(no subject)
Title: Striking Distance
Author: Saberivojo
Rating: Hard PG 13 - potty mouth and adult concepts
Characters/Pairing: Teen!Sam, Teen!Dean and John
Disclaimer: Don’t own them. Just playing with them for a while
Summary: Sam’s sees something he wishes he hadn’t. The boys have a discussion about it.
Prompt Number: #35 at found_fic_spn
Sam was pissed. Royally pissed. Yeah, he had to admit that his tolerance level was pretty low, and that Dean knew exactly what buttons to push and what Sam’s response would be. And that pissed Sam off even more, knowing that he was being played, and still he allowed it to happen. It was like watching a train rolling down the track toward a stalled car. There was nothing that could be done to change the inevitable collision.
In this case, it was the collision of Sam’s fist to Dean’s jaw. He hit him hard, swinging through the shoulder. He put as much muscle as his thirteen-year-old body had to give. He felt the concussion through his fist, down through his shoulder. Damn, Dean had a hard jaw.
Dean’s head snapped back, but he didn’t rock back onto his heels. That would have been so much more satisfying - to see Dean stagger a bit. But Dean was tough and harder than nails, so he offered his little brother a wry smile, toggled his chin back and forth.
“You need to step up training bro, if you thought that was going to hurt.” Dean grinned, quirked an eyebrow toward his brother, eyes dancing merrily.
And that just pissed Sam off more. He drove into his brother, swinging wildly, looking for a way to draw some blood. Dean bounced on his toes, bobbed when Sam weaved and evaded the attack easily. Unfortunately, the kitchen chair was not so lucky. Sam lost his balance when there was no solid smash of fist against Dean and tripped right into the damn chair. It splintered under his weight like a matchstick.
“Damn, Sam, you fight like a girl.”
Sam picked himself off the ground, brushing off chair pieces. Oh, this was so not over. Sam roared, lowered his head, and body slammed Dean hard up against the wall. There was some gratification in that, but Dean just threw his arms around Sam, effectively pinning Sam’s arms against him in a bear hug that was anything but loving.
“Dude, calm your ass down.”
Sam took a deep breath, but all he breathed in was Dean, his face buried in Dean’s armpit and wasn’t that just wonderful. He grimaced and tried for a jab to the kidneys but there was no wiggle room like this, no place for him to gather momentum, so Sam just stalled, and continued to breathe Dean’s stink.
“Ever hear of deodorant?” Sam tried for growly, but he was thirteen for chrissake, and not only did he hit like a girl, there were times he sounded like a girl too. The frustration was too much to bear. He shoved hard against Dean, but succeeded only in slamming his own head against the wall. And didn’t that just make for an ideal ending to a smack down that was going anyway but his way.
“Fuck you.”
“You too, dickwad." Dean's grin morphed into a good-humored leer. "So, I see you got your panties in a twist today huh? Something to do with that little girl you’ve been walkin’ home from school?”
Damn Dean Winchester.
Fuck Dean Winchester.
Why did he have to have a brother who was so infuriating? Dean was obnoxious, rude and just plain difficult. And to top it all off, Dean could take him down easy and land him hard. At this point though, Sam didn’t care. He wanted to feel the rush of the fight, feel the satisfying crush of knuckle on lip, but Dean, in typical Dean fashion, was determined to keep his little brother safe even if it meant Sam was trapped in his armpit.
There Sam stood, shoved into the wall, seething, with nothing to be able to do or say for it. Then it occurred to Sam, crunched into the wall, that his knee was just about in the position for a kick in the jewels and yeah, it was a low blow and all, but… Sam grinned wickedly and brought his knee up as hard and fast as he could. And damned if that didn't do the trick.
The pressure around his head and shoulders released as Dean gasped. “Jesus, Sammy!”
There was just enough space for Sam to slip his wiry body out of Dean’s grip and for a moment Sam thought he had it. He grinned at the thought of maybe winning at least a round with his big brother. Unfortunately for Sam, the kick to the balls pissed Dean off enough that at least momentarily, protecting his brother seemed less than important than teaching him a lesson.
