FIC: Stroke Me (1/1) COMPLETE
Title: Stroke Me
Author: kimonkey7
Pairing: none. gen. Sam and Dean
Rating: R - for swears and blatant implied sexual innuendo of the 12-year-old boy ilk
SPOILERS: Nothing specific, but assume through Heart.
WARNINGS: golf!fic. No, seriously.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
Summary: Boys will be boys… Dirty, dirty, bad, bad boys.
A/N: This is pretty much my fault. Golf!fic. REALLY. I know. But if I’m going down, I’m taking
big_pink and lemmypie with me. Those bitches. They BEGGED for it. You have NO IDEA. And it all started because of this picture. Also: illustrations of holes? (Nice phrase, that...) I do NOT claim to be an artist.
Golf!fic FAQ
Q: What is golf!fic?
A: Nobody quite knows. It involves Dean and/or Jensen playing golf in any way shape or form, but usually contains only partially veiled sexual references.
Q: Who would write this stuff?
A: You'd be surprised. They seem pretty normal. Except for the drug consumption. That puts them outside the norm.
Q: Do they do anything else except write about Jensen and/or Dean and golfing?
A: They play all sorts of sports, including go-kart racing and jai-alai.
Q: Should I be reading golf!fic?
A: No, most assuredly not.
Q: What is the proper attire for golf!fic?
A: Plaid golf shorts and ugly-ass saddle shoes/golf shoes - brown, not the black ones, the brown ones. And visors.
Q: What are some of the overarching literary motifs of golf!fic?
A: Generally, golf!fic features character maiming, threats of lawsuits, adult identical twins and occasionally, dwarves. [alternately, especially in the UP, the latter may appear as 'dorfs']
Q: What about twin dwarves?
A: That's pushing it.
Q: Should generally well-received writers cave to pressure from their peers to write golf!fic, even if they know it's wrong?
A: Writing golf!fic isn't a mortal sin, but it's certainly not something anyone with a shred of self-respect would do. A writer should consider the decision CAREFULLY, and never set off immediately after golf!fic is proposed, especially if they're holding.
Q: How does one manage to find themselves writing a golf!fic?
A: One is usually duped.
Q: Can being 'duped' be equated with the kinds of social-emotional ass-fuckings that occur in real life? Is there SHAME?
A: Absolutely.
FAQ formulated and answers provided by
big_pink, lemmypie, and an anonymous golf!fic author.
Stroke Me
“You do it.”
“Screw that. I did it last time.”
“No, you didn’t,” Sam scoffed, open-mouthed. “I did it last time.”
“Wrong.”
“Tacoma, Dean. In February.”
Dean’s eyes drifted left, leaving the road momentarily. Fuck. Yeah… --he remembered it now. He shot a glance in Sam’s direction. Pursed his lips. “Nope. I don’t think so.”
Sam threw up his hands, body jerking in the passenger seat; the embodiment of stubborn exasperation. “Well, I’m not doing it.”
Dean cocked his head, resolute. “Well, neither am I.”
They were mulishly quiet for more than a minute, nothing but wind and trees and billboards and empty road.
“Roshambo?”
Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, you little smartass.
Dean smirked. “I don’t think so.”
Sam’s lower lip snugged up under his nose. “Just because you can never help yourself from going for scissors.”
Dean had thought about it. A LOT. Worked the logic like a fucking Sicilian pondering iocane poisoning: he always picked scissors, thinking Sam would assume he’d go for rock. Because - let’s face it - he was a rock kind of guy. And if he went for rock, that meant Sam would have to go for paper. Which meant Dean went for scissors.
But now that Sam had tipped his hand about KNOWING Dean always went for sharps, Sam was a wildcard bet… And that was the point where the reasoning and probability always got a little fuzzy in his head.
God, bless America, though. The solution appeared like a miracle.
The billboard was crude but effective: well-endowed cartoon babe in a short skirt - airbrushed legs for miles - standing just that INCH past feet shoulder-width apart and waving a checkered flag; formula-one-looking go-cart careening around the pin-up pit-girl, flames and smoke rolling off its tires. BACKTRACK FUN STOP! GO-CARTS! ARCADE! MINIATURE GOLF! WATER SLIDE!
Dean slowed the Impala and pointed, dissecting the personal space between the windshield and Sam’s chin. “I’ll race ya.”
