New SPN Fic: Games of Chance (Wincest)
God, I am very nervous. I haven't written fic in FIVE YEARS and I got the nerve up to write a short little something. Be gentle, I am a virgin to writing Supernatural fic.
Title: Games of Chance
Author: Big Mama G
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1800
Warning: Wincest
Disclaimer: I own nothing and will most likely continue in this vein for some time.
Summary: The boys play Yahtzee and Dean discovers a lot of new things.
Notes: This was originally written for a souviner challenge at spnflashfic, and I still might if it's okay to post something nearly DOUBLE the word count limit. This is my first SPN fic and the first one after five years of fic-writer's block. *retreats under her desk to wait it all out*
It had started in Waco. The case had been seriously retarded. The fugly daughter of a toy store owner had summoned a demon to get revenge on classmates who were mean to her like she was some kind of new age Carrie. Sam had been tying up the girl in her daddy’s toy store when Dean slid on a pile of board games, tokens of an upended shelf. He crouched down and examined the colorful array, his eyes resting on one of them, a familiar red box.
“Hey Sam,” he called over his shoulder, picking up the box and smiling. “Remember playing Yahtzee?”
Straightening and holding an injured arm, Sam glared. “You are such a child.”
“Bet you still can’t play worth a shit.”
“Let’s go before the cops get here.”
Dean took the game, a small fee for their services.
*
Sam was a pain in the ass that night. Dean had left him in a god-awful motel room decorated with iron cowboys and circles of lasso rope pinned to the walls. He then traveled six miles to an out-of-the-way shack which called itself a liquor store and bought a six-pack, cherry vodka and Fighting Cock whiskey, which the owner promised to be one of the strongest whiskeys he’ll have ever tasted. Well, what he actually said was, “That there Fightin’ Cock whiskey’ll grow a few patches of hair on yor balls”, but Dean didn‘t speak Tabbacoese.
When he got back, Sam was busy glaring at a wall, possibly annoyed that it would not move for him. Dean set the brown paper sack on a table and remembered that they didn’t have shot glasses. Or regular glasses, for that matter. He had lost his flask four states ago to a grabby succubus that Sam had bludgeoned over and over with a meat cleaver. Sam was kind of scary, sometimes.
Like right now. He wasn’t saying anything, just glaring at the wall and Dean didn’t even bother trying to talk to the guy. Instead, he went over to where he had stashed the Yahtzee game and began to unpack its contents on the bed. Sam heard the plastic being opened and he swiveled around and Dean saw that his arm was now in a sling. Now it was Dean being glared at. Fuck that.
“Wanna play Yahtzee?” he asked lightly, attempting a small, nervous laugh. Sam didn’t smile or change expressions, but something in his shoulders loosened.
“I doubt that you bought enough alcohol to tempt me into playing.”
Dean got up and pulled a beer from the plastic yoke, recalling that you were supposed to break each ring so that a seagull or some shit wouldn’t get caught. Let the bastards choke. He held it out to Sam.
“Might not have, but down a few of these and we’ll see.”
*
Two boards later and Dean was kicking Sam’s ass all over them. The guy had absolutely no luck. When Sam muttered about stupid cursed life and motherfucking demons everywhere, Dean shut him up by pouring whiskey into a pink plastic cup they had found in a cabinet. The whiskey tasted like shit, but it burned a hot path down to Dean’s belly and made his face flush like it was his first time drinking. By the time Sam was completely drunk, Dean was pleasantly loopy and they had lost two of the dice.
Sam moved a finger back and forth in front of his eyes, cliché of drunkenness made manifest. “I feel like a complete drunk when I drink whiskey from anything but a shot glass.”
Dean had a stroke of inspiration and filled the Yahtzee shaker with whiskey. Sam laughed, tipping over onto one side, saying ‘ow’ between laughs because he was resting on his hurt arm. Dean, knowing that Sam would fall asleep on that arm if let to his own hazy devices, crawled over and straightened him.
He was still holding Sam’s shoulders. Sam blinked at him. “You’re always watching out for me, Dean. I‘m gonna... I’m gonna watch over you now, won’t let some fucking bitch with red eyes take you away. Will watch. Watch you.” Sam’s voice lowered an octave and Dean was late in recalling that Sam was a Rambling Drunk. Thanks. Thank you… Dean pushed Sam away. Sam tilted to his other side and was asleep within seconds.
*
The next morning Sam had a hang over. Dean whistled happily to himself and helpfully reminded Sam of that corpse they had dug up in Wichita. Sam sacrificed to the toilet gods and Dean hunted for the missing dice.
Dice found, Dean stuffed the Yahtzee game beside Sam’s knife collection. He brought it out to play whenever Sam started glaring at walls or the sky or useless research books.
The day Sam told him of The Plan, Dean screamed at him until he was hoarse because that bitch had lied to him, lied to him about having demon blood and now he was going to do some crazy fucking shit like try to make a deal himself and Dean couldn’t be there.