Dean grabbed Sam by the scruff of the neck, shook him hard with his left and popped him a good one in the nose with his right, just hard enough to draw first blood. Dean let Sam drop to the floor, blowing hard through his mouth. He groaned low, his smashed balls obviously protesting the rough treatment.
“God damn it Sammy…what the fuck is your problem?”
Sam backed away from Dean, casually wiping the trickle of blood from his nose. At least it wasn't a gusher. The blood smeared across the back of his hand, dripped idly on the carpet. Just one more stain to add to the assorted stains already present.
“You, Dean...you're the problem.” Sam spat with as much venom as the thirteen-year-old could muster. A shock of brown hair that spilled over his forehead bounced with the huff of a breath that followed.
“You and your screw-anything-that-gets-within-10-feet-of-you mentality. I am sick of it. Do you ever think about it? Do you ever consider the consequences?”
Dean was truly baffled.
“What consequences? I use protection.”
Dean leaned over, bent in half, rested his hands on his knees. Sammy may not have kneed the ‘nads as hard as humanly possible, but that kind of pain took your breath away. It kinda made Dean want to stop and re-evaluate all the dirty fighting and below-the-belt moves that he'd been teaching Sam. Maybe the boy was learning more than showed in sparring.
Or maybe he just needed some motivation that didn't include Dad yelling at him to keep his guard up. It turns out that Sam just needed some incentive. Dean grimaced, took a sharp breath before continuing. So glad I could help with that one, pal.
“Have you have lost your geeky mind? What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“You. You and Miss Barton." Sam's face was flushed with anger. "I saw you, Dean. Don’t even deny it. At the shop. I saw you kiss her.”
Dean eyed his little brother up. Sam blew through his nose, sniffling out blood and snot. Stance all square and pissed. He absolutely reeked of righteous indignation. Dean shook his head, because really and truly, Sam did righteous indignation like nobody’s business.
Dean re-wound his day quickly, shifting through the bullshit to focus on the shop. Yeah, he worked at a repair shop a few days a week, thanks to the old-fashioned school system that still offered a vo-tech work-study program. Spent some time under a couple of cars today, worked on some old dude’s muffler, helped a lady with a fan belt. What was her name? He couldn’t remember, but there was no way the hot chick with the body hugging skirt and scoop necked sweater was a teacher. There was no teacher he ever had that was as smokin’ hot as that. Then Dean grinned to himself, because he had kissed her, or maybe she kissed him. The kiss full on the lips and deeper than a little “thank you” with just the promise of more. And could he help it if he looked a lot older than 17? And fuck yeah, she was an awesome kisser. The way she leaned into him, breast softly brushing up against his chest…
“DEANNNNN” Sam howled “ You kissed my teacher. Kissed her on the lips and I think there was tongue involved! She is my teacher for chrissakes!”
Maybe it was just articulating the act itself, or maybe it was the tongue issue, but Sam was rolling now, seething with pissoffedness.
"Motherfuckin', titty sucking, two balled BITCH!"
And that surely got Dean's attention. It sounded like lil' brother Sammy had been listening more to Dad than he thought, because John Winchester could put a string of curse words together that could singe the eyebrows off a sailor. A brief surge of pride coursed through Dean, and he had a quick little, “that's my boy” moment, before his nose exploded with a sear of pain. Dean felt the crunch of cartilage and could almost see the satisfaction in Sam's face. It flashed though Dean's mind-he was the one who didn't have his guard up that time.
Dean yelped, grabbed his nose and yeah, no doubt, this was a gusher! And damn if Sam didn't look gratified to see the blood spew out of Dean's nose.
Sam positively chortled with glee. "Now that, that right there...that felt good!"
Dean cupped his nose, blood filtering through his fingers like oil on asphalt. He grabbed a towel off the counter, mumbling into the towel his own extensive repertoire of filth. He headed to the fridge and pulled the freezer open with one sharp swing of his arm. He grabbed the ice tray, dripping blood along the inside of the freezer. Throwing a couple of ice cubes into the bloody towel. Dean leaned his head back, shoving the ice at the bridge of his nose.
