Fic: The Orangery (SPN, Sam/Dean, PG-13)
The Orangery: L'Orangerie: A Glass House of Emotions
Author: Obraham Linbama (Alas, my Arch Nemesis and my Only Love!)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Spoilers: S4
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John Winchester is the best father ever. Dean Winchester never cries. Sam knows how to make an awesome screwdriver. I am never sarcastic.
Warning: Oranges. Tears. Surprise hurt/comforting comfort.
Word Count: 761
Author's Notes: Written for the Vanilla Meme, wherein you should go have a good time for I have heard a good time can be had by all. This fic offends my writer-blocked spirit and yet I wrote it.
*
Their outstretched hands nearly shook with joy at the proffered offering, the first and only gift Sam could recall given in the spirit of generosity, and for Dean, the first since the fire. He felt a tear stinging his eye but would not let it fall. He could not allow the bearer of their good fortune see the glistening shimmer, oh yes, the shameful evidence that he was unworthy.
Winchesters don't cry. It was a trait Dean swore to uphold.
Truly John Winchester was the greatest father ever. As he dropped the gift in their waiting hands, Sam was enraptured by the smell of sour beer and stale grease and a scent uniquely all his own.
The burlap sack was heavy and itched Dean's delicate skin terribly. (Unspoken between Sam and Dean: the can of shaving cream for sensitive skin he hid in his duffel bag. They kept many secrets from their father, for they knew he wouldn't understand...Dean's sensitive skin, that is.)
"I'm leaving on a hunt now," John said, adjusting the baseball cap he liked to wear for very special hunts that they were expressively forbidden to join. "You two play nice. And by play, I mean, run your laps around the motel and practice your aim."
"Yes, sir," Sam said, hoping to distract John because Dean had shoved his hands in his pockets to hide the angry red marks blistering his manly yet attractive hands.
"Oh and don't you two get it in your heads to clear out that poltergeist harassing the Sullivan's greenhouse. I'll get to it when I'm good and ready."
"After you get back from your hunt that'll take you far away from us," Dean readily agreed. "Then we'll meet up at the greenhouse and kick some green giant ghost ass."
"Actually I think it's called an orangery."
John gave Sam one of his loving, paternal looks that made his boys' testicles skeedaddle right back into their bodies. "You're my second least favorite child."
Dean knew he'd have to break his promise that he wouldn't cry. It won't count if it happened in the bathroom, though. That was Dean's special alone time. Unless he had a shower buddy. Not that he frequently had a shower buddy.
Sam knew that their precious present would be snatched away so he quickly untied the multiple knots holding the sack shut. He carefully took one of the bright spheres away from its fellow brothers and sisters. He was so shocked he couldn't muster the words to properly convey the deserved gratefulness so John left without another word.
"We have a sack of oranges," Sam said.
"Maybe Dad's protecting us against scurvy. Don't question Dad's orders, Sammy!"
"Relax, Dean," Sam said as he watched the black truck speed off down the highway, "Dad can't hear us."
"Oh." Dean contemplated that for several moments.
He contemplated it as he examined his poor hand; the burlap had caused significant damage to his manly yet vulnerable skin. He contemplated how Sam had gotten real good as putting lotion on him all over and how it would be real nice to have Sam's hands wander all over his body, mindful of a few key areas.
He sat there for a good while as Sam juiced the oranges, the better to have screwdrivers later. Then Sam took a shower. He was blow-drying his hair when Dean finally spoke up.
"Hey , Sammy?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry for snapping at you." The tear that had quivered so patiently on his bottom eyelid finally spilled over and Dean hid the offending track of water away from Sam's view. "I'm a man, Sam. I have a lot of a feelings."
"I know, Dean," Sam whispered in his extremely mature sixteen-is-legal-in-many-states voice, the deep vibrations warmly beckoning to Dean's groin-region. "I know."
Sam put down the blow-dryer and sat beside Dean on the bed. He did not hug Dean for that was not the Winchester thing to do.
A blowjob, after vigorous application of the special lotion on Dean's poor, horrifically mangled hands, would have to suffice.
"Oh, Sam," Dean sighed into Sam's mouth as they kissed, the taste of Dean's semen possesing a sharp, citrus-y note, almost orange in a way. "That was better than the time Dad left us in a shopping mall to fight against a hoard of zombies."
"Those weren't zombies."
"It would have been awesome if they were zombies." Dean frowned, then. "Do you think the oranges are supposed to teach us a lesson?"
"Yes. And the lesson is shut up and kiss me."
end
Story notes: John Winchester is not Lucille Bluth but if he was, he would so use the "you're my [insert numeral] least favorite child" line used on Arrested Development.
