Start To Dream
Title: Start To Dream
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 2100
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Sammy has a crush, Dean is annoying, the kitchen table pays the price.
Written for saberivojo who asked for fighting!boys with surprisingly competent Sam.
Fill for 'combat' on my hc_bingo card.
"What'cha doin'?" Dean singsongs. He's leaning across the Formica table, effectively putting himself between Sam and his homework.
Sam shoots him a dirty glare, all his righteous, pre-teen irritation with the world at large put into a single frown. It's kinda fascinating how he manages to pull it off, actually. "Homework."
"Yeah, what subject?"
"What do you care?"
Sam's glare gets even darker and Dean flashes him a bright grin.
"What's so funny, jerkface?"
Dean rolls his eyes, the slightly lopsided grin still plastered all over his face. "History, right?"
He glances down at the book on the table, black and white photographs of dead people stare back at him. Dean wants to say former presidents, but he'd have to read the captions to be sure and the book is at a really awkward angle and who cares, anyway.
"Yeah, so?"
There should really be a law on how much venom you can inflict into two words, Dean thinks.
Sam huffs loudly and rolls his eyes. It's right out of a sitcom. The sweet little girl with the adorable pig tails grows into a raging bitch over night. And Sam's only just turned twelve, overachieving little shit. Dean would be annoyed if he weren't in such a good mood.
"Sooo..." he's kinds proud of the way he manages to make the word several syllables long and how it makes Sam puff his cheeks and glare. "History's pretty boring, huh?"
"Your face's pretty boring."
Dean throws his head back, barking out a loud laugh. "C'mon, kid, you gotta hit me with something that's actually true."
Sam shakes his head, huffing with all the put-upon irritation he can muster. Dark messy curls fall into his eyes and Dean can't resist the urge to smack Sam under the chin. Sends the bangs bouncing up and down all over his forehead.
"Hey!"
He smacks Sam on the back of the head, sending his chin right back against his chest and starts laughing when Sam opens his mouth to hurl another insult at him and closes it again when he's to outraged to come up with anything.
"Fun fact," Dean chuckles, picking up Sam's pen to twirl it between his fingers. "I ran into your teacher the other day."
"Ms. Davies?" Sam's eyes narrow in suspicion as soon as Dean nods his head enthusiastically. "And?"
"Aaaand..." Sam screws up his face like he's sucking on a bitter lemon. "She's pretty hot."
Sam's hands clench into tiny fists, his entire body going taunt with outrage. "She's...no, Dean. Ew! She's a teacher. She's my teacher. And she's...she's..."
Dean leans forward, the cheap table is starting to tremble with the effort to hold his entire weight. "Bet we could meet up after class," he drawls. "Yeah, I've never actually had sex inside a classroom..."
"Ew! Dean!" Dean is pretty proud of the particular shade of red Sam's face turns. "You're disgusting. Really, find a shrink and get some help... 'sides, she doesn't date students." The last part is a mumbled afterthought and the blush spreads all the way to Sam's ears.
Dean blinks a couple of times, stares at his baby brother who's suddenly squirming in his chair. "What's the matter?" Dean grins. His eyes travel down until he notices a pretty prominent bulge in Sam's jeans. "You got the hots for her?"
"NO!"
"You totally do," Dean laughs again, giddy with this new piece of ammo. "Sammy's got a crush on his teacher."
"I don't!"
"Sammy and Ms Davies, sitting in a tree - "
"Shut up!"
"K-I-S-S-I-N-unghmpf."
The world does a funny little hickup, the wall turns into the ceiling, the table breaks clear in half.
Dean blinks up at Sam from his new position on the floor. His stomach hurts, right beneath his solar plexus. "What the fuck?" he growls, scrambling to get back on his feet.
"Dean!"
Dean freezes in a sort of half crouch, his eyes glued to the door to the living room.
"You boys fighting?"
"No, sir."
