Nash Note: Well-played. I will see your Winchester-child-naming-nightmare, and raise you an SPN fanfic triple-cringe trifecta in return: Domestic. Baby. Fluff.
Call my fluff-bluff, have ye? [clears throat] Reader. Insert. Mommy.
Ooh, and - Sam. Gets. Dogs. I’m just sayin’, if we’re gonna get down, let’s get dooown, Mariana Trench this mother.
In summation: Nash. Does. Fluff. Y’all enjoy it. It ain’t likely to happen again.
Status: CompleteWord Count: 1.8KCategory: One-shot, Domestic Family Fluff, Husband Dean, Reader Insert Mommy, Sam Has DogsRating: Teen & UpCharacter(s): Dean, Sam, You, Newborn with a stupid name, Rando nursePairing(s): Dean + You, and there’s Sam Feels bonusWarnings: so sweet you’ll need a dentistAuthor’s Note: Post-storyOverall Summary: See above; See Nash Twitch
.A Fluff By Any Other Name.
Dean was waiting for Sam in the hallway.
“No flowers?”
“Uh, she hates flowers. Figured I’d ask what she wants for dinner, run get it.”
“Maybe I would’ve appreciated the flowers.”
“You know, I’m going to let this go, because you’ve had a long day, but not as long as hers, so—”
“Ask me.”
“Ask… what?”
“You know.”
“Dean, did you sneak some morphine, or whatever they’ve been—”
“Ask me what your niece’s name is. Actually, no - ask me what it’s not.”
His voice hadn’t ratcheted down to the deep-deep levels of pissed off - and, to be sure, there were several subtle variations Sam knew well, having been on the receiving end of all of them - but Dean was definitely serious, and had crossed his arms for good measure.
“I legit don’t know where you’re going with—-”
“The dogs. All your foster dogs. You took the good names.”
“Okay, now, that’s— I started volunteering way before she ever got pregnant, before you two even got serious, come to think of it. And I just chose a bunch of names that I thought of off the top of my—-”
“I picked up on that, yeah - around the time you used Jessie. And on that real jumpy, kinda twitchy one, which was extra weird. And was a boy.”
“Wait, wait - that was such a sweet dog, and besides - you really would’ve wanted to name your daughter after my dead fiancée?!”
“Oh, everybody’s dead, Sam!” Dean whisper-hissed. “And, no, not necessarily, but I do wonder what Jessica’d think about that…. about that…. what damn breed was that thing?”
“A mix.”
“Of?”
“A pooset and a corgat.”
“Sam. The hell.”
“A poodle-basset hound mix and a rat terrier-corgi mix shared a special hug—”
“So it’s a poocorgaset.”
Sam stared.
“Corsetpoogat.”
Sam brought a hand up, slowly rubbed his temples.
“Can I pull from the rest of the real names? I mean, ratbassgipoo is turning my crank.”
“But always the poo.”
“Of course always the poo, what the hell good does -dle do anybody?”
The nurse cleared her throat - she was leaning into the hallway, a leg and foot still in the room.
“We’re done. Everything’s looking good. She said for you guys to come on in, but if you’re in the middle of…..”
“No! No, not at all. Hey, and this is my little brother, Sam. Sammy, this is our nurse, she’s been here the whole time, basically delivered Macka… Mmmuh… my kid.”
She raised her eyebrows at that, but smiled, extending her hand and shaking the one offered, introducing herself as Dean slipped past them.
“Uncle Sam, huh?”
“Uh-huh…. oh god, I just now realized that!”
“Eh… could be worse.”
“Yeah?”
“You could have a name that your nurse had to re-write on the birth certificate five times - twice for misspells, then again because she ran out of room. Me. I’m that person. We’re talking about me, here.”
“What was the fourth? Since there was a fifth?”
“Oh, well, that one? Can’t take credit for - under ‘father’s name’, the proud papa got a case of the jitters and wrote your father’s name.”
