SPN - Drabbles: Cotton Candy
Title: Drabbles: Cotton Candy
Fandom: SPN
By: bythedamned
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 900
Genre: one Gen, one Wincest
Warnings: none
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it, all characters belong to Kripke and the CW.
Summary: Two brief drabbles off the prompt: cotton candy
A/N: Love to elveys_stuff for betaing and cheerleading
1.
Dean doesn't care if Sam has homework, or tryouts, or some fucking mathlete bullshit to do, he's going to wash that damned purple sugar off the floormat. Again. Until it has its old shade of 1970's rotten-avocado-brown back.
He'd be careful, he'd said, gotta have cotton candy at a baseball game, like getting Dean to shell out for the cheap seats wasn't already pushing his luck. But compared to the tickets, it wasn't like those spider-web sweets would really set them back any farther, so he'd let Sam pick his color ("So long as you're not makin' a statement with that stuff, kiddo,") and even tipped the guy the extra fifty cents to round out the dollar. Of course, Sam'd gotten that shit all over his fingers and face, even in his hair, and laughed when Dean stared at the offered clump in his hand like it was the haunted wig of a dead muppet, fit to be tied and torched.
"Just remember, whatever you eat, you gotta keep down. And it's not comin' in the car with us."
Neither of them knew how Sam tracked it in, grinding the fluffy candy into a tough, sticky dollop in the footwell, but Dean knew how he was gonna get rid of it. "With your tongue, if you have to. And don't come in 'til it's clean." He slammed the motel door just to make a point, and ignored the clock when Sam finally slipped in silently two hours and thirteen minutes later, dropping the keys onto the only table and free-falling dramatically on the bed.
And now Dean's sitting in the frickin' carpool line, of all things, wishing he'd thought to nab a spot in the shade, and waiting for Sam to show his ass so Dean could rub his nose in the spot he missed. Maybe literally. Instead, Sam's goofing off, leaping around some brace-face for no goddamn reason, and miming an exaggerated wind-up and pitch. Dean can almost hear it, the overplayed retelling, when Sam's hands fly into the air. "And the crowd went wild..."
He's still talking a stream of nonsense when he opens the car door, chucking his bag onto the floor so he has no hope of seeing the fight they're about to have.
"... and Jody, her dad's into baseball, and so's Travis, and they said they'd never seen a game like-- what?"
It only takes him ‘til his butt hits the seat to notice Dean's face, and when he does all the animation just stutters out of him, like an old VHS coming to a fuzzy pause. He even flattens himself to the door, a little, probably getting a kidney full of door handle, and he searches the cabin for some sort of clue before he asks, "Dean?"
And Dean's ready to start, s'got Dad's old speech on responsibility and following through all coiled up, but the way Sam eyebrows huddle together is a tell Dean's come to recognize too well. It's not fear, exactly, but unease, apprehension -- the same look he gets when Dad comes home early, or very very late. And it's not like Dean stops being pissed, and Sam will clean up the rest of that gunk before the sun sets, but it suddenly seems less important to ream him out for this one.
All he says is, "Seat belt, Sammy," and checks his mirrors before pulling into traffic. Sam fiddles, trying to curb all that energy and ride silently along, until Dean prompts him."So, Travis?"
"Oh my god, Dean." Sam jumps up, barely held in his seat by the belt across his lap. "They were so jealous when I told them you took me. That was the best game ever."
2.
Sam's sucking on his fingers, enthusiastic and sloppy, and it might be a little inappropriate for public if he wasn't also skimming his teeth under his fingernails, scraping out the last of the spun sugar with a nauseating clicking sound.
"Dude, that's disgusting."
Sam doesn't even look up, just shrugs and keeps at it.
"No, seriously. Just how well did you clean off that banshee bitch?"
Sam's eyes flicker up this time, but Dean can still hear the bubbly sound of him swallowing spit around his finger.
"Whatever, man. Size of that thing, you're gonna be pukin' it all up in an hour anyway."
"It's mostly air, Dean. Which you'd know, if you'd just taken a damn bite. It's really not that bad."
Dean snorts, and turns the radio up. Sam returns his attention to letting no cotton candy go uneaten, and licks at the gap between his fingers in a way that reminds Dean a little too much of a dog with peanut butter on its nose. Only when that's completely done does Sam add, "Besides, I've had worse."
His eyes flick to Dean as he says it, too quick and too low to be innocent, and Dean pulls his foot off the gas so he can half-turn in his seat.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Sam grins around his finger, this time sucking it in well past the knuckle to where Dean knows for goddamn sure there is no more sugar. Then he pulls it out, slow and wet, with not so much of a pop as with a slurp. His face is the picture of innocence. "It's alright, Dean. I knew you were lying when you said it tastes like candy."
