SPN gen fic - Karma - John and Dean
As I mentioned in my last entry, there be fic. I wrote a fic last week where Dean arranged a hospital spongebath for John. There needed to be payback.
TITLE: Karma
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Dean and John
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 1355 words. Set during the Stanford years. Written for the 50scenes prompt #1. Dean suffers for his sins.
Dean Winchester doesn’t believe in karma. If karma existed, he’d be in the penthouse suite of some fancy hotel, drinking cocktails with names like a long slow comfortable screw up against the wall. And as for the actual screwing, well, that sure as hell wouldn’t be up against the wall, it’d be in a bed big enough to swim in, silk sheets against his ass and silk scarves round his wrists, because hey, it’s his fantasy, okay? Tied up, ready and willing to be the filling in a Lindsay/Scarlett sandwich.
But there’s no such thing as karma, because he’s pretty sure no penthouse suite has this many stains on the wall; none of which look like the result of anything that was long or slow or particularly comfortable. The wrinkled sheets currently wrapped around his ass feel more like sandpaper than silk, and his throat feels raw, like he just swallowed a rusty nail. And not the cocktail version either.
And he needs to piss. Which normally wouldn’t be a problem, except that his legs no longer seem to be working, and the need to piss is pretty damn urgent.
Dean hauls his ass, literally, to the edge of the bed, and the floor dips and rolls lazily under his bare feet. He registers that the carpet is also kind of sticky, and he really should put on his boots, but they’re about three miles away round the other side of the bed, so fuck that.
It’s not that far to the bathroom, really. He gets to his feet, and the floor falls away from under him, pitching violently to the left. Or right. Kind of hard to tell when your face is stuck to the carpet.
He gives up on the whole walking scenario and goes with crawling, because four limbs have got to be better than two, and hey, not so far to fall. The downside is the close-up view he’s getting of the motel carpet, and those sticky patches he discovered earlier? Really not improved with added smell-o-vision.
He makes it to the bathroom before his face hits the floor again, and decides that gritty tile is marginally better than sticky carpet in terms of pillow preferences. Though that might have something to do with the raging temperature that’s soothed by the application of cold tile to superheated forehead.
But as pleasant as the coolness is, the call of nature is becoming impossible to ignore, and he drags himself across the vast expanse of floor towards the rapidly retreating toilet.
Somewhere, a hundred miles behind him, the motel door slams. “Honey, I’m home!”
Dean groans. If there’s one thing worse than lying facedown on a motel bathroom floor, it’s having his father find him lying facedown on a motel bathroom floor. He wonders if he could make it back to the door and maybe shove his foot against it in some kind of lame-assed attempt at privacy, but he figures that his bladder really isn’t going to go for that scenario. And he revises his list of things worse than lying facedown on a motel bathroom floor to include having his father find him in that position after he’s pissed his pants.
“You having fun down there?”
Dean lifts his head enough to catch a glimpse of his father’s boots beside him. It’d be a mercy if he just kicked him in the head now, spared him the gloating. No such luck, though.
“Hey, sunshine? You alive in there?” Dad’s crouched down beside him now, hand on his back.
Dean groans again, not even bothering to attempt actual words.
“Jesus, Dean, you trying for typhoid along with strep throat?” Dad wraps an arm around Dean, hauls him up none too gently. “Move your ass, kiddo.”
Dean swats feebly at his father’s arm. “Get off me,” he whines, his throat burning more fiercely with every word.
Dad just chuckles; a rich, deep, throaty sound that makes Dean wince. “Stop pissing and moaning and get your ass back in bed.”
Oh Jesus. “Dude.” Dean puts every ounce of sincerity he can muster into the plea. “I gotta-” he gestures helplessly to the toilet “-you know,” he trails off, and Dad is leaning over, laughing his ass off.
“Piss and moan?” And then he’s laughing even harder, holding his chest as if he might bust a fucking rib. Asshole.
Dean puts a hand against the wall to steady himself, then plants his feet apart. Waits for Dad to take the hint.
“You need any help there?” Dad is still snorting back giggles.
Dean considers informing his father that he has been doing this solo for the last twenty-six years and managing very nicely, thank you very much, but it doesn’t seem worth grating his throat over. He just grimaces sourly at the man, and taps his fingers against the tiles, aiming for casual impatience. He misses by a mile.
“Fine.” Dad backs away, not even trying to hide his grin. “Try not to fall in headfirst. No way I’m giving you mouth to mouth.”
“I’d rather drown,” Dean croaks weakly, and waits for the door to close.
His aim isn’t great, and he finishes up and shuffles to the sink fast as he can manage, figuring that if he’s going to pass out, and at the moment that’s looking pretty damn likely, he should put some distance between him and the pool of pee around the toilet.