"Do I need to come in there?"
"No, sir."
Dean holds his breath, slumps against the fridge when he's counted to ten in his head and still hasn't heard footsteps from the other side of the door.
"What the fuck?" he hisses this time, one hand gingerly rubbing over the sore spot on his belly.
"You're such an ass," Sam hisses back. He's standing above Dean, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I don't have a crush on Ms. Davies."
"Like hell you don't. You had a massive hard-on for her, not two minutes ago."
Sam's mouth falls open again, his eyes drawn into tiny slits. They stare at each other for several long seconds, then something twitches across Sam's face and he stumbles to get to Dean over pieces of the broken table.
Dean juts out his right foot, easily hooks his boot around Sam's ankle and pulls. It only takes a viscous twist and Sam crashes to the linoleum floor next to Dean.
"Are you out of your mind?" Sam spits, his voice growing in volume again, even when Dean hisses sharply to "keep it the fuck down."
"I could have hit my head on the counter. I could have died!"
"Drama queen," Dean mutters under his breath, carefully loud enough so Sam can hear it clearly over his heavy breathing exercise.
Dean scrambles to his feet, exhaling sharply when he has to straighten up and his stomach screams at him to be more careful with it, pretty fucking please.
"I'm not a drama queen."
"Sure you are. Little drama queen's gonna make sweet lesbo love to her history teacher."
Dean turns around and suddenly his head snaps to the right. Bright pain explodes across his face and when his eyes snap open again he's bracing himself on his knees, dark, red blood is dropping from his nose onto Sam's open history book on the floor.
"Dehb Buck?" he growls again, wiping his arm over his nose, smearing blood all across his face.
Sam is bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet, little fists raised in front of his face.
"You don't sucker punch your own brodder, you libble bitch."
Dean reaches up again when blood keeps shooting out of his left nostril, keeps clogging up his nose.
"Looks like I just did," Sam drawls, like he's all confident and he isn't as shocked as Dean that he managed to get in even one shot.
Dean moves before Sam has a chance to gloat. He feigns a stab at Sam's face, crashes his right hook into the kid's kidney when his hands predictably fly up. The punch sends Sam crashing into the counter. His gangly arms swipe over the smooth wood, desperate, flailing, like an insect on its back. Yesterday's left-over pizza takes a hit, the box slides off the counter and greasy slices land on the mess on the floor.
Sam shrieks when Dean pins him. The angle is terrible and the edge is probably digging a painful bruise into Sam's hip. Good. Dean grabs a handful of his brother's hair, shoves his face down hard.
"Apologize," he growls into Sam's ear, twists his arm behind his back when the kid starts to struggle.
"You apologize."
Dean gives Sam's arm another twist.
Sam yelps and juts out his bare foot, hitting an already sore spot on Dean's shin.
Dean's hold on his brother loosens enough for Sam to twist out of his grip and throw his elbow into Dean's sore belly.
Dean stumbles back a half a step, barely catches himself when the backs of his knees crash into the broken table.
Sam whips around, stares madly at Dean from under his sweaty bangs.
"You suck at this," he spits. "No wonder Dad never lets you help out on his hunts."
Dean growls, deep in his chest, all pretense of keeping it down long forgotten.
"Listen up, kiddo, I got no problem turning you over my knee and beating your ass until you shit blood, you little bitch!"
"Oh yeah?" Sam roars right back. "Dad wouldn't let you."
Dean has Sam pinned against the counter again, before either of them realizes what's happening. "You sure you wanna test that theory, buddy boy?"
He slams Sam's cheek back into the counter, can hear the kid's teeth snap together just before the pained howl and he doesn't feel bad one bit.
"Boys."
Dean freezes again. Below him, Sam goes completely limp.
"Think he's gonna go away if we pretend we're dead?" Dean whispers into Sam's ear and Sam elbows him again.
"Get off me. This is all your fault."
