Fic: Untitled #2
Written for this prompt (There's this AWESOME RIDICULOUS CURSE which is kind of like strip poker, where every time Dean sneezes, an item of clothing disappears off of Sam) over at tarotgal's meme.
Um, no, this is not my hoodie_time fic. If it helps, I hate myself. Ack. What this is, is silly, fluffy gen stuff that contains no spoilers and requires no warnings of any kind. It's just that congenial.
‘For the record,’ says Sam, stepping into the motel room wearing only his boxer shorts, ‘the answer is no. Big no. Proximity is not a factor.’
From the bed, Dean blinks at him apologetically. His red eyes start to water.
‘Oh crap,’ says Sam, grabbing hastily at a cushion.
Dean buries a violent sneeze under the covers.
Sam strategically adjusts the cushion.
--
‘So here’s my question,’ says Sam, glancing up from the laptop, a ponderous expression on his face. ‘When my clothes disappear … where do they go?’
Dean shrugs unhelpfully, tipping his head back as he tries to lick the last drops of purple cough medicine from the bottle.
‘Here’s my question,’ he croaks, ‘what starts disappearing when all your clothes are gone?’
Sam’s eyes go wide and alarmed. ‘That’s not gonna happen. This website is a great resource. It’s not like all those other website with the fake curses and the crazy people.’
Dean strips off one of his layers - a thick, fleecy hoodie - and magnanimously tosses it to Sam.
‘Oh god,’ says Sam.
Deprived of warmth, Dean immediately starts to shiver. His hand strays to his wet mouth. Sam dives at him, tries to pinch his nose.
‘Heh-hhh-KTCH! Hahh--’
Sam’s right shoe vanishes, and then both socks.
--
‘It’s not a toga,’ says Sam defensively, knotting the sheet over his left shoulder. ‘I ran out of jeans.’
--
Dean’s wobbly, the slash on his forearm still dribbling blood. Sam peers at him worriedly over the spell board.
‘Are you going to pass out?’ he asks, wincing as he slices his own arm, borrowed shirt stretching tightly across his shoulders. Jeez, his brother’s puny.
‘Nu-uh,’ whispers Dean, listing heavily. His eyes roll a bit. Sam crushes herbs with speed.
--
‘So, do you think it worked?’
Sam’s wearing a blanket, Dean’s socks, and his last pair of underwear. Okay, yesterday’s underwear. Goddamn witches. He leans forward in his chair, pokes at the lump in the bed. Dean surfaces from the crook of his elbow, glares.
‘I can’t just sneeze on command, y’know,’ he mutters.
Sam grins, slightly manic, and produces a stuffed handful of pepper packets.
‘FYI,’ he says, tearing methodically as Dean stares, ‘I’m no longer allowed at the drive-thru.’
Um, no, this is not my hoodie_time fic. If it helps, I hate myself. Ack. What this is, is silly, fluffy gen stuff that contains no spoilers and requires no warnings of any kind. It's just that congenial.
‘For the record,’ says Sam, stepping into the motel room wearing only his boxer shorts, ‘the answer is no. Big no. Proximity is not a factor.’
From the bed, Dean blinks at him apologetically. His red eyes start to water.
‘Oh crap,’ says Sam, grabbing hastily at a cushion.
Dean buries a violent sneeze under the covers.
Sam strategically adjusts the cushion.
--
‘So here’s my question,’ says Sam, glancing up from the laptop, a ponderous expression on his face. ‘When my clothes disappear … where do they go?’
Dean shrugs unhelpfully, tipping his head back as he tries to lick the last drops of purple cough medicine from the bottle.
‘Here’s my question,’ he croaks, ‘what starts disappearing when all your clothes are gone?’
Sam’s eyes go wide and alarmed. ‘That’s not gonna happen. This website is a great resource. It’s not like all those other website with the fake curses and the crazy people.’
Dean strips off one of his layers - a thick, fleecy hoodie - and magnanimously tosses it to Sam.
‘Oh god,’ says Sam.
Deprived of warmth, Dean immediately starts to shiver. His hand strays to his wet mouth. Sam dives at him, tries to pinch his nose.
‘Heh-hhh-KTCH! Hahh--’
Sam’s right shoe vanishes, and then both socks.
--
‘It’s not a toga,’ says Sam defensively, knotting the sheet over his left shoulder. ‘I ran out of jeans.’
--
Dean’s wobbly, the slash on his forearm still dribbling blood. Sam peers at him worriedly over the spell board.
‘Are you going to pass out?’ he asks, wincing as he slices his own arm, borrowed shirt stretching tightly across his shoulders. Jeez, his brother’s puny.
‘Nu-uh,’ whispers Dean, listing heavily. His eyes roll a bit. Sam crushes herbs with speed.
--
‘So, do you think it worked?’
Sam’s wearing a blanket, Dean’s socks, and his last pair of underwear. Okay, yesterday’s underwear. Goddamn witches. He leans forward in his chair, pokes at the lump in the bed. Dean surfaces from the crook of his elbow, glares.
‘I can’t just sneeze on command, y’know,’ he mutters.
Sam grins, slightly manic, and produces a stuffed handful of pepper packets.
‘FYI,’ he says, tearing methodically as Dean stares, ‘I’m no longer allowed at the drive-thru.’