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A Dean-focused
SCHMOOPFEST!
The Basics:
I think we could all use a little schmoop this hiatus! So, for the month of June, from today up to and including June 30th, I challenge you to write a fic or create a piece of art featuring one (or more, if you’re extra-crafty) of the following schmoopy prompts - with Dean as the one getting all schmooped up, of course.
Schmoop is the name of the game, so your fic/art does not have to include sick!Dean or any kind of hurt/comfort - it’s optional. (Albeit extremely awesome.)
This is a very easygoing challenge, and is done a bit differently than our other challenges in that you can participate anonymously if you'd prefer. I know some people are embarrassed by their schmoopy tendencies. ;D Whatever for, I do not know.
Schedule:
| Posting period | June 1st through to June 30th, submissions to be linked or posted right here in this post (+ directly to the comm if you'd like!) |
Prompts:
Prompt #1: hugs/cuddling
Prompt #2: bed-sharing
Prompt #3: Dean wearing Sam’s hoodie!
Prompt #4: clothes-sharing (i.e.; Dean wearing Castiel’s trenchcoat, pre-series fic with Dean wearing daddy Winchester’s leather coat, or any other variation of clothes-sharing you can think of.)
How this is going to work:
Before we get started: Anonymous posting is enabled and IP tracking is off in case you’re embarrassed by your schmoopy tendencies. Seriously, feel free to be RIDICULOUSLY schmoopy – it’s good for you.
01. There's no need to sign up for this challenge. If you choose to participate, you will have the month of June to write/create art for any of the above schmoopy prompts. Your fics may be full-length or comment-fic length. You can comment to this post with a link to your submission on your journal, or you can comment to this post with your submission in the comments the way you would a comment-fic. If you go longer than one comment, you can reply to your original comment until you have finished posting. And if you choose to post your submission to the comm at any time, that’s great too. Please see what tags are suitable to use in the FAQ, below.
02. People can follow this post and give you love.
03. At the beginning of next month I’ll make a new post with the hopefully schmoop-filled masterlist!
Posting:
All I ask is that when you comment to this post with your fic/art/whatever, you put your title, (if you have one) what prompt you chose, the genre/pairing; e.g.; gen or Sam/Dean, etc., and spoilers (if applicable) in your subject line - or, if there isn't enough room, in the first line of your comment. Please make sure anything porny is clearly marked as such as well, and adhere to LJ's TOS when posting images.
See guideline #1 for more info on posting.
FAQ:
Here are the answers to some questions you may have about the challenge (including a definition of schmoop if anyone is unclear on that.) Feel free to PM me or e-mail me at hoodietime [at] gmail [dot] com if you have any others.
--> Schmoop is generally categorized as fic/art with minimal angst, the kind that gives you that “awwww” feeling. But no worries - nothing will be turned away for not being schmoopy enough or whatever. I know a prompt can run away with a writer and I think it’s great when it does. So angst is fine as well as pure angstless fluff, but as a general rule the comfort should overwhelm the angst in the end.
--> No, your fic/art for this challenge does not have to include sick!Dean or any kind of hurt/comfort, although it would certainly be appreciated.
--> All genres and pairings are loved and accepted here, however this is not an RPF comm. Fictional characters only, please.
--> Fics can be as short or as long as you’d like, and WIPS are fine.
--> Yes, any type of art that fits a prompt is awesome also. Drawings, icons, picspams, etc. - it's all good!
--> You can submit as many entries as you want.
--> As I said above, anonymous posting is enabled and IP tracking is off, so don’t be scared to be as schmoopy as possible!
--> There will be no extensions for this challenge. Entries are due anytime up to and including June 30th. If your submission is posted/linked in the comments to this post by June 30th, you can use the .challenge 2 tag whenever you post, before of after the challenge is over. If you write any fics/have art for this challenge after that date, it won’t be part of the masterlist, but please use our new .amnesty tag and post it to the comm anyway. We’d LOVE to see it whenever!
Okay! Let’s whip up some schmoop!
ETA: The schmoopfest masterlist is now up HERE. Check it out!
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Date: 2010-06-11 03:40 pm (UTC)There she be!!
Prompt #3
Date: 2010-06-15 01:58 pm (UTC)Don't wanna die, Sammy... Gen drawing (http://wataru-kisugi.livejournal.com/)
Promp 4. Part 1/2
Date: 2010-06-16 01:08 am (UTC)“I’ve got nothing to wear.”
It came off as a statement, but the look on Dean’s face was one of pure and utterly confusion. Lost.
