Newsletter
May. 6th, 2011 02:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coffeebuddhaTitle: Newsletter
Author: coffeebuddha
Rating: PG-13/FRT
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam
Word Count: 456
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Summary: In which Sam is distressed, Dean is oblivious, and somebody needs to learn boundaries.
Notes: Written for a prompt left by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kachera here.
Sam pushes his laptop away slowly, like it might explode if it isn't handled with kid gloves, and he's fairly certain his expression has contorted into something that would have earned him a comment about his face freezing that way if he was about a decade younger. On the other side of the table, Dean is downing chili cheese fries like he thinks someone's going to take them away if he pauses long enough to chew, completely oblivious to Sam's distress. And that's not okay, so Sam makes a small, wounded noise.
Dean gulps down a mouthful of soda in apparent bliss, his lips curving up and his eyes fluttering closed.
Sam waits another second, just to be sure, then makes the noise again, this time a little louder, because he is not going to suffer through this alone.
Dean belches and scratches at his stomach.
No dice.
Sam's appalled expression slips briefly into Bitch Face #17, then settles back into shocked horror. He kicks Dean in the ankle, makes the noise a third time, and looks pointedly at the innocent looking laptop. Dean jumps, nearly upending his drink over his food, and Sam's not even going to pretend he doesn't feel a tiny flicker of disappointment when Dean manages to stop it at the last moment, especially when his brother glares at him and growls out, "What the fuck, man," around a mouthful of half chewed fries.
God, that's disgusting and how are they even a little related?
But there are more important things to consider, so Sam clamps down on his urge to lecture Dean on basic table manners and replaces his pointed look with a pointed finger, because apparently subtle is not the way to go today.
Dean glares at him, but turns to scan the print on the screen, his eyes first narrowing with confusing, then opening wide when he figures out what it's saying. He chokes and sputters, spraying flecks of potatoes and chili everywhere, and actually topples out his chair, which Sam would normally laugh at, except that he's feeling pretty much completely scarred for life right now.
"What the fuck," Dean wheezes from where he's sprawled on the floor once he gets his breathing back under control, his face finally displaying the appropriate amount of horror. "That's just not right."
"It feels like the entire internet just gave me a bad touch," Sam says sadly.
Dean shakes his head like he doesn't even hear him. "Why does that even exist? And how did you get signed up for the goddamned newsletter?"
"Wrong questions," Sam answers, gingerly poking at his laptop with the tip of one finger. "The real question is how the hell did Becky get my email address?"
***
Thanks for reading! Feedback is always overwhelmingly appreciated!
Author: coffeebuddha
Rating: PG-13/FRT
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam
Word Count: 456
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Summary: In which Sam is distressed, Dean is oblivious, and somebody needs to learn boundaries.
Notes: Written for a prompt left by
kachera here. ***
Sam pushes his laptop away slowly, like it might explode if it isn't handled with kid gloves, and he's fairly certain his expression has contorted into something that would have earned him a comment about his face freezing that way if he was about a decade younger. On the other side of the table, Dean is downing chili cheese fries like he thinks someone's going to take them away if he pauses long enough to chew, completely oblivious to Sam's distress. And that's not okay, so Sam makes a small, wounded noise.
Dean gulps down a mouthful of soda in apparent bliss, his lips curving up and his eyes fluttering closed.
Sam waits another second, just to be sure, then makes the noise again, this time a little louder, because he is not going to suffer through this alone.
Dean belches and scratches at his stomach.
No dice.
Sam's appalled expression slips briefly into Bitch Face #17, then settles back into shocked horror. He kicks Dean in the ankle, makes the noise a third time, and looks pointedly at the innocent looking laptop. Dean jumps, nearly upending his drink over his food, and Sam's not even going to pretend he doesn't feel a tiny flicker of disappointment when Dean manages to stop it at the last moment, especially when his brother glares at him and growls out, "What the fuck, man," around a mouthful of half chewed fries.
God, that's disgusting and how are they even a little related?
But there are more important things to consider, so Sam clamps down on his urge to lecture Dean on basic table manners and replaces his pointed look with a pointed finger, because apparently subtle is not the way to go today.
Dean glares at him, but turns to scan the print on the screen, his eyes first narrowing with confusing, then opening wide when he figures out what it's saying. He chokes and sputters, spraying flecks of potatoes and chili everywhere, and actually topples out his chair, which Sam would normally laugh at, except that he's feeling pretty much completely scarred for life right now.
"What the fuck," Dean wheezes from where he's sprawled on the floor once he gets his breathing back under control, his face finally displaying the appropriate amount of horror. "That's just not right."
"It feels like the entire internet just gave me a bad touch," Sam says sadly.
Dean shakes his head like he doesn't even hear him. "Why does that even exist? And how did you get signed up for the goddamned newsletter?"
"Wrong questions," Sam answers, gingerly poking at his laptop with the tip of one finger. "The real question is how the hell did Becky get my email address?"
***
Thanks for reading! Feedback is always overwhelmingly appreciated!