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Supernatural Fic: I Can't Quit You Baby
The following story is the combination of:
1. Random shuffle on my Zen
2. Way too much Coleridge
3. Not much in the way of sleep for the past three days
4. Three straight hours of blue-book
5. The fact that I made it through all of this was that I sure as hell wasn't going to die just before a new episode of SPN aired.
So, with apologies to
1. Zeppelin, whose song (or at least its title) sort of inspired this
2. Annie Proulx, whose work, with the exception of The Shipping News, is rather amazing
3. The world at large
I present:
I Can't Quit You Baby
-or-
Supernatural, the Gay Cowboy Remix
-or-
Cursed!Sheep Fic, Which Is Almost as Cracktastic as Yakfucking, Except I Don't Think Anything Can Be as Cracktastic as Yackfucking
Dean does not like Wrangler jeans. He thought they sounded cool when the dude back at the outfitting store suggested them, but he thinks now that he might have been suckered into buying something he’s never going to wear again. Thick seam on the outside, won’t chafe, the man said.
That man was full of shit. Dean survives this particular excursion, he and the man are going to have a little heart-to-heart.
Dean sort of hates horses and wishes Sammy’d just let him rent an ATV and drive up the fucking mountain instead of insisting Dean ride a walking disaster with four legs and a problem with the fact that there’s something sitting on it.
Dean also wishes trees would stop growing their lowest branches so goddamn close to the top of a horse.
“I fucking hate you, fucker,” he tells the horse from his undignified sprawl on the ground.
“Ehh,” huffs the horse. It tries to bite Dean’s hand.
“No,” says Dean sternly.
The horse, unperturbed, chomps at a tuft of grass instead.
Dean takes off his hat and wipes the sweat from his face with his free hand.
“Come on,” says Sam from up ahead. Hooves thunk unevenly on the turf as he brings his horse back towards Dean. “What happened?”
“Horse looked like it wanted something to eat,” Dean said, pointing at the happily munching animal. “Wasn’t in me to deny it.”
“She knocked you off again, didn’t she?” Sam asks.
Dean really wishes Sam would quit calling the horse “she.”
“It did not knock me off,” Dean says. He scratches his head, looks away. “Anyway. How long till we get there?”
Sam squints a little into the sun. Because Dean is a nice brother—unlike Sam—he does not tell Sam that Sam looks stupid when he squints into the sun for no apparent reason other than to show off his cowboy profile.
“’Nother hour or so,” Sam says. He watches while Dean takes a step, wincing at the pain that radiates from his bruised ass. “Maybe two,” he amends.
“Brilliant,” says Dean. He and his horse are going to have a little talk.
---
They camp two miles from the sheep, planning to investigate the locally reported “strange behavior” on the following morning. The tent has a hole in it and is barely big enough for the two of them. Dean always forgets how big Sam is until he’s forced to spend time in close quarters with him.
“Fucker. Move over,” Dean says.
“I can’t,” Sam says.
“Then stop moving,” says Dean, maneuvering himself to lie partially on top of Sam.
He’ll never understand why babies like heartbeats. Sam’s sounds like a fucking marching band.
Four minutes pass.
“I’ll pay you not to sleep with me,” Dean says.
“I think you have that backwards,” Sam says. “Besides, I can’t be bought. I’m a liberated cowboy.”
Another four minutes pass. Unfortunately, Sam’s heart continues to beat.
“Okay,” says Dean. “Not sleeping.”
“Fine,” says Sam. “Let’s have sex.”
They have sex. It’s decent. Sam pokes Dean’s eye with his elbow and at one point a rock underneath the tent (“I thought you made sure there weren’t any rocks!” “There weren’t any!”) digs into Dean’s already-sore thigh. Also, Dean’s beginning to suspect he and Sam might need to have that lube conversation again, because dude, there’s minimizing pain and then there’s swimming in the stuff, and the latter is no fun when the nearest shower is a horse-ride down a mountain.
Sam’s asleep, though.
So. Dean figures, as he drifts off, that he can delay the discussion until tomorrow.
