I'll Kill You, Honeymuffin
Title: I'll Kill You, Honeymuffin
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: Fiction. The characters Sam and Dean Winchester belong to the CW and Eric Kripke.
Warnings: Copious amounts of pet names.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Sam is cursed into addressing Dean by pet names. Lots and lots of embarrassing pet names, such as Pookie and Snookums.
Word count: 1 150
Author's notes: The first in about five or so little interconnected, cracky, cursed!boys one-shots! Hope you enjoy! *g* Sorry for the insane amount of petnames! And thanks to my beloved tygers who I shamelessly stole a scene idea for this from and who I also talked too much about it to! :D
“Morning, baby.”
“What the fuck did you just call me?”
-
Sometimes Dean hated their lives. And not just their lives, life itself. For it was a cruel, heartless bitch that never gave up until they were dead. She loved to pick on them the best. Dean knew that he and Sam were bad people-Sam more so than himself, clearly - but they didn’t deserve half the shit that was dished out to them on a regular basis.
“Jesus Christ, let me out of the fucking bathroom, Kitten!”
Sometimes when Dean was angry enough he saw flashing lights. And right now? They were pulsing brightly in his vision. “No way, motherfucker!” he yelled at the closed, blocked bathroom door and stroked his shotgun, “not until you let my goddamn brother go!”
He was fairly sure it was a spirit possessing Sam, but the bitch was he wasn’t one hundred percent sure, so he’d just shoved the bastard into the bathroom for the time being.
“Cupcake! It’s me! It’s fucking Sam-let me the hell out!”
“You’re not Sam!” replied Dean, putting the shotgun down beside him. “Sam wouldn’t call me - he wouldn’t call me all that shit because he knows what’s fucking good for him!”
“Honey-goddamnit, sweetie-goddamnit! I can’t not, Sugar! It’s me.”
Dean considered Possessed Sam’s words. “Okay,” he called back, “tell me something only Sam’d know.”
He heard a loud huff from inside the bathroom. “You made out with a guy in drag!”
Heat burned across Dean’s face. “That was one time, fucker! And he totally looked like a chick, alright?”
“I don’t care about your excuses, just let me the fuck out, Princess!”
-
Sam and Dean were on opposite sides of the small table. The glow of the laptop reflected in Sam’s eyes as he clicked through it. They’d been sitting in the same position for the last three hours or so; Dean making sure Sam wasn’t going to jump him, and Sam carefully ignoring Dean’s gaze.
“My ass hurts,” said Dean. “I’m bored.”
Ten minutes later, Sam huffed and shut his laptop. “Fuck this. I can’t find anything, Beautiful.”
Dean’s cheeks burned. “Don’t call me that,” he hissed, fingering the knife at his belt.
“I told you,” growled Sam, “I can’t do anything about it, Pookie!”
“Well, you better find something or I’ll end up murdering you.”
Sam sighed and didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, good idea. Just say nothing.”
-
You know, it wasn’t just life that fucked them up-bad luck followed them wherever they went. And if bad luck was ever personified, it’d be that crazy ex-girlfriend that somehow keeps getting the number you keep changing because she’s fucking your friend and he’s an asshole.
Not that Dean’s talking from experience or anything. Just that if bad luck were a human it’d be a needy, crazy, stalker ex-girlfriend.
Who’s a brunette. Kinda hot. Nice rack.
Her name’d be Stacy, too. Naturally.
Okay, so maybe Dean’s talking from experience.
Didn’t change the fact Sam had somehow mind-melded with her and found her vocabulary for Dean, which consisted of the thousand or so cute (though that was questionable) nicknames she’d insisted on calling him. He thought if he were ever with a dude it’d be different-none of that bullshit, just fucking.
Actually, the worst he’d ever been called with a guy was a Studmuffin.
“We gotta figure this out, Sweetums.”
Dean closed his eyes and counted to three to calm himself down. “Good to know you got your priorities straight, College Boy. You so smart.”
“Fuck you, sweetheart.”
Dean laughed. “And you, dear.”
“It’s not like I can even stop addressing you when I talk, Honeymuffin, I can’t not do it. Fucking sucks.”
Dean breathed in deeply. “Maybe we should call Bobby.”
“Okay. You do it, Snookums.”
-
“What did Bobby say, Blossom?”
“Before or after the half hour fit of laughing?”
Sam sighed, putting his head on his arms. “Maybe I should just keep talking to you until I run out of pet names, Angel-face.”
Inhale, exhale. Repeat. “Bobby said it shouldn’t last more than twenty-four hours.”
“Okay, Sugar Pie.”
“I don’t care how pathetic you look, keep talking to me and I will kick your ass.”
“I can’t fucking help it, Tootsies.”
-
“Change the channel, Bambi.”
