Fic: Breakfast of Champions | PG13 | Sam/Dean
Title: Breakfast of Champions
Author: girlguidejones
Rating|Pairing|Word Count: PG-13 | Sam/Dean | 2100
Info: This has been slightly tweaked from the original version posted over at silverbullets. But you should know that it was written at 4:30 AM in GGJ-land, and remains completely unbeta'd. Expect the unexpected. Heh. Written for mollyamory's prompt: "In retrospect, all the signs were obvious..."
Summary: Sam gets banged up during a hunt, and Dean is nice to him. Too nice.
"Dude. You alive?"
Dean poked him, but more gently than usual and decidedly far away from the gigantic bruise than was blooming nicely over most of Sam's ribcage. Sam debated not answering, but there wasn't any point to that. Burrowing deeper under the covers or not moving at all would only worry Dean, resulting in a louder inquiry. And more touching. Sam definitely did not want more touching. Every part he had ached, and he was pretty sure not being touched for, like, weeks, would be awesome. Fucking witches.
If only he could have forced one of them to teach him to levitate, he wouldn't even have to touch the mattress right now.
"Guh..." It wasn't much in the way of replies, but it seemed to satisfy Dean who patted his head--yep, that was sore too--and jingled the keys.
"Gonna grab some breakfast. See to it you're actually conscious when I get back with it, whaddya say, princess?'
Sam didn't reply. Well, not aside from slowly snaking one hand and one finger in particular out from under the covers in Dean's general direction. If that could be considered replying.
"That's the thanks I get for going out into the cold rain to provide you with nourishment? Tsk, tsk, Sammy." Sam listened to the Impala growl away and almost immediately stopped hearing anything else. He'd no idea how long Dean'd been gone when he felt Dean squeezing his shoulder, but it was clearly long enough for the vicodin to wear off.
"Sammy? Up and at 'em. If your breakfast gets cold I'm not walking all the way back to the lobby to nuke it for you."
Sam actually suspected Dean of already doing that, based on the steam rolling off of his oatmeal and the accompanying egg sandwich as he struggled upright. There was no way Dean could have made it out to the strip where civilization was and back to their out-of-the-way motel that quickly.
Then he saw it, right there on edge of the nightstand, resting between a cigarette burn and the word "ass" carved into the faux-cherry finish in Kiss-style font. Nirvana.
"Hey. You got me Starbucks," Sam cupped his hands around the white cardboard and inhaled for a moment before sipping carefully. Ahhh. Perfect. "Thanks, Dean." Sam made a mental note to avoid the mirror for today. He must look even shittier than he felt if Dean went clear out to the interstate off-ramp to get him a decent coffee.
"Whatever," Dean scoffed, flopping down on the other bed with the remote. "I just didn't want to listen to you whine all damn day. Eat your breakfast if you wanna get more of the happy pills, and then you can go visit Dreamland again." Sam could see Dean's lips quirking upward in a tiny pleased smile, but he let it go. No point in making a big deal out of it. His big brother loved him. Film at eleven.
Despite regular doses of the promised illicit narcotics, Sam felt progressively worse that day and into the evening. Getting up to pee that afternoon was a monumental struggle, and Sam swallowed his pride and asked Dean to bring him a soda bottle to keep by the bed. It wouldn't be the first time they'd improvised that way, but it was usually on a stakeout where opening the squeaky Impala doors to take a leak would've given their presence away.
Dean agreed readily enough, without even giving Sam a hard time. Too readily, in fact. Even in his pain-killer haze Sam was suspicious when Dean ignored the half-dozen Mountain Dew bottles already littering the room and made a trip to the soda machine down the hall. He re-entered, chugging an Aquafina, peeled the label off and handed Sam the now-plain, clear plastic water-bottle. Dean made a fuss about having to dump it into the toilet for Sam (this from a guy who put Sam's actual dick in his mouth on the regular, go figure) but Sam wasn't fooled.
"Stop staring at my piss, man. I'm not bleeding from the kidneys, okay?" Dean flushed, caught out, but he covered, as usual.
"That's a nice fantasy you got, me obsessing over your piss, Francis," he drawled. "But I don't think you're up for the kinky stuff right now. Let me know when you're feeling better and we can explore your id then. There's porn for that, you know."
