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In celebration of impending Winchester day!
Title: The Pen Is Mouthier Than The Sword
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellifer_fic
Rating: G
Category: SPN
Word Count: 1,255
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no offense, no money.
Summary: Dean always has to do things the hard way.
It all starts with a witch, which these things invariably do.
“Quit humming.”
“Hmm?” Sam looks up from his book and knows it’s always driven Dean insane that he could read in a car. If Dean were stuck in a passenger seat and looked at so much as a street sign he’d get queasy. Sam on long trips when they were kids would happily ride most of the way with his nose buried in a book whereas Dean couldn’t crack a single comic.
He stared at a lot of scenery when he was younger.
“You. Stop humming. It’s driving me nuts.” The alleged humming was of course only partly to blame for Dean’s foul mood. He and Sam had gone another round of how dare you jump in front of me when I’m about to die horribly and the argument was getting pretty old. They’d run into an honest-to-god green skinned and wart-nosed witch who’d pointed a scrap of scraggly wood she called a wand at Sam.
Dean stepped in the way because he… well it’s just what he did.
“I’m not,” Sam says.
“Well, you’re not now,” Dean huffs irritably. “You stopped when I said, stop humming.”
Nothing had happened… yet. Some curses took a while and it was damn inconvenient if the horns/snout/tail sprouted at some inopportune time. They could just assume that the sickly yellow light that had hit Dean full-on in the chest had done nothing but they were never that lucky. Dean was getting edgy waiting for the other boot to drop.
“So what’s your problem?” Sam asks, wearing frustrated expression number three hundred and fourteen, why am I burdened with a big brother who is so dim?
“You only stopped because I told you to stop.”
“Can you see the circular nature of your argument?” Sam raises an eyebrow, marking his place in his book with a finger and turning his full attention on Dean. For his part, Dean retaliates by smacking the book out of Sam’s hands to a, “Hey!” of protest.
“Can you see the circular nature of my protest?” Dean crows, thumping the steering wheel.
“That doesn’t even make sense!” Sam exclaims, throwing his hands up in abject frustration, or at least doing so as much as he could in the cramped confines of the Impala which actually involves pressing his palms to the roof.
“Just stop humming,” Dean repeats, his eyes back on the road.
000
“I think the lamp just called me an asshole,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes at the ugly purple focus of his ire with yellow fringing on the shade. Sam pauses, towel on his head because he was rubbing his hair dry and lifts it free of his face.
“Did you have a psychotic break and not tell me?” Sam asks slowly, watching Dean bring up a finger and prod the offending lamp. He’s pretty sure Dean has found a new way to mess with him and when it comes to messing with him Dean can get pretty committed.
“I knocked it over when I sat down and it called me an asshole.”
“These walls are pretty thin,” Sam tries, rapping on one to prove his point and more importantly, getting someone rapping back irritably. “It’s probably the guy in the next room.”
“I can tell the difference between someone in the next room and a lamp, Sam,” Dean says incredulously and Sam is a little stunned.
“Um, how exactly?” he asks, trying to take what Dean is saying seriously because he’s getting the bad feeling that the second boot has landed. He's also really tempted to ask if a lamp has a regional dialect Dean can recognise.
000
Sam is only gone a few minutes, but it seems that’s long enough for Dean to get into an argument with a ketchup bottle.
“I did not,” Dean hisses, glaring at the otherwise passive-looking condiment. When Sam slides into the other side of the booth, Dean looks up and then away in a guilty little start, like he’d been busted singing to himself.
“How long has this been going on?” Sam asks, because it is completely Dean to hide something like this. He’d had a third eye in the back of his head for six days courtesy of a pissed off sorcerer in Georgia before Sam had found out. Dean had claimed it was helpful and also that he didn’t want to eat the red paste that their father had endured when he’d been similarly afflicted.
Dean couldn’t go anywhere near a hat these days without Sam watching him like a hawk.
“Not that long,” Dean says, looking anywhere but at Sam. “By the way, no putting regular in the Impala. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I filled the tank a week ago!” Sam exclaims in horror. “Dean, you can’t just hide crap like this from me.”