-
Sam hissed as Dean pressed the cold ice pack to his eye. "You do know that I can't - ah, ouch - fucking help it, right, Peach?"
Dean winced. "Yeah, sweetheart, I didn't mean it. I'm sorry." Sam raised an eyebrow, waiting for - "Oh, what the fuck! Now look what you're making me say, bastard!"
"Aw, Huggy Bear," said Sam, grinning.
-
They tried sex, but not even Dean could keep it up with the amount of shit tumbling from Sam’s lips. So, in the end they’d resigned to going to bed early and hopefully waking up to find Sam back to normal.
Sam stroked his brother's shoulder, before lightly wrapping his arm around Dean's waist. "Good night, my sweet little sugar lump."
Dean sat up abruptly and twisted around to glare at him. "Okay, this is just too weird," he said, standing up and grabbing his pillow off the bed, "we can share a bed when you’ve stopped being so creepy."
"It's not my choice, Snuggles!" whined Sam, reaching out to pull Dean back into bed.
Dean could feel himself blushing at that - a pink tinge blossoming across his cheeks. "Don't call me Snuggles, fucker!"
"I told you I can't help it, Munchkin!"
"That's it. I'm on the bed, you're on the floor. I'm calling sick. Therefore, I get the bed to myself."
"What? What are you sick with, Sunshine!?"
"I have a headache due to mental scarring."
"That's not a real sickness! Bed privileges are only available when you're actually sick, Cupcake! You don’t wanna sleep with me? Take the floor."
"I really don't like the idea of you... uh, above me. When you're like this."
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, Snugglebug!"
“... No. That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard.”
-
Sam got nightmares and dreams sometimes - they both did - but Dean so did not need to wake up to hear Sam uttering every nickname he had for Dean under the freakin’ sun in his sleep.
It took copious amounts of self-control not to grab the knife from under his pillow.
-
“Morning, Dean.”
Dean’s opened his eyes, blinking. “Wha-”
“Fuck yes!” cried Sam from below him. Dean saw him jump up in his peripheral vision. “I love you, bastard, jerk, fucker, motherfucker, douchebag, asshole, cunt, whore, fucktard, Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean. Deeean!”
Dean rubbed his forehead and rolled over to look at his brother. “Aw, Sammy, you’re making a grown man blush.”
“Jesus,” said Sam, falling onto the bed. “I’m so glad that’s over.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Dean, “you’ve given me ammo for the next hundred years or so.”
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: Fiction. The characters Sam and Dean Winchester belong to the CW and Eric Kripke.
Warnings: Copious amounts of pet names.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Sam is cursed into addressing Dean by pet names. Lots and lots of embarrassing pet names, such as Pookie and Snookums.
Word count: 1 150
Author's notes: The first in about five or so little interconnected, cracky, cursed!boys one-shots! Hope you enjoy! *g* Sorry for the insane amount of petnames! And thanks to my beloved tygers who I shamelessly stole a scene idea for this from and who I also talked too much about it to! :D
“Morning, baby.”
“What the fuck did you just call me?”
-
Sometimes Dean hated their lives. And not just their lives, life itself. For it was a cruel, heartless bitch that never gave up until they were dead. She loved to pick on them the best. Dean knew that he and Sam were bad people-Sam more so than himself, clearly - but they didn’t deserve half the shit that was dished out to them on a regular basis.
“Jesus Christ, let me out of the fucking bathroom, Kitten!”
Sometimes when Dean was angry enough he saw flashing lights. And right now? They were pulsing brightly in his vision. “No way, motherfucker!” he yelled at the closed, blocked bathroom door and stroked his shotgun, “not until you let my goddamn brother go!”
He was fairly sure it was a spirit possessing Sam, but the bitch was he wasn’t one hundred percent sure, so he’d just shoved the bastard into the bathroom for the time being.
“Cupcake! It’s me! It’s fucking Sam-let me the hell out!”
“You’re not Sam!” replied Dean, putting the shotgun down beside him. “Sam wouldn’t call me - he wouldn’t call me all that shit because he knows what’s fucking good for him!”
“Honey-goddamnit, sweetie-goddamnit! I can’t not, Sugar! It’s me.”
Dean considered Possessed Sam’s words. “Okay,” he called back, “tell me something only Sam’d know.”
He heard a loud huff from inside the bathroom. “You made out with a guy in drag!”
Heat burned across Dean’s face. “That was one time, fucker! And he totally looked like a chick, alright?”
“I don’t care about your excuses, just let me the fuck out, Princess!”
-
Sam and Dean were on opposite sides of the small table. The glow of the laptop reflected in Sam’s eyes as he clicked through it. They’d been sitting in the same position for the last three hours or so; Dean making sure Sam wasn’t going to jump him, and Sam carefully ignoring Dean’s gaze.
