Untitled #12 (Gen, PG-13)
Title: Untitled #12
Rating: PG-13
Category: Gen oneshot
Word Count: 1406
Characters: Dean and Sam
Spoilers: S1: “Hell House”
Summary: "Post Ep: The no-pranks truce breaks down before they even reach the state line." [gen]
Warnings: None
Author’s Notes: (Squeaking in a day late--sorry!) for spn_nostalgia.
Disclaimer: The following characters and situations are used without permission of the creators, owners, and further affiliates of the television show, Supernatural, to whom they rightly belong. I claim only what is mine, and I make no money off what is theirs.
- - - - -
It started with a pissed-off waitress.
Not that anyone could have seen that one coming, let alone have the ability to look back and recognize that's how it all started, but all that aside, one very upset waitress was the cause. It was her last day, her boss was-in her opinion-treating her like dirt, and as she approached the table where the two guys sat, laughing loudly and snickering like every other pretentious asshole she'd dated, she decided that she'd had enough.
She tipped a drink into the tall one's lap, feigned an apology, and while he ran to the bathroom to dry off his pants, she set the salt and pepper shakers with their loosened lids on the table and forced a smile as she turned away while the shorter one leered at her ass.
Yes, it had been one very pissed-off waitress.
- - - - -
While Sam was in the bathroom, fussing over his pants, Dean shook his head and went to work on salting his french fries because there was no such thing as "too much sodium" as far as he was concerned. Yet, when he tipped the shaker over, the lid fell off and his fries were drowned in the entire container's worth of salt.
Apparently, there was such a thing as "too much sodium" after all.
He glared at the french fries and looked over to the salt shaker and then back to his french fries. The waitress idea never even occurred to him. What did occur to him was remembering the promise with Sam that the prank war was over, but it seemed obvious to him that Sam had not followed through.
And wasn't that just like Sam? Rebellious little bastard.
Dean snorted and shook his head. Oh, well, then it was on. He picked up a fry and tapped it off on the side of his plate, trying to get rid of the salt. It was a lost cause. The fry was still crunchy anyway.
- - - - -
In Minnesota, Dean went out for the night and Sam stayed in to watch some TV. He flicked on the television only to have it blaringly loud as two girls moaned on the screen, naked tits up close and personal. Frantically, Sam scrambled to reach for the remote, to change the channel, to change the volume. To do something to stop the obviously pornographic moans from shaking the walls of the room. He pressed the buttons on the remote, but nothing happened. After a quick check, he discovered that there weren't any batteries.
All right, fine. He could get off the bed and do it the old-fashioned way. When he reached the television set, he saw that the buttons had been pried off and filled in with what appeared to be some sort of putty substance, making it impossible to do anything.
Before he could reach the plug, there was a loud knock on the door. He could hear somebody yelling, but the high-pitched moans of the blond pornstars were drowning out the man's words. Scrambling to his feet, Sam tried to pull the TV away from the wall so he could reach the plug and turn the damn thing off altogether.
Just as he was doing this, the door to his room swung open and the motel owner stood there, red-faced and angry.
"What in blazes is goin' on?" he shouted, stomping across the room to the TV set where one of the girls had her head between the other's legs.
"I-I-I just turned the TV on and it was...I didn't do it..." Sam stumbled.
"'Course ya didn't, ya sick fuck," the man grumbled. He pushed the TV away from the wall and ripped the plug from the socket. The room went silent. "There! Jesus! This is a family place. Try to keep your sick habits somewhat fuckin' discreet, all right?"
Sam nodded mutely, horribly embarrassed. He sank down on the bed as the owner, bitching under his breath, left.
Barely a minute had passed when Dean came nonchalantly strolling into the room. "Hey ya, Sammy," he said, grinning. "Enjoy your TV?" He laughed.
Sam looked up, and it clicked. "You...? You did this?" he sputtered.
As Dean went into the bathroom, laughing, Sam decided that Dean hadn't thought the prank war was over after all. Well, then. Two could play at this game.
- - - - -
One morning after Dean got out of the shower, he stood in front of the mirror to shave and brush his teeth. That morning, he walked out of the shower with peroxide bleach blonde hair.
He stared in the mirror for a long moment. Not that he needed to know who had put the peroxide in his hair, but he wanted to see if he should shave it all off or keep the blonde.
"Sam?" he said, stepping out of the bathroom.
Sam looked up from his bed and seeing Dean, he bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Yeah?" he said, his voice pinched to hold back the giggles.
"This is the best you got? Sheesh. I look like Billy Idol." Dean rolled his eyes. "You're so lame."
Sam finally burst out laughing completely, throwing his head back as he did when he was completely amused with something.
"Laaame..." Dean sang as he turned back and went into the bathroom.