Ooh and while I'm here (as in, on your internets, annoying you with fic that you don't want to read):
The "You Should Write..." Meme!
my thread here
Author: Obraham Linbama (Alas, my Arch Nemesis and my Only Love!)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Spoilers: S4
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John Winchester is the best father ever. Dean Winchester never cries. Sam knows how to make an awesome screwdriver. I am never sarcastic.
Warning: Oranges. Tears. Surprise hurt/comforting comfort.
Word Count: 761
Author's Notes: Written for the Vanilla Meme, wherein you should go have a good time for I have heard a good time can be had by all. This fic offends my writer-blocked spirit and yet I wrote it.
*
Their outstretched hands nearly shook with joy at the proffered offering, the first and only gift Sam could recall given in the spirit of generosity, and for Dean, the first since the fire. He felt a tear stinging his eye but would not let it fall. He could not allow the bearer of their good fortune see the glistening shimmer, oh yes, the shameful evidence that he was unworthy.
Winchesters don't cry. It was a trait Dean swore to uphold.
Truly John Winchester was the greatest father ever. As he dropped the gift in their waiting hands, Sam was enraptured by the smell of sour beer and stale grease and a scent uniquely all his own.
The burlap sack was heavy and itched Dean's delicate skin terribly. (Unspoken between Sam and Dean: the can of shaving cream for sensitive skin he hid in his duffel bag. They kept many secrets from their father, for they knew he wouldn't understand...Dean's sensitive skin, that is.)
"I'm leaving on a hunt now," John said, adjusting the baseball cap he liked to wear for very special hunts that they were expressively forbidden to join. "You two play nice. And by play, I mean, run your laps around the motel and practice your aim."
"Yes, sir," Sam said, hoping to distract John because Dean had shoved his hands in his pockets to hide the angry red marks blistering his manly yet attractive hands.
"Oh and don't you two get it in your heads to clear out that poltergeist harassing the Sullivan's greenhouse. I'll get to it when I'm good and ready."
"After you get back from your hunt that'll take you far away from us," Dean readily agreed. "Then we'll meet up at the greenhouse and kick some green giant ghost ass."
"Actually I think it's called an orangery."
John gave Sam one of his loving, paternal looks that made his boys' testicles skeedaddle right back into their bodies. "You're my second least favorite child."
Dean knew he'd have to break his promise that he wouldn't cry. It won't count if it happened in the bathroom, though. That was Dean's special alone time. Unless he had a shower buddy. Not that he frequently had a shower buddy.
Sam knew that their precious present would be snatched away so he quickly untied the multiple knots holding the sack shut. He carefully took one of the bright spheres away from its fellow brothers and sisters. He was so shocked he couldn't muster the words to properly convey the deserved gratefulness so John left without another word.
"We have a sack of oranges," Sam said.
"Maybe Dad's protecting us against scurvy. Don't question Dad's orders, Sammy!"
"Relax, Dean," Sam said as he watched the black truck speed off down the highway, "Dad can't hear us."
"Oh." Dean contemplated that for several moments.
He contemplated it as he examined his poor hand; the burlap had caused significant damage to his manly yet vulnerable skin. He contemplated how Sam had gotten real good as putting lotion on him all over and how it would be real nice to have Sam's hands wander all over his body, mindful of a few key areas.
He sat there for a good while as Sam juiced the oranges, the better to have screwdrivers later. Then Sam took a shower. He was blow-drying his hair when Dean finally spoke up.
"Hey , Sammy?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry for snapping at you." The tear that had quivered so patiently on his bottom eyelid finally spilled over and Dean hid the offending track of water away from Sam's view. "I'm a man, Sam. I have a lot of a feelings."
"I know, Dean," Sam whispered in his extremely mature sixteen-is-legal-in-many-states voice, the deep vibrations warmly beckoning to Dean's groin-region. "I know."
Sam put down the blow-dryer and sat beside Dean on the bed. He did not hug Dean for that was not the Winchester thing to do.
A blowjob, after vigorous application of the special lotion on Dean's poor, horrifically mangled hands, would have to suffice.
"Oh, Sam," Dean sighed into Sam's mouth as they kissed, the taste of Dean's semen possesing a sharp, citrus-y note, almost orange in a way. "That was better than the time Dad left us in a shopping mall to fight against a hoard of zombies."
"Those weren't zombies."
"It would have been awesome if they were zombies." Dean frowned, then. "Do you think the oranges are supposed to teach us a lesson?"
"Yes. And the lesson is shut up and kiss me."
end
Story notes: John Winchester is not Lucille Bluth but if he was, he would so use the "you're my [insert numeral] least favorite child" line used on Arrested Development.
Ooh and while I'm here (as in, on your internets, annoying you with fic that you don't want to read):
The "You Should Write..." Meme!
my thread here