(no subject)
Title: Thank You, Ian Fleming
Author: me (duh)
Category: Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG
A/N: So I already have 6 plot bunnies hopping around in this noggin of mine, and then this little bit pushes its way to the front. Blame it on the urge to see our boys in tuxedos. Because, well, dang.
A frustrated huff. “Damn it!”
“What’s the matter, Poindexter? A little bowtie defeating that brain of yours?”
“Well, if they didn’t make it so difficult to tie them yourself…” A fidget, twist, tuck. “Damn it!”
“Come here.” Skilled hands at his brother’s neck. “I refuse to believe you never had to do this during your college days.”
A beat, just a hint of sadness. “Jess always tied them for me.”
Silence until he’s done.
“There you go. Pretty as a picture, Sammy boy.”
“Thanks, man. Need help with yours?”
“Nope, got it covered.” SnapCLICK.
“That’s cheating!”
“You’re just pissed you didn’t think of it.”
Tight-lipped grimace and a shrug into a jacket. “So do you have a plan other than just get in, find the chalice, and grab it before they notice it’s gone?”
“Hey, the simple plans are the best plans.” Hands brushing down lapels. “So, how do I look?”
“You’re totally imagining yourself as Sean Connery, aren’t you?”
A smirk, cocked eyebrow. “It’s Winchester. Dean Winchester.”
“I’m pretty sure James Bond never wore a clip-on.”
“Shut up. Not my fault your childhood hero was the dorky purple ninja turtle.”
****
A blinding grin to the bartender. “Martini. Shaken, not stirred.”
“Dude, enough with the 007 references. They’re not funny anymore. And if you call me Moneypenny one more time…”
“Would you prefer Q?”
A cuff to the back of his brother’s head. “Have you ever even had a martini before?”
“Of course. Why?” Sputter, choke, cough.
“That’s why. You eat the olive first so the toothpick doesn’t go up your nose.”
“Thank you, Miss Manners. What lot is the chalice?”
“The program says it’s number 72.”
Eyes on a tall leggy blonde in a short red dress. “Dude, open bar charity auctions. Why haven’t we hit one of these before?”
“Because tickets are $250 apiece and lot number 26 just went for five grand.”
“Oh yeah.”
A glance around. “Come on. I think they’re keeping everything in that back room.”
“Lead on, M.”
“Dean!”
****
Screams, crashes, panic. “Well, this is just perfect!”
“She’s never manifested in front of a crowd before! She must know we’re on to her!”
“Well, just shoot the bitch so we can grab the cup and run!”
Pause. “There’s too many people in the way! I’ll hit one of them!”
“It’s just rock salt, Sam! It won’t kill them!”
“But it’ll hurt like hell!”
“Trust me, I know!”
The rocket-loud bang of the shotgun over the chaos. More screams. “Go, Dean!”
****
“She tore my jacket. Look at this! No way we’re going to get our deposits back now.”
“No need. That card was maxed anyway.”
Ceased steps. “You wanted to keep that tux from the get-go, didn’t you?”
“Damn straight. Once I get the smoke smell out of this thing, it’ll be good as new.”
“All this, just to play dress-up.” Playful elbow to the ribs, slight mocking tone. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it.”
“Wrong spy, genius.”
Author: me (duh)
Category: Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG
A/N: So I already have 6 plot bunnies hopping around in this noggin of mine, and then this little bit pushes its way to the front. Blame it on the urge to see our boys in tuxedos. Because, well, dang.
A frustrated huff. “Damn it!”
“What’s the matter, Poindexter? A little bowtie defeating that brain of yours?”
“Well, if they didn’t make it so difficult to tie them yourself…” A fidget, twist, tuck. “Damn it!”
“Come here.” Skilled hands at his brother’s neck. “I refuse to believe you never had to do this during your college days.”
A beat, just a hint of sadness. “Jess always tied them for me.”
Silence until he’s done.
“There you go. Pretty as a picture, Sammy boy.”
“Thanks, man. Need help with yours?”
“Nope, got it covered.” SnapCLICK.
“That’s cheating!”
“You’re just pissed you didn’t think of it.”
Tight-lipped grimace and a shrug into a jacket. “So do you have a plan other than just get in, find the chalice, and grab it before they notice it’s gone?”
“Hey, the simple plans are the best plans.” Hands brushing down lapels. “So, how do I look?”
“You’re totally imagining yourself as Sean Connery, aren’t you?”
A smirk, cocked eyebrow. “It’s Winchester. Dean Winchester.”
“I’m pretty sure James Bond never wore a clip-on.”
“Shut up. Not my fault your childhood hero was the dorky purple ninja turtle.”
****
A blinding grin to the bartender. “Martini. Shaken, not stirred.”
“Dude, enough with the 007 references. They’re not funny anymore. And if you call me Moneypenny one more time…”
“Would you prefer Q?”
A cuff to the back of his brother’s head. “Have you ever even had a martini before?”
“Of course. Why?” Sputter, choke, cough.
“That’s why. You eat the olive first so the toothpick doesn’t go up your nose.”
“Thank you, Miss Manners. What lot is the chalice?”
“The program says it’s number 72.”
Eyes on a tall leggy blonde in a short red dress. “Dude, open bar charity auctions. Why haven’t we hit one of these before?”
“Because tickets are $250 apiece and lot number 26 just went for five grand.”
“Oh yeah.”
A glance around. “Come on. I think they’re keeping everything in that back room.”
“Lead on, M.”
“Dean!”
****
Screams, crashes, panic. “Well, this is just perfect!”
“She’s never manifested in front of a crowd before! She must know we’re on to her!”
“Well, just shoot the bitch so we can grab the cup and run!”
Pause. “There’s too many people in the way! I’ll hit one of them!”
“It’s just rock salt, Sam! It won’t kill them!”
“But it’ll hurt like hell!”
“Trust me, I know!”
The rocket-loud bang of the shotgun over the chaos. More screams. “Go, Dean!”
****
“She tore my jacket. Look at this! No way we’re going to get our deposits back now.”
“No need. That card was maxed anyway.”
Ceased steps. “You wanted to keep that tux from the get-go, didn’t you?”
“Damn straight. Once I get the smoke smell out of this thing, it’ll be good as new.”
“All this, just to play dress-up.” Playful elbow to the ribs, slight mocking tone. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it.”
“Wrong spy, genius.”