Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from Supernatural, no infringement is intended and no profit will be made. It's just really fun to mess with them.

A/N: I found this molding on my laptop, and in a fit of work avoidance, decided to finish it. It's hopefully funny, pretty gross, juvenile and entirely unnecessary. I hope it give you a chuckle, or two.

Chili Cook-Off

By Surplus Imagination

Bitter-cold air whipped around the inside of the Impala as Sam rolled down the window for the twentieth time that day.

"Hey, it's freezing in here," Dean yelled.

Sam turned to glare at his brother. "My eyes are burning. What the hell did you eat? This window stays down until you learn to control yourself!" It was true, his eyes were on fire. Sam would have breathed through his mouth, but he was afraid of what the air might taste like.

"It was your idea to hit the Chili Cook-Off," Dean smirked. "Best damn chili I've eaten in a long time. Now you have to live with the consequences, Miss Manners. Roll the window back up. I'm freezing."

"You didn't have to eat so much. I'm surprised you aren't sick," Sam groused. It had been amusing, at the time, to see Dean pulled into judging the contest by a group of leering, middle-aged women. His older brother had been positively hunted the whole time. Now, it didn't seem so funny. Sam hunkered down in the front passenger seat, wrapping his arms around his chest. The frigid air cleared his stuffy head as much as the odiferous air. The back of his throat tickled in that raw way heralding the beginning of a cold. His own full stomach started to rebel against the four bowls of chili he had eaten. What had he been thinking?

"That's what you do when you're the judge. Can I help it if people automatically are drawn to my charisma and charm?" Dean paused to release a meaty belch. "They appreciated my glutatory talents."

"It wasn't your talents they were admiring, or staring at. And that's 'gustatory', not 'glutatory', dim-wad," Sam replied, blanching at the new smell the belch added to the car. Suddenly, a sneeze ripped through his body taking off the top six inches off his head. At least it felt that way. Maybe this cold would just come on and stop his nose right up. God knew he needed to escape the smell of Dean on chili.

"No, Webster, I meant 'glutatory', as in being able to eat large quantities on demand. What did they teach you at Stanford? Because they sure didn't improve your vocabulary. Watch this, Sammy. Look, no hands!" Dean devilishly took his hands off the Impala's steering wheel and lifted one thigh at the same time. The pressure had been building for a while. He was just waiting for the right delivery time. Sure, it was childish. There was no better fun than baiting his brother. Dean let nature take its course, the nature of bean chili, that is.

"Dean! Aw, man, I think you just burned out my nose hairs!" Sam covered his eyes with one hand. "Come on, I'm feeling sick here. And 'glutatory' is not a word."

"Here comes a double-hitter," Dean crowed as a second wave of sound and smell flooded the car's interior. "And the crowd goes wild! Should he go for a home run?"

Sam's stomach roiled. "No. Please God, no!"

More pressure obligingly filled Dean's insides as he prepared to launch the coup de grace. He was going to have to stop soon, the smell was making him feel queasy, too. Dean would never admit it, but Sam had been right. He shouldn't have eaten so much. "The hitter rounds third, runs for home and slides!"

The 'homerun' was Dean's undoing. In a massive push designed to make Sam beg for mercy, two things happened. One, the push left things just a little too 'wet'. Two, Sam responded to his 'coupe de grace' by vomiting out the open car window. Dean gaped as splats of half-digested chili decorated the back window. At least the back window had been closed.

"Pull over," Sam gasped. "I'm not …" More vomiting ensued. Dean winced at the tortured sound while quickly pulling off the road. The moment the Impala stopped, Sam threw open the door to retch further on the ground.

"Sammy, are you okay?" Dean asked alarmed. "I was just foolin'…" Dean winced as Sam retched some more. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick? Do you think it is the chili?" Dean cautiously put a hand to Sam's back ready to pull his brother back into the car if needed. Visions of food poisoning danced in his head as he attempted not to hear his brother's ragged breaths.

Sammy didn't reply, but vigorously shook his head. After a moment of gasping, Sam sat back into his seat. Wordlessly, Dean cracked open and handed him a water bottle. Sam took in a mouthful, swished it around, and spat it out the open door in a thin stream. After three, deep cleansing breaths, Sam glanced at his brother. "No, I don't think it's the chili. I was feeling 'off' before we got there." Sam snagged a tissue from a box under his seat and wiped his mouth off. "It's just a bug. No problem."