"You were totally checking for blood in my piss."
"If you say so."
"You do know you've never been subtle a day in your life, right?" Sam countered. "You have to know this."
"A million girls across the country beg to differ with you Sammy," Dean grinned cheekily, and turned his attention back to Law and Order.
When Sam woke up the next morning he felt marginally better, the aroma of yet another Starbucks having apparently teased him back to consciousness.
"I thought I was dreaming that you brought me another latte," Sam confessed, savoring the buttery caramel. A tiny bit of the drizzle had dripped down the side of the cup and he licked it off, blissful. Sam was pretty sure he could smell himself--a good deal more savory than the coffee--and decided he was going to have to get Dean to help him shower soon before the room became uninhabitable.
"You're welcome," Dean said. No snappy comeback, or silly nickname. Just a simple reply. Dean was suddenly very engrossed in the television, which wasn't all that unusual, except that it was at that moment stopped on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. Sam's spidey-sense started to tingle.
"You know," Sam ventured casually, "you don't have to keep going all the way back to the highway to get me coffee. We passed a local place not far from here." Sam was also now pretending to be highly invested in Mr. McFeely's health. He was telling Mr. Rogers about his bad cold, and it looked like he wasn't going to get the mail delivered on time.
"Uh...yeah. Guy down at the gas station mentioned all the local law hangs out there. Figured we didn't need to be mixing with that crowd." As Dean-fibs go, Sam had to admit that wasn't a bad one. But his brother really couldn't lie for shit. There was a reason Dean was going to Starbucks. (Sam would double-down on a cute barista being the motivating factor, but no one in Vegas would be dumb enough to open a line on that one.) Now that Sam was on the scent he was too curious to let it go.
Another morning and another premium coffee came and went without explanation, and when he finally got a bath that same evening Sam felt almost human again. The angry, raw red weals on his side had turned to spectacularly interwoven, concord-purple inkblots but he was at least mobile. Dean nodded approvingly while Sam towel-dried his hair, only a little weak-kneed from the effort of bathing.
"Thank God. You were starting to reek, man," Dean smirked, and went back to researching their next case on the laptop. When it came time for bed, Sam feigned more pain than he felt to keep Dean in the other bed for one more night. Sam was sneaking out for an investigation of his own in the morning, and he couldn't do that if Dean was spooned up behind him.
In retrospect, all the signs were obvious. Not only was Starbucks miles out of the way, but it wasn't like the Winchesters had money to burn. His favorite latte cost five times what a 7-Eleven coffee would have, and Dean had certainly forced Sam to swallow down enough of that bitter brew over the years for Sam to learn to tolerate it. Even if Dean had felt sorry for Sam that first day, being thoughtful and considerate of your younger sibling on a regular basis was against the unspoken Big Brother Code of Conduct. There had to be an explanation. One day of kindness was permissible.
More than that made you a schmuck.
Getting out of the room the next morning without waking Dean proved to be easier than the drive; the roads were curvy and the very cartilage itself between Sam's ribs seemed to protest the strain of steering. But once he walked into coffee shop and fixed his gaze on the pastry case all became clear.
Sam narrowed his eyes and placed his order.
"Sam. What the fuck?" Dean had clearly been pacing the room while Sam was gone, and Sam felt ashamed for a moment for making him worry.
"I left a note..." Sam protested half-heartedly.
"Fuck leaving a note, you got no business out there driving when you can barely walk!" Dean fumed. "And you didn't even take your damn phone! Christ..."
And then it happened. Dean's gaze landed on the little brown and green paper bags and the cup carrier in Sam's hands, eyes widening comically.
Snick. Got him.
"You...uh...went to Starbucks, huh?" he stuttered. Sam nodded, nonchalantly easing himself down into the only chair in the room, setting his purchases on the desk paired with it. The desk top's laminate was peeling, the entire edge piece missing except for one three-inch strip that was apparently blessed with more glue than the rest.
"Yeah, you sort of got me used to it at this point."
"That right?" Dean said faintly.
"Yep. Brought you coffee and breakfast this time," Sam said. Dean sank down slowly onto the end of the bed beside the desk, one knee jittering up and down.
"That was nice of you, Sammy," Dean allowed.
