This story was written based on an idea my friend Carissa had. She mentioned turning Sam and Dean into pickles, and I tweaked the idea and wrote this story. Here's the end result!

Title: In a Pickle

Summary: Dean is turned into a… pickle?

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters.

In a Pickle

The brothers flew through the old warehouse as the witch waved her hand. They connected with the concrete floor, the air being pushed violently from their lungs. The witch swooped toward them, her arms outstretched, welcoming her prey into her arms.

Dean Winchester sighed. "I hate these things," he muttered, reaching behind him to grab the shotgun he and his brother had stowed in the warehouse before announcing their presence to the witch.

"Yeah, well," Sam said, drawing his own weapon, "we won't have to worry about it much longer."

The witch drew closer, beginning to recite an ancient spell, as both brothers fired their weapons. The creature exploded in a burst of light and a blast of cool air that threw Sam and Dean farther across the warehouse.

Sammy lifted his head, which ached from the force of its impact with the floor, to survey the damage he and his brother had done. The warehouse was in shambles, the few odds and ends that had been stored there sat scattered across the floor. The witch was gone, and so was Dean.

Sam sat up, gazing around the destruction, but couldn't see his brother anywhere. He could have sworn that the man had been right beside him all the way, at least until the witch had attempted its final spell.

Suddenly, the man's eyes lit upon the only out of place item in the warehouse. Sam moaned. "No freaking way," he muttered, scooting up onto his hands and knees and crawling across the floor to sit beside the object, "you've got to be kidding me."

Slowly, his hands shaking slightly with disbelief, Sammy picked up the pickle. "Dean?" he whispered, "is that you?" The pickle was unmoving and silent, slowly dripping its sticky juice down his hand.

Sam looked around the warehouse once more, searching frantically for his brother. Again, there was no sign of Dean. He glanced back at the pickle in his hand. It made sense. The witch had been casting a spell when they'd killed her, it was completely possible that she'd gotten it out before they'd shot her, completely possible that it had hit Dean. It looked to Sam like his brother was in a pickle. His brother was a pickle.

Sighing loudly, the hunter stood up, holding the pickle in his hands. "Of all the things it could have turned you into," Sam muttered, stumbling through the wreckage and out of the warehouse, "it had to be a pickle. Why, Dean?"

Sam slid into the Impala behind the wheel and set his brother down in the passenger seat. He stared at the pickle, which was dripping juice all over the seat. "Dude," he muttered, shaking his head, "you have got to be the juiciest pickle I've ever seen."

His brother, as was expected, was silent. Sam, who had had the foresight to take the car keys from his brother before entering the warehouse, started up the car and pulled out of the warehouse's gravel lot. "Don't worry, man," he told the pickle, "we'll find a way to fix this. I promise."

The ride back to the motel room the brothers were sharing had been long and eerily silent. Sam trudged into the room, pickle in hand, and immediately began the necessary research. His brother just sat inanimately beside the laptop, watching Sam without eyes.

The internet was of no help. Apparently, people do not often get turned into vegetables. Naturally, when the world wide web failed to please, Sammy turned to his father's journal. Daddy hadn't faced any evil pickle-loving witches, either.

Sam sighed, glancing over at his brother, where a large puddle of sticky green juice was forming. "I hate to do it, man," he said, "but it looks like we gotta call in outside help. I know it'll be embarrassing, but I think you'll get over it." The pickle just stared back.

Sam took that as an 'OK.' He grabbed the pickle and headed out of the room, pulling his brother's keys out of his pocket as he went. He knew just the person to see.

Was the tall man embarrassed to be walking into a psychic's house carrying a pickle? Of course. But that pickle was his brother, and he needed to find a way to help him.

"Excuse me," he muttered, lightly touching the woman who had let him into the small house on the elbow, "but, how long will this take?"

"Depends," the woman answered, "what're you here for?"

"Um," Sam blushed, "this." He held up his pickle.

"That's a pickle," the woman replied, "boy, why'd you bring a pickle in here?"