"How's it my fault that you're - "
"Boys." Dad's doesn't raise his voice, but there is enough of a threat behind the words to demand attention.
Dean pushes himself off of his brother, tries to stand at attention in spite of his screaming ribs. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Sam snap to just as quickly.
"This is what you call not fighting?"
Dean shrugs. Sam opens his mouth, no doubt to say something stupid, so Dean elbows him again.
"Ow!"
"Dean."
"Sorry."
Dad's gaze wanders over the broken table, the mess of pizza, books and blood on the floor.
"What are the rules about fighting, boys?"
Sam shrugs miserably, Dean swipes his arm across his face again, until his sleeve is covered with blood.
"Not to?"
For a moment Dean thinks his answer may have just been the other side of smart-ass, but Dad thinks for a moment, then nods.
"Yeah, that pretty much covers it."
"Sorry," Dean mumbles and Dad grunts.
Sam looks like he's about to say something again, so Dean steps on his foot. Sam pretty much sucks at not pissing Dad off.
Dad's eyes wander over the hand that is still hovering protectively over Dean's abdomen, settle on his blood-smeared face. "He's twelve, Dean," he says, shaking his head and Dean's ears flush bright pink.
Dad grabs Sam's chin and Dean is pretty impressed with the way the kid manages to barely flinch. Dad turns his face towards the window until the bright light illuminates what by tomorrow will be a very colorful bruise where he slammed into the counter. Dad turns around to look at Dean, his eyes hooded and dark and Dean shrinks back, a heavy rock settling in his stomach before the words leave Dad's mouth. "He's twelve."
"Sorry," he mumbles again, looking at Sam this time and Sam does his best to nod with his chin between Dad's fingers.
Dad fixes them both with a long, glowering glare and Sam inches closer to Dean until their arms are pressed together.
"I'm going back to finish my research," Dad announces and Dean can feel his stomach jump a little with relief. "You boys clean up this mess. I have to come in here again one of you's gonna spend some quality time with the strop. And it won't be sharpening knives."
They both nod at Dad's back. Dean tries grinning at Sam as soon as the door swings closed, but Sam's back is already turned. He's staring at his blood-stained book, the torn pages under the chairs.
Dean almost expects another blowup, can see it bubbling just under the surface, but all that comes out of Sam's mouth is an exasperated, tired sigh, before he starts picking up the remnants of his history book.
Dean kicks helplessly at the broken table. He has no idea how he's supposed to fix this thing. Or why he should even bother. Apart from the obvious reason.
"Iaskedherout," Sam mumbles quietly. He's on his knees, sorting through the mess of papers on the floor.
"Huh?"
"Ms Davies. I asked her out. That's how I know she doesn't date students."
Sam's face is bright pink again. He tugs his chin to his chest and Dean feels the sudden need to give the kid a hug. Which is downright ridiculous, so he shoves his hands into his pockets and turns stares at the pizza on the floor. "You asked her out?"
Sam nods miserably.
"And she said no?"
Another nod.
Dean sighs, slings an arm around his brother's shoulders, which is not weird or girly or embarrassing at all. "Don't take it too hard. Give it a few years and your teachers will be throwing themselves at you."
"You think so?"
"You kidding me? They're gonna be all over those dimples of yours."
Sam sighs miserably. "But I want to be with her now."
Dean chuckles softly. "Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but nobody wants to date a twelve-year-old."
Sam shoots him a wounded look.
"I mean, nobody but other twelve year olds," Dean amends quickly. "There's gotta be some hot, pree-teen piece of ass in your class."
Sam shrugs. "I guess."
"See," Dean beams. "Bet she's gonna be all over you."
"Why would she?"
"You kidding me?" Dean points at his swelling, bloody nose. "You kinda beat the shit out of your big brother."
"I did?" Sam's eyes grow huge and round. "I did."
Dean grins. "But you'll have to convince her yourself that it was you who did that damage. I'm not gonna be your show and tell."
