Author's Notes: I don't remember where this idea came from; I think mostly it's just another excuse to be mean to Dean. Every girl's gotta have a hobby. General spoilers for IMTOD

Disclaimer: Dean and Sam are all Kripke's. Much to my disappointment.

"The Art of Breathing"

I.

He couldn't drive anymore without the windows rolled down—so thank friggin' God it was June, that was all Dean had to say. By the time the rain came back, he'd have this all figured out. This . . . fear . . . or whatever; it'd be gone in freakin no time.

Because it was stupid; it was dumb. It was just this . . . thing that he had going now, and he'd be able to get over it because . . . well, because he would. Dammit, he dealt with demons on a daily freaking basis, saw darkness that most people couldn't even dream about. This, this thing, it was nothing; it was just this hang-up. He had to get over it. He had to just shrug it off.

Because it was ridiculous, dammit. There was plenty of space in the Impala. There was plenty of air in the Impala. He did not need to roll down a window.

Dean knew that; he did. He was just . . . he was just having a little trouble with it right now. But it was June and sunny, so it really didn't matter. By the time the rain came back, he'd be so completely over this.

Over this like road kill. That was the plan, anyway.

Come September, Dean figured out that this claustrophobia bitch was tougher than he expected.

II.

Now, with the windows rolled up and his hands gripping the steering wheel just about hard enough to snap it in half, Dean drove down some highway in Washington, desperately hoping to find a motel before he completely flipped the fuck out. Their last hunt had sucked something terrible—vampires, of course; you think a monster is good and dead and completely extinct, and then the second you find out that the damn things are real, it's like, whammo, you can't stop running into the fuckers.

This last vampire had done its best to eat half the population of Bumfuck, Washington, because y'know, Bumfuck or whatever the place had actually been called, had about 20 people living there anyway, and Dean and Sam had wasted the bastard, saving the mayor and definitely bruising if not breaking some ribs in the process, and they still got kicked out of the town, all because Dean had flirted with some councilman's daughter. And it was just flirting for Godssake; they didn't screw or anything . . . not because Dean didn't want to but because he got thrown out before he could which, yeah, kind of made sense, but still. Dean had saved their sorry asses; well, he and Sam, anyway, but Dean had still been the hero, so didn't he deserve a consolation prize?

One that was totally willing, by the way, and completely, utterly hot?

According to the townspeople of Bumfuck . . . no. He didn't. So now they were driving around, trying to find a place to hole up, wrap up the ribs that Dean had hurt, and get some much deserved sleep. Only they hadn't hit a town in hours and it was raining cats and dogs out there and Dean couldn't breathe, dammit. There just wasn't enough air.

Fucking rain. Fucking vampires. Fucking fucking STUPID phobias.

Dean reminded himself that he could breathe just fine. He just had to concentrate. He just had to deal a little bit longer . . .

Until they found a motel or he died of suffocation. Either way, it'd be over. He just wanted it to be over.

"You okay?" Sam asked suddenly, startling the hell out of him.

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Okay." Sam looked away, looked back. "You sure?"

"Yeah, Sam. I'm sure."

"Okay . .. positive?"

"Sam."

"All right, all right." Sam put up his hands defensively. "It's just, y'know. You kind of like you're about to have an aneurysm or something."

"That's because you're giving me an aneurysm."

Sam looked wounded. "What'd I do?"

"Just shut up, Sam."

"Dean—"

"Sam. Shut. UP."

Sam shut up and Dean went back to concentrating—concentrating, dammit, not brooding, just trying to breathe in a normal-not-claustrophobic-at-all way—on the road ahead of him. The road was practically impossible to see with all that damn rain pouring down, and Dean was thinking it was pretty damn lousy idea to come to Washington in the first place. They could have gone to Florida instead and dealt with another potential poltergeist—let the vampire turn everybody in Bumfuck; they were a useless, ungrateful lot anyway. At least there wouldn't be all this rain everywhere, and Dean would be able to drive and not suffocate all at the same time.

Fucking rain. Fucking Bumfuck. Fucking Sam and all his fucking questions.

Sam's questions had been in endless supply in the last few months. Well, who was he kidding—Sam's questions had been in endless supply since he was friggin five, but the questions of late had all been about Dean. Are you okay, Dean? and Do you wanna talk about it, Dean? and Do you want to break down and cry like the biggest pussy in the world, Dean?

