SPN Ficlet: #%@$!
Title: #%@$!
Author: mamapranayama
Genre: gen/humor
Rating: R (lot's and lot's of foul language)
Summary: Sam is cursed. He just hasn't realized it yet.
For the spn_bigpretzel Cursed!week theme and a prompt by mandraco: I hope someone's going with a cursing curse.
#%@$!
Sam’s a prude.
Dean’s known this with absolute certainty for the past 24 years. With the exception of the time his brother took off for Stanford, he's been constantly bitch-faced, eye-rolled, and flat-out grumbled at whenever Dean even so much as thought a swear word.
However, that never really stopped Dean from the constant barrage of foul language he opts for on a regular basis. In fact, he rather enjoys thumbing his nose at Sam’s offended airs and admittedly, half of the time he uses the foulest of language just to piss his little brother off for fun.
As a general rule, Sam avoids cursing, as if that kind of vocabulary is beneath this ginormous intellect. Sure, there are the times when, under duress or in pain, that Sam lets loose a few choice words, but even those times are rather rare. Perhaps that why Sam’s behavior over the last couple of days had Dean’s spidey senses tingling and ‘little brother’s in trouble’ alarm bells ringing between his ears.
It started out so gradually that Dean didn’t even really register it at first. It was just a ‘fuck’ or a ‘shit’ thrown out here or there in situations where Dean wouldn’t have given a second thought about using profanity, like that morning when a truck cut them off on the freeway or when Sam really had to go to the bathroom and found it closed for cleaning … no biggie.
Sam didn’t seem to notice or register the fact that he was swearing more than usual either, so Dean just chucked it off as his brother having a couple of bad days.
That is, until lunch.
Dean had just started tucking in to his double cheeseburger with extra onions when Sam looked down at his salad and murmured a quiet “fuck” under his breath.
“What?” Dean asked, seeing Sam’s eyebrows come together in mild irritation. He didn’t seem overly distraught enough to warrant such an utterance from his normally uptight brother, but the curses kept coming.
“The fuckbrain at the counter forgot my goddamn salad dressing.” Sam replied calmly as if he threw out that kinda language with every sentence on a regular basis.
“Oookay.” Dean came back around a mouthful of burger, “Not that big of a deal, Sam. Just go ask for some.”
“Yeah, I’ll be right fuckin’ back.” Sam sighed then pushed back his chair and casually strolled over to the ordering counter.
Sam stopped at the counter and patiently waited for the paper-hatted kid behind the cash register to notice him. Dean was close enough to see and hear the entire exchange that followed and almost couldn’t believe what his eyes and ears were telling him as it unfolded.
“Uh hi …” Sam started out after clearing his throat to get the pimply teen’s attention.
The kid turned to him and asked, “What can I do for you, sir?”
Sam smiled politely, “I’m afraid you asswipes forgot my goddamned salad dressing and I was just wondering if you could get me a fucking packet of ranch, please.”
The prominent Adam’s apple on the kid bobbed twice up and down as he swallowed nervously and eyed Sam for half a beat."I--I'm sorry?" The kid asked.
"I'd like the fucking ranch dressing ..." Sam reiterated placidly.
“Okay. okay ... sorry, sir." The kid hurriedly turned to the little fridge behind him losing his paper hat in the process. He grabbed about five or six packets of salad dressing, and handed them over to Sam as if he was worried that at any second Sam might jump over the counter and start pummeling his face.
Sam seemed a little mystified by the amount of dressing he was given and the reaction the kid was showing, but he nodded his thanks with a friendly smile, “Thanks, Mother-fucker.”
The kid raised his hands in defense, “Look … I’m sorry about the salad dressing, but there’s no need to be so rude, man. I don’t want any trouble, okay?”
“What?” Sam asked, furrowing his brows and genuinely taken aback over why the kid might have been offended.
Dean took that moment to jump in to his brother’s and the poor kid’s rescue, grabbing Sam’s arm and practically dragging him back to their table.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Dean practically growled as he forced Sam into his chair.
Sam shrugged innocently, “What are you fucking talking about?”
“You … or rather your … potty mouth.” Dean stammered to explain. Didn’t Sam get that talking to people like that just might draw attention to them that they didn’t need? “You can’t go around cussing people out at every turn. The last thing we need is a fist fight in a freakin’ McDonald's.”
Sam’s expression was one of pure and utter confusion, “What the fuck, Dean? All I did was ask for some goddamned salad dressing and that bitchass douchewad was acting like I wanted to cut his fucking nutsack off or something.” He replied evenly, sounding a little annoyed, but without the kind of anger that any rational person would expect given the amount of cursing Sam was letting rip.
Dean stared hard at Sam, incredulously, “Don’t you hear yourself?”
“Of course, I fucking hear myself. How is the fucking shit I’m saying pissing anyone the fuck off?”
“Because you just said 'fuck' like three times in that last question, Sam. Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick... don't you know any other swear words besides 'fuck'? And don’t you think some people might get a little miffed at you when you call them a mother-fucker for absolutely no reason?”
Sam looked mortified, and looked back at the poor red-faced kid behind the counter who was obviously trying very hard to not cry or look in their direction, “I didn’t say that shit. Why would I fucking say that?”
