Title: Scrabble Wars
Spoilers: Uh, none?
Disclaimer: Supernatural ain't mine.
A/N: This just kind of popped into my head, and wouldn't leave me alone…I thought a little humor would mix well with the angst we are all so good at doling out. Just a cute little one-shot inspired by my cousins and their stupid games of Scrabble. REVIEWS MAKE MY WORLD GO ROUND. PERIOD.
A lot of swearing, but mostly brotherly banter. Sam is a little happier in this than we have seen him before, but otherwise I hope it's all in character.
Summary: Sam and Dean are known for their hunting prowess. But who shall prevail in the ultimate challenge- a game of Scrabble?
"That's not a word!"
Sam stared at his brother, whose eyes challenged the word he had just laid on the board.
"You're just sore because you're losing,"
"Shut the hell up. I am not losing. I know for a motherfucking fact that you are sabotaging me,"
"Dean! It's Scrabble! How the hell do you sabotage Scrabble?"
Dean snarled, crossing his arms and leaning back in the rickety chair.
"Maybe the dust from the board is getting in your brain," Sam grinned childishly as he blew a rainshower of dust over his brother. Dean swatted it away, coughing, alarmed at the immense amounts of brown matter hovering in the air.
"Sam! Seriously! Old Scrabble boards that have been in ancient hotel rooms for God knows how long could be extremely poisonous! Shit, dude, what if you just blew a cloud of asbestos in my face?" Alert to this new possibility, Dean waved a hand in front of his face as if to ward off any more particles. Sam ignored him, his tongue jutting out between his teeth as he concentrated on the game.
"If you ever do that to me again, Sammy-boy—"
"It's not asbestos, Dean," Sam said tiredly, Dean's whining breaking his concentration.
"How the fuck do you know? It could be goddam anthrax for—"
"It's a dust-color. Dust is a dust color. Asbestos is white Anthrax is white."
"If you ever…" Dean muttered to himself, conceding defeat while dusting off his black shirt. "Too much dust on the fucking board…Damn allergies…Gonna shove some asbestos up your—"
"POISON!" Sam shouted, disturbing Dean's t-shirt cleansing ritual.
"What?" Dean looked around, getting ready to grab the knife hidden in his back pocket.
Sam didn't bother to answer, instead preferring to arrange the tiles on the board in a precise arrangement. "Triple word score, bitch!"
Dean groaned. "Is this what you do for fun around Stanford? Scrabble parties? You must be so proud,"
"It's not my fault I know actual words instead of just curses, stuff that isn't just—"
"Profane?" Dean supplied with a shit-eating grin.
"Ha. Ha. Funny. Not." Sam calculated the score, tapping the pencil across the yellowing, wrinkled paper. Wonder how long this board's been in here. Actually, it's probably better if I didn't find out…
Sam pushed the dirty scorepad over to his brother, teeth bitten pencil on top. Dean leaned forward an inch to see the score, feet on top of the round table.
"Holy hell!" Dean shouted, pushing back in his chair so fast that he tipped over. Quickly righting himself, Dean jumped up to take another look at the score. "What the fuck? How are you beating me by eighty points?"
Sam was in fits of laughter, therefore unavailable for a satisfactory answer to Dean's pressing dilemma.
Dean fixed the chair, which was now creaking audibly, and set himself down calmly. He watched his younger brother with a wary eye. How did he get me to play this? Scrabble was always the game I played to spell out dirty words while Sam took it all in. Damn, I'm getting old.
"I'm…good…" Sam wheezed, snorting.
"So you remembered to take your happy pills this morning, huh? Misread the dosage?"
Sam didn't bother to reply, knowing he was winning the round. Dean gave his rack of tiles the evil eye.
"You can't use 'piss' as a valid word!"
"You can't use 'piss' as a valid word!" Dean mocked his younger brother as he added points to his score.
"It's not a word by Scrabble definition, dude!"
"Yeah? You got a Scrabble dictionary up your ass along with the other things you carry in there, so we can get this straight?"
The bickering silenced, and the duo glared at each other from opposite sides of the table.
"I'm taking pity on you, 'cause you're losing,"
"Here," Sam graciously extracted four tiles out of the suspicious-smelling velvet bag of Scrabble tiles and handed them to Dean.
"No, you shut up."
"No, YOU shut up."
Once again, tense silence prevailed as Dean did, indeed, shut up. Suddenly, he rose from the table. "I gotta take a leak. You move one of those words an inch and you will be hanging on that coat hook by the door, you unders—" Dean was almost past his brother when Sam innocently, stealthily, and quite sneakily stuck his foot out.
Dean dropped to the ground like a rock. And didn't move.
"Dean?" Sam grew concerned, and got out of his chair. Oh shit. What do I tell Dad? 'Sorry, I killed your eldest over a game of Scrabble'?
"Dean!" Sam shook his brother's shoulder. He sighed in relief when Dean moved, only to choke on that sigh when Dean catapulted himself at his younger brother.
It was, quite possibly, the most deranged wrestling match in the world. Full of flailing limbs, chokeholds, and "If you ever..." 's courtesy of Dean. When it was finished, both brothers lay tangled in a mess of limbs and sweat.
"Geroff me," Sam's voice was muffled through the back of Dean's shirt.
"Make me, bitch,"
Dean moved a little, obliging. "Nice moves there, Haley Joel. You're telling me you didn't see that coming?"
"No, YOU shut up."
"No. You. Shut. Up."
"Did you lock the car?"
"Huh? Oh, shit!" Quick as a flash, Dean was off the floor and out the door, returning seconds later for his keys, which he had conveniently left on the table.
Sam chuckled to himself as he cleared off the board, leaving only a choice phrase or two to spell out Dean's fate.
When the older Winchester reentered the room two minutes later, Sam was in the shower singing a happy, tone-deaf version of some song Dean never wanted to hear.
"Dude, the doors were already—" Dean trailed off midsentence, eyeing the placement of the words on the board. It stated very clearly, in faded, bold print type:
FUCK YOU SORE LOSER
Sam had won this round.
But he should be afraid. Very afraid.
The Scrabble war had only begun.
Please review, dear people!