SPN FIC - God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen
Christmas, 2006. The boys and their good friend Jack watch infomercials. Christmas *hugs* to everybody who pointed me toward their favorite weird products. (The Jackrabbit I found on my own, at 3:00 this morning.)
“Sixty bucks?” Dean shrieked. “It’s a laxative. What d’they make it outta, gold dust?” With a lot of less-than-coordinated scrambling he retrieved the remote from Sam. “You pick crappy channels. Time for the master to take control.”
Characters: Dean and Sam
Pairings: none
Rating: R, for language and discussion of products not intended for children
Spoilers: none
Length: 1835 words
Disclaimer: Kripke owns the boys. I feel sympathy for the people who own all the other stuff.
God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen
By Carol Davis
“Dude,” Dean said around a mouthful of pizza. “That is just so wrong.”
Sam had discovered over the years that if you pounded motel pillows in just the right way, they actually became…pillowy.
Sort of.
He was on his knees on the bed, legs wound up in the covers. Pounding. Then kneading and piling. Then pounding some more. The process was taking way longer than it normally did. Though maybe the beer had something to do with that.
Though…three beers shouldn’t have been enough to mess up his coordination.
Three? Three, right? He glanced over at the table between the two beds.
Okay, four.
No, three. A lot of those empties were Dean’s.
Definitely three.
When Dean grunted at him - or maybe it wasn’t at him - Sam cranked his head around to peer at the TV. “What?”
“An inflatable plastic Jesus. Isn’t that…you know. Sacrilegious?”
“I guess.”
“You have no objection to a life-size, inflatable plastic Jesus.”
Sam mournfully gave up on the pounding and sat down, sighing as his back collided with the unmanageable, rocklike collection of polyester fiberfill and his head whapped the wall above the headboard - enough of a whap to make his vision go out of focus for a second. “It goes with the rest of the…are those apostles?” he said when things unblurred.
“Change the channel.”
“Seriously, man, what is that? It’s like an inflatable Last Supper?”
“Channel, Sam.”
It took Sam most of a minute of groping in the tangled mess of his covers to find the remote, during all of which Dean huffed and puffed and made guttural noises of dismay. Finally, with a grin of triumph, Sam located his quarry and pointed it at the TV, surfed up a couple of channels, then reached for his beer.
“Magic Bullet,” Dean nodded, still chewing. “That could be useful.”
“I think it’s some kinda blender.”
“It’s…oh, hell. Weight loss? Channel.”
Dean seemed to like the Butter X-Press. At least, the only noise it got out of him was a belch that hit four distinct notes. “That’d be good,” Sam offered. “If we had to lay butter on the threshold instead of salt.”
“Could do butter and salt.”
“Like corn on the cob.”
“Dude. And…dishwasher safe.”
“Sold!”
They each hoisted a beer at the TV.
A few minutes and four channels later they ran out of beer. Luckily, ol’ Jack had been waiting in Dean’s duffel.
Good ol’ Jack. Always there when you needed him.
Good man, Jack.
The Push-Up Pro got no votes. “The hell d’you need that for?” Dean complained. “Why can’t you just push up off the damn floor? You gotta have handles? Channel, Sam.”
He was even more distressed at the D-Eva Bra - to the point that he actually set down his glass to glower at the TV. “Oh, come on. Why’d you glue stuff to your tits? Seriously.” His head swiveled 45 degrees, toward Sam, like the rotating top of a lighthouse. The expression on his face made him look like Chucky the killer doll, and was so disproportionate to the problem that it made Sam grin. “What?” Dean demanded.
“Never glue anything to myself, man.”
“Thass just stupid.”
“It has t’do with that girl in Biloxi, doesn’t it?”
“Got nothing to do with anybody anywhere.”
“Biloxi,” Sam said sagely, and changed the channel.
“Feel light, clean, and healthy…from the inside out!” the TV chirped.
“Sixty bucks?” Dean shrieked. “It’s a laxative. What d’they make it outta, gold dust?” With a lot of less-than-coordinated scrambling he retrieved the remote from Sam. “You pick crappy channels. Time for the master to take control.”
Three channels up…
“Dude,” Sam said. “That’s Ponch. From CHiPs.”
“So he’s, what, like a realtor now? Ponch! Dude! The fuck is up with that, man?” Dean whimpered mournfully. “They’re destroyin’ all the sweet mem’ries of my childhood, Sammy.”
Sam thought that over for a second before he burst out laughing. “Sweet mem’ries of your childhood? Who’re you, Rudy Huxtable?”
