Summary: Curtain!Fic with real curtains.
Notes/Acknowledgments: Written for spnspringfling. Betad by waterofthemoon, summarized by ordinaryink, and thought up by unavoidedcrisis who looked at my prompts and said: "omfg dean/sam gencest curtain fic. where they buy curtains. for their nice new apartment."
"Why do we need curtains?" Dean whines as he follows Sam through the store.
"Because if you complain one more time that you can't see your stupid cat game because of the blinds, I'm going to throw your computer off the roof."
"Hey, that game's supposed to improve hand-eye coordination!"
"You broke your hip, Dean; your hand-eye coordination is perfectly fine."
"And it'll stay that way if I keep playing the cat game, Sammy."
Contrary to what Dean thinks, Sam’s ideal day is not actually wandering around a Bed, Bath and Beyond trying to find curtains that Dean won’t be able to light on fire. Though he really does want that purple KitchenAid mixer he saw three aisles and, like, nine hours ago.
“What the fuck is gingham anyway?” Dean asks as he pets a dark blue, crushed velvet curtain.
“Please stop that,” Sam begs, completely weirded out.
“Stop what? Asking questions? I thought you wanted my help, Sammy. ‘I want your input, Dean. You can’t complain if you don’t help, Dean. This is supposed to be a partnership, Dean. I have a giant vagina, and I want to show it to everyone, Dean.’” Sam can tell that Dean sees the awkward muppet face he's making before he sees the little kid and the kid's horrified mom standing right next to him. “Yeah, that’s what you get for dragging your kid here with you.”
“If they kick us out, I’m gonna make you knit yourself the damn curtains,” Sam complains. “And you seriously need to stop rubbing the velvet; if you jizz all over them, they’re gonna make us buy them.”
“You said you wanted something with a design on it, Sammy.”
They end up with thick, red, velvet curtains that look just like the kind they have at old theaters in the movies, plus some some gold rope-like things to secure them because Sam is an idiot when Dean gets that dumb little giddy look on his face. Dean takes great pleasure in directing Sam when they get home—to the actual apartment they have in names that aren’t wanted for a killing spree—exactly how far left the rod should be, and how it’s uneven and off-center and slopes to the right.
“Cut me some slack, jerk. I only have one hand that works,” Sam says as he chugs down the sugar-water Dean is trying to pass off as lemonade.
“Your hand only seems to bitch out on you when you don’t wanna do something, bitch.”
“Yeah, well, you kick awfully hard in bed for someone with a broken hip,” Sam shoots back.
“I have tendinitis, too,” Dean tells him.
“You don’t even know what tendinitis is.”
“It’s where your tendons get all, y’know, tight at night. And you have to kick them out.”
“You are so full of shit,” Sam tells him as he gives up on the curtains.
“What about my cat game?” Dean asks.
Fucked-up hand or not, Sam’s still strong—there's a reason Dean compares him to Babe the Big Blue Ox. But hanging a giant pole for heavy-ass curtains to go on is not really a one-man job, and Sam ends up getting it done with the help of the war hero next door, who has two kids and three medals and will stop having to rely on Sam and Dean to buy him beer in five and a half months.
Sam checks his email and tries to decide if three hundred dollars for a mixer is really as insane as it sounds, and Dean kicks his legs—both the good one and the admittedly gimpy one—up on Sam’s lap and plays his stupid cat game.