And the Fields Were Green
Title: And the Fields Were Green
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2000
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: S1 boys getting drunk and debating who Dad was harder on when they were growing up.
Written for the Holiday Fic Exchange on spn_spankings. Fill for 'Humiliation' and 'Secret Identity Discovered' on my hc_bingo card.
The jukebox is blasting in the background, the heavy beat melting with the colors of the room until Sam can't tell which is which. He can't pick out any lyrics or much of a melodie, but he isn't sure what's to blame for that, the quality of the music or the ever growing mess of glasses and bottles on their table.
Dean nods his head to the beat, arranges his fingers into devil's horns with more effort than usual, his lips moving along with whatever lyrics he can remember and that settles it for Sam. The music sucks and Sam couldn't make out a single trace of melody, even if he were sober.
He isn't really sure when he stumbled across the bridge from pleasantly buzzed to barely managing to stay upright in his booth, but he knows it's Dean's fault.
And the shots. Maybe the gazillion shots Sam poured down his own throat are slightly more to blame than his head-banging brother.
Slightly yellowish, creamy, disgustingly sweet shots that Dean claimed were girly and weak sauce and perfect for getting the two drunk co-eds just that much drunker, so they could take them back to the motel room with them. It seemed like a great plan at the time, though now that he's thinking about it, Sam isn't sure about how that would have worked. Logistically.
Sam's grip on time has been a little touch and go tonight and for a second he wonders if maybe he dreamed up the girls in one of the greyish splotches of memory when he was busy leaning against the wall, very definitely not throwing up, but then he remembers that this is a college bar and Dean is with him and the universe demands there be glassy-eyed sorority chicks throwing themselves at them.
Sam really liked one of them too, which makes him doubly sad that she's gone. The short one with the Wilco shirt and the huge blue eyes who probably had a name and a very fascinating major that Sam can't begin to remember for the life of him.
I never rubbed one out with AC/DC basting in the background, she said with that evil, sexy, awesome grin and Dean glared and gaped and reluctantly knocked back his fourth shot. Sam is really, really missing her warm, soft body, pressed into his side.
"You suck," he slurs sullenly, pointing an accusatory finger at one of the Deans on the other side of the table.
It's Dean's fault Wilco Girl and her friend are gone. Dean's fault for deciding to be a dick and effectively excluding her and her friend from their game.
"You totally, totally suck."
Sam misses Stanford, when drinking games were fun and safe and not a single one of his friends could use the antics of his five-year-old self against him.
I never got my ass handed to me for coloring in Dad's journal is so not the cool thing to say when you know you're forcing your mortified brother to admit to doing just that in front of this girl he's trying to get in bed. Also not okay? I never got stuck in a tree in a parking lot and had to cry for help or I never glued my sneakers to my feet 'cause I was worried they might fall off. Absolutely not okay.
Granted, Sam did his best to give as good as he got, but sometimes it really, really sucks, having every memory of your big brother distorted by what Sam begrudgingly admits might be a mild case of hero worship and I never got paddled by the principal for getting naked with a girl in the library - while making Dean drink - doesn't even exist on the same level of embarrassing as Dean's stories.
"I never lost Dad's best machete in some dirty swamp," Dean is saying now, voice barely audible over the music, mouth pulled into that huge, self-satisfied grin that makes Sam want to stomp his feet (in a very grown up, manly kind of way). "And I never drove cross country just so Dad could beat my ass for it."
Sam's fingers automatically go for the next shot glass before the words fully make their way through his clouded mind. The hunt, yesterday, the swamp, the machete in Sam's hand and then suddenly gone.
"What the...Dad's not gonna..." he waves his free hand around in a wild circle, almost knocks over their bowl of peanuts "'m twenty-one."
Dean chuckles out a bark of a laugh before his face suddenly disappears from Sam's line of vision. Sam is confused for a second before he finally looks down, sees Dean with his chin resting on his folded arms, grinning up at him with a smile that's almost predatory.
"'n you know that counts for shit with Dad, so drink."
"NO!"
