Disclaimer: Sadly, I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: This is for P L Wynter's most recent challenge regarding missing scenes. To put it simply, just how did Dean get that bottle off his hand in Hell House? And, I know, I know, I still have another 'challenge' story that I haven't finished yet. But I promise you, I'm workin' on it. In the mean time, here's a bit of fluff.


Not much to see in a tiny Texas bar and grill at three in the afternoon. On a Monday. Not much to see, or hear, or do. Maybe that's why we all, management and customers alike – the few there were in the dining area that day anyway – so quickly took notice of the two young men sitting in a far off booth. Perhaps that's why we were all so eager to focus our attention on their little show.

The heads first turned when the dark haired man let out a sly laugh. A relatively quiet little sigh of a chuckle really. Until it became more. Until it became a loud gasping for air sort of cackle that the man seemed unable to control. And what captured everyone's attention nearly right away was that the other man, the one sitting opposite with beer in hand, did not smile and laugh along.

"You are…you…damn it, Sam!" He spoke under his breath, quiet-like. But everybody heard him anyway.

"I know," the other – must be Sam then – said, seeming mighty pleased with himself. His laughter finally died down a little and he leaned back in the booth, pulling his long arms up behind his head. With a sigh he finished his thought, "I'm good."

"This is not funny," the angry man said, hissing through his teeth. "Not cool!" And all at once the bystanders found out just what he meant. He shook his hand up and down, back and forth, his fingers all splayed out. And that beer bottle didn't move. It just waggled right along with the rest of his hand, attached at the palm.

"That," Sam said, pointing at the mystifying scene, "is for the Nair."

"Nair? Nair, Sammy?" He leaned over the table and spit out the words, still maybe thinking that no one would notice if he could just keep his voice down. But it was clear to everyone in that place that the kettle was already set to boil. "When are you gonna get over your freakin' Nair!"

Sam's arms dropped and he sat upright, staring down the man in front of him. Through tight lips he managed, "It took two years for it to grow out again, Dean. I had to go to school like that. Bald."

Suppose it's Dean then, well Dean huffed a bit and closed his hand around the beer bottle, leaned back and tried to look calm. "You weren't bald for two years, Sam. You just had bad hair for awhile. How was I supposed to know you'd look like a fat little monkey with short hair?"

"How were you supposed to know?"

"And besides, why does everything gotta be about you?" he asked, gesturing to his bottle-hand.

"Payback's a bitch." Sam settled back in and waived over the waitress, who, of course, had been leaning hip against the counter watching the fine show.

"You are so freaking vain, Sam! That was hair. This is my hand!" The last part squeaked out of him just as their bill was laid on the table. He cleared his throat then and said a quick thank you to the server, without looking up.

Sam laughed as she sauntered off. "No way can you call me vain, Mister I-Spent-More-Money-Last-Year-On-Hair-Gel-Than-Food."

"First of all, you got no clue what I did last year, Sammy." He must have hit a nerve with that one because Sam's jaw went and tightened up enough that the folks over at the counter could see. "And second of all, this is my freaking hand!"

"Yeah, you mentioned that." Sam slapped some bills on the table and rose from the booth, and a collective sigh went through the audience. But the show wasn't over yet.

The two moved for the door, Dean ducking his bottle-hand under his coat, his eyes flapping about seeing if anyone was watching, laughing. Of course if he managed to meet anybody's smiling eyes, they quickly turned away, hoping he didn't notice. They were almost out the door when Chippy, the assistant manager, stepped in front of them and threw up his hand. "Sorry, sir," he said to Dean. "You can't take that out of here."

"What?" he asked innocently. Chippy used his long greasy fingers to pull back Dean's jacket, showing off the beer bottle.

"I can't you leave the premises with an open container of alcohol."

"Yeah, well, I'd like to see you stop me."

"Dean," Sam said, trying to step between them.

"No, really, go on, try."

"Sir."

"Just try to get it away from me. I dare ya."

"Sir, I'm sorry…"

"Look," Sam tried, "it's empty."

"It's an open container."

"Yes, I know that. But it's an empty open container."

"Yes, I understand that. But it's the law."

Everyone sat on the edge of their seats while Dean stepped back up to Chippy. "It's against the law to take trash out of here? Against the law?" Dean's face turned a bright shade of red while he spoke and everyone waited in silence for something to happen. Maybe he'd take a swing at the gangly kid in uniform, maybe he'd just humiliate him. Nobody really cared what form the torture took as long as it happened. Truth is, nobody particularly cared for Chippy anyway.