---
There’s something going on with the sheep. They don’t act like sheep. Sheep are supposed to be herd-able, fluffy white things that sometimes die to forward plot in movies with talking pigs and lend their hair to sweater-making and you know. They’re sheep.
Okay, so Dean doesn’t know a whole lot about sheep. But he figures they probably shouldn’t be talking to him.
“We have called this mountain our home for many years,” baas one of the sheep. Dean thinks it’s the leader. Sam is over communing with a flower or some shit, totally oblivious. Dean nods. He doesn’t want to piss off an entire herd of anything, no matter how white and fluffy.
“You and your kind, you come to the mountain, you come with your loud motor-carts and your grass-eaters, and you strip it bare.”
Dean tries a reconciliatory smile. “I’m sorry.”
The sheep baa angrily, and their leader comes a step forward. “We do not demand your pity. We demand your absence.”
“You’ll get that, soon enough. Any way you guys could keep your whole talking sheep thing a little more on the down-low, though? Keep you from attracting other hunters like me. Safer for everybody.”
The sheep leader looks at him with one eye before turning to its flock. They exchange sheep noises. Dean hears footsteps behind him and turns to see Sam approaching. “All right, shorn one,” says the sheep leader. “We accept your terms. Tonight, we invite you to feast as a token of our goodwill.”
“Sure,” says Sam as Dean says, “No thanks.”
“Very good,” says the sheep leader. “Tonight at sunset, I will send an emissary to bring you to the site of our festivities.”
“Cool,” says Sam.
Goddamnit, thinks Dean, and they say he got the brains?
---
“I cannot believe you accepted an invitation to the silence of the lambs.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Sam says. He looks at the two shirts laid out on the bed in front of him. “What should I wear?”
“The green plaid,” Dean says.
Sam frowns. “They’re both green plaid,” he points out.
“Then wear both of them.” Dean thinks this is a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Sam frowns harder. “Or neither,” Dean adds. “I wouldn’t mind neither.”
After a weighty silence, Sam picks up the one on the right and buttons it over his chest.
Dean refuses to wonder what dress code the sheep adhere to. Sometimes he likes to pretend a tiny piece of his pride has remained intact.
---
As it turns out, the sheep hoedown is not so much a feast as a....
Well.
Back up a minute.
The emissary comes at nightfall and looks approvingly at Sam’s shirt. At least, this is what Sam tells Dean; Dean can’t see any difference between the expression on the sheep’s face when it looks at a rock and when it looks at him, so he doesn’t know whether it actually liked Sam’s shirt or whether it just happened to glance at it on its way to looking at Sam’s face.
“I have come to take you to the festivities,” says the sheep, after baaing to announce its presence. “Please follow me, and watch your step.”
When they arrive at the sheep festival, the sheep have strung lights in the bushes. “Where’d you get the electricity?” Dean asks one of the sheep milling around two knee-level tables heaped high with sod and plates of toothpick-skewered berries.
“One of the shepherds who comes here in the summer left us a generator,” says a voice from behind him. Dean thinks he recognizes the sheep leader. “We try to use it only in emergencies and times of great celebration.”
Sam appears at Dean’s side, chewing on a piece of grass. “Great food,” he says. “Really delicate flavors, nice seasoning.”
“Sam,” Dean hisses, smiling at the sheep leader while dragging his brother away, “you’re eating grass.”
“I know,” says Sam. “Isn’t it cool?” He sounds strange, giddy. Almost happy. It throws Dean off as Sam continues to ramble, concluding with, “...and later tonight, they’re going to induct me into their herd.”
“They’re what?” Dean asks. “They’re going to what?”
“Induct me. I’m going to be an honorary sheep.”
“No,” says Dean. He’s officially creeped out by this now. This is not cool. “You’re not getting inducted into the sheep herd.”
Sam frowns. Dean looks stern. Sam pouts. Dean wibbles.
“Fine,” Dean says. “But I’m going back to the camp.”
“Fine,” Sam says. “I’ll stay with the sheep. At least they’re my friends. And they like my hair.”