“Jeez, I’m so… I’m so sorry…”
Sam would’ve sounded sincere if he hadn’t burst out laughing, but she immediately joined in. And though he didn’t know it at the time, he would be sincere with her many more times than not, and he’d be getting plenty of it in return. Starting that night, when he’d ask if she’d be interested in getting coffee sometime. She would be tips-to-toes sincere when saying she hoped to hear from him soon.
They’d still keep bursting into laughter, amongst and in between the sincere times, over a million different things through the years. There’d be the breath-stealing kind, prompted by the action of more amusing-than-scary hunts; the gasp-induced kind, stemming out of nervous relief over the hunts that weren’t; and her favorite, the bent-over, knotted-into-cramps kind, resulting from drunken Dean tales of hunts long past. And then his favorite, when the Winchester kids were raising hell, and there was nothing to do but laugh.
This time, this first time, after the birth of their niece, in the moment they’d met, would ultimately get ranked as the best, though it was followed closely by the tear-tinged round that erupted after another first, when they heard the justice of the peace say the words “husband and wife”.
But that’s another story.
For now, Sam closed the door quietly before tip-toeing to the bed, bending and giving you a kiss on the forehead. He glanced over to the bassinet and back.
“Nice work.”
“Work is right.”
Dean was seated in an armchair next to your bed, unlacing his boots, but paused and looked up at this, tacking on a clarification.
“Work is damn right.”
You winked in acknowledgment before speaking again.
“So listen, while I’ve got you both—-”
“We in trouble already?” Dean asked, changing his seat from the chair to the opposite side of the bed, perching near the end.
“—-I wanted to make sure you knew that I haven’t totally lost my marbles with the name, and I know that’s what you’re both thinking.”
Sam opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Dean just held up his hands in a sort-of surrender.
“Babe, I know I said I’d be fine with whatever you chose, but we ain’t lied to each other yet, and wow - it’s horrible.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t worry. It’s an old family name, and, I mean… we could squeak a nickname out of it… probably… you know how some of these Gaelic names are, it’s hard to tell how to pronounce them on sight.”
“So how’s it pronounced?” Sam asked.
“Get ready,” Dean muttered.
And Sam’s jaw dropped briefly as something largely incomprehensible - possibly worse than the name was on paper - came out of your mouth.
“Sis?”
“Bro?”
“That’s beyond horrible.”
“Yeah, it is. It is a vicious eyesore that she won’t be able to spell for who-knows-how-long, it makes ears bleed, and I’m a garbage parent for it, though I will point out her father was zero help.”
Now Dean’s jaw dropped, but clearly in faux offense.
“I resent that - ‘cause every name I said I liked….”
“….every name we agreed on, that we loved for her….”
“….was already a dog’s name.”
You and Dean turned your heads in unison, leveling looks at Sam.
“I can’t have taken up all of them—-”
“Mary.”
“Jane.”
“Which also took out Mary Jane.”
“Erica.”
“Charlotte.”
“Bobby, which took away ‘Bobbie’.”
“Sandra.”
Dean wrinkled his nose, prompting you to roll your eyes.
“Right, right - Sandy, and we even would’ve been fine with Anne.”
“I haven’t named any of them Sandra or Anne,” Sam pointed out.
“No, but you did name that fire-engine-red cocker spaniel, the one that wouldn’t stop crawling into my lap, Anna - which was a real cute move, by the way,” Dean shot back.
“We’d already 86′d Anna, on your request, and I still haven’t heard that whole story,” you said, jabbing a finger into Dean’s chest before jabbing it in the air at Sam.
“The one that really pissed me off? And I get to be pissed off because of the disaster that currently ismy—”
“Whoa!” Dean interjected.
You gave him brief but pointed side-eye before getting back to fussing at Sam.
“Millie. You took Millie. And she was an adorable dachshund, an absolute doll, but, I mean, come on.”
The tone of your voice had changed, leaving the realm of good-natured teasing and stepping into something akin to disappointment. It wasn’t lost on Sam, who looked to his shoes, swallowing. Then he let his gaze drift to the bassinet, keeping it there even as you went on, though now with gentle care.
