My shame, let me show you it!
It's five in the morning and I'm wide awake. Still. I don't know why. I didn't even have caffeine yesterday and I work in a coffee shop.
So. Because things have been very stressful lately, what with the finale and whatnot, I bring a post with absolutely zero serious content. Yay!
More specifically, I bring you a post full of unfinished stories that will never, ever see the light of day. Mostly because I should be ashamed I wrote them.
J2 Mpreg never to be finished
He's relieved at first. He doesn't have a tumor. He's not going to die. He's relieved because, really, when the doctor says, "It's not cancer, you're going to be fine," what else can you do but nearly cry with relief because you've been terrified for the results to come back?
"It's not cancer," the doctor says, "but it's...well. A little fucked up."
Jensen frowns. Are doctors even allowed to say fucked up?
"You're, um, you've always been male, right? You haven't undergone any gender reassignment surgery?"
"Um," Jensen says, because what do you say to that? "No."
"Yeah. I didn't see any signs of it, I just, well. It's not on any of your medical records and you've been coming to this clinic since you were nine years old, so I'm assuming Dr. Cavanaugh would have mentioned it somewhere..."
Jensen really misses Dr. Cavanaugh. The old guy wasn't a freak like this new douche nozzle, plus he always gave Jensen sugar-free gum when the exam was finished. Jensen could use some gum, something to do. He could use a cigarette, despite the fact that he'd stopped nearly a year earlier.
"When we, um, when we did the scans to determine the precise location of the, um, growth, and ascertain whether or not surgery was possible or even necessary, well..." He sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair.
"The fuck is going on?" Jensen demands, and then he regrets asking. He wishes he hadn't asked because the doctor tells him and then shows him the results of the scan and, well. Huh. That's just....Jensen doesn't even know how he feels about it because his brain won't process that it's real.
"I don't know what's going on," the doctor says. "I don't know how this happened and I'd really...I know people are going to be excited about this but I think it would be best, safer, if you didn't tell anyone. If you didn't, I don't know, try to get into the Guinness Book of World Records or get a book deal or--"
"The fuck is wrong with you?" Jensen demands. "Why the fuck would I tell anyone?"
"I just. OK. OK, so you won't...because this is Richardson, Mr. Ackles. It's a conservative town."
"Uh, I grew up here," Jensen reminds him.
"The people of Texas aren't ready for something like this."
"Fuck the people of Texas. I'm not ready for something like this! Wait. Am I having a hallucination? God, I knew I shouldn't have done that acid when I was nineteen. Fuck."
"If we're lucky, we're both hallucinating, because this is fucked up."
"Seriously," says Jensen, and he doesn't even care that his doctor's swearing as much as he does, because how else do you describe it?
"I'm going to make some calls. I'll be discrete, of course. We don't want, well, religious zealots of every creed, scientists, creationists, politicians...it would be chaos. But I'll...if this has happened once, it has to have happened before."
"Really?" Jensen asks. "Because I think I'd have noticed if some dude getting knocked up ever made the front page."
"Well, you're not interested in publicizing it, maybe there have been other men who've felt the same way. I just...I'll have to do more tests and see if I can find any literature on men with functioning female internal genitalia--"
"Oh, God," Jensen groans, putting his hands over his face.
"I'm going to see if I can't...I have friends at Baylor and Parkland Memorial and I'll see what kinds of tests we can run. You'll be around for the next few weeks?"
Jensen nods. Where else is he going to go?
His mom's in the waiting room with her purse on her lap, her fingers wrapped tight around the handles, her knuckles white. She doesn't look up when he walks past the admitting desk towards her, she's too busy staring at the carpet.
"Hey," he says softly. She looks up at him and he gives her a small smile. "I'm OK," he tells her.
She lets out a quick breath and bites her lower lip.
"I'm fine. It's not cancer."
She actually does cry with relief, wraps her arms tight around him and hugs him so tight it's hard to breathe. He doesn't tell her the doctor's going to do more tests. He doesn't tell her that he's, well. He doesn't tell her.
