***** The thing is, there's an art to picking the right ice cream truck. Sam would give Dean hell for that, new ammo for their own battle of eccentricities--how Dean scoffs at the type of coffee Sam drinks, like lattes and mochas or whatever the fuck, and how Dean has this own quirks about food. They're rare quirks, because give him food and he's good, a growing man after all, but once in a while, he'll come across something that won't go down easy.
Or won't go down at all. Like escargot, or something. That's not right.
But when it's ice cream from those squat little trucks, red and blue, jingling music that cues his stomach to rumble-- there's an art.
"Here," Sam says impatiently, giving the man a five dollar bill in the truck as Dean angles his head, trying to lap up the ice cream before it falls. There's sprinkles on his lip that he licks off as Sam gets back his change.
"Dean, I don't see why this couldn't have waited," Sam says. "Though watching you act like you're five is always fun."
"They're different. Taste different," Dean mumbles between licks.
"It's an ice cream cone. With sprinkles."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Dude, don't gimme that shit. There's a difference."
As good as he is telling the difference between ice cream by truck type -- always go for Mr. Softee -- turns out Dean is also good at picking up on a case, especially since the rival truck chugging along in the neighborhood is actually powered by ghosts.
Dean nods at Sam's laptop and the news report in his browser window. "See. Told you so."
"That your tastebuds are Nancy Drew?" Sam says, looking up. "Or the Hardy Boys?"
He grunts, ready to speak but Sam swipes a thumb along his lip, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sprinkle."
"Uh huh," Dean murmurs, lip catching on Sam's thumb, fingers, before he leans in to kiss him softly on the mouth. "Make sure you got some bills left over. Gotta do some follow ups. Taste testing for bad ice cream."
Sam huffs a breath against his mouth, a light laugh before he nudges Dean on the shoulder. It's quick and abrupt, but he's grinning widely, a welcomed sight. "Right."
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Re: Sam/Dean, Vanilla Ice Cream
Date: 2009-07-29 09:09 pm (UTC)*****
The thing is, there's an art to picking the right ice cream truck. Sam would give Dean hell for that, new ammo for their own battle of eccentricities--how Dean scoffs at the type of coffee Sam drinks, like lattes and mochas or whatever the fuck, and how Dean has this own quirks about food. They're rare quirks, because give him food and he's good, a growing man after all, but once in a while, he'll come across something that won't go down easy.
Or won't go down at all. Like escargot, or something. That's not right.
But when it's ice cream from those squat little trucks, red and blue, jingling music that cues his stomach to rumble-- there's an art.
"Here," Sam says impatiently, giving the man a five dollar bill in the truck as Dean angles his head, trying to lap up the ice cream before it falls. There's sprinkles on his lip that he licks off as Sam gets back his change.
"Dean, I don't see why this couldn't have waited," Sam says. "Though watching you act like you're five is always fun."
"They're different. Taste different," Dean mumbles between licks.
"It's an ice cream cone. With sprinkles."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Dude, don't gimme that shit. There's a difference."
As good as he is telling the difference between ice cream by truck type -- always go for Mr. Softee -- turns out Dean is also good at picking up on a case, especially since the rival truck chugging along in the neighborhood is actually powered by ghosts.
Dean nods at Sam's laptop and the news report in his browser window. "See. Told you so."
"That your tastebuds are Nancy Drew?" Sam says, looking up. "Or the Hardy Boys?"
He grunts, ready to speak but Sam swipes a thumb along his lip, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Sprinkle."
"Uh huh," Dean murmurs, lip catching on Sam's thumb, fingers, before he leans in to kiss him softly on the mouth. "Make sure you got some bills left over. Gotta do some follow ups. Taste testing for bad ice cream."
Sam huffs a breath against his mouth, a light laugh before he nudges Dean on the shoulder. It's quick and abrupt, but he's grinning widely, a welcomed sight. "Right."