Sam always said all that shit, all the while sporting that look that he had on right now, that I'm-a-Puppy-Why-Did-You-Just-Kick-Me look that somehow made Dean feel like he was being the jackass here. When, dude, if he wanted to talk; he'd talk.

But talking wasn't going to do anything; Dean just needed to suck it up and get over it like a man. Which would be a lot easier to do if Sam wasn't always looking at him, as if he was singularly the most sorry looking creature ever to walk the face of the earth.

What they needed to do was drive around somewhere and pick up an orphan kid or something to tag along, someone with a more miserable and pitiful existence than Dean, so that Sam could shift his attention elsewhere.

That's what they'd do. First thing tomorrow, Dean was going out to look for some wretched, lost little orphan—

Wait. Technically, Dean was a wretched, lost little orphan now.

Godfuckingdammit. Dean had to be the most pathetic person on the planet or something. That was just sad. A claustrophobic fucking hunter; you didn't get much more pathetic than that. He could just imagine what Sam would say if he knew. Or Bobby, jeez. What would Bobby say?

God. What would his Dad say?

"Dean."

Dean looked over quickly at Sam. "What?" he asked, trying to keep the panic from coming out in his voice.

Sam looked a little wide-eyed himself. "Are you okay?"

"Sam, for the last time—"

"Man, don't give me that crap right now. You were about to hyperventilate."

Dean made an immediate attempt to slow down his breathing. "No, I wasn't," he lied.

"Dude, I heard you."

Dean returned his attention to the highway. "Don't know what you're talking about, Sammy. I was breathing fine. I am feeling just fine."

"Dean, I had to say you're name, like, five times before you even blinked."

"Sorry, I've programmed my brain to tune out all annoying noises. Y'know, like your voice."

"Dean—"

"Are you still talking?"

"Dean—"

"Seriously, I'm not hearing anything at all."

"Dean. What are we, five?"

Dean smirked. "I know you are but what am I?"

Sam glared at him. "You're a jackass; that's what you are."

"I know you are, but what am I."

"Dean, stop fucking around."

"I know you are, but what am I."

"God!" Sam threw up his hands. "It's impossible trying to talk to you."

"So. Stop. Talking."

Sam slumped against the seat, looking for all the world like the biggest slouching bean stalk. "If we could just—"

"No," Dean snapped. "I'm done talking."

"But we haven't even—"

"No."

Sam threw his hands up again and turned away from Dean. Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter, watching his already pale knuckles grow even whiter. God, he didn't need this shit right now. He didn't need all this rain and he didn't need his ribs to be aching and he certainly didn't need Sam to be throwing the hissy fit of all hissy fits.

Dammit, he didn't want his brother to be pissed at him. Of course, that only happened on days that ended with 'y' but still. It was making him feel tense and his chest already seemed so godamned tight and dammit, this was not helping with the whole panic thing.

And God he was over this already, or at least he should have been; it was months ago, for Christsake, and he was still acting like the biggest pussy in the world. He shouldn't still be feeling like this, dammit. Okay, yeah, what happened sucked, and not in a minor, I-stubbed-my-toe kind of suckdom, but in a truly, awful, I'm-about-to-die-and-it's-gonna-seriously-seriously-SUCK suckdom, but still—no matter how much it sucked, it was over. It was over and done with and he should be passed it—but he wasn't. He wasn't and he didn't know how he ever would be.

Dean gripped the wheel even tighter and flicked his eyes up to the roof of the Impala. God, was it somehow lower than before?

Of course it's not LOWER, you IDIOT. The car is not getting smaller. It's as big as it ever fucking was, and there's plenty of godamned air in here. You just. Have. To Breathe.

Apparently, he was doing a lousy job, because Sam had turned away from the window again to stare at him. "Dean, when I said don't breathe so fast, I didn't mean stop breathing."

Dean opened his mouth to protest that he had been breathing just fine, Sammy, and he let out a mouthful of air that he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Fucking Christ, he thought and tried to keep his face relaxed as he rolled his eyes at Sam. "Dude, stop listening to me breathe," he said. "It's creepy."

Sam glared at him, which, y'know, nothing new about that. "If I could trust you to do it right on your own," he snapped, "I wouldn't have to listen to you breathe."

