Fic: Donuts on the Run
Title: Donuts on the Run
Author: brightly_lit
Rating: PG for a tiny bit of language
Genre: gen, humor
Characters: Dean, soulless!Sam
Word Count: 1,500
Summary: Soulless Sam was supposed to bring Dean donuts, and he didn't.
"Leave it to Dean to be able to instantaneously identify donut sugar and miss the blood all over Sam’s pants and in his hair."
This is a sequel to a previous humor fic of mine, "Donut Run." This one picks up right where the other one leaves off. You can read this one without reading the other first (it's just, you know, about donuts), but they're best read in order. :-D
Sam finished shoving the last donut in his mouth and threw the box in a dumpster on his way back to the hotel where Dean still slept, brushing powdered sugar off his hands. Despite his attempts to explain to the baker that the bodies on the floor of his donut shop were those of vampires and that Sam had in fact saved his life, the baker insisted upon calling the cops, who Sam happened to know were close by (at another donut shop, where Sam had left a few other bodies). He’d intended to bring half the donuts back for Dean, but at this rate, Sam might get nabbed before he ate all the donuts he wanted, so he ate them all himself, planning to tell Dean he’d been unsuccessful at finding a good donut shop. Dean had really wanted some donuts this morning (though that statement surely applied to Dean any time) ... but what Dean didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Sam adhered to this philosophy even as he rousted Dean from his bed, saying they needed to leave immediately because Sam had found the nest. He hadn’t, but he could use that excuse to get them out of town and lose the cops.
Dean grunted, burying himself deeper in the copious pillows provided by this fancy, if aging, hotel. “Didja get the donuts?”
“Um ... no. Nothing but Dunkin Donuts around here.”
Dean rolled over and eyed him suspiciously. He sat bolt upright, fully awake, pointing accusingly at Sam’s stubble. “Then why is there donut sugar beside your mouth?!”
Sam wiped it off quickly, rubbing it on his pants, where he’d wiped the vampire blood from his kill. Leave it to Dean to be able to instantaneously identify donut sugar and miss the blood all over Sam’s pants and in his hair. Heck, Dean could probably correctly tell him what flavor donuts he’d consumed, and in what order. He had to gamble on Dean doubting his own perceptions due to the dim light through the red velvet curtains, because Dean was uncommonly pissed. There were just a few things you didn’t cross Dean on. You didn’t talk bad about Dad, you didn’t insult his car, and you didn’t deprive him of baked goods. “Um ... must be chalk. I was checking out the chalk outline around some vampire bodies ... somewhere else.”
Dean got up and threw on his clothes, furious. “Damnit, Sam, I told you I wanted donuts!”
He had, in fact, said he wanted donuts, waking as Sam slipped out in the wee hours just to tell him so, as if he had a preternatural sense for Sam’s destination. “I know, but I couldn’t find any place that looked good. We can get some in the next town.”
Dean was no less angry. “What, were they so good, you had to eat ’em all yourself? What kind of brother does that?!”
Dean knew exactly what kind of brother did that, since Cas had recently diagnosed Sam as missing his soul. Funny that since Dean had learned he didn’t have a soul, not one thing Sam had done had brought up this much righteous fury in Dean. Well, there was that one thing about Sam’s lack of appreciation for the finer points of Black Sabbath. “... What’s wrong with getting some in the next town? You want donuts; you’ll have donuts. The only difference is a little delay, maybe two hours.”
“The difference is that my own brother who knows I love donuts stuffed his face and didn’t bother bringing me any!”
Sam was trying to keep his mind on this stultifying conversation and keep his story going, but his keen ears picked up the sound of several late-model cars parking outside the hotel at the same time. He peered carefully through the curtains and saw what he expected to see: four patrol cars. Sam took in the scene and calculated the repercussions almost instantly. The Impala was just around the corner. There was a seldom-used stairwell that led directly down onto that side street. If he hurried, he could get to it and be gone before the cops arrived at the door to their room, but Dean was still hung up on the donuts he hadn’t gotten to savor. If Sam left now, would they nab Dean? The hotel clerk would tell them they’d checked in together, so surely they would. It might be convenient to no longer be saddled with Dean and his constant complaints ... but Dean would find a way to get out, probably before the end of the day, find Sam, and his list of grievances would then be twice as long. It would be easier to bring him along now.
“Dean, I killed two vamps in the donut shop--that’s, uh ... that’s why I couldn’t get any donuts”--may as well keep up the lie as long as he could, and this new detail made it far more plausible, plus that he was giving the impression of confessing to something. Dean would think as long as he was copping to one thing, he may as well cop to everything, so this was another serendipity in a day of happy accidents, like finding those two vamps in the donut shop. “The cops are here. We have to go now.”
Sam figured it must be one of the vagaries of being a Winchester, that you would never be forgiven for failing to bring your family member donuts, but news that you just made them an accessory to murder would be greeted with no displeasure, only immediate action. They never unpacked much, for just such occasions as these. Dean grabbed his duffle and his jacket on the way out, and they were down the stairs, in the car, and on their way before two minutes were up. The only thing Dean said the whole time was, as they were pulling out, “Is that how you got the sugar there, in the fight with the vamps?”
