesn't bother trying to decide.
What becomes crystal clear to him as he stands there in the golden afternoon sunlight is that there's a single route to follow with this unexpected treasure, and a couple of hours later, as he follows the setting sun westward toward the Sioux Falls Mall, he's cackling to himself, knowing that when the moment of unveiling finally arrives, it's going to be frigging PERFECT.
~~~~~~~~
The fine thing is, the South Dakota weather's cool, and he and Sam and Bobby wear layers most of the time anyway, so no one's the wiser. Nobody's got a clue that day after day after day (and for crying out loud, who knew Sam would suddenly turn so damn mellow??) Dean is wearing the same t‑shirt.
Finally, the weather turns cloudy.
Sam's face twitches and crimps and gyrates, like there's one of those sand worms from Tremors humping around under his skin. His eyes get wider, then narrow, and his lips disappear. It's a look Dean's seen a million times over the years.
Most of the time, he's just had to put up with it.
This time, he says to Sam, "That the best you got?"
"What?" Sam barks.
"The bitchface. Most people get better with practice. I gotta say, man, you're losing the knack. Another couple years, you're just gonna look like some chick with cramps."
"I'm glad you think this is amusing."
"This?" Dean says. "Oh, no. You wanna see amusing? This is amusing."
A few dozen rounds of practice have reduced popping open the buttons on his button-down to a couple quick flips of his fingers.
Underneath it, there's a t-shirt that cost him a stupid amount of money.
It's worth every dime.
"What the hell -" Sam sputters.
He's looking at a picture of himself, at the age of maybe seven or eight months. Looking at himself madder than purple-faced hell. And really, it's a good thing Dean can't see the picture that's currently spread across his chest, because he remembers all too well the screech that always accompanied that particular expression. A couple of times, it took out a whole town. Leveled a couple three- or four-story buildings, a grove of trees, scorched the finish off a whole lot full of cars. It was horrible, and yet impressive in a can't-look-away type of way, like any good natural disaster.
Sam gapes at Dean's chest, completely speechless, for ten or fifteen seconds.
Yep: there are times when words fail.
Finally, Sam sputters, "The fuck, man."
Then he laughs, big, gulping guffaws of laughter that bring tears to his eyes and send little rivers of snot cascading down off his upper lip. His knees give out and he ends up on the dusty ground of Bobby's junkyard, curled up into a ball like a pill bug, roaring with laughter. It's almost overkill, the amount of time he spends down on the ground laughing; Dean's about to haul off and kick him when he finally settles down into some wheezy, chuckling snorts and shifts himself around into a sit, wiping tears and snot off his face with the palms of both hands.
"That's -" he stammers.
Dean jabs a forefinger at the picture. "This? Was the Bitchface King of the Universe, man. Like I said: you've pretty much lost it."
Five minutes ago they were close to blows.
The picture's a gift, all right. From where, Dean figures he'll never bother to ask.
"Get up off the ground, you lameass," he says. "It's not that funny."
But it is, and Dean knew that from the get-go.
"You need some help with the car?" his brother asks as he climbs back up to his feet, holding back another crazy round of laughter and snorting back a gigantic hawk's worth of snot, then mutters something about Dean being a twelve-year-old girl.
Five minutes ago, they would have kicked the shit out of each other.
"Yeah," Dean shrugs. "Go gimme some pliers," and when Sam turns away, aiming for the toolbox, they're both smiling.
* * * * *
What becomes crystal clear to him as he stands there in the golden afternoon sunlight is that there's a single route to follow with this unexpected treasure, and a couple of hours later, as he follows the setting sun westward toward the Sioux Falls Mall, he's cackling to himself, knowing that when the moment of unveiling finally arrives, it's going to be frigging PERFECT.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 845 words
BITCHFACE
By Carol Davis
There are moments when coherent thought is unavailable. When something blindsides you, and in the blink of an eye, every last fragment of language skill you might have had flies right out the window.
It's just a picture. Just an old Polaroid.
