Fic: 'Cara: The Face Of Sam' (Sam/Dean, R)
sarkastic gave me this as a prompt and in light of The Last Of The Time Lords (spoilers in that link), my brain is a scary, scary place. So much the better for you people. Almost 1k of CRACK (with bonus Doctor Who references and uh, mpreg?)
Cara: The Face Of Sam
Sam/Dean
R. 982 words. Sam gets cursed. Dean must find a way to break it. When he isn't being an evil brother. Or tapping Sam's jar. Or asking for inappropriate sex acts.
“It could be worse.”
Sam doesn’t even respond, but there’s like four default Sam Winchester responses (“How could it be worse?!” “You don’t say!” “You’re a fucking jerk!” “Really?!” and you get the point, just keep adding question marks and exclamation points to the end of things), and all would lead to Dean either backing the hell away or doing that, again, and again, like he’s doing now. Because… because temptation? That baby’s too hard to resist.
“Dude. I’m gonna bite your finger off if you keep tapping the glass.”
“You could be a guppy,” Dean tries helpfully, leans back to look at the mess of papers on the desk, on his lap, on freaking everywhere because um. He may have gone a little crazy with the library printer and copier, and he’ll blame that on not wanting to let Sam see him typing ineffectually on his laptop (and squinting; doesn’t need his eyes checked, that’s bullshit, okay, Sam?). Dean places a handful of papers down.
Right now, Sam’s face is in a jar. And if that isn’t weird enough? He’s pregnant, and Dean doesn’t even want to know how that works.
Bad enough Sam’s going on about feeling a “life fluttering inside” (dude, the fuck?) but there’s a conversation just waiting to be said about who put that there. Dean’d take an ass baby over a head baby any friggin’ day of the week (and yeah, he knows about ass babies, but that? Is a story for another day and a lot of alcohol).
Dean opens his mouth to say something but decides the better of it because the word ‘sex’ and Sam’s current cursed bodiless - uh, head minus body - state will only lead to headaches and arguments.
“Check out the journal. There has to be something in the journal,” Sam says, somehow nods in the direction of another pile of books and junk.
“What, a ‘no that’s not a migraine, you’re expectin’ in the membrane’ pamphlet?”
“Dean, it’s your kid that’s giving me this big head!” Sam replies irritably, his eyes all narrowed and hah, totally squinty. It’s not like his head is bigger though. It’s Sam-sized. Which is big as it is. Like his huge forehead.
Dean tells Sam this and the jar threatens to hop right onto his unsuspecting hand. “Hey!”
“Dad had something written down about this curse. Something to do with the name Boe,” Sam says, and his voice sounds a little muffled and hollow inside of the jar.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Bo? We talkin’ Bo Duke or Bo Jackson? Because I’m hoping it’s the former. Nice car, man. The General Lee. ’69 Dodge Charger. Good car, great year.”
Sam stares at him for a good few seconds, his mouth open and in the jar, he does look like a guppy. “B-O-E, you idiot.”
“Say, Sammy,” Dean goes on, ignoring Sam, “geek like you should appreciate one thing. You’d be like, the first dude to have a kid pop out of his head since Zeus. Remember? Athena, all grown up and Xena-like. Gotta say, I liked listening to those myths in class. She was hot.”
Dean’s flipping through the journal when Sam starts saying, “I’m doomed,” “I hate you,” and other things like that, ending with, “I’m dickless and it’s all your fault!” (said in the tone of a five year old) when Dean gets to the marked page. He throws Sam a look, to which his brother gives him the look (bitchface, no, face of bitch, that’s what it is).
“Dude, are you acting hormonal?”
“I’m not a girl, Dean,” Sam says slowly, like he’s explaining this to a kid. (Completely ignoring the five year old bit from just a second ago. Huh.) “I’m a man and I’m pregnant.”
