(no subject)
Tiny fic. Sam + girl!Dean, pre-Stanford, pretty gen although we all know everything I write is meant as preslash, for sazzlette. Kinda Oxford-verse, mostly not.
Settle, PG-13, gen, 860 words.
The week before Christmas, John drags both of them to Minnesota; five cars off a bridge in two weeks, no bodies, and dogs won't get within a mile of the lake. Sam doesn't want to go and Dean won't stop giving him shit about it, even more of a bitch than usual.
"Can we get lunch?" Sam says, half way through Iowa, because it's 2:30 in the afternoon and he's starving.
"No," Dean says. "Suck it up, Sammy."
Most of Sam's argument with his father involved not wanting to spend Christmas wading through lake mud, but Dean won't leave it the hell alone. Sam doesn't even bother to respond - she's been in one of her moods all day, pissed off over fucking nothing, and he's not dealing with it. He's settling in to distract himself with another couple hundred pages of Sebald when she pulls off the highway, stops at a McDonalds, and hands Sam her wallet.
"I don't want anything," she says, hunched over in the driver's seat, but Sam gets a chocolate milkshake - the only thing Dean's been interested in eating all week - and some extra dollar menu cheeseburgers, no ketchup, extra pickles. If Dean doesn't eat them, he will; the problem with being seventeen is that he's pretty much never not hungry.
When he gets back with the food, Dean's in the passenger seat.
"You gotta drive," she says, almost biting it out. "My head hurts."
Dean gets headaches exactly one time of the month, which Sam knows and John doesn't, because Dean doesn't want anybody giving her shit over that. Sam suddenly has a pretty good idea of why she's been riding his ass all day, but mentioning the phrase PMS around Dean is like asking to be shot at close range with the Beretta, so Sam just goes back inside and gets a cup of coffee - cream and four sugars, the way Dean actually likes it, not black, which is what she's been telling people since she was sixteen.
"Just reapply your makeup in the rearview, Samantha," Dean says, drumming her fingers on the dashboard. "Let's hit the road."
Sam knows better than to take the bait. "I brought you coffee," he says, leaning in through the passenger side, and it shuts Dean up long enough that he can get the keys and open up the trunk. Dean won't carry Midol, but it doesn't stop her from leaving bottles of it in Sam's gym locker and backpack every chance she gets. He finds one of the three bottles currently in residence in the bottom of his bag, a clean hoodie, and a blanket, and hauls it out of the trunk, then leans in through the driver's side and drops it in Dean's lap.
"Jesus, I'm not your fucking girlfriend," Dean says, pushing everything back over. "Stop trying so hard."
"Dean?" Sam says, finally, when she's pushed herself into the corner, because jesus, he's had it.
"What," Dean says, flat, hands wrapped around her coffee.
"I want you to stop being such a fucking bitch," Sam says, leaning into the car with his hands on the door and the roof, and Dean jerks around to stare at him. She looks like she's going to snap something back, but he lets go and clamps a hand down over her mouth.
"There's nobody here to impress," Sam says. "Dad's a hundred miles ahead of us, none of your boyfriends are gonna know, and I'm sick of you being a jackass instead of my sister, so cut it the fuck out."
He pulls his hand back and slides into the car, turning on the engine, and pulls out; about a month ago, they finally slowed down in Oklahoma long enough for him to get an actual license, but he's had a fake one since he was thirteen, so it's familiar territory. He's on his second hamburger before Dean says anything.
"Don't speed," she says, finally. "There are always cops on this highway."
"Thanks," Sam says, easy, even though he's doing two under because he's driven it too.
Dean doesn't apologize, but fifteen minutes down the road, after Sam's done with the last of the food, she pulls the sweatshirt on and takes a couple pills with his soda, then shoves her way up against his side, legs tucked underneath her. Sam turns up the heat and switches over to the radio; he finds Car Talk on NPR, mostly because it's the only program they can agree on. She's wound up enough that he feels it when the medication kicks in - Dean stops fucking with everything in the car and starts to fall asleep.
Sam waits until she's almost out to touch, curling his hand against the back of her neck and rubbing out some of the tension before he lets his arm settle across her back, wrapping a hand around the curve of her shoulder.
"We'll get some eggnog or something," Dean says, finally, drowsy, into his shirt. "Fruitcake. A fucking wreath."
"Yeah," Sam says, nudging his thumb up against her collarbone. "Christmas cookies. Candy canes."