They have a celebration dinner and he forces himself to eat so he doesn't worry anyone. He wants a beer. His mother disapproves of drinking so he rarely does it in front of her. He thinks about going out, knocking back five or six shots of whiskey. Then he thinks about fetal alcohol syndrome and he has to run to the bathroom to be sick.
He's sick a lot, can't smell coffee or garlic or fish without becoming nauseated. Three days after he told his mother he was fine, she's standing in the upstairs hallway, waiting for him as he comes out of the bathroom. He'd run the water as he'd puked, had opened a window and turned on the fan and brushed his teeth but she knows.
Her arms are crossed over her waist and her mouth is pinched. "You're not all right," she says. "You said you were fine."
"I am."
"You're sick. You're still sick. You said it wasn't cancer, but..." Her eyes start to water and she blinks rapidly and looks away from him. "Is it...I mean, are you, do you have...?"
If he hadn't known his mother for thirty years, he'd have no idea what she was getting at. But he knows her and he knows the things she worries about, knows the things he does that upset her.
"It's not AIDS, Mom."
"But the men you see--"
"Man. Just one. And you know his name. You can say it."
"Did he get you sick?"
Jensen shakes his head. "I'm not sick."
"I heard you. You haven't kept anything down since you got here. It's been weeks."
Jensen's jeans are slung down low beneath the curve of his belly. It's not much of a curve, but it had been enough to scare him, enough to make him think there was a tumor growing on his liver or his intestines. He pulls up his sweatshirt and places his hand on the swell. He's become strangely protective of it in the past few days. "What would you think if Mackenzie had a bump like this?" he asks.
"That she was pregnant."
Jensen tips his head to the side and shrugs.
"That's not possible."
"That's what I thought."
She shakes her head. "You're delusional."
"Then Dr. Norris is delusional, too. I'm going for more tests next week. You can come along if you want, see for yourself."
"There has to be a mistake," she says.
Jensen lets his sweatshirt drop to cover his stomach. "I hope you're right."
Dr. Norris's next tests don't prove her wrong. Jensen's terrified when he watches the tiny form on the black and white ultrasound screen. He expects his mother to be disgusted, repulsed by the truth of it, but instead she places her hand over his and says, "Dear Lord, what miracle is this?"
**********
He's been avoiding Jared since even before he knew. He didn't want to tell him, didn't want to say that he'd gone back to Texas to see whether or not he had cancer. He'd just said that he was tired and needed to go back home to get his head on straight, and Jared had smiled and kissed him and accepted it because that's what Jared did.
And when Jensen says, "I'm coming back to LA. Will you pick me up?" Jared says yes, because Jared's always willing to help out a friend.
Jensen tenses up when Jared pulls him close in a crushing hug and tries to suck in his belly. It doesn't work, it's not the kind of thing you can suck in, but Jared doesn't seem to notice anyway. He just starts in about all the basketball games Jensen's missed and how he's totally mastered "Don't Stop Believin'" on Guitar Hero. Jensen smiles a little bit when Jared starts playing air guitar at the baggage claim.
Usually Jensen would object to Jared carrying his bags, but he's tired. He's tired and he's not sure what he's allowed to do. He never paid attention to shit like that before, not really. It's not like he ever thought it would apply to him.
They're in the car with the doors closed, parking garage dark, when Jared leans in for a quick kiss. "Missed you," he whispers.
"Yeah," says Jensen, and he wants to cry. He wants to cry all the time, now. He's fucked up and freaked out and trapped and he has a thing, a living thing growing inside him.
He stares out the window and thinks that Los Angeles is a terrible place to raise a child. He closes his eyes and curls in on himself, and when Jared asks what's wrong, he says he's just tired.
It's a long drive back to Jensen's place, but halfway there he realizes that Jared's switched freeways and is heading to his own place, instead. He almost says something about it, but then he doesn't. It's not Jared's fault that Jensen's terrified of the conversation they have to have.