Sam nodded noncommittally, Dean seemed to buy it, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief at having extricated himself from this trickiest of tricky situations. Life was funny. Being human was funny. Since losing his soul, Sam had killed every kind of monster and demon there was--brutally and efficiently--and a few humans along the way, when it was the most expedient choice. He’d made complicated arrangements with untrustworthy individuals, escaped the law numerous times, and found himself in situations Dean would have considered untenable, such as when a demon held an innocent human hostage. (Sam dispatched the human, solving the problem instantly.) Yet still, somehow these incomprehensible, minute details of interaction with the person he had always considered his closest friend and ally were the most exhausting and difficult to navigate, endlessly bewildering. More bewildering still was that Dean failed to take into account Sam’s simple inability to comprehend them due to his soulless state, treating him as though he was someone other than he was ... but in another way, he’d always done that. He began to wonder what benefit there really was to having Dean around. He was slower in a fight, slower thinking than Sam, hampered by morality, always pulled in illogical directions by his emotions. Still, two people working toward the same goal was virtually always better than one, which was why Sam had so often worked with Samuel, and at least Dean made great bait.
“Did you really find the nest?” Dean asked, once they were safely out of town.
“No.”
“Why’d you lie, Sam!” Dean demanded. “Thought I told you to just tell me the truth from now on.”
Sam thought quickly. “I thought you’d be upset that I killed the vamps in front of a witness.”
“Yeah, I’m not thrilled about that, but it seems about your speed nowadays. I mean, if you’d rather get with some dirty hippie than look for your brother, can’t say I’m surprised.”
“She wasn’t dirty.”
“Stinky.”
“She wasn’t--” Whatever. Sam settled back, endeavoring to rest his eyes through Dean’s other favorite harangue: banging Patchouli. At least it wasn’t about donuts ... until it was.
Dean snatched something off the front of Sam’s bloody shirt and held it up to him as if it were evidence of high treason: unmistakably, a large donut crumb. After giving Sam a long look that Sam imagined was akin to Caesar’s for Brutus, or Jesus’s for Judas, Dean popped it in his mouth, almost instantly bursting out, “Goddamnit! These ARE the best donuts in--in, like, the world!” His displeasure with Sam swept away by more important matters, Sam saw Dean looking longingly and repeatedly in the rearview mirror at the city they were leaving in their wake. Dean piped up at last, uncommonly anxiously, “Do you ... do you think there might be another franchise, or ... I mean, how long do you think it’ll take’em to clean up those vampire corpses you left ...?”
~ The End ~
Author: brightly_lit
Rating: PG for a tiny bit of language
Genre: gen, humor
Characters: Dean, soulless!Sam
Word Count: 1,500
Summary: Soulless Sam was supposed to bring Dean donuts, and he didn't.
"Leave it to Dean to be able to instantaneously identify donut sugar and miss the blood all over Sam’s pants and in his hair."
This is a sequel to a previous humor fic of mine, "Donut Run." This one picks up right where the other one leaves off. You can read this one without reading the other first (it's just, you know, about donuts), but they're best read in order. :-D
Sam finished shoving the last donut in his mouth and threw the box in a dumpster on his way back to the hotel where Dean still slept, brushing powdered sugar off his hands. Despite his attempts to explain to the baker that the bodies on the floor of his donut shop were those of vampires and that Sam had in fact saved his life, the baker insisted upon calling the cops, who Sam happened to know were close by (at another donut shop, where Sam had left a few other bodies). He’d intended to bring half the donuts back for Dean, but at this rate, Sam might get nabbed before he ate all the donuts he wanted, so he ate them all himself, planning to tell Dean he’d been unsuccessful at finding a good donut shop. Dean had really wanted some donuts this morning (though that statement surely applied to Dean any time) ... but what Dean didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Sam adhered to this philosophy even as he rousted Dean from his bed, saying they needed to leave immediately because Sam had found the nest. He hadn’t, but he could use that excuse to get them out of town and lose the cops.
Dean grunted, burying himself deeper in the copious pillows provided by this fancy, if aging, hotel. “Didja get the donuts?”
“Um ... no. Nothing but Dunkin Donuts around here.”
Dean rolled over and eyed him suspiciously. He sat bolt upright, fully awake, pointing accusingly at Sam’s stubble. “Then why is there donut sugar beside your mouth?!”
Sam wiped it off quickly, rubbing it on his pants, where he’d wiped the vampire blood from his kill. Leave it to Dean to be able to instantaneously identify donut sugar and miss the blood all over Sam’s pants and in his hair. Heck, Dean could probably correctly tell him what flavor donuts he’d consumed, and in what order. He had to gamble on Dean doubting his own perceptions due to the dim light through the red velvet curtains, because Dean was uncommonly pissed. There were just a few things you didn’t cross Dean on. You didn’t talk bad about Dad, you didn’t insult his car, and you didn’t deprive him of baked goods. “Um ... must be chalk. I was checking out the chalk outline around some vampire bodies ... somewhere else.”
Dean got up and threw on his clothes, furious. “Damnit, Sam, I told you I wanted donuts!”