That might have been a bit louder than Sam intended. The burly guy with the trucker hat in the booth next over stops whatever it is he's doing to look up and glare at him. Sam waves.
"No," he repeats, quieter this time and Dean's grin grows wider as he pushes the glass close to Sam.
"Yes."
"Dude," Sam hisses, that same old blush creeping up his face.
"Sammy's gonna get a spanking," Dean singsongs and Sam feels his mouth pull down in an automatic pout.
It takes all he has to keep from shooting back an indignant 'am not', cheeks and ears tingling with embarrassment.
"Wa'nt my fault," he hisses instead, which might not be the most mature answer in the world, but it sure as hell beats the alternative.
Dean makes a weird kind of grunting sound and pushes himself back upright, his legs sliding forward under the table and kicking against Sam's boots. "Wasn't my fault either, 'n I'm sure as hell not gonna stick my ass out for you again, Sammy-pie."
"Sammy-pie?" Sam repeats. He's almost sure that's not one of Dean's standard nicknames. He's still trying to figure that one out when his brain catches up on the first part of what Dean said. "Again? Whaddoyou mean again?"
Dean grins, he grins, even though his lips are wrapped around a fresh bottle of beer that Sam doesn't remember appearing in his hand.
"You did not take the rap for me that often," Sam huffs. His jaw hurts. It makes a funny little crack when he forces his chin back up.
"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean nods, voice deep and solemn and Sam wants to throw something in that stupid, smug face of his. Dean's hand lands on his arm, patting clumsily. "No grudges. I forgive you."
"You...forgive me?"
Tap-tappidi-tap. Sam can't stop staring at the hand on his arm.
"Yup," Dean smacks his lips together and Sam's eyes shoot up to meet Dean's. "Old man was wailing on you all the time, had to save your ability to sit once in a while. And now drink."
Sam eyes the shot glass in front of him, pushes it all the way across the table until it knocks into Dean's beer. "Per'ectli'ldaddy'sboycouln'te'engeddisownspanikings," he mutters darkly under his breath, shaking off the hand with a quick twist.
"What's that?"
"I said - "
"I heard what you said."
"Well, then don't ask." Sam's voice suddenly breaks high and he knows Dean is trying hard to come up with a suitable teenage girl joke. "Thief..."
"What..?" Dean looks like he's caught somewhere between a cough and a laugh. "Dude, I did not need to steal your whuppin's."
Sam seriously doubts that.
He has trouble remembering back to a week Dad wasn't at least threatening to put him over his knee and Dean is clearly enough of a perv to envy him the special quality time with the old man.
"Did too," he mumbles. The peanut he tosses at Dean's nose goes way too high and Sam ducks when it hits the burly guy with the mean stare in the neck. "Stupid, goodie-two-shoes...scaredy..." Sam gives up and points his finger at Dean, which probably gets the point across just as well.
"I messed up plenty on my own, thank you very much," Dean smirks and it almost looks like he's trying not to giggle. "An' stop hiding behind the table, dude didn't even turn around."
Oh. Sam hooks his fingers around the edge of the table to pull himself back upright. He ends up using too much force and almost catapults himself out of the booth, barely catches himself before he'd have been heading for a broken nose. It takes him a moment to realize Dean is still talking.
"'Sides," he's saying, spinning his bottle between his hands, almost, but not quite knocking it over. "I got default win, anyway."
Win? Sam isn't sure what Dean is trying to win exactly, but Dean can't win, but it's not a option.
"You just said Dad was wailing on me all the time. How does that not mean I win?"
"Oh, puh-lease. He'd whack you a couple times and stop as soon as you started screamin' your head off. Bet he never took a switch to you."
Right. Sam reaches across the table to snatch the beer out of Dean's slack grip and takes a quick sip.
"Dad never took a switch to you either."
Dean catches the corner of his lower lip between his teeth in that way he only does when he's hustling some poor bar fly out of his money. "Remember the wendigo scar?" He shoots Sam a long look from under his lashes before he starts pulling empty shot glasses towards his side of the table, scanning them for left overs.