Jared's dogs bay and bark when they get there. Sadie whimpers and shakes with excitement until Jensen reaches down and scratches her ruff. She whines and licks his arm and whines again, spins in a circle and presses her face back against his hand.
"Missed me, huh?" Jensen asks. Harley's there, too, but he loves everyone equally, doesn't have the fierce devotion that Jensen somehow inspires in her.
Instead of playing with them, which is what Jensen expected, Jared puts the dogs outside. He's quiet when he turns around, looks thoughtful and sad. "Are you breaking up with me?" he asks.
"What?"
"You didn't talk to me the whole way here. You pulled away when I hugged you. You won't look at me. If you're breaking up with me--"
"I'm not."
"Because you should just, you should say it if you're--"
Jensen crosses the room in long, quick strides and takes Jared's face in his hands. "I'm not."
"OK," Jared whispers. They kiss softly. "Tell me what it is, then."
"I went back home because I was scared."
"Of us."
"No. God. This isn't about us. It is, but not like that. I noticed...my stomach. I had this lump--"
"You grew a pooch," Jared says with a smile. "I liked your pooch."
"It was hard. When I'd put my hand over it, it felt hard and smooth, like pressing against a rubber ball, and it kept getting bigger. I didn't want you to know how scared I was."
"Wait, are you...? Scared of what, Jensen?"
"I went back home so I could go to my old doctor, so I could be there with my family when he told me what was wrong. I didn't want to worry you."
"Fuck that. You didn't, if you think there's something wrong you just tell me--"
"And it's not a tumor, I'm not sick, but I'm, there is something wrong. I'm put together fucked up, Jay. I didn't know. I didn't know it was even possible." He takes Jared's hand as he speaks, slides it beneath his sweatshirt. He can still hide the swell of his stomach under baggy clothes, but he won't be able to for much longer. Fifteen weeks, the doctor estimated. He presses Jared's hand to his bare belly. "Can you feel it?" he asks.
Jared frowns. His hand slides over the side of the curve, beneath it, up to Jensen's sternum. He pushes Jensen's sweatshirt up and Jensen helps him remove it. Jeans are too tight now, even when he slings them low. They're not made for the curve and swell of his new body. He's wearing track pants and he still likes to push the waist down, beneath his belly, likes the way it makes him feel more supported.
Dean Loves Burritos
They're at a little taqueria, the kind where the menu's written on taped up poster board and they don't take credit or bills over twenty dollars. Sam's not too put out about it since they have vegetarian tacos and a sign proudly proclaiming, "No Lard!"
Dean takes one bite of his burrito and moans, a deep, throaty moan thick with sex. His eyes roll back in his head a little bit and his entire body relaxes and he lets his head drop back after he swallows
"Dean," Sam whispers, kicking his foot.
"This is the best burrito I've ever had in my life," Dean tells him. "This is just...I think my dick is hard."
"You think?" Sam asks, quirking an eyebrow.
"I would marry this burrito. I would have sex with this burrito if it wouldn't be waste of delicious carnitas."
"Not to mention the salsa would sting your dick."
"There's no salsa on this," Dean says, frowning at Sam as if he should know better. "This is pure carnitas and guacamole. Look at that." He shows Sam the burrito where he'd bitten into it. "It's not that cheap ass fake guacamole, either. That's real chunks of avocado right there. This is the best restaurant in the history of the entire world, Sam."
"That's what you said about that soul food place in Alabama."
"Oh, God," says Dean. "That's right. We need to go back there. That fried chicken, the cornbread with the cracklins baked right in it. And, oooh, what was that pie? That sweet, delicious pie, not sweet potato, but..."
"Buttermilk," Sam says.
"Buttermilk pie. Food of the gods. Who knew?"
"You're burrito's going to get cold."
Dean looks down at his burrito and smiles. "Oh, we're just getting started, aren't we, baby?"
Very Drunk Dean
There is a wall, see? And this wall? This wall is very comfortable. Dean is very comfortable lying against the wall. It's smooth and green and cool against his cheek.