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 2100
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Sammy has a crush, Dean is annoying, the kitchen table pays the price.
Written for saberivojo who asked for fighting!boys with surprisingly competent Sam.
Fill for 'combat' on my hc_bingo card.
"What'cha doin'?" Dean singsongs. He's leaning across the Formica table, effectively putting himself between Sam and his homework.
Sam shoots him a dirty glare, all his righteous, pre-teen irritation with the world at large put into a single frown. It's kinda fascinating how he manages to pull it off, actually. "Homework."
"Yeah, what subject?"
"What do you care?"
Sam's glare gets even darker and Dean flashes him a bright grin.
"What's so funny, jerkface?"
Dean rolls his eyes, the slightly lopsided grin still plastered all over his face. "History, right?"
He glances down at the book on the table, black and white photographs of dead people stare back at him. Dean wants to say former presidents, but he'd have to read the captions to be sure and the book is at a really awkward angle and who cares, anyway.
"Yeah, so?"
There should really be a law on how much venom you can inflict into two words, Dean thinks.
Sam huffs loudly and rolls his eyes. It's right out of a sitcom. The sweet little girl with the adorable pig tails grows into a raging bitch over night. And Sam's only just turned twelve, overachieving little shit. Dean would be annoyed if he weren't in such a good mood.
"Sooo..." he's kinds proud of the way he manages to make the word several syllables long and how it makes Sam puff his cheeks and glare. "History's pretty boring, huh?"
"Your face's pretty boring."
Dean throws his head back, barking out a loud laugh. "C'mon, kid, you gotta hit me with something that's actually true."
Sam shakes his head, huffing with all the put-upon irritation he can muster. Dark messy curls fall into his eyes and Dean can't resist the urge to smack Sam under the chin. Sends the bangs bouncing up and down all over his forehead.
"Hey!"
He smacks Sam on the back of the head, sending his chin right back against his chest and starts laughing when Sam opens his mouth to hurl another insult at him and closes it again when he's to outraged to come up with anything.
"Fun fact," Dean chuckles, picking up Sam's pen to twirl it between his fingers. "I ran into your teacher the other day."
"Ms. Davies?" Sam's eyes narrow in suspicion as soon as Dean nods his head enthusiastically. "And?"
"Aaaand..." Sam screws up his face like he's sucking on a bitter lemon. "She's pretty hot."
Sam's hands clench into tiny fists, his entire body going taunt with outrage. "She's...no, Dean. Ew! She's a teacher. She's my teacher. And she's...she's..."
Dean leans forward, the cheap table is starting to tremble with the effort to hold his entire weight. "Bet we could meet up after class," he drawls. "Yeah, I've never actually had sex inside a classroom..."
"Ew! Dean!" Dean is pretty proud of the particular shade of red Sam's face turns. "You're disgusting. Really, find a shrink and get some help... 'sides, she doesn't date students." The last part is a mumbled afterthought and the blush spreads all the way to Sam's ears.
Dean blinks a couple of times, stares at his baby brother who's suddenly squirming in his chair. "What's the matter?" Dean grins. His eyes travel down until he notices a pretty prominent bulge in Sam's jeans. "You got the hots for her?"
"NO!"
"You totally do," Dean laughs again, giddy with this new piece of ammo. "Sammy's got a crush on his teacher."
"I don't!"
"Sammy and Ms Davies, sitting in a tree - "
"Shut up!"
"K-I-S-S-I-N-unghmpf."
The world does a funny little hickup, the wall turns into the ceiling, the table breaks clear in half.
Dean blinks up at Sam from his new position on the floor. His stomach hurts, right beneath his solar plexus. "What the fuck?" he growls, scrambling to get back on his feet.
"Dean!"
Dean freezes in a sort of half crouch, his eyes glued to the door to the living room.
"You boys fighting?"
"No, sir."
"Do I need to come in there?"