- - - - -
Even though Dean wasn't upset by the new blonde hair--he had discovered that at least it attracted some different sorts of ladies that he hadn't before--he couldn't let Sam get away with it anyway.
What Sam had forgotten was that Dean could sew. He could sew rather well, in fact, given that he had grown up learning how to mend clothes to make them stretch an extra week or two while Sam was growing up and out of shirts faster than John could afford them. It wasn't an ability he flaunted, but he still knew how to use it to his advantage.
Which is why when Sam got dressed a few days later, he discovered-all too quickly-that he could not get into his pants. His feet slid in well enough, but his toes stopped before coming out the legs. The bottoms of his jeans-every single pair he owned-had been sewn shut.
"C'mon, Sam, we need to get dressed. Gotta get going for the day," Dean said, shoving his car keys in his pocket.
Sam pushed against the stitches, figuring that they couldn't bethat strong that he couldn't rip them open with his foot.
After several minutes of pushing and grunting, he learned that, yes, they really were that strong. Damn Dean and his double stitching.
"You comin' or not?" Dean asked.
"I would. But," Sam grumbled, "it seems somebody sewed all my pants shut."
Dean looked down at the pants. He didn't even smile, which Sam had to hand it to him, was pretty impressive. "Well. Looks like you're going to have to rip out those stitches. Or," he said with a shrug, "you can wear my pants for the day."
Sam looked at the stitches. It'd take him a good twenty minutes or so to rip out the stitches without ruining his pants in the process.
He held out his hand. "Just gimme me a pair of yours."
Still straight-faced, Dean handed him a pair which Sam hoped was clean. It wasn't until Sam pulled them on, ends of the pants settling on the middle of his calves and resembling a pair of granny flooders, that Dean began to laugh.
- - - - -
It lasted about two weeks. Just long enough for some super-glue, a block of moldy cheese, and a squirrel to get involved. After the squirrel incident, Sam finally sighed and said, "Truce already?"
Dean paused and scratched his head; his roots were starting to show underneath the blonde. "Yeah, all right. Truce."
They went out to dinner that night where the waitress who had once been the pissed-off waitress from two and half weeks ago was now working. She recognized them from three tables away, and with a glance at Dean's hair and the super-glue remains on Sam's hands, she decided that those two boys had gotten exactly what they deserved. She smiled to herself and wasn't nearly as pissed-off as she had been before.
End
Rating: PG-13
Category: Gen oneshot
Word Count: 1406
Characters: Dean and Sam
Spoilers: S1: “Hell House”
Summary: "Post Ep: The no-pranks truce breaks down before they even reach the state line." [gen]
Warnings: None
Author’s Notes: (Squeaking in a day late--sorry!) for spn_nostalgia.
Disclaimer: The following characters and situations are used without permission of the creators, owners, and further affiliates of the television show, Supernatural, to whom they rightly belong. I claim only what is mine, and I make no money off what is theirs.
- - - - -
It started with a pissed-off waitress.
Not that anyone could have seen that one coming, let alone have the ability to look back and recognize that's how it all started, but all that aside, one very upset waitress was the cause. It was her last day, her boss was-in her opinion-treating her like dirt, and as she approached the table where the two guys sat, laughing loudly and snickering like every other pretentious asshole she'd dated, she decided that she'd had enough.
She tipped a drink into the tall one's lap, feigned an apology, and while he ran to the bathroom to dry off his pants, she set the salt and pepper shakers with their loosened lids on the table and forced a smile as she turned away while the shorter one leered at her ass.
Yes, it had been one very pissed-off waitress.
- - - - -
While Sam was in the bathroom, fussing over his pants, Dean shook his head and went to work on salting his french fries because there was no such thing as "too much sodium" as far as he was concerned. Yet, when he tipped the shaker over, the lid fell off and his fries were drowned in the entire container's worth of salt.
Apparently, there was such a thing as "too much sodium" after all.
He glared at the french fries and looked over to the salt shaker and then back to his french fries. The waitress idea never even occurred to him. What did occur to him was remembering the promise with Sam that the prank war was over, but it seemed obvious to him that Sam had not followed through.
And wasn't that just like Sam? Rebellious little bastard.
Dean snorted and shook his head. Oh, well, then it was on. He picked up a fry and tapped it off on the side of his plate, trying to get rid of the salt. It was a lost cause. The fry was still crunchy anyway.
- - - - -
In Minnesota, Dean went out for the night and Sam stayed in to watch some TV. He flicked on the television only to have it blaringly loud as two girls moaned on the screen, naked tits up close and personal. Frantically, Sam scrambled to reach for the remote, to change the channel, to change the volume. To do something to stop the obviously pornographic moans from shaking the walls of the room. He pressed the buttons on the remote, but nothing happened. After a quick check, he discovered that there weren't any batteries.
