SPN FIC - My Breakfast With Dean
Breakfast on the road: coffee and pastries from the mini-mart. A conversation that covers all the bases: the Korean mob. Yellow bikinis. A chainsaw-wielding TV star. And the appropriateness of cheese.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1765 words
Free at last, Dean climbed to his feet, gave his surroundings a brief sweep of attention, then shoved both hands through his hair. The gesture did nothing to alleviate what Sam decided was a truly impressive case of bedhead. Dean paid no attention to what Sam was doing until after he'd hauled on yesterday's jeans, and had begun and abandoned a search for his boots.
"Coffee," he said then. "You got coffee."
MY BREAKFAST WITH DEAN
By Carol Davis
The last thing Sam expected was for Dean to pinwheel out of bed, arms and legs flailing free of the covers. Hell, it looked like his arms and legs were trying to break free of Dean. Sam had seen his brother spring straight from Sound Asleep to Ready For Action in a nanosecond any number of times, but this wasn't that; Dean didn't land on his feet, knife in hand, awake and aware, a practiced warrior in boxers and a faded Metallica t-shirt.
Instead, Dean lay in a confused mess on the rug between the two beds, hair askew, his left foot tightly wrapped in a coil of frayed white sheet.
"Dude," Sam said. "What the HELL."
Dean blinked at him a couple of times. Grimaced, then muttered, "Son of a bitch."
"Are you all right?"
"What just happened?"
"I have no idea. I said, 'There's coffee,' and you… erupted out of bed like somebody tasered you. What the hell, man."
Dean pondered that for a minute, plucking uselessly at the twisted sheet as he sulked. "Your timing sucks," he announced finally, slumping against the edge of his bed.
"Clearly."
"Was right in the middle of -"
Here it comes, Sam thought as Dean's expression brightened.
"Was bein' interrogated by that little Asian chick from Hawaii 5-0." Snerk. "In a bikini."
"You were wearing a bikini."
"Do you try to be like that? She was, asshat. Yellow, with little white polka dots."
"And she was interrogating you."
Obviously tired of fussing with the sheet, Dean reached up under his pillow and grabbed his knife, then put it to use sawing away at the stubborn grayed linen wrapped around his ankle. "Good cop/bad cop. Bright lights. The whole nine yards. Pretty feisty for somebody I could carry around under my arm, like a suitcase."
"You watch too much television, man."
Free at last, Dean climbed to his feet, gave his surroundings a brief sweep of attention, then shoved both hands through his hair. The gesture did nothing to alleviate what Sam decided was a truly impressive case of bedhead. Dean paid no attention to what Sam was doing until after he'd hauled on yesterday's jeans, and had begun and abandoned a search for his boots.
"Coffee," he said then. "You got coffee."
Sam nodded at the big paper cup he'd left sitting on the table, a twin to the cup he was sipping from, though their contents were radically different. "Scalding hot and tarlike, just the way you like it."
"And -" Dean pointed to the paper bag alongside the cup. "There donuts in there?"
"Danish."
With childlike glee Dean seized the bag, tore it open, and pulled out what lay inside.
His face fell with an almost audible crash.
"DUDE," he blurted.
Sam had seen that coming, too - and knew it was pointless to remind Dean that the coffee came from a gas station mini-mart, which meant the choice of accompanying breakfast pastries was likely to be limited, particularly since Sam had arrived there well after the early morning "coffee for the road" rush.
"Cheese Danish?" Dean moaned. "Dude. Cheese?"
"It's what they had."
"There is a time and a place for cheese, Sam. Cheeseburgers have cheese. Ham and cheese sandwiches have cheese. Danish does not have -"
"It's a different kind of cheese."
"Oh, don't give me that."
"Scrape it off," Sam said.
The motel room had no kitchenette; therefore, no utensils. All Sam had tucked into the bag with the Danish were a handful of napkins and a trio of red-and-white striped coffee stirrers. No knives. No spoons. For a moment, Sam expected his brother to again put his hunting knife to use. Instead, Dean bent one of the stirrers in half and jabbed the bent end into the little pool of cream cheese at the center of one of the Danish. His goal seemed to be stabbing the pastry to death, rather than removing the cheese.