Sam’s neck craned, reading as they cruised past the billboard.
“You and me,” Dean said. “Best time wins.”
Dean watched Sam’s eyes narrow.
Too sweet to pass up, huh? Wanna teach big brother a lesson?
He knew Sam was playing the logic game now; trying to weigh his skills against Dean’s. Factoring in the variables of a small enclosed track and a bumper car with a lawnmower motor attached. Because Dean was a good driver. Had excellent reflexes and hand-eye coordination; quick and agile. With a hell of a lot more driving hours clocked. Just not in itty-bitty go-carts.
“Come on, Sammy. Yea or nay. Exit’s comin’ up.”
Sam’s head shook; clipped little arcs Dean knew meant ‘yes’ despite the display.
Atta boy…
“Fine. Fine,” said Sam, arms folding snuggly across his chest.
Dean grinned.
“You’re gonna lose, Dean. And then you’re gonna do it. No complaints,” Sam snipped, right hand slipping out from under left elbow to point at his face. “Because I know I did it last time. I had to listen to you bitch for two weeks afterward how I’d done it all wrong, remember?”
Oh, yeah. Trust me. I remember. He shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat at the memory.
The billboard was genius advertising, because there was no way in hell the Backtrack Fun Stop was getting a lot of drive-by business. The paint-on-plywood signs hung along the fence were sun-worn; washed and faded in a way that made Dean mildly depressed; a visual statement, of sorts, saying that the FUN had indeed STOPPED at the old Backtrack. There were two beat-up trucks and a late model Nissan in the gravel lot beyond the rusted chain link, and not a human soul in sight.
They squinted up through the windshield at the top half of the water slide visible above the walled fun-fortress.
“That looks safe,” Sam said, motioning toward the curled, filthy, weathered aqua tubing.
Tears of rust and chlorinated water had left orange trails weeping from every bolt head. Dean wouldn’t send a possessed duck down the thing.
“Well, we’re not here for the water sports, Sammy,” he said, dropping the Impala into park. “We’re here so I can beat your ass.”
*******************************************************************
They went one lap around the small track, Sam’s cart kissing tires with the rubber bumper on the inside of the loop. His knees were up around his ears, the racers clearly not designed for those over five feet or ten years.
Dean didn’t fare much better, but he still led by almost a full lap from the green light, whooping like an idiot, his fist pumping in the air. He didn’t care how retarded it looked.
In your bitch FACE, Sammy.
He actually passed his brother when he started the second lap, flipping him the bird as he went by. When he got to the far end of the track he saw Sam standing behind the go-cart, maneuvering it into the pit-stop area. Half a minute later he was pulling in behind him.
“What?” Sam was wearing an unbelievable pout, arms crossed over his chest when Dean hopped out and strode over. “Don’t start bein’ a sore loser.”
“This doesn’t count.”
“Like hell it doesn’t,” Dean said, eyebrows twinning over his nose.
Sam waved his hand in the direction of his abandoned go-cart. “I couldn’t even get my leg all the way inside to control the accelerator. And there was-- I think there was something wrong with the steering.”
The attendant chuckled under his breath.
They both glanced over at him; Sam glaring, Dean giving a commiserating nod.
“You lost, Sam. Fair and square. I had best time. You’re doin’ it.”
“You guys tryin’ to settle a bet?” go-cart guy asked, grimy fingernail scratching at the side of his neck.
“Kind of,” said Dean.
“No,” said Sam.
“’Cause we got putt-putt, too.”
Heh. Putt-putt.
He’d tormented Sam for three weeks one summer by chanting, ‘Sammy is a nut, he has a rubber butt, and every time he turns around it goes putt-putt.’ He’d said it over and over and over again because for some inexplicable reason, it made his little brother cry like a baby. And that was heady power for an eight-year-old.
But Sam either didn’t remember or didn’t care because he immediately chirped, “Okay.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s golf. High score screws the pooch.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “Why should I? I just kicked your ass. I already won.”
“No, you didn’t. And you know you didn’t. Which is why you’re gonna play nine holes of miniature golf with me.” Sam called over Dean’s shoulder to the attendant. “Nine holes?”
“Yup,” the man said, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. “Nine holes. Every single one of ‘em a salute to America.” The toothpick in the attendant's mouth bobbed and jumped. He horked back a considerable amount of snot and planted a wet one on the track.
