Supernatural fic: The Dumbest Thing Dean Ever Did, Gen, Humor. PG-13
So "Croatoan" threw me into fits of hair-rending, breast-beating, keening anxiety. Apparently my coping mechanism is similar to Dean's: I make jokes of very questionable taste.
Title: The Dumbest Thing Dean Ever Did
Author: hiyacynth
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, humor, pre-series, wrong-headedness
Characters: John, Dean, Sam
Rating and Warnings: PG-13 for sexual references, nudity, a couple of f-bombs, and a big old can of Wrong-in-the-HeadTM. Spoiler free, despite taking its title from a throw-away line in "Croatoan."
Disclaimer: I don't quite follow the logic here: Apparently Supernatural is allowed to own me in my entirety, but I can't own any more of it than a shiny, pretty set of Season 1 DVDs. What gives?
Word count: 1,700
Summary:
"This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done."
"I dunno about that. 'Member that waitress in Tampa?"
--"Croatoan"
Acknowledgements and notes: Thanks as always to betas cunien and likethesun2, who laughed instead of stoning and then disowning me. It may not make me any less wrong in the head, but at least I'm not alone. likethesun2 deserves special thanks for helping me find my way when I (along with my point) got lost in a really convoluted rant. Orignally offered as a Christmas present for liptonrm, She Whose Bitch I Am, and the baylorsr sisters, who know how to treat a fangirl right.
Damned if he was ever coming back to Tampa. Evil spirits could suck the whole place into the Gulf of Mexico for all John Winchester cared. In fact, he sort of hoped they would, and quick, because he could use a break if he was going to beat the cops out of state.
The problem wasn't that Dean went tomcatting with a waitress. John was used to that by now. He'd given Dean the talk early--"early" to John's mind, anyway--when Dean was twelve and John had caught him out back of the Stayton Laundry Cascade with his tongue down the owner's fourteen-year-old daughter's throat and both hands up her shirt.
Early and repeated lectures on the mandatory use of condoms was John's strategy when it became clear that getting Dean to keep it in his pants was futile, and that the only realistic goal was to keep him from impregnating the nation's entire female population or picking up an STD or twenty. Sam listened in with unembarrassed, almost scientific interest, but John knew early on he didn't have to worry about Sam in the same way.
Sam was going to be a whole different kind of trouble, John could tell. Dean was the kind of kid that got chased out of town, as evidenced by their current situation. Sam was going to decide he was in love when the time came, dig his heels in and end up being dragged out of town by his hair. But right now Sam was too wrapped up in school and complaining about how the Winchester lifestyle was interfering with school to be worried about girls, though John often thought he'd be easier to live with if he'd switch up his priorities.
John flicked his eyes to the rearview. Dean wasn't getting any less green around the gills, and that suited John just fine. Of all the dumb-ass... The kid was eighteen and sharp as a tack. He knew better, that was what was driving John nuts. Dean wasn't a dumb kid, or a bad one. Randier than a teaser stallion, maybe, but he'd always shown pretty good judgment. How he decided that particular waitress was the one he had to nail was a mystery, John thought as he accelerated onto Highway 75, checking the side mirror for lights.
Sam shifted in the shotgun seat, wincing only slightly as he pressed inquisitive, careful fingers around his eye--he was going to have a hell of a shiner by morning. John was proud of that boy. He'd sent Sam to track Dean down so they could wrap things up and hit the road, and the kid had kept his head when he'd found Dean. Called John for backup and thrown himself into getting his brother loose. John burst in five minutes later to find the younger cop--the captain's son and the waitress's brother, for the love of Pete, what was that kid thinking?--bellowing with rage, bleeding from the brow, and coming after Sammy, who was fending off the guy's knife with what looked like one of Dean's boots. Dean, for his part, was tied to a chair next to the bed, naked except for a tenacious rubber, and foaming at the mouth. The grating noise of hysterical crying was coming from the bathroom, and from the lacy red bra and panties flung across the bed, John had a fair idea who was making it.
Immediately inside the door were the remains of a six-pack of Bud, a single can tangled among the dangling plastic rings. John swept it up and applied it to the back of the brother's head as he coiled to lunge at Sammy. The cop went down with a window-rattling crash, and for about thirty seconds the room was filled with the sound of Sam's heavy breathing, Dean's sticky gasping, and, from the bathroom, that ninny waitress's sobbing. The door cracked open, and John caught a flash of towel-wrapped skin as she peeked through the gap, phone pressed to her mascara-streaked face.
"Daddy! Oh my God, they're all here now! They're gonna--" The door slammed shut again, and John kicked it into gear, knowing that her father, Captain P.R. Donaldson, whose ongoing multiple murderer investigation John and Sam had closed with a pre-dawn salt-and-burn, would have every cop in Tampa on this place within three minutes.