“I dunno, but there’s something seriously wrong with you, dude." Dean pointed out, “You honestly don’t know what you’re saying, do you?”
*******************************************************************
Sam was coming to the realization that maybe there really was something wrong with him. He'd spent most of the day puzzled by people's reactions to him and weird things had been happening to him all day -- people looking at him like he was crazy or frowning in disgust whenever he said anything.
None of it made any sense.
And now Dean was trying to tell him that he was being rude?
But how could Dean, of all people, accuse him of being crass? He was the one that used four-letter profanity like it was going out of style, not Sam.
In his mind, everything he said was perfectly civil and polite, but apparently he was somehow making even Dean blush in embarrassment and Sam couldn’t figure out what his brother’s problem was.
“Okay … I guess we need to do a little experiment here.” Dean pulled out his cell phone and pointed to a young woman sitting at a table across the restaurant from them, “So … tell me what you think of that girl over there, Sam.” He ordered while pressing record on the phone’s video camera.
Sam bristled, but complied with a shrug, “She’s uh … I guess she’s a pretty girl.” He was certain he said.
Dean’s eyebrows rose in shock and his face flushed in embarrassment, “Not so loud, Sam. C’mon … even I would never call a woman that.”
“Call her what? Pretty? A gir--?” Sam believed he asked, truly confused over why Dean was turning so red in the face and cutting him off mid-word.
“Sam -“ Dean hissed, running a hand through his hair before shutting off his phone. The girl across from them looked up as if she had heard them talking about her. Dean gave her a tight, sheepish smile and a little finger wave.
He then stood abruptly, grabbed Sam by the collar and none-too-gently dragged him up from the table and herded him to the parking lot, abandoning their lunch.
“Dean … Jeez.” Sam protested, “What’s going on?”
“This is what’s going on, Sam. Take a listen to yourself.” Dean pressed the play button on his phone. Sam saw himself sitting at the table in the restaurant and heard his own voice come through loud and clear over the speaker.
What he heard made his stomach do a flip flop. Holy … did he really just use that word? No way … he couldn’t have said such profanity! That was probably the worst thing anyone could ever call a woman and he had never used that word before in his life. But the proof was in the recording and Sam was definitely calling that poor girl an offensive name as casually as if stating that the sky was blue.
He looked up at Dean, dumbfounded and mouth agape in disbelief.
“Yep … that’s you.” Dean confirmed, a little smugly, “Someone’s cursed you … with cursing.”
“Fuck.” Sam groaned, knowing full well what he was saying this time around.
The End
Author: mamapranayama
Genre: gen/humor
Rating: R (lot's and lot's of foul language)
Summary: Sam is cursed. He just hasn't realized it yet.
For the spn_bigpretzel Cursed!week theme and a prompt by mandraco: I hope someone's going with a cursing curse.
#%@$!
Sam’s a prude.
Dean’s known this with absolute certainty for the past 24 years. With the exception of the time his brother took off for Stanford, he's been constantly bitch-faced, eye-rolled, and flat-out grumbled at whenever Dean even so much as thought a swear word.
However, that never really stopped Dean from the constant barrage of foul language he opts for on a regular basis. In fact, he rather enjoys thumbing his nose at Sam’s offended airs and admittedly, half of the time he uses the foulest of language just to piss his little brother off for fun.
As a general rule, Sam avoids cursing, as if that kind of vocabulary is beneath this ginormous intellect. Sure, there are the times when, under duress or in pain, that Sam lets loose a few choice words, but even those times are rather rare. Perhaps that why Sam’s behavior over the last couple of days had Dean’s spidey senses tingling and ‘little brother’s in trouble’ alarm bells ringing between his ears.
It started out so gradually that Dean didn’t even really register it at first. It was just a ‘fuck’ or a ‘shit’ thrown out here or there in situations where Dean wouldn’t have given a second thought about using profanity, like that morning when a truck cut them off on the freeway or when Sam really had to go to the bathroom and found it closed for cleaning … no biggie.
Sam didn’t seem to notice or register the fact that he was swearing more than usual either, so Dean just chucked it off as his brother having a couple of bad days.
That is, until lunch.
Dean had just started tucking in to his double cheeseburger with extra onions when Sam looked down at his salad and murmured a quiet “fuck” under his breath.
“What?” Dean asked, seeing Sam’s eyebrows come together in mild irritation. He didn’t seem overly distraught enough to warrant such an utterance from his normally uptight brother, but the curses kept coming.
“The fuckbrain at the counter forgot my goddamn salad dressing.” Sam replied calmly as if he threw out that kinda language with every sentence on a regular basis.
“Oookay.” Dean came back around a mouthful of burger, “Not that big of a deal, Sam. Just go ask for some.”
“Yeah, I’ll be right fuckin’ back.” Sam sighed then pushed back his chair and casually strolled over to the ordering counter.
Sam stopped at the counter and patiently waited for the paper-hatted kid behind the cash register to notice him. Dean was close enough to see and hear the entire exchange that followed and almost couldn’t believe what his eyes and ears were telling him as it unfolded.
