I think this is my first true crack-like fic. Inspired by my sister. Merry Christmas, everyone. Try to stay out of imp-infested areas this holiday season.

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Should Be Outlawed on Airliners
or
Why Sam Hates Christmas

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"Dean, what the hell are you doing?" Sam hissed, delivering a sound kick and sending a small body flying.

The older man quirked an eyebrow, mouth working furiously around the jumbo-sized candy cane he had unwrapped a few minutes before. With four inches of candy still in his cheek, he checked the clip in his handgun. No rounds left, just like the last time he'd looked. He shrugged at his brother.

Sam swore to himself that this was the last time he went waltzing into a town that was infested with imps without the proper arsenal. Next time, there would be blowtorches. And hand grenades. And perhaps a nuclear warhead, if he could get one off the black market for the right price. Next time, the suckers would burn.

But he had to give the imps points for creativity. Here the Winchesters were, perched on top of a shelf in a darkened corner of a Food-for-Less grocery store in rural West Virginia in the wee hours of December 25th, surrounded by about a dozen of the toothy little bastards all dressed as Santa's elves. It was enough to bring back repressed childhood memories of those clay-mation Christmas specials that had always given Sam nightmares.

The rest of the aisles were littered with the twisted corpses of a score or more of imps—the ones they'd been able to kill before they'd run out of ammunition. Sam thought ruefully of his knife, dropped somewhere back in the frozen food section. He patted his pockets and produced a small flask of holy water. Carefully, he leaned over the edge of the shelf and tipped the contents onto one of the imps. The small creature blinked the water out its eyes and gibbered angrily, gnashing its teeth but apparently unharmed. Sam cursed his luck for the thousandth time that night.

A scrabbling sound made Sam whirl. One of the imps was scaling the far end of the shelf, knocking down boxes of cheap Palmers chocolate-krispie disks as it went. The tall man scooted his way along the narrow shelf and kicked the imp savagely, causing it to fall to the ground with a whimper.

Sam eased his way back over to Dean, who had hauled a case of Bob's $.99 Jumbo Peppermint Candy Canes up next to him. Sam watched, incredulous, as his older brother shucked another huge piece of candy from its plastic shrinkwrap and held it out to him, all while still sucking on his own stick. Sam growled, batting the proffered confection away.

"This is your fault, you know," he grumbled. "I distinctly remember you saying, 'Oh, can't be more than a dozen of 'em in there.' Were you absent the day they taught the class how to count?"

The only sound coming from Dean was the slurping sound of his mouth and tongue curling around the peppermint stick he'd been nursing for almost ten minutes. He wrinkled his forehead and tried to force the newly-unwrapped candy cane in his hands onto Sam again. The younger man snatched the thing and flung it across the store, nostrils flaring in annoyance. Dean glowered at him before returning his attention to the stick in his mouth.

Excited jabbering and the sound of crashing boxes alerted Sam to a renewed attempt on the part of the imps to climb to the top of the shelf, so he clambered back over to the edge to kick down two more of the buggers. One of them, however, managed to sink its sharp teeth into the leather of Sam's boot, and it took him several seconds to shake the thing off. He turned just in time to see an imp's clawed hand reaching the top of the shelf just behind his brother.

"Dean!" he shouted, trying desperately to get back. He stopped, flabbergasted, when Dean turned around. In one fluid motion, he plucked the peppermint stick from his mouth—and now Sam could see that the last four inches of it had been tapered down to an impossibly sharp point by Dean's nonstop sucking—and rammed it into the eyesocket of the imp climbing up. The creature gave a death-howl and dropped like lead.

Dean smirked at him, his lips pink from the dyed sugar. "Forget box cutters and nail clippers," he chirruped. "Give me a candy cane and a quarter of an hour and I can take over a plane no problem."

Dean 1, Sam 0.

The younger brother said nothing; he just took a piece of candy from the box and began to work it in his mouth, trying to ignore the shocked gibberish coming from the imps below. Of course they were going to be saved by candy canes: of all the flavors Sam disliked, peppermint was in the top three, just behind cough syrup and those nasty-ass black jellybeans.

God, he hated Christmas.