With a Secret to Tell
It wasn't the lamest thing he had ever done trying to get into a chick's pants.
Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine.
Rating: T (Language)
Author's Notes: Written for the Freefalling in 500 Words challenge at spn_het_love on Livejournal.
Sam was sacked out on the couch with a tattered book about Indian mythology spread out across his belly. Nothing in the world could snore louder than his baby brother, not even Bobby's old junkyard dog, and the click of the screen door as it closed was nowhere near a match for the strangled snort barreling its way out of Sam when he shifted on the couch.
Kid didn't realize how lucky he was since there was a noogie with Sam's name on it the second he started adding to his list of all the lame-ass things Dean Winchester did to get into a chick's pants.
Letting some barefoot girl drag him through a goddamn pasture full of sleeping cows for a fucking midnight picnic under an old oak tree didn't exactly top the list but that wouldn't have kept Sammy from making jokes about it during breakfast. Didn't matter whether they were in some diner or sitting at a kitchen table in a broken-down old house because it always ended the same way. The syrup would get knocked over when Dean dove across the table at him and Sam would start screaming like he was twelve and Dad would come up with some midnight training exercise where they ended up covered in mud or blood or both.
Except Dad would probably come up with something worse since they were holed up on a freaking farm, like cutting the head off of the chicken they were having for dinner. It was bad enough that they had spent two days sitting around twiddling their thumbs and listening to crickets while the full moon filled a charm full of luck or whatever the hell was supposed to happen to it before Mrs. Meeks decided that her smelly sack of herbs was ready to take down a Boo Hag out in South Carolina.
But only an idiot would have stood there listening to Sam snore when Alice Meeks flashed a lopsided grin at him over her shoulder – especially when she was waiting at the bottom of the porch steps swinging a basket with a lemon meringue pie tucked inside of it that she had baked just for him.
And her smile was worth a morning of feeding slop to some pigs.
The title is a song lyric from "Ghost Repeater" by Jeffrey Foucault. Y'all know that you should be listening to him by now, right?
This is a companion piece to Your Sorrow for Another Coin, which is still a work-in-progress. My muse is justifiably cranky right now, so I'm following her where she leads. That should be right back to Chapter Six of Sorrow as soon as I post this...