“Rudy’s a girl, asshole.”
“Yeah. I knew that.”
“Not a lil’ black girl, Sam.”
“Nah,” Sam said, distracted for a moment by the buzzing sound inside his head. “You’re a…big white girl.” Annoyed, he tipped his head to the side and shook it, hard, to dislodge whatever it was that was making that buzzing noise. When he righted himself and looked at the TV, the entire room pivoted and then dipped abruptly to the right. “Whoa,” Sam wheezed. “Thass not right.”
Dean was staring at him. “What’re you doing?”
“Got somethin’ in my head.”
“Like a vision? Just shut that the hell off. Not leaving the room, Sam. Told you that. Not leaving this room to-night.”
Sam’s head listed gently to one side, then the other. “Nah…not a vision. More like…bees.”
“There’s bees in your head?”
“Yeah.”
“Eat somethin’.”
“Can’t. Pizza’s all gone.”
Scowling, Dean foraged around until he located the box of Ring Dings they’d picked up at the mini-mart. He squinted into the open end, nodded, then lobbed it at Sam.
It fell considerably short and landed with a soft thud on the carpet between the beds.
“Throw like a girl, too,” Sam observed.
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Fuck you, Sam.”
“Don’ want to. Shorty McShort.”
Dean sputtered at that.
And could come up with nothing. The distress of it sent him crawling out of bed into the bathroom, where he gave up the lease on the beer.
He came out of the bathroom a minute later to find Sam studying his own ass in the mirror.
“Dude!” Dean blurted.
Sam turned around so rapidly that he stumbled. Rebounded off the end of the bed and ended up in a tangle of limbs on the floor. “What?”
“The groping, man. What is that?”
Sam’s gaze shifted to the TV. Dean’s did too, a second later.
“Buns of Steel?” Dean winced.
“Women like that,” Sam told him. “Ass. Said so.”
“What?”
“Ask ‘em. Go ‘round. Ask any bunch of women an’ they’ll all tell you th’ same thing.” He stopped then, grinning, because “ass” and “ask” had come out sounding the same. “Tellin’ you, man. Thass what they like.” To cap off that proclamation, he seized the remote off Dean’s bed, settled back under his own covers, and pointed the remote at the TV. “Don’ like dolls,” he said firmly to the image of a curly-haired doll in a big-skirted party dress. “Shouldn’t tell people I do. Gonna tell ‘em you like little tiny tits.”
Flustered, Dean clambered over his bed and grabbed the remote back from Sam, then jabbed it at the TV.
“What is that?” Sam muttered.
When Dean didn’t answer, Sam peered over at him. Dean was smirking madly. “Dude,” Dean snorted. “Iss a…feminine ennertainment product.”
“Iss a what?” Sam leaned toward the TV and listened to a little of the two hostesses’ chipper commentary. Then dropped back against his pillows. “Thass a…oh. Jeez. Looka that thing. Thass… like…ver’ intimidating.”
“An’ on sale. Two hun’red dollars.”
“For a thing to…to…”
“Dishwasher safe!” Dean crowed.
“It’s purple. Do they like that?”
“Like what? That it’s purple? The fuck do I know?” Doing a sort of snort-giggle, Dean ferreted around in his covers and came up with what looked like a candy bar. He peeled the wrapper away from one end and began munching on whatever it contained while he thumbed the channel-up button. “Give ‘em a choice between some live-action Dean and tha’ thing, and it ain’t no contest, Sammy. No contest what-some-ever. Purple or no purple. An’ this shit? Dude is up at” - he squinted at the clock - “three in the a.m., he’s gonna dial that number and order himself a vacuum cleaner to stick his dick in?”
Sam leaned wobblingly forward and peered at the TV. “’S for erec…rectile…”
“Limp dick, Sam.”
“Awwww,” Sam winced. “Vacuum cleaner? Gonna hurt.”
“No shit.”
“Happens. Don’ wanna…man. Thass bad.”
“Here. Now, this is somethin’ we could use. Nice setta knives. Behead some badass thing, then go cut some drywall. No sharp’ning necess…ness…necessary.”
“Dude,” Sam said. “What’re you eating?”
“Not sharing. Forget it.”
“Smells like bacon.”
Dean waggled the package, then held it out of Sam’s reach. “Bacon. ‘N chocolate. Not sharing.”
“What?”
“Not…”
“Bacon ‘n chocolate?”
