rivers_bend

Title: Medley of Ficlets
Characters: Sam, Dean (or Sam/Dean)
Rating: G-PG13
Words: 225-275
Spoilers: none
Summary: Four prompted ficlets, set from the time before Sam knew about the hunt through when the boys were hunting together.



For ennui_blue_lite who wanted cute weechesters.

Dad would totally give Dean the look if he knew, but he's not here—he doesn't have to put up with Sam's wobbly lip—so Dean doesn't care. Sam's too young to understand what Dean has against Halloween, and he wants to go to his school's carnival. Wants to dress up.

Soon, Dean's gonna practice resisting that lip.

Sam said wistfully that he wanted to go as Batman, but even he knows that ain't gonna happen on the twelve bucks Dean has to last them until Dad gets back sometime next week, and after they examine the things Dean came up with rummaging through the bags out the back of Goodwill, they settle on Pirate.

Sam already has a pair of jeans ripped across both knees that Dean helps him cut into shorts, and even though the stripes go the wrong way and it's technically a ladies blouse, once they've tied some rope around Sam's waist that looks pretty good too. Dean gives him a scruff of beard with an old piece of charcoal he finds in the barbecue out by the motel's pool, and there's a bandana to tie around his head. For a finishing touch, Dean makes him a treasure map out of an old torn pillowcase he charms out of the maid.

The carnival is just as lame as Dean thought it would be, but Sam beats all the other second graders to win first prize for his costume and gets to take home the biggest bag of candy Dean's ever seen.




For deirdre_c who asked for Sam/Dean swimming laps.

Sam's arms were jelly and he was starting to wonder why he'd ever thought trying out for the swim team was a good idea—Dean was gonna laugh and Dad was gonna forbid it or move them on anyway—but he had two more lengths to go, and was determined to show he was just as good as these assholes with their country club memberships.

At the end of thirty lengths, Sam was the middle of the pack. Six guys done already, seven still swimming. "Winchester?" Coach checked his name and wrote something on his clipboard when Sam nodded. A glance at the clock confirmed Sam had twenty minutes to shower and change before Dean was due to pick him up. If he was lucky, he could swim and no one would have to know.

But then he saw the Impala parked near the fence and, when he looked towards the gate, Dean leaning against a post, boots and leather jacket totally out of place, expression on his face unreadable.

"… posted on Monday," Coach was saying when Sam snapped back to what was happening in the pool. All the other boys were hauling themselves out of the water. Ignoring Dean, Sam followed them to the locker room.

When he came out Dean was behind the wheel listening to the Def Leppard tape Sam had shoved in the deck that morning. He didn't laugh when Sam climbed in, just gave Sam a half-smile and said, "You gonna invite me to the meets?"




For flawedamythyst who requested Sam/Dean painkillers.

"Are you drunk?" Dean asks, and Sam tries to answer, he does, but whatever the hell is in these pills has him pretty much paralyzed.

"Sam?" Now Dean sounds like he's panicking.

"I'm fine," Sam says, but what he hears is "Mmmpfnn," and he really isn't sure if it's his ears or his tongue that got it wrong.

"Jesus, Sam, what the hell?" Now Dean is pulling the sheet off, running his hands over Sam's back, his legs, his ass, like he's checking for broken bones.

Sam remembers that there is very probably blood on the floor by the bed, so Dean's worry isn't completely random.

"Damnit, Sam, answer me!" Hands all over Sam's face, patting, pinching, shaking him, which, woah, totally has to stop, or he's gonna hurl.

"Mmmpfnn," he says again. Huh. Apparently the problem was his tongue.

A clattering clanking noise from above his head, and then Dean is shaking something in his face. "Tell me you didn't mix Tramadol and codeine."

Sam would love to, but he's pretty sure he did, and either way, he still can't make his tongue work. Finally he manages his hand though, and gets it around Dean's wrist. Dean sinks to the floor and rests his forehead on Sam's shoulder.

"You're going to be the death of me someday," he whispers.

Sam refuses to believe it.




For tj_smartz who asked for Sam/Dean wet jeans and scissors.

If the thing had thrown Dean into a pool and not a half-frozen pond; if it was June and not January; if they weren't an hour from civilization with the car's heater on the fritz, Sam might be more willing to listen to Dean's protests. But that's a whole lot of ifs and Sam's not interested in Dean turning into a popsicle or getting pneumonia, so scissors it is.

"Stop being such a baby," he snaps when Dean smacks at his hand and nearly sends the scissors flying out of reach of the headlights' glow.

"That's my dick you're aiming at there!"

"It's the zipper that's stuck." Sam gets a fresh grip on Dean's waistband and the TuffKuts. "I'm being careful."

"Dude, just because the zipper's stuck, doesn't mean that's where you have to cut them."

Which, ok. Good point. Sam aims the lead blade for the side seam instead, sliding it between the freezing wet denim and the thin, goosebumped skin over Dean's hipbone. Sam can't really be blamed for being distracted though. Watching your brother fly through the air and go crashing through soft ice, not knowing if he's ok while you try to shoot a giant bear-cat exactly between the eyes with only a half-full moon and a flashlight to help you aim, then hearing him scream your name like there's another bear-cat after him, well, it takes its toll on a guy's equanimity.

Dean's equanimity is obviously quicker to recover, because when Sam crouches to get closer to what he's doing, Dean says, "While you're down there, I can think of a few ways you could warm me up."



for those of you still waiting for your prompts to be fulfilled, I am still working on them. Fear not