SPN FIC - Battleground
From gryphon2k's prompt: boys at war, with dart guns. The game is on!
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 8.12 and 8.13
LENGTH: 600 words
BATTLEGROUND
By Carol Davis
If he ever - repeat, ever - had a reason to call his brother an asshat, this is it.
So he does.
In a voice that hits a surprisingly broken note, a shrill little squeak that makes Sam grin at him like - well, like a complete asshat.
"The hell, man," Dean squeals.
Sam cackles softly, cradling a gun Dean's never seen before between the palms of his big hands. He fired the thing two-handed, clearly, the way he used to when they were kids and they'd chase each other around Bobby's junkyard. He used to think it made him look cool, that two-handed thing, standing with his feet splayed wide apart.
It made him look like an asshat.
Whatever that gun fires, it hit Dean right between the shoulder blades, in that spot no human being can reach without help, or without being double-jointed. It hit hard enough to bruise, for sure, and the impact point's starting to throb.
Starting to hurt like a bitch.
"That's for the labels," Sam says.
Oh, like that's an excuse.
All Dean did was stick a tiny little label on his forehead while he was sleeping: BATDOUCHE.
"Oh my God," Sam says. "It's a little dart, like, the size of your pinky." To prove his point, he approaches Dean - groaning when Dean scuttles out of his reach - and picks something up off the floor. Yes, all right, it's kind of dart-like. And it looks pretty harmless lying in the middle of Sam's palm, but MAN. Weight plus velocity, Dean thinks crossly, remembering the amount of damage the two of them were able to inflict with a Nerf gun, back in the day.
"Fine," Dean says. "My turn. One shot. I'm thinking, right between the eyes."
"Dude. It's plastic. It hit you and it bounced off."
"It is not plastic. You shot me."
Smirking, Sam reaches around behind himself and produces something he's pulled out from the small of his back.
Another gun.
"Same kind," he says. "Fully loaded. Six shots. Best out of six?"
"I am going to kick your ass."
Sam turns the gun around and holds it out to Dean, butt first. "Summer of '94. Remember? You were ahead, five to four, and before I got a chance to even the score, Dad loaded us in the car and we took off."
"And you've been waiting all this time for your friggin' turn."
"Mm-hmm."
There's a long hallway behind Sam, one that branches into a T at the end. Down here, on the second underground level of the Batcave (and that's what it is, dammit; it's the friggin' Batcave, minus only an atomic reactor), there's a whole warren of hallways and little rooms and passageways and staircases.
There's all kinds of stuff they haven't found yet.
Hiding places.
Hidden vantage points.
"You figure the only reason I won, is that Dad hauled us out of there?" Dean asks. "That's lame, Sammy. Even for you, that's a whole new level of lame. That's like the friggin' Nobel Prize winner of lame."
"So go ahead. Best out of six."
"You -"
Sam hikes an eyebrow.
Smartass.
ASSHAT.
"I get a sixty-second head start," Dean informs him.
Sam grins at him, wide and genuine, and it's like they've taken a trip in the Wayback machine. Back to Bobby's. Back to the summer of '94.
Back to Nerf guns and challenges, and chasing each other around the junkyard in the heat of a South Dakota summer.
"You're on," Sam says.
Dean takes off running, and it's remarkable how that place between his shoulder blades doesn't hurt any more.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 8.12 and 8.13
LENGTH: 600 words
BATTLEGROUND
By Carol Davis
If he ever - repeat, ever - had a reason to call his brother an asshat, this is it.
So he does.
In a voice that hits a surprisingly broken note, a shrill little squeak that makes Sam grin at him like - well, like a complete asshat.
"The hell, man," Dean squeals.
Sam cackles softly, cradling a gun Dean's never seen before between the palms of his big hands. He fired the thing two-handed, clearly, the way he used to when they were kids and they'd chase each other around Bobby's junkyard. He used to think it made him look cool, that two-handed thing, standing with his feet splayed wide apart.
It made him look like an asshat.
Whatever that gun fires, it hit Dean right between the shoulder blades, in that spot no human being can reach without help, or without being double-jointed. It hit hard enough to bruise, for sure, and the impact point's starting to throb.
Starting to hurt like a bitch.
"That's for the labels," Sam says.
Oh, like that's an excuse.
All Dean did was stick a tiny little label on his forehead while he was sleeping: BATDOUCHE.
"Oh my God," Sam says. "It's a little dart, like, the size of your pinky." To prove his point, he approaches Dean - groaning when Dean scuttles out of his reach - and picks something up off the floor. Yes, all right, it's kind of dart-like. And it looks pretty harmless lying in the middle of Sam's palm, but MAN. Weight plus velocity, Dean thinks crossly, remembering the amount of damage the two of them were able to inflict with a Nerf gun, back in the day.
"Fine," Dean says. "My turn. One shot. I'm thinking, right between the eyes."
"Dude. It's plastic. It hit you and it bounced off."
"It is not plastic. You shot me."
Smirking, Sam reaches around behind himself and produces something he's pulled out from the small of his back.
Another gun.
"Same kind," he says. "Fully loaded. Six shots. Best out of six?"
"I am going to kick your ass."
Sam turns the gun around and holds it out to Dean, butt first. "Summer of '94. Remember? You were ahead, five to four, and before I got a chance to even the score, Dad loaded us in the car and we took off."
"And you've been waiting all this time for your friggin' turn."
"Mm-hmm."
There's a long hallway behind Sam, one that branches into a T at the end. Down here, on the second underground level of the Batcave (and that's what it is, dammit; it's the friggin' Batcave, minus only an atomic reactor), there's a whole warren of hallways and little rooms and passageways and staircases.
There's all kinds of stuff they haven't found yet.
Hiding places.
Hidden vantage points.
"You figure the only reason I won, is that Dad hauled us out of there?" Dean asks. "That's lame, Sammy. Even for you, that's a whole new level of lame. That's like the friggin' Nobel Prize winner of lame."
"So go ahead. Best out of six."
"You -"
Sam hikes an eyebrow.
Smartass.
ASSHAT.
"I get a sixty-second head start," Dean informs him.
Sam grins at him, wide and genuine, and it's like they've taken a trip in the Wayback machine. Back to Bobby's. Back to the summer of '94.
Back to Nerf guns and challenges, and chasing each other around the junkyard in the heat of a South Dakota summer.
"You're on," Sam says.
Dean takes off running, and it's remarkable how that place between his shoulder blades doesn't hurt any more.
* * * * *