To his credit, it was the first time the concept presented itself to him and, like so many other things that Dean was rediscovering about himself, the fact that he didn’t have a single item of clothing to call his own, stroke him now as deeply disconcerting.
To be fair, he did had some clothing. He’d woken up inside a wooden box, dressed in an old pair of jeans and a black tee-shirt, just a couple of hours before. It wasn’t a fashion statement or matter of pride, but Dean refused to wear the same clothes he’d been buried with. It was just one of those things that a guy simply didn’t do.
“Sam kept some of yer stuff,” Bobby’s voice finally answers. “Kept it in some storage place or the trunk of the car... not really sure which.”
Bobby’s finally stopped trying to cut, exorcise, bathe in holy water, salt, burn or shove Dean in front of mirrors a while back, at last convinced that Dean wasn’t any sort of supernatural creature trying to prank him. Or kill him.
Dean still had his doubts. About the not being something else than human part. He had no intention or desire to kill the older man. Especially not after the shower that he’d just taken.
Bobby’s showerhead was... god-sent. It was the only way to describe it in a close to somewhat just form.
Or maybe it was the fact that Dean had been dead for four months and the steady water pressure had managed to wash away more than grave dirt.
Re: Promp 4. Part 2/2
Date: 2010-06-16 01:09 am (UTC)He finished that with a shoulder shrug, critically eyeing Dean’s body, wrapped in one of his towels, a ratty brown thing. It’s not like Dean gained or lost any weight while being dead –while he as in Hell-, it’s just that Winchester boys were always big.
In fact, as far as Dean was able to tell from his shower inspection, he kind of looks exactly the same, save for the weird handprint on his shoulder and the buzz inside his head that he can’t decide if it’s the sound of a thousand screaming voices or the memory of being inside a beehive. Dean’s pretty sure that Hell was nothing like a beehive.
“Thanks. I...” Dean stuttered ahead.
There are a thousand thoughts running through Dean’s mind, swirling around along with the buzz and the voices. He died, and now he’s back. He was in Hell, and now he’s not and Dean has no clue how that happened. And Sam’s around somewhere, but he has cut contact with anyone who knows him. And the way the place he was frigging buried looked, like a nuke had gone off or something, had every alarm bell inside his chest ringing. And there was some sort of energy, massive energy, chasing him around, Dean could feel that much. He just had no idea what to call it.
But it had been the fact that he’d stepped out of that shower and registered that he had no clothes to change into that gave him pause. Of all the weird ass stuff that was happening to him.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean said, ducking his head to hide the amount of gratitude that he was feeling towards that man right then. After all, it was just a shirt and a pair of jeans. And if knew Bobby well, holy ones at that.
Re: Promp 4. Part 2/2
Date: 2010-06-16 02:12 am (UTC)Thanks for being bored.. er.. writing this ;)
Re: Promp 4. Part 2/2
Date: 2010-06-24 01:41 am (UTC)Variation on Prompt #3 Part 1
Date: 2010-06-16 02:29 am (UTC)“Dude, you're not supposed to scratch those.”
“Shut up, Sam.” He snapped, but stopped moving his feet. He'd relieved the bother for now. He listened to his brother go through the few bags he'd carried in and then head into the bathroom. A moment later, he heard the water in the shower running. “What the hell are you doing?”
Sam came back out and pulled the covers back. “Come on...”
“Damn it!” Dean fumbled for the blankets – the room was cold.
“Trust me.” Sam hauled his older brother out of bed and into the bathroom. “Don't you remember? When we had this the first time? Pastor Jim had us take a bath in baking soda – it will help with the itching.”
“A bath? Seriously Sam?” He can't remember the last time he had a bath voluntarily. He sat down on the closed toilet lid, not wanting to admit how tempting the tub that was filling with steamy water looked.
“It'll help. You take a bath and I'll take care of dinner.” He turned the water off, picked up the box of baking soda – added a second shaking to the already generous amount he'd put in to begin with and then headed back into the room.
Re: Variation on Prompt #3 Part 2
Date: 2010-06-16 02:30 am (UTC)He heard his brother come back into the room. “I'm going to leave you a change of clothes out here, so you don't have to dig through your bag.”
Sinking down deeper into the warm water, Dean closed his eyes. “Thanks, Sam.”
“Feeling better?”
“Much.” The baking soda was easing the soreness of his skin and the hot water was doing a good job of keeping his chills at bay. He picked up the second washcloth and dropped it into the water.
“I'm going to go get dinner – I'll be back in about fifteen minutes.”