“But I get it. We get it.”
“Get what?”
“That menagerie of furry fluff. Thinking they’re it. Only kids you’ll ever have.”
Sam was completely focused, spellbound by the rise-and-fall of the tiny, striped-blanket-bundle’s easy breaths.
Dean’s voice now, definitely deep, definitely serious, definitely one of the subtle variations Sam valued above all the rest, the slightly scolding one that hid a bottomless well of love.
“Can’t know the future, Sammy. I know sometimes we have, but…. nothing’s in stone. I sure as hell didn’t picture this for me. Ever.”
He nodded - it was true, just didn’t feel like it.
“And even if it was? Written in stone? Find another big-ass hammer, grenade launcher, whatever - lay waste, kiddo,” you added.
The baby suddenly jolted herself with a sneeze, causing a reciprocal jolt across her audience. She shifted a little, smacked her lips a few times, didn’t show the first indication of waking up, that anything in her brand new world was even slightly out-of-sorts. Her uncle briefly thought on the realization of how hard he’d fight to keep her in such a place as he brought his eyes back to her parents.
And was surprised to find them grinning.
“What?”
“Check out her bracelet,” Dean said.
Sam looked to you, received a nod.
“Go ahead. She won’t notice.”
She didn’t, but did get a hell of a grip on a finger of the hand that moved her arm, so he slid the bracelet around with a few fingers of his free hand. Sam fought his own grin as he tucked her arm back under the blanket. Well, mostly - he opted to leave her hand out, let the grip remain for as long as she was willing to hold on to him, then raised an eyebrow at his shoulder-shaking, snickering brother.
Dean kept it up as he edged to the head of the bed, scooting in next to you best he could in the cramped space, quieting only when he let his eyes close, no need to see as he tilted on his side, laced his fingers through yours like he’d done a million times before, the metal of matching angel-blessed bands briefly clinking.
“So your nurse… she was in on this?”
You shrugged.
“The father’s name - that part was 100% true.”
Eyes still closed, Dean briefly gave a thumbs-up, took your hand again, went back to his dozing.
You shook your head at him a little, though a smile was on your face as you went on.
“She’s the whole package, my man.”
Sam smiled, too.
“Yeah. I noticed that.”
“Thought you might.”
“Speaking of thoughts, what made you think of it? Not the prank, I mean—”
“Turns out, my great-grandmother had a nice, simple, easily pronounceable, no-brainer spelling, peach of a maiden name.”
“And the story on this middle name?”
“She’ll prove herself worthy.”
“Hardy-har-har.”
“It was the first name on both our lists…”
Even in the dim light, you saw his eyes go shiny.
“…and, we hedged our bets - figured even if you ran out of ideas, you’d never name one of your fluffs after yourself. Thought we’d do it for you.”
Author’s Note: If you genuinely liked this & kinda wanna re-blog it, but you don’t care for my snark as related to my deep-seated loathing of domesticated Winchesters, I made this into a legit, polished, proper, puppy gif included post that lives right HERE.
* ~ * The hell is this about? * ~ * See Nash REALLY Write * ~ *
ASKS FOR THIS ARE CLOSED…. I mean, unless it’s super-killer.
(And IF SO, no more “sweetheart”, as pleased as I am at that apparent Pavlovian response at the sight of my name.)
[Apologias to the rest of you, this will likely be weird and stupid and mean nothing, I just thought of a cringe for someone else, because I’m evil]
@butiaintgonnaloveem - You did not ask for this as I did, but you shall receive because even though I’m *technically* offline doing stuff, this just hit me, since they’re [you’ll see the they] three words each, a la.....
SUCK IT [a special bonus 300]
.
“I have had it with these motherfucking chick-flick moments in this motherfucking apple-pie life!”
Sam blinked.
“Jeez, Dean. You don’t have to scream.”
Soft footsteps entered the room, an equally soft voice to match, the whole shebang, she was softness and goodness and mild and completely average from head-to-toe, this wife of his, and her eyes were glassy upon hearing how her beloved apparently got verbal diarrhea when it came to expressing his true emotions about their life.