All right, fine. He could get off the bed and do it the old-fashioned way. When he reached the television set, he saw that the buttons had been pried off and filled in with what appeared to be some sort of putty substance, making it impossible to do anything.
Before he could reach the plug, there was a loud knock on the door. He could hear somebody yelling, but the high-pitched moans of the blond pornstars were drowning out the man's words. Scrambling to his feet, Sam tried to pull the TV away from the wall so he could reach the plug and turn the damn thing off altogether.
Just as he was doing this, the door to his room swung open and the motel owner stood there, red-faced and angry.
"What in blazes is goin' on?" he shouted, stomping across the room to the TV set where one of the girls had her head between the other's legs.
"I-I-I just turned the TV on and it was...I didn't do it..." Sam stumbled.
"'Course ya didn't, ya sick fuck," the man grumbled. He pushed the TV away from the wall and ripped the plug from the socket. The room went silent. "There! Jesus! This is a family place. Try to keep your sick habits somewhat fuckin' discreet, all right?"
Sam nodded mutely, horribly embarrassed. He sank down on the bed as the owner, bitching under his breath, left.
Barely a minute had passed when Dean came nonchalantly strolling into the room. "Hey ya, Sammy," he said, grinning. "Enjoy your TV?" He laughed.
Sam looked up, and it clicked. "You...? You did this?" he sputtered.
As Dean went into the bathroom, laughing, Sam decided that Dean hadn't thought the prank war was over after all. Well, then. Two could play at this game.
- - - - -
One morning after Dean got out of the shower, he stood in front of the mirror to shave and brush his teeth. That morning, he walked out of the shower with peroxide bleach blonde hair.
He stared in the mirror for a long moment. Not that he needed to know who had put the peroxide in his hair, but he wanted to see if he should shave it all off or keep the blonde.
"Sam?" he said, stepping out of the bathroom.
Sam looked up from his bed and seeing Dean, he bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Yeah?" he said, his voice pinched to hold back the giggles.
"This is the best you got? Sheesh. I look like Billy Idol." Dean rolled his eyes. "You're so lame."
Sam finally burst out laughing completely, throwing his head back as he did when he was completely amused with something.
"Laaame..." Dean sang as he turned back and went into the bathroom.
- - - - -
Even though Dean wasn't upset by the new blonde hair--he had discovered that at least it attracted some different sorts of ladies that he hadn't before--he couldn't let Sam get away with it anyway.
What Sam had forgotten was that Dean could sew. He could sew rather well, in fact, given that he had grown up learning how to mend clothes to make them stretch an extra week or two while Sam was growing up and out of shirts faster than John could afford them. It wasn't an ability he flaunted, but he still knew how to use it to his advantage.
Which is why when Sam got dressed a few days later, he discovered-all too quickly-that he could not get into his pants. His feet slid in well enough, but his toes stopped before coming out the legs. The bottoms of his jeans-every single pair he owned-had been sewn shut.
"C'mon, Sam, we need to get dressed. Gotta get going for the day," Dean said, shoving his car keys in his pocket.
Sam pushed against the stitches, figuring that they couldn't bethat strong that he couldn't rip them open with his foot.
After several minutes of pushing and grunting, he learned that, yes, they really were that strong. Damn Dean and his double stitching.
"You comin' or not?" Dean asked.
"I would. But," Sam grumbled, "it seems somebody sewed all my pants shut."
Dean looked down at the pants. He didn't even smile, which Sam had to hand it to him, was pretty impressive. "Well. Looks like you're going to have to rip out those stitches. Or," he said with a shrug, "you can wear my pants for the day."
Sam looked at the stitches. It'd take him a good twenty minutes or so to rip out the stitches without ruining his pants in the process.
He held out his hand. "Just gimme me a pair of yours."
Still straight-faced, Dean handed him a pair which Sam hoped was clean. It wasn't until Sam pulled them on, ends of the pants settling on the middle of his calves and resembling a pair of granny flooders, that Dean began to laugh.
- - - - -
It lasted about two weeks. Just long enough for some super-glue, a block of moldy cheese, and a squirrel to get involved. After the squirrel incident, Sam finally sighed and said, "Truce already?"
Dean paused and scratched his head; his roots were starting to show underneath the blonde. "Yeah, all right. Truce."
They went out to dinner that night where the waitress who had once been the pissed-off waitress from two and half weeks ago was now working. She recognized them from three tables away, and with a glance at Dean's hair and the super-glue remains on Sam's hands, she decided that those two boys had gotten exactly what they deserved. She smiled to herself and wasn't nearly as pissed-off as she had been before.
End