"I figured it was the least I could do, seeing as how you went out of your way for days just to get me my favorite coffee," Sam smiled. "And imagine my surprise when I saw the teeniest, most adorable, outright cutest little mini-pies in the entire world, right there in the pastry case."
"You're kidding me!" Dean exclaimed, totally unconvincingly.
"Dean."
"Starbucks has pies? Really? Who knew?"
"Dean."
"Okay," Dean huffed. "Maybe I tried one."
"Funny, the girl at the counter said another guy had been coming in every morning and buying even more than I did," Sam stared at Dean.
"They're very small, Sam."
"I bought six!" Sam exclaimed.
"That's my boy!" Dean crowed, reaching for the closest paper bag. Sam chuckled; he couldn't help it. His ribs twinged again; there were clearly no comedy clubs in his immediate future.
"Here I thought you were just going there because you felt sorry for me," Sam laid it on. Thickly. Dean just reached for the rest of the bags.
"I've felt sorry for your ass for damn near twenty-nine years Sammy," Dean grinned around a mouthful of crust. "What makes you think I'm gonna start kissing it now?"
"You will if you ever wanna get laid again," Sam threatened, picking up a tiny apple pie maybe three inches across. It had a cut-out of a star in the top crust where the filling could be seen. He tilted it toward Dean, who was busy finishing a cherry version with sugar crystals on the crust using only two bites. Dean looked completely unconcerned at the idea of Sam withholding. Maybe he knew Sam couldn't possibly follow through.
Or, maybe he was just planning on pie-gasms for the rest of his life.
"You realize that this new addiction of yours is cute and adorable and--"
"Delicious," Dean interrupted, cherry filling tinting the corner of his mouth pink. Sam was mesmerized with it, and fuck him but Dean probably planned that part. Somehow.
Sam leaned over and licked the red sugar glaze away from Dean's lips with the tip of his tongue. Dean hummed happily, green eyes gleaming at Sam's. Sam pulled back, outstretched palm offering up the last of the apple-stars to his brother with a laugh and an exasperated shake of his head. His ribs tweaked again.
Fucking witches.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
These pies, they exist, and if possible, are even more cute and adorable than Sam describes. I knew I would write about Dean secretly coveting them the day I saw them. Life is awesome. :)
Author: girlguidejones
Rating|Pairing|Word Count: PG-13 | Sam/Dean | 2100
Info: This has been slightly tweaked from the original version posted over at silverbullets. But you should know that it was written at 4:30 AM in GGJ-land, and remains completely unbeta'd. Expect the unexpected. Heh. Written for mollyamory's prompt: "In retrospect, all the signs were obvious..."
Summary: Sam gets banged up during a hunt, and Dean is nice to him. Too nice.
"Dude. You alive?"
Dean poked him, but more gently than usual and decidedly far away from the gigantic bruise than was blooming nicely over most of Sam's ribcage. Sam debated not answering, but there wasn't any point to that. Burrowing deeper under the covers or not moving at all would only worry Dean, resulting in a louder inquiry. And more touching. Sam definitely did not want more touching. Every part he had ached, and he was pretty sure not being touched for, like, weeks, would be awesome. Fucking witches.
If only he could have forced one of them to teach him to levitate, he wouldn't even have to touch the mattress right now.
"Guh..." It wasn't much in the way of replies, but it seemed to satisfy Dean who patted his head--yep, that was sore too--and jingled the keys.
"Gonna grab some breakfast. See to it you're actually conscious when I get back with it, whaddya say, princess?'
Sam didn't reply. Well, not aside from slowly snaking one hand and one finger in particular out from under the covers in Dean's general direction. If that could be considered replying.
"That's the thanks I get for going out into the cold rain to provide you with nourishment? Tsk, tsk, Sammy." Sam listened to the Impala growl away and almost immediately stopped hearing anything else. He'd no idea how long Dean'd been gone when he felt Dean squeezing his shoulder, but it was clearly long enough for the vicodin to wear off.
"Sammy? Up and at 'em. If your breakfast gets cold I'm not walking all the way back to the lobby to nuke it for you."
Sam actually suspected Dean of already doing that, based on the steam rolling off of his oatmeal and the accompanying egg sandwich as he struggled upright. There was no way Dean could have made it out to the strip where civilization was and back to their out-of-the-way motel that quickly.