He stared.
She sniffled.
Softly.
“Tiff, I’m sorry.”
“......”
“Dean!” Sam hissed.
The tears came then, and his wife announced that she had no idea who that was, but it certainly wasn’t her, because her name was.... was..... was.....
She had no name.
And it hit him.
He knew.
This was a dream. No, not a dream. A nightmare. Not real. His badass gal Tiff was waiting for him, somewhere, he knew it.
So that wasn’t quite true, she was likely off doing her own thing, as waiting around on Dean was her least favorite thing, and it’s one of the reasons why he was digging her, BUT NEVER MIND ALL THAT.
“Sam. Listen to me. We gotta call Nash.”
Sam frowned.
“You mean that chick who made us act all weird? No way.”
Dean’s jaw dropped.
“She’s the only one that showed up here who wasn’t under this spell or curse or whatever it is! And she gave you her phone number in case she could help - which, if you recall, she said she’d do even though she hated my guts!”
“Calm down. Take a few deep breaths, you can exhale in about ten minutes once you realize that you hadn’t realized you’d been holding ‘em.”
“How was I acting before I screamed, huh? And why are you so calm right now? Normally you’d be all weirded out and maybe concerned, instead you’re just acting like a grandma and making that tsk sound under your breath.”
“You were acting normally. We were just hanging out watching sports----”
“We were what? And our lives have been normal, since when?!”
“-----because Y/N was feeling a little under-the-weather, I mean, can you blame her? I would be, too!”
Dean turned, finding himself horrified upon seeing that the gal with no name suddenly appeared to be about 20 months pregnant, so huge he didn’t know how she wasn’t toppling over.
She bit her lip, giggled.
Dean extended a shaky arm, pointed at her.
“S-sammy.... what the s-shit is that?”
“You’re having sextuplets. What is wrong with you?”
“Give me your phone. And where the hell are we, ‘cause I’m gonna have to give her directions.”
“We’re... well, we’re.... it’s a.... you know, with a white picket fence that you and I painted this afternoon.... and there’s....”
Sam trailed off as the fog seemed to leave him.
“We should call Nash! She’s mean as a snake----”
“Now you’ve insulted snakes.”
“----but she’s escaped before, she’ll show us how, I mean, she wouldn’t be that cruel, leave us here just for kicks?”
“Oh, well, yeah. But we gotta try, so give me YOUR PHONE!”
Sam did, and Dean scrolled through all the Y/Ns and Y/N/Ns, stopping at the contact that made him sigh in relief - only to immediately grimace once he saw the number.
“What?” asked Sam.
“I know this number. It has been in my hands before. In our real lives.”
“Huh?”
“The numbers. They spell out SUC-KIT-DICK.”
“Then we’re trapped.”
Dean shook his head.
“No. Not if Nash is summoned here by whatever’s doing it in the first place. And not if she teams up with Tiff. They’ll be pissed enough to punch a hole through to hell and back.”
The brothers turned at the sound of babies crying, as Y/N had given birth without issue and no follow-up whatsoever.
“We best get sucked into another story. Any story. And fast.”
For your 300 challenge — something cringeworthy per your request (blame it on the examples you gave): warm wet hairball (I have cats and I love them but they are gross sometimes so I thought I'd share the joys of cat-parenthood)
[ETA: a keep reading this a.m., because wine made me post without doing so last night, I’m sooo apologizing. I also need to start giving the flurps titles. -N.]
LITTER
It was summer, and underground bunkers don’t circulate air as well as one would think, though it is unclear why one would think this at all, but these are important facts to know, as Sam was practically sweating through his thin, form-fitting t-shirt whilst reviewing some old case notes, which is what he does for fun, making him somehow more attractive, despite the occasional sweat droplet dropleting off the tip of his nose and hitting the paper, flurping up the ink.
