SPN: The One where John didn't properly clean up his room
Title: The One where John didn't properly clean up his room
Author: astri13
Genre/Rating : Gen, PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word count: 781
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own the boys. No infringement intended.
Summary: Another visit to a certain storage locker would have gone more smoothly if John had been better with the labeling. :)
The One where John didn't properly clean up his room
Dean taps his fingers against the wall in irritation. He didn't want to come in the first place but Sam pushed and prodded and has been general little bitch about it till Dean caved.
And now, Sam doesn't do anything but hovering in the doorway, biting his lip like a little boy who already has his fingers on the cookie jar but isn't sure if he can go through with actually stealing the cookies.
Finally, Dean has enough. With a muttered curse he walks over to the nearest shelf and picks up one of the items on it, weighing it in his hands. It's round object with a hole in it. The slight lopsidedness gives away its hand-made nature, likely manufactured by a child. Otherwise, considering the place they were currently in, he wouldn't have been so cavalier about grabbing it in the first place.
Of course, Sam, the mother hen, doesn't give him any credit as he whines at Dean not to touch anything. Typical.
Dean rolls his eyes. "Relax, it's one of ours."
And indeed, having been forced to make more than one of these suckers himself in school, Dean immediately recognizes it as an ash-tray, the ugliest one he has ever seen - so it stands to reason this is one of Sam's old creations - but an ash-try nonetheless.
Of course this makes sense, considering the storage locker not only holds supernatural artifacts Dad managed to collect over the years but also memorabilia of their own family, stuff him and Sam made in school or as presents for countless holidays. After all, if you were perpetually short on cash, you had to get creative almost by default. Even if said creativity extended to making ashtrays for someone who didn't even smoke.
Dean holds his find out to Sam with a mocking grin. “Nice craftsmanship, dude.”
Apparently, that is enough to unfreeze Sam from his place in the doorway and step closer to Dean.
“Huh?”
Dean holds the little object out in his open palm. “Well, it sure as hell wasn't me who made this ugly bitch.”
Sam frowns at the thing. “I don't remember…”
He trails off and moves to take it from Dean's hand, but, as soon as Sam's fingers touch it, a jolt goes through Dean, and, with a startled yelp, Dean drops the thing.
“Dude, what the hell?”
Dean looks at Sam accusingly. Only it isn't Sam but he is looking at but himself. A self he is currently looking down on. Whoa. A look downwards reveals he isn't standing on a crate. It also reveals he is wearing Sam's clothes now.
“Dean?”
The word falls from his own lips, high-pitched and panicked. And no way, he ever produced a noise like that. That could only be…
“Sam?”
“Oh my god, we switched bodies,” Sam - himself - squeals, flailing his arms as if that would keep the weirdness of the situation at bay.
“I can see that,” Dean points out. He moves a hand to his face, tentatively running his fingers over his chin, jaw line, nose, hoping against hope to encounter the familiar plains of his own features - even though they are currently engaged with looking at him like he lost his mind.
“What are you doing?”
It's kind of impressive how it didn't take Sam more than maybe five seconds tops to master his trademark bitch-face even in Dean's form. Even though, it doesn't look quite as natural on Dean's features, Dean thinks.
“I'm just…shut up,” he grumbles.
Sam glares at him for a few more seconds before he drops his gaze to the fallen ashtray on the floor. “This thing must be cursed.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Dean bends down to make a grab for the thing when Sam stops him. “Are you crazy? Don't touch it. Who knows what will happen.”
Gaping at himself in disbelief - and ain't that a whole new level of weird - Dean shakes the constricting limb off. He squats next to the thing. “You mean like us switching bodies?”
Sam - Dean - looks conflicted, lowering himself to his knees as well. “Maybe it can do more.“
“Yeah, like switching us back again,” Dean huffs. “Now on the count of three, we'll both touch it again.”
“Absolutely not, you have no idea if that won't make things worse,” Sam protests.
Dean ignores him. “One.”
“Maybe it will turn us to stone next,” Sam argues.
“Two.”
“And maybe…you fucker.”
Sam yelps when Dean just grabs his arm and puts both their hands on the ashtray. A second later he feels another jolt and thank god, he is looking at Sam's face again instead of his own.
Of course, instead of showing proper gratitude Sam shoves him, hard, causing Dean to lose his balance. “You idiot.”
Dean shrugs. “Worked, didn't it.” He regards the room around him with a dismayed look. “Man, couldn't Dad have sorted out this joint? You know, family heirlooms left, cursed objects right?”
Yup, Dean thinks, the bitch-face looks much more natural on Sam.