"Sam, look, I'm fine. I'm just a little, I don't know, short-winded or something, you know, from that vampire flinging me against a wall. That can only happen so often before your ribs are like 'You know what, I'm done'. So yeah, I'm a little short of breath or whatever, but it's really not a big deal. I'm fine."

That, Dean thought, was a pretty decent lie. Admit one injury to avoid talking about another. But Sam didn't even look at him. "Right," he said dryly. "That's why you're having trouble breathing."

Dean glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. "Dude," he said. "What else would be causing it?"

Sam opened his mouth and then closed it, apparently with a great deal of effort. "Seriously?" he asked after a minute. "You're seriously asking me that?"

"Sam, am I missing one of your regularly scheduled menstrual cycles or something?"

Sam grit his teeth and looked out the window, leaving nothing to look at but the watered down highway ahead of him. The rain was pouring so hard now that the whole world looked like it was underwater; everything around him was drowning just like he was inside.

See, he thought to himself desperately. See. It's not any better out there. But this was a lie he couldn't even sell to himself because even if there wasn't any air, he could still move out in the open world. He could run; he could swim; he could fight his way to freedom. Out there, he had options. Out there, things were doable.

But in here . . .

In here . . . it was Hell. It was constricting, confining, unmanageable Hell, where he had no option but to wait for the fall ahead. And it wasn't fair because dammit, driving used to be the only part of his life where he felt like had any control. The Impala used to be his baby, his sanctuary from the outside world. Now, though, now—

Now it was just another box and he could hear the dirt being shoveled down; just sprinkles at first, just to give him his first, glimmering taste, and then buckets of the stuff being piled on, weighing the coffin down, weighing HIM down, and he couldn't move because there was just no room; there was no way out and he couldn't think, he couldn't think and he couldn't BREATHE—

And suddenly he could hear his name and someone saying, "Jesus" and a loud screech of tires and a louder squeal of brakes. Which was weird, really, because he didn't remember there being any other cars on the road, not that he was sure, exactly, where the road was just then. It was all just spots in his vision and tunneling to blackness and then there was a sudden stop in motion and someone's arms on his arms. He felt himself being pulled somewhere, somewhere cold and underwater, and then he heard, "Christ, Dean, breathe," and he finally could, so he did.

Dean came to himself kneeling on the wet gravel, Sam looming over him with one hand on his shoulder. "Christ, Dean, Christ," Sam said as Dean got his bearings. "Why are you such a moron, man? Why are you so fucking stupid all of the time?"

"Hey," Dean said hoarsely as he tried to stand up. "We can't all be the baby geniuses of the family." He got to one knee and was okay with that, but the second he was on both feet, the world spun around. He ended up leaning almost entirely on Sam and would have fallen again if his brother didn't hold him up. "Uh, Sam," he said into his little brother's shoulder. "What, uh, what just happened?"

This, apparently, was not a wise thing to say.

"What happened? What happened?" Sam abruptly let go of Dean and, sure enough, Dean fell right on his ass. "What happened is you passed out driving, you stupid, stubborn sonofabitch! Godammit, Dean, Goddammit! Why couldn't you just. Open. A Window!"

Dean blinked up at him. "Sam," he tried to say.

But Sam wasn't listening; he was in full teenage rant mode, throwing his arms out in the air like the godamned drama queen that he was. "If you just opened a fucking window . . . but of course, we couldn't do that. Wouldn't want Sammy to know there was a problem, because, you know, Sammy's too fucking stupid to figure out anything on his own—"

"Sam—"

"God, you're such a moron! Why can't you just admit when you need help?"

"I don't need any help—"

"You passed out driving, you idiot! Forget about getting yourself killed; you could have got me killed with that fucking stunt. Hell, you could've wrecked the Impala back to the Stone Age, and we all know what a travesty that would have been!"

Dean finally managed to get to his feet without falling over on his ass. "Sam," he tried again, but Sam still wouldn't listen.

"Because obviously the Impala's more important than our fucking lives, man. You crash, we die, well, we all gotta go sometime, right, just as long as we don't get water on the godamned seats!"

"Sam."

"What?"

Dean took a breath. He wanted to say he was sorry, that Sam meant more to him than the Impala ever could, and that he was so sorry that he let himself fuck up so bad, that he put Sam in danger when Dean was supposed to be protecting him. He wanted to apologize for being afraid, for still being caught up on something that shouldn't have been a thing at all. He wanted to say sorry for being such a lousy older brother.

