What was it that they said about "idle hands?"

Dean rested his elbow on the table and held up a spoon. It was bent in the middle. He'd found it in their room that morning.

"What's this?"

He hated the innocence oozing "blinkie" face. If they hadn't been in public he might have reached across the table and slapped Sam right out of his chair. Good-bye blinkie face.

"Spoon," Sam said, and promptly put a forkful of waffles in his mouth to avoid having to say any more.

It was old "don't talk with your mouth full" trick engaged when being grilled about a bad report card or why there were scorch marks on the kitchen counter because somebody tried to make a grilled cheese sandwich but got distracted by a really keen episode of Transformers. It was a foul, foul, underhanded trick that had sometimes resulted in Dean getting in trouble instead. He'd once kicked his brother's ass after a perfectly timed mouthful of mashed potatoes diverted John Winchester's anger regarding a destructive indoor roller hockey game onto Dean's head instead of the head where it belonged - the head of Mr. Innocent Blinkie Eyes and his Dimples of Doom.

Ah, but Dean was immune to the cute little brother devices that could suck in and destroy the anger of parents, teachers and crotchety old baby sitters.

He waited until Sam dove in for another bite of waffle and stole the plate, replacing it with the bent spoon.



Dean gave the plate of waffles to a passing waitress.

"Hey! I was eating that!"

Oh. Uh-huh. The secret weapon came out - the Power Pout, and shit he was not flashing the dimples and asking for another plate of waffles.


"What? It's a spoon."

"It's a bent spoon."

"You want me to ask the waitress for another one?"

Sitting back in his chair, Dean regarded him maliciously and ordered another cup of coffee. The waitress asked him if he needed another spoon.

"No," he growled.

But he would have had another brother, one not so annoying, and hold the freaky mind powers please. Sam was not supposed to have freaky mind powers, especially freaky mind powers that bent things that resembled - well - spoons. If Sam was actually practicing bending spoon-shaped things with his freaky mind powers, Dean was going to kill him.

"You know," Sam said after sitting there absorbing Dean's scowl until the second plate of waffles showed up for him to drown in syrup. "What is it with spoons anyway? Why not some other cutlery? Why don't psychics bend forks, or knives, or...or... sporks."

Ha! College boy thinks he's so smart.

"They only make sporks in plastic."

"Now see." Sam pointed with his fork, which dripped a sticky blob of syrup onto the table. "It would take a really talented person to bend a spork without breaking it." He screwed up his face in thought. "Unless they had like some sort of pyrotechnic power because then they could just melt it in the middle so it would droop..."

Dean suddenly developed a headache.

"Of course, I don't have any sort of pyrotechnic power."

Dean rolled his eyes.


Dean felt suicidal

No - homicidal.

Was there such a word as fratricidal?

And just how much damage could someone do to another person with a bent spoon?

"Why don't they make make metal sporks anyway?"

"Are you done?" Dean said suddenly.

"With the waffles?"

"With the diversionary tactics?"

Sam chewed another mouthful of waffle. "Hmm," he mumbled. "No?"

"I swear to God Sam you better never fall asleep again because when you do I'm going to staple your head to the floor."

There was abrupt cessation of chewing, grinning, and facetiousness, or so Dean thought as Sam gave him a perfectly calm, sober expression.

"Dean. Dude. Do we need to send you to anger management class?"

"Just answer the damn question!"

Sam blinked innocently at him. "I did."

"No you didn't."

"Yes. I did."

"No." Dean growled through clenched teeth. "You. Didn't."

"Yes I did. You asked if I were done with the diversionary tactics and I said no."

Exasperated, Dean put a hand to his forehead. "The other question."

"What other question?"

"About the spoon!"

"You never asked a question about the spoon, Dean."

"God. Dad never should have let Mom watch Alien while she was pregnant."

Sam looked hurt. "Well you didn't. You just set it down and said 'talk'. One word, without the proper enunciation that would make the word a question, can not be considered a question."

Dean stared at him.

With a grin, Sam licked syrup off his fork and pointed it at himself. "Pre-law."

Maybe, just maybe, Dean should have left his brother at Stanford. If it took this long to get him to a point and he charged by the hour, Attorney Samuel Winchester would be a very rich man, a man from whom Dean could borrow money. Damn, he should have been thinking further ahead when he dragged Sam away from California.

"Okay Perry Mason, did you, or did you not, bend that spoon?"

"Hmm. Yes."


"How?" Dean demanded.

"Like this." Sam grinned and bent the fork with his hands.

Dean wondered if anger management classes taught counting to ten as a way of preventing someone from shoving a plate of strawberry and banana waffles up their brother's ass.



"Freaked you out didn't it?"

Dean got up from the table.


He doubled back and procured his cup of coffee, taking it with him.


"Oh come on, I was just kidding around!"


"You don't hold the patent on being a smart ass you know!"



Big brother had powers too. He turned the Handsome Grin of Amazing Sexiness onto the hostess, and followed up by batting the Hypno Lashes, as he leaned toward her over her little podium.

"Do you have another table, one as far away from him," Dean pointed toward Sam with his coffee mug. "As possible?"

She blushed, and led him around a wall divider into another part of the restaurant where he sat down to drink his coffee in peace. No little brothers with freaky mind powers. No bent spoons.

There was a staple gun somewhere in the trunk. He just had to figure out exactly where he'd put it.