FIC: Has No/Needs No - 1/1 (Complete)
Title: Has No/Needs No
Author:
kimonkey7
Pairing: None. Sam, Dean (gen)
Rating: Probably R - for cursing and lack of general pants
Disclaimer: Not mine, damn it.
Summary: Awkward.
A/N: Um...This little ficlet was written as a gift!fic for a friend. The one who invented the NDQ (Naked Dean Quotient) and uses words with me like pantslessness and sans pants and depantsification. So, you know, it might appeal to other people, too. Thanks for the beta,
hiyacynth. You're a dollface. OMG! Thank you,
fuesch for the icons!!! HEEE!
ETA: The Fangirl state of Deannopantsever now has its own license plate, thanks to
fueschwho CLEARLY has too much time on her hands and too much nopants in her brain. *SQUEES*
Has No/Needs No
“Hey, you with me?”
Stop tappin’ my goddamned cheek, Sam. “Yeah…yeah…” Christ. Oh, that’s not good.
“You all right? And, are you aware your pants are gone?”
“What?” What the--? “What are you-- What?” My PANTS?
“Dude, where are your pants?”
Sonuva BITCH. My pants are gone. Where the fuck are my pants? “Huh.”
“Dude, seriously. When we split up, you had pants. What the hell did you do with your pants? Because I’m not carrying you back to the car like that.”
What did I do with my pa-- “When have you ever had to carry me to the car?” Fuck. Ow. Head. No yelling.
“That time in Louisville. And once in Jacksonville. Nashville, Dean? The Banshee?”
“All right, all right! I get the picture.” Jesus. OW, my fuckin’ head.
“You know, you really oughtta steer clear of ‘villes’ altogether.”
Oh, that’s…that’s freakin’ hilarious, Sammy.
“Why did you take your pants off?”
“I didn’t take my pants off!” Ow. “It musta been the ghost.”
“The ghost.”
Why would a ghost take my pants off?
“Why would a ghost take your pants off, Dean? And stop trying to sit up. Your head’s split like a melon.”
“I don’t know why a ghost would take my pants off, Sam. And get your giant hands off me!” Mutant FREAK!
“Dude, your pupils are two different sizes.”
“Jesus! Stop touchin’ my fuckin’ face, Sam! It hurts!” OW! Bad. Yelling BAD. Ow.
“Fine. But, just…Sit there. Don’t move.”
Like I’m going anywhere with this fuckin’ WORKER BEE vision. Shit. “Where are you goin’?”
“I’m gonna go look for your pants, Dean.”
"At least it didn't take my boots..." And how the fuck did it manage THAT?
"Yeah, you in boots and no pants? Not a prettier picture. And what’s up with you going commando, anyway, man? That’s, you know…That’s not very hygienic.”
Oh, ferchrissa-“Go look for my pants, you freak. And if you’da done my laundry back in Grand Island, like I asked you to, I wouldn’t have had to go commando the last three days!” Fucking OW!
“Just…stay there, okay?”
“Fine.” Staying. Good dog. Jesus. Stupid, freaking, pants-stealing GHOST. Hope you enjoy hell. “’Cause I know that’s where you gotta be!”
“What?”
“Nothing!”
“I can’t hear you over here. And I’m not seeing your pants anywhere, either.”
Christ. “Just-Just forget the pants, Sam, okay? Can we just go? Ghost: dead. Dean: hurt. Motel. Anyuh that sound good to you? ‘Cause it sounds great to me.”
“Fine.”
“What?” Oh, man, ow, ow, ow!
“I said, ‘fine’. But I’m not carrying you to the car.”
“I’m not askin’ ya to.” Jackass.
“Good.”
Fine. “Good.”
“’Cause I’m not.”
“Fine! Ow!” Jesus! “And stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“All, ‘Dean’s hurt, again. And his pants are missing, again.’” Oh, there it is. There’s the FACE…
“Just get up.”
“I’m gettin’ up. Jesus. Just…gimme some space. No pants here, dude.” Holy shi--. Hello, tilt-a-whirl.
“Jesus, Dean!”
“Hands, dude!”
“You can’t even stand!”
“Stop yelling!” OW.
“Would you just let me help you?”
What the--? “Let you help me? You were the one who was all obsessed with me not havin’ any pants.”
“It’s weird, okay? It’s weird to find your big brother unconscious, under a tree, pantsless. That’s not normal, Dean.”
Heh. Should be by now. “You wanna help me?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Then gimme your jacket.”
“What? Why?”
