Title: Easy Money
Rating: Gen, PG (humor)
Pairing: No pairing
Characters: Dean, Sam
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters nor am I making any money from them
Author's notes: Thanks to stealthyone for her usual helpful beta.
Summary: Dean discovers an innovative new way of earning money. Sam isn't impressed.
"Admit it, dude. I'm awesome."
He glanced at Sam. From the passenger seat Sam glared back, arms folded, that annoying, pissy expression on his face. Uh-oh.
"Awesome?" That one word was dripping with sarcasm. "Not quite the way I'd put it, Dean. Disgusting, maybe. Gross …"
Sam could be such killjoy at times. Scratch that. Most of the time.
"Come on, cut me some slack here." Dean pulled a rolled wad of notes out of his pocket with his left hand and waved it in the air while steering around a turn with his right. "I won us three-hundred dollars. What's so disgusting about that?"
"It was like watching a pig at a trough. I mean, Dean…" Sam floundered for words. "Sometimes you're just… you're…"
"Awesome. I know." He grinned. "Easiest three-hundred dollars I've ever made. I'm thinking of taking this up professionally, man."
Sam's mouth dropped open. "Tell me you're not serious."
He wasn't serious. If truth were told, he kind of agreed with Sam about the gross part, but Sam's self-righteous attitude was beginning to get on his nerves. "Why not?" he said casually. "It's easy money."
"That's not the point."
"Oh, I get it. I've offended your college-boy sensibilities, right?"
"That's not what I said."
"It's a winner, Sam. Easier than hustling pool. And safer," he added smugly, knowing Sam could have no argument against that. Sam was always harping on him about hustling and the danger of antagonizing the wrong person.
"Safer?" Sam gave a girly yelp. "You could kill yourself!"
Hmm. Trust Sam to overreact. mm. "Come on, Sam. What's the harm?"
Sam shot him yet another incredulous look. "Dean, you just ate two gallons of super-hot chili!"
Dean's annoyance faded as he tried not to laugh at Sam's outraged expression. "What's your point?"
"That's just… that's just not right. The human body isn't built to take that kind of abuse."
"I feel fine."
Dean brushed off the comment. He really was feeling fine. Well, apart from the slightly strange way his stomach was gurgling. Fortunately, the roar of the car's engine must be drowning it out, because Sam didn't seem to have noticed. "I don't see the problem," he said airily.
Sam glared some more. If he wasn't careful, his face would get stuck in that scrunched-up, narrow-eyed, disapproving frown, which would be an issue, because then who'd take on the job of charming the little old ladies?
"The problem, Dean, is that my brother just made a complete ass of himself. It was totally degrading!"
Now, that was going a bit far. "Three-hundred dollars, Sam," he retorted.
There was silence for a few moments. Dean gripped the wheel tightly, irritation returning. Sam was missing the point here. He'd earned some legitimate cash – what was wrong with that? There was no pleasing some people.
"Well," Sam said finally, and in a grudging tone, "I guess three-hundred dollars is three-hundred dollars."
Dean smirked. He could always win Sam over in the end. Just took a bit of perseverance. "That's the spirit, Sammy."
"So long as you never consider doing it again."
Huh. That sounded suspiciously like a challenge. "Actually, Billy Burns – he was the guy who came in second – he's a professional, and he said I'm a natural. Said he'd never seen a newcomer with such talent."
Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, that figures. You've always been a pig when you eat."
"Hey! That's just… rude."
It was Dean's turn to glare.
They lapsed into silence again, but Dean wasn't ready to let this go. Not just yet. "You know, Billy belongs to the UOCE."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm afraid to ask."
"The Universal Organization of Competitive Eating."
"There's an actual organization for this thing?"
"Oh, yeah. And they have competitions running every week, all over the country. I could keep us in cash for years."
"Aw, come on, Sammy…"
Sam's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "Dean, did you even look at some of the other competitors? Start eating like that and we'll have to roll you out on a hunt."
"Nah. I could take it. Hunting keeps me fit—"
Sam snorted. "You are not taking up competitive eating."
Dean shrugged. "I was just sayin'." He waited for a moment, until Sam's tense stance relaxed, and then burped loudly and commented, "Billy says there's a chili-cheese fries eating competition over in Clapton next week…"
- - - - -
He was dying. Definitely. He'd had close brushes with death before, but he couldn't remember ever feeling this bad. No, this was it. And if it wasn't… "Sam, I'm not dying fast enough. Go get the shotgun and finish it. Now."
Sam, standing in the bathroom doorway, had the audacity to grin when Dean added a pleading look to his desperate and sincere request. Dean would have been tempted to slap the smug "I told you so" expression right off Sam's face if he hadn't been desperately fighting the desire to throw up again – not that there could be anything left in his stomach to throw up after six hours of what felt like constant vomiting.
"Sam, this isn't a joke," he moaned. "I'm dying here."
Sam had the grace to look a bit concerned as he walked across to where Dean was kneeling on the filthy tiled floor, leaning over the toilet. Sam filled a glass with water and handed it to him. Dean glared.
"You have to keep drinking, Dean. If you get too dehydrated, I'll have to take you to the emergency room."
"Over my dead body."
Sam cocked an eyebrow and Dean groaned. Sam was enjoying this way too much.
"Still think it was worth the three-hundred dollars?" Sam asked casually.
Dean stubbornly set his jaw, fighting back the urge to vomit. "Totally."
"Well, I don't. No amount of money is worth watching you barf your lungs up all night."
"I never asked you to watch, bitch. Look, I'm the one trying to dislodge my intestines here. What's your problem?"
Before Sam could answer, another bout of sickness overtook Dean. When it was over, he sprawled bonelessly against the side of the bathtub, sweating and wishing he could just pass out. Sam knelt down beside him and put a damp cloth in his hand.
"Dean, seriously, you're really sick, and that isn't worth three-hundred dollars, okay? So just forget it. No more eating competitions."
"All right, fine," Dean muttered weakly. He knew when to cave. Anyway, he was sure he wouldn't make it through the night, so it didn't matter what he said.
Sam arched an eyebrow. "You promise?"
"Yeah, yeah, I promise."
Sam looked at him assessingly for a long minute. Then he smiled. "Although, on second thought, maybe one more competition wouldn't hurt. There's that chili-cheese fries eating competition over in Clapton next week…"
Chili-cheese fries. Crispy, golden potato pieces oozing sticky yellow cheese and that smell, part dairy, part vomit….
"You're dead, bitch!" Dean growled as he dived once more for the toilet bowl.