"Don't you think you're overplaying this a little?" Sam asked him.
"I wouldn't have to, if you had any idea what constitutes a decent breakfast. No cheese, dammit."
"Dude, for God's sake."
"And you interrupted my freaking interrogation."
"Again: too much television."
"It was freaking Kono, man."
Sam snagged one of the remaining Danish out of Dean's reach and retreated with it to his own bed; sat down and took another sip of his coffee. "We're gonna end up with a repeat of the summer of 2000, Dean. Do I need to remind you? You watched twenty-nine straight episodes of Dawson's Creek, and you woke up screaming three nights in a row."
"I did not 'scream'."
"'He's gonna get me, Sam! That anvil-headed freak is gonna get me!'"
"He was," Dean insisted, muttering at his handful of battered Danish.
"Dude. Normal people do not dream that James Van Der Beek is climbing through their window, wearing a hockey jersey and carrying a chain saw."
"I had a broken leg. I was incapacitated."
"You could have read a book. Worked on puzzles. Something."
"Or, I could have a cute, curly-haired chick named Debbie Lee bring me a handful of videotapes to watch. I could be you, and say, 'Oh, no, sweetheart, thanks anyway. I don't need you to sit there and help me scratch down under that cast, where my leg is ON FREAKING FIRE. I'm gonna read a book instead.'"
"James Van Der Beek. Chainsaw."
"Bite me, Sam."
"'He's gonna get me, Sammy!'"
"That was the DRUGS."
Chunks of the assaulted Danish were dropping off; the rug around Dean's feet was littered with them. Gotta clean that up, Sam thought wearily - otherwise, every ant in Bright County would end up in their room. An impressive trail of them had already assembled on the sidewalk just outside the door, thanks to the Coke and the bits of hot meatball sandwich Dean had spilled out there the night before.
"Drugs," Dean said. "They make you hyper… something."
He seemed to be satisfied with what little remained of the Danish; he took a seat at the table with his coffee in one hand and what was left of the pastry in the other. Took a sip, then a bite. "Friggin' cheese," he complained, then mused, "How come people think that place is a paradise, anyway?"
"What place? Dawson's Creek?"
"Could you pay attention? Hawaii, asshat. Apparently it's full of mob. Chinese mob, Korean mob, everybody's in some kind of mob, and they're all homicidal nutcases. Not someplace I want to be. That Wo Fat guy - what a freak."
"You do realize Wo Fat is a fictional character."
"You don't know that," Dean replied.
"Um… yeah. I kind of think I do."
"If everybody else over there is a murdering thug, what's to say he's not for real? Could be ripped straight from the headlines. Like on Law & Order." Before Sam could protest, Dean went on, "Besides. Damn place is just a big rock sitting in the middle of the ocean. What if some random shit happened? Like, what if it broke off?"
Sam stopped his cup a few inches from his mouth, glad he hadn't slopped the coffee onto his only remaining clean pair of jeans. "Are you on drugs now? Broke off of what?"
"The thing."
"Thing?" Sam said thinly.
"You know. The thing it's on. That comes up from the bottom of the ocean."
"You mean the gigantic MOUNTAIN?"
"Yeah. That."
"It's a mountain range, Dean."
"With volcanoes and shit. Tsunamis. All that stuff. Big enough wave hits that place, and that's all she wrote. Whole place'll go under, just like friggin' Atlantis. Not gonna complain, though. Whole Korean Mafia'll go down with it."
"Because none of them are actually in Korea."
Flustered, Dean spit a half-chewed mouthful of Danish into one of the paper napkins. It took him a minute to clear the offending substance off his teeth; once he was satisfied, he rinsed his mouth out with a swig of coffee. "That an island, too?"
"Korea?"
"Yeah."
"No, Dean. It's part of the Asian mainland. Japan. Hong Kong. Taiwan. Those are islands."
"Australia, kind of, too, right?"