- End -
Author: astri13
Genre/Rating : Gen, PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam
Word count: 781
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own the boys. No infringement intended.
Summary: Another visit to a certain storage locker would have gone more smoothly if John had been better with the labeling. :)
The One where John didn't properly clean up his room
Dean taps his fingers against the wall in irritation. He didn't want to come in the first place but Sam pushed and prodded and has been general little bitch about it till Dean caved.
And now, Sam doesn't do anything but hovering in the doorway, biting his lip like a little boy who already has his fingers on the cookie jar but isn't sure if he can go through with actually stealing the cookies.
Finally, Dean has enough. With a muttered curse he walks over to the nearest shelf and picks up one of the items on it, weighing it in his hands. It's round object with a hole in it. The slight lopsidedness gives away its hand-made nature, likely manufactured by a child. Otherwise, considering the place they were currently in, he wouldn't have been so cavalier about grabbing it in the first place.
Of course, Sam, the mother hen, doesn't give him any credit as he whines at Dean not to touch anything. Typical.
Dean rolls his eyes. "Relax, it's one of ours."
And indeed, having been forced to make more than one of these suckers himself in school, Dean immediately recognizes it as an ash-tray, the ugliest one he has ever seen - so it stands to reason this is one of Sam's old creations - but an ash-try nonetheless.
Of course this makes sense, considering the storage locker not only holds supernatural artifacts Dad managed to collect over the years but also memorabilia of their own family, stuff him and Sam made in school or as presents for countless holidays. After all, if you were perpetually short on cash, you had to get creative almost by default. Even if said creativity extended to making ashtrays for someone who didn't even smoke.
Dean holds his find out to Sam with a mocking grin. “Nice craftsmanship, dude.”
Apparently, that is enough to unfreeze Sam from his place in the doorway and step closer to Dean.
“Huh?”
Dean holds the little object out in his open palm. “Well, it sure as hell wasn't me who made this ugly bitch.”
Sam frowns at the thing. “I don't remember…”
He trails off and moves to take it from Dean's hand, but, as soon as Sam's fingers touch it, a jolt goes through Dean, and, with a startled yelp, Dean drops the thing.
“Dude, what the hell?”
Dean looks at Sam accusingly. Only it isn't Sam but he is looking at but himself. A self he is currently looking down on. Whoa. A look downwards reveals he isn't standing on a crate. It also reveals he is wearing Sam's clothes now.
“Dean?”
The word falls from his own lips, high-pitched and panicked. And no way, he ever produced a noise like that. That could only be…
“Sam?”
“Oh my god, we switched bodies,” Sam - himself - squeals, flailing his arms as if that would keep the weirdness of the situation at bay.
“I can see that,” Dean points out. He moves a hand to his face, tentatively running his fingers over his chin, jaw line, nose, hoping against hope to encounter the familiar plains of his own features - even though they are currently engaged with looking at him like he lost his mind.
“What are you doing?”
It's kind of impressive how it didn't take Sam more than maybe five seconds tops to master his trademark bitch-face even in Dean's form. Even though, it doesn't look quite as natural on Dean's features, Dean thinks.
“I'm just…shut up,” he grumbles.
Sam glares at him for a few more seconds before he drops his gaze to the fallen ashtray on the floor. “This thing must be cursed.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
Dean bends down to make a grab for the thing when Sam stops him. “Are you crazy? Don't touch it. Who knows what will happen.”
Gaping at himself in disbelief - and ain't that a whole new level of weird - Dean shakes the constricting limb off. He squats next to the thing. “You mean like us switching bodies?”
Sam - Dean - looks conflicted, lowering himself to his knees as well. “Maybe it can do more.“
“Yeah, like switching us back again,” Dean huffs. “Now on the count of three, we'll both touch it again.”
“Absolutely not, you have no idea if that won't make things worse,” Sam protests.
Dean ignores him. “One.”
“Maybe it will turn us to stone next,” Sam argues.
“Two.”
“And maybe…you fucker.”
Sam yelps when Dean just grabs his arm and puts both their hands on the ashtray. A second later he feels another jolt and thank god, he is looking at Sam's face again instead of his own.
Of course, instead of showing proper gratitude Sam shoves him, hard, causing Dean to lose his balance. “You idiot.”
Dean shrugs. “Worked, didn't it.” He regards the room around him with a dismayed look. “Man, couldn't Dad have sorted out this joint? You know, family heirlooms left, cursed objects right?”
Yup, Dean thinks, the bitch-face looks much more natural on Sam.
- End -