[Unknown] - Sam&Dean washing the Impala as punishment (pre-series)
Author's Note: Unbeta'ed. This is an old prompt and I apologize for losing the name of the original prompter. I thought I wrote it down in the story notes! Dean is kind of a dick in this one, but a dick in the way the big brothers often are to little brothers. He got better.
Dean sat in the shade of the only tree that dared infringe on the sacred space of The Bluebird Inn parking lot. The rest of the shrubbery had been dealt with using extreme prejudice on the owners’ part; the only greenery allowed near its immaculately maintained asphalt was the astroturf edging the walkways and the hardy plastic flowers that perched in their allotted slots. The only reason the tree survived, Dean assumed, was that it would have cost far too much money to remove it - greed once again saving the environment from further decimation.
“Dean!” Sam shrieked, his changing voice adding a variety of octaves to that single word. “Are you gonna get your butt over here and help me, or what? Dad said we both had to wash the car!”
“I’m not the one who spilled a Slurpee all over the back seat,” Dean reminded him, leaning back against the trunk of the tree and flipping another page of his magazine. “I don’t see why I have to clean it up.”
“You made me spill it!" Sam shouted, scowling with righteous fury. "I’ve done the inside, now at least you can help me with the outside!”
“Sorry, pipsqueak. Maybe that'll teach you not to be so annoying,” Dean said, not even bothering to look up from the centerfold. “You missed a spot.” Dean gestured blindly towards the back end of the car before taking a long slurp from his soda and nearly poking himself up his nose with the straw in the process.
“You are such a jerk.” Sam scowled, rubbing the wet cloth over the car with a little more enthusiasm than necessary.
“You’ll rub the paint off, you keep that up,” Dean commented idly, wetting his fingertip with his tongue before flipping to the next page.
“Then you do it!” Sam squawked with indignation, and a very wet, soapy rag hit Dean square in the chest, soaking his entire shirt and leaving a tiny fluff of suds decorating his chin.
“Sam!” Dean yelled across the parking lot as he scrambled to his feet, the rag clutched in his hands. His brother looked surprised at his own audacity, and when Dean ran towards him, Sam darted off, disappearing around the corner of the motel before Dean reached the car.
Dean’s forward momentum came to a sudden halt when he saw his father jogging toward him from the bar across the street, a satisfied expression on his face. Dean took a calming breath, knowing the hustling must have gone well, and his father slowed to a stop as he eyed the car.
“Nice job, son,” John said with obvious approval. His hand skimmed over the clean lines of the Impala’s hood. “Where’s your brother? Why isn’t Sam helping?”
Before Dean could say anything in response, John called across the lot, “Sam! Get your rear-end out here!”
Sam reappeared from around the corner of the motel with a mulish expression firmly in place, dragging his feet to keep out of his brother’s long reach. John turned a disappointed face in his direction.
“Why weren’t you out here helping Dean?” John patted Dean on the back and gave Sam a stern frown. “I’m going to take Dean to grab some ice cream at the diner while you finish up with the car. Teach you a lesson about responsibility.” He grabbed the rag out of Dean’s hands and tossed it toward Sam, whose mouth fell open in disbelief even as he automatically caught the cloth.
“But-but-”
John had already started walking toward the diner next door, and Dean’s hand clamped down on Sam’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze.
“I’ll bring you back a piece of chocolate cake, alright?”
Dean sat in the shade of the only tree that dared infringe on the sacred space of The Bluebird Inn parking lot. The rest of the shrubbery had been dealt with using extreme prejudice on the owners’ part; the only greenery allowed near its immaculately maintained asphalt was the astroturf edging the walkways and the hardy plastic flowers that perched in their allotted slots. The only reason the tree survived, Dean assumed, was that it would have cost far too much money to remove it - greed once again saving the environment from further decimation.
“Dean!” Sam shrieked, his changing voice adding a variety of octaves to that single word. “Are you gonna get your butt over here and help me, or what? Dad said we both had to wash the car!”
“I’m not the one who spilled a Slurpee all over the back seat,” Dean reminded him, leaning back against the trunk of the tree and flipping another page of his magazine. “I don’t see why I have to clean it up.”
“You made me spill it!" Sam shouted, scowling with righteous fury. "I’ve done the inside, now at least you can help me with the outside!”
“Sorry, pipsqueak. Maybe that'll teach you not to be so annoying,” Dean said, not even bothering to look up from the centerfold. “You missed a spot.” Dean gestured blindly towards the back end of the car before taking a long slurp from his soda and nearly poking himself up his nose with the straw in the process.
“You are such a jerk.” Sam scowled, rubbing the wet cloth over the car with a little more enthusiasm than necessary.
“You’ll rub the paint off, you keep that up,” Dean commented idly, wetting his fingertip with his tongue before flipping to the next page.
“Then you do it!” Sam squawked with indignation, and a very wet, soapy rag hit Dean square in the chest, soaking his entire shirt and leaving a tiny fluff of suds decorating his chin.
“Sam!” Dean yelled across the parking lot as he scrambled to his feet, the rag clutched in his hands. His brother looked surprised at his own audacity, and when Dean ran towards him, Sam darted off, disappearing around the corner of the motel before Dean reached the car.
Dean’s forward momentum came to a sudden halt when he saw his father jogging toward him from the bar across the street, a satisfied expression on his face. Dean took a calming breath, knowing the hustling must have gone well, and his father slowed to a stop as he eyed the car.
“Nice job, son,” John said with obvious approval. His hand skimmed over the clean lines of the Impala’s hood. “Where’s your brother? Why isn’t Sam helping?”
Before Dean could say anything in response, John called across the lot, “Sam! Get your rear-end out here!”
Sam reappeared from around the corner of the motel with a mulish expression firmly in place, dragging his feet to keep out of his brother’s long reach. John turned a disappointed face in his direction.
“Why weren’t you out here helping Dean?” John patted Dean on the back and gave Sam a stern frown. “I’m going to take Dean to grab some ice cream at the diner while you finish up with the car. Teach you a lesson about responsibility.” He grabbed the rag out of Dean’s hands and tossed it toward Sam, whose mouth fell open in disbelief even as he automatically caught the cloth.
“But-but-”
John had already started walking toward the diner next door, and Dean’s hand clamped down on Sam’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze.
“I’ll bring you back a piece of chocolate cake, alright?”