Sam, priorities straight as a yardstick, already had Dean's ropes cut and was shoving his brother's feet into his jeans. Dean clumsily hauled up his pants, skidding on a flattened tube of KY as Sam hurried to gather the rest of his clothes.
"Got it?" John shot at Sam, who nodded over the bundle of jacket and shirt. "We gotta move. Dean!" His oldest boy was wiping at the mess around his mouth. "Move your ass." John grabbed Dean by the arm and shoved him toward the door.
"Dad..."
"Say another word and I'm leaving you here for them."
Dean moved, slowing only slightly to vomit into the bushes before slumping into the back seat of the car.
The Impala's engine settled into a comforting purr as John eased it up to highway speed, vibrations from the seat starting to work out some of the tension in his back, but a soft groan from the back seat drew his muscles taut again. He resisted the urge to look in the mirror again and instead shot his younger son a sideways glance.
"Tell your--"
Sam hiked a gangly leg onto the seat and twisted around to look at Dean. "Dad says shut your cakehole."
Despite the anger still knotting his neck, John couldn't help but notice how much Sam was enjoying the situation. He was usually the one sulking in the back seat as they left town, and appeared to be enjoying Dean's exile more than the shotgun view of Florida highway.
"I'm sick," came Dean's voice, whinier than John'd heard it since his toddler days.
Sam grinned at John, who nodded minutely, trying to keep the steely glare in place in case Dean was looking in the rearview.
"Dad says if you puke in the car you're cleaning it up with your tongue."
The groan was louder this time, and John bit down hard on the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing.
"I'm not gonna puke again." Dean's voice had some piss in it now, and John's own anger flared up again, conflicting with the relief at the recovery his son's tone indicated. "And you can tell Dad he'da hurled too if he'd been force-fed a whole tube of that shit." Yep. If Dean was copping an attitude, it meant he knew he was going to survive. "I just need a bathroom. I gotta... clean up."
Another quick glance in the mirror revealed Dean plucking uncomfortably at the crotch of his jeans. John ground his teeth to maintain control. He hadn't been watching too carefully, but he was pretty sure that, in the rush, Dean's condom had never come off. That couldn't be comfortable. John tapped the map on the seat next to him, folded neatly to show the border with Georgia. Sam picked it up and squinted at the location his father indicated.
"Dad says no stops till we're outta state and off 75. Quitman. 'Bout two hundred fifty miles."
"Fuck." The curse from the back seat was low cross between a groan and a whisper.
Sam didn't bother hiding his glee. "Dad says suck it up, candy ass."
"Fuck you, Sammy," Dean growled, the loudest noise he'd made since he'd puked up the tube of KY.
The grin dropped off Sam's face, and he slid down in the seat, arms crossed, and glared out the window. John, who normally ignored the sulks Dean seemed to enjoy inspiring in his little brother, addressed his older son for the first time since the apartment.
"Hey! You got off easy, you understand? Because pretty soon that cop, who had it in for us even before you decided to bang his daughter, is going to clear his head enough to realize that beyond the personal affront you brought on him and his girl, he has two prosecutable suspects in a coupla B and Es and one in a grave desecration--"
"Sammy was--"
"I'm a minor," Sam interrupted, still frowning at the passing highway. "They'd never make it stick."
John continued as if neither boy had spoken. "--and he is gonna come down on us like the wrath of God. Which is lucky for you, because the only reason I haven't paused to beat the living tar outta you is that we gotta not be here when he does."
Both boys were silent. Sam looked sad and uncomfortable; Dean's face was a scramble of anger, remorse, and surprise at the fury in his father's voice. John took a deep breath and lowered the volume, if not the intensity, of his words. "Honest to God, Dean. We can't afford to make moves this dumb. Our life--our work--is risky enough as it is. Trick is to play it smart. That's the only way this works. You hear me, son?"
"Yes, sir." Dean's voice was heavy.
"All right. So instead of the carving you nearly got from that cop--which, by the way, I haven't heard you thank your brother for saving your ass from--or the hiding I would give you myself if I had the time, you can sit back there and think about the consequences of your actions and how a belly full of personal lubricant and--if I'm not mistaken--a knot of latex putting your johnson in a twist is pretty light as punishments go."
John met Dean's eyes in the rearview and held them as Dean repeated, "Yes, sir." John tipped his head slightly to the right, and Dean nodded and cleared his throat. "Thanks, Sammy." He scrubbed at his crotch again, frowning, and added, "You had my back. I owe you one."