"No, sir."
Dean holds his breath, slumps against the fridge when he's counted to ten in his head and still hasn't heard footsteps from the other side of the door.
"What the fuck?" he hisses this time, one hand gingerly rubbing over the sore spot on his belly.
"You're such an ass," Sam hisses back. He's standing above Dean, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I don't have a crush on Ms. Davies."
"Like hell you don't. You had a massive hard-on for her, not two minutes ago."
Sam's mouth falls open again, his eyes drawn into tiny slits. They stare at each other for several long seconds, then something twitches across Sam's face and he stumbles to get to Dean over pieces of the broken table.
Dean juts out his right foot, easily hooks his boot around Sam's ankle and pulls. It only takes a viscous twist and Sam crashes to the linoleum floor next to Dean.
"Are you out of your mind?" Sam spits, his voice growing in volume again, even when Dean hisses sharply to "keep it the fuck down."
"I could have hit my head on the counter. I could have died!"
"Drama queen," Dean mutters under his breath, carefully loud enough so Sam can hear it clearly over his heavy breathing exercise.
Dean scrambles to his feet, exhaling sharply when he has to straighten up and his stomach screams at him to be more careful with it, pretty fucking please.
"I'm not a drama queen."
"Sure you are. Little drama queen's gonna make sweet lesbo love to her history teacher."
Dean turns around and suddenly his head snaps to the right. Bright pain explodes across his face and when his eyes snap open again he's bracing himself on his knees, dark, red blood is dropping from his nose onto Sam's open history book on the floor.
"Dehb Buck?" he growls again, wiping his arm over his nose, smearing blood all across his face.
Sam is bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet, little fists raised in front of his face.
"You don't sucker punch your own brodder, you libble bitch."
Dean reaches up again when blood keeps shooting out of his left nostril, keeps clogging up his nose.
"Looks like I just did," Sam drawls, like he's all confident and he isn't as shocked as Dean that he managed to get in even one shot.
Dean moves before Sam has a chance to gloat. He feigns a stab at Sam's face, crashes his right hook into the kid's kidney when his hands predictably fly up. The punch sends Sam crashing into the counter. His gangly arms swipe over the smooth wood, desperate, flailing, like an insect on its back. Yesterday's left-over pizza takes a hit, the box slides off the counter and greasy slices land on the mess on the floor.
Sam shrieks when Dean pins him. The angle is terrible and the edge is probably digging a painful bruise into Sam's hip. Good. Dean grabs a handful of his brother's hair, shoves his face down hard.
"Apologize," he growls into Sam's ear, twists his arm behind his back when the kid starts to struggle.
"You apologize."
Dean gives Sam's arm another twist.
Sam yelps and juts out his bare foot, hitting an already sore spot on Dean's shin.
Dean's hold on his brother loosens enough for Sam to twist out of his grip and throw his elbow into Dean's sore belly.
Dean stumbles back a half a step, barely catches himself when the backs of his knees crash into the broken table.
Sam whips around, stares madly at Dean from under his sweaty bangs.
"You suck at this," he spits. "No wonder Dad never lets you help out on his hunts."
Dean growls, deep in his chest, all pretense of keeping it down long forgotten.
"Listen up, kiddo, I got no problem turning you over my knee and beating your ass until you shit blood, you little bitch!"
"Oh yeah?" Sam roars right back. "Dad wouldn't let you."
Dean has Sam pinned against the counter again, before either of them realizes what's happening. "You sure you wanna test that theory, buddy boy?"
He slams Sam's cheek back into the counter, can hear the kid's teeth snap together just before the pained howl and he doesn't feel bad one bit.
"Boys."
Dean freezes again. Below him, Sam goes completely limp.
"Think he's gonna go away if we pretend we're dead?" Dean whispers into Sam's ear and Sam elbows him again.
"Get off me. This is all your fault."