He runs the water and blinks blearily at his reflection in the mirror. It’s not pretty. He’s flushed; splotches of red over his cheeks and nose, his eyes crusted with something that could be ectoplasm, and his hair. Jesus, his hair is just plain weird, matted with sweat and flattened against his skull on one side, the other side looking like he's just stuck a fork in a socket.
“How’s it going in there, Princess?” Dad thumps his fist against the door, and Dean rests his face against the mirror, just for a second. It’s cool, and kind of nice, and the banging of Dad’s fist fades away to nothing as he closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, he’s upside down. Being upside down is never good, but add to that some gentle swaying, and he knows he’s in trouble. He opens his mouth, but his throat refuses to co-operate with his brain.
There’s something blue that keeps swaying into his line of sight, and he focuses hard, catches a glimpse of brown leather above the blue. Oh, Jesus. No way. No fucking way. He struggles valiantly, but it’s no use. Dad has him slung over one shoulder in a makeshift fireman’s carry.
“Dude,” he finally manages to croak, muppet-like. “Put me down.” His voice breaks at the end, like he’s fourteen all over again. He wonders vaguely if it’s possible to actually physically die of embarrassment.
Dad tips him off his shoulder and onto the motel bed, and Dean scrabbles against the sheets, trying and failing to find the tattered remains of his dignity. Dad empties the contents of the pharmacy bag onto the nightstand, and Dean flails helplessly as he attempts a retreat, then collapses against the pillows in surrender.
Dad holds up the hypodermic needle, taps it lightly. “Checked with the doc. He said if you’re having trouble keeping the penicillin down, we could do it this way.” He grins evilly. “Turn over.” He pauses. “Shorts down.”
Dean flops face down and shoves his shorts to mid-thigh, growling in impotent frustration. “What, no dinner and a movie?”
Dad snorts and smacks his hand onto Dean’s ass, which kind of stings, and makes him yelp like it did when he was a kid. Yeah, definitely possible to die of embarrassment.
“Never mind, son.” Dad’s voice is dripping with fake sympathy, as he swabs the injection site with an antiseptic wipe. “You got nothing I haven’t already seen. And believe me, it could be worse. You could be in hospital, with Sven and his magic sponge.”
Dean Winchester doesn’t believe in karma. But John Winchester does, and apparently that’s good enough for the universe.
Prompt #1 - needles
TITLE: Karma
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Dean and John
DISCLAIMER: Not my boys
NOTES: 1355 words. Set during the Stanford years. Written for the 50scenes prompt #1. Dean suffers for his sins.
Dean Winchester doesn’t believe in karma. If karma existed, he’d be in the penthouse suite of some fancy hotel, drinking cocktails with names like a long slow comfortable screw up against the wall. And as for the actual screwing, well, that sure as hell wouldn’t be up against the wall, it’d be in a bed big enough to swim in, silk sheets against his ass and silk scarves round his wrists, because hey, it’s his fantasy, okay? Tied up, ready and willing to be the filling in a Lindsay/Scarlett sandwich.
But there’s no such thing as karma, because he’s pretty sure no penthouse suite has this many stains on the wall; none of which look like the result of anything that was long or slow or particularly comfortable. The wrinkled sheets currently wrapped around his ass feel more like sandpaper than silk, and his throat feels raw, like he just swallowed a rusty nail. And not the cocktail version either.
And he needs to piss. Which normally wouldn’t be a problem, except that his legs no longer seem to be working, and the need to piss is pretty damn urgent.
Dean hauls his ass, literally, to the edge of the bed, and the floor dips and rolls lazily under his bare feet. He registers that the carpet is also kind of sticky, and he really should put on his boots, but they’re about three miles away round the other side of the bed, so fuck that.
It’s not that far to the bathroom, really. He gets to his feet, and the floor falls away from under him, pitching violently to the left. Or right. Kind of hard to tell when your face is stuck to the carpet.
He gives up on the whole walking scenario and goes with crawling, because four limbs have got to be better than two, and hey, not so far to fall. The downside is the close-up view he’s getting of the motel carpet, and those sticky patches he discovered earlier? Really not improved with added smell-o-vision.
He makes it to the bathroom before his face hits the floor again, and decides that gritty tile is marginally better than sticky carpet in terms of pillow preferences. Though that might have something to do with the raging temperature that’s soothed by the application of cold tile to superheated forehead.
But as pleasant as the coolness is, the call of nature is becoming impossible to ignore, and he drags himself across the vast expanse of floor towards the rapidly retreating toilet.
Somewhere, a hundred miles behind him, the motel door slams. “Honey, I’m home!”