“Uh hi …” Sam started out after clearing his throat to get the pimply teen’s attention.
The kid turned to him and asked, “What can I do for you, sir?”
Sam smiled politely, “I’m afraid you asswipes forgot my goddamned salad dressing and I was just wondering if you could get me a fucking packet of ranch, please.”
The prominent Adam’s apple on the kid bobbed twice up and down as he swallowed nervously and eyed Sam for half a beat."I--I'm sorry?" The kid asked.
"I'd like the fucking ranch dressing ..." Sam reiterated placidly.
“Okay. okay ... sorry, sir." The kid hurriedly turned to the little fridge behind him losing his paper hat in the process. He grabbed about five or six packets of salad dressing, and handed them over to Sam as if he was worried that at any second Sam might jump over the counter and start pummeling his face.
Sam seemed a little mystified by the amount of dressing he was given and the reaction the kid was showing, but he nodded his thanks with a friendly smile, “Thanks, Mother-fucker.”
The kid raised his hands in defense, “Look … I’m sorry about the salad dressing, but there’s no need to be so rude, man. I don’t want any trouble, okay?”
“What?” Sam asked, furrowing his brows and genuinely taken aback over why the kid might have been offended.
Dean took that moment to jump in to his brother’s and the poor kid’s rescue, grabbing Sam’s arm and practically dragging him back to their table.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Dean practically growled as he forced Sam into his chair.
Sam shrugged innocently, “What are you fucking talking about?”
“You … or rather your … potty mouth.” Dean stammered to explain. Didn’t Sam get that talking to people like that just might draw attention to them that they didn’t need? “You can’t go around cussing people out at every turn. The last thing we need is a fist fight in a freakin’ McDonald's.”
Sam’s expression was one of pure and utter confusion, “What the fuck, Dean? All I did was ask for some goddamned salad dressing and that bitchass douchewad was acting like I wanted to cut his fucking nutsack off or something.” He replied evenly, sounding a little annoyed, but without the kind of anger that any rational person would expect given the amount of cursing Sam was letting rip.
Dean stared hard at Sam, incredulously, “Don’t you hear yourself?”
“Of course, I fucking hear myself. How is the fucking shit I’m saying pissing anyone the fuck off?”
“Because you just said 'fuck' like three times in that last question, Sam. Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick... don't you know any other swear words besides 'fuck'? And don’t you think some people might get a little miffed at you when you call them a mother-fucker for absolutely no reason?”
Sam looked mortified, and looked back at the poor red-faced kid behind the counter who was obviously trying very hard to not cry or look in their direction, “I didn’t say that shit. Why would I fucking say that?”
“I dunno, but there’s something seriously wrong with you, dude." Dean pointed out, “You honestly don’t know what you’re saying, do you?”
*******************************************************************
Sam was coming to the realization that maybe there really was something wrong with him. He'd spent most of the day puzzled by people's reactions to him and weird things had been happening to him all day -- people looking at him like he was crazy or frowning in disgust whenever he said anything.
None of it made any sense.
And now Dean was trying to tell him that he was being rude?
But how could Dean, of all people, accuse him of being crass? He was the one that used four-letter profanity like it was going out of style, not Sam.
In his mind, everything he said was perfectly civil and polite, but apparently he was somehow making even Dean blush in embarrassment and Sam couldn’t figure out what his brother’s problem was.
“Okay … I guess we need to do a little experiment here.” Dean pulled out his cell phone and pointed to a young woman sitting at a table across the restaurant from them, “So … tell me what you think of that girl over there, Sam.” He ordered while pressing record on the phone’s video camera.
Sam bristled, but complied with a shrug, “She’s uh … I guess she’s a pretty girl.” He was certain he said.
Dean’s eyebrows rose in shock and his face flushed in embarrassment, “Not so loud, Sam. C’mon … even I would never call a woman that.”
“Call her what? Pretty? A gir--?” Sam believed he asked, truly confused over why Dean was turning so red in the face and cutting him off mid-word.
“Sam -“ Dean hissed, running a hand through his hair before shutting off his phone. The girl across from them looked up as if she had heard them talking about her. Dean gave her a tight, sheepish smile and a little finger wave.
He then stood abruptly, grabbed Sam by the collar and none-too-gently dragged him up from the table and herded him to the parking lot, abandoning their lunch.
“Dean … Jeez.” Sam protested, “What’s going on?”
“This is what’s going on, Sam. Take a listen to yourself.” Dean pressed the play button on his phone. Sam saw himself sitting at the table in the restaurant and heard his own voice come through loud and clear over the speaker.
What he heard made his stomach do a flip flop. Holy … did he really just use that word? No way … he couldn’t have said such profanity! That was probably the worst thing anyone could ever call a woman and he had never used that word before in his life. But the proof was in the recording and Sam was definitely calling that poor girl an offensive name as casually as if stating that the sky was blue.
He looked up at Dean, dumbfounded and mouth agape in disbelief.
“Yep … that’s you.” Dean confirmed, a little smugly, “Someone’s cursed you … with cursing.”
“Fuck.” Sam groaned, knowing full well what he was saying this time around.
The End