Dean bit of the retort that there was almost nothing he could eat at the moment and simply said. “Okay.” He closed his eyes as he heard the outer door open and then shut and the lock was snapped into place. He rung out the washcloth that he'd dropped in the water and set it against his face. Oh yeah, that made him feel much better. Maybe it was a combination of the soothing water and the fact that as he rubbed the cloth against the back of his neck – he felt a little cleaner than he had ten minutes ago. Reluctantly, he sat up and pulled the plug. As he stood and pulled the curtain back, he dried himself off and frowned at the pair of flip-flops Sam had left with his clothes. Neither of them had owned a pair of what had to be the most useless shoes in existence since Sam was in college – he only admitted to having them because everyone at Stanford had at least one pair. Grumbling, he stuffed his feet into the offensive shoe, thankful that the pox were on the tops of his feet and not the soles. The last article of clothing in the pile wasn't his – it was Sam's.
Another tiny smile played on his lips as he pulled his brother's hoodie over his head. The sleeves came well past his arms. The sweatshirt was even a size to big for it's owner, so he was practically swimming it it. But it made him feel better. As he shuffled back into the room, he heard the door open and Sam came in, carrying two brown paper bags. A warm, tempting smell of garlic wafted across the room towards him. “Smells good.”
Re: Variation on Prompt #3 Part 3
Date: 2010-06-16 02:31 am (UTC)Dean made his way over to the table and sat, sniffling faintly. “What is it?”
“Trust me, you'll like it.” Sam said, sitting down opposite of him and pulling out his own container and spoon.
Not wanting to argue that the last time his brother had told him that, the food in question had been rhubarb pie – clearly something that didn't deserve the honor of being pie – he opened the container and looked down at the soup within. It was a distinct red color and in an instant, Dean knew what type it was. As he picked up his spoon and stirred the broth, he confirmed his suspicion. He knew Sam didn't know about their mom's tomato rice soup and how she used to make it for him when he was sick. He'd never mentioned it and kept the memory of the times his mom had made it for him tucked away in his mind for his own private viewing. He lifted the spoon to his lips and drank.
“Good?” Sam said from across the table, a spoonful of New England Clam Chowder halfway to his mouth.
“It's great, Sam.” He said with a tiny smile as he took another sip. “Tomato rice?” He said it in a manner that sounded surprised – as if the combination was almost absurd.
“Yeah, they were out of beef barley – that'd probably would have been better for you.”
“This is perfect Sammy.”
And it was.
Re: Variation on Prompt #3 Part 3
Date: 2010-06-16 08:10 am (UTC)Re: Variation on Prompt #3 Part 3
Date: 2010-06-24 01:36 am (UTC)Tatters; Dean, Lisa; gen; prompt #3
Date: 2010-06-24 12:06 am (UTC)Lisa Braeden has known some damaged people in her life. Her father was a vet, Vietnam always buried somewhere in the back of his psyche. He tried to keep it locked inside, to self-medicate with alcohol and cigarettes and work, to keep whatever dark things lurking inside him away from his family. And he mostly succeeded; he was a good father and a reasonably good husband. He died of a heart attack when Lisa was fifteen.
Later, in her wild years, Lisa was drawn to a certain type of man. Wild boys, yes, but damaged souls also. She didn’t need a therapist to tell her what she was looking for, whose approval she was seeking: whose damage she was trying to repair. Dean Winchester had been exactly her type back then: handsome and cocky, all cool car and James Dean leather jacket, something vulnerable in the back of those too-pretty eyes.
After she found she was pregnant, she stopped looking for damaged people. She worked hard, started her own business, bought a nice house in suburbia with the profits and a bit of money her dad had left her. She worked hard to make sure that Ben had what he needed, that his life was sunny and open and simple. She tried not to spoil him: to make sure that he worked hard and did his chores and his homework and kept his room clean. But she tried to keep the shadows from his life as much as possible.
When Dean Winchester turned up on her doorstep for the third time, she knew she had to take him in, shadows or no. Dean was the most damaged person she had ever met: shadow had permeated his existence to the point where it was almost visible as an aura. Grief darkened the hollows beneath those still too-pretty eyes, and clung to every gesture, every step. He was like a puppet, those first days: like someone had cut the string and left him motiveless and broken.
She took him in anyway. Dean was a hero, she knew that much. He’d saved her and Ben and half the neighbourhood a couple of years back, from the bogeyman, or something like it. He’d saved the world, apparently, from something so much bigger and badder than she could even imagine, and lost the person who meant the most to him while doing it. Lisa believed in trying to make the world a better place: she recycled. She taught free yoga classes at a local women’s shelter. She and Ben helped the school raise funds for victims of tsunamis and earthquakes and whatever other disasters. She always had a place to stay for friends fleeing ugly divorces or lost jobs, the ordinary disasters that befell people in the course of life.
