The day of the finale, with anxiety among those of us who were unspoiled at a crazy high, the lovely monkiedude threw out a few ficlet prompts:
Sam can read Dean's mind (literally).
Dean accidentally makes Sam cry (this, obviously, can be young!Winchesters).
Dean has a kid.
SAM has a kid.
Spring Break of Sam's senior year of high school.
Dean asks a girl to the prom.
I took her up on some of them (and since I wussed out on the middle two, let us draw a veil over the past and never speak of this again). I think I'm going to expand the second one into a full-fledged fic, so comments (on that one especially) would be more than welcome.
Sam can read Dean's mind (literally)
It took Sam much longer than it should have to catch on. “Sam” he kept hearing at odd moments, whispers that made him think of Jess. But his blood didn’t skitter in his veins, and he supposed that closing in on the demon, the goddamn demon, meant that he no longer needed nightmares to goad him forward. “Sammy” he heard, and it might have been his mother, delicate and dark until she caught and held the light within her. Only when he turned to look at Dean, could almost see his name trembling on his brother’s lips, did he realize he’d finally found his way into a place that had always been open to him.
Dean accidentally makes Sam cry
“This is the grossest thing ever, Sammy,” Dean observed.
“It’s not gross! You’re gross!” Sammy shouted, trying and failing to kick Dean in the shin.
“I’m not the one who thinks two spoons of Chocolate Quik, one spoon of Strawberry Quik, and hot milk is a special treat,” Dean pointed out. “You usually only want this when you’re sick. You sick, Sammy?” He brushed his brother’s hair aside, startled to see tears in his brother’s eyes, making tracks on grubby, flushed cheeks. He gauged Sammy’s temperature with the back of his hand, pressing against his forehead and cheeks. Sammy leaned into the touch, swaying on his feet, anger apparently forgotten.
Dean scooped him up. “Bedtime for you, Sammy,” he said, heading for the stairs.
“I can walk!” Sammy pouted, recovering his bad mood in record time, wriggling madly. “And I want my milk!”
“Quicker I get you into bed, quicker I can finish making your milk,” Dean pointed out.
Sammy considered the wisdom of that. He slumped in Dean’s arms and held still as he was carried upstairs. A thought occurred to him. “If I gotta go to bed now, then I get a bedtime story, right?”
Dean resigned himself to reading The Hobbit again. With all the stupid voices. He went back down to the kitchen to finish heating the milk.
spring break of Sam's senior year of high school
“Not like you haven’t been to New York city before, Sam.”
Sam stared at his brother, unable to believe Dean was keeping a straight face. When Dean looked up, puzzled by the silence, though, Sam realized Dean was serious. Fine. If Dean is going to play it like that, like the good little soldier Dad turned him into, then he’ll treat him like a four-year-old. “Running through subway tunnels in pursuit of ghouls didn’t leave me a lot of time to go sightseeing,” he bites out. He waits, anger building all over again, remembering that he’d broken his ankle and pitched into a dank puddle; Dean had slung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry that jostled his bones. Dean keeps his gaze down, on the gadget he’s fiddling with, and Sam grabs it and slams it down. This is exactly why he’s getting out of here; if it doesn’t pertain to The Hunt, it doesn’t count in this family, and he’s sick of being told what he wants is unimportant.
“C’mon, Sam,” Dean says quietly, “hotel rooms and tour buses cost money, man. How were you gonna swing that?”
He’s got some cash saved from the years of yardwork he and Dean did over the summers. “I can manage.” He’d always meant to treat Dean, whose own cash had gone straight to Rick in exchange for silver bullets. But he looks down at Dean, empty hands twitching uselessly, and he realizes that Dean has no desire to go. No desire to do anything normal. Dean had hunted a banshee in Charleston instead of going to Myrtle Beach for his own spring break.
First step out the door is the hardest. He’ll mail his forms to Stanford from New York. He’ll be done.
Dean asks a girl to the prom
The thing about landing in a new school at the end of senior year was that you’d missed out on nearly four years of sordid details: who did what with whom under the bleachers, who exchanged heart-and-key pendants, whose bed letterman jackets had landed on. That, as far as Dean was concerned, was just a bonus. He didn’t have to know whose toes he was treading on, and he couldn’t be expected to give a shit if he found out. That ignorance meant he could ask who he damn well pleased to the goddamn prom, have a hot girl on his arm for one night with neither monsters nor decent music around.
Chris had long, strong soccer player legs. Her dark hair, bundled away in a ponytail, would be soft beneath his fingers; it wasn’t shellacked to hell and back with hairspray. And just this morning she’d raised an appreciative eyebrow at the Impala; he knew she wouldn’t give a damn about a limo.
“Hi!” she smiled when he walked up. “You’re new, right? I’m Chris.”
“Yeah. Dean,” he said, only a small smile, no need to hit her yet with the big guns.
She nodded. “Your car is awesome,” she said, all bright and friendly.
He couldn’t help broadening his smile just a little at that. “Want to go to prom in it?”
She peered at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. She looked like she was doing math problems in her head. She looked over at the Impala, gleaming black, and looked at him, dressed in softer black. She grinned. “Yeah.”