Sam nods. Of course he remembers the wendigo scar. Neat, silvery line that wraps all the way across the back of Dean's right leg. He remembers sitting in the freezing car, sick with worry for his brother and father, reading up on Navajo legends until they finally emerged from the trees, Dean limping, Dad red in the face, hands shaking all the way back to the motel. Sam never even asked what went wrong.
Dean slaps his palm down on his right leg, throwing his head back with a satisfied grin.
"Default win."
It's like Sam's mouth can't decide if it wants to grin or frown and there is a small, sharp twitch, high in his stomach that makes him feel vaguely sick in a way that's not entirely due to the alcohol.
Then Dean burps, loud and obnoxious and a thick wave of alcohol and greasy fries hits Sam square in the face. "Du-de," he whines, drops his head onto the wet table to hide the giggles he can't quite fight back.
"You can't do that," he declares, once he's pulled himself together enough tp picked his head up off the sticky table. "You can't jus' decide that quali...qua-li-ty trumps quanni...quan..." He closes his eyes, slams his hand down on the table in frustration four times in quick succession before he gives up. "You can't jus' do that."
"Sure I can, I'm the oldest."
"So?"
"So I got it harder, I win."
"You suck." Sam feels like he might have said that already. Well, screw it, Dean sucks can be the theme of the night for all he cares. "Dad beat me plenty hard."
"Sure he did."
"He did."
"You keep tellin' yourself that, princess."
"You suck..."
Sam kicks his leg under the table, feels his boot make contact with something, but he's not sure if it's Dean's shin or the table. He kicks it again, just to make sure.
"If you say so, kiddo."
Sam glares at the glasses on Dean's side of the table. There's a lot of them, even assuming Sam might be seeing two or three for every real one. It's not fair how Dean seems almost sober when Sam is having trouble staying in his seat.
"Dude, stop pouting."
Sam's head snaps up so fast the shapes behind Dean's head blur and leak together into a slightly nauseating mess of color and sound.
"'m not pouting."
The response is automatic, as is Dean's hearty laugh, loud and coated with alcohol in a way that Sam finds it hard to not join. He sucks his lips between his teeth, tries to keep up his withering stare. The result hurts his face.
"Pouty McPouterson."
"I'm - "
Sam kicks out his boot again and this time he gets a surprised yelp from Dean, so that's definitely the jerk's leg he hit. Serves him right.
"That hurt," Dean whines, reaching under the table to massage his aching leg.
An idea sparks up and Sam grins wide before he kicks again and Dean shoots up in his seat, clutching his hand to his chest.
"Lis'n up, buddy," he barks in his best Dad impression, all growly and and sharp and Sam can't help but giggle. "Those whuppin's you think I stole from you? We can go right back to the motel room and I'll give 'em back."
Dean's almost shouting by the time he finishes and when Sam looks around, several people are staring at them. Sam considers doing the waving and smiling thing again, but Dean cuts him off before he can so much as raise his hand.
"He's my kid brother, I can take my belt to him whenever I want."
"That's not true."
"Totally true."
"De-ean!"
It's probably a good thing that's when the waitress shows up, what with Dean looking all mean and serious-like and like he's about to bend Sam over the table and prove his point right there.
"You guys've probably had enough for tonight," she tells them in that soothing, practiced tone they always use on D&D customers. Sam isn't sure if it's working on him. Kinda makes him want to throw peanuts at her, so probably not.
"Yeah, yeah, we're goin'," Dean grumbles, throws a couple of bills onto the table and Sam thinks it might be way too much or way too little for their tab, but he doesn't know which, so he doesn't point it out.
An arm wraps itself around his back, hooking under his armpit and Sam automatically throws his own arm over Dean's shoulder as they try to navigate the journey through the crowded bar.
"Better not take the 'pala," Sam shouts over the jukebox that's sprung to life again.
Dean nods emphatically and pats Sam's chest. "Old man would have both our hides for that one," he shouts back and Sam laughs, lets his head loll until it's resting on Dean's shoulder.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2000
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: S1 boys getting drunk and debating who Dad was harder on when they were growing up.