Jesus. “‘Cause I’m not hikin’ a mile and a half back to the car all kibbles and bits!”
“No! No way!”
“I’m not bein’ funny. Gimme your jacket, Sam.”
“No! Why does it have to be mine? Use your own jacket.”
Idiot. “Are you kiddin’ me? You want me to package the goods in leather? And then sweat for half an hour?”
“Dude, this is my favorite hoodie.”
Hoodie? “Hoodie, Sam?”
“Yes, Dean. It has a hood. It’s called a hoodie.”
“If you’re a girl, it is.” ‘S a fucking HOODED SWEATSHIRT. Jesus. “Just give it.”
“No way. This is my favorite hoodie…”
“So?” Oh, yeah. There it is again. The bitchface.
“So, there’s not enough Tide with Bleach in the world.”
Ow. “Ow.”
“Hey, I don’t know where that thing’s been. I don’t even think you know all the places it’s been.”
“Dude. That’s harsh. I’m STD-free.”
“Did you hear that from a doctor, Dean? Or while you were playing doctor?”
Wow. “You know what? Forget it. I’m good.”
“You’re not good.”
Thank you, master of the double entendre. “Whatever.”
“Dude. Come on, just let me--”
Oh, shi--!
“Oh, shit!”
Oh, God. Oh, Go--! Oh, fuck…
“Jesus, Dean!”
Oh, man. Those tacos weren’t even good the FIRST time around.
“Dude, you’re definitely concussed.”
“Ya think?” HATE pukin’. God…
“Here.”
Oh, NOW you give it to me. “Nevermind.”
“Dean, just take the fucking jacket.”
Heh. “Hoodie.”
“Whatever.”
Christ, this is freakin’ ridiculous… “Thanks.”
“Just…wrap it around front. Like an apron.”
“Then my ass is still hangin’ out.”
“Yeah, but your…jiggly bits are covered.”
Aw, Sammy… “Yeah, my ass is pretty firm. No jigglin’ there.”
“Jesus…”
“What? You sayin’ it’s not?”
“I’m not saying anything about your ass.”
“Damn straight.”
“All right. You good, now?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
Man, this sucks. “You know what would be great right now? One of those ‘Star Trek’ transporter things…” Here to the Impala, instantly.
“Know what else would be great? Pants.”
“Yeah. Pants are awesome.”
End
Author:
kimonkey7
Pairing: None. Sam, Dean (gen)
Rating: Probably R - for cursing and lack of general pants
Disclaimer: Not mine, damn it.
Summary: Awkward.
A/N: Um...This little ficlet was written as a gift!fic for a friend. The one who invented the NDQ (Naked Dean Quotient) and uses words with me like pantslessness and sans pants and depantsification. So, you know, it might appeal to other people, too. Thanks for the beta,
hiyacynth. You're a dollface. OMG! Thank you,
fuesch for the icons!!! HEEE!
ETA: The Fangirl state of Deannopantsever now has its own license plate, thanks to
fueschwho CLEARLY has too much time on her hands and too much nopants in her brain. *SQUEES*
Has No/Needs No
“Hey, you with me?”
Stop tappin’ my goddamned cheek, Sam. “Yeah…yeah…” Christ. Oh, that’s not good.
“You all right? And, are you aware your pants are gone?”
“What?” What the--? “What are you-- What?” My PANTS?
“Dude, where are your pants?”
Sonuva BITCH. My pants are gone. Where the fuck are my pants? “Huh.”
“Dude, seriously. When we split up, you had pants. What the hell did you do with your pants? Because I’m not carrying you back to the car like that.”
What did I do with my pa-- “When have you ever had to carry me to the car?” Fuck. Ow. Head. No yelling.
“That time in Louisville. And once in Jacksonville. Nashville, Dean? The Banshee?”
“All right, all right! I get the picture.” Jesus. OW, my fuckin’ head.
“You know, you really oughtta steer clear of ‘villes’ altogether.”
Oh, that’s…that’s freakin’ hilarious, Sammy.
“Why did you take your pants off?”
“I didn’t take my pants off!” Ow. “It musta been the ghost.”
“The ghost.”
Why would a ghost take my pants off?
“Why would a ghost take your pants off, Dean? And stop trying to sit up. Your head’s split like a melon.”
“I don’t know why a ghost would take my pants off, Sam. And get your giant hands off me!” Mutant FREAK!
“Dude, your pupils are two different sizes.”
“Jesus! Stop touchin’ my fuckin’ face, Sam! It hurts!” OW! Bad. Yelling BAD. Ow.