He had, in fact, said he wanted donuts, waking as Sam slipped out in the wee hours just to tell him so, as if he had a preternatural sense for Sam’s destination. “I know, but I couldn’t find any place that looked good. We can get some in the next town.”
Dean was no less angry. “What, were they so good, you had to eat ’em all yourself? What kind of brother does that?!”
Dean knew exactly what kind of brother did that, since Cas had recently diagnosed Sam as missing his soul. Funny that since Dean had learned he didn’t have a soul, not one thing Sam had done had brought up this much righteous fury in Dean. Well, there was that one thing about Sam’s lack of appreciation for the finer points of Black Sabbath. “... What’s wrong with getting some in the next town? You want donuts; you’ll have donuts. The only difference is a little delay, maybe two hours.”
“The difference is that my own brother who knows I love donuts stuffed his face and didn’t bother bringing me any!”
Sam was trying to keep his mind on this stultifying conversation and keep his story going, but his keen ears picked up the sound of several late-model cars parking outside the hotel at the same time. He peered carefully through the curtains and saw what he expected to see: four patrol cars. Sam took in the scene and calculated the repercussions almost instantly. The Impala was just around the corner. There was a seldom-used stairwell that led directly down onto that side street. If he hurried, he could get to it and be gone before the cops arrived at the door to their room, but Dean was still hung up on the donuts he hadn’t gotten to savor. If Sam left now, would they nab Dean? The hotel clerk would tell them they’d checked in together, so surely they would. It might be convenient to no longer be saddled with Dean and his constant complaints ... but Dean would find a way to get out, probably before the end of the day, find Sam, and his list of grievances would then be twice as long. It would be easier to bring him along now.
“Dean, I killed two vamps in the donut shop--that’s, uh ... that’s why I couldn’t get any donuts”--may as well keep up the lie as long as he could, and this new detail made it far more plausible, plus that he was giving the impression of confessing to something. Dean would think as long as he was copping to one thing, he may as well cop to everything, so this was another serendipity in a day of happy accidents, like finding those two vamps in the donut shop. “The cops are here. We have to go now.”
Sam figured it must be one of the vagaries of being a Winchester, that you would never be forgiven for failing to bring your family member donuts, but news that you just made them an accessory to murder would be greeted with no displeasure, only immediate action. They never unpacked much, for just such occasions as these. Dean grabbed his duffle and his jacket on the way out, and they were down the stairs, in the car, and on their way before two minutes were up. The only thing Dean said the whole time was, as they were pulling out, “Is that how you got the sugar there, in the fight with the vamps?”
Sam nodded noncommittally, Dean seemed to buy it, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief at having extricated himself from this trickiest of tricky situations. Life was funny. Being human was funny. Since losing his soul, Sam had killed every kind of monster and demon there was--brutally and efficiently--and a few humans along the way, when it was the most expedient choice. He’d made complicated arrangements with untrustworthy individuals, escaped the law numerous times, and found himself in situations Dean would have considered untenable, such as when a demon held an innocent human hostage. (Sam dispatched the human, solving the problem instantly.) Yet still, somehow these incomprehensible, minute details of interaction with the person he had always considered his closest friend and ally were the most exhausting and difficult to navigate, endlessly bewildering. More bewildering still was that Dean failed to take into account Sam’s simple inability to comprehend them due to his soulless state, treating him as though he was someone other than he was ... but in another way, he’d always done that. He began to wonder what benefit there really was to having Dean around. He was slower in a fight, slower thinking than Sam, hampered by morality, always pulled in illogical directions by his emotions. Still, two people working toward the same goal was virtually always better than one, which was why Sam had so often worked with Samuel, and at least Dean made great bait.
“Did you really find the nest?” Dean asked, once they were safely out of town.
“No.”
“Why’d you lie, Sam!” Dean demanded. “Thought I told you to just tell me the truth from now on.”
Sam thought quickly. “I thought you’d be upset that I killed the vamps in front of a witness.”
“Yeah, I’m not thrilled about that, but it seems about your speed nowadays. I mean, if you’d rather get with some dirty hippie than look for your brother, can’t say I’m surprised.”
“She wasn’t dirty.”
“Stinky.”
“She wasn’t--” Whatever. Sam settled back, endeavoring to rest his eyes through Dean’s other favorite harangue: banging Patchouli. At least it wasn’t about donuts ... until it was.
Dean snatched something off the front of Sam’s bloody shirt and held it up to him as if it were evidence of high treason: unmistakably, a large donut crumb. After giving Sam a long look that Sam imagined was akin to Caesar’s for Brutus, or Jesus’s for Judas, Dean popped it in his mouth, almost instantly bursting out, “Goddamnit! These ARE the best donuts in--in, like, the world!” His displeasure with Sam swept away by more important matters, Sam saw Dean looking longingly and repeatedly in the rearview mirror at the city they were leaving in their wake. Dean piped up at last, uncommonly anxiously, “Do you ... do you think there might be another franchise, or ... I mean, how long do you think it’ll take’em to clean up those vampire corpses you left ...?”
~ The End ~