This is the Prank War Challenge over at CWESS (check us out on my profile!). One that, started as a niggle, and I just had to share!
I am trying to come to terms that neither Sam nor Dean belong to me. Well, except in my dreams, where I tend to be quite naughty!
Set pre-series – Sam is 16, Dean is 20, and John is, well, annoyed!
I tried, honestly I did … but eventually … hurt!Sam just … snuck out!
Dedicated to Liz and Rozzy … who both know how to make a fangirl squee!
Saturday – Day 1
It all started with Sam trying to be nice for a change.
Being sixteen in a house of Winchester men sucked out loud, and Sam often got the brunt of their suck it up and be a man speech. That too sucked worse than facing down his chemistry teacher, Mr. Lawton (who Sam swore was a demon, though the man didn't take too kindly to Sam's Christo in the midst of his lecture) when Sam refused to add the sulfur to whatever concoction they were currently working on – but today, Sam had decided to be extra nice for no other reason than his teenage hormones hadn't decided to go into overtime on this particular day. Well, that and the fact that dad and Dean had pulled an all-nighter hustling pool to earn food for the table for the next few weeks. So Sam had delved into their emergency funds while the two elder Winchester's slept and headed off with laundry in tow.
How was he supposed to know that the washing machine at the local wash-o-rama would try and eat Dean's favorite T-shirt?
What was the worst thing ever (given that hindsight was 20/20) was trying to hide the bedraggled garment all because, in the midst of folding (Because Winchester's didn't fold at the laundry mat, they stuffed it all in a bag and brought it home to fold), Dean had walked by and given Sam one of his I could just kiss you looks. It made Sam beam with pride as the ripped shirt was nudged a bit further under the couch. And that was that, right?
Nothing was ever that simple in his life! Oh no! Because in his moment of brotherly pride, Sam had forgotten one very important piece of information – destroy the evidence! And his brother, Mister I beat Sherlock Holmes at his own game Winchester foundthe shirt only hours after Sam had blatantly (stuffed) forgotten it away for safe (hidden) keeping!
Sam was busy hunched over an ole tome that Bobby had lent him on Ancient Mayan artifacts and curses, something John had beamed at, thinking Sam was finally into this whole hunting gig, when in truth, it had just interested him enough for him to beg Bobby to let him borrow it – and who could resist Sam when he went into full on puppy mode?
Apparently Dean could, and as Sam lowered the book to look at his brother, who was holding out the raggedy black garment, he did the second most stupid thing ever in a long list of stupid things – he stated the obvious to an annoyed Dean.
"A … shirt?"
"Well, of course it's a shirt, Sam! I mean, what is it doing under the couch?!"
Sam stared, and could have come clean, he really could have, but just at that moment, John Winchester poked his head into the room with a scowl.
"Will you boys keep it down? I'm trying to research about this poltergeist and I don't need to listen to you two arguing!"
"No buts, Dean, you're the oldest, I expect you to set the example!"
And the look Dean shot him said he'd get even…
Sunday – Day 2
And he did. But after a whole day, Sam had forgotten about it. He'd thought Dean had finally simmered down and let go of that blasted Metallica t-shirt and made it into the car wash rag that it now resembled.
What better ending for his favorite t-shirt than to wash his most beloved possession?
Sam should have remembered. He should have realized that Dean didn't give those looks lightly. After all, Dean gave that same look to the kid who'd bullied Sam when he'd hit his freshman year in High School. One of the seniors decided to make Sam an example … as a lesson to Dean, who'd stolen his girlfriend after just a week in whatever school they were going to at the time. Dean had given Jimmy whatshisname that same look. And Jimmy whatshisname ended up with a mysterious broken arm just a few days before the big football game in which he was supposed to be starring quarterback.
Sam never asked, Dean never said, it was just a given … that look meant business.
So when Sam let his guard down and actually sat down to eat the breakfast Dean served for their Sunday morning meal (it was his turn after all), he didn't think a thing about it. After all, Dean was an adult; he could see the logic behind Sam hiding the shirt … pure fear!
John was still sleeping (no doubt after the long night of researching) and Sam sat to dig in, barely awake enough to grunt his thanks to Dean as he lifted a forkful of eggs. The crunch caught his attention, but when he glanced at Dean, he was duly ignored, though another chew brought another crunch – something that should never be heard when eating scrambled eggs.