“Whatever,” says Dean. He starts to walk away. Twenty feet from Sam, a force like a gigantic piece of elastic stretched to its limits and released yanks him back. He barely keeps his feet.
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Back already?”
“Not for long,” Dean says, starting to walk again. This time, he pays attention, puts one careful foot in front of the other until he reaches the edge of the festival grounds.
So maybe it’s less like elastic, more like a rubber band. Dean grimaces at the shooting pain from the knee he hit on a rock in trying to keep his balance. “I can’t leave.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asks.
“I mean,” says Dean, “that I can’t leave. I get twenty feet from you , and something drags me back.”
“I always knew that one day you would discover the power of your love for me,” says Sam. He giggles. Fucking giggles.
Dean does not strangle his brother his with bare hands. He’s a little proud of himself.
“The sheep are doing something,” he says instead. “They’ve, like, bound us somehow.”
“How the hell would the sheep be binding us?” Sam asks. There’s concern in his voice, though, which relieves Dean.
“I don’t know,” says Dean. “But we have to get out of here before the ceremony.”
The sheep leader baas behind them. “You’re not going anywhere, shorn one,” it says. “Your brother has been chosen.”
Dean turns around, but the sheep have him and Sam surrounded, and they don’t look happy. Well, they look like sheep. But they look like unhappy sheep. Three of them are carrying shepherds’ crooks in their mouths. Those three look the least happy, but Dean’s not sure whether that’s because they dislike him personally or because they have to keep a mouth-hold on pieces of wood as long as they are.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Sam says. He drops the rest of the sod to the dirt below his feet. “I’d rather just stay Sam, you know?”
“This is not an option,” says the sheep leader. It advances; the circle grows tighter. Dean eases to the side until he feels Sam’s shoulder against his, senses the warm weight of it.
“That’s really okay.” Sam’s voice has gone higher, unsteady. “Dean and I’ll leave you alone, just let us go.”
The sheep leader nods at one of the three sheep with crooks, which comes towards the center of the circle. “It’s the staff,” Sam whispers. “I think.”
Dean thinks that’s just as good an answer as anything, and even if it turns out that the staff’s just a staff, the worst that could happen is that he ends up with a stick to defend himself from the hordes of angry sentient cotton balls. The sheep’s not quite close enough. Two more steps. One.
Lunging towards the sheep with the crook, Dean wraps a hand around the wood.
When did Sam get that tall? he wonders, staring up at his brother. Sam seems to have sprouted another six feet or so in the last few seconds. Dean’s heard of and experienced growth spurts, but nothing to quite this scale. He looks down. And sees white, curly fur peeking out from the shredded remnants of his shirt.
He tries to yell Sam’s name, but all that comes out of his mouth is a strangled wavering sound, nothing even resembling speech.
And then Sam’s shouting and the sheep are baaing and the sheep leader is thundering “Silence!” every few seconds and the world tips and goes black.
---
Dean wakes up naked in a field surrounded by other naked people also waking up in a field.
On a normal day, this would be a positive turn of events.
“Sam?” Dean asks, raising his head. His head pounds, but his mouth works. He takes the latter as a good sign. “Sam?”
“Dean,” Sam says. “Oh Jesus Dean, I’m. I don’t know, they gave me some of that fucking grass to eat and it made my head weird and I swear, man, I didn’t know.”
Dean lets his head drop back. “Don’t suppose you thought to bring me pants,” he says.
Sam flops down beside him, on top of him, lands a green-tinted kiss on his lips. “I like you better without anyway,” he says.
---
They ride down from the mountain in the middle of a herd of people covered in whatever scraps of cloth they could salvage: strips of blanket, sleeping bag, undershirts, bags. Dean tells the people to wait out of sight of the main road while he and Sam walk into the Wal-mart, buy the dollar t-shirts, the cheap shorts. Sam hands the clothing to the people, then instructs them to wait for another half-hour, still out of sight, until he and Dean can leave unnoticed.
“Thank you,” says one of the people, a greying man with a kind smile. “When we were...we weren’t allowed to talk about it, you know?”