“I hope you're happy, Sammy. Fuck, this hurts like a bitch.” Dean pressed harder with the ice. “First the ball bashin’ now the nose punchin’. I think you and I might have to dance.” Dean looked over at Sam’s incredulous grin. “And stop it with the smug smile you little shit.”
Dean growled low, but mostly all that came out was the stopped up bloody nose sound. Kind of like having a bad cold or like maybe having your baby brother punch you in the nose. It was hard to sound badass when you were holding ice cubes to your nose and bleeding copious amounts of blood onto the kitchen floor. Jesus, why did Sam have to decide that today was the day for putting into practice all the extra sparring Dad had been insisting on.
“Y’know, Sam, if we're gonna fight here, lets do it right. Take it outside, because if we fuck up this house with any more blood, Dad is gonna kick both of our asses, and I am not goin’ down that road. “
Sam danced on the balls of his feet and grinned wickedly. Not on Dean’s terms, not outside - right here, right now. Show Dean that he couldn't dick around with just anyone.
Suddenly it occurred to Sam - maybe this wasn't just about Ms. Barton. Maybe it was because Dean was confident and older and smoooother. Maybe Sam wanted a bit of the bravado that Dean showed on a regular basis. Maybe slippin’ Miss Barton the tongue was just the excuse Sam needed.
A good excuse though, because Miss Barton? She was nice and sweet and his teacher. And Dean had to go and save the day with a fan belt and fuck it all up. Fuck it up with a kiss and a tongue and making his teacher rub her boobs all over him. Sam would go to school tomorrow and all he would be able to think about was Miss Barton kissing Dean. Maybe fucking Dean.
He might just die from embarrassment. Having Dean for a brother meant that he and embarrassment had met. More than once. Could the whole scenario get any worse?
Suddenly, Sam was aware of the familiar growl of the Impala as Dad pulled up to the front of the house.
It just got worse.
“Great Sam. Fuckin’ great!" Dean flopped one arm out to his side in frustration, still holding the ice to his nose with the other. Dean gestured roughly at the blood-splattered floor, and the broken chair.
Oh, this was not going to go well. Not well at all. Because Dad, for all his training, all of his encouraging of sparring, all of his teaching of self defense, did not like his boys beating the shit out of each other. Fist fighting was for the bad guys, not for each other. An occasional black eye was to be expected, but John did not approve of them pummeling on each other for the sake of pummeling. And right now, with blood smeared across Sam’s upper lip and leaking out of Dean’s nose on to the kitchen floor, it pretty much looked like a free for all.
Dad was up the steps and in the house before the boys could do more than offer each other wide-eyed looks.
“Uh, hey Dad.” Dean spoke through the muffler of the towel, his words as nonchalant as possible.
John dropped his duffel at the door. It thudded ominously against floor. His look was piercing as he quickly reconnoitered the situation. The chair, the freshly crimson-splattered kitchen floor. His gaze shifted from Dean’s bloody nose to Sam’s bloody nose.
“Have I caught you two at a bad time?” The casual words belied the weighted tone of John’s voice.
Sam could tell that John was annoyed and tired, a combination that never boded well. Dean hadn't missed the signs either, judging from the wary look on his face. Sam was mad at Dean not Dad. And wasn’t that a hoot. He was mad at Dean and still it looked like he was going to go a few rounds with Dad.
Lately it seemed that he and Dad butted heads a lot more. Power struggles cropped up all the time. Well, power struggle was not really the correct word, because that would imply that there was a possibility of winning the altercation. So far Sam was 0 for 10 for that one. But that didn’t mean he didn’t try. This time, though - this time was different, because it was Dean he was pissed off with, and if a kid couldn’t deal with his asshole brother with a punch or two, than what was the world coming to?
