A picspam bio narrative of the life and times of Dean Winchester
Based on a short comment from dear_tiger here, in which she basically said, "Do you think Dean woke up one morning and realized he was beautiful?" Cue me opening up my trusty old, ever-growing "embarrassing Jensen pictures" file and writing this.
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG for swearing
Word Count: 1.1K
Spoilers: "Home" and the fun of discovering the many, many "embarrassing Jensen" pictures out there on your own
Warnings: Um, this isn't as funny as I'd hoped it would be.
Summary: Missouri Moseley said Dean was one goofy-looking kid. Sam Winchester got curious. Then he found brick pants.
*************************************************************
"You were one goofy-looking kid," Missouri had said to Dean, and it made Sam curious what was on those photos they'd found in the basement of the old house. He wondered why Dean wouldn't let him see them.
One night while Dean was taking an awfully long time in the shower, Sam went out to the car to see the photos. He sat in the passenger seat, the cigar box resting on his knee, and realized that, in addition to the photos of them in Lawrence, Dean had quite a collection from his youth.
The back of the picture said “Dean, preschool,” in unfamiliar handwriting. Probably their mother’s.
He wasn't goofy-looking, Sam decided. Kind of cute, really. And his teeth had the same crookedness today.
"What are you doing?"
Sam looked up to see Dean, wet and furious, standing outside the car door. “It’s not what it looks like,” he tried to explain.
“That’s what you said that one Christmas when I found you behind the motel with that sparkly baton and a guilty look on your face,” Dean reminded him.
“I was just -” Before Sam could say twirling, Dean had stalked back into the room.
The next day, Sam waited until Dean went into the gas station to buy a microwaveable sandwich. But the cigar box was empty, save the fake IDs that had pictures of them looking about twelve.
*****
It took some scheming, but Sam Winchester was a clever, resourceful hunter. He knew how to stalk his prey. He knew how to wait to make his move. Or, really, he just knew that Taco Bell burrito supreme + 6 hours in the car = Dean/toilet quality time.
Once his brother was safely ensconced in his porcelain haven, Sam scrambled to Dean’s side of the room, rooting around in his bag and finding all kinds of yucky things he expected to find - like Busty Asian Beauties and condoms (size XXL, yeah right, someone’s got a big…head?) - and things he didn’t expect to find like a card that was probably meant for Sam’s upcoming birthday. It said “brother” on the front cover and wasn’t even lewd. Aww.
But Sam wouldn’t be put off his quest by finding out his leather-clad big brother was a giant emo softie. Nope. He’d seen the preschool picture; he needed more.
Stuffed between pages of Dad’s journal, he found an image of Dean, maybe around nine or ten, in a hunter’s jacket next to a kid in stonewashed jeans and fluorescent sunglasses.
The back of the photo said “Dean and Robbie, Lake of the Ozarks.” Dean had had a friend. And feathered bangs.
“Sam, what the hell?” Dean didn’t sound as furious as before, just sad.
“Who’s Robbie?” Sam asked.
Dean shrugged and sat next to him on the bed. “Just a kid I hung out with that one summer we spent at the lake. You don’t remember?” Dean took the picture from him and gave a fond half-smile. Sam considered it a win.
But as Dean shuffled that photo to the back of the stack, his eyes widened and he hid the entire crop behind his back, rushing toward the other side of the room. Sam chased him, knowing as any little brother should that the obvious response when someone wants to hide something is to force it out of their hands.
He succeeded.
“You look like an asshole!” Sam gasped. “Why were you in a Boy Scout uniform?”
“Dad made me go undercover,” Dean snapped, yanking the picture back. “He thought the scout ringmaster leader guy was a skinwalker. Anyway, scouting teaches hunting skills, Sam.”
It was really hard to pay attention to anything being said when there was visual evidence of his brother looking like a freaking idiot in khaki.
“If you were just doing it for Dad,” Sam pointed out, “why are you grinning like that?”
He didn’t wait to get an answer, though, because he realized he was still holding the stack of photos and he turned to look at the next one and -
Holy shit.
Sam wanted to ask Dean why the hell he was wearing pants that looked like bricks, but he was too occupied trying to remember to breathe between guffaws. He knew he sounded like a seal in heat, but he didn’t care. His brother was wearing brick pants.
“Fuck you, Frances,” Dean yelled.
“Seriously! What. The. Fuck,” Sam managed to choke out. “Dude, who are you? How the hell have I never seen this side of you?”
“It’s not that big a deal,” Dean sniffed.
“You’re wearing pants that look like bricks,” Sam explained. “In front of a brick wall. And what’s with the Kennedy hairdo?”