“I get it,” says Dean while Sam hands the man a scrap of paper with his cell phone number on it.
“Don’t hesitate to call,” says Sam.
The people wave goodbye; Sam and Dean exchange the horses for the car and head out of town.
---
A few hours later, Dean can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “How’d you do it?” he asks.
“Do what?” Sam’s rifling through the tape box, even though he must have all the labels memorized by now. Dean makes a mental note to scratch the labels off the tapes themselves and put them in the wrong cases, just to fuck with his brother’s head.
“Break the staff without touching it.”
“Oh. That.”
Dean waits. Sam doesn’t expand.
“I’m serious, dude, how’d you do it?”
Sam smiles a little half-smile and looks away. “I just. I saw you, you know, cursed. Or whatever it was. And it just happened.”
“Oh,” says Dean. He smiles a little himself.
“Yeah,” says Sam. He drops the box down between his feet without putting anything in. They drive in silence for a little while.
“Maybe,” he says, twenty miles along. “I was thinking. I should take up knitting.”
Dean punches him on the shoulder, but he’s grinning, driving and grinning, Sam grinning beside him. And the road. And the sky.
1. Random shuffle on my Zen
2. Way too much Coleridge
3. Not much in the way of sleep for the past three days
4. Three straight hours of blue-book
5. The fact that I made it through all of this was that I sure as hell wasn't going to die just before a new episode of SPN aired.
So, with apologies to
1. Zeppelin, whose song (or at least its title) sort of inspired this
2. Annie Proulx, whose work, with the exception of The Shipping News, is rather amazing
3. The world at large
I present:
-or-
Supernatural, the Gay Cowboy Remix
-or-
Cursed!Sheep Fic, Which Is Almost as Cracktastic as Yakfucking, Except I Don't Think Anything Can Be as Cracktastic as Yackfucking
Dean does not like Wrangler jeans. He thought they sounded cool when the dude back at the outfitting store suggested them, but he thinks now that he might have been suckered into buying something he’s never going to wear again. Thick seam on the outside, won’t chafe, the man said.
That man was full of shit. Dean survives this particular excursion, he and the man are going to have a little heart-to-heart.
Dean sort of hates horses and wishes Sammy’d just let him rent an ATV and drive up the fucking mountain instead of insisting Dean ride a walking disaster with four legs and a problem with the fact that there’s something sitting on it.
Dean also wishes trees would stop growing their lowest branches so goddamn close to the top of a horse.
“I fucking hate you, fucker,” he tells the horse from his undignified sprawl on the ground.
“Ehh,” huffs the horse. It tries to bite Dean’s hand.
“No,” says Dean sternly.
The horse, unperturbed, chomps at a tuft of grass instead.
Dean takes off his hat and wipes the sweat from his face with his free hand.
“Come on,” says Sam from up ahead. Hooves thunk unevenly on the turf as he brings his horse back towards Dean. “What happened?”
“Horse looked like it wanted something to eat,” Dean said, pointing at the happily munching animal. “Wasn’t in me to deny it.”
“She knocked you off again, didn’t she?” Sam asks.
Dean really wishes Sam would quit calling the horse “she.”
“It did not knock me off,” Dean says. He scratches his head, looks away. “Anyway. How long till we get there?”
Sam squints a little into the sun. Because Dean is a nice brother—unlike Sam—he does not tell Sam that Sam looks stupid when he squints into the sun for no apparent reason other than to show off his cowboy profile.
“’Nother hour or so,” Sam says. He watches while Dean takes a step, wincing at the pain that radiates from his bruised ass. “Maybe two,” he amends.
“Brilliant,” says Dean. He and his horse are going to have a little talk.
They camp two miles from the sheep, planning to investigate the locally reported “strange behavior” on the following morning. The tent has a hole in it and is barely big enough for the two of them. Dean always forgets how big Sam is until he’s forced to spend time in close quarters with him.
“Fucker. Move over,” Dean says.
“I can’t,” Sam says.
“Then stop moving,” says Dean, maneuvering himself to lie partially on top of Sam.
He’ll never understand why babies like heartbeats. Sam’s sounds like a fucking marching band.