Then he saw it, right there on edge of the nightstand, resting between a cigarette burn and the word "ass" carved into the faux-cherry finish in Kiss-style font. Nirvana.
"Hey. You got me Starbucks," Sam cupped his hands around the white cardboard and inhaled for a moment before sipping carefully. Ahhh. Perfect. "Thanks, Dean." Sam made a mental note to avoid the mirror for today. He must look even shittier than he felt if Dean went clear out to the interstate off-ramp to get him a decent coffee.
"Whatever," Dean scoffed, flopping down on the other bed with the remote. "I just didn't want to listen to you whine all damn day. Eat your breakfast if you wanna get more of the happy pills, and then you can go visit Dreamland again." Sam could see Dean's lips quirking upward in a tiny pleased smile, but he let it go. No point in making a big deal out of it. His big brother loved him. Film at eleven.
Despite regular doses of the promised illicit narcotics, Sam felt progressively worse that day and into the evening. Getting up to pee that afternoon was a monumental struggle, and Sam swallowed his pride and asked Dean to bring him a soda bottle to keep by the bed. It wouldn't be the first time they'd improvised that way, but it was usually on a stakeout where opening the squeaky Impala doors to take a leak would've given their presence away.
Dean agreed readily enough, without even giving Sam a hard time. Too readily, in fact. Even in his pain-killer haze Sam was suspicious when Dean ignored the half-dozen Mountain Dew bottles already littering the room and made a trip to the soda machine down the hall. He re-entered, chugging an Aquafina, peeled the label off and handed Sam the now-plain, clear plastic water-bottle. Dean made a fuss about having to dump it into the toilet for Sam (this from a guy who put Sam's actual dick in his mouth on the regular, go figure) but Sam wasn't fooled.
"Stop staring at my piss, man. I'm not bleeding from the kidneys, okay?" Dean flushed, caught out, but he covered, as usual.
"That's a nice fantasy you got, me obsessing over your piss, Francis," he drawled. "But I don't think you're up for the kinky stuff right now. Let me know when you're feeling better and we can explore your id then. There's porn for that, you know."
"You were totally checking for blood in my piss."
"If you say so."
"You do know you've never been subtle a day in your life, right?" Sam countered. "You have to know this."
"A million girls across the country beg to differ with you Sammy," Dean grinned cheekily, and turned his attention back to Law and Order.
When Sam woke up the next morning he felt marginally better, the aroma of yet another Starbucks having apparently teased him back to consciousness.
"I thought I was dreaming that you brought me another latte," Sam confessed, savoring the buttery caramel. A tiny bit of the drizzle had dripped down the side of the cup and he licked it off, blissful. Sam was pretty sure he could smell himself--a good deal more savory than the coffee--and decided he was going to have to get Dean to help him shower soon before the room became uninhabitable.
"You're welcome," Dean said. No snappy comeback, or silly nickname. Just a simple reply. Dean was suddenly very engrossed in the television, which wasn't all that unusual, except that it was at that moment stopped on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. Sam's spidey-sense started to tingle.
"You know," Sam ventured casually, "you don't have to keep going all the way back to the highway to get me coffee. We passed a local place not far from here." Sam was also now pretending to be highly invested in Mr. McFeely's health. He was telling Mr. Rogers about his bad cold, and it looked like he wasn't going to get the mail delivered on time.
"Uh...yeah. Guy down at the gas station mentioned all the local law hangs out there. Figured we didn't need to be mixing with that crowd." As Dean-fibs go, Sam had to admit that wasn't a bad one. But his brother really couldn't lie for shit. There was a reason Dean was going to Starbucks. (Sam would double-down on a cute barista being the motivating factor, but no one in Vegas would be dumb enough to open a line on that one.) Now that Sam was on the scent he was too curious to let it go.
Another morning and another premium coffee came and went without explanation, and when he finally got a bath that same evening Sam felt almost human again. The angry, raw red weals on his side had turned to spectacularly interwoven, concord-purple inkblots but he was at least mobile. Dean nodded approvingly while Sam towel-dried his hair, only a little weak-kneed from the effort of bathing.
"Thank God. You were starting to reek, man," Dean smirked, and went back to researching their next case on the laptop. When it came time for bed, Sam feigned more pain than he felt to keep Dean in the other bed for one more night. Sam was sneaking out for an investigation of his own in the morning, and he couldn't do that if Dean was spooned up behind him.