“I thought maybe I was just going a little crazy,” Dean tries and he looks so tragically put-out that this isn’t the case that Sam can’t hold onto his anger at Dean’s evasion.
Sam slants a gaze out the diner window where the Impala is idly sitting. He can’t help but feel a little creeped out. “Does she like me?” Sam asks before he can stop himself. They were both practically raised in the Impala’s backseat but she’s always been Dean’s car.
“You’re family,” Dean shrugs and Sam starts to smile but then it fades into a frown.
“Wait, what does that mean, exactly?”
“It means you bug the crap out of her but she’s not going to dump you on the side of the road or anything,” Dean says, his gaze shifting back to the ketchup and a scowl forming on his face.
Sam picks up the bottle and dumps it on the table behind them. Dean sits back with a little grin.
000
“Urgh.”
“Stop complaining,” Sam says, watching Dean hold the bottle of brackish liquid that Missouri had supplied them with. It was kind of funny to think that she had an all-purpose curse cure-all that she’d had to develop because of their dad. Sam really wanted details but she wasn’t particularly forthcoming.
“The bedspread hates you and the forks think your hair is stupid,” Dean says mulishly and then grimaces and tilts his head like someone is yelling. Sam hides a grin because he’s pretty sure Dean has been making enemies with furniture and lighting fixtures for a couple of states. He’s just that kind of guy.
“Your cell phone is a bitch,” Dean comments and Sam does snort laughter then, resting fingers on the offending phone that is sitting on the side table closest to Dean. He thinks good girl at the phone warmly and silently promises never to drop her again, or at least to apologise if he does.
“Can I just…?” Dean is still holding the bottle away from his face but is now looking out towards the parking lot of the motel. “Can I say goodbye to my car?”
Sam rolls his eyes but also gestures a hand towards the door. “Go ahead. I don’t see what the difference is though. You talk to her all the time.”
“Yeah, but she answers me at the moment and it’s… it’s pretty cool.”
Dean is so oddly sweet sometimes that Sam doesn’t know how to react. He knows not to bring attention to it however and merely lies back on his bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Don’t take all night.”
Title: The Pen Is Mouthier Than The Sword
Author:
kellifer_fic Rating: G
Category: SPN
Word Count: 1,255
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no offense, no money.
Summary: Dean always has to do things the hard way.
It all starts with a witch, which these things invariably do.
“Quit humming.”
“Hmm?” Sam looks up from his book and knows it’s always driven Dean insane that he could read in a car. If Dean were stuck in a passenger seat and looked at so much as a street sign he’d get queasy. Sam on long trips when they were kids would happily ride most of the way with his nose buried in a book whereas Dean couldn’t crack a single comic.
He stared at a lot of scenery when he was younger.
“You. Stop humming. It’s driving me nuts.” The alleged humming was of course only partly to blame for Dean’s foul mood. He and Sam had gone another round of how dare you jump in front of me when I’m about to die horribly and the argument was getting pretty old. They’d run into an honest-to-god green skinned and wart-nosed witch who’d pointed a scrap of scraggly wood she called a wand at Sam.
Dean stepped in the way because he… well it’s just what he did.
“I’m not,” Sam says.
“Well, you’re not now,” Dean huffs irritably. “You stopped when I said, stop humming.”
Nothing had happened… yet. Some curses took a while and it was damn inconvenient if the horns/snout/tail sprouted at some inopportune time. They could just assume that the sickly yellow light that had hit Dean full-on in the chest had done nothing but they were never that lucky. Dean was getting edgy waiting for the other boot to drop.
“So what’s your problem?” Sam asks, wearing frustrated expression number three hundred and fourteen, why am I burdened with a big brother who is so dim?
“You only stopped because I told you to stop.”
“Can you see the circular nature of your argument?” Sam raises an eyebrow, marking his place in his book with a finger and turning his full attention on Dean. For his part, Dean retaliates by smacking the book out of Sam’s hands to a, “Hey!” of protest.
“Can you see the circular nature of my protest?” Dean crows, thumping the steering wheel.
“That doesn’t even make sense!” Sam exclaims, throwing his hands up in abject frustration, or at least doing so as much as he could in the cramped confines of the Impala which actually involves pressing his palms to the roof.