The trouble was, Dean was so completely earnest. The look on his face reminded Sam of their school days, when Dean would do his level best to puzzle his way through some impenetrable mystery: geology, Spanish, algebra, the philosophical explanations behind a variety of wars. Chemistry, though - chemistry he'd loved, particularly when the lesson involved something that would explode, or eat its way through the floor. Geography he aced, when it suited him to do so. Auto shop he ended up teaching, during a two-week period in a small town in Idaho.
"Australia is a continent," Sam said.
Dean waved that off. "Saw that on the Travel Channel. Hong Kong? People 're jammed in like chickens in a box. I mean, come ON."
"Maybe they'll be lucky," Sam replied. "A tsunami 'll come along and sweep them all into the ocean."
"Cruise ship," Dean said. "Now that is some ridiculous crap right there. Rogue wave, man. That comes along and you're upside down, like the freakin' Poseidon Adventure. Nope," he decided, sweeping the crumbs of the Danish off the table. "Staying on dry land, Sammy. That other stuff's too damn risky."
"So you'll forego the bikinis."
"Didn't say that. Didn't come anywhere near saying that." Dean drained his cup noisily. When the last of the coffee was gone, he pegged the cup across the room into the wastebasket. "That's what they invented the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue for, little brother. People with good sense, staying on dry land."
"There are beaches in Florida," Sam suggested.
"I saw that show. About Miami Beach? Place is full of the mob. Hey - you think he's a demon? He could be. Son of a bitch is wily."
Sam hiked a brow.
"Wo Fat," Dean groaned.
Shaking his head, Sam got up from the bed, dropped his empty cup into the wastebasket, and turned toward the door. "Going for a walk," he told Dean. "Back in twenty. Are you gonna be showered and ready to go by then?"
"Am I ever not ready?"
Sam didn't bother answering the question. He made sure he had the room key safely tucked in his pocket, then pulled open the door, grimacing at the platoon of enormous black ants conducting maneuvers just beyond the threshold. "Tellin' you, Sammy," Dean said as Sam stepped outside. "Guy could be a demon. It would explain a lot."
"No doubt," Sam said as he pulled the door shut behind him.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1765 words
Free at last, Dean climbed to his feet, gave his surroundings a brief sweep of attention, then shoved both hands through his hair. The gesture did nothing to alleviate what Sam decided was a truly impressive case of bedhead. Dean paid no attention to what Sam was doing until after he'd hauled on yesterday's jeans, and had begun and abandoned a search for his boots.
"Coffee," he said then. "You got coffee."
MY BREAKFAST WITH DEAN
By Carol Davis
The last thing Sam expected was for Dean to pinwheel out of bed, arms and legs flailing free of the covers. Hell, it looked like his arms and legs were trying to break free of Dean. Sam had seen his brother spring straight from Sound Asleep to Ready For Action in a nanosecond any number of times, but this wasn't that; Dean didn't land on his feet, knife in hand, awake and aware, a practiced warrior in boxers and a faded Metallica t-shirt.
Instead, Dean lay in a confused mess on the rug between the two beds, hair askew, his left foot tightly wrapped in a coil of frayed white sheet.
"Dude," Sam said. "What the HELL."
Dean blinked at him a couple of times. Grimaced, then muttered, "Son of a bitch."
"Are you all right?"
"What just happened?"
"I have no idea. I said, 'There's coffee,' and you… erupted out of bed like somebody tasered you. What the hell, man."
Dean pondered that for a minute, plucking uselessly at the twisted sheet as he sulked. "Your timing sucks," he announced finally, slumping against the edge of his bed.
"Clearly."
"Was right in the middle of -"
Here it comes, Sam thought as Dean's expression brightened.
"Was bein' interrogated by that little Asian chick from Hawaii 5-0." Snerk. "In a bikini."
"You were wearing a bikini."
"Do you try to be like that? She was, asshat. Yellow, with little white polka dots."
"And she was interrogating you."