Written for the Holiday Fic Exchange on spn_spankings. Fill for 'Humiliation' and 'Secret Identity Discovered' on my hc_bingo card.
The jukebox is blasting in the background, the heavy beat melting with the colors of the room until Sam can't tell which is which. He can't pick out any lyrics or much of a melodie, but he isn't sure what's to blame for that, the quality of the music or the ever growing mess of glasses and bottles on their table.
Dean nods his head to the beat, arranges his fingers into devil's horns with more effort than usual, his lips moving along with whatever lyrics he can remember and that settles it for Sam. The music sucks and Sam couldn't make out a single trace of melody, even if he were sober.
He isn't really sure when he stumbled across the bridge from pleasantly buzzed to barely managing to stay upright in his booth, but he knows it's Dean's fault.
And the shots. Maybe the gazillion shots Sam poured down his own throat are slightly more to blame than his head-banging brother.
Slightly yellowish, creamy, disgustingly sweet shots that Dean claimed were girly and weak sauce and perfect for getting the two drunk co-eds just that much drunker, so they could take them back to the motel room with them. It seemed like a great plan at the time, though now that he's thinking about it, Sam isn't sure about how that would have worked. Logistically.
Sam's grip on time has been a little touch and go tonight and for a second he wonders if maybe he dreamed up the girls in one of the greyish splotches of memory when he was busy leaning against the wall, very definitely not throwing up, but then he remembers that this is a college bar and Dean is with him and the universe demands there be glassy-eyed sorority chicks throwing themselves at them.
Sam really liked one of them too, which makes him doubly sad that she's gone. The short one with the Wilco shirt and the huge blue eyes who probably had a name and a very fascinating major that Sam can't begin to remember for the life of him.
I never rubbed one out with AC/DC basting in the background, she said with that evil, sexy, awesome grin and Dean glared and gaped and reluctantly knocked back his fourth shot. Sam is really, really missing her warm, soft body, pressed into his side.
"You suck," he slurs sullenly, pointing an accusatory finger at one of the Deans on the other side of the table.
It's Dean's fault Wilco Girl and her friend are gone. Dean's fault for deciding to be a dick and effectively excluding her and her friend from their game.
"You totally, totally suck."
Sam misses Stanford, when drinking games were fun and safe and not a single one of his friends could use the antics of his five-year-old self against him.
I never got my ass handed to me for coloring in Dad's journal is so not the cool thing to say when you know you're forcing your mortified brother to admit to doing just that in front of this girl he's trying to get in bed. Also not okay? I never got stuck in a tree in a parking lot and had to cry for help or I never glued my sneakers to my feet 'cause I was worried they might fall off. Absolutely not okay.
Granted, Sam did his best to give as good as he got, but sometimes it really, really sucks, having every memory of your big brother distorted by what Sam begrudgingly admits might be a mild case of hero worship and I never got paddled by the principal for getting naked with a girl in the library - while making Dean drink - doesn't even exist on the same level of embarrassing as Dean's stories.
"I never lost Dad's best machete in some dirty swamp," Dean is saying now, voice barely audible over the music, mouth pulled into that huge, self-satisfied grin that makes Sam want to stomp his feet (in a very grown up, manly kind of way). "And I never drove cross country just so Dad could beat my ass for it."
Sam's fingers automatically go for the next shot glass before the words fully make their way through his clouded mind. The hunt, yesterday, the swamp, the machete in Sam's hand and then suddenly gone.
"What the...Dad's not gonna..." he waves his free hand around in a wild circle, almost knocks over their bowl of peanuts "'m twenty-one."
Dean chuckles out a bark of a laugh before his face suddenly disappears from Sam's line of vision. Sam is confused for a second before he finally looks down, sees Dean with his chin resting on his folded arms, grinning up at him with a smile that's almost predatory.
"'n you know that counts for shit with Dad, so drink."
"NO!"
