Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural in any way, shape or form

Author's Note: Just something that kind of brewed up in my head, which is a very scary place to be, I might add. One shot

Warnings: Slight language

Sam found that it was a fine art, balancing a greasy bag of food and unlocking a motel room door. By the time he finally got the door open the formerly hot hamburgers were cold and the ice in the drinks had melted, making the Coke and orange soda watery.

"Dean, I got extra pickles!" he yelled as he kicked the door closed. He dropped the food on the small table in the room. "Dean?" he called again as he reached into the bag for a couple of fries and a packet of ketchup, which he ripped open and started dunking the fries in. "Jeez, you said that you were ravenous fifteen minutes ago and that's why I had to get food, what happened to that?"

He looked up and saw that Dean is sitting on his bed, a look of dismay across his face. Sam's brow furrowed. "What's up?"

Dean took a deep breath and sighed. "I just…I thought you were honest."

"What?" He quickly swallowed the three french fries hanging out of his mouth.

"I can't believe that you hid it."

"Hid what?"

"Oh, don't play dumb!" Dean said with a scowl, pushing himself off the bed and pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his hair in distress. "You know exactly what you did."

Sam threw his arms out. "What the hell are you talking about, Dean?"

"I just, I thought you were better than this, Sammy, I really did. I…I just can't believe that I can't trust you."

"Dean, I don't know what you're talking about!"

"I mean, I know that there is temptation in the world to go out and get…" He swallowed, choosing his words very carefully. "To get converted, but you're better than this, Sam, you're bigger than this! Dad and I taught you better, we showed you other options."

"Will you cut the vagueness already?"

Dean rolled his eyes and blew out a short, exasperated breath. "Fine," he said. "I was looking for a shirt in your bag –"

"Which shirt?"

"My 'I'm What Willis Was Talkin' 'Bout' shirt."

"I would rather drink a bottle of Listerine before I wore that! Didn't Dad throw that out, like, five years ago?"

"Yeah, but I wouldn't let a one-of-a-kind item like that be taken from me!" Dean cried with a smirk, before his face was replaced with its former somber expression. "Anyway, I thought it might have ended up in your bag and I was looking around when…I found something."

Sam shook his head a little bit. "Found what?"

Dean sighed, reached back into the bag, digging towards the bottom. "I have to say, you kept it pretty well hidden, Sam. Had I not been hell-bent on finding that shirt, I probably never would have found it."

"Dean, you're really starting to piss me off now."

Dean's hand closed around the plastic bag and he closed his eyes slowly before he opened them. "How long, Sammy? How long has it been?"

"How long as what been?"

"I mean, some of these are pretty recent…this one says 2004, this one is from 2005…but this one…1966?"

Sam's face crossed into confusion. "I wasn't even alive in '66!" He groaned. "Will you just show me what you're taking about already?"

Dean sighed one more time before he turned around, brandishing a gallon sized plastic bag at his brother, his face contorted in rage, hand shaking.

It took Sam a minute to realize what was happening before he whispered, "God…oh God…"

Dean was incapable of speech for a minute as his younger brother's face reddened before he managed to choke out, "The…Beach…Boys?"

Sam snagged the baggie from his brother. "I can't believe you found this! Dude, that's in the pocket where I keep my boxers and stuff, I don't want you looking at that!"

"Yeah well I did, the ones with Snoopy on them were especially scary to me…now every time I look at you I'm going to be thinking to myself, 'Now I wonder if Snoopy is under there somewhere…?'"

"Get away from me, you sick freak!"

"No Sam, seriously, give me that back." He quickly snagged the back from his brother, dumping out a few CDs and cassettes and kneeling down on the floor. "Seriously, oh my God, you have 'Toxic'? Holy crap, you're kidding me, when do you listen to this shit?"

"Give me my music!" Dean slapped his brother's arm away when he picked up a cassette. "Paula Abdul, Sammy? You have to be kidding me!"

Sam managed to snag The Dixie Chick's 'Home" and several others away from his brother's grasp. "Come on, Dean, knock it off!"

"Oh my God…" Dean was shaking with laughter now. "You own Move Along?"

"Give me that back!" he yelled, trying to snag the CD as Dean bellowed out a few bars of, "Moooove alooooong movveeeee alloooooong just to make it throuuuuuugh!"

"You know what Dean, you suck and I hate you."

"Yeah, but I bet you love Tyson Ritter," Dean smirked, and he sat back for a minute as Sam feverishly tried to push his 'collection' back into the bag. All of a sudden, his eyes became as round as dinner plates, and Sam realized exactly what he had seen.

"Oh God…" he murmured, because he knew this one was going to get him a worse tongue-lashing than he could ever imagine.

It was a matter of half a second before Dean was standing up again, shaking his hips, waving his hands above his head and shrieking, "'Cause this is THRILLER!"

"I'm going for a drive," Sam ground out, storming out the door, bag of CDs in hand.

Dean smirked. "Yeah all right, but if you even think about playing any of those horrible excuses for music in my car I swear to God I will kill you…or I'll play you your own music until you go insane, whichever is worse."

Sam retorted with a raised middle finger and a slammed door.

Dean chortled for a moment, flopping down on his bed and smiling to himself. He waited for a minute before he got up and peered out the motel room window – nope, the Impala was nowhere to be seen. He locked the door and pushed the deadbolt to the slot, drew the moldy curtains on the window, and then reached into his own bag and pulled out his walkman and a cassette tape, which he stuck in and cranked the volume on before he began to do a leg lunge to the right, shake his head, leg lunge to the left, shake his head, and then sing…

"'Cause this is THRILLER!"

Disclaimer continued: (because I didn't want to give it away up there...) I also don't own The Beach Boys, The All-American Rejects, Dixie Chicks, Britney Spears, Michael Jackson, Paula Abdul, or the t-shirt idea (sadly, I wish I could claim that was my stroke of genius...) or any other artist/product I mentioned in here. Tee-hee - TOLD you that my head is a scary place to be!