Preface

King of Cups
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/12145410.

Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

Gen

Fandom:

Supernatural

Relationship:

Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester

Character:

Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester

Additional Tags:

Season/Series 01, Humor, Comedy, Mini case fic, Episode Tag

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2017-09-20 Words: 2,268 Chapters: 1/1

King of Cups

by fogsrollingin

Summary

He rolled over, clearly disoriented, but focused on Dean and nodded.

"Meow."

Notes

Just a short funny concept that'd been rolling around in my head. Initially I submitted it to Reddit.com's new profile feature under my username, but imo Reddit remains to be a place where you're better off linking your fanfic, not posting it.

Anyway, this is an episode tag to S1E07 Hook Man. I wrote a tinier ficlet of it before expanding on it/editing it here on my tumblr

Happy readings!

See the end of the work for more notes

King of Cups

Dean leaned against the motel bathroom's door jamb, drying his hands as he stared at his oversleeping brother. He couldn't blame Sam: they'd had a long night last night full of alcohol, many games of cards, and then he'd blacked out. Snips and pieces were coming back to him though - Dean knew he'd offered for them to stay so Sam could spend more time with Lori after they'd stopped the spirit of their hook-handed murderer, Preacher Jacob Karns. Sam had sighed and shook his head, Dean had felt sad for him, and then they were off to a new hunt. That is, until Murph, the painted fratboy, had given Dean a call just as they were on the outskirts of town. Their frat party was a go, and it was all hands on deck prepping the house and rolling the kegs where they needed to go.

Somehow, Dean had gotten them there. Somehow, they'd gotten wasted. And somehow, they'd booked a room at this motel to crash.

And now he needed coffee.

He sighed, stepping over to the foot of Sam's bed before kicking the mattress.

Sam grunted with annoyance under the covers.

"'m-go'n-get-coffee-you-wan'-any-n-bed?" Dean muttered. Sam's head perked up from his pillow, sleep-mussed hair peaking out from under, and Dean smirked with amusement as Sam looked left, then right, then all around the motel room, blinking blearily like he was seeing it for the first time.

He rolled over, clearly disoriented, but focused on Dean and nodded.

"Meow."

Dean raised an eyebrow and began to smile... before he realized Sam was looking so confused.

"Meow," Sam repeated again to himself, looking at the bedspread, completely befuddled.

"Samantha-" Dean cut himself off, wondering why the hell he'd just teased Sam with the name. He wasn't even remotely in that mood.

"I don't know, Deanna!" Sam whispered desperately, eyes widening with disbelief on the last word. "I can't control what I'm saying..."

"What the hell happened last night... in bed?!" Dean cringed and stepped back, hands up. He hadn't meant to say that last part at all.

"Wait..." Sam muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Did we play King's Cup last night... in bed?"

Dean’s eyes drifted away, clearly trying to recall.

"Meow! We totally did! Murph the Studmuffin-" Dean stopped, closing his eyes and clenching a fist in front of him, praying for patience, "the kid you painted," he rephrased, "had that old deck of cards."

"Cursed... in bed?" Sam asked, then clenched his jaw with frustration.

"Maybe." Dean shrugged.

"You really think he could pull something like this off in bed?" Sam countered, then rolled his eyes. Dean covered his mouth.

"Shut up - it's not funny, Deanna."

"Nyet, it's pretty funny, Samantha."

"Nyet?"

Dean shrugged.

"I don't know."

“So...” they both said in unison, and Sam was compelled to get out of bed immediately. Dean found himself clapping loudly at his brother for a second before the two of them jumped to face the far wall of the room, launching into an enthusiastic Marcarena.

"Sam-antha..." Dean's voice wobbled under the energetic moves.

"This is..." Sam criss-crossed his hands on his hips and began the hip swirl with Dean, "so not cool."

They both jumped to face the bathroom.

"When is this gonna stop in bed?!" Dean whimpered, throwing his hands out in front of him for another set with Sam.

"Hopefully only four rotations in bed?" Sam breathed.

"We gotta burn that deck of cards we played with last night."

"Meow, definitely," he replied seriously, eyes determined, and Dean couldn't help but snicker at the sight of his fuming brother clad in his boxers and t-shirt doing the Macarena.

It turned out Sam had been right - the impulse to Macarena relented the minute they ended up facing the same direction they'd started.