Sam turned again, hooking his arm over the seatback, and grinned at his brother. "Dad says you'll go blind if you keep pulling on it like that."
**end**
Be nice to me, I gave blood today.
Title: The Dumbest Thing Dean Ever Did
Author: hiyacynth
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, humor, pre-series, wrong-headedness
Characters: John, Dean, Sam
Rating and Warnings: PG-13 for sexual references, nudity, a couple of f-bombs, and a big old can of Wrong-in-the-HeadTM. Spoiler free, despite taking its title from a throw-away line in "Croatoan."
Disclaimer: I don't quite follow the logic here: Apparently Supernatural is allowed to own me in my entirety, but I can't own any more of it than a shiny, pretty set of Season 1 DVDs. What gives?
Word count: 1,700
Summary:
"This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done."
"I dunno about that. 'Member that waitress in Tampa?"
--"Croatoan"
Acknowledgements and notes: Thanks as always to betas cunien and likethesun2, who laughed instead of stoning and then disowning me. It may not make me any less wrong in the head, but at least I'm not alone. likethesun2 deserves special thanks for helping me find my way when I (along with my point) got lost in a really convoluted rant. Orignally offered as a Christmas present for liptonrm, She Whose Bitch I Am, and the baylorsr sisters, who know how to treat a fangirl right.
Damned if he was ever coming back to Tampa. Evil spirits could suck the whole place into the Gulf of Mexico for all John Winchester cared. In fact, he sort of hoped they would, and quick, because he could use a break if he was going to beat the cops out of state.
The problem wasn't that Dean went tomcatting with a waitress. John was used to that by now. He'd given Dean the talk early--"early" to John's mind, anyway--when Dean was twelve and John had caught him out back of the Stayton Laundry Cascade with his tongue down the owner's fourteen-year-old daughter's throat and both hands up her shirt.
Early and repeated lectures on the mandatory use of condoms was John's strategy when it became clear that getting Dean to keep it in his pants was futile, and that the only realistic goal was to keep him from impregnating the nation's entire female population or picking up an STD or twenty. Sam listened in with unembarrassed, almost scientific interest, but John knew early on he didn't have to worry about Sam in the same way.
Sam was going to be a whole different kind of trouble, John could tell. Dean was the kind of kid that got chased out of town, as evidenced by their current situation. Sam was going to decide he was in love when the time came, dig his heels in and end up being dragged out of town by his hair. But right now Sam was too wrapped up in school and complaining about how the Winchester lifestyle was interfering with school to be worried about girls, though John often thought he'd be easier to live with if he'd switch up his priorities.
John flicked his eyes to the rearview. Dean wasn't getting any less green around the gills, and that suited John just fine. Of all the dumb-ass... The kid was eighteen and sharp as a tack. He knew better, that was what was driving John nuts. Dean wasn't a dumb kid, or a bad one. Randier than a teaser stallion, maybe, but he'd always shown pretty good judgment. How he decided that particular waitress was the one he had to nail was a mystery, John thought as he accelerated onto Highway 75, checking the side mirror for lights.
Sam shifted in the shotgun seat, wincing only slightly as he pressed inquisitive, careful fingers around his eye--he was going to have a hell of a shiner by morning. John was proud of that boy. He'd sent Sam to track Dean down so they could wrap things up and hit the road, and the kid had kept his head when he'd found Dean. Called John for backup and thrown himself into getting his brother loose. John burst in five minutes later to find the younger cop--the captain's son and the waitress's brother, for the love of Pete, what was that kid thinking?--bellowing with rage, bleeding from the brow, and coming after Sammy, who was fending off the guy's knife with what looked like one of Dean's boots. Dean, for his part, was tied to a chair next to the bed, naked except for a tenacious rubber, and foaming at the mouth. The grating noise of hysterical crying was coming from the bathroom, and from the lacy red bra and panties flung across the bed, John had a fair idea who was making it.
Immediately inside the door were the remains of a six-pack of Bud, a single can tangled among the dangling plastic rings. John swept it up and applied it to the back of the brother's head as he coiled to lunge at Sammy. The cop went down with a window-rattling crash, and for about thirty seconds the room was filled with the sound of Sam's heavy breathing, Dean's sticky gasping, and, from the bathroom, that ninny waitress's sobbing. The door cracked open, and John caught a flash of towel-wrapped skin as she peeked through the gap, phone pressed to her mascara-streaked face.
"Daddy! Oh my God, they're all here now! They're gonna--" The door slammed shut again, and John kicked it into gear, knowing that her father, Captain P.R. Donaldson, whose ongoing multiple murderer investigation John and Sam had closed with a pre-dawn salt-and-burn, would have every cop in Tampa on this place within three minutes.