Making a face, he looked down to spy his plate … full of egg shells, like someone had crunched them up purposely into his food. Swallowing (with the biggest yuck face in the history of the Winchester's) he blinked to Dean, who was still ignoring him – just eating away (at shell-less eggs!) and reading the paper.
It took three seconds after forcing the eggs down (rather than spitting them back on his plate) for the heat to hit his mouth – a slow fire that suddenly had Sam gulping and reaching for his juice.
It was a mistake Sam would later kick himself for!
The juice was taken in heaping mouthfuls, but after the third swallow, poor Sam's eyes began to water as the spiked juice was thunked back to the table, and he made a beeline for the sink. Glass foregone, Sam stuck his face under the sink and just sucked in mouthfuls of cool, clean, untainted water.
"Something wrong there, Sammy-boy?"
"I … hate you."
"Yeah … I know!"
He could almost hear the grin in Dean's voice. And Sam swore, in that moment as cool water was trying to soothe his now on fire mouth, that he'd get even … if it was the last thing he did!
Thursday – Day 4
Oh Sam had gotten even – he'd put Ben Gay in Dean's aftershave on Monday. Of Course, Dean had upped the ante by putting purple hair color in Sam's shampoo on Tuesday. Explaining to his teachers that he was just expressing himself had been one thing, but when straight laced Julie Abernathy, Sam's not so secret crush, had looked at him like he was now part of the bad crowd, Sam had just about died there on the spot!
So that had called for all out war, something devilishly sneaky … something only a geek boy could think up! So, on Wednesday Sam had hidden all of Dean's cassette tapes from the Impala, and replaced them with the schools collection of what could only be considered the greatest hits of … elevator music.
Cranked up loud for when Dean got in the car – just because Sam cared so much!
It had taken a headlock with Sam's face pressed into the carpet and John Winchester finally intervening (to save Sam from an uncertain death!) to get him to relinquish the coveted tapes.
But now it was Thursday, and as Sam crept into the house after school, he was just a little wary. That is, if a wendigo was just a little nasty, and werewolves were just a little vicious. Needless to say, Sam had his guard up, his senses on full alert, and his Winchester radar going wild.
So it was no wonder that as Sam was walking (sneaking!) to his room, that when Dean came out of the kitchen he screamed … like a girl.
"What's the matter, Sammy, you look like you've seen a ghost."
"Ha-Ha very funny, Dean."
Truth be told, he did scream like a girl, but who could blame him with Dean Winchester out to get him! So with his heart pounding, he rolled his eyes and tried to beeline straight for his room … only for Dean to snag him by his arm.
"Not so fast, Samantha, dad wants us to clean the weapons before the hunt this weekend."
"But Dean, I have homework and …"
"And you're helping me."
Sam sighed in resignation and followed his brother into the kitchen where the cache of weapons were lined up on the table. Taking a seat, he grabbed up the first one and gave his best little brother pout. A look that Dean duly ignored, well, sort of. He did clap him on the shoulder with a smile.
"See, Sammy, not so bad."
"Yeah, and I am the Eggman…"
Said in a mumble under his breath as he began to disassemble the gun.
"No, you are the Walrus … with big ugly teeth."
That called for another roll of his eyes as he went to work. The faster he got this done, the quicker he could get out of prank range!
As it turns out, however, Sam actually enjoyed himself. He and Dean laughed and cut up like they weren't out to get each other. So much so that Sam let his guard down. He never should have forgotten that Dean played for keeps.
But he was swiftly reminded. Not at the table while cleaning weapons. Not when he was camped out on the couch studying. But later … when he went to bed. Exhausted and ready to just drop, Sam crawled into bed wanting nothing but a night of pleasant dreams that, lately involved some hot girl doing things in his sleep that made him wake up in a sweat – in the best way imaginable (though that time it had woken Dean up was a little awkward!). What Sam got, however, was a squishy, cold bed that instantly had his eyes darting back open and the covers tossed aside to reveal … pudding. Lots and lots of pudding filling his sheets. It must have taken Dean hours making it just to serve his little dish of revenge.
All that followed was laughter as Sam vowed revenge.
Saturday – Day 6
And he had. But that was Friday. It was Saturday, and by all rights, Sam should have had his guard up so high it would have taken a pissed off demon to get through, but since they were on a hunt for that damn poltergeist that was haunting the south side park, Dean was all business and Sam knew he could relax and keep his mind on the hunt.