“Just stop humming,” Dean repeats, his eyes back on the road.
“I think the lamp just called me an asshole,” Dean says, narrowing his eyes at the ugly purple focus of his ire with yellow fringing on the shade. Sam pauses, towel on his head because he was rubbing his hair dry and lifts it free of his face.
“Did you have a psychotic break and not tell me?” Sam asks slowly, watching Dean bring up a finger and prod the offending lamp. He’s pretty sure Dean has found a new way to mess with him and when it comes to messing with him Dean can get pretty committed.
“I knocked it over when I sat down and it called me an asshole.”
“These walls are pretty thin,” Sam tries, rapping on one to prove his point and more importantly, getting someone rapping back irritably. “It’s probably the guy in the next room.”
“I can tell the difference between someone in the next room and a lamp, Sam,” Dean says incredulously and Sam is a little stunned.
“Um, how exactly?” he asks, trying to take what Dean is saying seriously because he’s getting the bad feeling that the second boot has landed. He's also really tempted to ask if a lamp has a regional dialect Dean can recognise.
Sam is only gone a few minutes, but it seems that’s long enough for Dean to get into an argument with a ketchup bottle.
“I did not,” Dean hisses, glaring at the otherwise passive-looking condiment. When Sam slides into the other side of the booth, Dean looks up and then away in a guilty little start, like he’d been busted singing to himself.
“How long has this been going on?” Sam asks, because it is completely Dean to hide something like this. He’d had a third eye in the back of his head for six days courtesy of a pissed off sorcerer in Georgia before Sam had found out. Dean had claimed it was helpful and also that he didn’t want to eat the red paste that their father had endured when he’d been similarly afflicted.
Dean couldn’t go anywhere near a hat these days without Sam watching him like a hawk.
“Not that long,” Dean says, looking anywhere but at Sam. “By the way, no putting regular in the Impala. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I filled the tank a week ago!” Sam exclaims in horror. “Dean, you can’t just hide crap like this from me.”
“I thought maybe I was just going a little crazy,” Dean tries and he looks so tragically put-out that this isn’t the case that Sam can’t hold onto his anger at Dean’s evasion.
Sam slants a gaze out the diner window where the Impala is idly sitting. He can’t help but feel a little creeped out. “Does she like me?” Sam asks before he can stop himself. They were both practically raised in the Impala’s backseat but she’s always been Dean’s car.
“You’re family,” Dean shrugs and Sam starts to smile but then it fades into a frown.
“Wait, what does that mean, exactly?”
“It means you bug the crap out of her but she’s not going to dump you on the side of the road or anything,” Dean says, his gaze shifting back to the ketchup and a scowl forming on his face.
Sam picks up the bottle and dumps it on the table behind them. Dean sits back with a little grin.
“Urgh.”
“Stop complaining,” Sam says, watching Dean hold the bottle of brackish liquid that Missouri had supplied them with. It was kind of funny to think that she had an all-purpose curse cure-all that she’d had to develop because of their dad. Sam really wanted details but she wasn’t particularly forthcoming.
“The bedspread hates you and the forks think your hair is stupid,” Dean says mulishly and then grimaces and tilts his head like someone is yelling. Sam hides a grin because he’s pretty sure Dean has been making enemies with furniture and lighting fixtures for a couple of states. He’s just that kind of guy.
“Your cell phone is a bitch,” Dean comments and Sam does snort laughter then, resting fingers on the offending phone that is sitting on the side table closest to Dean. He thinks good girl at the phone warmly and silently promises never to drop her again, or at least to apologise if he does.
“Can I just…?” Dean is still holding the bottle away from his face but is now looking out towards the parking lot of the motel. “Can I say goodbye to my car?”
Sam rolls his eyes but also gestures a hand towards the door. “Go ahead. I don’t see what the difference is though. You talk to her all the time.”
“Yeah, but she answers me at the moment and it’s… it’s pretty cool.”
Dean is so oddly sweet sometimes that Sam doesn’t know how to react. He knows not to bring attention to it however and merely lies back on his bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Don’t take all night.”