Fic :: Supernatural :: All the Fun of the Fair
All the Fun of the Fair
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Castiel
Summary: Sam, Dean and Castiel spend a fun-filled evening at the fair.
Posting date: November 2009
Written for memphis86's prompt in the Sam/Castiel commentfic meme.
*
After putting a stop to Clancy the Teen Necromancer and his accidental army of zombie clowns, Sam wanted nothing more than to get back to their motel and perhaps cry a little bit in the shower while he scrubs all the facepaint away. Dean, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to go on every de-zombie-clowned ride twice.
Obviously, Dean won.
(Since Dean got over things enough to start using ‘you chose a demon over your own brother’ as a trump card in arguments, Sam’s been riding a lot more Chair-O-Planes, eating a lot more food that comes deepfried on sticks, and licking a lot more walls than he ever thought possible.)
“I’ve won seven goldfish,” Sam tells Castiel, because Castiel has been following him around ever since Dean abandoned them for the florescent Screaming Wall Of Death three hours ago.
If he won’t stop staring at Sam, then Sam won’t stop giving him a running commentary. It’s as simple as that.
“Your aim is commendable,” Castiel says.
“I’m going to put them all in the bath before Dean takes a shower,” Sam adds.
“Far out,” Castiel says, gravely.
Sam sighs. “I can’t believe Dean let you watch Woodstock,” he mutters.
Castiel politely applauds when Sam wins another goldfish.
Half an hour later, Sam’s busy eating his weight in cotton candy, sat on a bench surrounded by little plastic bags of goldfish which make all the passing children stare at him in awe and wonder and sometimes confusion, when Castiel materialises in front of him.
“I require a small amount of money,” he says, holding his hand out. “I plan to exchange it for small rubber balls which I shall then throw at a number of coconuts.”
“Knock yourself out,” Sam says, handing him five dollars.
“No, Sam,” Castiel says with a frown. “That is not the objective of the game.”
“It’s - never mind. Go throw balls at coconuts, man. Have some cotton candy,” he adds, holding the stick out to him.
Castiel stares down at the stick of cotton candy, then up at Sam, then back down at the cotton candy. It goes on for a little while.
“It doesn’t actually bite,” Sam says, after it just gets awkward.
“I am aware of the lack of mastication capacity of spun sugar,” Castiel says. “But thank you for the assurance. I will repay you for your generosity,” he adds, reaching out a tentative hand and tugging away some of the cotton candy at last. He tucks the sticky blob of sugar into his pocket and then, after conscientiously wiping his hand on the lapels of his trenchcoat, pats Sam on the head.
“You,” Sam pauses. “You just patted me on the head.”
“Perhaps,” Castiel says. He looks - as far as Castiel’s range of expressions goes - surprisingly shifty.
“Um,” Sam begins to say, and then Castiel dematerialises. Shiftily.
Sam gives the rest of his cotton candy to the nearest small child. He’s starting to feel a little ill.
“I can’t feel my face,” Dean announces, collapsing onto the bench next to Sam. “Or legs. Or hands.”
“I think you just sat on one of my goldfish,” Sam says.
“Shit. Jesus. Really?” At Sam’s nod, Dean cautiously lifts himself up and peers underneath. “Oh,” he says.
“Yeah?” Sam says.
“Yeah.” Dean nods and, with all the solemnity he can presumably muster, brushes the bench off before lowering himself back down onto it. “Well, that’s a relief. I thought I’d pissed myself.”
“Oh my god,” Sam says. “How are we even related?”
Dean pats him on the shoulder bracingly. “Don’t worry, bro. I’ll get you one of those deep-fried twinkie-wrapped choc-chip sausages on a stick. That’ll cheer you up.”
“Oh my god,” Sam says again, because it bears repeating.
“That’s the spirit,” Dean says, brightly. He picks his way through the plastic-bagged sea of goldfish with extreme care, which is something, at least. A tiny little something.
Sam buries his head in his hands and prays for salad.
“Sam,” a voice above him says.
“Dean, I really don’t think-” Sam begins, raising his head, and then he stops speaking, because there’s a giant pink rabbit staring down at him and it’s brought all its fluffy, over-sized friends along with it.
For months afterwards, Sam will maintain that screaming was the perfectly logical reaction.
“Hey Cas,” Dean says. “Hey… giant stuffed animal collection. Hey Sam. I got you that deep-fried twinkie-wrapped choc-chip sausage on a stick.”
“Why can’t I have normal friends,” Sam says - okay, whimpers - from where he’s curled up on his bench, surrounded by his posse of goldfish and stuffed animals. Castiel is patting him on the head again. Somewhere around pat number 137 it stopped being awkward.
“Sam attempted to strangle me,” Castiel says, mournfully. “He believed I was an evil toy.”
“I’m wearing facepaint,” Sam wails, burying his head in his arms.
Castiel pats him a bit more. “There there,” he says. “There.”
“You guys have a weird sex life,” Dean says. “I’m going now.”
He backs away through the minefield of goldfish and eats the deep-fried twinkie-wrapped choc-chip sausage in the car, watching in the rearview mirror as Castiel attempts to give Sam a hug.