Then the wall moves, and that's not cool. That's not cool at all and Dean is not a fan of the wall at all until he realizes that, oh, it was never a wall in the first place. It's a door. His mistake.
Dean's the kind of guy who can admit when he's wrong. Which isn't true whatsoever, but he likes to say that he's the kind of guy who can admit when he's wrong. In reality, he's the kind of guy who can sometimes admit when he's wrong as long as he can also save face. And those tequila shooters? Those were wrong. Or maybe very, very right.
The wall keeps moving and soon Dean's not so comfortable because the wall--door--disappears and then there's pain and then he's OK again because, hey, fuzzy wall. Or maybe floor.
"Hello, carpet," says Dean.
"Dear Lord," says a voice from above Dean. Dean turns and turns some more and, wow, Sam's really tall.
"You're really tall," Dean says.
"You're really drunk," Sam says.
Dean smiles. They're both right. He likes it when they're both right and nobody has to argue. He hates fighting with Sam. "I hate to fight," he says.
"You love to fight," Sam says, leaning over him and, wow, that's a really long way that Sam has to lean. Dean wonders if being that tall gives him vertigo.
"Wouldn't have to fight if you'd stop being wrong," Dean tells him.
Sam rolls his eyes and hooks his hands beneath Dean's armpits and pulls him all the way into the room. While Sam goes to shut the door, Dean snuggles up to the fuzzy carpet.
"Best carpet ever," says Dean.
"It's probably crawling with germs."
"Too comfortable for germs," Dean says. He's not that drunk. He's still sober enough for logic.
You should be glad I never write down the really bad ones, like the sci-fi/fantasy AU one where Jensen's a modern-day wizard and Jared's a manservant he's given as a gift from his nemesis and turns out that Jared's really a cougar who can shapeshift into a human and Jensen's nemesis had used dark magic to enslave him and also? Jared and Jensen fall in love with OMG ANGST. What? I didn't write it down! It doesn't count as long as I don't write it down! I can't stop using the exclamation mark! I don't know what we're yelling about!
So. Because things have been very stressful lately, what with the finale and whatnot, I bring a post with absolutely zero serious content. Yay!
More specifically, I bring you a post full of unfinished stories that will never, ever see the light of day. Mostly because I should be ashamed I wrote them.
J2 Mpreg never to be finished
He's relieved at first. He doesn't have a tumor. He's not going to die. He's relieved because, really, when the doctor says, "It's not cancer, you're going to be fine," what else can you do but nearly cry with relief because you've been terrified for the results to come back?
"It's not cancer," the doctor says, "but it's...well. A little fucked up."
Jensen frowns. Are doctors even allowed to say fucked up?
"You're, um, you've always been male, right? You haven't undergone any gender reassignment surgery?"
"Um," Jensen says, because what do you say to that? "No."
"Yeah. I didn't see any signs of it, I just, well. It's not on any of your medical records and you've been coming to this clinic since you were nine years old, so I'm assuming Dr. Cavanaugh would have mentioned it somewhere..."
Jensen really misses Dr. Cavanaugh. The old guy wasn't a freak like this new douche nozzle, plus he always gave Jensen sugar-free gum when the exam was finished. Jensen could use some gum, something to do. He could use a cigarette, despite the fact that he'd stopped nearly a year earlier.
"When we, um, when we did the scans to determine the precise location of the, um, growth, and ascertain whether or not surgery was possible or even necessary, well..." He sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair.
"The fuck is going on?" Jensen demands, and then he regrets asking. He wishes he hadn't asked because the doctor tells him and then shows him the results of the scan and, well. Huh. That's just....Jensen doesn't even know how he feels about it because his brain won't process that it's real.
"I don't know what's going on," the doctor says. "I don't know how this happened and I'd really...I know people are going to be excited about this but I think it would be best, safer, if you didn't tell anyone. If you didn't, I don't know, try to get into the Guinness Book of World Records or get a book deal or--"
"The fuck is wrong with you?" Jensen demands. "Why the fuck would I tell anyone?"