Four minutes pass.
“I’ll pay you not to sleep with me,” Dean says.
“I think you have that backwards,” Sam says. “Besides, I can’t be bought. I’m a liberated cowboy.”
Another four minutes pass. Unfortunately, Sam’s heart continues to beat.
“Okay,” says Dean. “Not sleeping.”
“Fine,” says Sam. “Let’s have sex.”
They have sex. It’s decent. Sam pokes Dean’s eye with his elbow and at one point a rock underneath the tent (“I thought you made sure there weren’t any rocks!” “There weren’t any!”) digs into Dean’s already-sore thigh. Also, Dean’s beginning to suspect he and Sam might need to have that lube conversation again, because dude, there’s minimizing pain and then there’s swimming in the stuff, and the latter is no fun when the nearest shower is a horse-ride down a mountain.
Sam’s asleep, though.
So. Dean figures, as he drifts off, that he can delay the discussion until tomorrow.
There’s something going on with the sheep. They don’t act like sheep. Sheep are supposed to be herd-able, fluffy white things that sometimes die to forward plot in movies with talking pigs and lend their hair to sweater-making and you know. They’re sheep.
Okay, so Dean doesn’t know a whole lot about sheep. But he figures they probably shouldn’t be talking to him.
“We have called this mountain our home for many years,” baas one of the sheep. Dean thinks it’s the leader. Sam is over communing with a flower or some shit, totally oblivious. Dean nods. He doesn’t want to piss off an entire herd of anything, no matter how white and fluffy.
“You and your kind, you come to the mountain, you come with your loud motor-carts and your grass-eaters, and you strip it bare.”
Dean tries a reconciliatory smile. “I’m sorry.”
The sheep baa angrily, and their leader comes a step forward. “We do not demand your pity. We demand your absence.”
“You’ll get that, soon enough. Any way you guys could keep your whole talking sheep thing a little more on the down-low, though? Keep you from attracting other hunters like me. Safer for everybody.”
The sheep leader looks at him with one eye before turning to its flock. They exchange sheep noises. Dean hears footsteps behind him and turns to see Sam approaching. “All right, shorn one,” says the sheep leader. “We accept your terms. Tonight, we invite you to feast as a token of our goodwill.”
“Sure,” says Sam as Dean says, “No thanks.”
“Very good,” says the sheep leader. “Tonight at sunset, I will send an emissary to bring you to the site of our festivities.”
“Cool,” says Sam.
Goddamnit, thinks Dean, and they say he got the brains?
“I cannot believe you accepted an invitation to the silence of the lambs.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Sam says. He looks at the two shirts laid out on the bed in front of him. “What should I wear?”
“The green plaid,” Dean says.
Sam frowns. “They’re both green plaid,” he points out.
“Then wear both of them.” Dean thinks this is a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Sam frowns harder. “Or neither,” Dean adds. “I wouldn’t mind neither.”
After a weighty silence, Sam picks up the one on the right and buttons it over his chest.
Dean refuses to wonder what dress code the sheep adhere to. Sometimes he likes to pretend a tiny piece of his pride has remained intact.
As it turns out, the sheep hoedown is not so much a feast as a....
Well.
Back up a minute.
The emissary comes at nightfall and looks approvingly at Sam’s shirt. At least, this is what Sam tells Dean; Dean can’t see any difference between the expression on the sheep’s face when it looks at a rock and when it looks at him, so he doesn’t know whether it actually liked Sam’s shirt or whether it just happened to glance at it on its way to looking at Sam’s face.
“I have come to take you to the festivities,” says the sheep, after baaing to announce its presence. “Please follow me, and watch your step.”
When they arrive at the sheep festival, the sheep have strung lights in the bushes. “Where’d you get the electricity?” Dean asks one of the sheep milling around two knee-level tables heaped high with sod and plates of toothpick-skewered berries.
“One of the shepherds who comes here in the summer left us a generator,” says a voice from behind him. Dean thinks he recognizes the sheep leader. “We try to use it only in emergencies and times of great celebration.”