What Dean ended up saying was, "Jeez, Sammy, what's with the whole arms out, 'Come and get me; I'm right here' thing? You look just like Jennifer Love Hewitt from I Know doing that. Only, you know, like, way less hot."

Sam's mouth worked. Then, before Dean knew what was happening, Sam had slugged him across the jaw, and there Dean was, back on his ass again.

"Rain check," Sam said, and stomped away somewhere.

III.

Dean didn't know where Sam went exactly (there wasn't nothing out on this highway but road and trees and mud) but his jaw hurt a little too much to care right then, and Sammy was a big boy, after all. Besides, Dean couldn't just abandon the car on the side of the road, could he? Any stranger could come along, hotwire his baby, and leave them stranded.

Of course, Dean was wary about sitting inside of the car too, because he was still wet and dripping mud everywhere, but he found a thin blanket in the corner of their trunk that would service at least marginally as a buffer between filth and seat. He got in the car and immediately had trouble breathing again because godamn, it was just so freakin tiny in here.

Why couldn't you Just. Open. A window? He could do that now, roll down the glass and get a little more fresh air in here, just a little bit more room, but dammit, that was the same as defeat, and Dean didn't give up that easily. Besides, this was ridiculous; if he couldn't even drive with the windows rolled up, how in the hell was he supposed to hunt? What if he had to go down to the sewers again—in his line of work, not exactly an unlikely prospect. Or what if a ghost trapped him in a closet or, hell, a really large suitcase or something? Dean couldn't afford to go to pieces.

People depended on him, dammit.

Sam depended on him.

Dean knew that if his dad were still around, he'd never let something like this get to him. Not John fucking Winchester, not a chance in friggin hell. He'd never be tied down by something as ridiculous as a phobia, and he certainly wouldn't find it acceptable in one of his sons. If John were still around, he'd probably lock Dean in the trunk regularly until Dean learned to master his damn fear . . . which wasn't such a bad idea.

But he just couldn't do it.

So instead he sat in the motionless Impala with the windows rolled up, trying to breathe.

Trying wasn't doing, though, and you didn't get brownie points for effort. Do or do not, Dean thought to himself. There is no try. Feel the force, Dean.

Then, of course, he really started to crack up, and he tried to get breaths in between smothered giggles. "Yoda, man," Dean said while laughing, "you really were full of shit, weren't you?" Then he closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, because hysterical laughter was so not helping.

It was so damn dark in here, though, and he knew there was a lighter in his pocket but he didn't know if he could reach it, and, anyway, what would have been the point? He didn't need to see to know exactly how screwed he was . . . to know that there was six feet of dirt above him and the hunt had finally been better than the hunter . .but GOD, it was so dark, so he wriggled and twisted and squirmed, until he finally managed to grab his lighter and see the bed that he had been laid to rest in.

He knew that panic would do no good . . . he needed to stay calm and conserve oxygen . . . but his mind had other plans, and he was panicking, good idea or no. He put his fists to the wood, trying to break free, but this wasn't Kill Bill, and he sure as shit wasn't Uma Thurman. John Winchester was good, man, but he wasn't fucking Pai Mei, and there was no getting out of here. Dean was trapped. Dean was TRAPPED.

Dean had been fucking buried alive, and there wasn't enough time for Sam to dig him out. Dean was going to die down here; he was gonna suffocate like all the other victims. The best he could hope for was Sam finding his body and burning it like they did their dad.

He couldn't hope to survive. There just wasn't enough time.

Dean needed to accept that . . . but he couldn't.

He was terrified.

"Dean! Dean! Open the door! Dean!"

Dean blinked and looked around. Sam was standing outside the passenger side door, frantically knocking on the window and peering inside. "All right, Sammy, all right," Dean said. "Get your panties outta that twist."

He leaned over and opened the door, and Sam jumped in before Dean could cover the seat. "Careful, Jesus," Dean said before he could stop himself. "Christ, man, you're going to ruin this interior."

Sam dropped "Concerned Face" in favor of "Pissy Face". "You're lucky I didn't break the window," he said flatly.

Dean sighed. "Christ. Aren't you done with your temper tantrum yet?"

"I don't know. Are you done with your panic attack yet?"

Dean opened his mouth and Sam cut him off before he even got the chance. "Dean, I swear to God if you say that you're fine one more time, I will climb over there and beat the living shit out of you."

