SPN Fic: Swear on all that's holy (Sam/Dean, R)
Title: Swear on all that's holy
Author: deirdre_c
Rating/Pairing: R, Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Author's Note: A story in seven drabbles written for prompts given by participants in my NCAA basketball tournament pool. Thanks go to krisomniac for the fantastic beta.
Summary: Dean teaches Sam to swear. Exactly 700 words.
***
Dean slammed a fist into Sam's carefully constructed tower, squashing it flat.
Sam turned huge, hurt eyes on him, but Dean ignored the look, focusing on the very important lesson all three-year-olds needed to learn.
"Now, when that happens, you’re supposed to say, 'Shit!'"
"No."
Dean smashed another of Sam's precious, bright yellow Play-Doh blobs.
"'Shit,' Sammy. Say it." Dean insisted, "'Shit!'"
Sam chewed on his thumb. "No."
Dad called from the kitchen where he was making ham sandwiches, "Dean, what are you boys doing?"
"Shit, Daddy! Shit!"
Dean slapped a hand over Sam’s mouth. “Quiet, doofus!”
“SShihuhht,” mumbled Sam.
***
“Other kids will think you’re cool if you do.”
Dean landed on Reading Railroad. He already owned it.
“It’s second grade, Dean. I’m not worried about being cool. Gimme the dice.”
“Well, maybe you should be. You eat lunch by yourself, get pushed around at recess-“
“Shut up! I do not get pushed around at recess.” Sam moved ten squares. He was the horseman. He was always the horseman. Dean was the racecar, of course.
“No, no. Try this. ‘Shut the hell up.’ Or…, ‘Screw you.’” Dean rolled a five.
“Seven hundred dollars, please.”
“What?! Aww, screw you, geekboy.”
***
Dean balanced on the balls of his feet with his back to the basket, arms spread wide, watching Sam dribble the ball from hand to hand. At fourteen, Sam was now rail-thin, but those paws of his were big enough to palm the ball.
“C’mon, Princess. Quit fuckin’ around and show me somethin’.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond.
“Gotta work on your trash talking, pussy. Cover up the fact your game’s so fuckin’ weak. Baby brother.”
Then Sam stutter-faked left, whipped around Dean’s right, leapt up, up, and stuffed the ball down.
“Less talk, more action, big guy.”
***
The sun set during the last lap of their five-mile run, but the air was still thick with Georgia summer heat.
“Dad’s such a harda--… such a jerk,” Sam panted. “He knows I’ve got a chemistry final tomorrow. Stupid PT.”
“Dude. How come you work so hard to avoid cursing? What’s up with that?”
“Swearing’s for people who lack imagination.”
Dean grinned. “You’re such a little bitch.”
Dean stripped off his soaked shirt, dropping for pushups. Sam watched the sweat run down his spine. It pooled, glistening, in the small of his back.
Sam looked away and thought, Goddamn.
***
Senior year, Sam’s soccer team made the regional finals.
In the stands, Dean saw Sam break away, streaking down the field like a cheetah, lean and fierce. Sam’s shot missed, ricocheted off the post, but somehow it bounced off a hapless defender and went in.
Dean watched as Sam’s teammates hugged him, pounding his shoulders, running their fingers through his hair. Dean wanted to fly onto the field and do the same. To pull Sam away from them.
Instead, as Sam dashed by, searching for his brother’s face, Dean yelled, “Nice play, asshole!”
Sam smirked and flipped him the bird.
***
“You’re such a goddamn monk.”
Sam glanced up from Dad’s journal at Dean sauntering out of the bathroom, jeans zipped, but still unbuttoned.
“Just because I don’t yank my thing every morning-“
“Your thing? Your thing? It’s a cock, Sam. A dick. A fucking prick. Gah. You can’t even say that?”
“Shut up, idiot.” Sam shifted and whipped a pillow sidearm, catching Dean square in the face.
“Oh, that’s it.” Dean pounced on him, cackling, wielding the pillow like a cudgel. “Say it! Say ‘cock’ for me, bitch!”
Sam couldn’t squirm away in time.
“Okaaay. Not quite a monk after all.”
***
Dean’s heart pounds triple-time, wrists raw from struggling against Gordon’s ropes. Short gasps around the gag, straining, listening, trying not to puke.
Then there’s Sam’s hand on the back of his neck. Sam going down on his knees.
He can’t get his hands on Sam fast enough, the blood on Sam’s face hot under his thumb.
Sam grips his shoulders, swaying toward him, then away. Dean feels Sam withdraw and, without thinking, jerks him down and kisses him deep, heart in his throat.
Sam kisses back sloppy and desperate, then leans into Dean’s neck.
“Fuck,” Sam chokes.
“Shhh, Sammy. Shhhh.”
***
Additional Author’s Notes:
Here are the prompts I was given for each drabble…
1) jaimsie’s prompt: something full of funny, loads of crack and Play-Doh
2) dakotas_tale’s prompt: Sam and Dean, and they're playing a board game
3) annkiri’s prompt: Sam and Dean playing basketball before Stanford
4) arabella_hope’s prompt: Sam/Dean, exercise/training
5) tsuki_no-bara’s prompt: a sports-related drabble
6) halfshellvenus’ prompt: Wincest involving something soft
7) crazybutsound’s prompt: buildup, first kiss (she actually asked for J2, but I don’t think she’ll mind the change.)
Also, the whole piece was inspired by dialogue overheard during a recent Monopoly game between a certain second grader and his fifth grader brother.