“If I go, you drop dead and if I don‘t go you might be dead anyway. The whole god damned point of me saving your ass is that it stays saved. You’re not doing it alone and I can’t do it with you so it’s out of the fucking question.”
“Dean, I’m doing it whether you want me to or not. At least I told you what I’m doing, it’s a lot less than what the fuck you ever tell me.”
Dean had angrily stewed in the middle of a sagging bed until Sam returned from the store with some peanut M&Ms and the Yahtzee game. It helped Dean let Sam walk out the door later, but it did nothing to help ease the sickness he felt as he sat in a tiny chair in front of the motel window, moonlight spilling over his shoulders as he watched cars go by, praying each time that it was Sam returning. Dean had never once let Sam do anything alone and why should he? Sam had Dean and Dean was supposed to take care of him, make sure he was safe. He had never wondered how Sam might have felt, when Dean had started going along with Dad all the time, to be left behind in the motel room. The thought had never even occurred to him because hunting was not Sam’s job. Now Dean was the one waiting and he would rather be fighting an entire legion of demons than just sit here while Sam was in danger. He laid his forehead against the glass and tried not to think that the coldness he found there meant anything.
*
When the headlights of the Impala lit up the window nearly six hours later, Dean ran until he met the Impala halfway, wrenching open the door himself. Sam was there, tired but smiling. Dean dragged him from the car by the shoulders until Sam was on his knees on the pavement. He immediately grabbed Sam’s face and began checking for injuries. Sam let him, his arms falling to his sides. On the inside of Sam’s wrist were cuts that formed a pattern, almost like a signature. Dean lifted the wrist and wordlessly put it in Sam’s face, questioning.
“It’s the demon’s signature. I completed my first deal, I guess I‘m officially a Winchester now.”
“What happened?”
“I trapped it with a devil’s trap. Painted a really big one with holy water, doesn’t evaporate for a long time. A demon can bind another one to hell for eternity and it saved its skin for yours.”
“What’s the price, Sammy? There’s something you’re not telling me here.”
“Isn’t me being half-demon enough trouble?”
“On weekdays, maybe. What aren’t you telling me?”
“It wasn’t just holy water I used.”
“Jesus, what was it? “
“Blood spilled from a demon’s insignia and demon tears.”
“Demon tears?”
“Said to be impossible to get as demons aren’t exactly into chick flick moments.”
“So you’re telling me that you are the first emo demon to traverse the mortal plane?”
Sam laughed a bit, shaking his head slightly. “I guess no crossroads demon ever thought that would ever happen and it isn’t like the yellow-eyed demon knew he was going to kick the bucket and let his half demon spawns weep their way out of deals.”
“Just so you know, you’re not going into a hunt until you’re forty and even then I’m supervising.”
“Whatever, I’m just glad you’ll be here when I get there.” Sam was looking at him with the gooey eyes. Dean attempted to stand and flee, but Sam kept a firm grip on his arms and, truthfully, it felt really damn good kneeling on hard concrete in the middle of a motel parking lot. Then Sam took Dean’s reluctance to move as a sign and laid one on him, right there in Where the Fuck Are We Again, U.S.A. at a quarter to three in the morning. It was the happiest moment in his entire miserable life and the sun wasn’t even shining yet.
*
Sam bitched his way back into the next hunt. Dean let him because Dean sucked at fighting real seduction, not the childish crap he had been accustomed to inflicting on easy girls in sleazy bars. Of course, by real seduction he meant Sam just sitting there, eating a sandwich and Dean feeling the urge to lick fucking bread crumbs off his mouth. But it felt horribly heavy and intoxicating. He wondered if emo demons had that kind of power.
The Yahtzee game was mostly retired, except on nights when Sam woke up from old nightmares or when Dean felt helpless against the world. The seduction was going on Sam’s time, which meant that a couple of weeks after the first initial kiss they were still dancing around the subject like two nerdy teens using homework as a euphemism for holding hands. In the meantime, Dean sat back and was just so fucking relieved that they were okay and nothing except the usual demons and dark creatures were after them.
Sam brought out a new game the day after they started work again. Dean had been lounging on one side of their king-sized bed, eyes closed when he felt something soft fall against his forehead. He opened his eyes and saw two fuzzy pink dice with white wording on them. Sam was perched at the edge of the bed, giving him a soulful look.
“Love dice?”
“Valentine’s day.”
“Dude, there is no way I’m playing with those girly things. Dirty dice, sure, but not that kissing and cuddling crap.”
“Who said I got them at the local friendly Wal-Mart?”
Dean examined a die. Well then. Very dirty dice. He leered, picked up the other die, and rolled.
End
antiship drew the drunken Yahtzee scene back when this was only a semi-forgotten drabble. She is so awesome, it's like she plucked the image from my mind or something.