Dean groans. If there’s one thing worse than lying facedown on a motel bathroom floor, it’s having his father find him lying facedown on a motel bathroom floor. He wonders if he could make it back to the door and maybe shove his foot against it in some kind of lame-assed attempt at privacy, but he figures that his bladder really isn’t going to go for that scenario. And he revises his list of things worse than lying facedown on a motel bathroom floor to include having his father find him in that position after he’s pissed his pants.
“You having fun down there?”
Dean lifts his head enough to catch a glimpse of his father’s boots beside him. It’d be a mercy if he just kicked him in the head now, spared him the gloating. No such luck, though.
“Hey, sunshine? You alive in there?” Dad’s crouched down beside him now, hand on his back.
Dean groans again, not even bothering to attempt actual words.
“Jesus, Dean, you trying for typhoid along with strep throat?” Dad wraps an arm around Dean, hauls him up none too gently. “Move your ass, kiddo.”
Dean swats feebly at his father’s arm. “Get off me,” he whines, his throat burning more fiercely with every word.
Dad just chuckles; a rich, deep, throaty sound that makes Dean wince. “Stop pissing and moaning and get your ass back in bed.”
Oh Jesus. “Dude.” Dean puts every ounce of sincerity he can muster into the plea. “I gotta-” he gestures helplessly to the toilet “-you know,” he trails off, and Dad is leaning over, laughing his ass off.
“Piss and moan?” And then he’s laughing even harder, holding his chest as if he might bust a fucking rib. Asshole.
Dean puts a hand against the wall to steady himself, then plants his feet apart. Waits for Dad to take the hint.
“You need any help there?” Dad is still snorting back giggles.
Dean considers informing his father that he has been doing this solo for the last twenty-six years and managing very nicely, thank you very much, but it doesn’t seem worth grating his throat over. He just grimaces sourly at the man, and taps his fingers against the tiles, aiming for casual impatience. He misses by a mile.
“Fine.” Dad backs away, not even trying to hide his grin. “Try not to fall in headfirst. No way I’m giving you mouth to mouth.”
“I’d rather drown,” Dean croaks weakly, and waits for the door to close.
His aim isn’t great, and he finishes up and shuffles to the sink fast as he can manage, figuring that if he’s going to pass out, and at the moment that’s looking pretty damn likely, he should put some distance between him and the pool of pee around the toilet.
He runs the water and blinks blearily at his reflection in the mirror. It’s not pretty. He’s flushed; splotches of red over his cheeks and nose, his eyes crusted with something that could be ectoplasm, and his hair. Jesus, his hair is just plain weird, matted with sweat and flattened against his skull on one side, the other side looking like he's just stuck a fork in a socket.
“How’s it going in there, Princess?” Dad thumps his fist against the door, and Dean rests his face against the mirror, just for a second. It’s cool, and kind of nice, and the banging of Dad’s fist fades away to nothing as he closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, he’s upside down. Being upside down is never good, but add to that some gentle swaying, and he knows he’s in trouble. He opens his mouth, but his throat refuses to co-operate with his brain.
There’s something blue that keeps swaying into his line of sight, and he focuses hard, catches a glimpse of brown leather above the blue. Oh, Jesus. No way. No fucking way. He struggles valiantly, but it’s no use. Dad has him slung over one shoulder in a makeshift fireman’s carry.
“Dude,” he finally manages to croak, muppet-like. “Put me down.” His voice breaks at the end, like he’s fourteen all over again. He wonders vaguely if it’s possible to actually physically die of embarrassment.
Dad tips him off his shoulder and onto the motel bed, and Dean scrabbles against the sheets, trying and failing to find the tattered remains of his dignity. Dad empties the contents of the pharmacy bag onto the nightstand, and Dean flails helplessly as he attempts a retreat, then collapses against the pillows in surrender.
Dad holds up the hypodermic needle, taps it lightly. “Checked with the doc. He said if you’re having trouble keeping the penicillin down, we could do it this way.” He grins evilly. “Turn over.” He pauses. “Shorts down.”
Dean flops face down and shoves his shorts to mid-thigh, growling in impotent frustration. “What, no dinner and a movie?”
Dad snorts and smacks his hand onto Dean’s ass, which kind of stings, and makes him yelp like it did when he was a kid. Yeah, definitely possible to die of embarrassment.
“Never mind, son.” Dad’s voice is dripping with fake sympathy, as he swabs the injection site with an antiseptic wipe. “You got nothing I haven’t already seen. And believe me, it could be worse. You could be in hospital, with Sven and his magic sponge.”
Dean Winchester doesn’t believe in karma. But John Winchester does, and apparently that’s good enough for the universe.
Prompt #1 - needles