“Fine. But, just…Sit there. Don’t move.”
Like I’m going anywhere with this fuckin’ WORKER BEE vision. Shit. “Where are you goin’?”
“I’m gonna go look for your pants, Dean.”
"At least it didn't take my boots..." And how the fuck did it manage THAT?
"Yeah, you in boots and no pants? Not a prettier picture. And what’s up with you going commando, anyway, man? That’s, you know…That’s not very hygienic.”
Oh, ferchrissa-“Go look for my pants, you freak. And if you’da done my laundry back in Grand Island, like I asked you to, I wouldn’t have had to go commando the last three days!” Fucking OW!
“Just…stay there, okay?”
“Fine.” Staying. Good dog. Jesus. Stupid, freaking, pants-stealing GHOST. Hope you enjoy hell. “’Cause I know that’s where you gotta be!”
“What?”
“Nothing!”
“I can’t hear you over here. And I’m not seeing your pants anywhere, either.”
Christ. “Just-Just forget the pants, Sam, okay? Can we just go? Ghost: dead. Dean: hurt. Motel. Anyuh that sound good to you? ‘Cause it sounds great to me.”
“Fine.”
“What?” Oh, man, ow, ow, ow!
“I said, ‘fine’. But I’m not carrying you to the car.”
“I’m not askin’ ya to.” Jackass.
“Good.”
Fine. “Good.”
“’Cause I’m not.”
“Fine! Ow!” Jesus! “And stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“All, ‘Dean’s hurt, again. And his pants are missing, again.’” Oh, there it is. There’s the FACE…
“Just get up.”
“I’m gettin’ up. Jesus. Just…gimme some space. No pants here, dude.” Holy shi--. Hello, tilt-a-whirl.
“Jesus, Dean!”
“Hands, dude!”
“You can’t even stand!”
“Stop yelling!” OW.
“Would you just let me help you?”
What the--? “Let you help me? You were the one who was all obsessed with me not havin’ any pants.”
“It’s weird, okay? It’s weird to find your big brother unconscious, under a tree, pantsless. That’s not normal, Dean.”
Heh. Should be by now. “You wanna help me?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“Then gimme your jacket.”
“What? Why?”
Jesus. “‘Cause I’m not hikin’ a mile and a half back to the car all kibbles and bits!”
“No! No way!”
“I’m not bein’ funny. Gimme your jacket, Sam.”
“No! Why does it have to be mine? Use your own jacket.”
Idiot. “Are you kiddin’ me? You want me to package the goods in leather? And then sweat for half an hour?”
“Dude, this is my favorite hoodie.”
Hoodie? “Hoodie, Sam?”
“Yes, Dean. It has a hood. It’s called a hoodie.”
“If you’re a girl, it is.” ‘S a fucking HOODED SWEATSHIRT. Jesus. “Just give it.”
“No way. This is my favorite hoodie…”
“So?” Oh, yeah. There it is again. The bitchface.
“So, there’s not enough Tide with Bleach in the world.”
Ow. “Ow.”
“Hey, I don’t know where that thing’s been. I don’t even think you know all the places it’s been.”
“Dude. That’s harsh. I’m STD-free.”
“Did you hear that from a doctor, Dean? Or while you were playing doctor?”
Wow. “You know what? Forget it. I’m good.”
“You’re not good.”
Thank you, master of the double entendre. “Whatever.”
“Dude. Come on, just let me--”
Oh, shi--!
“Oh, shit!”
Oh, God. Oh, Go--! Oh, fuck…
“Jesus, Dean!”
Oh, man. Those tacos weren’t even good the FIRST time around.
“Dude, you’re definitely concussed.”
“Ya think?” HATE pukin’. God…
“Here.”
Oh, NOW you give it to me. “Nevermind.”
“Dean, just take the fucking jacket.”
Heh. “Hoodie.”
“Whatever.”
Christ, this is freakin’ ridiculous… “Thanks.”
“Just…wrap it around front. Like an apron.”
“Then my ass is still hangin’ out.”
“Yeah, but your…jiggly bits are covered.”
Aw, Sammy… “Yeah, my ass is pretty firm. No jigglin’ there.”
“Jesus…”
“What? You sayin’ it’s not?”
“I’m not saying anything about your ass.”
“Damn straight.”
“All right. You good, now?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
Man, this sucks. “You know what would be great right now? One of those ‘Star Trek’ transporter things…” Here to the Impala, instantly.
“Know what else would be great? Pants.”
“Yeah. Pants are awesome.”
End