Obviously tired of fussing with the sheet, Dean reached up under his pillow and grabbed his knife, then put it to use sawing away at the stubborn grayed linen wrapped around his ankle. "Good cop/bad cop. Bright lights. The whole nine yards. Pretty feisty for somebody I could carry around under my arm, like a suitcase."
"You watch too much television, man."
Free at last, Dean climbed to his feet, gave his surroundings a brief sweep of attention, then shoved both hands through his hair. The gesture did nothing to alleviate what Sam decided was a truly impressive case of bedhead. Dean paid no attention to what Sam was doing until after he'd hauled on yesterday's jeans, and had begun and abandoned a search for his boots.
"Coffee," he said then. "You got coffee."
Sam nodded at the big paper cup he'd left sitting on the table, a twin to the cup he was sipping from, though their contents were radically different. "Scalding hot and tarlike, just the way you like it."
"And -" Dean pointed to the paper bag alongside the cup. "There donuts in there?"
"Danish."
With childlike glee Dean seized the bag, tore it open, and pulled out what lay inside.
His face fell with an almost audible crash.
"DUDE," he blurted.
Sam had seen that coming, too - and knew it was pointless to remind Dean that the coffee came from a gas station mini-mart, which meant the choice of accompanying breakfast pastries was likely to be limited, particularly since Sam had arrived there well after the early morning "coffee for the road" rush.
"Cheese Danish?" Dean moaned. "Dude. Cheese?"
"It's what they had."
"There is a time and a place for cheese, Sam. Cheeseburgers have cheese. Ham and cheese sandwiches have cheese. Danish does not have -"
"It's a different kind of cheese."
"Oh, don't give me that."
"Scrape it off," Sam said.
The motel room had no kitchenette; therefore, no utensils. All Sam had tucked into the bag with the Danish were a handful of napkins and a trio of red-and-white striped coffee stirrers. No knives. No spoons. For a moment, Sam expected his brother to again put his hunting knife to use. Instead, Dean bent one of the stirrers in half and jabbed the bent end into the little pool of cream cheese at the center of one of the Danish. His goal seemed to be stabbing the pastry to death, rather than removing the cheese.
"Don't you think you're overplaying this a little?" Sam asked him.
"I wouldn't have to, if you had any idea what constitutes a decent breakfast. No cheese, dammit."
"Dude, for God's sake."
"And you interrupted my freaking interrogation."
"Again: too much television."
"It was freaking Kono, man."
Sam snagged one of the remaining Danish out of Dean's reach and retreated with it to his own bed; sat down and took another sip of his coffee. "We're gonna end up with a repeat of the summer of 2000, Dean. Do I need to remind you? You watched twenty-nine straight episodes of Dawson's Creek, and you woke up screaming three nights in a row."
"I did not 'scream'."
"'He's gonna get me, Sam! That anvil-headed freak is gonna get me!'"
"He was," Dean insisted, muttering at his handful of battered Danish.
"Dude. Normal people do not dream that James Van Der Beek is climbing through their window, wearing a hockey jersey and carrying a chain saw."
"I had a broken leg. I was incapacitated."
"You could have read a book. Worked on puzzles. Something."
"Or, I could have a cute, curly-haired chick named Debbie Lee bring me a handful of videotapes to watch. I could be you, and say, 'Oh, no, sweetheart, thanks anyway. I don't need you to sit there and help me scratch down under that cast, where my leg is ON FREAKING FIRE. I'm gonna read a book instead.'"
"James Van Der Beek. Chainsaw."
"Bite me, Sam."
"'He's gonna get me, Sammy!'"
"That was the DRUGS."
Chunks of the assaulted Danish were dropping off; the rug around Dean's feet was littered with them. Gotta clean that up, Sam thought wearily - otherwise, every ant in Bright County would end up in their room. An impressive trail of them had already assembled on the sidewalk just outside the door, thanks to the Coke and the bits of hot meatball sandwich Dean had spilled out there the night before.
"Drugs," Dean said. "They make you hyper… something."
He seemed to be satisfied with what little remained of the Danish; he took a seat at the table with his coffee in one hand and what was left of the pastry in the other. Took a sip, then a bite. "Friggin' cheese," he complained, then mused, "How come people think that place is a paradise, anyway?"