Dean yanked the photo out of Sam’s hands and smoothed it out. Then he put safely in his duffel. To keep. This made Sam start laughing all over again.
*****
When Sam managed to calm down, he sifted through the pile and found that the many faces of Dean Winchester pretty much added up to puffy lips and bad hair.
There was that one time Dean played on the local football team for two months:
There was the inexplicable leather-clad barefoot I don’t want to know why this picture was ever taken because it conjures up images as awful as that time I saw Uncle Bobby in briefs:
And then there was the one from that time they lived in Texas for, like, two weeks.
In fairness, it had been a really hot summer.
There was also a yearbook photo that someone - probably Dad in one of his moments of secret, quiet pride over his boys - had ripped out.
Dean looked like fucking Dawson’s Creek, and they’d screwed up the caption under the photo so that it said someone else’s name and all the clubs that person had belonged to. As far as Sam remembered from the year they were in high school together, Dean had belonged to three clubs only: detention, cutting class, and making out in janitor’s closets. So it was especially funny to see him with parted hair and a credit for his hard work as a thespian under his picture.
“What the hell is going on with your hair, man? It’s like mine, but not as cool.”
“Yeah, this girl, Vanessa, she styled it. Man, she was so fucking hot, Sammy, I would have worn brick pants all over again for her.”
“Who’s this Jensen Ackles?”
Dean looked carefully at the caption and shrugged. “Dunno, but Key Club? Really?”
“I know, right?” They shared a laugh.
“Sam,” Dean said, “what the hell is Key Club, anyway?”
“Yeah, I have no idea.” He handed the photo back to Dean. “Missouri was right. You were really stupid-looking.”
“Was, past tense,” Dean emphasized. “Not like you, having to walk around with that sorry face forever.”
“Whatever.” But Sam knew it was true. His brother had gone from feathered hair and twink lips to…well…to Dean Winchester. How the hell had that happened?
“It was a surprise for me, too,” Dean said, as if reading his mind. “I mean, I just woke up one day, looked in the mirror, and realized I was a fucking god.”
“Now can we never talk about this again, please?” Dean asked, and, yes, if Dean was going to be calling himself a god, Sam was quite okay with not talking about it anymore. Arrogant jerk.
“Whatever,” he said nonchalantly. “I’d rather be sort of beautiful my whole life than a freak like you until puberty.”
**
The next morning Sam found this taped to the bathroom mirror when he went to brush his teeth.
He and Dean spent the rest of the morning arguing which was worse, do-rags or brick pants.
~End
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG for swearing
Word Count: 1.1K
Spoilers: "Home" and the fun of discovering the many, many "embarrassing Jensen" pictures out there on your own
Warnings: Um, this isn't as funny as I'd hoped it would be.
Summary: Missouri Moseley said Dean was one goofy-looking kid. Sam Winchester got curious. Then he found brick pants.
*************************************************************
"You were one goofy-looking kid," Missouri had said to Dean, and it made Sam curious what was on those photos they'd found in the basement of the old house. He wondered why Dean wouldn't let him see them.
One night while Dean was taking an awfully long time in the shower, Sam went out to the car to see the photos. He sat in the passenger seat, the cigar box resting on his knee, and realized that, in addition to the photos of them in Lawrence, Dean had quite a collection from his youth.
The back of the picture said “Dean, preschool,” in unfamiliar handwriting. Probably their mother’s.
He wasn't goofy-looking, Sam decided. Kind of cute, really. And his teeth had the same crookedness today.
"What are you doing?"
Sam looked up to see Dean, wet and furious, standing outside the car door. “It’s not what it looks like,” he tried to explain.
“That’s what you said that one Christmas when I found you behind the motel with that sparkly baton and a guilty look on your face,” Dean reminded him.
“I was just -” Before Sam could say twirling, Dean had stalked back into the room.
The next day, Sam waited until Dean went into the gas station to buy a microwaveable sandwich. But the cigar box was empty, save the fake IDs that had pictures of them looking about twelve.
*****
It took some scheming, but Sam Winchester was a clever, resourceful hunter. He knew how to stalk his prey. He knew how to wait to make his move. Or, really, he just knew that Taco Bell burrito supreme + 6 hours in the car = Dean/toilet quality time.
Once his brother was safely ensconced in his porcelain haven, Sam scrambled to Dean’s side of the room, rooting around in his bag and finding all kinds of yucky things he expected to find - like Busty Asian Beauties and condoms (size XXL, yeah right, someone’s got a big…head?) - and things he didn’t expect to find like a card that was probably meant for Sam’s upcoming birthday. It said “brother” on the front cover and wasn’t even lewd. Aww.