It seems only right to do the same for someone who has risked, and, lost, so much.
So she makes up the spare room, and lets him sleep. She holds him when he cries out from his nightmares, though it never goes further than that. She feeds him home-cooked meals. She does his laundry, sorting out the clothes she knows to be Sam’s and packing them, clean and folded, back into the duffel, leaving it in the garage for whenever Dean’s ready to deal with it. Dean, after a day or so of shell-shock, helps around the house, washing dishes, mowing the lawn, fixing a leaky faucet. He’s good with his hands. He plays Xbox with Ben, or shoots hoops in the backyard. He doesn’t talk much.
One night Lisa wakes to a sound from the garage. She finds Dean sitting on the floor, the duffel empty and Sam’s clothes spread around. Dean is rummaging through them frantically, clumsily.
“What’s wrong, Dean?” she asks gently.
“I can’t find it,” Dean says, and she can tell he’s been drinking. He hold his liquor pretty well, but there is something just a little uncoordinated in movements, and his voice slurs slightly. He looks very young, all of a sudden.
“Can’t find what?” she asks, kneeling down to help.
“Sam’s hoodie. S’big and brown, and I can’t find it.” He reminds her of Ben when he was little, trying very hard to be brave and not cry, even though something terrible has happened. Like losing this hoodie is really only to be expected, because that’s how the world works, but it’s maybe the last straw, the last awful thing in a lifetime of awful things.
He breaks her heart.
Re: Tatters, part 2
Date: 2010-06-24 12:06 am (UTC)But when she hands it to Dean, he lights up like Christmas morning. He wraps it around himself, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin, on the floor of her garage. “It’s my brother Sam’s” he tells her earnestly, snuggling into it like the world’s largest security blanket. “Yeah?” she says, smiling in spite of herself. It really couldn’t be anyone else’s. “I thought maybe you stole it from Bigfoot.”
He smiles, suddenly, sun from behind clouds. “One time we were hunting something in the Cascades, thought it might be Sasquatch. Told him he should just stop shaving for a week or two, and they’d think he was their long-lost cousin.” Dean grins at her. “He didn’t think it was funny. Told me it’d be easier just to stake me out & use me as bait.”
“Was it Sasquatch?” Lisa asks, trying to draw him out. Dean laughs. “No, turns out it was just a big ol’ grizzly bear. We turned the whole mess over to the Park Rangers. Sure had fun on that one, though.” He looks down, sadness already creeping back in.
Lisa bites her lip, wondering. She never knows if she should be trying to get talk about it all, or just letting him deal in his own way. She gets up and goes to the shelf above the washer, pulling down a small box that she keeps there to put things she finds in Ben’s pockets.
“This was in the pocket of the hoodie,” she says, pulling something out and handing it to Dean.
Dean looks at the amulet in his hand, then at her. His face kind of crumples, like he’s been sucker-punched. Suddenly he’s crying, actually crying, for the first time since he’s been here. Lisa puts her arms around him and just holds him while he sobs, rubbing little circles into his back with her hand.
Eventually he pulls away, wiping his face. He settles the amulet around his neck, then climbs to his feet and gives her a hand up. He starts re-folding the scattered clothing and putting it back in the bag. Lisa helps. Dean doesn’t seem embarrassed by his breakdown, exactly, but she can see his walls staring to go back up. He seems easier, though, less tension vibrating through him.
Lisa has to go to bed, she has an 8:00 am class to teach and it’s already nearly 3:00. Dean gives her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, for everything,” he says, clutching the amulet. “I never thought I’d see this again.”
Lisa smiles. “You’re welcome, Dean. Get some sleep.” She climbs the stairs to bed, leaving Dean sitting in the dark at her kitchen table, Scotch in hand, wrapped in his brother’s big brown hoodie.
Re: Tatters, part 2
Date: 2010-06-24 01:34 am (UTC)Thanks so much for this.
Re: Tatters, part 2
Date: 2010-06-24 05:51 pm (UTC)I
mayhave a bit of an obsession with the Samulet.Thanks you for coming up with awesome prompts that inspire us to write fic instead of working!
Prompt #3 - Art
Date: 2010-06-26 11:21 pm (UTC)Sulky de-aged!Dean with sniffles, wearing Sam's hoodie
and content de-aged!Dean wearing Sam's hoodie.
+ A weechester kiss on the cheek (http://redrum669.livejournal.com/5501.html#cutid1).