“Don’t worry; Dad’s got the cure written down here. Heh, there’s even something about a doctor listed. Couple-a herbs, mystic runes, some Latin stuff to recite and you’ll be back to the freaky ass giant little brother you are in a jiffy. Just gotta make a quick trip and pick up the supplies. Of course, I don’t even want to know why the heck he’s got so much info about this written down,” Dean says, feels like he has a bad taste in his mouth. He licks his lips, then shudders, eyes closing briefly. “Eeuugh.”
Sam sighs, his - right, no posture - face? Head? His head looks relaxed. “Good.”
“Now,” Dean says, running a fingertip over the edge of the jar top, moves closer to the desk, legs open wide. “We’ve got that out of the way. You got easy access and-”
“I’ll bite it off.”
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean says, closes his legs together as a reflex. He leans back to grab his jacket.
Sam rolls his eyes. “Go get me some pickles.”
“To keep you company in the jar?”
“No, Dean, I’m hungry.”
Dean stands up and starts to shrug his jacket on. He fixes his collar as he says, “Are you sure? Big head and all.”
“When I get my body back, I’m taking a vow of chastity.”
“And that’s different how? You know if it wasn’t for me, you’d be dickless, curse or not - thing’d just shrivel up and fall off ‘cause you hardly used it.”
Sam glares, does that little huff. Funny how he manages to show his anger without the added bonus of those long arms waving around like a dork.
“Okay, okay, I’m goin’, I’m goin’. Christ, you’d think it’s the lack of action your downstairs brain gets that puts your panties in a twist; no, the key to your inner bitch lies under that mop of hair,” Dean states, picking up his car keys right near Sam’s jar.
“Dean.” The jar starts hopping. “Bite. It. Off.”
“I’m going!”
“Don’t forget the mustard for the pickles,” Sam calls, Dean shuddering and going “Eeuugh” over his shoulder when he leaves.
END
* The Face of Boe -> The Face of Sam -> Cara: The Face Of Sam -> because my mind automatically goes, "Manos: The Hands Of Fate!" as that's, you know, thoughts of a logical person, obviously.
** The "I'm dickless and it's all your fault!" is an inversion of Lily in ' The Ballad Of Polythene Pam', just as cracktastic and hi, fic connections! You're cool.
Cara: The Face Of Sam
Sam/Dean
R. 982 words. Sam gets cursed. Dean must find a way to break it. When he isn't being an evil brother. Or tapping Sam's jar. Or asking for inappropriate sex acts.
“It could be worse.”
Sam doesn’t even respond, but there’s like four default Sam Winchester responses (“How could it be worse?!” “You don’t say!” “You’re a fucking jerk!” “Really?!” and you get the point, just keep adding question marks and exclamation points to the end of things), and all would lead to Dean either backing the hell away or doing that, again, and again, like he’s doing now. Because… because temptation? That baby’s too hard to resist.
“Dude. I’m gonna bite your finger off if you keep tapping the glass.”
“You could be a guppy,” Dean tries helpfully, leans back to look at the mess of papers on the desk, on his lap, on freaking everywhere because um. He may have gone a little crazy with the library printer and copier, and he’ll blame that on not wanting to let Sam see him typing ineffectually on his laptop (and squinting; doesn’t need his eyes checked, that’s bullshit, okay, Sam?). Dean places a handful of papers down.
Right now, Sam’s face is in a jar. And if that isn’t weird enough? He’s pregnant, and Dean doesn’t even want to know how that works.
Bad enough Sam’s going on about feeling a “life fluttering inside” (dude, the fuck?) but there’s a conversation just waiting to be said about who put that there. Dean’d take an ass baby over a head baby any friggin’ day of the week (and yeah, he knows about ass babies, but that? Is a story for another day and a lot of alcohol).
Dean opens his mouth to say something but decides the better of it because the word ‘sex’ and Sam’s current cursed bodiless - uh, head minus body - state will only lead to headaches and arguments.
“Check out the journal. There has to be something in the journal,” Sam says, somehow nods in the direction of another pile of books and junk.