He shook his damp hair away from his face, executed with teenage-Bieber fan precision, and here is what his mind was chewing on:
Dean had an interesting relationship with curses and spells and just attracting shit in general, but thinking back, Sam was amazed at the animal thread running through it all, and there all the evidence was, spread out in front of him on one of the heavy, solid, dense, rich-in-tone library tables, where he sat looking over his notes in pondernance, broodingliness, all those perfectly cromulent things one would be whilst looking hot, being hot, all hunched over a nice, long, sturdy, buffed-to-a-shine library table.
Dean had gotten way too involved with hellhounds on more than one occasion, then there was the dog thing, a situation - all things being equal - which Sam did not find all that upsetting, as he felt he owed the canine world a few, which will not be detailed too carefully neither here nor in his mind, because though Sam was good at many things, he was exceptional at forehead creasing and denial.
He stripped off more and more pieces of clothing as the hours ticked by, desperately trying to cool off, because he had to focus.
This wasn’t about him.
Dean was turning into a big ol’, six-foot-and-change, paw-licking, furniture-scratching, litter-box-using - also not going to be detailed here, though kiddie pools and bulk litter buys at superstores are wonderful things, Sam learned - meowing, fur-growing, moments-from-tail-having pussy.
Cat.
So it was that whilst Dean was engaging in his new favorite pastime of trying to lick himself, interspersed with flicking litter all over the bathroom, Sam made the decision to contact a witch - a fact his witch-despising brother never had to know, as far as he was concerned - because there was no way he was going to be able to concentrate, not with all the sweating, and the heat, and how at this point, he was hanging out of in his boxers, though he did throw on a little something when the witch arrived.
She was pretty hot, too, both in temperature and appearance.
Thank heavens for that firm, rock-hard, rigid, takes-a-lickin’-and-keeps-on-dickin’ tickin’ library table, because it wasn’t long before Sam and the witch were doing research of a different sort upon it, and it wasn’t long after that before it was Sam’s turn to be on bottom (you heard me), and not that Dean’s back-arching and hissing from under the war room map table wouldn’t have tipped him off, but he knew for sure that Dean had been aware of his witchcrafty plans when he rolled onto what can only be described as the marinated-in-85-degree-room-temperature product of a six-foot-and-change angry cat’s hack.
This post has been sponsored by wine. Wine: how Nash turns your prompts into something beyond the pale. Find boxes of wine in bulk at your local superstore, just two aisles down from the kitty litter, take a left at the kiddie pools.
This is Sparta, @klaineaholic - hope this kicked you into a pit of giggles.
[PS- Nash Note: Time out - several of those words above aren’t real words. Please don’t use them in fics. Ever. No matter how much I’d love it in my bitchy black heart. Are you hearing me? Don’t think about that whole table thing - I need you to remember those aren’t words. Well. One of them is a made-up word that I didn’t make up, but I did use it incorrectly. Stop thinking about sweaty Sam and library table euphemisms. I can hear you - stop it, I said. Time in.]
* ~ *The hell is this about?* ~ *See Nash REALLY Write* ~ *
SUBMISSIONS CLOSED…. I mean, unless it’s super-killer.
(And no more “sweetheart”, as pleased as I am at that apparent Pavlovian response at the sight of my name.)
Question about your 300 challenge. Do the 3 words have to be cringe-y (like the gif says)? Or can they be just 3 random words?
You bring up a good point, Nonners. This came from the Cringeworthy rounds on At Midnight, which came from a reddit forum. I note they often tend to string the three words together as an almost sentence - like “Easter bunny d*ldo” or “Buck Leming’s writing”. In that case, I’d likely try to use all three, back-to-back, in a sentence.
Other options are, of course, one or two being grotesque, paired with something innocuous like “salami condoms” with “puppy”. I would, of course, have said puppy eat said salami condom. Like you do.
Here’s this just in case I’m being clear-as-mud — it won’t let me embed, but you can watch segments on comedy central, there’s a good handful.
Hey there you go - “good handful spooge”. I would, of course, make sure that last word was the technical name for “ectoplasm” only recently discovered by Sam in THE LORE.