For a good two minutes, there's nothing in Dean's head but the thought equivalent of white noise.
When words finally come drifting back, he thinks:
CLASSIC.
And another thing, the phrase the Twitterers have reduced to OMFG.
He stands alongside the car for a good long while, turning the little paper rectangle around and around in his hands. It seems impossible to him that something like this has been in the trunk all this time, particularly since he took her pretty much down to nuts and bolts six years ago, after the accident, and when he put her back together, there was nothing like this wedged up near the trunk lid hinge. He'd swear to that in a court of law.
So maybe it's a gift.
From where, he doesn't bother trying to decide.
What becomes crystal clear to him as he stands there in the golden afternoon sunlight is that there's a single route to follow with this unexpected treasure, and a couple of hours later, as he follows the setting sun westward toward the Sioux Falls Mall, he's cackling to himself, knowing that when the moment of unveiling finally arrives, it's going to be frigging PERFECT.
~~~~~~~~
The fine thing is, the South Dakota weather's cool, and he and Sam and Bobby wear layers most of the time anyway, so no one's the wiser. Nobody's got a clue that day after day after day (and for crying out loud, who knew Sam would suddenly turn so damn mellow??) Dean is wearing the same t‑shirt.
Finally, the weather turns cloudy.
Sam's face twitches and crimps and gyrates, like there's one of those sand worms from Tremors humping around under his skin. His eyes get wider, then narrow, and his lips disappear. It's a look Dean's seen a million times over the years.
Most of the time, he's just had to put up with it.
This time, he says to Sam, "That the best you got?"
"What?" Sam barks.
"The bitchface. Most people get better with practice. I gotta say, man, you're losing the knack. Another couple years, you're just gonna look like some chick with cramps."
"I'm glad you think this is amusing."
"This?" Dean says. "Oh, no. You wanna see amusing? This is amusing."
A few dozen rounds of practice have reduced popping open the buttons on his button-down to a couple quick flips of his fingers.
Underneath it, there's a t-shirt that cost him a stupid amount of money.
It's worth every dime.
"What the hell -" Sam sputters.
He's looking at a picture of himself, at the age of maybe seven or eight months. Looking at himself madder than purple-faced hell. And really, it's a good thing Dean can't see the picture that's currently spread across his chest, because he remembers all too well the screech that always accompanied that particular expression. A couple of times, it took out a whole town. Leveled a couple three- or four-story buildings, a grove of trees, scorched the finish off a whole lot full of cars. It was horrible, and yet impressive in a can't-look-away type of way, like any good natural disaster.
Sam gapes at Dean's chest, completely speechless, for ten or fifteen seconds.
Yep: there are times when words fail.
Finally, Sam sputters, "The fuck, man."
Then he laughs, big, gulping guffaws of laughter that bring tears to his eyes and send little rivers of snot cascading down off his upper lip. His knees give out and he ends up on the dusty ground of Bobby's junkyard, curled up into a ball like a pill bug, roaring with laughter. It's almost overkill, the amount of time he spends down on the ground laughing; Dean's about to haul off and kick him when he finally settles down into some wheezy, chuckling snorts and shifts himself around into a sit, wiping tears and snot off his face with the palms of both hands.
"That's -" he stammers.
Dean jabs a forefinger at the picture. "This? Was the Bitchface King of the Universe, man. Like I said: you've pretty much lost it."
Five minutes ago they were close to blows.
The picture's a gift, all right. From where, Dean figures he'll never bother to ask.
"Get up off the ground, you lameass," he says. "It's not that funny."
But it is, and Dean knew that from the get-go.
"You need some help with the car?" his brother asks as he climbs back up to his feet, holding back another crazy round of laughter and snorting back a gigantic hawk's worth of snot, then mutters something about Dean being a twelve-year-old girl.
Five minutes ago, they would have kicked the shit out of each other.
"Yeah," Dean shrugs. "Go gimme some pliers," and when Sam turns away, aiming for the toolbox, they're both smiling.
* * * * *