But Sam wouldn’t be put off his quest by finding out his leather-clad big brother was a giant emo softie. Nope. He’d seen the preschool picture; he needed more.
Stuffed between pages of Dad’s journal, he found an image of Dean, maybe around nine or ten, in a hunter’s jacket next to a kid in stonewashed jeans and fluorescent sunglasses.
The back of the photo said “Dean and Robbie, Lake of the Ozarks.” Dean had had a friend. And feathered bangs.
“Sam, what the hell?” Dean didn’t sound as furious as before, just sad.
“Who’s Robbie?” Sam asked.
Dean shrugged and sat next to him on the bed. “Just a kid I hung out with that one summer we spent at the lake. You don’t remember?” Dean took the picture from him and gave a fond half-smile. Sam considered it a win.
But as Dean shuffled that photo to the back of the stack, his eyes widened and he hid the entire crop behind his back, rushing toward the other side of the room. Sam chased him, knowing as any little brother should that the obvious response when someone wants to hide something is to force it out of their hands.
He succeeded.
“You look like an asshole!” Sam gasped. “Why were you in a Boy Scout uniform?”
“Dad made me go undercover,” Dean snapped, yanking the picture back. “He thought the scout ringmaster leader guy was a skinwalker. Anyway, scouting teaches hunting skills, Sam.”
It was really hard to pay attention to anything being said when there was visual evidence of his brother looking like a freaking idiot in khaki.
“If you were just doing it for Dad,” Sam pointed out, “why are you grinning like that?”
He didn’t wait to get an answer, though, because he realized he was still holding the stack of photos and he turned to look at the next one and -
Holy shit.
Sam wanted to ask Dean why the hell he was wearing pants that looked like bricks, but he was too occupied trying to remember to breathe between guffaws. He knew he sounded like a seal in heat, but he didn’t care. His brother was wearing brick pants.
“Fuck you, Frances,” Dean yelled.
“Seriously! What. The. Fuck,” Sam managed to choke out. “Dude, who are you? How the hell have I never seen this side of you?”
“It’s not that big a deal,” Dean sniffed.
“You’re wearing pants that look like bricks,” Sam explained. “In front of a brick wall. And what’s with the Kennedy hairdo?”
Dean yanked the photo out of Sam’s hands and smoothed it out. Then he put safely in his duffel. To keep. This made Sam start laughing all over again.
*****
When Sam managed to calm down, he sifted through the pile and found that the many faces of Dean Winchester pretty much added up to puffy lips and bad hair.
There was that one time Dean played on the local football team for two months:
There was the inexplicable leather-clad barefoot I don’t want to know why this picture was ever taken because it conjures up images as awful as that time I saw Uncle Bobby in briefs:
And then there was the one from that time they lived in Texas for, like, two weeks.
In fairness, it had been a really hot summer.
There was also a yearbook photo that someone - probably Dad in one of his moments of secret, quiet pride over his boys - had ripped out.
Dean looked like fucking Dawson’s Creek, and they’d screwed up the caption under the photo so that it said someone else’s name and all the clubs that person had belonged to. As far as Sam remembered from the year they were in high school together, Dean had belonged to three clubs only: detention, cutting class, and making out in janitor’s closets. So it was especially funny to see him with parted hair and a credit for his hard work as a thespian under his picture.
“What the hell is going on with your hair, man? It’s like mine, but not as cool.”
“Yeah, this girl, Vanessa, she styled it. Man, she was so fucking hot, Sammy, I would have worn brick pants all over again for her.”
“Who’s this Jensen Ackles?”
Dean looked carefully at the caption and shrugged. “Dunno, but Key Club? Really?”
“I know, right?” They shared a laugh.
“Sam,” Dean said, “what the hell is Key Club, anyway?”
“Yeah, I have no idea.” He handed the photo back to Dean. “Missouri was right. You were really stupid-looking.”
“Was, past tense,” Dean emphasized. “Not like you, having to walk around with that sorry face forever.”
“Whatever.” But Sam knew it was true. His brother had gone from feathered hair and twink lips to…well…to Dean Winchester. How the hell had that happened?
“It was a surprise for me, too,” Dean said, as if reading his mind. “I mean, I just woke up one day, looked in the mirror, and realized I was a fucking god.”
“Now can we never talk about this again, please?” Dean asked, and, yes, if Dean was going to be calling himself a god, Sam was quite okay with not talking about it anymore. Arrogant jerk.
“Whatever,” he said nonchalantly. “I’d rather be sort of beautiful my whole life than a freak like you until puberty.”
**
The next morning Sam found this taped to the bathroom mirror when he went to brush his teeth.
He and Dean spent the rest of the morning arguing which was worse, do-rags or brick pants.
~End