If Sam had to be honest, and he was nothing if not honest, he had started the melee. Grant you, it was because of Dean and his skeevy, lecherous ways. Still, being mad at Dean did not in any way, shape or form mean that he would give his brother up. There was no way that Sam would rat Dean out, unless Dad offered him no other alternative. Dean was a dick and annoyance but he was his brother, so he braced himself to take the fall. But it would have to be quick before Dean threw himself under the bus for Sam.
“It was my fault, Dad. I started it.” Sam jutted his chin out and looked up at Dad. Be prepared for 0 for 11, Sam.
Dean stepped forward, conveniently drawing attention away from Sam.
“So not true, dude. I shouldn’t have done it, man.”
“Yeah, but I shoulda talked to you first, y’know instead of punchin you and kickin’ you in the balls.”
“Shoulda, woulda, doesn’t matter, Sammy.”
Dad looked hard at Sam. Threw another razor sharp glare at Dean. He watched the verbal volleyball move from one boy to another. John's dirty, stubbled face looked beyond tired, into the realm of exhausted, as he surveyed the blood-spattered kitchen.
“BOYS! ENOUGH!” John’s voice roared through the tiny house, snapping both teenagers' mouths shut with an audible click.
“Clean up this mess, fix the fuckin’ chair, wipe up the blood and hope to hell no one has a broken nose, because if that's the case, I will personally kick both of your asses into next week. You two'll have plenty of time to discuss the ramifications of beatin’ on one another, since you both are spending the next week right here in this house. The only time you leave is for school or to train. And it better be a quiet week, because if I have to break up one fight...”
He let the implied threat linger in the air.
“M’goin’ to bed. When I wake up this place better be stowed away. And you two can hit the rack early tonight.”
John stumbled to his room without a look back, muttering to himself about teenage boys.
Both boys watched him retreat into his room, heard the protesting squeak of the bedsprings as their father dropped into the sack.
Sam eyed Dean up. “Did we just get grounded and sent to bed early?”
Dean turned to look at the closed bedroom door, positioned the ice and dishtowel a little lower on his nose.
“I think so.”
The clean up was uneventful, some carpenter’s glue on the chair, a mop to the floor. The worse was the blood in the freezer. Sam had to put some muscle in scraping up the congealed bloodsicles with a knife near the ice trays. It would have been kind of cool if he had to scrape out frozen blood even as little as six months ago. But now it just seemed indicative of this life as a whole.
Both boys tentatively passed by Dad’s room, listening to the heavy breathing and occasional snore of a man that had no intention of waking up anytime soon.
Each boy changed quickly from jeans to sweats, and crawled into their respective beds.
Sam glanced at the alarm clock.
“It is 8:30 and I'm in bed. What the hell was am I supposed to do in bed at 8:30?”
Dean grinned. “Well, if you had that little girl curled up next to you that you've been walkin’ home with, I am sure even you could come up with something.”
“Dean, for crissakes, can you never take a break? Can you just for once have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around your dick?”
Dean shrugged. “Sammy, what can I say? And if you want to be technical, we are talkin' about your dick here - not mine. I don't plan on goin' after some 13 year old jail bait."
Sam chuffed loudly, exasperation palpable with the sudden exhale of breath.
Dean leaned back onto the wall, fingers laced behind his head. He spoke to the ceiling, not even looking at Sam.
“Look dude, I will not try to be slick. I'll do my best to be uncool, but I gotta tell ya, it ain’t likely to happen. I mean, I am Dean Winchester and I can’t help that the chicks dig me. I can’t help that I'm so fuckable or kissable, or whatever. I am a force of nature, kiddo.”
Sam rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Ya’know, Sam, I can teach you a thing or two about kissin’. Once we get over this groundin’ thing, I plan on having Mary Beth over and you can watch a pro at work. I mean, just the kissin’ part, but...”
Dean’s next words were cut off by a flying pillow. It landed squarely in his face, hard enough for Dean to yip a bit. “ Dude...the nose.”
Sam rolled over and grinned. It was worth the loss of the pillow. He made sure he was facing the opposite direction, cushioning his own sore nose in the crook of his arm.
Force of nature, my ass.