The problem was, he couldn't. All he could think about was the look on Dean's face when he'd come flying out of the bathroom, his mouth foaming over with a toothbrush hanging out while he yelled "Mmmaaaammm!!" (it was hard to talk with your mouth fizzing with peroxide and a toothbrush still attached) looking fit to kill.
Sam knew, just knew that Dean, after this hunt, was going to kill him. And then his dad, just to make sure that they didn't have a pissed off ghost Sam haunting the Impala, was sure to salt and burn him before he and his brother drove off into the sunset.
He blinked from his reverie of painful deaths to look at his father (who was none too thrilled at this whole prank thing) and give him that dumb stare, making it known that Sam hadn't heard a word he said.
"I said, you go that way, cover the perimeter while your brother and I sweep the interior."
In other words, we'll put you out of harms way while we do the hard stuff. With a frustrated sigh, Sam headed toward the alcove of trees with a muttered, "Yes, sir."
He could feel the burn of his father's gaze as he wandered off, the out and out glare from the man that Sam swore would drop dead before he issued a compliment his way, but ignored it with hunched shoulders as he moved through the darkness with the stealth of a hunter.
But his mind was a far cry from on the hunt. His mind was back at a laundry mat where a Metallica t-shirt met its demise from a washing machine that definitely needed a good old fashioned salt and burn – or at the very least, an exorcist. Had he been paying attention he might have heard the rustle, might have felt the drop in temperature, but by the time Sam realized he wasn't alone (as the hair on his arms stood at attention) it was too late to even bring the salt loaded shot gun up at the ready.
The high-pitched wail came as the barrel of the rifle lifted, but he never made it to aim as it was ripped from his grasp before pain lanced through his arm and Sam was airborne. The pain from his impact with the tree didn't even compare as Sam realized (for that split second when he hit) that he'd landed in the tree. His hands grappled for a hold, but his right shoulder screamed in agony; only rivaled by his own voice as he plummeted toward the hard ground … and seemed to hit every damn branch on his way down too.
Luckily for Sam, the impact of the ground brought on a welcoming blackness that swept him far away from haunted parks with killer poltergeists – or he might have felt the crunch of his crash landing as his arm hit at an odd angle.
Just as that unseen force was lifting an unconscious Winchester for another round of tree tag a voice echoed through the otherwise silent alcove of trees.
And the shot echoed out before Sam slumped helplessly to the ground.
Sunday – Day 7
The steady lulling motion nearly pulled him back into the darkness, would have were it not for the warmth that settled suddenly on his chest.
Pain was instantaneous; it rippled up his arm, spread with each breath – and let's not even talk about the incessant thrum in his head that made him want to puke just to have something else to concentrate on.
Oh yes, nothing like nasty vile spewing forcefully from your mouth to make you forget the painful concussion you were now sporting.
"Dad, he's waking up."
"Try and bring him alert, Dean."
The hand moved from his chest to his cheek, the soft slap hardly damaging under normal circumstances, but Sam had fought a tree … and lost, so he winced in response, but it gave Dean what he wanted as Sam cracked his eyes opened.
"Easy Sammy. Poltergeist banged you up pretty good."
"Dad worked some mojo on that sucker. Showed that bastard not to mess with the Winchesters…."
Sam nodded – and instantly regretted the action as that band went full metal jacket in his head. A hand lifted, making him wince again, but Dean's steadying hand put some calm back in his world.
"Just hold still, we're taking you to the clinic to get your arm set."
He blinked up again, taking in the interior of the car, of Dean above him (where his head no doubt rested in his brother's lap) and he felt the dab at his head where he became aware of the stickiness on his brow.
"Almost there, boys…"
Sam just blinked lazily. The week of pranks forgotten, the hunt, the poltergeist. Everything faded as he closed his eyes again.
"Hold on, Tiger, need you to open your eyes."
Hazels opened again to see Dean looking at him with concern clearly etched on his face. Blinking away the fog of his mind, he shifted his gaze to the backseat, to his position sprawled out across it, to Dean's hand and ….
"Is that your shirt … covered in blood?"
It took Sam a moment to realize Dean had been cleaning the blood from his head with his beloved (and very much ruined) t-shirt.
"What? This old thing…? You must have hit your head harder than I thought, Sammy."
With a smirk, Dean looked at the shirt, then at his brother with an arched brow challenged Sam to disagree.
It was in that moment that Sam knew that everything was all right – even in the fucked up corner of the world that the Winchester's called home.
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