"How's it my fault that you're - "
"Boys." Dad's doesn't raise his voice, but there is enough of a threat behind the words to demand attention.
Dean pushes himself off of his brother, tries to stand at attention in spite of his screaming ribs. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Sam snap to just as quickly.
"This is what you call not fighting?"
Dean shrugs. Sam opens his mouth, no doubt to say something stupid, so Dean elbows him again.
"Ow!"
"Dean."
"Sorry."
Dad's gaze wanders over the broken table, the mess of pizza, books and blood on the floor.
"What are the rules about fighting, boys?"
Sam shrugs miserably, Dean swipes his arm across his face again, until his sleeve is covered with blood.
"Not to?"
For a moment Dean thinks his answer may have just been the other side of smart-ass, but Dad thinks for a moment, then nods.
"Yeah, that pretty much covers it."
"Sorry," Dean mumbles and Dad grunts.
Sam looks like he's about to say something again, so Dean steps on his foot. Sam pretty much sucks at not pissing Dad off.
Dad's eyes wander over the hand that is still hovering protectively over Dean's abdomen, settle on his blood-smeared face. "He's twelve, Dean," he says, shaking his head and Dean's ears flush bright pink.
Dad grabs Sam's chin and Dean is pretty impressed with the way the kid manages to barely flinch. Dad turns his face towards the window until the bright light illuminates what by tomorrow will be a very colorful bruise where he slammed into the counter. Dad turns around to look at Dean, his eyes hooded and dark and Dean shrinks back, a heavy rock settling in his stomach before the words leave Dad's mouth. "He's twelve."
"Sorry," he mumbles again, looking at Sam this time and Sam does his best to nod with his chin between Dad's fingers.
Dad fixes them both with a long, glowering glare and Sam inches closer to Dean until their arms are pressed together.
"I'm going back to finish my research," Dad announces and Dean can feel his stomach jump a little with relief. "You boys clean up this mess. I have to come in here again one of you's gonna spend some quality time with the strop. And it won't be sharpening knives."
They both nod at Dad's back. Dean tries grinning at Sam as soon as the door swings closed, but Sam's back is already turned. He's staring at his blood-stained book, the torn pages under the chairs.
Dean almost expects another blowup, can see it bubbling just under the surface, but all that comes out of Sam's mouth is an exasperated, tired sigh, before he starts picking up the remnants of his history book.
Dean kicks helplessly at the broken table. He has no idea how he's supposed to fix this thing. Or why he should even bother. Apart from the obvious reason.
"Iaskedherout," Sam mumbles quietly. He's on his knees, sorting through the mess of papers on the floor.
"Huh?"
"Ms Davies. I asked her out. That's how I know she doesn't date students."
Sam's face is bright pink again. He tugs his chin to his chest and Dean feels the sudden need to give the kid a hug. Which is downright ridiculous, so he shoves his hands into his pockets and turns stares at the pizza on the floor. "You asked her out?"
Sam nods miserably.
"And she said no?"
Another nod.
Dean sighs, slings an arm around his brother's shoulders, which is not weird or girly or embarrassing at all. "Don't take it too hard. Give it a few years and your teachers will be throwing themselves at you."
"You think so?"
"You kidding me? They're gonna be all over those dimples of yours."
Sam sighs miserably. "But I want to be with her now."
Dean chuckles softly. "Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but nobody wants to date a twelve-year-old."
Sam shoots him a wounded look.
"I mean, nobody but other twelve year olds," Dean amends quickly. "There's gotta be some hot, pree-teen piece of ass in your class."
Sam shrugs. "I guess."
"See," Dean beams. "Bet she's gonna be all over you."
"Why would she?"
"You kidding me?" Dean points at his swelling, bloody nose. "You kinda beat the shit out of your big brother."
"I did?" Sam's eyes grow huge and round. "I did."
Dean grins. "But you'll have to convince her yourself that it was you who did that damage. I'm not gonna be your show and tell."