That might have been a bit louder than Sam intended. The burly guy with the trucker hat in the booth next over stops whatever it is he's doing to look up and glare at him. Sam waves.
"No," he repeats, quieter this time and Dean's grin grows wider as he pushes the glass close to Sam.
"Yes."
"Dude," Sam hisses, that same old blush creeping up his face.
"Sammy's gonna get a spanking," Dean singsongs and Sam feels his mouth pull down in an automatic pout.
It takes all he has to keep from shooting back an indignant 'am not', cheeks and ears tingling with embarrassment.
"Wa'nt my fault," he hisses instead, which might not be the most mature answer in the world, but it sure as hell beats the alternative.
Dean makes a weird kind of grunting sound and pushes himself back upright, his legs sliding forward under the table and kicking against Sam's boots. "Wasn't my fault either, 'n I'm sure as hell not gonna stick my ass out for you again, Sammy-pie."
"Sammy-pie?" Sam repeats. He's almost sure that's not one of Dean's standard nicknames. He's still trying to figure that one out when his brain catches up on the first part of what Dean said. "Again? Whaddoyou mean again?"
Dean grins, he grins, even though his lips are wrapped around a fresh bottle of beer that Sam doesn't remember appearing in his hand.
"You did not take the rap for me that often," Sam huffs. His jaw hurts. It makes a funny little crack when he forces his chin back up.
"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean nods, voice deep and solemn and Sam wants to throw something in that stupid, smug face of his. Dean's hand lands on his arm, patting clumsily. "No grudges. I forgive you."
"You...forgive me?"
Tap-tappidi-tap. Sam can't stop staring at the hand on his arm.
"Yup," Dean smacks his lips together and Sam's eyes shoot up to meet Dean's. "Old man was wailing on you all the time, had to save your ability to sit once in a while. And now drink."
Sam eyes the shot glass in front of him, pushes it all the way across the table until it knocks into Dean's beer. "Per'ectli'ldaddy'sboycouln'te'engeddisownspanikings," he mutters darkly under his breath, shaking off the hand with a quick twist.
"What's that?"
"I said - "
"I heard what you said."
"Well, then don't ask." Sam's voice suddenly breaks high and he knows Dean is trying hard to come up with a suitable teenage girl joke. "Thief..."
"What..?" Dean looks like he's caught somewhere between a cough and a laugh. "Dude, I did not need to steal your whuppin's."
Sam seriously doubts that.
He has trouble remembering back to a week Dad wasn't at least threatening to put him over his knee and Dean is clearly enough of a perv to envy him the special quality time with the old man.
"Did too," he mumbles. The peanut he tosses at Dean's nose goes way too high and Sam ducks when it hits the burly guy with the mean stare in the neck. "Stupid, goodie-two-shoes...scaredy..." Sam gives up and points his finger at Dean, which probably gets the point across just as well.
"I messed up plenty on my own, thank you very much," Dean smirks and it almost looks like he's trying not to giggle. "An' stop hiding behind the table, dude didn't even turn around."
Oh. Sam hooks his fingers around the edge of the table to pull himself back upright. He ends up using too much force and almost catapults himself out of the booth, barely catches himself before he'd have been heading for a broken nose. It takes him a moment to realize Dean is still talking.
"'Sides," he's saying, spinning his bottle between his hands, almost, but not quite knocking it over. "I got default win, anyway."
Win? Sam isn't sure what Dean is trying to win exactly, but Dean can't win, but it's not a option.
"You just said Dad was wailing on me all the time. How does that not mean I win?"
"Oh, puh-lease. He'd whack you a couple times and stop as soon as you started screamin' your head off. Bet he never took a switch to you."
Right. Sam reaches across the table to snatch the beer out of Dean's slack grip and takes a quick sip.
"Dad never took a switch to you either."
Dean catches the corner of his lower lip between his teeth in that way he only does when he's hustling some poor bar fly out of his money. "Remember the wendigo scar?" He shoots Sam a long look from under his lashes before he starts pulling empty shot glasses towards his side of the table, scanning them for left overs.