"No problem? This is coming from a man with a face the color of Soylent Green?" Dean warily held out a plastic shopping bag for the used tissue. He hated it, just hated it when Sam got sick. Dean shifted comfortably on the seat. He wasn't sure what was worse, Sam upchucking out the window, or the way his boxers felt after that 'homerun'.

"Could you not mention food made from people, Dean?" Sam growled. He closed his eyes and gently rubbed his stomach with one hand. Man, he hated to puke. "I really don't want to repeat that little episode."

Dean threw his hands up in surrender. "Just as long as you don't throw-up in my car, Ralph. I'll just take you to the next motel and hit the job by myself."

Dean's stomach chose that moment to gurgle like pipes in an old house. Sam's eyes shot open at the sound. "Dean, please don't do what I think you are about to do," Sam pleaded. "I don't think I can take anymore."

"I can't help it," Dean whined, squirming in his seat. "It was your idea to go to the Cook-Off." More gurgling heralded an immediate pressure powder-keg. Despite gut-clenching control, a small mewling sound escaped. Sweat broke out on Dean's forehead as he took in Sam's painfully pale face. "Sorry."

"No. Not in the car," Sam ordered. Snatching up the tissue box he thrust them at Dean. "You. Woods. Now," he barked.

At that moment, an eighteen-wheeler sped past the Impala sitting in the emergency lane. The force of the back-draft shook the car. Dean was instantly aware they were on a major highway. Any trips to the 'woods' would surely be visible to passing traffic. There was no way he was mooning a bunch of overweight truckers.

Dean shook his head vigorously. "Not gonna happen, Sam. There's not enough cover for a midget. I'll give some old lady a heart-attack and she'll crash and die. Look, there's a town not far ahead …"

"It's not like you've never gone in the woods before, Dean. Hell, I think you tree-trained me way before you toilet-trained me. Now get out there and … and… take care of business." Sam snarled and snatched the keys from the ignition. He ignored Dean while digging around in the glove-box for an air-freshener, any kind of air-freshener.

"Sammy," Dean whined, "It's only a little way to the hotel. I'll be good, I promise." Truth was, Dean wasn't sure he could make it to the promised hotel. Sweat beaded down his back at the sudden cramping of his gut. He was certain that this wasn't a simple matter of a gaseous emission. This wasn't going to end well.

A plain pine tree air-freshener was peaking out from between fake IDs in the back of the glove box. Sam quickly unwrapped the cellophane and waved it around the car's interior. Judging by the grimace on Dean's face, the pine tree scent was as bad as what it covered up. Sam felt no pity. "Go, Dean. Time's a wastin'."

"This is stupid. Give me the keys and we'll be there in five," Dean demanded, squirming in his seat.

"It'll be more like an hour, Dean, and you know it," Sam growled. He leaned out the open car door and dangled the keys right over the pool of vomit. Staring Dean directly in the eyes he jingled them provocatively. Visibly swallowing down the urge to add to the spreading pool, Sam's face grew even greener than before. "If you don't make like a bear, dude, in they go and I'll puke right on top of them." Sam made a painful 'urping' noise and covered his mouth with his free hand. "Promise," he mumbled.

Dean took a controlled breath and tried to stare is brother down. His gut was screaming at him. "Sammy," he warned narrowing his eyes, "if you drop those keys you are going in after them, face-first."

Sam responded by moving the keys closer to the ground. "It's Sam," he wrenched out.

One second passed. Then two…then ten. A bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of Dean's nose and dangled off the tip. With the sound of an on-coming freight train, Dean's bowels audibly broke the stand-off. They weren't going to wait five more seconds, much less five minutes, or an hour.

"Fine!" Dean snatched the tissue box and ripped out a dozen or more tissues in rapid succession. Cramming them into the pocket of his worn, leather coat, Dean slammed open the door to the Impala and climbed out making the car rock violently. Over the noise of the highway he winced at the sound of Sam retching again. That didn't sound good. The kid must really be sick.

Dean's intestinal track threw itself into overdrive. Chills raced up and down his spine as Dean looked for a reasonable place for a pit-stop. The highway was a standard rural divided four-lane road. Barbed wire fencing lined both sides of the road. Dean could see enormous herds of cattle behind the fencing on both sides. There was no way he was going to venture there. Cows were really big, stupid and kinda creepy. He had no intention of stepping in something similar to what he was planning on leaving behind.