"I just. OK. OK, so you won't...because this is Richardson, Mr. Ackles. It's a conservative town."
"Uh, I grew up here," Jensen reminds him.
"The people of Texas aren't ready for something like this."
"Fuck the people of Texas. I'm not ready for something like this! Wait. Am I having a hallucination? God, I knew I shouldn't have done that acid when I was nineteen. Fuck."
"If we're lucky, we're both hallucinating, because this is fucked up."
"Seriously," says Jensen, and he doesn't even care that his doctor's swearing as much as he does, because how else do you describe it?
"I'm going to make some calls. I'll be discrete, of course. We don't want, well, religious zealots of every creed, scientists, creationists, politicians...it would be chaos. But I'll...if this has happened once, it has to have happened before."
"Really?" Jensen asks. "Because I think I'd have noticed if some dude getting knocked up ever made the front page."
"Well, you're not interested in publicizing it, maybe there have been other men who've felt the same way. I just...I'll have to do more tests and see if I can find any literature on men with functioning female internal genitalia--"
"Oh, God," Jensen groans, putting his hands over his face.
"I'm going to see if I can't...I have friends at Baylor and Parkland Memorial and I'll see what kinds of tests we can run. You'll be around for the next few weeks?"
Jensen nods. Where else is he going to go?
His mom's in the waiting room with her purse on her lap, her fingers wrapped tight around the handles, her knuckles white. She doesn't look up when he walks past the admitting desk towards her, she's too busy staring at the carpet.
"Hey," he says softly. She looks up at him and he gives her a small smile. "I'm OK," he tells her.
She lets out a quick breath and bites her lower lip.
"I'm fine. It's not cancer."
She actually does cry with relief, wraps her arms tight around him and hugs him so tight it's hard to breathe. He doesn't tell her the doctor's going to do more tests. He doesn't tell her that he's, well. He doesn't tell her.
They have a celebration dinner and he forces himself to eat so he doesn't worry anyone. He wants a beer. His mother disapproves of drinking so he rarely does it in front of her. He thinks about going out, knocking back five or six shots of whiskey. Then he thinks about fetal alcohol syndrome and he has to run to the bathroom to be sick.
He's sick a lot, can't smell coffee or garlic or fish without becoming nauseated. Three days after he told his mother he was fine, she's standing in the upstairs hallway, waiting for him as he comes out of the bathroom. He'd run the water as he'd puked, had opened a window and turned on the fan and brushed his teeth but she knows.
Her arms are crossed over her waist and her mouth is pinched. "You're not all right," she says. "You said you were fine."
"I am."
"You're sick. You're still sick. You said it wasn't cancer, but..." Her eyes start to water and she blinks rapidly and looks away from him. "Is it...I mean, are you, do you have...?"
If he hadn't known his mother for thirty years, he'd have no idea what she was getting at. But he knows her and he knows the things she worries about, knows the things he does that upset her.
"It's not AIDS, Mom."
"But the men you see--"
"Man. Just one. And you know his name. You can say it."
"Did he get you sick?"
Jensen shakes his head. "I'm not sick."
"I heard you. You haven't kept anything down since you got here. It's been weeks."
Jensen's jeans are slung down low beneath the curve of his belly. It's not much of a curve, but it had been enough to scare him, enough to make him think there was a tumor growing on his liver or his intestines. He pulls up his sweatshirt and places his hand on the swell. He's become strangely protective of it in the past few days. "What would you think if Mackenzie had a bump like this?" he asks.
"That she was pregnant."
Jensen tips his head to the side and shrugs.
"That's not possible."
"That's what I thought."
She shakes her head. "You're delusional."
"Then Dr. Norris is delusional, too. I'm going for more tests next week. You can come along if you want, see for yourself."
"There has to be a mistake," she says.
Jensen lets his sweatshirt drop to cover his stomach. "I hope you're right."