“Got you Ring Dings. Now shut up.” Dean was working two-handed now: chocolate in one hand, remote in the other. The fact that he had no third hand to reach for his glass was a problem that he solved by wedging the chocolate down the neck of his t-shirt. “Fishing rod thass a pen,” he told the TV. “Like that. Need a pen tha’ squirts holy water. Be a good invention.”
“Thass bad,” Sam said to the next channel, jabbing a finger at the TV. “Space bag.”
“Huh?” Dean said.
“You suck all th’ air out so you can put more stuff in the suitcase an’ go on vacation. Then you’re on vacation. But no vacuum to suck all th’ air back out so you can go home.”
Dean pondered that for a moment. “You buy that dick vacuum thing. Fits in th’ suitcase.”
“Ah,” Sam said.
“Right? Am I right?”
“Older.”
“Damn straight.”
Dean fell silent then, staring at the TV, almost mournful at the sight of half-a-dozen girls in spandex bouncing up and down to the beat of…some song. From some exercise DVD.
They all had very small tits, Sam observed.
He was a little surprised when Dean broke a chunk off his chocolate bar and held it out. “Here,” he offered. “’S good stuff. Really.”
Sam had to relocate a little in order to reach it. When he settled back against the mountain range of pillows, his head wobbled, feeling alarmingly like it was going to snap off his neck and go rolling down his chest to land in his lap. Which would make it anatomically possible to…
Heh.
The chocolate was good. Weird, but good. Better when washed down with some good ol’ Jack.
“Thanks, man,” he told his brother.
“’S okay.” Dean’s thumb rubbed against the remote for a minute. Then Dean hit the off button and set the remote down on the night table next to his glass. The empty candy wrapper he lobbed across the room at the wastebasket. It hit the wall slightly to the left of his target and bounced onto the floor. “Huh,” Dean sighed.
“’Nuff TV?” Sam asked.
“Tired.”
“Yeah.”
Sam fumbled for the light switch - a remarkably elusive little bitch. Finding it, and turning it, was an accomplishment worthy of a belch. Pleased with himself, Sam squirmed down under the covers and yanked one of the pillows under his head.
“We goin’ out tomorrow?” Sam asked when Dean’s covers stopped moving.
“Guess.”
“’Kay, then.”
They were both silent for a minute. The whole room was silent until the heater emitted a loud, rattling clank: its own version of a belch, Sam figured.
“’Night, man,” he told his brother.
“Yeah,” Dean said.
“Sixty bucks?” Dean shrieked. “It’s a laxative. What d’they make it outta, gold dust?” With a lot of less-than-coordinated scrambling he retrieved the remote from Sam. “You pick crappy channels. Time for the master to take control.”
Characters: Dean and Sam
Pairings: none
Rating: R, for language and discussion of products not intended for children
Spoilers: none
Length: 1835 words
Disclaimer: Kripke owns the boys. I feel sympathy for the people who own all the other stuff.
God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen
By Carol Davis
“Dude,” Dean said around a mouthful of pizza. “That is just so wrong.”
Sam had discovered over the years that if you pounded motel pillows in just the right way, they actually became…pillowy.
Sort of.
He was on his knees on the bed, legs wound up in the covers. Pounding. Then kneading and piling. Then pounding some more. The process was taking way longer than it normally did. Though maybe the beer had something to do with that.
Though…three beers shouldn’t have been enough to mess up his coordination.
Three? Three, right? He glanced over at the table between the two beds.
Okay, four.
No, three. A lot of those empties were Dean’s.
Definitely three.
When Dean grunted at him - or maybe it wasn’t at him - Sam cranked his head around to peer at the TV. “What?”
“An inflatable plastic Jesus. Isn’t that…you know. Sacrilegious?”
“I guess.”
“You have no objection to a life-size, inflatable plastic Jesus.”
Sam mournfully gave up on the pounding and sat down, sighing as his back collided with the unmanageable, rocklike collection of polyester fiberfill and his head whapped the wall above the headboard - enough of a whap to make his vision go out of focus for a second. “It goes with the rest of the…are those apostles?” he said when things unblurred.
“Change the channel.”
“Seriously, man, what is that? It’s like an inflatable Last Supper?”
“Channel, Sam.”
It took Sam most of a minute of groping in the tangled mess of his covers to find the remote, during all of which Dean huffed and puffed and made guttural noises of dismay. Finally, with a grin of triumph, Sam located his quarry and pointed it at the TV, surfed up a couple of channels, then reached for his beer.
“Magic Bullet,” Dean nodded, still chewing. “That could be useful.”
