Title: Oh Five Hundred
Characters: John, Teen!Sam, Dean
Warnings/Rating: Pre-Series. potty mouth...PG-13
Word Count: 505 - One shot
Summary: The morning after.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not getting paid. Just like playing with the boys. Any mistakes are my own. _
Oh five hundred.
Dean slapped the alarm clock.
Dean groaned. His throat felt like he had eaten crushed glass last night and honestly he did not think that was the case. He curled over on himself, pulling the blanket across his body and shivered a bit. Eyes slitted, he leaned over the edge of the bed and spat into the trash can conveniently sitting at the side of his bed.
God bless, Sam.
He retched again, this time with a little more conviction. Then, tongue to the roof of his mouth he tasted smoke, whiskey and girl.
Slowly he slid his bare feet off the bed, feeling the ice cold of the hard wood floor. It should have made him flinch but he was too tired and too hung over to care. A quick glance at the frosted window showed the sky still dark.
Dean shivered one more time and growled low to himself. He swayed a bit as he got to feet, fumbled for the jeans and boots laying on the floor. He struggled with one leg, hopped a step or two before he banged his shin hard into the nightstand. Pain spiked sharp and he yelped. Who uses a fucking nightstand anyway?
Finally, an absurdly long time later, he had on jeans and boots. He drug a hand across his face and leaned against the pocked dresser. The reflection in the mirror looked rough even to him. Bloodshot, stubbled, a thick smear of what was most definitely not his lipstick across the white T-shirt he had managed to fall asleep in. He raked a hand across his face, freckles standing out sharply against the pale of his skin.
Staggering home last night, it hadn't seemed all that bad. Wasn't driving, the old man couldn't get mad about that. He was a big boy. Legal now in every state. And if he was reeked of smoke and cheap perfume, well that was his business. Vaguely he remembered saying something along those lines. He guessed that he was lucky the old man didn't deck him.
The kicker was Dad was not even supposed to be home, black dog, one state over. So shit.
Three hours sleep and Dean was fucking detailing the Impala.
Dean passed his father's room listening to the heavy snore of a man who was not waking up any time soon.
He shrugged into his jacket. Damn it was cold. It was gonna be cold. He opened the front door and staggered down the steps. Stopped halfway down as the January chill grabbed at his balls.
There was Sam. Buffing rag hanging loosely in his hand, hip to quarter panel. And his girl, she gleamed in the soft beginnings of morning light. Sam grinned, 100-watt smile.
As bright as the deep reflection in the paint.
Dean's muddled brain tried to do the math. Sam had to have been working for hours.
"Duude." There was awe and reverence in Dean's voice.
"Happy birthday, Dean."