Sam appears at Dean’s side, chewing on a piece of grass. “Great food,” he says. “Really delicate flavors, nice seasoning.”
“Sam,” Dean hisses, smiling at the sheep leader while dragging his brother away, “you’re eating grass.”
“I know,” says Sam. “Isn’t it cool?” He sounds strange, giddy. Almost happy. It throws Dean off as Sam continues to ramble, concluding with, “...and later tonight, they’re going to induct me into their herd.”
“They’re what?” Dean asks. “They’re going to what?”
“Induct me. I’m going to be an honorary sheep.”
“No,” says Dean. He’s officially creeped out by this now. This is not cool. “You’re not getting inducted into the sheep herd.”
Sam frowns. Dean looks stern. Sam pouts. Dean wibbles.
“Fine,” Dean says. “But I’m going back to the camp.”
“Fine,” Sam says. “I’ll stay with the sheep. At least they’re my friends. And they like my hair.”
“Whatever,” says Dean. He starts to walk away. Twenty feet from Sam, a force like a gigantic piece of elastic stretched to its limits and released yanks him back. He barely keeps his feet.
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Back already?”
“Not for long,” Dean says, starting to walk again. This time, he pays attention, puts one careful foot in front of the other until he reaches the edge of the festival grounds.
So maybe it’s less like elastic, more like a rubber band. Dean grimaces at the shooting pain from the knee he hit on a rock in trying to keep his balance. “I can’t leave.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asks.
“I mean,” says Dean, “that I can’t leave. I get twenty feet from you , and something drags me back.”
“I always knew that one day you would discover the power of your love for me,” says Sam. He giggles. Fucking giggles.
Dean does not strangle his brother his with bare hands. He’s a little proud of himself.
“The sheep are doing something,” he says instead. “They’ve, like, bound us somehow.”
“How the hell would the sheep be binding us?” Sam asks. There’s concern in his voice, though, which relieves Dean.
“I don’t know,” says Dean. “But we have to get out of here before the ceremony.”
The sheep leader baas behind them. “You’re not going anywhere, shorn one,” it says. “Your brother has been chosen.”
Dean turns around, but the sheep have him and Sam surrounded, and they don’t look happy. Well, they look like sheep. But they look like unhappy sheep. Three of them are carrying shepherds’ crooks in their mouths. Those three look the least happy, but Dean’s not sure whether that’s because they dislike him personally or because they have to keep a mouth-hold on pieces of wood as long as they are.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Sam says. He drops the rest of the sod to the dirt below his feet. “I’d rather just stay Sam, you know?”
“This is not an option,” says the sheep leader. It advances; the circle grows tighter. Dean eases to the side until he feels Sam’s shoulder against his, senses the warm weight of it.
“That’s really okay.” Sam’s voice has gone higher, unsteady. “Dean and I’ll leave you alone, just let us go.”
The sheep leader nods at one of the three sheep with crooks, which comes towards the center of the circle. “It’s the staff,” Sam whispers. “I think.”
Dean thinks that’s just as good an answer as anything, and even if it turns out that the staff’s just a staff, the worst that could happen is that he ends up with a stick to defend himself from the hordes of angry sentient cotton balls. The sheep’s not quite close enough. Two more steps. One.
Lunging towards the sheep with the crook, Dean wraps a hand around the wood.
When did Sam get that tall? he wonders, staring up at his brother. Sam seems to have sprouted another six feet or so in the last few seconds. Dean’s heard of and experienced growth spurts, but nothing to quite this scale. He looks down. And sees white, curly fur peeking out from the shredded remnants of his shirt.
He tries to yell Sam’s name, but all that comes out of his mouth is a strangled wavering sound, nothing even resembling speech.
And then Sam’s shouting and the sheep are baaing and the sheep leader is thundering “Silence!” every few seconds and the world tips and goes black.
Dean wakes up naked in a field surrounded by other naked people also waking up in a field.
On a normal day, this would be a positive turn of events.
“Sam?” Dean asks, raising his head. His head pounds, but his mouth works. He takes the latter as a good sign. “Sam?”