“I think it’s some kinda blender.”
“It’s…oh, hell. Weight loss? Channel.”
Dean seemed to like the Butter X-Press. At least, the only noise it got out of him was a belch that hit four distinct notes. “That’d be good,” Sam offered. “If we had to lay butter on the threshold instead of salt.”
“Could do butter and salt.”
“Like corn on the cob.”
“Dude. And…dishwasher safe.”
“Sold!”
They each hoisted a beer at the TV.
A few minutes and four channels later they ran out of beer. Luckily, ol’ Jack had been waiting in Dean’s duffel.
Good ol’ Jack. Always there when you needed him.
Good man, Jack.
The Push-Up Pro got no votes. “The hell d’you need that for?” Dean complained. “Why can’t you just push up off the damn floor? You gotta have handles? Channel, Sam.”
He was even more distressed at the D-Eva Bra - to the point that he actually set down his glass to glower at the TV. “Oh, come on. Why’d you glue stuff to your tits? Seriously.” His head swiveled 45 degrees, toward Sam, like the rotating top of a lighthouse. The expression on his face made him look like Chucky the killer doll, and was so disproportionate to the problem that it made Sam grin. “What?” Dean demanded.
“Never glue anything to myself, man.”
“Thass just stupid.”
“It has t’do with that girl in Biloxi, doesn’t it?”
“Got nothing to do with anybody anywhere.”
“Biloxi,” Sam said sagely, and changed the channel.
“Feel light, clean, and healthy…from the inside out!” the TV chirped.
“Sixty bucks?” Dean shrieked. “It’s a laxative. What d’they make it outta, gold dust?” With a lot of less-than-coordinated scrambling he retrieved the remote from Sam. “You pick crappy channels. Time for the master to take control.”
Three channels up…
“Dude,” Sam said. “That’s Ponch. From CHiPs.”
“So he’s, what, like a realtor now? Ponch! Dude! The fuck is up with that, man?” Dean whimpered mournfully. “They’re destroyin’ all the sweet mem’ries of my childhood, Sammy.”
Sam thought that over for a second before he burst out laughing. “Sweet mem’ries of your childhood? Who’re you, Rudy Huxtable?”
“Rudy’s a girl, asshole.”
“Yeah. I knew that.”
“Not a lil’ black girl, Sam.”
“Nah,” Sam said, distracted for a moment by the buzzing sound inside his head. “You’re a…big white girl.” Annoyed, he tipped his head to the side and shook it, hard, to dislodge whatever it was that was making that buzzing noise. When he righted himself and looked at the TV, the entire room pivoted and then dipped abruptly to the right. “Whoa,” Sam wheezed. “Thass not right.”
Dean was staring at him. “What’re you doing?”
“Got somethin’ in my head.”
“Like a vision? Just shut that the hell off. Not leaving the room, Sam. Told you that. Not leaving this room to-night.”
Sam’s head listed gently to one side, then the other. “Nah…not a vision. More like…bees.”
“There’s bees in your head?”
“Yeah.”
“Eat somethin’.”
“Can’t. Pizza’s all gone.”
Scowling, Dean foraged around until he located the box of Ring Dings they’d picked up at the mini-mart. He squinted into the open end, nodded, then lobbed it at Sam.
It fell considerably short and landed with a soft thud on the carpet between the beds.
“Throw like a girl, too,” Sam observed.
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Fuck you, Sam.”
“Don’ want to. Shorty McShort.”
Dean sputtered at that.
And could come up with nothing. The distress of it sent him crawling out of bed into the bathroom, where he gave up the lease on the beer.
He came out of the bathroom a minute later to find Sam studying his own ass in the mirror.
“Dude!” Dean blurted.
Sam turned around so rapidly that he stumbled. Rebounded off the end of the bed and ended up in a tangle of limbs on the floor. “What?”
“The groping, man. What is that?”
Sam’s gaze shifted to the TV. Dean’s did too, a second later.
“Buns of Steel?” Dean winced.
“Women like that,” Sam told him. “Ass. Said so.”
“What?”
“Ask ‘em. Go ‘round. Ask any bunch of women an’ they’ll all tell you th’ same thing.” He stopped then, grinning, because “ass” and “ask” had come out sounding the same. “Tellin’ you, man. Thass what they like.” To cap off that proclamation, he seized the remote off Dean’s bed, settled back under his own covers, and pointed the remote at the TV. “Don’ like dolls,” he said firmly to the image of a curly-haired doll in a big-skirted party dress. “Shouldn’t tell people I do. Gonna tell ‘em you like little tiny tits.”