Sam’s eyes flicked back to Dean, brows disappearing under his bangs in challenge.
Dean had never played golf, miniature or otherwise. He’d seen it on TV, fucked some chick named Liz on a course once when he was in high school somewhere, but Dad hadn’t really been a let’s-shoot-a-bucket-at-the-driving-range kind of guy. Still, it was all just angles and power control and assessing the environment, right? All stuff he was good at. Better at than Sam, probably.
“Fine,” he ground out. “Bitch.”
“Jerk,” Sam said with no smile at all.
*******************************************************************
The older woman behind the counter - salt and pepper hair cut so similar to his own Dean couldn’t stop staring, and Sam couldn’t stop snickering - took their money, gave them their scorecards and mini-pencils--
“Seriously, dude, what the fuck?”
--and told them they could head around the corner to grab their balls and putters.
And then it was Dean’s turn to laugh because - grab our balls - he really was twelve years old sometimes. He punched his brother on the shoulder and said, “You lead the way, Sammy. I know you’re good at handlin’ your club.”
Approaching the first tee, they realized ‘Salute to America’ was a pretty subjective term.
“Huh.”
Oh, there was the requisite Mt. Rushmore - Shoot through Lincoln's mouth for a hole-in-one! - and a crumbly looking Golden Gate that spanned a murky water hazard. But after that, the homage got a little loose. Sure, the astro-turf of the artificial greens was blue, and the cement banks that lined the approach to every hole were painted red with white stenciled stars. But Dean didn't know how a windmill, an albino crocodile, and a bow-legged mouse dressed up like a cowboy and sporting a hunk of cheese in the shape of Texas had fuck all to do with saluting America. At least the giant clown's head on the seventh hole gave him a chuckle.
Sam'll bungle that one for sure...
Dean stepped up to the pink rectangular mat that served as tee for the first hole. Set his ball in the middle impression in the rubber. He wasn’t quite sure what Sam had to smile about, but there he was; leaning on his putter like a pimp cane, stupid grin all over his face.
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Sam.
Dean squinted at his brother. Sam could puppy-dog a group of old broads like nobody’s business. Get surly academic-types to talk. Dean had seen thirteen-year-old girls nearly pee their pants with a wink from him. But Sammy sucked at poker. Had the game face of a bag of frozen carrots.
Had Sam golfed before? Dean didn’t remember him ever mentioning it, but, yeah. Yeah, it sounded like something a bunch of retarded brainiac college kids would do on the weekend for fun. Let’s get a six-pack and play putt-putt! He could picture his brother in a pair of ass-tacular baby blue madras shorts and a visor. Maybe some spiked saddle shoes. Jesus.
“So you think because you’ve played before, you’re gonna beat me?” asked Dean.
Sam’s smile wavered but didn’t leave. “Do I think you’re going down? Oh, yeah. You’re goin’ down.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. That’s right,” said Sam.
“You realize,” Dean said, arms spreading over the miniature course like a real estate agent presenting a parcel of Promised Land, “this is really just a big pool table, right? Dropping a series of balls off banks. It’s all simple geometry.”
“You had a tutor for geometry, didn’t you?” asked Sam.
Dean smiled lecherously. “Kristy Neidermeyer. Taught me a lot.”
“Didn’t you fail geometry?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Just…putt, okay?”
“Right.”
Dean surveyed the first hole: ten feet of straightaway, then a hairpin left. Your choice of making the unobstructed cross-back, or shooting into one braid-end of a giant pretzel where your ball would - conceivably - take an inclined one-hundred-eighty degree turn and spit out in line with the cup at the end of the parallel straightaway, to the left and two feet forward of the shooter.
“Hey, Sam.”
“Yeah?”
Dean figured it wasn’t as six-of-one as it seemed - ‘s gotta be a catch - and moved his ball from the center tee on the mat to the one on the far left. “What the hell kind of job training you think you need to make giant cement food for putt-putt golf courses?”
“Why?” Sam asked wryly. “You looking to make a career change?”
“I’ll tell ya what,” Dean said, dropping into a squat and eyeing the line of his ball against the bumper. “I’d be more successful than the jackass who made that thing.”
He’d bank off the right bumper and try to angle his ball around the hairpin and line it up for a long putt on the left turn-back. He cast a quick glance in Sam’s direction, couldn’t read approval or dismissal for the move he’d made with his ball, and decided to trust his gut.