Sam went to the bathroom and Dean just sat down on the bed, cradling his head in his hands.

Twenty minutes later, they were no less compromised. Once they'd gotten their coffee, they realized they could only hold their cups in their non-dominant hands, the word 'fuck' was replaced with 'fiddlesticks,' and any time they stood up, they had to clap for each other.

They pulled up to the frat house, covered in spilt coffee, stewing in anger and frustration. After a rough few seconds of applauding one another over the roof of the Impala for having gotten out of their seats, they made a beeline for the house. Beer bottles and solo cups were scattered over the lawn and front porch. The house seemed quiet, and Dean had no doubt most of these kids were still sleeping the party off. He was looking forward to giving them the same rude awakening he and Sam had had... with a tad more violence thrown in if Sam didn't reel him back. With a furtive glance at his brother's dark, stormy expression, he ruled that wouldn't be an issue.

They'd been strategically silent with one another ever since the Macarena, so they walked up the stone porch stairs quietly and when they stopped at the front door, Dean pointed at his chest to indicate he was about to speak so they wouldn't get trapped in synchronized dance again.

"You ready in bed?"

"Oh yeah," Sam sneered, shaking his head, looking up at the house.

Before they could bang on the door, it opened. Sam and Dean found themselves looking at a young, scrawny kid with wire-framed glasses staring up at them.

"Oh my god!" the guy's voice pitched, a spark of recognition hitting him, "where the fiddlesticks did you two go in bed?!"

Sam and Dean blinked at him, shocked. The guy just grinned, looking back and forth between them with happy, bright eyes (if not a little glassy from the party).

Sam shuffled in place, brow deeply furrowed.

"Wait, you... you do know-"

"-That Murph the Studmuffin fiddlesticked us last night in bed? Uh, yeah. He does it to all the pledges. Famous for it, actually. Really weird hypnosis talent. Perfect haze though because it's so harmless." The guy leaned against the door, crossing his arms.

"Uh huh," Dean drawled skeptically, and he exchanged a meaningful look with Sam.

Sam pursed his lips, clearly contemptuous of this 'hazing practice,' and Dean easily anticipated the gold that'd come out of Sam's mouth next.

"Where's Murph the Studmuffin right now in bed?" Sam asked, his voice and posture deep and menacing. Dean and the kid burst into laughter.

"Fiddlesticks!" Sam swore under his breath as he stepped away, realizing intimidation had *not* been the way to go here. At the sight of Dean bent over, hands on knees, reliving the moment, he gave him a light shove.

"Wasn't that funny, Deanna," Sam murmured.

"It was like a Batman voice, Samantha, that was amazing," Dean laughed, getting up and wiping his eyes. He redirected his focus to the kid - the pledge. "Nyet, but really. Where's Murph the Studmuffin?"

"Uh honestly, I'm not sure," the kid chuckled, still getting over Sam's voice, "He might be at classes but his room's in the house so if you want to just chill out here and wait for him, you can," the guy shrugged, gesturing for them to come in. "Since you ditched us last night, you could make up for it by cleaning some of the party up, too."

Dean ticked his head with resentment.

"Where are you going, then, in bed?"

"Class, dude. I've got a presentation, too. Wish me luck," he added, stepping past them.

"MAZEL TOV!" Sam shouted, and Dean thanked the good holy lord that his shout was staggered by a couple seconds. The guy laughed, waved, and took off as the brothers shared a look acknowledging how they'd missed the Macarena by the narrowest of margins just then.

"Can't let that happen again."

"Nyet, we can't," Sam agreed.

They proceeded to step into the sticky-floored, disaster zone of a post-party frat house. At first they silently agreed to just stand in the foyer area, but that was before they watched a young woman with some wild bedhead, smeared mascara, and a not-for-morning-time outfit stepping quietly down the stairs. Actually, that didn't disparage them. It was more the part when she sat down on the bottom of the stairs to put her heels on, and then stood back up. Dean couldn't tell who was more mortified when he and Sam began clapping. Their loud, excessive apologies over the sound of their own applause only served to cause the poor girl further hung-over confusion, and she stumbled out of the house, clearly disconcerted.

As their claps died down, Dean glanced at Sam, who looked shell-shocked.

"I can't believe that just happened," Sam said dully.

"You wanna go find Murph the Studmuffin's room before we pull another stunt like that in bed?"