Flustered, Dean clambered over his bed and grabbed the remote back from Sam, then jabbed it at the TV.
“What is that?” Sam muttered.
When Dean didn’t answer, Sam peered over at him. Dean was smirking madly. “Dude,” Dean snorted. “Iss a…feminine ennertainment product.”
“Iss a what?” Sam leaned toward the TV and listened to a little of the two hostesses’ chipper commentary. Then dropped back against his pillows. “Thass a…oh. Jeez. Looka that thing. Thass… like…ver’ intimidating.”
“An’ on sale. Two hun’red dollars.”
“For a thing to…to…”
“Dishwasher safe!” Dean crowed.
“It’s purple. Do they like that?”
“Like what? That it’s purple? The fuck do I know?” Doing a sort of snort-giggle, Dean ferreted around in his covers and came up with what looked like a candy bar. He peeled the wrapper away from one end and began munching on whatever it contained while he thumbed the channel-up button. “Give ‘em a choice between some live-action Dean and tha’ thing, and it ain’t no contest, Sammy. No contest what-some-ever. Purple or no purple. An’ this shit? Dude is up at” - he squinted at the clock - “three in the a.m., he’s gonna dial that number and order himself a vacuum cleaner to stick his dick in?”
Sam leaned wobblingly forward and peered at the TV. “’S for erec…rectile…”
“Limp dick, Sam.”
“Awwww,” Sam winced. “Vacuum cleaner? Gonna hurt.”
“No shit.”
“Happens. Don’ wanna…man. Thass bad.”
“Here. Now, this is somethin’ we could use. Nice setta knives. Behead some badass thing, then go cut some drywall. No sharp’ning necess…ness…necessary.”
“Dude,” Sam said. “What’re you eating?”
“Not sharing. Forget it.”
“Smells like bacon.”
Dean waggled the package, then held it out of Sam’s reach. “Bacon. ‘N chocolate. Not sharing.”
“What?”
“Not…”
“Bacon ‘n chocolate?”
“Got you Ring Dings. Now shut up.” Dean was working two-handed now: chocolate in one hand, remote in the other. The fact that he had no third hand to reach for his glass was a problem that he solved by wedging the chocolate down the neck of his t-shirt. “Fishing rod thass a pen,” he told the TV. “Like that. Need a pen tha’ squirts holy water. Be a good invention.”
“Thass bad,” Sam said to the next channel, jabbing a finger at the TV. “Space bag.”
“Huh?” Dean said.
“You suck all th’ air out so you can put more stuff in the suitcase an’ go on vacation. Then you’re on vacation. But no vacuum to suck all th’ air back out so you can go home.”
Dean pondered that for a moment. “You buy that dick vacuum thing. Fits in th’ suitcase.”
“Ah,” Sam said.
“Right? Am I right?”
“Older.”
“Damn straight.”
Dean fell silent then, staring at the TV, almost mournful at the sight of half-a-dozen girls in spandex bouncing up and down to the beat of…some song. From some exercise DVD.
They all had very small tits, Sam observed.
He was a little surprised when Dean broke a chunk off his chocolate bar and held it out. “Here,” he offered. “’S good stuff. Really.”
Sam had to relocate a little in order to reach it. When he settled back against the mountain range of pillows, his head wobbled, feeling alarmingly like it was going to snap off his neck and go rolling down his chest to land in his lap. Which would make it anatomically possible to…
Heh.
The chocolate was good. Weird, but good. Better when washed down with some good ol’ Jack.
“Thanks, man,” he told his brother.
“’S okay.” Dean’s thumb rubbed against the remote for a minute. Then Dean hit the off button and set the remote down on the night table next to his glass. The empty candy wrapper he lobbed across the room at the wastebasket. It hit the wall slightly to the left of his target and bounced onto the floor. “Huh,” Dean sighed.
“’Nuff TV?” Sam asked.
“Tired.”
“Yeah.”
Sam fumbled for the light switch - a remarkably elusive little bitch. Finding it, and turning it, was an accomplishment worthy of a belch. Pleased with himself, Sam squirmed down under the covers and yanked one of the pillows under his head.
“We goin’ out tomorrow?” Sam asked when Dean’s covers stopped moving.
“Guess.”
“’Kay, then.”
They were both silent for a minute. The whole room was silent until the heater emitted a loud, rattling clank: its own version of a belch, Sam figured.
“’Night, man,” he told his brother.
“Yeah,” Dean said.