Dr. Norris's next tests don't prove her wrong. Jensen's terrified when he watches the tiny form on the black and white ultrasound screen. He expects his mother to be disgusted, repulsed by the truth of it, but instead she places her hand over his and says, "Dear Lord, what miracle is this?"
**********
He's been avoiding Jared since even before he knew. He didn't want to tell him, didn't want to say that he'd gone back to Texas to see whether or not he had cancer. He'd just said that he was tired and needed to go back home to get his head on straight, and Jared had smiled and kissed him and accepted it because that's what Jared did.
And when Jensen says, "I'm coming back to LA. Will you pick me up?" Jared says yes, because Jared's always willing to help out a friend.
Jensen tenses up when Jared pulls him close in a crushing hug and tries to suck in his belly. It doesn't work, it's not the kind of thing you can suck in, but Jared doesn't seem to notice anyway. He just starts in about all the basketball games Jensen's missed and how he's totally mastered "Don't Stop Believin'" on Guitar Hero. Jensen smiles a little bit when Jared starts playing air guitar at the baggage claim.
Usually Jensen would object to Jared carrying his bags, but he's tired. He's tired and he's not sure what he's allowed to do. He never paid attention to shit like that before, not really. It's not like he ever thought it would apply to him.
They're in the car with the doors closed, parking garage dark, when Jared leans in for a quick kiss. "Missed you," he whispers.
"Yeah," says Jensen, and he wants to cry. He wants to cry all the time, now. He's fucked up and freaked out and trapped and he has a thing, a living thing growing inside him.
He stares out the window and thinks that Los Angeles is a terrible place to raise a child. He closes his eyes and curls in on himself, and when Jared asks what's wrong, he says he's just tired.
It's a long drive back to Jensen's place, but halfway there he realizes that Jared's switched freeways and is heading to his own place, instead. He almost says something about it, but then he doesn't. It's not Jared's fault that Jensen's terrified of the conversation they have to have.
Jared's dogs bay and bark when they get there. Sadie whimpers and shakes with excitement until Jensen reaches down and scratches her ruff. She whines and licks his arm and whines again, spins in a circle and presses her face back against his hand.
"Missed me, huh?" Jensen asks. Harley's there, too, but he loves everyone equally, doesn't have the fierce devotion that Jensen somehow inspires in her.
Instead of playing with them, which is what Jensen expected, Jared puts the dogs outside. He's quiet when he turns around, looks thoughtful and sad. "Are you breaking up with me?" he asks.
"What?"
"You didn't talk to me the whole way here. You pulled away when I hugged you. You won't look at me. If you're breaking up with me--"
"I'm not."
"Because you should just, you should say it if you're--"
Jensen crosses the room in long, quick strides and takes Jared's face in his hands. "I'm not."
"OK," Jared whispers. They kiss softly. "Tell me what it is, then."
"I went back home because I was scared."
"Of us."
"No. God. This isn't about us. It is, but not like that. I noticed...my stomach. I had this lump--"
"You grew a pooch," Jared says with a smile. "I liked your pooch."
"It was hard. When I'd put my hand over it, it felt hard and smooth, like pressing against a rubber ball, and it kept getting bigger. I didn't want you to know how scared I was."
"Wait, are you...? Scared of what, Jensen?"
"I went back home so I could go to my old doctor, so I could be there with my family when he told me what was wrong. I didn't want to worry you."
"Fuck that. You didn't, if you think there's something wrong you just tell me--"
"And it's not a tumor, I'm not sick, but I'm, there is something wrong. I'm put together fucked up, Jay. I didn't know. I didn't know it was even possible." He takes Jared's hand as he speaks, slides it beneath his sweatshirt. He can still hide the swell of his stomach under baggy clothes, but he won't be able to for much longer. Fifteen weeks, the doctor estimated. He presses Jared's hand to his bare belly. "Can you feel it?" he asks.