Fandom: SPN
By: bythedamned
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 900
Genre: one Gen, one Wincest
Warnings: none
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it, all characters belong to Kripke and the CW.
Summary: Two brief drabbles off the prompt: cotton candy
A/N: Love to elveys_stuff for betaing and cheerleading
1.
Dean doesn't care if Sam has homework, or tryouts, or some fucking mathlete bullshit to do, he's going to wash that damned purple sugar off the floormat. Again. Until it has its old shade of 1970's rotten-avocado-brown back.
He'd be careful, he'd said, gotta have cotton candy at a baseball game, like getting Dean to shell out for the cheap seats wasn't already pushing his luck. But compared to the tickets, it wasn't like those spider-web sweets would really set them back any farther, so he'd let Sam pick his color ("So long as you're not makin' a statement with that stuff, kiddo,") and even tipped the guy the extra fifty cents to round out the dollar. Of course, Sam'd gotten that shit all over his fingers and face, even in his hair, and laughed when Dean stared at the offered clump in his hand like it was the haunted wig of a dead muppet, fit to be tied and torched.
"Just remember, whatever you eat, you gotta keep down. And it's not comin' in the car with us."
Neither of them knew how Sam tracked it in, grinding the fluffy candy into a tough, sticky dollop in the footwell, but Dean knew how he was gonna get rid of it. "With your tongue, if you have to. And don't come in 'til it's clean." He slammed the motel door just to make a point, and ignored the clock when Sam finally slipped in silently two hours and thirteen minutes later, dropping the keys onto the only table and free-falling dramatically on the bed.
And now Dean's sitting in the frickin' carpool line, of all things, wishing he'd thought to nab a spot in the shade, and waiting for Sam to show his ass so Dean could rub his nose in the spot he missed. Maybe literally. Instead, Sam's goofing off, leaping around some brace-face for no goddamn reason, and miming an exaggerated wind-up and pitch. Dean can almost hear it, the overplayed retelling, when Sam's hands fly into the air. "And the crowd went wild..."
He's still talking a stream of nonsense when he opens the car door, chucking his bag onto the floor so he has no hope of seeing the fight they're about to have.
"... and Jody, her dad's into baseball, and so's Travis, and they said they'd never seen a game like-- what?"
It only takes him ‘til his butt hits the seat to notice Dean's face, and when he does all the animation just stutters out of him, like an old VHS coming to a fuzzy pause. He even flattens himself to the door, a little, probably getting a kidney full of door handle, and he searches the cabin for some sort of clue before he asks, "Dean?"
And Dean's ready to start, s'got Dad's old speech on responsibility and following through all coiled up, but the way Sam eyebrows huddle together is a tell Dean's come to recognize too well. It's not fear, exactly, but unease, apprehension -- the same look he gets when Dad comes home early, or very very late. And it's not like Dean stops being pissed, and Sam will clean up the rest of that gunk before the sun sets, but it suddenly seems less important to ream him out for this one.
All he says is, "Seat belt, Sammy," and checks his mirrors before pulling into traffic. Sam fiddles, trying to curb all that energy and ride silently along, until Dean prompts him."So, Travis?"
"Oh my god, Dean." Sam jumps up, barely held in his seat by the belt across his lap. "They were so jealous when I told them you took me. That was the best game ever."
2.
Sam's sucking on his fingers, enthusiastic and sloppy, and it might be a little inappropriate for public if he wasn't also skimming his teeth under his fingernails, scraping out the last of the spun sugar with a nauseating clicking sound.
"Dude, that's disgusting."
Sam doesn't even look up, just shrugs and keeps at it.
"No, seriously. Just how well did you clean off that banshee bitch?"
Sam's eyes flicker up this time, but Dean can still hear the bubbly sound of him swallowing spit around his finger.
"Whatever, man. Size of that thing, you're gonna be pukin' it all up in an hour anyway."
"It's mostly air, Dean. Which you'd know, if you'd just taken a damn bite. It's really not that bad."
Dean snorts, and turns the radio up. Sam returns his attention to letting no cotton candy go uneaten, and licks at the gap between his fingers in a way that reminds Dean a little too much of a dog with peanut butter on its nose. Only when that's completely done does Sam add, "Besides, I've had worse."
His eyes flick to Dean as he says it, too quick and too low to be innocent, and Dean pulls his foot off the gas so he can half-turn in his seat.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Sam grins around his finger, this time sucking it in well past the knuckle to where Dean knows for goddamn sure there is no more sugar. Then he pulls it out, slow and wet, with not so much of a pop as with a slurp. His face is the picture of innocence. "It's alright, Dean. I knew you were lying when you said it tastes like candy."