But nothing happened. Sam took control, and again everyone sighed. "Okay, see, we sort of have a little problem here," he started, quiet as a church mouse.

"A little problem? A little problem?" Dean, on the other hand, thundered and waved his open hand around with the bottle still stuck to it. This time, when he met the watchers' eyes as he flailed his bottle-clad palm around, they didn't look away.

"Yeah," Sam went on. "See, my brother here…accidentally…sort of…inadvertently…"

"Jackass super glued me to a bottle."

Chippy nodded his head and let out a drawn, "uh huh, uh huh," followed quickly by, "Still can't let you leave with an open container."

Dean rolled his eyes dramatically and, quick as a flash, flew at poor little Chippy, the glass beer bottle aimed at his head. The boy cowered as Sam wrapped an arm around his brother's waist, hauling him back. They struggled like that, the three of them – Chippy nearly curled in a ball on the floor, screaming for Mike the Manager, Dean trying to kick him while he's down, and Sam trying to keep everything under control – only for a minute before calm filtered back in.

"Dude, get you hands off of me," Dean said, twisting out of the hold. Meanwhile Mike came over and helped Chippy up. Naturally, he didn't need to ask what was happening, he'd been watching the whole thing from over by the cash drawer.

Sam stood in between his brother and the two employees and turned his head back and forth, engaging them all equally, while he spoke. "It's okay. No big deal. There's a drug store across the street. I'll just go get some nail polish remover, bring it back…"

"You really think now's the time for a manicure, son," big old Mike drawled.

Sam just looked at him, tried to tell if he was serious or not. "It's to remove the super glue," he said slowly. Mike merely nodded and turned to go back to his register.

And like that, the show seemed to be over. Every so often someone would look back at Dean sitting his booth picking at his skin around the bottle. Or at Chippy, who stood next to the front door as though guarding it with his life. Or at the window to see if Sam was back yet with the nail polish remover that seemed to take him forever to find. When he finally did return, walked in as Chippy held the door, all eyes flew up to greet him.

He stopped short, looking around and feeling, so it seemed, quite out of place, and quite on display. But he gathered himself enough to move over to the booth and sit down opposite Dean. "Yeah, they've been freaking the hell out of me too," he said as his brother took his seat.

"Come here." Sam grabbed the bottle-hand and set it down in front of him. Then he twisted off the cap to the nail polish remover, poured some onto a napkin and started to dab.

"How long does this stuff take to work anyway?"

"You tell me," he said, looking up from under his mop of hair. "Last time we had to do this I believe I was too busy crying to keep track of the time."

"Ah, yeah," Dean said with a chuckle. "What a pussy."

"I was five years old and you glued all my toes together. While I slept!"

"Yep, good times." Sam clenched his jaw and tugged at the bottle, hard. "Ow!"

"Guess it hasn't starting working yet," he said with a smirk.

"You know this isn't over, right? This is not over."

"I'm terrified."

"Punk."

"Jerk."

"You put itching powder in my underwear!"

"You tried to blow out my speakers, and my ears!"

"You put Nair in my shampoo!"

"I swear to God, Sam, if you mention that one more time…"

"Nair, Nair, Nair, Nair!"

"You super glued a freaking bottle to my hand and got us trapped in this creepy-ass bumblefuck diner!" Again, Sam's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched and he pulled hard on the bottle. "Ow!" And again, it did not budge. "Damn it, Sam!"

"I don't get it," he said, suddenly seeming more confused than angry. "I thought it was supposed to work almost on contact."

Dean reached up with his free hand and grabbed the nail polish remover off the table. He read the label carefully, squinting like he could barely make it out. Then he set it back down calmly and looked at Sam. "It doesn't have acetone," he said through clenched teeth.

Sam picked up the bottle himself and read it over. "Huh," he said simply. "Guess that won't work then."

"Sam, you…what are you doing?" he asked as his brother grabbed a hold of the neck of the bottle and used his other hand to pin Dean's fingers down. "Sam?" he asked again, a hint of fear in his voice.

Sam's mouth moved forming the silent words, 'one, two, three', while his grip around the bottle and his brother's fingers tightened. The moment he hit three he pulled back with his right hand and ripped the bottle with all his might.

"Ahhhhhh!" Dean immediately went to cradle his hand, which, everyone could see, lost surprisingly little skin. "What…why…what…" he stumbled, holding his hand to his chest.

"Come on Dean, it wasn't that bad." In response all Dean managed was a ghastly glare. And in response to that, Sam just snickered. "You know what, dude?" he said a little too cheerfully, "You really need to lighten up. You're way too tense."