On Peen of Death (MMoM Day 2)
May. 3rd, 2016 08:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
were_lemurSupernatural, PG-13 ~650 words, Sam notices a pattern, Dean points out the exception.
Sam Winchester was drunk.
Sam Winchester was very drunk.
Drunk, and weepy. And sprawled out across Dean's bed. Most likely because he had spilled three-quarters of beer number five across his own bed.
"That gives a whole new meaning to sleeping on the wet spot," Dean observed. He pulled the bottle of whiskey out of Sam's grasp. "Did you leave any for me?"
"Sleeping in the wet spot. That's not going to be a problem anymore for me." Sam looked up at his brother with red-rimmed eyes. "I'm giving up sex."
"Why would you do a dumbass thing like that?"
"Because," Sam said, pointing emphatically and enunciating very, very carefully, "Everybody I have sex with ends up dying."
"Not everybody."
"Dean, I'm two for two!"
"Wait, what, you were never with anybody before Jess?"
"No!"
"So you were, what, a twenty-one year old virgin?"
"Twenty," Sam said. "We did it the week before my birthday."
Dean was, he decided, entirely too sober for this conversation. He poured himself a couple fingers of whiskey, then knocked the glass back. Considered his brother. Repeated the procedure. And, what the hell, he might as well polish off the bottle.
Once he felt the familiar warmth start to work its way through him, he settled himself on the edge of his bed, next to his brother. "You know what your problem is?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"Your sample size is too damn small. It's statistically insignificant. Especially in our line of work."
"So you think I should just -- what? Sleep with more women? Expose them to the danger in my pants?"
Maybe, if Dean had been sober, he would have been able to stop himself from laughing.
But probably not.
"S'not funny, Dean!"
"No. You're right." Dean flopped backward on the bed, so he could look his brother in the face. "It's freaking hilarious."
"No, it's not! Jess is dead! Madison is dead! And if the only way I'm going to stop the dying is by committing myself to celibacy, then so be it. It's cold showers for me."
"Cold showers and hand lotion," Dean corrected.
Sam flipped him off.
Then a thought made its way, rather unsteadily, across Dean's mind. "Not everyone you have sex with dies," he pointed out."
"Yes they do."
"You've forgotten the person you have sex with the most."
"Jess?"
"No, dumbass. You!"
Sam screwed up his face like he was trying to come up with a response. Or maybe just hold back a burp.
"I mean, think about it. If your dick was truly an instrument of death, you should have been dead at, what? Thirteen? Fourteen. Or at the very least, I dunno, developed gangrene on your hand, killed Rosie and her sisters."
"Ew." Sam tried to give him one of his prissy, above-it-all faces. "I can't believe -- no, yes, I do, this is you, I believe you'd have this conversation."
"You're not gonna try to tell me you don't, are you, Sam? Because even with that hair you need to moisturize, you don't need to spend that much time in the shower."
"You take long showers, too."
"I'm not the one who's denying it, Sammy." He grinned. "If you really had a death wish, you could try to do it three, four times in a day."
"That's not the same thing. And you know it."
"It's sex with someone you love," Dean pointed out.
"Shut up."
"You shut up."
"You're the one who keeps talking, Dean." He made a vague gesture with his hand, realized what it looked like, and let it drop to his side. His eyes drifted shut. Then, he started to snore.
He really ought to move his brother and reclaim his bed, Dean thought. Or make him drink water. Both of them should drink water. Or hell, take his own advice and go jack off.
But he'd had a lot of whiskey.
Sam Winchester was drunk.
Sam Winchester was very drunk.
Drunk, and weepy. And sprawled out across Dean's bed. Most likely because he had spilled three-quarters of beer number five across his own bed.
"That gives a whole new meaning to sleeping on the wet spot," Dean observed. He pulled the bottle of whiskey out of Sam's grasp. "Did you leave any for me?"
"Sleeping in the wet spot. That's not going to be a problem anymore for me." Sam looked up at his brother with red-rimmed eyes. "I'm giving up sex."
"Why would you do a dumbass thing like that?"
"Because," Sam said, pointing emphatically and enunciating very, very carefully, "Everybody I have sex with ends up dying."
"Not everybody."
"Dean, I'm two for two!"
"Wait, what, you were never with anybody before Jess?"
"No!"
"So you were, what, a twenty-one year old virgin?"
"Twenty," Sam said. "We did it the week before my birthday."
Dean was, he decided, entirely too sober for this conversation. He poured himself a couple fingers of whiskey, then knocked the glass back. Considered his brother. Repeated the procedure. And, what the hell, he might as well polish off the bottle.
Once he felt the familiar warmth start to work its way through him, he settled himself on the edge of his bed, next to his brother. "You know what your problem is?"
"I'm sure you're going to tell me."
"Your sample size is too damn small. It's statistically insignificant. Especially in our line of work."
"So you think I should just -- what? Sleep with more women? Expose them to the danger in my pants?"
Maybe, if Dean had been sober, he would have been able to stop himself from laughing.
But probably not.
"S'not funny, Dean!"
"No. You're right." Dean flopped backward on the bed, so he could look his brother in the face. "It's freaking hilarious."
"No, it's not! Jess is dead! Madison is dead! And if the only way I'm going to stop the dying is by committing myself to celibacy, then so be it. It's cold showers for me."
"Cold showers and hand lotion," Dean corrected.
Sam flipped him off.
Then a thought made its way, rather unsteadily, across Dean's mind. "Not everyone you have sex with dies," he pointed out."
"Yes they do."
"You've forgotten the person you have sex with the most."
"Jess?"
"No, dumbass. You!"
Sam screwed up his face like he was trying to come up with a response. Or maybe just hold back a burp.
"I mean, think about it. If your dick was truly an instrument of death, you should have been dead at, what? Thirteen? Fourteen. Or at the very least, I dunno, developed gangrene on your hand, killed Rosie and her sisters."
"Ew." Sam tried to give him one of his prissy, above-it-all faces. "I can't believe -- no, yes, I do, this is you, I believe you'd have this conversation."
"You're not gonna try to tell me you don't, are you, Sam? Because even with that hair you need to moisturize, you don't need to spend that much time in the shower."
"You take long showers, too."
"I'm not the one who's denying it, Sammy." He grinned. "If you really had a death wish, you could try to do it three, four times in a day."
"That's not the same thing. And you know it."
"It's sex with someone you love," Dean pointed out.
"Shut up."
"You shut up."
"You're the one who keeps talking, Dean." He made a vague gesture with his hand, realized what it looked like, and let it drop to his side. His eyes drifted shut. Then, he started to snore.
He really ought to move his brother and reclaim his bed, Dean thought. Or make him drink water. Both of them should drink water. Or hell, take his own advice and go jack off.
But he'd had a lot of whiskey.