Jared frowns. His hand slides over the side of the curve, beneath it, up to Jensen's sternum. He pushes Jensen's sweatshirt up and Jensen helps him remove it. Jeans are too tight now, even when he slings them low. They're not made for the curve and swell of his new body. He's wearing track pants and he still likes to push the waist down, beneath his belly, likes the way it makes him feel more supported.
Dean Loves Burritos
They're at a little taqueria, the kind where the menu's written on taped up poster board and they don't take credit or bills over twenty dollars. Sam's not too put out about it since they have vegetarian tacos and a sign proudly proclaiming, "No Lard!"
Dean takes one bite of his burrito and moans, a deep, throaty moan thick with sex. His eyes roll back in his head a little bit and his entire body relaxes and he lets his head drop back after he swallows
"Dean," Sam whispers, kicking his foot.
"This is the best burrito I've ever had in my life," Dean tells him. "This is just...I think my dick is hard."
"You think?" Sam asks, quirking an eyebrow.
"I would marry this burrito. I would have sex with this burrito if it wouldn't be waste of delicious carnitas."
"Not to mention the salsa would sting your dick."
"There's no salsa on this," Dean says, frowning at Sam as if he should know better. "This is pure carnitas and guacamole. Look at that." He shows Sam the burrito where he'd bitten into it. "It's not that cheap ass fake guacamole, either. That's real chunks of avocado right there. This is the best restaurant in the history of the entire world, Sam."
"That's what you said about that soul food place in Alabama."
"Oh, God," says Dean. "That's right. We need to go back there. That fried chicken, the cornbread with the cracklins baked right in it. And, oooh, what was that pie? That sweet, delicious pie, not sweet potato, but..."
"Buttermilk," Sam says.
"Buttermilk pie. Food of the gods. Who knew?"
"You're burrito's going to get cold."
Dean looks down at his burrito and smiles. "Oh, we're just getting started, aren't we, baby?"
Very Drunk Dean
There is a wall, see? And this wall? This wall is very comfortable. Dean is very comfortable lying against the wall. It's smooth and green and cool against his cheek.
Then the wall moves, and that's not cool. That's not cool at all and Dean is not a fan of the wall at all until he realizes that, oh, it was never a wall in the first place. It's a door. His mistake.
Dean's the kind of guy who can admit when he's wrong. Which isn't true whatsoever, but he likes to say that he's the kind of guy who can admit when he's wrong. In reality, he's the kind of guy who can sometimes admit when he's wrong as long as he can also save face. And those tequila shooters? Those were wrong. Or maybe very, very right.
The wall keeps moving and soon Dean's not so comfortable because the wall--door--disappears and then there's pain and then he's OK again because, hey, fuzzy wall. Or maybe floor.
"Hello, carpet," says Dean.
"Dear Lord," says a voice from above Dean. Dean turns and turns some more and, wow, Sam's really tall.
"You're really tall," Dean says.
"You're really drunk," Sam says.
Dean smiles. They're both right. He likes it when they're both right and nobody has to argue. He hates fighting with Sam. "I hate to fight," he says.
"You love to fight," Sam says, leaning over him and, wow, that's a really long way that Sam has to lean. Dean wonders if being that tall gives him vertigo.
"Wouldn't have to fight if you'd stop being wrong," Dean tells him.
Sam rolls his eyes and hooks his hands beneath Dean's armpits and pulls him all the way into the room. While Sam goes to shut the door, Dean snuggles up to the fuzzy carpet.
"Best carpet ever," says Dean.
"It's probably crawling with germs."
"Too comfortable for germs," Dean says. He's not that drunk. He's still sober enough for logic.
You should be glad I never write down the really bad ones, like the sci-fi/fantasy AU one where Jensen's a modern-day wizard and Jared's a manservant he's given as a gift from his nemesis and turns out that Jared's really a cougar who can shapeshift into a human and Jensen's nemesis had used dark magic to enslave him and also? Jared and Jensen fall in love with OMG ANGST. What? I didn't write it down! It doesn't count as long as I don't write it down! I can't stop using the exclamation mark! I don't know what we're yelling about!