stop me if you've heard this one before.
fandom: Supernatural
rating: PG
word count: 418
A little drabble.
Dean says, "Listen."
He says, "Sammy, listen. I've got a joke."
Sam's torso hunched flat around the butt of his rifle, he shoots his brother a look. All around their car, the radio static sound of leaves rustling, something gargantuan heaving breaths in the distance. Sam whispers, "Maybe now isn't the best time for this."
"No, listen. You're going to laugh your pampered, Wonder bread ass off."
The both of them, they're still strangers to each other. This is a month after years of not knowing. A month after Dean breaks into his kid brother's place and destroys all those thick membranes of comfort and amnesiac happiness the best way he knows how. Dean, he's probably the only person who can bridge a decade's gap of love and communication with rock salt.
This is just a month after Dean says, "Dad's dead," his breath thick with the smell of barbeque and Sam Adams, and they're lying bellies-down on the wet mulch floor of some Oregon forest. Hunting something, something huge; the locals, they say it stands as tall as two guys, and smells three times as bad. All of this is a far cry from law school.
"The joke goes like this: A plain and simple country boys goes to Stanford."
There's the thundercrack of snapping twigs in the distance.
Sam says, "Seriously, Dean."
In his condescending college grad tone, he says, "Now is not the time."
And then he says, "Really? Are you really telling this kind of joke?"
"The country kid sees a Stanford student walking around in his femmy Madras and flip flops, and he asks him, 'scuse me, where's the library at?'"
Something reeks of sulfur. Dante's hell smells.
The joke starts again, quiet over a gun cocking. "The Stanford kid just shakes his head, which is so far up his ass, I bet, he can't see beyond his fucking belly button, and he snorts, 'Pardon me, sir, but we don't end our sentences with prepositions here.'"
Dean can hardly get out the rest for laughing so hard. He's wheezing, whisper quiet, and Sam feels this scared sickness he hasn't got in years.
"So the country boy, ha, ha, he says, 'Oh, well, let me correct myself. Where's the library at, asshole?'"
The punchline, it hangs heavy in the damp air.
Claws scrape across the Impala's hood, and Dean's wheeling around, finger knuckled over the trigger.
"C'mon, Sam! How about you get on this hick? He's not going to be talking so good once we're through."
And it's only once Sam's shoulder's bruising against the driver's side mirror that he starts to laugh.
rating: PG
word count: 418
A little drabble.
Dean says, "Listen."
He says, "Sammy, listen. I've got a joke."
Sam's torso hunched flat around the butt of his rifle, he shoots his brother a look. All around their car, the radio static sound of leaves rustling, something gargantuan heaving breaths in the distance. Sam whispers, "Maybe now isn't the best time for this."
"No, listen. You're going to laugh your pampered, Wonder bread ass off."
The both of them, they're still strangers to each other. This is a month after years of not knowing. A month after Dean breaks into his kid brother's place and destroys all those thick membranes of comfort and amnesiac happiness the best way he knows how. Dean, he's probably the only person who can bridge a decade's gap of love and communication with rock salt.
This is just a month after Dean says, "Dad's dead," his breath thick with the smell of barbeque and Sam Adams, and they're lying bellies-down on the wet mulch floor of some Oregon forest. Hunting something, something huge; the locals, they say it stands as tall as two guys, and smells three times as bad. All of this is a far cry from law school.
"The joke goes like this: A plain and simple country boys goes to Stanford."
There's the thundercrack of snapping twigs in the distance.
Sam says, "Seriously, Dean."
In his condescending college grad tone, he says, "Now is not the time."
And then he says, "Really? Are you really telling this kind of joke?"
"The country kid sees a Stanford student walking around in his femmy Madras and flip flops, and he asks him, 'scuse me, where's the library at?'"
Something reeks of sulfur. Dante's hell smells.
The joke starts again, quiet over a gun cocking. "The Stanford kid just shakes his head, which is so far up his ass, I bet, he can't see beyond his fucking belly button, and he snorts, 'Pardon me, sir, but we don't end our sentences with prepositions here.'"
Dean can hardly get out the rest for laughing so hard. He's wheezing, whisper quiet, and Sam feels this scared sickness he hasn't got in years.
"So the country boy, ha, ha, he says, 'Oh, well, let me correct myself. Where's the library at, asshole?'"
The punchline, it hangs heavy in the damp air.
Claws scrape across the Impala's hood, and Dean's wheeling around, finger knuckled over the trigger.
"C'mon, Sam! How about you get on this hick? He's not going to be talking so good once we're through."
And it's only once Sam's shoulder's bruising against the driver's side mirror that he starts to laugh.