Dean smirked half-heartedly. "Looks like I'm rubbing off on you, Sammy," he said, resisting the urge to ruffle his brother's hair. His jaw and ribs hurt enough . . . he didn't need a broken hand to. "Of course, it's not like you could take me."

Sam glared balefully at him. "Oh, I could take you."

"Not unless you managed to get your ass possessed again while you were taking your stroll through the midnight tulips. Ya know you only got the upper hand when you got a demon or two backing you up."

Sam stilled immediately, eyes turning away from Dean. "That's not funny," he said quietly.

Dean sighed. "Yeah," he said. "I know. Sorry."

They were quiet for awhile until the silence finally got to Dean, and he fidgeted against the seat, resisting the urge to grip the steering wheel just to have something to take his frustration out on. "So," he said casually. "Howdja know?"

Sam just looked at him. "I'm your brother, Dean. I knew."

And this, Dean felt, was a sweet if not totally ineffective argument, because the amount of shit he's managed to keep from Sam was astounding given Sam being the psychic wonder and all. But it also sounded like something that Dean would say, so he let his brother off the hook this time. "Yeah," he said instead. "Okay."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Dean."

Dean snorted then, because damn, that was funny. "Yeah. Right. It's just wonder-fucking-ful. I'm a claustrophobic fucking hunter. I should get my own Oprah Winfrey special."

Sam smirked. "Not sure that Oprah deals with the supernatural, Dean."

"No, but she deals with the useless and pathetic all the time."

Sam shook his head. "God. Dean, you're not pathetic or useless. Man, you're the strongest person I know."

Ha. That was a fucking joke. "I almost got us killed tonight, Sammy. My . . . fear . . . almost got us killed."

"No, you're stupidity almost got us killed. Your fear had absolutely nothing to do with it." Sam leaned forward a bit, tried to catch Dean with his super-empathy gaze. "Look, what you're going through, I mean, it's pretty understandable, given the givens."

"Well, I don't understand it," Dean growled. "It's been four months."

"Dean, you got buried alive, you dumbass. You don't just snap your fingers and get over it."

Dean refused to respond to that and instead started tapping his fingers on the seat. He tried closing his eyes too, but of course that didn't help. He still didn't need to see to know just how screwed he was.

"Man, why are you doing this to yourself," Sam said softly. "Just the open the door or crack the window or something."

Dean shook his head. "The rain—"

"Is a lot lighter than it was before, not that it really matters." Sam looked at the blanket that Dean was sitting on. "That thing is not saving your car from all the mud you've managed to track in. You're just going to have to deal with the all the damage in the morning."

This made sense, of course, but Dean didn't want to hear it. He started the engine and slowly pulled back on to the road. Sam sighed next to him, sounding as frustrated as Dean felt. "Dean—"

"No, Sam, look. I've got to get passed this, okay? I just—I just—" He took a deep breath and let it out slow. "I just have to look at this logically, all right?"

"Dean," Sam said, exasperated. "You can't just look at a phobia logically. That's actually the whole point of calling it a phobia."

"Yeah, well, I can."

"Dean—"

"Sam, just—just shut up. I'm going to do this." Dean took another breath. "I have to," he said quietly.

There is no try.

Sam sighed and slumped in his seat as Dean drove down the road silently. His chest still felt tight, and his skin felt like it was tingling all over, but he was breathing without passing out and, hey, that was an improvement, right?

Not much of one, he thought to himself. But it will have to do for now.

They drove for about twenty minutes, looking for a motel in silence, until Sam finally sat up and glared at Dean again. "Okay," Sam said, "fine. If you have to do this to yourself, then fine, but we got to lay some ground rules, man. I don't want your masochism to drive us off the road again."

Dean rolled his eyes. "It's not masochism," he said. "It's conditioning. It's training."

"It's bullshit," Sam said flatly, "but you need to do it, fine, whatever. But if you're driving and you start to panic, you pull your ass over or you open a window. I'm not going to be the next item served at Roadkill Café just because you didn't want to get the Impala dirty."

Dean sighed and fidgeted with his hands for a minute. "I care more about you than the Impala, man," he finally said. "I won't screw up again. You got my word."

Sam looked at him carefully for a minute before finally twitching his lips. "You saying you love me, Dean?"

"Fuck you."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "What I thought," he said. He chewed on his lower lip for a minute, apparently trying to decide if he should say something, and then finally giving a definite "to hell with it" shrug. "It might help to talk about," Sam said quietly.