Hope you like 'em :)
Unspoken 1/1 - Prompt one - Dean/Castiel
Date: 2010-06-29 04:08 am (UTC)Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (pt1)
Date: 2010-06-29 09:15 pm (UTC)I hope this is the right level of schmoopy ;-)
Walking in your shoes
It was ridiculous. Dean could still remember clearly the time when Sam used to wear his clothes, re-using them out of necessity and lack of money. He remembered all the bitching and moaning Sammy did, the sighs and pained looks his father would get. Dean could see it in his minds eye, the way his old, tatty jeans slunk off his brother’s hips whenever they weren’t fastened with a belt.
Man, Sam had been skinny, then.
Above all, though, Dean could remember the hurt and devastation on the kid’s features whenever Dad announced that they needed to buckle up and save money, so they could buy more ammo, some much-needed old book, guns, a crossbow.
Dean had practically heard the hope fall from Sam’s face, hitting the floor and shattering whenever the funds were low. What a whiney brat, he had used to think. Survival should be much more important than a dress-code. Hell, if the chicks were digging him in whatever clothes he’d wear, even dirty and smelly, Sam shouldn’t have been so worried that some girl wouldn’t look at him twice. She’d not be worth it if she did, anyway.
As an older brother, it had been his right and his job to poke fun at his brother, at his baggy clothes. Sure, he’d had been kind with his poking, going light on the boy so he wouldn’t be too embarrassed. But teasing was necessary, was natural. Poor kid, he had looked like a refugee, especially in between growing up and growing out.
If he closed his eyes, he would see sixteen-year-old Sam in his old plaid-shirt, the one with the green checks. “That’ll do for a few months more. We might not get to shop clothes for a while.” He’d be able to paint the devastation and utter humiliation on the teen’s face, standing in front of Dad and hearing that. That is, if he ever evolved above crude comics and stick-figures.
Sure, he’d held sympathy for Sam. Tried to be extra nice, only light teasing, no pranks, not even mentioning the ripped-off button on the left cuff. He’d been a good brother, really.
It’s just that Dean never really understood that look on Sam’s face.
tbc
Re: Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (pt2)
Date: 2010-06-29 09:16 pm (UTC)“Dean, do you really think I’d want you to wear my clothes?”
“Yes!”
Though Sam didn’t say anything, his evil grin was confirmation enough.
“I knew it. I’m injured and you delight in torturing me on top of it? What kind of brother are you, anyway…”, the older muttered. Disgusted, he rolled up the legs of Sam’s jeans so they wouldn’t scuffle on the pavement and get ripped underneath the heels of Sam’s clown-sized Tennis-shoes, which were two sizes too big but really the only shoes that would hold on his feet.
Dean wouldn’t have bothered, but Sam made him roll the legs up. He’d demanded it as the price to wear the jeans at all. Not fair, Dean thought, but short of walking around in boxers - Sam’s boxers! – he had capitulated and agreed.
But it was still ridiculous.
“Stop whining. We are on a job, we need to talk to the Henderson’s, work the bars. Also, there is some research due.” Dean didn’t care for the mad glint in his brother’s eyes. With good reasons, it turned out: “I’ll let you do the talking, since I know you hate libraries.”
So he changed into a suit. Sam’s suit, glad that the ill-fitting jacket hid the fact the shirt was too wide for him around the shoulders.
*
“I hate you. I really, really hate you, Sam. So don’t talk to me, not until after dinner!” That was the first thing he said, stepping into the motel and slamming the door shut.
The interview with the very reluctant witnesses of the gruesome and revolting murder had gone as well as expected. Meaning not well at all.
Mr Henderson, fifty-six, bald, fat, disgustingly rich, had looked at Dean like he would look at a cockroach, shortly before stumping it to the floor. Or better, ordering someone to stump it, carefully, so as not to get the marble stained. Hilary, his wife, thirty-three, pretty beyond nature, bored out of her mind, had flirted with him and not only slipped him her number but also a hundred dollars “to buy something pretty, sexy”. Even though Dean wasn’t above taking money offered freely, the beneficial contempt paired with the flirt had stung more than her husband’s open disgust. It had made him feel dirty and somehow used, even though he hadn’t done more than smile at her, teeth clenched painfully.
To top that experience up, he hadn’t even gotten anything, except for a new sympathy for real cops who had to take such crap on a regular basis.
“Awww, is little big brother grumpy? Come on, I’ll take you out. There is this nice diner across the street. Betty from the library said that they made the best pie in the state.”
Not even the prospect of wearing Sam’s jeans and shirts again made Dean lose the happy glimmer in his eyes.
tbc
Re: Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (pt3)
Date: 2010-06-29 09:17 pm (UTC)“Dude, are they staring at us?” Sam turned around, smiling at the other patrons, grinning when their waitress smiled back, a little hesitant.