Sam, priorities straight as a yardstick, already had Dean's ropes cut and was shoving his brother's feet into his jeans. Dean clumsily hauled up his pants, skidding on a flattened tube of KY as Sam hurried to gather the rest of his clothes.
"Got it?" John shot at Sam, who nodded over the bundle of jacket and shirt. "We gotta move. Dean!" His oldest boy was wiping at the mess around his mouth. "Move your ass." John grabbed Dean by the arm and shoved him toward the door.
"Dad..."
"Say another word and I'm leaving you here for them."
Dean moved, slowing only slightly to vomit into the bushes before slumping into the back seat of the car.
The Impala's engine settled into a comforting purr as John eased it up to highway speed, vibrations from the seat starting to work out some of the tension in his back, but a soft groan from the back seat drew his muscles taut again. He resisted the urge to look in the mirror again and instead shot his younger son a sideways glance.
"Tell your--"
Sam hiked a gangly leg onto the seat and twisted around to look at Dean. "Dad says shut your cakehole."
Despite the anger still knotting his neck, John couldn't help but notice how much Sam was enjoying the situation. He was usually the one sulking in the back seat as they left town, and appeared to be enjoying Dean's exile more than the shotgun view of Florida highway.
"I'm sick," came Dean's voice, whinier than John'd heard it since his toddler days.
Sam grinned at John, who nodded minutely, trying to keep the steely glare in place in case Dean was looking in the rearview.
"Dad says if you puke in the car you're cleaning it up with your tongue."
The groan was louder this time, and John bit down hard on the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing.
"I'm not gonna puke again." Dean's voice had some piss in it now, and John's own anger flared up again, conflicting with the relief at the recovery his son's tone indicated. "And you can tell Dad he'da hurled too if he'd been force-fed a whole tube of that shit." Yep. If Dean was copping an attitude, it meant he knew he was going to survive. "I just need a bathroom. I gotta... clean up."
Another quick glance in the mirror revealed Dean plucking uncomfortably at the crotch of his jeans. John ground his teeth to maintain control. He hadn't been watching too carefully, but he was pretty sure that, in the rush, Dean's condom had never come off. That couldn't be comfortable. John tapped the map on the seat next to him, folded neatly to show the border with Georgia. Sam picked it up and squinted at the location his father indicated.
"Dad says no stops till we're outta state and off 75. Quitman. 'Bout two hundred fifty miles."
"Fuck." The curse from the back seat was low cross between a groan and a whisper.
Sam didn't bother hiding his glee. "Dad says suck it up, candy ass."
"Fuck you, Sammy," Dean growled, the loudest noise he'd made since he'd puked up the tube of KY.
The grin dropped off Sam's face, and he slid down in the seat, arms crossed, and glared out the window. John, who normally ignored the sulks Dean seemed to enjoy inspiring in his little brother, addressed his older son for the first time since the apartment.
"Hey! You got off easy, you understand? Because pretty soon that cop, who had it in for us even before you decided to bang his daughter, is going to clear his head enough to realize that beyond the personal affront you brought on him and his girl, he has two prosecutable suspects in a coupla B and Es and one in a grave desecration--"
"Sammy was--"
"I'm a minor," Sam interrupted, still frowning at the passing highway. "They'd never make it stick."
John continued as if neither boy had spoken. "--and he is gonna come down on us like the wrath of God. Which is lucky for you, because the only reason I haven't paused to beat the living tar outta you is that we gotta not be here when he does."
Both boys were silent. Sam looked sad and uncomfortable; Dean's face was a scramble of anger, remorse, and surprise at the fury in his father's voice. John took a deep breath and lowered the volume, if not the intensity, of his words. "Honest to God, Dean. We can't afford to make moves this dumb. Our life--our work--is risky enough as it is. Trick is to play it smart. That's the only way this works. You hear me, son?"
"Yes, sir." Dean's voice was heavy.
"All right. So instead of the carving you nearly got from that cop--which, by the way, I haven't heard you thank your brother for saving your ass from--or the hiding I would give you myself if I had the time, you can sit back there and think about the consequences of your actions and how a belly full of personal lubricant and--if I'm not mistaken--a knot of latex putting your johnson in a twist is pretty light as punishments go."
John met Dean's eyes in the rearview and held them as Dean repeated, "Yes, sir." John tipped his head slightly to the right, and Dean nodded and cleared his throat. "Thanks, Sammy." He scrubbed at his crotch again, frowning, and added, "You had my back. I owe you one."
Sam turned again, hooking his arm over the seatback, and grinned at his brother. "Dad says you'll go blind if you keep pulling on it like that."
**end**
Be nice to me, I gave blood today.