The median separating the two sets of lanes was full of tall scrub bushes and weeds. They looked high-enough to take a squat in, however embarrassing it would be to be seen entering and leaving such a place. It wouldn't take a rocket-scientist for the other cars on the road to figure out what he was up to. Maybe he could just go on in the two feet from the Impala to the cow fence.

Then he heard more retching, and a suffering 'Oh, God' from Sammy's side of the car. The median it would have to be.

Slightly bent over to relieve the ever-growing pressure, Dean high-tailed it across the lanes and quickly made his way into the bushes. Both sides of the highway were mercifully empty of cars. Once he figured that he was in the center, Dean searched the ground for a suitable place to stop. The weeds came waist-high in a choked tangle. The bushes to the edge were a bit taller. Bees galore buzzed merrily among the thatch.

With frantic energy, Dean fumbled at his belt; the urge to 'go' was overwhelming. With a quick look both up and down the road to coming vehicles, Dean whipped down his pants and squatted down only to discover that his head and most of his shoulders were still above the top of the weeds. He wasn't hidden at all. At that moment a twelve-wheeler thundered by releasing a long, blaring honk. Damn. He was so going to kill Sam for this!

Just get the job done, Dean thought as he closed his eyes and concentrated on the needed release. Pain spasmed throughout his insides. The pressure was incredible, but nothing happened. Three more cars whizzed by blowing the weeds around at their passing. Dean began to pant and silently pray for something, anything to happen. His bowels had a bad case of stage-fright. He needed more cover and fast.

Desperately, Dean inched his way over to the bushes at the edge still in a crouch, pants dragging on the ground. Crab-style he turned himself around and backed his rear up into to scrub. His thighs were beginning to scream from the awkward position. Green leaves brushed over his exposed back-side in an almost pleasureful way luring him in. He kept backing up until he felt at least somewhat covered. Sighing in relief, Dean felt his body give way.


Several long, loud and stinky moments later, Dean started to feel a sense of peace with the world. That was soooo much better. Reaching for his wadded tissue, Dean had to pause as his gut cramped and released again. That time wasn't so nice. It kind of hurt.

The wind from passing cars made the bushes whip wildly stinging his exposed skin as he was overcome with a third, butt-burning round. Someone blared their horn on a long toot right past his hiding spot followed by the deep blast of a semi's air-horn. Dean hoped that the cars weren't honking at Sam up-chucking on the side of the road. He was starting to worry about his sick little brother as more cars passed and honked while he suffered through his fourth and hopefully final round of chili induced cow-piles.

"Dean!" It sounded like Sam was only a few feet away. It was time to get back on the road.

Dean finally felt able to clean himself up with the wadded tissues. He scuttled forward a few steps to avoid dragging his pants into the 'mess' and prepared himself to stand-up and pull up his jeans at the same time when he noticed the state of his boxers. Gross. They would have to come off. Dean rolled forward to his knees and then rolled over onto his back flattening weeds with a crunch. Congratulating himself on his flexibility, Dean toed off his boots, wiggled out of his jeans and plucked the offending underwear out without ever allowing his feet to touch the ground. Getting the jeans back on, commando-style was harder, but the task was accomplished quickly.

Dean sat up and reached for his boots when he noticed just how close he actually was to the edge of the road. Stunned, he realized that the bushes had no real bottom leaf cover in this one spot. He could see right through the bottom half to see Sammy staring at him, horrified, right over the top of the car. With illuminating dread, Dean dropped gazed down to the ground where he had been 'busy' before. Just outside the edge of the bushes was the disgusting pile of poo. It was huge and spreading and already drawing flies.

Dean groaned as he realized that he had backed up, ass first, right through the bushes to moon every, single passing vehicle while he 'unloaded'. Sam was never going to let him hear the end of this.

Reaching quickly for his boots Dean heard another loud whoop and the squeal of spinning tires. Slightly down the road was a teenage boy leaning out of the passenger window of a dilapidated pick-up truck recording his escapades with a hand-held camera. The teen waggled the camera with a flourish as his buddy tore down the road.

Oh, God, someone shoot him now….


I must have been insane to write this. Personally, I blame tax season and the accounting laws. I do have a continuing stony line based on a personal experience. Toss in You Tube, preschool toilets and a sick Sam and I could make a story of it. What do you think? Finish it? Delete it? Surplus Imagination