He pointed his putter at the concrete yeast bread at the end of the hole. “I’ll give the guy the mustard. The mustard’s a nice touch. But where the hell’s the salt?” He wrapped his hands around the putter’s grip, one on top of the other and thumbs lined up, like he’d seen on TV.
“Would you just putt already?” Sam barked. “It’s gotta be done tonight.”
“Don’t worry, Princess. You’ll have plenty of time to do it tonight.”
“You mean you will.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Yeah, just--” Sam motioned with his hand. “We’ll see about that.”
“Yeah,” Dean said with a smirk. “We’ll see about that.”
He knew as soon as he connected with his putter that his aim was off and had too much force behind it. The ball hopped over a wrinkle in the artificial turf, hit low on the right bumper, and tangled up in the corner. It ricocheted back down the straightaway and rolled to a stop two feet from the tee.
“Sonuvabitch.”
Sam laughed, which really didn’t help.
Dean shot him a death glare. “Shut up, dickweed.”
“Dean, Dean, Dean,” said Sam, shaking his head slowly. “You of all people should know, if you over-stroke you never get it in the hole.”
It took every ounce of patience and willpower Dean had, plus three more shots, to drop his ball in the cup. He nearly punched his brother in his smug mouth when Sam made the par-two.
The second and third holes didn’t go any better. By the fourth hole - fucking stupid fucking WINDMILL - Dean was up seventeen strokes to Sam’s one over par. He was so pissed off and resentful he couldn’t time the rotating blades of the windmill correctly. Every time he shot, the blade would cover the pass through the structure and send his ball rolling back to him.
“Stupid-fucking-sonuva-- Windmills aren’t even American!” Dean yelled and smacked his putter against the cement bumper.
Six strokes in, he made a decision to short-game it; tapped his ball a couple of inches from the tunnel and spent nearly two minutes counting out the timing on the mill blades. It took him two more tries, but he finally made it through.
“Nice work, Don Quixote,” said Sam.
Dean stared at Sam, upper lip pulling back, eyes narrowing. “What’d you just call me?”
“Nothing.”
Dean pointed his putter at Sam. “I’m gonna Google that when we get back to the motel.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Good luck spelling it.”
Ass. “Myeh-myeh myehmyehmeyh,” Dean mocked. Seriously, though - donkey-whatee?It took him two more strokes to get the ball in the cup on the backside of the windmill.
The fifth hole - Paul Bunyan and his stupid fucking OX - exasperated Dean even more. The one pleasure he was getting from the experience (a ridiculously immature euphemistic vocabulary of stroke, and balls, and club, and in the hole, and lay, and sinking it) made him downright uncomfortable when the cup was centered right between Big Paul's legs. Stupid fucking miniature golf. And who the fuck has an OX for a pet?
He toyed briefly with surrender, but it was a matter of principle now. Then again, he didn’t see himself improving as they went from hole to hole, which meant he was going to lose - and lose BIG - in the end anyway. It became a question of how much (or little) dignity he was going to walk away with.
By the seventh hole, Dean had nothing left but pure mean-spirited retribution. It was desperation time, and hole seven was the giant clown head. Dean started humming the classic circus calliope theme - doot-doot doodle-oodle doot-doot doo do - as soon as Sam got up the nerve to set his ball.
“Shut up.”
“I’m sorry. Am I disrupting your concentration?” God, he hated to lose. And even if he did lose, there was no way he was doing it. He didn’t care anymore that Sam had done it last time. Fuck that. FUCK that. “Dude, didn’t you wet your pants at that school carnival? When the clown almost touched you?”
Sam froze over his ball. “Dean, I swear to God--”
“You were in the fourth grade, dude! Oh, man, that was priceless.”
“Dude,” Sam looked up, face pinched in anger, “Just…back away, okay?”
Dean made an ‘ooh’ and mocked intimidation, backing up a step. “What are you gonna do, Sammy? Pee on me?”
“Dean…”
He continued backing away from his little brother, arms waving in front of him in pseudo-protection. “Oh, no! It’s a clown, Sammy! Look out!”
“Dean!”
It was warning and not reprimand, but Dean read it too late.
He took one more step back, laughing, and his heel landed on the lip of the bumper that ran the length of hole number four. He slipped, stumbled, lost his balance and fell backward across the straightaway.
