Title: My Ding-a-Ling
By: RavenMerc
Rated: T for adult themes and a bit of language, although if your kid can figure out what's going on, that's on you not me. ;-)
Disclaimer: I own absolutely flipping nothing. Except Andrew the wussy Betta fish.
A/N1: This fic was betaed by my offline friend, KCE. Since I played with it after any and all mistakes remain mine.
A/N2: I blame this fic on the lovely folks at the Serenity movie Browncoat board. They had a thread where the gents (with a few wives chiming in) discussing names for their "packages." I read it, giggled a lot and then this fic demanded to be written. Names are being withheld to protect the guilty.
A/N3: This takes place in Season two sometime between "Playthings" and "Born Under a Bad Sign." The title is from the Chuck Berry song.
AC/DC blared from the speakers in the classic black Impala. The loud music served a double purpose: to stop all unwanted conversations, and to help Dean attempt to relax.
Loud music stopped all talk: discussions of what their next gig was, pit stop requests, requests from his younger brother to kill him if he turned evil. It was the latter that had prompted Dean to play the cassettes at ear-splitting decibels.
Dean Winchester flicked his eyes briefly off the road towards his younger sibling. Sam was quiet, broody and scared.
The former was just Sam being Sam. Quiet, thoughtful and studious. It was the second two that worried Dean. Ever since Sam had learned what their father's last words, he'd been afraid. Afraid of himself. Afraid he'd hurt people, Dean included.
As if, Dean thought to himself. The kid wasn't capable of that. Even when he'd been hurting so badly after the death of his girlfriend, he'd still worried about others. Yeah, he'd lash out occasionally, like anyone in pain, but there'd be an almost immediate apology, sincere and heartfelt. His brother would no more deliberately hurt people than Dean would volunteer to be an Air Force test pilot.
Dean got what was eating his brother. He didn't agree with it, but he got it. What was eating him was the drunken request from his brother.
No frigging way. He hadn't told Sam that, but it just was not happening. Not on my watch.
Dean glanced at the gas gauge in the momentary silence between songs. The gauge was in that mysterious last quarter of a tank section that seemed to last longer than the previous two quarters of a tank. He sighed and absently patted the dashboard of his car fondly. "Next town I'll fill ya back up, girl."
"Why don't you just name it?" Sam asked, his voice a bit gruffer than normal from disuse.
"What?" This came out more than loud enough to drown out the beginning bars of the next track of music. His brother—his brother-- couldn't actually be asking that…could he? In shock, Dean reached over and turned down the music as the next song continued to cycle up.
"The car. You keep calling it a her. Why don't you just get it over with and name it?"
Dean turned and looked at his brother incredulously before directing his immediate attention back to the road.
"Because unlike you, Frances, I'm a guy and guys don't name their cars." I can't believe I have to explain this to him. California's got a lot to answer for.
"Oh, really? If you call it a she, then why not? I've heard you use the same endearments on it as you do on women you're hoping to get lucky with." That sounded some where between an observation and an accusation with the slightly snotty tone that only younger siblings ever manage to achieve.
Dean glanced back at his brother quickly. Sam wasn't hiding his eyes under his hair. But he saw a small spark in his brother's eye that Dean hadn't seen since before Oregon. Hell, since before ...Dean's brain sputtered to a halt. Before.
He shook his head minutely and answered the question. "Because guys just don't. It's in the rulebook. We name ships, planes," Dean shuddered imperceptibly, "weapons and even our equipment, but not our cars."
A choking noise came from the seat next to him. "'Our equipment?' You mean you've named your…"
Dean grinned. "He's got his own brain, he gets his own name. Cassie even had a name for him: Ever Ready."
"TMI, dude, TMI."
"Oh, come on Sammy, you've got a name for yours, too."
Silence greeted that statement.
Maybe he was wrong. My God, Sam was even more of a girl than he'd thought. Or maybe… "Or was it Jess who named him?"
Dean quickly glanced at Sam, gauging his reaction not only to the topic of conversation, but to the mention of his late girlfriend. The hooded eyes and pale face had been replaced, at least for now, with a slightly panicked expression and color in his face. A lot of color.
Yahtzee! Sam had gone from pout to total embarrassment in two seconds flat, which meant Dean had hit the jackpot. Dean's inner sibling lived for moments like this.
"She did, didn't she? She had a pet name for him." Dean crowed gleefully.
"Um, so what do you think about that article about the co-eds who disappear for a day and turn up at the same stretch of road at the same time? Think we should look into it?" Sam tried to deflect him.
Dean chuckled silently. Yeah, like that was gonna work. "GHB. Come on, Sammy, share with the class. What did she call him?"
"Uh, what about the possible poltergeist in Harrisburg? How about if we head there?" The question came out rapidly with a hint of desperation.
"That bad, huh? What, did she call him, Little Sammy?" It was a prick at his brother's pride, but if Dean couldn't do it, nobody could.
"No." Sam's answer came out terse as he leaned forward briefly and turned up Dean's music, and the countryside heard all about AC/DCs 'Big Balls.'
Not gonna work, little brother. Dean leaned forward and turned the music back down.
"Napoleon?"
That got the Sammy Death Glare. "No."
Ah, here was his Sammy, his little brother he'd only seen rare glimpses of since last year.
Annoyed.
Irritated.
Huffy.
Perfect. He couldn't brood if he was too busy being annoyed. And if Dean played his cards right, Sam'd be plotting retaliations soon, which was all to the good in Dean's book.
"Gulliver?"
"No." That came out on an irritated huff complete with a pout. At six-four, his baby brother shouldn't be able to pull off the pouting thing, but there it was all in its former glory: The Pout, destroyer of bedtimes and obtainer of second desserts…from Dean, not their father. Their father had been immune to its effects.
What would a smart co-ed name it anyway? Dean wondered. Maybe something historical. "Marco Polo?"
"No." Sam tried to change tactic again. "Saw a rumor online that Metallica's suppose to be heading back into the studio."
"Cool, about time." Ah, Sammy, you can't deflect me that easily.
One beat.
Dean smirked. Timing was everything, from music to little brother baiting.
Another beat.
Dean saw his brother begin to relax out of the corner of his eye. Wait for it…
A third beat.
"Columbus?"
An M&M bounced off the side of Dean's head.
Dean grinned wolfishly. This was more like it. "Ponce de Leon?"
"NO!" The denial came out as a roar, reminiscent of their father when the boys had been a little too bored on long trips.
Nope, this wasn't get old any time soon. It would at least last until they got to the east coast.
"Magellan?"
It rained M&Ms.
Maybe longer.
END