Author: deirdre_c
Rating/Pairing: R, Sam/Dean
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Author's Note: A story in seven drabbles written for prompts given by participants in my NCAA basketball tournament pool. Thanks go to krisomniac for the fantastic beta.
Summary: Dean teaches Sam to swear. Exactly 700 words.
***
Dean slammed a fist into Sam's carefully constructed tower, squashing it flat.
Sam turned huge, hurt eyes on him, but Dean ignored the look, focusing on the very important lesson all three-year-olds needed to learn.
"Now, when that happens, you’re supposed to say, 'Shit!'"
"No."
Dean smashed another of Sam's precious, bright yellow Play-Doh blobs.
"'Shit,' Sammy. Say it." Dean insisted, "'Shit!'"
Sam chewed on his thumb. "No."
Dad called from the kitchen where he was making ham sandwiches, "Dean, what are you boys doing?"
"Shit, Daddy! Shit!"
Dean slapped a hand over Sam’s mouth. “Quiet, doofus!”
“SShihuhht,” mumbled Sam.
***
“Other kids will think you’re cool if you do.”
Dean landed on Reading Railroad. He already owned it.
“It’s second grade, Dean. I’m not worried about being cool. Gimme the dice.”
“Well, maybe you should be. You eat lunch by yourself, get pushed around at recess-“
“Shut up! I do not get pushed around at recess.” Sam moved ten squares. He was the horseman. He was always the horseman. Dean was the racecar, of course.
“No, no. Try this. ‘Shut the hell up.’ Or…, ‘Screw you.’” Dean rolled a five.
“Seven hundred dollars, please.”
“What?! Aww, screw you, geekboy.”
***
Dean balanced on the balls of his feet with his back to the basket, arms spread wide, watching Sam dribble the ball from hand to hand. At fourteen, Sam was now rail-thin, but those paws of his were big enough to palm the ball.
“C’mon, Princess. Quit fuckin’ around and show me somethin’.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond.
“Gotta work on your trash talking, pussy. Cover up the fact your game’s so fuckin’ weak. Baby brother.”
Then Sam stutter-faked left, whipped around Dean’s right, leapt up, up, and stuffed the ball down.
“Less talk, more action, big guy.”
***
The sun set during the last lap of their five-mile run, but the air was still thick with Georgia summer heat.
“Dad’s such a harda--… such a jerk,” Sam panted. “He knows I’ve got a chemistry final tomorrow. Stupid PT.”
“Dude. How come you work so hard to avoid cursing? What’s up with that?”
“Swearing’s for people who lack imagination.”
Dean grinned. “You’re such a little bitch.”
Dean stripped off his soaked shirt, dropping for pushups. Sam watched the sweat run down his spine. It pooled, glistening, in the small of his back.
Sam looked away and thought, Goddamn.
***
Senior year, Sam’s soccer team made the regional finals.
In the stands, Dean saw Sam break away, streaking down the field like a cheetah, lean and fierce. Sam’s shot missed, ricocheted off the post, but somehow it bounced off a hapless defender and went in.
Dean watched as Sam’s teammates hugged him, pounding his shoulders, running their fingers through his hair. Dean wanted to fly onto the field and do the same. To pull Sam away from them.
Instead, as Sam dashed by, searching for his brother’s face, Dean yelled, “Nice play, asshole!”
Sam smirked and flipped him the bird.
***
“You’re such a goddamn monk.”
Sam glanced up from Dad’s journal at Dean sauntering out of the bathroom, jeans zipped, but still unbuttoned.
“Just because I don’t yank my thing every morning-“
“Your thing? Your thing? It’s a cock, Sam. A dick. A fucking prick. Gah. You can’t even say that?”
“Shut up, idiot.” Sam shifted and whipped a pillow sidearm, catching Dean square in the face.
“Oh, that’s it.” Dean pounced on him, cackling, wielding the pillow like a cudgel. “Say it! Say ‘cock’ for me, bitch!”
Sam couldn’t squirm away in time.
“Okaaay. Not quite a monk after all.”
***
Dean’s heart pounds triple-time, wrists raw from struggling against Gordon’s ropes. Short gasps around the gag, straining, listening, trying not to puke.
Then there’s Sam’s hand on the back of his neck. Sam going down on his knees.
He can’t get his hands on Sam fast enough, the blood on Sam’s face hot under his thumb.
Sam grips his shoulders, swaying toward him, then away. Dean feels Sam withdraw and, without thinking, jerks him down and kisses him deep, heart in his throat.
Sam kisses back sloppy and desperate, then leans into Dean’s neck.
“Fuck,” Sam chokes.
“Shhh, Sammy. Shhhh.”
***
Additional Author’s Notes:
Here are the prompts I was given for each drabble…
1) jaimsie’s prompt: something full of funny, loads of crack and Play-Doh
2) dakotas_tale’s prompt: Sam and Dean, and they're playing a board game
3) annkiri’s prompt: Sam and Dean playing basketball before Stanford
4) arabella_hope’s prompt: Sam/Dean, exercise/training
5) tsuki_no-bara’s prompt: a sports-related drabble
6) halfshellvenus’ prompt: Wincest involving something soft
7) crazybutsound’s prompt: buildup, first kiss (she actually asked for J2, but I don’t think she’ll mind the change.)
Also, the whole piece was inspired by dialogue overheard during a recent Monopoly game between a certain second grader and his fifth grader brother.