"It's my brother," Sam explained, "a witch cursed him."

"And that was the best she could do? Well, I'm sorry, sir, but Madame LaBeau don't mess with pickles, 'less they're in her boyfriend's pants. Y'all better just be leavin' now. There's nothing in the world can help your brother."

Sam hung his head. "Are you sure? Because he can't live like this. It's just not right."

"Well, he could always end up on a platter of hot wings at Hooters. That'd make any boy happy."

"This is serious."

"I realize that," the woman replied, "but you're just going to have to adapt."

The hunter turned and left, gazing down at the pickle in his hand. "I'm sorry, dude," he muttered, trudging out to the car, "but I swear we'll find a way. Maybe dad'll know something."

Sam slid in behind the wheel of his brother's trusty Impala, setting the pickle down beside him. He pulled out his phone and dialed his father's number. For once in his life, he actually got through.

"Dad?" he asked, glancing at Dean and flashing a quick thumbs-up, "yeah, it's Sam. Well, we've hit a bit of a snag. Dean and I were hunting a witch. We killed her just as she was reciting one last spell and… dad, I think it hit Dean."

"What happened to him?" John asked, his voice only slightly panicked.

"Well," Sam began, trying to choose his words carefully and hoping that his father wouldn't laugh too hard, "Dean's in a bit of a pickle."

"What happened, Sammy?"

"He, um, he got turned into a pickle, dad."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line as John processed what his son had just told him. Finally, the more experienced hunter spoke. "Sam, your brother isn't a pickle."

"Dad, I'm serious. Dean's a pickle."

"Sammy, that isn't possible. There's no way that I know of to turn a human into a vegetable. Maybe she hit you with a spell. Maybe you're confused, son."

"I'm not confused, dad. Dean's a pickle!"

"Sam, go back to the room and get some sleep. You'll feel better about this tomorrow."

"I can't sleep," Sammy argued, "Dean's been turned into a pickle!"

John sighed and hung up the phone, plunging the Impala into another unnatural silence. Sam shoved his phone back into his pocket and looked a this brother, the pickle. Dean said and did nothing, he just sat there, like a pickle.

Sammy was learning to get used to the silence, and had realized that he missed his brother's sarcastic remarks. Dean had been a pickle for almost a whole day, and the stress of the situation was beginning to show in his brother's face.

The brothers sat outside their motel room, staring off into the setting sun. The silence was deafening, and Sam was willing to try anything (even talking to a pickle) to end it.

"This is bad, Dean," he began, turning away from the pickle he'd sat beside him on the steps that led up to their room, "but I'll find a way to fix it. You're not going to have to live the rest of your life as a pickle, I promise. I… I love you, man."

From behind him, Sam heard a loud crunch. The first panicked thought that raced through his head was that some little kid had gotten away from his parents and decided to take a bite out of Dean. He turned quickly, ready to yell at the stupid little snot who was eating his brother and mourn the loss of his only real family. Instead, he just gasped.

A fully human Dean Winchester was sitting on the stoop beside him, munching on a pickle. Juice dribbled down his chin.

"You changed back?" Sam asked, a large smile forming across his tired face.

"Changed back from what?" Dean asked, spraying chunks of pickle on his younger sibling.

"I thought you were a pickle!"

"Why would I be a pickle?"

"The witch hit you with that spell and then you were a pickle."

"Dude," Dean grinned, "I slid the pickle in my pocket after dinner last night and forgot to take it out. It must have fallen out of my pocket when that witch blasted us. I was knocked out and when I came to, you and the car were gone. Even worse, I couldn't find my pickle. I had to walk all the way back here. That's why it took so long."

Sam stared at his brother, who had finished off the pickle, with his mouth hanging open. "You're not a pickle? I thought you were a pickle. I've been hanging out with a pickle all day."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, "you have. I have one question for you, though, Sammy."

"What?" Sam asked as his face turned bright red with embarrassment.

"Why did you tell my pickle that you loved it?"

Well, that's it. Please review!