"No, Sam."

"But—"

"No. It's not going to help."

"Might help me," Sam muttered and looked at his hands. When he noticed Dean looking at him, he rolled his eyes. "You scared the crap out of me, Dean. I thought you were dead."

Dean sighed. This was exactly the kind of shit he didn't want to deal with. "Well, I'm not," he said.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said. "I get that, cause I've got, you know, eyes. But when I saw that grave, that fresh mound of dirt, I thought . . . " Sam shook his head. "I didn't think anything. I knew. I knew that I was too late, that I wouldn't be able to save you. I knew that the only family I had left was already gone."

"Man, I knew it, I knew it, but I just couldn't—I wouldn't accept it. I knew that you were dead, but I just wouldn't give up. I dug you up, man, I got you out, and you were so still, Dean. Even when you were in the hospital, you were never that still. You were dead, Dean, dead. And, man, I fucking lost it."

Sam took a deep breath, glanced out the window. "I almost didn't do CPR, you know, because I already knew that you were gone. But I just didn't know how to give up. If you hadn't come back, I don't know I ever would have given up. I probably would have dragged your body around to every witch or demon I could find. I couldn't give up, Dean. I couldn't. I didn't know what to do if you were dead."

"Sam—"

"You came back, Dean, but you almost didn't. You almost died in that fucking coffin. And I am not okay with it, even if you are."

Dean didn't know what to say to that. What could he say to that?

So he didn't say anything at all.

They drove another forty minutes before they found a motel.

IV.

Dean was staring at the ceiling for a good fifteen minutes before he finally turned his head to look in Sam's general direction. "I'm not okay with it, either," he finally admitted.

Sam shifted on his bed to look at him. "What?"

"I'm not okay with it either," Dean repeated. "Almost dying, I mean. I'm not—I'm not okay with it, not really. It, uh, it freaked me out a little."

When Sam finally spoke, his voice was soft. "That's okay, Dean."

"No. No, it's not. I mean—I don't know, man, I've never—it's never been like that before. I'm not so scared of dying. I mean, I'm not looking forward to it or nothing, but you know, it's a dangerous gig and all that. I never expected to be old, man, to have kids and grandkids and a fuckin walker or something. But dying like that, it was just—God, it was scarier than shit, y'know? And the only relief I had, the only hope I had, was knowing that it would end. That the fear of dying would end."

Dean closed his eyes against the ceiling; all he could see was the top of a coffin, anyway. "And then you saved me, Sammy," he said. "You thought you were too late, but you weren't. You saved me. And then I was alive and not dying but—the fear didn't end, you know? I thought it would get better, but—it just doesn't end."

Dean sighed and was quiet and waited for a response. When he didn't get one, he glanced over to make sure his younger brother hadn't fallen asleep on his ass. Sam was watching him silently, his eyes a little wide in the darkness.

"It will end," Sam finally said. "It's gonna get better, Dean."

And Dean didn't want to voice the fear, didn't want to appear weak and pathetic and vulnerable, but apparently his mouth had other ideas, and anyway, that ship had already sailed, right? "What if it doesn't?" Dean finally asked. "What if it never goes away?"

Sam met his gaze then, and held it for a long time.

"Then we'll figure it out together," Sam said quietly.

V.

In the morning, Sam found a new hunt in Arizona, and they packed up their supplies and left the motel that had taken them forever to find.

Dean took the driver's seat, of course, and kept the windows rolled up tight.

Two hours into the drive, Dean had to pull over so that he didn't pass out again. Sam sat next to him all the while, waiting for Dean's breathing to even out.

When it did, Sam said lightly, "You okay, man? Or do you need a few more minutes to act like a girl?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm not the one trying to bring back Farrah hair, Samantha."

"Dude. The fact that you even know what Farrah hair is. . ."

Dean was insulted. "Of course I know what Farrah hair is. Dude, that chick was hot."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

"Just cause you liked that boring one with no boobs."

"Dean."

"What was her name? Sally or Sarah or—"

"Dean."

"Selena—Samantha—"

"Dean."

" . . . Stella . . "

"Sabrina! It was Sabrina, all right!"

Dean grinned. "Dude, I told you that you were totally in love with that chick."

Sam grit his teeth.

-Fin

Author's Notes: Reviews are greatly appreciated.