“Dean,” Sam says. “Oh Jesus Dean, I’m. I don’t know, they gave me some of that fucking grass to eat and it made my head weird and I swear, man, I didn’t know.”
Dean lets his head drop back. “Don’t suppose you thought to bring me pants,” he says.
Sam flops down beside him, on top of him, lands a green-tinted kiss on his lips. “I like you better without anyway,” he says.
They ride down from the mountain in the middle of a herd of people covered in whatever scraps of cloth they could salvage: strips of blanket, sleeping bag, undershirts, bags. Dean tells the people to wait out of sight of the main road while he and Sam walk into the Wal-mart, buy the dollar t-shirts, the cheap shorts. Sam hands the clothing to the people, then instructs them to wait for another half-hour, still out of sight, until he and Dean can leave unnoticed.
“Thank you,” says one of the people, a greying man with a kind smile. “When we were...we weren’t allowed to talk about it, you know?”
“I get it,” says Dean while Sam hands the man a scrap of paper with his cell phone number on it.
“Don’t hesitate to call,” says Sam.
The people wave goodbye; Sam and Dean exchange the horses for the car and head out of town.
A few hours later, Dean can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “How’d you do it?” he asks.
“Do what?” Sam’s rifling through the tape box, even though he must have all the labels memorized by now. Dean makes a mental note to scratch the labels off the tapes themselves and put them in the wrong cases, just to fuck with his brother’s head.
“Break the staff without touching it.”
“Oh. That.”
Dean waits. Sam doesn’t expand.
“I’m serious, dude, how’d you do it?”
Sam smiles a little half-smile and looks away. “I just. I saw you, you know, cursed. Or whatever it was. And it just happened.”
“Oh,” says Dean. He smiles a little himself.
“Yeah,” says Sam. He drops the box down between his feet without putting anything in. They drive in silence for a little while.
“Maybe,” he says, twenty miles along. “I was thinking. I should take up knitting.”
Dean punches him on the shoulder, but he’s grinning, driving and grinning, Sam grinning beside him. And the road. And the sky.
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Thank you.
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Also, “We do not demand your pity. We demand your absence.” DA shoutout YAY!
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Thanks. :)
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ps - friended you
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Welcome aboard. :)
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Thank you. :)
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Oooh, man.
Sammy all drugged and giggly and eating *grass* and his lips all stained green...heeeeee!
And Dean and the horse.
*snerk*
Fun, fun stuff.
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Thanks. *g*
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I totally have to admit I lost it completely at: And they like my hair.
The whole fic is just made of win. :D
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I'm not sure what this means. :P
Hehe, so glad you liked that line. My roommate and I have been making fun of Sam's hair all season (though it has gotten better from the first few episodes.)
Thank you.
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I will never be able too look at sheep the same way again. *g*
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Thanks. Also: I love your icon. Because. Yes.
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Hee.
Very cute, all around.
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And then they drive around the country for a little while while Dean eats granola and finally Sam just says, Look, man, I know you were a sheep for a while, but this shit is crazy, and Dean says, Hey, did you know fish are actually more intelligent than dogs? Sam thinks Dean's just crazy, so he shuts up about it.
Two towns later, they're attacked by a bull possessed by the spirit of a woman whose grave was desecrated in the building of the cattle pasture.
That night, Dean eats a burger, everything on it, ketchup and onions oozing from the sides as he eats. Sam's a little grossed out, but mostly relieved.
Heh. For some reason, your comments always make me do this. :P Anyway, thank you.
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Great fun!
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Extra points for working in the babe reference, because it is fact that it is one of Dean's favourite movies. (He'll deny it, but it's lies, all lies.)
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Thank you. :)
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And the image of Dean straddling a horse isn't so bad, either. ;)
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Thanks.
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*wipes eyes*
Thanks for that.
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Some hours later, I've read most of your SPN stories and been awed by your ability to mix deep emotion, beautiful descriptions and fabulously wry humour. And then you produce marvellous crack like this fic!
So I'm friending you :) This is mainly a fic-reading journal, so don't feel obliged to reciprocate.
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