“My ass hurts,” said Dean. “I’m bored.”
Ten minutes later, Sam huffed and shut his laptop. “Fuck this. I can’t find anything, Beautiful.”
Dean’s cheeks burned. “Don’t call me that,” he hissed, fingering the knife at his belt.
“I told you,” growled Sam, “I can’t do anything about it, Pookie!”
“Well, you better find something or I’ll end up murdering you.”
Sam sighed and didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, good idea. Just say nothing.”
-
You know, it wasn’t just life that fucked them up-bad luck followed them wherever they went. And if bad luck was ever personified, it’d be that crazy ex-girlfriend that somehow keeps getting the number you keep changing because she’s fucking your friend and he’s an asshole.
Not that Dean’s talking from experience or anything. Just that if bad luck were a human it’d be a needy, crazy, stalker ex-girlfriend.
Who’s a brunette. Kinda hot. Nice rack.
Her name’d be Stacy, too. Naturally.
Okay, so maybe Dean’s talking from experience.
Didn’t change the fact Sam had somehow mind-melded with her and found her vocabulary for Dean, which consisted of the thousand or so cute (though that was questionable) nicknames she’d insisted on calling him. He thought if he were ever with a dude it’d be different-none of that bullshit, just fucking.
Actually, the worst he’d ever been called with a guy was a Studmuffin.
“We gotta figure this out, Sweetums.”
Dean closed his eyes and counted to three to calm himself down. “Good to know you got your priorities straight, College Boy. You so smart.”
“Fuck you, sweetheart.”
Dean laughed. “And you, dear.”
“It’s not like I can even stop addressing you when I talk, Honeymuffin, I can’t not do it. Fucking sucks.”
Dean breathed in deeply. “Maybe we should call Bobby.”
“Okay. You do it, Snookums.”
-
“What did Bobby say, Blossom?”
“Before or after the half hour fit of laughing?”
Sam sighed, putting his head on his arms. “Maybe I should just keep talking to you until I run out of pet names, Angel-face.”
Inhale, exhale. Repeat. “Bobby said it shouldn’t last more than twenty-four hours.”
“Okay, Sugar Pie.”
“I don’t care how pathetic you look, keep talking to me and I will kick your ass.”
“I can’t fucking help it, Tootsies.”
-
“Change the channel, Bambi.”
-
Sam hissed as Dean pressed the cold ice pack to his eye. "You do know that I can't - ah, ouch - fucking help it, right, Peach?"
Dean winced. "Yeah, sweetheart, I didn't mean it. I'm sorry." Sam raised an eyebrow, waiting for - "Oh, what the fuck! Now look what you're making me say, bastard!"
"Aw, Huggy Bear," said Sam, grinning.
-
They tried sex, but not even Dean could keep it up with the amount of shit tumbling from Sam’s lips. So, in the end they’d resigned to going to bed early and hopefully waking up to find Sam back to normal.
Sam stroked his brother's shoulder, before lightly wrapping his arm around Dean's waist. "Good night, my sweet little sugar lump."
Dean sat up abruptly and twisted around to glare at him. "Okay, this is just too weird," he said, standing up and grabbing his pillow off the bed, "we can share a bed when you’ve stopped being so creepy."
"It's not my choice, Snuggles!" whined Sam, reaching out to pull Dean back into bed.
Dean could feel himself blushing at that - a pink tinge blossoming across his cheeks. "Don't call me Snuggles, fucker!"
"I told you I can't help it, Munchkin!"
"That's it. I'm on the bed, you're on the floor. I'm calling sick. Therefore, I get the bed to myself."
"What? What are you sick with, Sunshine!?"
"I have a headache due to mental scarring."
"That's not a real sickness! Bed privileges are only available when you're actually sick, Cupcake! You don’t wanna sleep with me? Take the floor."
"I really don't like the idea of you... uh, above me. When you're like this."
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, Snugglebug!"
“... No. That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard.”
-
Sam got nightmares and dreams sometimes - they both did - but Dean so did not need to wake up to hear Sam uttering every nickname he had for Dean under the freakin’ sun in his sleep.
It took copious amounts of self-control not to grab the knife from under his pillow.
-
“Morning, Dean.”
Dean’s opened his eyes, blinking. “Wha-”
“Fuck yes!” cried Sam from below him. Dean saw him jump up in his peripheral vision. “I love you, bastard, jerk, fucker, motherfucker, douchebag, asshole, cunt, whore, fucktard, Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean. Deeean!”
Dean rubbed his forehead and rolled over to look at his brother. “Aw, Sammy, you’re making a grown man blush.”
“Jesus,” said Sam, falling onto the bed. “I’m so glad that’s over.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Dean, “you’ve given me ammo for the next hundred years or so.”