“Dean!”
He couldn’t stop the momentum; arms and legs flailing wildly. Dean’s right hand caught one blade of the spinning windmill as he went down, his weight momentarily reversing the clock-wise rotation. He landed ass-first with an audible ‘oof’, and his head smacked against the cement bumper. The windmill blade, free from Dean’s grasp, fixed directions like it was on a wound rubber band. Three of four blades crashed against his chin, splitting it like a ripe melon, before Sam could pull him out from under the spinning destruction.
“Dean!”
“I’m okay. I’m just--” Dean groped at Sam’s hands twisted in the front of his t-shirt; tried to keep hold of both his brother and his consciousness. Jesus fucking Jesus…
“Holy shit! Are you-- You’re bleeding everywhere. God, Dean.”
“Hey, Sam?”
“Yeah, man. Right here,” Sam said and then hollered for the attendant.
“Does this mean I don’t have to do it?”
And then everything went black.
*******************************************************************
He woke up the first time still on the course, the tiny woman who’d taken their money standing over him with a handful of golf towels and a commercial ice pack. There were two of her, maybe three - it was hard to focus - and from Dean’s place on the ground she looked like a giant. He rolled over on his side and vomited.
When he woke up next he was in the back seat of the Impala. His head was killing him and his stomach was making another surge to the front. Sonuvabitch. His jaw felt like he’d gone five rounds with Tyson.
“Hey, Sammy?”
“Hey, man. You awake?” Sam called over his shoulder.
“Did I just get clocked by a windmill?”
“Yeah. You did.”
“Okay,” Dean said. “Just checking.”
“You okay?”
“Was there a midget? Who turned into a giant?”
“Uh… I don’t think so.”
“But there was a giant pretzel, right?”
The Impala took a soft right and Dean heard the shuffle of motel parking lot gravel under the tires.
“Yeah. There actually was a giant pretzel.”
The car came to a stop and Sam popped out. Dean tried to sit up on his own, made it about halfway, before the door opened behind him and Sam was helping. Easing him up, sliding him back against the seat, getting his legs swung around so he could push himself out of the car.
Sam hopped back, hovered when Dean steadied himself on the Impala’s roof with a hand, and tried the keep the bloody bundle of towels on his chin with the other.
“You okay?” Sam asked.
Dean waved him off. “Just… Go open the door.”
He allowed Sam to walked him over to his bed when he got in the room, let him help peel off his jacket.
“You took a nasty blow to the back of the head, but your chin got the worst of it. I’m gonna need to do some serious needlework, man.”
Dean nodded, groaned - no fucking nodding - And eased himself back on the bed with Sam’s assistance. “Have at it. Wake me up when you’re done.”
Not that he slept through twenty-seven stitches. Because he was PRETTY FUCKING AWAKE by the time Sam got done.
“Is that it?” he asked through his still clenched jaw after Sam tied off another suture.
“Yeah. That’s it. Man, I can’t remember the last time I did so much sewing on you.”
“Yeah, well…thanks. And you better have done a good job. I don’t want a fuckin’ scar.”
Sam gave him a half smile. “I don’t think that’s really an option.”
“That’s great,” said Dean, holding the gauze Sam was taping against his chin. “Now every time I look in the mirror, I’m gonna think ‘putt-putt’.”
“Sorry, man,” said Sam, gathering up the empty suture packets and bloody gauze pads.
“Hey, Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re gonna do it, right? Since I’m concussed and scarred for life and everything?”
From across the room, Sam rolled his eyes. Exhaled and dropped the garbage in the wastebasket. “Yes, Dean. I’m going to do all our laundry.”
“Good. ‘Cause it hasn’t been done since February. Tacoma.”
“You-- I said-- And then you--“ Sam stalked back over to him, arms out at his side. “You knew all along I did it the last time. You knew it was your turn!”
Dean brought his hand to his forehead, feigned more pain than his numb face was actually allowing. “Sam. The shouting. My head. Not good.”
Sam’s lips pursed and his nostrils flared. He hovered over Dean like a doomed zeppelin. “If I thought for one second that you somehow injured yourself on purpose--”
“Dude. It’s laundry. Get over it.” Dean reached beside him and gathered up the bloody towels and his t-shirt. Tossed them at Sam. “And make sure these get a nice pre-rinse, huh?”