Sam nods. Of course he remembers the wendigo scar. Neat, silvery line that wraps all the way across the back of Dean's right leg. He remembers sitting in the freezing car, sick with worry for his brother and father, reading up on Navajo legends until they finally emerged from the trees, Dean limping, Dad red in the face, hands shaking all the way back to the motel. Sam never even asked what went wrong.
Dean slaps his palm down on his right leg, throwing his head back with a satisfied grin.
"Default win."
It's like Sam's mouth can't decide if it wants to grin or frown and there is a small, sharp twitch, high in his stomach that makes him feel vaguely sick in a way that's not entirely due to the alcohol.
Then Dean burps, loud and obnoxious and a thick wave of alcohol and greasy fries hits Sam square in the face. "Du-de," he whines, drops his head onto the wet table to hide the giggles he can't quite fight back.
"You can't do that," he declares, once he's pulled himself together enough tp picked his head up off the sticky table. "You can't jus' decide that quali...qua-li-ty trumps quanni...quan..." He closes his eyes, slams his hand down on the table in frustration four times in quick succession before he gives up. "You can't jus' do that."
"Sure I can, I'm the oldest."
"So?"
"So I got it harder, I win."
"You suck." Sam feels like he might have said that already. Well, screw it, Dean sucks can be the theme of the night for all he cares. "Dad beat me plenty hard."
"Sure he did."
"He did."
"You keep tellin' yourself that, princess."
"You suck..."
Sam kicks his leg under the table, feels his boot make contact with something, but he's not sure if it's Dean's shin or the table. He kicks it again, just to make sure.
"If you say so, kiddo."
Sam glares at the glasses on Dean's side of the table. There's a lot of them, even assuming Sam might be seeing two or three for every real one. It's not fair how Dean seems almost sober when Sam is having trouble staying in his seat.
"Dude, stop pouting."
Sam's head snaps up so fast the shapes behind Dean's head blur and leak together into a slightly nauseating mess of color and sound.
"'m not pouting."
The response is automatic, as is Dean's hearty laugh, loud and coated with alcohol in a way that Sam finds it hard to not join. He sucks his lips between his teeth, tries to keep up his withering stare. The result hurts his face.
"Pouty McPouterson."
"I'm - "
Sam kicks out his boot again and this time he gets a surprised yelp from Dean, so that's definitely the jerk's leg he hit. Serves him right.
"That hurt," Dean whines, reaching under the table to massage his aching leg.
An idea sparks up and Sam grins wide before he kicks again and Dean shoots up in his seat, clutching his hand to his chest.
"Lis'n up, buddy," he barks in his best Dad impression, all growly and and sharp and Sam can't help but giggle. "Those whuppin's you think I stole from you? We can go right back to the motel room and I'll give 'em back."
Dean's almost shouting by the time he finishes and when Sam looks around, several people are staring at them. Sam considers doing the waving and smiling thing again, but Dean cuts him off before he can so much as raise his hand.
"He's my kid brother, I can take my belt to him whenever I want."
"That's not true."
"Totally true."
"De-ean!"
It's probably a good thing that's when the waitress shows up, what with Dean looking all mean and serious-like and like he's about to bend Sam over the table and prove his point right there.
"You guys've probably had enough for tonight," she tells them in that soothing, practiced tone they always use on D&D customers. Sam isn't sure if it's working on him. Kinda makes him want to throw peanuts at her, so probably not.
"Yeah, yeah, we're goin'," Dean grumbles, throws a couple of bills onto the table and Sam thinks it might be way too much or way too little for their tab, but he doesn't know which, so he doesn't point it out.
An arm wraps itself around his back, hooking under his armpit and Sam automatically throws his own arm over Dean's shoulder as they try to navigate the journey through the crowded bar.
"Better not take the 'pala," Sam shouts over the jukebox that's sprung to life again.
Dean nods emphatically and pats Sam's chest. "Old man would have both our hides for that one," he shouts back and Sam laughs, lets his head loll until it's resting on Dean's shoulder.