"What place? Dawson's Creek?"
"Could you pay attention? Hawaii, asshat. Apparently it's full of mob. Chinese mob, Korean mob, everybody's in some kind of mob, and they're all homicidal nutcases. Not someplace I want to be. That Wo Fat guy - what a freak."
"You do realize Wo Fat is a fictional character."
"You don't know that," Dean replied.
"Um… yeah. I kind of think I do."
"If everybody else over there is a murdering thug, what's to say he's not for real? Could be ripped straight from the headlines. Like on Law & Order." Before Sam could protest, Dean went on, "Besides. Damn place is just a big rock sitting in the middle of the ocean. What if some random shit happened? Like, what if it broke off?"
Sam stopped his cup a few inches from his mouth, glad he hadn't slopped the coffee onto his only remaining clean pair of jeans. "Are you on drugs now? Broke off of what?"
"The thing."
"Thing?" Sam said thinly.
"You know. The thing it's on. That comes up from the bottom of the ocean."
"You mean the gigantic MOUNTAIN?"
"Yeah. That."
"It's a mountain range, Dean."
"With volcanoes and shit. Tsunamis. All that stuff. Big enough wave hits that place, and that's all she wrote. Whole place'll go under, just like friggin' Atlantis. Not gonna complain, though. Whole Korean Mafia'll go down with it."
"Because none of them are actually in Korea."
Flustered, Dean spit a half-chewed mouthful of Danish into one of the paper napkins. It took him a minute to clear the offending substance off his teeth; once he was satisfied, he rinsed his mouth out with a swig of coffee. "That an island, too?"
"Korea?"
"Yeah."
"No, Dean. It's part of the Asian mainland. Japan. Hong Kong. Taiwan. Those are islands."
"Australia, kind of, too, right?"
The trouble was, Dean was so completely earnest. The look on his face reminded Sam of their school days, when Dean would do his level best to puzzle his way through some impenetrable mystery: geology, Spanish, algebra, the philosophical explanations behind a variety of wars. Chemistry, though - chemistry he'd loved, particularly when the lesson involved something that would explode, or eat its way through the floor. Geography he aced, when it suited him to do so. Auto shop he ended up teaching, during a two-week period in a small town in Idaho.
"Australia is a continent," Sam said.
Dean waved that off. "Saw that on the Travel Channel. Hong Kong? People 're jammed in like chickens in a box. I mean, come ON."
"Maybe they'll be lucky," Sam replied. "A tsunami 'll come along and sweep them all into the ocean."
"Cruise ship," Dean said. "Now that is some ridiculous crap right there. Rogue wave, man. That comes along and you're upside down, like the freakin' Poseidon Adventure. Nope," he decided, sweeping the crumbs of the Danish off the table. "Staying on dry land, Sammy. That other stuff's too damn risky."
"So you'll forego the bikinis."
"Didn't say that. Didn't come anywhere near saying that." Dean drained his cup noisily. When the last of the coffee was gone, he pegged the cup across the room into the wastebasket. "That's what they invented the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue for, little brother. People with good sense, staying on dry land."
"There are beaches in Florida," Sam suggested.
"I saw that show. About Miami Beach? Place is full of the mob. Hey - you think he's a demon? He could be. Son of a bitch is wily."
Sam hiked a brow.
"Wo Fat," Dean groaned.
Shaking his head, Sam got up from the bed, dropped his empty cup into the wastebasket, and turned toward the door. "Going for a walk," he told Dean. "Back in twenty. Are you gonna be showered and ready to go by then?"
"Am I ever not ready?"
Sam didn't bother answering the question. He made sure he had the room key safely tucked in his pocket, then pulled open the door, grimacing at the platoon of enormous black ants conducting maneuvers just beyond the threshold. "Tellin' you, Sammy," Dean said as Sam stepped outside. "Guy could be a demon. It would explain a lot."
"No doubt," Sam said as he pulled the door shut behind him.
* * * * *