“Nope. They aren’t.”
Dean wasn’t convinced, though, mostly because whenever he turned around, the people in the diner twisted their heads away in that fast, traitorous motion that indicated secret spying had gone on. He stared at his brother.
“Not at us”, Sam grinned.
With an angry huff, the older brother stood and left, a little disgusted and without even giving Kelly, the cute little waitress, a second glance. He pretended not to notice that Sam hung back and talked to her, even smiling and having fun – at his expense, he was certain.
Dean crossed the street, determined to not leave his room until his clothes were clean and dry again. How much bad luck can you get? Getting bruised from head to toe, getting thrown into a sewer, getting your clothes-duffel thrown in as well, for some strange reason only their recent monster knew about and being stuck in a town where the owner of the only laundromat had declared bankrupt and moved to Tahiti, or Thailand? Turkey. Something with a ‘t’. So now, they had a sealed bag with toxic waste in their trunk, formerly known as his clothes, and not enough time to make the trip to the next city. At least Dean hadn’t drowned in the waste, as it had been the goal of his trip into the gutter. He kinda owed Sam, but man, this was getting real old, real fast.
And he ached with every step, much more so because he damn well refused to let it out in front of Sam. He wasn’t so delusional to believe the geek didn’t know anyway, but he had to keep up appearance, if only for the sake of his own mind.
*
Evening came along and the brothers had to check the local bars for their prey – or at least for the prey of their prey. It was the second bar – “Taylors’ Tavern”, complete with the faultily-placed apostrophe and saw-dust on the floor – where Dean’s attire caused a fight.
Really, how desperate for trouble were these locals that someone in too big clothes was a target for harassment? Did they think he wouldn’t be able to pay for that brew they called beer?
“We don’t want your kind in here” said Yokel one.
“Huh? What kind?” said Dean, not even trying to be cocky, because he couldn’t think of anything that would have made him any kind different from a guy with a beer.
“Dontcha get funny with me, boy!”
“Dan, stop it.” The bartender, Yokel two, big, burly and smelly, interfered. “Look, boy. Maybe it’s better if you leave. You and your… friend.”
Dean looked over to where Sam was chatting with one very uncomfortable looking man in dusty pants and a chequered shirt, obviously just in from his farm.
“Sam? What’d he do?”
“Boy” and this time the bartender was faced with a glare, because really, Dean was thirty-two and the time he let himself be called ‘boy’ by anyone not family was truly over by now. “Just get him outta here, and yourself, and go … somewhere else.”
“I show him the way?” Yokel one asked with a sneer, and even with his bulk he wasn’t really a match for Dean or Sam, but Yokel one – Dan – didn’t seem to think so.
“Look, man. We don’t want trouble, ok? We just came here to…” he didn’t even get to finish his sentence. Dan grabbed his shoulder with a strong, meaty hand and push-pulled him away from the bar, not listening to the resigned “Dan…!” from his friend, Yokel two.
The hand managed to hit one of Dean’s many bruises, so it was nothing but instinct that had Dean flinching and bringing up his elbow to get free and cause pain in his assailant. He heard his brother call him but kinda had too much on his plate to react, because Yokel two was over the bar faster than his bulk would have suggested and yanked him back in order to punch his jaw to brittle. Dean let go of reason and let instinct take over.
Re: Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (pt3)
Date: 2010-06-29 09:20 pm (UTC)The first punches were like a gift. Dean knocked Dan and the bartender around some, feeling happy and delighted about finally being able to get some revenge on someone for the shitty days he'd had. He was fast and precise; knowing where to hit to cause maximum distraction and minimum damage had been one of the important lessons for bar-brawls their dad had given them.
The fight would have been over only minutes after starting, Sam needn't even have to step in, if the local crowd hadn't been loyal enough to form a front against the stranger. But they were and after knocking Dan out and giving Yokel two a bloody nose, Dean fucking tripped over the large shoe and on his too-long pant-legs and stumbled into another attacker. Before he could do anything, he was grabbed from behind and held immobile while some dipshit with a baseball-cap and beady eyes tried to relocate his intestines.
Dipshit got two heavy punches in before Sam grabbed him and knocked him out cold, fury in his eyes and a growl in his throat, warning everyone away from his brother, who was sagging in the grip on his arms and who nonetheless felt a deep sympathy for the poor bastards who would get into trouble with Sam.
The world went fuzzy for a while and when Dean was able to get a clear look around again, he was outside, sitting sideways on the passenger-seat of the Impala, Sam in front of him with a frown on his face that was part exasperation and part concern.
"What the hell happened there, man? You were supposed to ask them questions, not start a fight!"