"Candy canes," Dean agrees, satisfied, and falls the rest of the way asleep, face against Sam's shoulder with three hundred miles of road spread out in front of them.
Settle, PG-13, gen, 860 words.
The week before Christmas, John drags both of them to Minnesota; five cars off a bridge in two weeks, no bodies, and dogs won't get within a mile of the lake. Sam doesn't want to go and Dean won't stop giving him shit about it, even more of a bitch than usual.
"Can we get lunch?" Sam says, half way through Iowa, because it's 2:30 in the afternoon and he's starving.
"No," Dean says. "Suck it up, Sammy."
Most of Sam's argument with his father involved not wanting to spend Christmas wading through lake mud, but Dean won't leave it the hell alone. Sam doesn't even bother to respond - she's been in one of her moods all day, pissed off over fucking nothing, and he's not dealing with it. He's settling in to distract himself with another couple hundred pages of Sebald when she pulls off the highway, stops at a McDonalds, and hands Sam her wallet.
"I don't want anything," she says, hunched over in the driver's seat, but Sam gets a chocolate milkshake - the only thing Dean's been interested in eating all week - and some extra dollar menu cheeseburgers, no ketchup, extra pickles. If Dean doesn't eat them, he will; the problem with being seventeen is that he's pretty much never not hungry.
When he gets back with the food, Dean's in the passenger seat.
"You gotta drive," she says, almost biting it out. "My head hurts."
Dean gets headaches exactly one time of the month, which Sam knows and John doesn't, because Dean doesn't want anybody giving her shit over that. Sam suddenly has a pretty good idea of why she's been riding his ass all day, but mentioning the phrase PMS around Dean is like asking to be shot at close range with the Beretta, so Sam just goes back inside and gets a cup of coffee - cream and four sugars, the way Dean actually likes it, not black, which is what she's been telling people since she was sixteen.
"Just reapply your makeup in the rearview, Samantha," Dean says, drumming her fingers on the dashboard. "Let's hit the road."
Sam knows better than to take the bait. "I brought you coffee," he says, leaning in through the passenger side, and it shuts Dean up long enough that he can get the keys and open up the trunk. Dean won't carry Midol, but it doesn't stop her from leaving bottles of it in Sam's gym locker and backpack every chance she gets. He finds one of the three bottles currently in residence in the bottom of his bag, a clean hoodie, and a blanket, and hauls it out of the trunk, then leans in through the driver's side and drops it in Dean's lap.
"Jesus, I'm not your fucking girlfriend," Dean says, pushing everything back over. "Stop trying so hard."
"Dean?" Sam says, finally, when she's pushed herself into the corner, because jesus, he's had it.
"What," Dean says, flat, hands wrapped around her coffee.
"I want you to stop being such a fucking bitch," Sam says, leaning into the car with his hands on the door and the roof, and Dean jerks around to stare at him. She looks like she's going to snap something back, but he lets go and clamps a hand down over her mouth.
"There's nobody here to impress," Sam says. "Dad's a hundred miles ahead of us, none of your boyfriends are gonna know, and I'm sick of you being a jackass instead of my sister, so cut it the fuck out."
He pulls his hand back and slides into the car, turning on the engine, and pulls out; about a month ago, they finally slowed down in Oklahoma long enough for him to get an actual license, but he's had a fake one since he was thirteen, so it's familiar territory. He's on his second hamburger before Dean says anything.
"Don't speed," she says, finally. "There are always cops on this highway."
"Thanks," Sam says, easy, even though he's doing two under because he's driven it too.
Dean doesn't apologize, but fifteen minutes down the road, after Sam's done with the last of the food, she pulls the sweatshirt on and takes a couple pills with his soda, then shoves her way up against his side, legs tucked underneath her. Sam turns up the heat and switches over to the radio; he finds Car Talk on NPR, mostly because it's the only program they can agree on. She's wound up enough that he feels it when the medication kicks in - Dean stops fucking with everything in the car and starts to fall asleep.
Sam waits until she's almost out to touch, curling his hand against the back of her neck and rubbing out some of the tension before he lets his arm settle across her back, wrapping a hand around the curve of her shoulder.
"We'll get some eggnog or something," Dean says, finally, drowsy, into his shirt. "Fruitcake. A fucking wreath."
"Yeah," Sam says, nudging his thumb up against her collarbone. "Christmas cookies. Candy canes."
"Candy canes," Dean agrees, satisfied, and falls the rest of the way asleep, face against Sam's shoulder with three hundred miles of road spread out in front of them.