Sam swallowed nervously, running a hand past his mouth, and nodded: "Meow."

They kept their mouths shut as they climbed the stairs. Once they hit the landing, nothing but hand signals for Sam to go left and Dean right. Most of the doors were closed, but their names were on them so it was a pretty easy search. Sam spotted it quickly.

"Deanna!" Sam hissed, and it dawned on Dean that he was instinctively responding to the name now. He hustled over to Sam and shrugged, a tacit approval they were ready and Sam could open the door: he wasn't going to pull out a gun for this. Meeting that pledge had taken the edge off this mystery and lifted away any impressions this had been done to them maliciously.

It seemed they were still of the same mind to scare Murph, however, because Sam twisted the knob and slammed the door open while Dean launched inside, shouting with his patented authority voice, "FREEZE! POLICE! GET ON THE GROUND!"

A figure jumped a mile under the covers, and suddenly there was Murph.

"WHAT THE FUCK!?" Murph screamed, voice scratched and garbled. He scrambled to do as he was told, struggling to get out of the blankets.

"ON THE FLOOR, MURPH-THE-STUDMUFFIN!" Dean shouted, and Murph had gotten to the floor as he swore in panic, lying prone on the hardwood in just his boxers. It was pretty satisfying to watch for both brothers, but unfortunately it wasn't meant to last.

It took a moment for Murph to register Dean had used his King of Cups epithet, but he got there.

He went quiet, then twitched his head up from his position on the floor, squinting at the two of them before his distress transformed into a giant, beaming grin.

A grin that Dean wanted to smack right off his stupid face.

Murph started chuckling, which morphed into full-fledged laughter.

"Ah, man, you guys got me so good!" he said, standing up. With tortured expressions, Dean and Sam started clapping. This ignited Murph's laughter yet again and chucked them each on the shoulder.

"What the fiddlesticks did you do to us in bed?!" Dean asked, his clapping starting to wan. Sam was staring daggers at Murph while his claps slowed.

Murph smiled, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"King of Cups! The rules wear off after twenty-four hours, though, so don't worry. It's just a thing I do."

"A thing you do in bed?" Sam asked skeptically, then let out an irritated exhale. Dean pouted and twisted his lips to the side, trying to hold back at smile.

"Where do you keep the cards in bed?" Dean asked, and allowed an infinitesimal smirk to get through. "We've gotta burn them, dude. They're cursed."

"What?! No they're not!"

"Meow, they are!" Sam and Dean replied angrily, in unison. They looked at each other, fear in their eyes, as the Macarena rhythm caught hold of them once again.

"Fiddlesticks you, Murph the Studmuffin!" Dean bellowed over the kid's laughter as he stuck his hands forward palms down, palms up, shoulder-shoulder, Sam perfectly in sync with him. "We have guns. When this curse wears off, we will find you," Dean growled, neck-neck hips-hips, uncross, hip swirl, "and we will hurt you. And we will *burn* that fiddlesticking deck of *accursed cards*!" Dean and Sam jumped to the next set.

"And ruin the fun?! Why?!" Murph asked, like he couldn't fathom it.

"You burn them now and we won't go after you," Sam promised, steel in his voice as he danced.

There was a quiet, awkward moment of Sam and Dean just doing the Macarena while Murph considered their threats.

Finally, they jumped to face Murph again and got to stop, freeing Dean up to grab Murph and shove him all the way back to slam against his wall.

"AH! Okay-okay-okay, gees!" Murph gasped. "They're on my desk in the... in the top drawer!"

"Samantha, is it there in bed?" Dean asked gruffly.

"Meow, found them," Sam replied grimly. Dean kept Murph against the wall as he heard the scratch of a lighter and the crackling of paper going up in flames.

Dean kept Murph immobilized but soon grew impatient.

"Almost done in bed, Samantha?!" Dean asked.

"Apparently, nyet," Sam spat back. "Going as fast as I can."

"Ask him if he can't go faster," Murph muttered, grinning.

"Shut up," Dean shoved him against the wall again and Murph chuckled, clearly still getting a kick out of this.

"All... right... I think that did it," Sam murmured and Dean turned around to see the remains of the cards in the wastebasket.

"Try to say meow," Dean suggested, then looked up at Sam, eyes wide.

"Fiddlesticks!" they both said together, in unison, again.

Afterword

End Notes

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