It’s delicious.
*
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Castiel
Summary: Sam, Dean and Castiel spend a fun-filled evening at the fair.
Posting date: November 2009
Written for memphis86's prompt in the Sam/Castiel commentfic meme.
*
After putting a stop to Clancy the Teen Necromancer and his accidental army of zombie clowns, Sam wanted nothing more than to get back to their motel and perhaps cry a little bit in the shower while he scrubs all the facepaint away. Dean, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to go on every de-zombie-clowned ride twice.
Obviously, Dean won.
(Since Dean got over things enough to start using ‘you chose a demon over your own brother’ as a trump card in arguments, Sam’s been riding a lot more Chair-O-Planes, eating a lot more food that comes deepfried on sticks, and licking a lot more walls than he ever thought possible.)
“I’ve won seven goldfish,” Sam tells Castiel, because Castiel has been following him around ever since Dean abandoned them for the florescent Screaming Wall Of Death three hours ago.
If he won’t stop staring at Sam, then Sam won’t stop giving him a running commentary. It’s as simple as that.
“Your aim is commendable,” Castiel says.
“I’m going to put them all in the bath before Dean takes a shower,” Sam adds.
“Far out,” Castiel says, gravely.
Sam sighs. “I can’t believe Dean let you watch Woodstock,” he mutters.
Castiel politely applauds when Sam wins another goldfish.
Half an hour later, Sam’s busy eating his weight in cotton candy, sat on a bench surrounded by little plastic bags of goldfish which make all the passing children stare at him in awe and wonder and sometimes confusion, when Castiel materialises in front of him.
“I require a small amount of money,” he says, holding his hand out. “I plan to exchange it for small rubber balls which I shall then throw at a number of coconuts.”
“Knock yourself out,” Sam says, handing him five dollars.
“No, Sam,” Castiel says with a frown. “That is not the objective of the game.”
“It’s - never mind. Go throw balls at coconuts, man. Have some cotton candy,” he adds, holding the stick out to him.
Castiel stares down at the stick of cotton candy, then up at Sam, then back down at the cotton candy. It goes on for a little while.
“It doesn’t actually bite,” Sam says, after it just gets awkward.
“I am aware of the lack of mastication capacity of spun sugar,” Castiel says. “But thank you for the assurance. I will repay you for your generosity,” he adds, reaching out a tentative hand and tugging away some of the cotton candy at last. He tucks the sticky blob of sugar into his pocket and then, after conscientiously wiping his hand on the lapels of his trenchcoat, pats Sam on the head.
“You,” Sam pauses. “You just patted me on the head.”
“Perhaps,” Castiel says. He looks - as far as Castiel’s range of expressions goes - surprisingly shifty.
“Um,” Sam begins to say, and then Castiel dematerialises. Shiftily.
Sam gives the rest of his cotton candy to the nearest small child. He’s starting to feel a little ill.
“I can’t feel my face,” Dean announces, collapsing onto the bench next to Sam. “Or legs. Or hands.”
“I think you just sat on one of my goldfish,” Sam says.
“Shit. Jesus. Really?” At Sam’s nod, Dean cautiously lifts himself up and peers underneath. “Oh,” he says.
“Yeah?” Sam says.
“Yeah.” Dean nods and, with all the solemnity he can presumably muster, brushes the bench off before lowering himself back down onto it. “Well, that’s a relief. I thought I’d pissed myself.”
“Oh my god,” Sam says. “How are we even related?”
Dean pats him on the shoulder bracingly. “Don’t worry, bro. I’ll get you one of those deep-fried twinkie-wrapped choc-chip sausages on a stick. That’ll cheer you up.”
“Oh my god,” Sam says again, because it bears repeating.
“That’s the spirit,” Dean says, brightly. He picks his way through the plastic-bagged sea of goldfish with extreme care, which is something, at least. A tiny little something.
Sam buries his head in his hands and prays for salad.
“Sam,” a voice above him says.
“Dean, I really don’t think-” Sam begins, raising his head, and then he stops speaking, because there’s a giant pink rabbit staring down at him and it’s brought all its fluffy, over-sized friends along with it.
For months afterwards, Sam will maintain that screaming was the perfectly logical reaction.
“Hey Cas,” Dean says. “Hey… giant stuffed animal collection. Hey Sam. I got you that deep-fried twinkie-wrapped choc-chip sausage on a stick.”
“Why can’t I have normal friends,” Sam says - okay, whimpers - from where he’s curled up on his bench, surrounded by his posse of goldfish and stuffed animals. Castiel is patting him on the head again. Somewhere around pat number 137 it stopped being awkward.
“Sam attempted to strangle me,” Castiel says, mournfully. “He believed I was an evil toy.”
“I’m wearing facepaint,” Sam wails, burying his head in his arms.
Castiel pats him a bit more. “There there,” he says. “There.”
“You guys have a weird sex life,” Dean says. “I’m going now.”
He backs away through the minefield of goldfish and eats the deep-fried twinkie-wrapped choc-chip sausage in the car, watching in the rearview mirror as Castiel attempts to give Sam a hug.
It’s delicious.
*