SPN: S&S: Ecstatic
Challenge word: Ecstatic
Meaning: Jubilant, overjoyed, bursting with pleasure.
Word Count: 496
Time Frame: Anywhere. I see it late Season 2, but meh, whenever you want it.
Warnings/Spoilers: Potty-mouthed Dean is back. Apparently, he's not too happy.
Figured since the last one was Wincest, and not every enjoys that, I'd toss in this one too, as a consolation prize. May be a little OC for Sam, but that's why I see it season 2, when he's not worried about Dean's deal, or anything else that Kripke dumped into their laps.
It didn't take much to make Dean happy. He was a simple man, had simple pleasures. A thick hearty burger, dripping with extra onions; a hefty slab of steak, cooked rare enough a good vet could still resuscitate it; a cold brew, especially if given with a nice view of cleavage.
Even simpler, a long stretch of black highway, a full tank of gas, classic rock twisting through the air, and not another car in sight, on the way to a quick and easy case.
When all the above met up together, Dean was an ecstatic man. Well, should be, Sam mused idly. To be fair, he had warned Dean to get the burger well-done, rather than rare. The joint just didn't look that healthy. It sorta looked like his brother did now, hunched over and groaning in the passenger seat. Who knew onions burned when they came back up a few hours later? Anyway, when the wind blew just right, he could still catch a whiff of the beer he'd had dumped over him, soaking almost instantly into the dry leather.
Again, Sam had warned him, the waitress had been eyeing the bartender's ass all night. Though, the bartender did look great in that pink miniskirt. Still… he couldn't say he was surprised when a leer and a flirt wound up with the local microbrew all over his brother.
Dean groaned again, and Sam cocked a brow at him. "Want me to turn down the music?" He had dug through the glove box earlier, looking for his sunglasses, muttering about the sun and paint jobs and glares, but Sam was pretty sure they were back in Illinois. Maybe Indiana?
"How 'bout you just shoot me?" The words were low and snarled, almost guttural, and Sam laughed, strumming his fingers along the Impala's door as he air-guitared to the music.
"Maybe next time someone suggests not ordering food that's not been cooked, you'll listen? Or are you enjoying that lovely food poisoning over there?" He wasn't overly worried; Aside from puking all night, Dean was doing good, the headache and lingering aching ribs seeming to be the worst of it.
"How about you fuck off and die."
"Aww, now, you don't mean that! See, I was thinking of stopping in the next town, getting a nice big thermos of hot, strong as hell coffee, maybe a few little painkillers, and setting you up in the backseat to sleep off the rest of it."
A green eye cracked open and appraised the younger Winchester. "Why?"
A smirk. "Because I'm an awesome little brother?" Dean gave a snort, but it was laced with affection rather than derision, and he curled back into himself, groaning as the Impala flirted with a rough patch of the road.
As it turns out, sometimes, it just takes the quiet wind blowing through the window, a blanket draped over curled shoulders, and a hearty dose of pain killers to make Dean ecstatic.
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