"Dude, I didn't do anything" Dean groaned. "They started blubbering about 'my kind' and then this fat fucker started punching." He was really puzzled about that. "Dunno what that was all about, I swear!"
Sam sighed and pushed his hair from his forehead. For a minute, before he did that, he had looked years younger, nearly as innocent and young as he had looked after Dean grabbed him away from Stanford. Now though, all the pain and weight was back on his features. Not like a little brother. More like an adult. A long-suffering adult in front of a child who had misbehaved.
"One of them called us fags." Sam offered, taking pity in his brother's puzzled and battered state.
"Why? Did you grab my ass, or what?" It wasn't the first time that assumption had been made, but until now they hadn't been met with violence.
"I guess becauseoftheclothesmaybe?" Sam mumbled, not wanting to laugh and not wanting to cause more misery in Dean about wearing his younger brother's pants. Revenge for years of humiliation was one thing, getting him injured was something completely different.
"What? Great. I told you, this is not right. First, I have to roll up my jeans"
"My jeans"
"Shut up! Second, I trip over the fucking rolled up leg because of these boats I wear, third I get gay-bashed because I wear stuff that isn't mine. What the hell is wrong with those dipshits? Why would anyone assume we fuck, just because my own stuff smells like a sewer?"
It wasn't funny. Not really. Still, Sam couldn't suppress the grin any longer. Dean looked cute with his too-big clothes and the indignation on his face. It wasn't right, his brother wasn't 'cute', he was a hunter and a damn good one at that. He certainly wasn't cuddly or sweet, but the long shirtsleeves that kept riding down over his wrists and that Dean pushed up over and over again… made him look exactly that. Cute. And smaller than he really was. Sam couldn't help the urge to grab and cuddle him, could barely resist, in fact.
"Don't even!" Dean threatened. "Just get me back to my bed. And you better find this thing alone, because I'm not leaving the room until we're on our way out of this town or you find me some clothes that fit me.”
**
Re: Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (pt5)
Date: 2010-06-29 09:22 pm (UTC)Though Sam really tried to help his brother’s misery, there wasn’t a single pair of jeans to find in this town. In fact, there wasn’t even any pair of pants that was fit to be worn by Dean in the convenience-store, no matter the material. Even the hardware-store that sold work-clothes didn’t have a shirt or pants that wouldn’t look funny or wrong on Dean. The whole town seemed to be inhabited by either skinny little guys or fat big ones.
Sam tried, he really did. But all he could come up with were some t-shirts that had roughly the right size and those weren’t enough, since it was November and the temperature didn’t allow for bare arms.
When he returned to the motel, though, his good intentions vanished like sleet on a hot stove.
Dean was sitting on the bed, Sam’s most comfortable pair of jeans –the one that fit best on his brother’s waist – in his lap. In his hand, he held a big and wickedly sharp knife and was just about to cut off the last inches of the legs.
“STOP!”
Sam was mighty pleased about the reaction he got: Dean startled so hard that he actually jumped a bit on the mattress, nearly losing the knife. His eyes were huge and round, his mouth a bit open in surprise. And damn, that didn’t make him look cute and sweet and cuddly. Not at all, in Sam’s hoodie that made Dean's admittedly wide shoulders seem small and made him look thin rather than slim and well-muscled. In short, he didn’t look like a vulnerable little boy, a feat that wasn’t enhanced by the bruised cheekbone he was sporting, and Sam totally didn’t feel like apologizing and hugging the crap out of his brother.
No, not at all.
“You dare to finish this and you’ll be wearing my stuff for the rest of your life, ass-face. I’ll chain you to my wrist if that is what it’ll take”, Sam growled.
Dean didn’t believe that his brother would really go to that extremes, especially since it would be really uncomfortable for both parties, but he did drop the knife, a bit sheepishly. He had hoped to be finished before Sam came back, but since he'd only gotten the idea a few minutes ago, he seemed to have lost the initiative.
“Sorry” he grinned and put the knife back in its sheath. “Did you bring me something?” Hopping off the bed, he hitched the too-wide sweat-pants up.
In all fairness, they were too wide for Sam, too, since his gigantor-brother had a waist that was a bit more narrow than Dean’s. Which made clothes-sharing even more awkward. He had to wear pants that were too long but pinched a bit on his stomach when he sat and felt too tight on his ass, but the legs were so long they wouldn’t ever be considered anything but that: too long.
The freak of nature had been bigger than him for some time now and in the last year, Sam's shoulders had hulked out to unbelievable dimensions. It was unfair that the person who all his life had been at least the slimmer, skinnier brother had bulked his chest and shoulders to a level that made Dean himself look and feel small.