“What, a ‘no that’s not a migraine, you’re expectin’ in the membrane’ pamphlet?”
“Dean, it’s your kid that’s giving me this big head!” Sam replies irritably, his eyes all narrowed and hah, totally squinty. It’s not like his head is bigger though. It’s Sam-sized. Which is big as it is. Like his huge forehead.
Dean tells Sam this and the jar threatens to hop right onto his unsuspecting hand. “Hey!”
“Dad had something written down about this curse. Something to do with the name Boe,” Sam says, and his voice sounds a little muffled and hollow inside of the jar.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Bo? We talkin’ Bo Duke or Bo Jackson? Because I’m hoping it’s the former. Nice car, man. The General Lee. ’69 Dodge Charger. Good car, great year.”
Sam stares at him for a good few seconds, his mouth open and in the jar, he does look like a guppy. “B-O-E, you idiot.”
“Say, Sammy,” Dean goes on, ignoring Sam, “geek like you should appreciate one thing. You’d be like, the first dude to have a kid pop out of his head since Zeus. Remember? Athena, all grown up and Xena-like. Gotta say, I liked listening to those myths in class. She was hot.”
Dean’s flipping through the journal when Sam starts saying, “I’m doomed,” “I hate you,” and other things like that, ending with, “I’m dickless and it’s all your fault!” (said in the tone of a five year old) when Dean gets to the marked page. He throws Sam a look, to which his brother gives him the look (bitchface, no, face of bitch, that’s what it is).
“Dude, are you acting hormonal?”
“I’m not a girl, Dean,” Sam says slowly, like he’s explaining this to a kid. (Completely ignoring the five year old bit from just a second ago. Huh.) “I’m a man and I’m pregnant.”
“Don’t worry; Dad’s got the cure written down here. Heh, there’s even something about a doctor listed. Couple-a herbs, mystic runes, some Latin stuff to recite and you’ll be back to the freaky ass giant little brother you are in a jiffy. Just gotta make a quick trip and pick up the supplies. Of course, I don’t even want to know why the heck he’s got so much info about this written down,” Dean says, feels like he has a bad taste in his mouth. He licks his lips, then shudders, eyes closing briefly. “Eeuugh.”
Sam sighs, his - right, no posture - face? Head? His head looks relaxed. “Good.”
“Now,” Dean says, running a fingertip over the edge of the jar top, moves closer to the desk, legs open wide. “We’ve got that out of the way. You got easy access and-”
“I’ll bite it off.”
“Jesus, Sam,” Dean says, closes his legs together as a reflex. He leans back to grab his jacket.
Sam rolls his eyes. “Go get me some pickles.”
“To keep you company in the jar?”
“No, Dean, I’m hungry.”
Dean stands up and starts to shrug his jacket on. He fixes his collar as he says, “Are you sure? Big head and all.”
“When I get my body back, I’m taking a vow of chastity.”
“And that’s different how? You know if it wasn’t for me, you’d be dickless, curse or not - thing’d just shrivel up and fall off ‘cause you hardly used it.”
Sam glares, does that little huff. Funny how he manages to show his anger without the added bonus of those long arms waving around like a dork.
“Okay, okay, I’m goin’, I’m goin’. Christ, you’d think it’s the lack of action your downstairs brain gets that puts your panties in a twist; no, the key to your inner bitch lies under that mop of hair,” Dean states, picking up his car keys right near Sam’s jar.
“Dean.” The jar starts hopping. “Bite. It. Off.”
“I’m going!”
“Don’t forget the mustard for the pickles,” Sam calls, Dean shuddering and going “Eeuugh” over his shoulder when he leaves.
END
* The Face of Boe -> The Face of Sam -> Cara: The Face Of Sam -> because my mind automatically goes, "Manos: The Hands Of Fate!" as that's, you know, thoughts of a logical person, obviously.
** The "I'm dickless and it's all your fault!" is an inversion of Lily in ' The Ballad Of Polythene Pam', just as cracktastic and hi, fic connections! You're cool.