Stuck
Title: Stuck
Rating: PG
Genre: H/C, Humor, UST
Beta: cosmo_naught (amazing, amazing beta reader!)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~520
Summary: Dean’s tongue attaches itself to a Sno-Cone.
A/N: For this prompt at hoodie_time.
kalliel: Dean gets his tongue stuck on an ice cube. Or a sno cone, or an iceblock or you know, whatever. :P
Stuck
“Oh, by Goth.” Dean’s eyes widen in alarm. “Oh, by Goth, Thabby.” Dean straightens up from where he’s leaning against the Impala and clenches the red Sno-Cone in his hand. “Helb.”
Sam doesn't look up; stares at his own bright blue Sno-Cone with an unreadable expression on his face, turns it around in his hands. “Sno-Cones, Dean? Maybe you really are five.”
“Thab,” Dean groans. He tries pulling the cone off with a sharp yank. No luck; his tongue’s happy where it is. “Thabby, helb me.”
Sam ignores him and continues examining his Sno-Cone. “Raspberry Blue,” he says with a facial shrug. “I like Tiger’s Blood better. And Silver Fox; that’s a good one. Oh, and Sour Grape’s not bad either.”
Dean snorts, despite his current situation. Figures.
Sam freezes. “Not that I digest Sno-Cones on a regular basis and have memorized the list of all the flavors or anything,” he says quickly. He glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye.
He does a double take when he sees Dean’s tongue pressed against the red cone, flat and unmoving and slightly pornographic. “Uh…”
“Eggthactly,” Dean says, panic flooding his voice. He removes his hands and the cone dangles precariously from the tip of his tongue. “Issh stuckh!”
Dean frantically gestures to his mouth. “Geth ith offh, Thab!” The cone bobs around as Dean speaks, as his mouth struggles to form the words correctly.
Sam makes a choked-off noise and nearly drops his cone. “Oh, my God,” he squeaks.
“Yesh, oh, by Goth,” Dean repeats. “Now, fubbin’ geth ith offh me.”
Sam doesn’t move to help; just readjusts his grip and watches.
“Thab, go geb me some hoth wather,” Dean says. “Frum a diner or subbthing.”
Sam carries on gaping at him.
“Cub on, dude. I can’th go in loohkin’ like this.” Dean tugs on his cone experimentally. It's not coming off anytime soon.
Sam makes another weird sound, and the paper cone makes a crumpling noise in his hand. Blue liquid is starting to drip and roll over his fingers.
“Thabby! I needth helb!”
“Uh.” Sam’s gaze flickers up for a moment. “Um, just wait it out...it’ll melt eventually.”
“Whath?! Fubb you! My thung wibb fallb off by then, assbhole.”
Dean flails his arms around wildly when he realizes Sam’s back to not paying attention. “Thab! Thabby!”
Sam tracks the motions of the Sno-Cone and Dean’s mouth, wide-eyed and wistful. The shaved ice in Sam’s hand cries electric-blue tears of self-pity.
“It hurths, Thab!” Dean glares at his brother and wraps his fingers around his Sno-Cone to ease the weight his tongue’s been carrying. “Why arth you juss stadding there?”
“Oh, um...” Sam’s cheeks flush and he rubs the back of his neck, mumbling, “Oh, uh, right. Sorry, I’ll-uh...I’ll go...um...you know. Yeah.” He spins around quickly and heads in the direction of the café across the street and past the Sno-Cone truck, blue ice melting all over his fist.
Dean grins around a mouthful of Sno-Cone when he catches the reddened tips of Sam’s ears as his brother ducks into the Starbucks . His tongue doesn’t appreciate the movement and decides to make its opinion known.
“Ow, Goth. Son of a biftth.”