He wasn’t. Small. He knew that. Every time he looked in the mirror or held a woman in his arms he was reassured of that, but living in close quarters with the Incredible Hulk warped his realities sometimes.
***
Re: Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (pt6)
Date: 2010-06-29 09:24 pm (UTC)The look Sam got just now, similar to the one yesterday night, was a bit creepy, too. It was the Sam-Winchester patented “Talking-to-victims-and-small-children-look”, number 18 in the Book of Sam’s Expressions.
Huh. Maybe he could use this to his advantage?
“Did you get me presents? Show me?” he made his own version of the puppy eyes and to his astonishment Sam seemed to melt in front of him. Hee!
“Sorry,” did Sam just hide his eyes in embarrassment? “Couldn’t find anything. Got you some t-shirts, but all short-sleeved. Really, this town is made of strangely-shaped persons, I swear. Not even…”
“Not even what?”
“Noteveninthewomenssectiondidtheyhaveanything”
It took a while, but Dean was so used to Sam’s mumbles that he figured this one out alone. He raised his eyebrows as high as they would go. “You looked in the chick-section? What, not enough that they beat me up for wearing another man’s stuff, now you want me to cross-dress as well? You want me to be kicked out of town, maybe tared and feathered as well?”
“NO!” Sam was horrified, which was a bit of a relief. “Man, there wasn’t anything, and I figured maybe, if the ch…women here were shaped strangely as well... Seems, though, that they are either too big or too slim, just like the guys. And all of them are maybe five feet tall, so…”
Dean grimaced in disgust. The idea of walking around in jeans too short was even more undignified than walking in too long ones, so he should probably be glad that Sam wasn’t a midget instead of a giant.
“Man, I want out of here. Yesterday, preferably.”
“Yeah, I get that. Here” Sam handed over the shirts, still wrapped in the plastic and Dean had to admit that even though they were not going to make a difference under his brother’s button-down-shirts, it felt like heaven to finally wear something that fit. “I found out something, though, so if I’m right, we can finish this hunt and leave tomorrow. Day after if you trip over the jeans again.”
“Haha” Dean bared his teeth at Sam’s teasing remark and accompanying smirk. “Good, what did you find?”
***
Of course Sam was right. When has he ever not been right? Good thing they had left all their stuff in the motel this time, because now they both were soaked and smelled like crap.
But at least the nasty thing was dead and the showers worked and the puppy-eyes had had the desired effect of getting the first shower. Sitting on the bed, even with even more bruises and a sprained ankle and dislocated/re-located/taped-and-splinted finger felt fantastic. Clean sheets, a soft and still firm mattress, clean hair and soapy smell… amazing what those can do to the morale. Even that the shampoo smelled like coconuts and his soap had the distinct aroma of pineapple didn’t spoil his mood any. So he smelled like Pina Colada? Who cared.
Tomorrow they would leave, find a washing-machine or buy new clothes if nothing was salvageable. No more sharing with his little brother; his own boxer-shorts. Fitting shoes! His own socks, which wouldn’t ride down in his boots anymore. Jeans that didn’t pinch and make him stumble and look like an idiot. What else can a man ask for?
And this huge, fleecy, warm and soft hoodie of Sam made him feel all comfy and meek. He snuggled into the pillow and closed his eyes, drifting a bit to the sound of running water from the shower next door.
**
Re: Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (Epilogue)
Date: 2010-06-29 09:25 pm (UTC)When Sam left the bathroom, accompanied by a cloud of steam, he spotted the brother-shaped lump on the bed immediately. Something stuck in his throat at the sight.
Dean was sprawled on the sheets, face mushed into the pillow. He looked peaceful and relaxed, loose-limbed and warm on the mattress, his legs bare, his hair still damp and not spiked into form. He was wearing Sam’s favourite hoodie and the hood, slightly covering his head, made him look all of sixteen, if not younger. He couldn’t even remember when Dean had looked so young. Not when he’d actually been that age, that much was certain.
Being swamped by a hoodie was a good look on him, Sam decided. It made him feel like the one responsible, like he could actually keep Dean safe for once. Like he could make his brother’s life a bit more secure and manageable.
Like being the big brother for once.
~fin~
Re: Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (Epilogue)
From:Re: Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (Epilogue)
From:Re: Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (Epilogue)
From:Re: Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (Epilogue)
From:Re: Filled: Prompt #4 (and 3) (Epilogue)
From:Prompts #1 & #2 - Dean & Sam
Date: 2010-06-30 09:24 pm (UTC)Shivers (http://raloria.livejournal.com/999346.html)