In retrospect, all the signs were obvious. Not only was Starbucks miles out of the way, but it wasn't like the Winchesters had money to burn. His favorite latte cost five times what a 7-Eleven coffee would have, and Dean had certainly forced Sam to swallow down enough of that bitter brew over the years for Sam to learn to tolerate it. Even if Dean had felt sorry for Sam that first day, being thoughtful and considerate of your younger sibling on a regular basis was against the unspoken Big Brother Code of Conduct. There had to be an explanation. One day of kindness was permissible.
More than that made you a schmuck.
Getting out of the room the next morning without waking Dean proved to be easier than the drive; the roads were curvy and the very cartilage itself between Sam's ribs seemed to protest the strain of steering. But once he walked into coffee shop and fixed his gaze on the pastry case all became clear.
Sam narrowed his eyes and placed his order.
"Sam. What the fuck?" Dean had clearly been pacing the room while Sam was gone, and Sam felt ashamed for a moment for making him worry.
"I left a note..." Sam protested half-heartedly.
"Fuck leaving a note, you got no business out there driving when you can barely walk!" Dean fumed. "And you didn't even take your damn phone! Christ..."
And then it happened. Dean's gaze landed on the little brown and green paper bags and the cup carrier in Sam's hands, eyes widening comically.
Snick. Got him.
"You...uh...went to Starbucks, huh?" he stuttered. Sam nodded, nonchalantly easing himself down into the only chair in the room, setting his purchases on the desk paired with it. The desk top's laminate was peeling, the entire edge piece missing except for one three-inch strip that was apparently blessed with more glue than the rest.
"Yeah, you sort of got me used to it at this point."
"That right?" Dean said faintly.
"Yep. Brought you coffee and breakfast this time," Sam said. Dean sank down slowly onto the end of the bed beside the desk, one knee jittering up and down.
"That was nice of you, Sammy," Dean allowed.
"I figured it was the least I could do, seeing as how you went out of your way for days just to get me my favorite coffee," Sam smiled. "And imagine my surprise when I saw the teeniest, most adorable, outright cutest little mini-pies in the entire world, right there in the pastry case."
"You're kidding me!" Dean exclaimed, totally unconvincingly.
"Dean."
"Starbucks has pies? Really? Who knew?"
"Dean."
"Okay," Dean huffed. "Maybe I tried one."
"Funny, the girl at the counter said another guy had been coming in every morning and buying even more than I did," Sam stared at Dean.
"They're very small, Sam."
"I bought six!" Sam exclaimed.
"That's my boy!" Dean crowed, reaching for the closest paper bag. Sam chuckled; he couldn't help it. His ribs twinged again; there were clearly no comedy clubs in his immediate future.
"Here I thought you were just going there because you felt sorry for me," Sam laid it on. Thickly. Dean just reached for the rest of the bags.
"I've felt sorry for your ass for damn near twenty-nine years Sammy," Dean grinned around a mouthful of crust. "What makes you think I'm gonna start kissing it now?"
"You will if you ever wanna get laid again," Sam threatened, picking up a tiny apple pie maybe three inches across. It had a cut-out of a star in the top crust where the filling could be seen. He tilted it toward Dean, who was busy finishing a cherry version with sugar crystals on the crust using only two bites. Dean looked completely unconcerned at the idea of Sam withholding. Maybe he knew Sam couldn't possibly follow through.
Or, maybe he was just planning on pie-gasms for the rest of his life.
"You realize that this new addiction of yours is cute and adorable and--"
"Delicious," Dean interrupted, cherry filling tinting the corner of his mouth pink. Sam was mesmerized with it, and fuck him but Dean probably planned that part. Somehow.
Sam leaned over and licked the red sugar glaze away from Dean's lips with the tip of his tongue. Dean hummed happily, green eyes gleaming at Sam's. Sam pulled back, outstretched palm offering up the last of the apple-stars to his brother with a laugh and an exasperated shake of his head. His ribs tweaked again.
Fucking witches.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
These pies, they exist, and if possible, are even more cute and adorable than Sam describes. I knew I would write about Dean secretly coveting them the day I saw them. Life is awesome. :)